Dan Carr is a professional photographer based in Whistler, British Columbia. | Featured Photo: Daniel Carr
To an outsider, the life of an action sports photographer looks glamorous, but I reached a point where I was feeling stuck in a rut.
My career revolved around photographing the best skiers in the world, from Japan to Alaska, and in my own backyard of Whistler in British Columbia. It was great, but I wanted to explore more in the world of photography.
One area had always interested me—wildlife photography. What photographer doesn’t harbor a dream of seeing work in National Geographic with their name under it? Making the leap, or even a tentative step from one genre of photography, can be a tricky thing.
With my mind set on the wildlife world to expand my photographic horizons, I knew my first expedition was going to have to be a good one. After some research, I decided to keep things local and photograph grizzly bears in northern British Columbia. This has been done many times before, so I wanted to think of something to help set my work apart from the many others who had gone before me.
With the salmon run about to start, I knew I would be photographing bears fishing in the water and I wondered if I could float quietly amongst them in a kayak.
Dan Carr is a professional photographer based in Whistler, British Columbia. | Featured Photo: Daniel Carr
Photographing wildlife from a kayak
I purchased my very first boat—a big, stable sit-on-top kayak—specifically for this first weeklong expedition. It wasn’t just a wildlife photography learning experience for me. The beauty of photographing bears from the water level is the images seem much more intimate. As a viewer, you really get a sense you’re sharing a small part of the bear’s world for a few moments, rather than looking down on them from the shore as if at a zoo.
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Bears don’t have any natural threats in the water, so they actually turned out to be relatively unconcerned with my presence if I kept my distance and stayed quiet.
On this particular day, I found a bear wading around through the water in the shadows. A single stray patch of sunlight was filtering through the trees and hitting the water nearby, so I sat in the shallows and waited. I was hoping he would walk through the sunlight, knowing the effect would be incredibly dramatic with such a dark backdrop.
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I couldn’t believe my luck when he not only walked into the light but grabbed a salmon and started eating it right there. I knew right away it was a special moment—it gave me an adrenaline rush comparable to all of the action sports adventures I’d been on in the past.
Incredibly, my first trip turned out to be one of the most successful photographic adventures of my whole career. Ever since, I’ve factored wildlife photography into my work on a regular basis.
Dan Carr is a professional photographer based in Whistler, British Columbia. | Featured Photo: Daniel Carr
“Surfski is really blowing up,” says Chris Hipgrave, sales director for Pyranha Kayaks, when he explains why the guys at a whitewater kayak manufacturer dreamed up the Octane 175 surfski.
“We’re seeing a lot more races, and a lot more surfskis on the water, but they’re typically expensive. A competitive surfski is $3,000 or more so we wanted to produce one to introduce the sport to the masses,” he adds.
The Popularity Contest of Surfski
Pyrahna’s High-Octance Surfski
Length: 17 ft 8 in Width: 20.9 in. Weight: 51 lbs. Weight Range: 130-253 lbs. MSRP: $1,499 USD (under stern rudder)/$1,629 USD (over stern rudder)
Pyranha collaborated with Canadian surfski specialists Think Kayaks to jointly design an accessible yet high-performing rotomolded polyethylene surfski at an entry-level price. Pyranha, along with sister brands P&H Sea Kayaks and Venture Kayaks, paired its plastics expertise with Think’s knowledge of surfski design and the result was co-released as the Pyranha Octane and the Think Nitro. Yes—same boat, two names.
The High-Octane By Pyranha
The Octane gives Pyranha an entry into the burgeoning race and fitness market to balance out P&H’s traditional sea kayak offerings, and the Nitro gives Think a gateway boat to battle its competitors’ plastic skis, like the Epic V7. As a seasoned kayaker and recreational racer who could be described as surfski-curious, I’m the target demographic for the Octane. I’ve briefly paddled some full-on race skis, but I’m more likely to fall for something friendlier, more multi-purpose and less committing, which aptly describes the Octane.
When I test paddled the Octane on the frigid waters of Lake Ontario in early spring, I didn’t want a seat full of ice water any more than an unplanned swim. The Octane didn’t let me down or tip me over. It was reassuringly stable and dry—more stable than many sea kayaks I’ve paddled, despite being more than an inch narrower. The Octane features confidence-building initial stability and even more solid secondary stability, and its high-sided cockpit stays dry even when heeled over to 45 degrees.
I tried really hard to capsize and the Octane kept right on resisting—right until I fell out of the cockpit. There’s no reason the boat might flip without throwing some waves or current into the mix. Any water entering the cockpit can be quickly sucked out by the cockpit bailing system, which opens and closes with a nudge from your hand or heel. I tend to think of surfskis as torpedo-shaped, one-track speedsters, so I was surprised to find my Octane’s hull has semi-hard chines in the mid-section and quite a bit of rocker in the stern. It’s reminiscent of its playful sea kayak cousin, the P&H Delphin.
While the voluminous bow rides over waves and resists pearling, the stern rocker makes the Octane highly maneuverable, able to skid an instant 90-degree turn with a flip of the rudder. Speaking of which, the rudder comes either in a retractable over stern SmartTrack version or with a fixed under stern one. Our loaner featured the over-stern version, which was easily controlled by a lightweight carbon fiber footplate and pedals with enough range to fit paddlers of almost any height. I’m six feet two inches tall and I had four clicks still to go on the pedals.
The sleek Swede form of the hull, with its widest point behind the midpoint of the boat, is accentuated by the cockpit shape, which has a generously proportioned bucket seat. This will fit all but the very largest paddlers. A much narrower leg section allows contact with the boat, and cutaways either side of the deck encourage a high and aggressive catch.
A waterproof rear storage compartment, forward day hatch and deck bunnies make the Octane 175 more than just a weekend racer. Want more storage? The Valkyrie with full sea kayak deck and Octane hull is coming soon. |Photo: Matt Stetson
The Octane comes with a choice of this smart track retractable rudder for shallow water and rivers, or a traditionalsurfski under stern rudder. |Photo: Matt Stetson
Recreational racers looking for a secret weapon to beat most sea kayaks will be pleased. The Octane is fast, cruising comfortably at nearly nine kilometers per hour, and closer to 11 kilometers per hour in short flatwater sprints. Though it doesn’t have the pop at the catch or the top-end speed of a composite competition surfski, you’d never expect it to. The Octane’s appeal is as a kayak alternative with greater versatility and durability than a pure racer, as long as you don’t mind the 51-pound lift. Although the Octane is made with Pyranha’s Corelite polyethylene foam sandwich construction, getting it on and off the water is its own kind of workout. The recessed handles beside the cockpit are finely crafted but I found too far forward for proper balance, and the bow and stern handles are small to grip. Minor concerns, unless you’re carrying long distances.
The large rear hatch features a waterproof Kajaksport rubber cover, and a front day hatch and rear deck bungies enable daylong expeditions or short overnights. Combined with the durability of plastic, the option of an over stern rudder for shallow water and rough landings, and molded-in bow inserts customized to fit P&H’s sailing system from Australia’s acclaimed Flat Earth Sails, and there’s endless possibilities beyond what a traditional surfski can do. Where can you use a more stable, nimble surfski able to take a beating? Hipgrave uses his to run class II and III whitewater on the Nantahala River. Online you’ll find tales of an Octane sailing to offshore islands in Wales. Just think of the downwind rides you could catch with the speed boost from a sail.
The Octane’s multiple personalities blur the lines between what a surfski and a sea kayak should do. In fact, P&H just announced they’ll be producing an expedition-style sea kayak with an identical hull to the Octane, called the Valkyrie. I say why distinguish between surfskis and kayaks anyway—soon buying one will be like ordering at Starbucks. Would you like a closed-cockpit or a sit-on-top with that?
Some might choose the Octane over a sea kayak simply because they prefer an open cockpit, or vice versa with the Valkyrie. Just as this issue went to press, Pyranha announced the production of the Octane had been temporarily halted.
“The molding process for the Octane is too long, so continuing through peak summer months when we have to optimize efficiency would cause us to let too many customers down for other products,” says Pyranha’s managing director, Graham Mackereth. “Not molding the Octane is the best of the bad options available.” Production will resume in September. Until then, the only concern is how long the existing inventory will last.
If you’re drawn to the Octane’s unique combination of high performance, durability, and versatility get one fast or be left behind until the fall.
Welcome to the jungle, we take it day by day, of you want it you're gonna bleed but it's the price to pay. —Guns N' Roses | Photo by: Jon Williams
“I reckon the Darien Gap may be a bit too intense for an expedition right now, but I’ve got a really good idea for a jungle expedition. Do you want to hear it?”
I’m sitting opposite Laura Bingham in her kitchen, unsuccessfully pushing away one of her enormous, drooling Newfoundland dogs. She looks up from a steaming mug of coffee and smiles, her eyes gleaming.
“It’s the third largest river in South America. We can eat what we find in the forest and fish from the river every day. There are jaguars, piranha and little caiman. It will be like Pocahontas, just in real life.”
Bingham’s so-called little caiman are in fact 20-foot-long black caiman—just one size down from an African crocodile. But as an adventurer and wildlife lover, this is a main selling point for me. I’m in, I tell her.
Intrepid Trio Paddles World-First Descent of the Essequibo River
The expedition plan
Don’t be fooled by the Disney reference. Laura Bingham is tough as nails and when she has an idea, you know it is going to be a good one. The 25-year-old English explorer has a habit of hunting down unique journeys around the globe. Her last expedition saw her cycle 7,000 km across South America without touching any money.
It was Bingham’s husband, survival expert and television host Ed Stafford, who first turned her attention to Guyana. He’d been to the South American nation a decade prior to film Lost Land of the Jaguars. He came back raving about the extraordinary and remote jungle, and his close encounters with its wildlife.
The interior of Guyana has an extraordinarily rich and diverse ecosystem with an expansive area of pristine virgin rainforest. It’s one of the few remaining unexplored regions of the world.
“I’m thinking of doing a world-first descent,” she tells me.
The Essequibo River, which runs the length of the country from south tonNorth, had never been descended from source to sea.
In fact, the source of the 1,000-km-long Essequibo River had never officially been documented. The last attempt to identify the source was made in 2013 by a German team, but was unsuccessful. When we set out on February 1, 2018, we aimed to be the first team to document the source, and then descend the river to the sea.
The team of paddlers
In addition to Laura, our trio of adventurers was rounded out by Pip Stewart, a British writer and adventure cyclist with experience pedaling in the Amazon, and me—an endurance athlete with a love for the jungle. Though I’d previously paddleboarded 1,000 miles down the Missouri River, kayaking was new to all of us.
Essequibo team member Pip Stewart. | Photo: Jon Williams
Expedition leader Laura Bingham. | Photo: Jon Williams
Essequibo team member and writer Ness Knight. | Photo: Jon Williams
Prior to departing for Guyana, we spent weeks practicing whitewater paddling skills and swiftwater rescues. On—and sometimes in—the frigid rivers of Wales in winter. Though Wales was a convenient meet-up location for us three Britons, admittedly, it was a strange place to train for a jungle expedition.
[ Paddling Trip Guide: View all whitewater kayaking instruction and skills clinics ]
What the three of us lacked in kayak experience, our trio would make up for with our shared extensive experience with remote travel. We didn’t need to be world-class sea kayakers or whitewater paddlers to descend 1,000 km on Essequibo River—a successful expedition would come down to persistence and good risk management.
The headwaters of the Essequibo
Our journey began on the banks of the Essequibo River in Masakenari, a remote Wai Wai village located in the south of Guyana, near the border with Brazil. Masakenari can only be reached by chartering an internal flight on a small aircraft, landing on a short, dusty clearing called Gunn’s Strip, which is flanked by thick walls of near impenetrable jungle. Lush greenery carpets the landscape from horizon to horizon.
Throughout our journey, we collaborated with the Wai Wai, an Indigenous community who live within and manage a vast stretch of remote rainforest. World-class jungle survival experts themselves, we teamed up with Wai Wai guides to show us how to thrive in the jungle—from how to machete a path to tutoring us on all manner of poisonous frogs, venomous snakes, toothy fish and the many insects that would bite and burrow into our skin.
“We’re ordinary people, we just choose to chase extraordinary things,” says Ness Knight (center). “We just had this crackers idea to do something and we did it.” | Photo: Jon Williams
No one expected just how complex and arduous an endeavor it would be just to get to the source of the Essequibo.
For three weeks we pushed upstream as the broad expanse of river narrowed and the jungle closed in around us. Our team hauled two heavily laden dugout canoes under and over fallen debris. Our Wai Wai guides bared gritted teeth as they machete’d, chain sawed and axed through more than 200 enormous tree trunks barring the upstream path forward.
This section of the rainforest is Guyana’s first Community Owned Conservation Area (COCA), and the largest protected area in the country managed exclusively by an indigenous community. As we traveled, the Wai Wai investigated for signs of illegal mining operations. The threat of small-scale illegal mining is very real in remote regions, and recording the GPS coordinates of recently cut trails is critical to stopping it.
From dusk till dawn each day, we painstakingly edged our way west toward the river’s source in the Acarai Mountains. For two weeks the canopy was impenetrable and we didn’t see the sky. Some days we made it just 2 miles. Black humor and stubbornness was our fuel.
When the river was too chocked to travel farther upstream by boat, we set up a basecamp. We cached half our equipment and finished the steep trek by foot, cutting a line through dense undergrowth with machetes.
At its furthest source the mighty Essequibo is just a trickle, but that didn’t dampen our enthusiasm for finding it. Now we just had to turn around and paddle 1,000 km downstream to the sea.
One thousand to go
A month after setting off from the community of Masakenari we arrived back, having successfully located the source of the Essequibo River with five Wai Wai community members.
Just a month in the jungle and our bodies were already battered. Pip had a gnarly case of trench foot. We all had sores and various insects taking up residence in our skin. And Laura missed her 8-month-old son fiercely.
After finding the source of the Essequibo River, expedition leader Laura Bingham’s husband, explorer Ed Stafford (standing), visited, bringing their 8-month-old son. “Without a doubt the hardest bit of this expedition is not the infected bites, rotting feet or sore arms—it’s missing my son. But the sacrifice will be worth it, and life cannot just stop now that I’m a mum,” Bingham wrote on Instagram. | Photo: Jon Williams
This is when expeditions get interesting.
It’s not brawn carrying explorers through to a successful expedition. It comes down to mental strength and the ability to stay optimistic and resolute.
Years ago, I only did solo journeys. Out there on my own, I knew there was no one to trust and depend on but myself, and this feeling was a real fascination for a time. I also learned through my solo journeys that there is only so far you can go alone—if you want to achieve a huge dream what you need is a fantastic team.
Faced with hardships, our friendship came into its own. We rallied around one another and belly laughed our way from source to sea, guffaws echoing across the jungle. We formed a sisterhood we could lean on during the inevitable down days, battling exhaustion, illness, infections and mental fatigue.
The ancient forest
Leaving the community of Masakenari for a second time, we again entered into the unknown. Hundreds of kilometers of uninhabited and untouched rainforest and river lay ahead of us, much of it undocumented.
Our daily challenge shifted from hoisting dugouts over logs to portaging around waterfalls and navigating 20-km-long rapids in inflatable kayaks. One morning, I looked up to see two colossal boulders looming over the river, each standing guard on its own bank. The bulky black masses looked like molten rock had dripped down from the heavens to settle in enormous folds and mounds.
As we passed between them a silence descended upon our group. The landscape mesmerized us. I felt we’d entered into a very ancient place; as though we had stepped into Jurassic Park, complete with macaws shrieking an eerily appropriate soundtrack overhead. I half expected to see a flock of pterosaurs skimming the canopy tops and a Tyrannosaurus rex burst through the trees.
The jungle family
Most mornings on the Essequibo we awoke to the guttural, primal roar of a single howler monkey. Its call built to a crescendo as the whole troop joined in the dawn call. Time to rise, light a fire and set the water to boil.
Over breakfast we’d discuss the new footprints in camp, telling us a tale of the menagerie wandering past through the night—labba, tapier, scorpion, jaguar, caiman or armadillo. Then we’d huddle around paper maps and GPS, analyzing the topography and running through the day’s anticipated route.
With camp packed, we’d push off into glassy water and soak up the stillness, the calm before the first rapids. Our Wai Wai guides often had their eyes on the banks, watching for wildlife, catching even the smallest movements and listening for the stories being told well beyond the visible banks. Their awareness of the wildlife surrounding us was like nothing I have ever encountered.
Many days on the Essequibo River consisted of simple flatwater paddling.
The team celebrates reaching the Atlantic Ocean on day 72. | Photo: Jon Williams
Rapids provide a welcome respite from seemingly endless flatwater river bends. | Photo: Jon Williams
Others had us navigating thrilling rapids, or spectacular waterfalls and tricky portages.
As we descended farther north, the river began to mellow and widen and we saw signs of people again. We stopped to meet with communities when possible, listening to success stories about the foundations of sustainable ecotourism being built in Guyana.
Most days, we began the search for camp in mid-afternoon. By six o’clock our hammocks were slung, the fire crackled and we lined up, waist deep in the river, rinsing the day’s sweat and grit from our skin.
There, we regaled each other with tales from the day—the emerald tree boa wrapped tightly around a branch overhanging the river; or our guide, Rummel, going broadside down a rapid, paddle in one hand and a fishing rod in the other, whooping at the enormous fish he caught. We compared war wounds—grossing each other out with the worms, cysts and infections we had to squeeze, dig out and douse in iodine. In the jungle, we were perfectly pink and fleshy hosts. We took to giving our parasites names—Borris lived in my ankle for nine weeks despite my best efforts to evict him. Laura’s armpit was home to Donald for three weeks.
Sometimes bathing was cut short by the arrival of a 12-foot caiman, a bit too curious and close for comfort.
There are six species of caimans found in the Amazon jungle. This is a dwarf caiman who will only grow six feet long. | Photo: Jon Williams
The common squirrel monkey is just one of the nine types of monkeys native to Guyana. | Photo: Jon Williams
We’d bound for shore then turn on our heels to see the sun sink below the horizon. As daylight faded, the glowing red eyes of curious caimans often shone back at our torches from the river.
Once dinner had been inhaled, one by one we would each peel away to our hammocks to settle in for the night. Our days were bookended with the drifting notes of our Wai Wai guides—Ant’s flute sharing the stories of jungle animals, or Jackson and Nereus’ voices singing traditional songs.
One night, the final goodnight comes from the low grunts of a jaguar in the near distance. Tomorrow we get to wake up and do it all again. The wildlife, the forest, the mighty river, the Wai Wai and this deep sense community have given me more than any of them will ever know.
Ahead of us still lay the final 400 km to the mouth of the Essequibo.
We would navigate through a labyrinth of islands as the river broadened before the home stretch, a 150-km slog to the Atlantic Ocean through relentless headwinds and rough sea conditions. But that’s all still to come.
In the meantime, I fall asleep to the sounds of the jungle, nestled into a camp tucked in amongst the giant rainforest trees, slung side-by-side with my team. My little jungle family.
The team successfully reached the Atlantic Ocean on April 17, 2018, 72 days after setting out. The trio is the first group to descend the Essequibo River from source to sea. Author Ness Knight is also the first person to cycle solo and unassisted 2,000 km across the Namib desert of Namibia and the first woman to swim the United Kingdom’s Thames River from source to London. She has her sights set on becoming the first woman to row solo across the Pacific Ocean.
This article was first published in the Early Summer 2018 issue of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Welcome to the jungle, we take it day by day, of you want it you’re gonna bleed but it’s the price to pay. —Guns N’ Roses | Feature photo: Jon Williams
Nothing worth doing is easy, so might as well bring your kids along for the ride. | Feature photo: Ariel Estulin
My son was just 16 months old and still crawling when we took him on his first overnight canoe trip. His grandparents were aghast, and they weren’t the only ones. Conventional wisdom dictates an adventurous life is over once kids enter the equation, but nothing is further from the truth when it comes to canoe camping.
Of course, taking your kids along for the ride isn’t without challenges. You may need to adjust the length, speed and difficulty of your trips, at least for a few years. Use these tips to overcome the most common barriers to canoe camping with young kids and get back into the woods. One day, your kids will thank you for it.
Challenges of canoe camping with kids
1 All that gear
Say goodbye to your dialed-in and ultralight gear system and to single-carry portages, too. Factor in a mountain of must-have toys, bedtime books and diapers, and a toddler can amass as much gear as any tripper. And that’s after considering toddler specific gear like life jackets, watershoes, and layers.
The number of things needed for such a small human can be truly staggering. Accept this new reality and the double-carry portages coming with it. Adjust your route and choice of canoe accordingly. Go slower.
Nothing worth doing is easy, so might as well bring your kids along for the ride. | Feature photo: Ariel Estulin
2 On-water boredom
It’s tough being a kid just sitting in a canoe. Even the littlest ones want to imitate their parents, so keep ‘em engaged by giving them a kid-sized paddle. The result may only be a handful of strokes, but that’s another story. Simple games, like a stick or rock pile to splash and throw in the water, can be hours of fun.
Keep snacks and toys accessible in the canoe. A slow pace and lots of shore breaks help—there are so many interesting things to explore when you view the world through a kid’s eyes.
3 Biting bugs
Itchy kids are unhappy kids. Kid-sized bug jackets and a screened shelter for cooking and playing games can save a buggy trip. Don’t forget a peaked hat to keep the bug jacket mesh off a kid’s face.
Barrier methods are extra important for protecting kids from biting insects since some repellants, like DEET, aren’t safe for tiny tots and shouldn’t be used regularly for kids under 12.
When bites do inevitably happen, have a plan B to take the itch out, such as Afterbite or an antihistamine.
4 Throw-down tantrums
Always keep a snack, or five, handy and ready at a moment’s notice to diffuse tantrums. Some of my favorites include M&Ms, gummy bears and beef jerky—anything I’d never feed my son at home.
Tantrums are inevitable whether you’re at home or in the woods, so don’t let this be a reason not to take your kids outdoors.
5 Lengthy portages
It’s one thing to put your head down and grind out a tough portage, it’s another when you’re dealing with an irrational child. I can confirm, “Suck it up, buttercup,” is not an effective strategy with a two-year-old.
Keep portages short when possible and break longer ones up with lunch or fun activities, like exploring a marsh. Save the three-kilometer portages for later—kids just don’t appreciate type two fun.
A toddler might love the idea of sleeping in a tent, but the actual transition can be a challenge without the familiarity of home. Pre-trip, set up the tent in your backyard and get in there with your sleeping bags—maybe even spend the night.
On trip, keep bedtime routines similar to home—wash up, pajamas, books and songs. For naps, set up a cozy place in the canoe and try to time longer stretches of paddling with regular nap times.
7 Nature’s call
While adults might find a certain freedom in being able to drop trou and go about their business in the woods, for younger kids this can be an intimidating and finicky mess.
Offer support, give encouragement, swat away those pesky bugs and accept your perfectly toilet-trained child will soil their last clean and dry pair of pants on the buggiest portage imaginable. True story.
This article was first published in the Summer 2018 issue of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Nothing worth doing is easy, so might as well bring your kids along for the ride. | Feature photo: Ariel Estulin
Festival or not, ALF is open boating’s largest gathering with approximately 200 canoeists participating ANNUALLY. Photo: Caleb Roberts
There ain’t no organization. There ain’t no one in charge. There ain’t no schedule. There ain’t no promise of water on your favorite run on any particular day. Those are the things that ain’t promised.
—Bob Britt, veteran ALF attendee and open boater.
On a blue sky afternoon, a parade of vans and trucks begins to arrive at Cherohala Mountain Trails Camp-ground located at the edge of Tennessee’s Cherokee National Forest. Bearing brightly colored canoes and hauling trailers, the vehicles circle the camp’s sunny, five-acre pasture. Those who have been here before know the best tent sites and are quick to help the newcomers.
“Careful, there,” they say. “You’re gonna be in a lake when the rain starts.”
To the west, storm clouds have begun to cross Walden’s Ridge. By morning, everything will be wet—great news to these boaters traveling from all corners of the continent every March, hoping to paddle the area’s steep and swollen creeks.
What Is ‘Ain’t Louie Fest’, Affectionately Known As ALF
Is an annual 10-day paddling non-event in southeast Tennessee, celebrating the whitewater canoeing subculture. Around 200 paddlers attended this year’s ALF, a contrast to the 2,500 paddlers who attended last year’s Gauley Fest, West Virginia’s infamous whitewater festival, which attracts mostly kayakers.
Open boating is a small but mighty niche, or so the ALFers like to think.
Founder Michael “Louie” Lewis on Baby Falls. | Photo: Clolin Moneypenny
ALF is a low key affair. | Photo: Caleb Roberts
Participants run their own shuttle and stay in a local campground. | Photo: Caleb Roberts
ALF’s Obscurity Is Only Part Of What Makes It Unique
Especially unusual in the age of GoPro and Red Bull sponsorships is its complete autonomy. There are no festival officials, no set schedules and no registration fees. In fact, there’s no registration at all. There’s not even a website. Contrast this again with Gauley Fest, organized by nonprofit American Whitewater, for which the festival helped raise more than $120,000 in 2016.
Many ALFers will attend Gauley Fest, too, held in September. They will attend Cheat Fest in May, Beaver Fest in August and others along the way. ALF is their prelude to the mainstream mid-Atlantic festival circuit, a once-a-year chance for this small and colorful community to dominate southeastern waterways.
Just after midnight, the rain begins, and by morning, a cold mist blankets the campground. As the festival-goers emerge from their tents, anticipation hums along with air compressors inflating float bags. Cardboard coffee cups in hands, plans begin to formulate.
Which creeks are running? Who’s driving shuttle? Does anybody remember how to get to the put-in? You know the one?
“There will be lots of standing around and arguing about where to go each morning. Lots of indecisiveness and phone tag. It’s great,” says Alex Vargas, a 32-year-old independent building contractor from Chattanooga, Tennessee, who has been attending ALF since its inaugural year.
For The Last Five Years, Vargas Has Been In Charge Of Organizing ALF’s Annual Canoe Race, Making His Role As Official As ALF Ever Gets
Known as Only the Upper Tellico (O.U.T.) Race, the course follows a two-mile, class IV stretch of the Tellico River, finishing with the spectacular, roadside Baby Falls—a 15-foot drop into a pool. It attracts hundreds of spectators. Because the forest service prohibits parties greater than 60 within the national forest, Vargas must obtain a special permit. This is where race preparation begins and ends. Whether it will be held the Saturday or Sunday, Vargas has yet to decide.
“ALF is disorganized, that’s the point,” says Shawn Malone, 46, who owns a shuttle and outfitting company in Hixson, Tennessee, and who attends each year with his wife, Dana, and 11-year-old son, River.
Malone remembers one year getting lost in the mountains while looking for the Greenbrier Creek put-in. He was driving one shuttle, leading a caravan of others. Finally, his passenger Michael “Louie” Lewis—for whom the festival is named—said, “Just stop and unload the boats! They’ll put in wherever we put-in.”
“We almost put-in on the wrong fork. We did a hike up class IV section. Too many people and not enough eddies. A perfect ALF run,” Malone says.
Like a bag of skittles dumped into the river, paddle the rainbow. | Photo: Sunny Montgomery
After a two hour drive, paddlers carry their boats a quarter mile to the Hiwassee Dries put-in. | Photo: Sunny Montgomery
Who Is The Louie behind “Ain’t Louie Fest”?
Louie Is An Elusive Character Even At His Own Festival
A mess of silver hair and matching handlebar moustache, he is a native of nearby Lenoir City, so he sleeps at home rather than the campground. Many know of him only through stories, which flow like the flooded creeks. And no one lets the facts get in the way of a good Louie tale.
Louie is famously outspoken and contemptuous of kayakers.
At one point he was blocked from paddling forum BoaterTalk after he picked a fight with kayakers—calling sprayskirts dresses—but he says it was
a misunderstanding.
Open boater Rich Moore remembers one year when Louie, a crew of canoeists and one kayaker planned to run the class V Conasauga Creek. We loaded a bunch of canoes onto Louie’s truck, strapped ‘em all down. Then Louie walks over, picks up the only kayak and shoves it into the back—doesn’t strap it down or anything—and just starts driving. The boat is jumping around the whole way, and finally it falls out of the truck,” Moore says.
Louie insists the incident never happened.
“I’d never pick up a kayak,” he says. “I’ve done some sorry things in my life. But two things I’ve never done is vote for a Republican and paddle a kayak.”
This Year, Louie’s Only Visit To The Campground Is Cloudy But Bright. He walks the pasture loop with his wife, Lucero, and his 21-year-old daughter, Ana. Along the way, festival-goers gravitate to his side. They slap his back and ask him to pose for pictures, and Louie warmly obliges. His prickly reputation may precede him, but in reality, Louie, a retired high school history teacher, is a gregarious and generous man. He is responsible for introducing some of the community’s most respected open boaters to the sport, including Malone and Vargas. And he is responsible for introducing paddlers from all over the world to Southeastern whitewater.
According to Louie, ALF originated in 2003
After a representative from a well-established kayak company called canoeists fossils. Louie, an open boater of nearly 40 years, wanted to prove them wrong. So he called together all the canoeists he knew.
“Let’s show them how many of us there are,” he said.
Iconic Baby Falls, the finish to only Upper Tellico Race. | Photo: Caleb Roberts
Spectators and paddlers congregate alongside Baby Falls during the O.U.T. race. | Photo: Sunny Montgomery
About 40 paddlers showed up. There are other versions of the story, too.
Carole Westwood, from Ottawa, Canada, remembers it all starting around 2001, when Louie worked for boat manufacturer Dagger, which at the time still specialized in whitewater canoes. That spring, she and her husband, Andrew, made the 1,000-mile drive to Tennessee to pick up boats from Louie for the Canadian Dagger team. Enamoured with the rivers, they told their friends back home, who began asking to come along each spring.
Meanwhile, Vargas insists ALF started in 2004, in celebration of Louie’s 50th birthday. In fact, the only part of the story everyone agrees with is following the first gathering, somebody said, “We need to make this an annual thing—call it Louie Fest.”
“It Ain’t Louie Fest!” Louie Protested. And The Name Stuck
Since its beginning, Ain’t Louie Fest has grown only modestly in size, from 40 boaters the first year to just over 200.
Most new recruits learn about the event through word of mouth or social media—one of the most popular platforms for discussions is Facebook’s GDI (God Damn Independent) group. First created in 2010, GDI was intended to help a small group of Southeast open boaters plan outings. Today, it boasts 2,980 members from around the world.
Even though manufacturers Blackfly Canoes and Silverbirch Canoes regularly attend the event, ALF generally plays out under the radar of the larger whitewater community and paddling industry.
Where, When And How?
According To Louie, The Biggest Change To ALF Over Its Almost Two Decades Is It Has Become More Centralized. In 2015, Cherohala Mountain Trails Campground became the festival’s unofficial headquarters.
Saturday morning, Vargas calls the attention of the festival goers by clanging a cow bell and shouting through an orange cone. He has decided the race will be held on Sunday, so the boaters plan their day’s adventures. One group will do the Ocoee.
Another group will paddle the Tellico. Another, will paddle the Hiwassee Dries, a coveted class IV stretch which runs only a few times a year, either when the Hiwassee Dam is shut down for maintenance or spills over with high rain. The put-in is difficult to reach, but the big water and ephemeral nature of the river is too enticing.
So, through the mist and mud, one committed group of paddlers begins dragging their plastic boats toward Malone’s campground.
As the owner of local outfitter Scenic City Safari Shuttles, Malone has become one of ALF’s de facto drivers. Alongside his trailer-turned-camper is parked the company short bus, covered in leopard print decals and strung with LED lights. It can carry up to 19 canoes, and it’s almost at capacity.
“Fifteen minutes!” Malone shouts from atop the bus after the last canoe has been tied down. It’s another 30 before they depart. It’s a two-hour drive up treacherous mountain roads to the put-in.
Dana Malone, Cabot Anderson and Shawn Malone load boats onto Malone’s shuttle rig. | Photo: Sunny Montgomery
Rob Huddlestem from Missouri gears up prior to race-time. | Photo: Sunny Montgomery
The top-heavy bus sways precariously around the sharp bends, edged by rocky drop-offs. “Everybody to the offside!” Malone shouts, and knowingly, his passengers throw their weight away from the steep shoulder. After a few uncertain stops —“Left at the fork? Wasn’t there a forest service marker just before the put-in?”—the bus parks alongside a high, muddy hill. A rope weaves down through the trees, a makeshift handrail for the paddlers who form a chain to pass their boats down the mucky slope.
At its base snakes an old railway, which must be followed upriver for a quarter-mile. Balancing boats on shoulders, the paddlers begin the procession, speckling the winter gray mountains with patches of red, orange, green and blue.
The put-in is no more than a muddy bank just above the first class IV rapid. In a single stroke, the slow, arduous portage is replaced by swift current. And it remains quick. The river widens and narrows. It sprouts with young sycamores and boils against mossy boulders.
The boaters bounce through the rapids, dropping over ledges and disappearing just for an instant into the churning froth. They emerge with a triumphant slap of paddle and a euphoric expression. The rope burns across their palms and aches in their shoulders are a distant memory now. All but the moment is washed away.
The trip to and from the Dries takes a total of five hours, all for a run just five miles long. The boaters return to the campsite, weary and carsick. It has rained all day and everything is damp. A few of the boats have been cracked on sharp rocks but spirits are high.
Soon, the other boaters will return from their rivers. They will open beers and compare hull scars. They will help each other mend cracks, stomp out dents and shave foam from ill-fitting saddles.
Tomorrow, they will wake up to snow and they will do it all over again. Maybe Daddy’s Creek will be running. Or the North Chick. Or, maybe all the waterways will flood too high to paddle. At Ain’t Louie Fest, There Is Only The Promise Of Camaraderie.
Sunny Montgomery is a writer, editor and paddler living in Chattanooga, Tennessee.
The Georgia coast is home to a series of 15 barrier islands protecting the second largest area of saltwater marsh in the United States. Over a third of all the coastal wetlands on the east coast of the U.S. are found in Georgia.
Rivers emptying into the coastal plain mingle with unusually large tides creating a dynamic nursery for coastal wildlife of all kinds and a perfect destination for kayak touring.
An ideal spot to take in the full variety of the Georgia Coast is Cumberland Island. On Cumberland you’ll find the longest undeveloped stretch of beach in coastal Georgia, large areas of salt marsh, mature maritime live oak forests, herds of wild horses and historic estates with ruins dating from the Gilded Age.
Paddling access to Cumberland is best made from nearby Crooked River State Park and permits are available from park headquarters in St. Marys
Diversion Singleton’s Seafood Shack in Mayport, Florida is well worth the drive. Singleton’s serves up freshly caught fish and cold beer, with fish camp vibes and friendly neighborhood cats.
Wildlife More than 150 feral horses are descendants of animals kept on the island by the Carnegie family. Best viewed from a distance, they have been known to kick and bite visitors who get too close.
Beware The Georgia coast is a dynamic tidal environment and sees the second highest tides on the East Coast. Proper tidal planning is essential to avoid paddling against strong currents or wading through a sea of mud.
Did You Know Cumberland Island’s 18-mile stretch of undeveloped beach is an important nesting site for the endangered loggerhead sea turtle and responsible for a quarter of all turtles hatched in Georgia.
Regular ferry service for hikers connects the mainland to the island but doesn’t transport kayaks, so paddlers need to make the trip under their own power.
If you have a half day
Launch from the boat ramp at Crooked River State Park and explore the wetlands surrounding Grover Island north of the park. Plan your day around a high tide so you can explore deep into the marsh, but head back to the main channel before the receding waters leave you high and dry.
If you have a day
Explore the historic Plum Orchard Mansion on Cumberland. From the Crooked River State Park boat launch paddle east down Fancy Bluff Creek, cross the main channel of the Cumberland Sound and into the Brickhill River. Paddle upstream on the Brickhill River to the public dock. Free guided tours available daily.
If you have a weekend
Basecamp at the Sea Camp campground and explore the island on foot and by kayak. Cross the Cumberland Sound from Fancy Bluff Creek and land at the Sea Camp dock. Check in at the park office and ask permission to cache your kayaks nearby. Sea Camp offers secluded campsites in a mature maritime coastal forest of live oaks and saw palmetto. It’s a perfect jumping off spot to explore the beach or the nearby Dungeness ruins. Permits are required.
If you have a week
Experienced kayakers can link a stay at Sea Camp with a stop at the Brickhill Bluff backcountry site. After a night at Sea Camp load your kayaks for a trip up the Brickhill River. Make sure to bring equipment to hang your food to protect it from the local raccoons. From Brickhill you can hike to the historic First African Baptist Church and explore the north end of the island. Paddlers looking to circumnavigate Cumberland can continue on.
No more outings for the outing club. This was the gist of the many newspaper headlines in April when Penn State University shared its controversial risk management review of its 79 student clubs.
While the university publicly acknowledged the many benefits students gain participating in outdoor activities like hiking, backpacking and paddling, it also stated the university would no longer allow the 98-year-old Outing Club to organize student-led, outdoor trips.
Campus Recreation at Penn State remains focused on providing as many opportunities in the outdoors as possible, while also keeping safety as a priority,” the statement read. The Outing Club, as well as Penn State’s caving and diving clubs, were deemed to have “an unacceptable level of risk in their current operation model.
It’s absurd for a school board to approve a year-end, capstone paddling trip for students with the caveat there is no swimming allowed, even if everyone wears a PFD
The university’s martial arts and rifle clubs were allowed to continue. The Penn State Outing Club decision received a lot of press, but it’s just one example in a trend sweeping across North America.
For more than a decade, there has been a noticeable erosion of the joy factor on guided youth paddling trips. The culprit is the risk management frenzy in our risk-averse society. These decisions are often made by school board officials with a fear of litigation and a general lack of familiarity with outdoor environments and activities.
Overbearing risk management plans are diluting the outdoor experience. And from recent stories of school- and camp-organized trips, it’s not surprising if a kid goes once and never wants to participate again.
It’s absurd for a school board to approve a year-end, capstone paddling trip for students with the caveat there is no swimming allowed, even if everyone wears a PFD.
Other programs mandate youth on trip are not allowed to handle knives—pocket knives and kitchen knives—or stoke the fire. If kids can’t swim, tend to the fire, whittle or help with dinner—what are they left doing? Probably wishing they had Snapchat.
There are many benefits to learning to manage risk. In healthy doses, outdoor risk builds confidence, independence, self-regulation and other life skills. Are the real risks students face every day on and off campus—driving to school, for example—smaller than those they would experience on an organized paddling trip? And are they providing comparable benefits? Certainly not.
If it was safety we were truly concerned about we would wear helmets not just in rapids but in the van ride on the highway to the trailhead. Data from one of the most comprehensive studies of whitewater rafting injuries in the United States from 2002 highlights whitewater rafting—considerably more risky than any flatwater trip—ranges from approximately 2.2 to 8.7 fatalities per million participant days, whereas driving motor vehicles results in approximately 152 fatalities per million participant days. Canoe and kayak tripping fatalities didn’t make the list.
Contextualizing risk is important. According to the National Safety Council in the United States, in 2009 there were 35,000 motor vehicle fatalities, of which approximately 2,000 were children under the age of 16. There were also 5,300 pedestrian fatalities, 8,600 fatalities from unintentional public falls, 4,500 fatalities from unintentional public food poisoning and 800 fatalities while bicycle riding.
We need to stand up for paddling and its minimal yet inherent risks
Those numbers might sound scary but remember the U.S. had 306.8 million citizens in 2009. Approximately 610,000 died of heart disease the same year. In the many real risks we encounter every day, outdoor recreation barely makes the list yet receives disproportionate outcry.
A 2014 report by the NCAA revealed nearly one in 10 of the United States’ 70,000 college football players reported suffering multiple concussions during their college career, which is linked to long-term brain damage, including higher rates of dementia. Why is an elevated risk of injury—especially traumatic brain injury—acceptable on a sports field? Colleges aren’t keeping stats on concussions in outdoor adventure because they’re so rare.
We need to stand up for paddling and its minimal yet inherent risks. These are inextricably linked to the joys and benefits of the activity itself. As paddlers, we need to help schools, camps and community groups move beyond a narrow safety-only focus.
If meeting safety standards is the sole mark of success for a paddling trip, the bar is set very low. Should safety be a given? Yes. All trips must be safe. Safety first, but not safety only. As safe as necessary, but not as safe as possible. Let’s then move onto higher aspirations, goals and motivations. Why not instead focus on instilling joy and a love of the activity and the landscape.
To complement and parallel the many outdoor adventure risk management conferences, we need joy management conferences. Time spent with other guides, teachers and club leaders discussing the merits of a particular campfire game, messy desserts and the best swimming holes. Time spent on ensuring the next generation learns to cherish wild places, instead of fear them.
On the slippery slope we’re descending, risk-averse decisions could become paddling-adverse programs. And this would be joyless for all.
Bob Henderson, Ph.D has taught outdoor education at university for more than 35 years. He is the author of Every Trail Has a Story: Heritage Travel in Canada and More Trails, More Tales. For more information visit www.bobhenderson.ca.
Ryan Howard, Ph.D. is the Director of Research, Risk and Innovation with ALIVE Outdoors. He is a designated Canadian Risk Manager and consults with government agencies, school boards and organizations on a variety of risk management issues and audits. Feature Photo: Mark Zelinski
Paul Petzoldt, left, dreamed of nurturing outdoor leaders who knew how to live responsibly in the wilderness. | Photo: NOLS Archives
Sitting on a beach somewhere on the outer coast of the Great Bear Rainforest, I’m trying to do something unusual for me—be boring and reserved.
It’s not a trait that comes to me naturally. My friends left their gear unattended while they’re off hanging food and setting up tents. It’s a perfect opportunity for me to indulge my mischievous nature. Maybe change their paddles to a left-hand feather or take goofy selfies with their cameras for later discovery. But I’m resisting because we’re on day 10 of 17 on British Columbia’s outer coast with strong winds, no current information and sketchy campsites. I’m trying to be cow-like. It’s a lesson I learned from a guy I never met.
We all have a mental list of people who are skilled paddlers but we don’t invite on a long trip. The individual may be fine company for a day or a weekend, but they just don’t fit in over the course of a long trip. It’s easier to say we just don’t like them, or they don’t match the group dynamic. Often what’s missing is something called expedition behavior.
The concept of expedition behavior dates back to Paul Petzoldt. In 1965, he founded what became known as the Harvard of the outdoors—the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS).
Petzoldt, who climbed Grand Teton in 1924 in cowboy boots at age 16, had a long career in the wilderness. It was after being part of the first American expedition to K2 in 1938, which ran short of food, he recognized planning, group cohesion and problem solving were as important as climbing skills.
Petzoldt’s brilliance was in codifying and teaching what makes a good group member; it’s a modern-world coda for what was once innate.
NOLS became the first outdoor school to institutionalize the often unspoken rules of good trip etiquette: Put the goals of the group ahead of your own goals—and be clear about goals to begin with. Do your share and stay organized. Take care of yourself, so you can contribute to the group. Be kind and open-hearted. Respect the cultures you contact. Pitch in and help others, but don’t do their work for them. Communicate. Be honest and accountable about shortcomings affecting the group and admit and correct your mistakes. Support the growth of team members. Be cow-like: even-keeled and moderate. Reduce annoying behaviors which might be funny on day three, cute on day five, but really annoying by day 12. Like changing everyone’s paddles to a left-hand feather when they’re not looking.
[ Paddling Trip Guide: Find your next paddling adventure here ]
How to function in groups isn’t new. Humans evolved as roving bands—you either helped rig mammoth traps and shared meat or you were booted out of the tribe. The agricultural and industrial revolutions bringing us carbon fiber paddles along with cubicles and organizational charts made small roving bands less common. Petzoldt’s brilliance was in codifying and teaching what makes a good group member; it’s a modern-world coda for what was once innate.
Expedition behavior helped my ground become clear about what we wanted from our 17 days in the Great Bear Rainforest. We had to put miles under our hulls to catch our ferry out, but we wanted to explore the rock gardens, tidal rapids and intricate shoreline on the way. When the weather threw strong afternoon headwinds our way, expedition behavior made the conversation about getting organized for early starts easy.
It kicks in when one person is somehow always absent when the group is lugging heavy boats up the beach or hanging heavy food bags out of the reach of grizzlies. It’s at its most powerful when it becomes a tool for growth—having someone with less experience plan the route, with the support of the whole group.
I’ve used the same tents of expedition behavior in my professional life. Like an expedition along an exposed coastline, a conservation campaign is a challenging endeavor with a relatively small group of people who share a deep passion for what they’re doing.
Like a dumping surf landing on a remote island, mistakes can be costly. And, operating under pressure, we all will eventually zig when we should have zagged. The whole team needs to operate with judgment, shared knowledge, and deep trust. Tension will be high at times. A good time to channel our inner Petzoldt and be cow-like.
This article originally appeared in Issue 55 of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions here, or browse the archives here.
Neil Schulman still thinks a little mischievousness can go a long way and he’s taken to slipping beers into other paddlers’ day hatches. He likes to think he knows what Petzoldt would have had to say about it.
Paul Petzoldt, left, dreamed of nurturing outdoor leaders who knew how to live responsibly in the wilderness. | Photo: NOLS Archives
Complete your paddling PFD kit with the essentials. | Photo: Virginia Marshall
No one’s PFD kit is perfect. Ask any kayak guide what she keeps in and on her life jacket, and you’ll quickly learn each leader’s kit is a reflection of their experience and the conditions and places where she paddles.
The best life jackets have plenty of storage space, but most agree: less is more. Fill your pockets with too much stuff, and you may actually hinder your ability to perform in challenging situations. Keep it simple and store bulkier or less frequently used items within reach in your day hatch. Tweak your kit for different environments, so it’s the best possible compromise between being prepared and being comfortable.
For on-water navigation, pair a deck-mounted marine compass with a compact orienteering compass like Suunto’s M-3G. The orienteering compass’s straight edge and rotating bezel enable you to take a bearing on your map or chart, rather than simply follow a heading on the water. Plus, the attached lanyard works great for quickly measuring map or chart distance.
Knowing where you are, and how far you can go, means keeping track of time on the water. Get a reliable, waterproof watch and strap it to your PFD. ‘Nuff said.
A sound signalling device is required by the coast guard, and a pea-less whistle like the classic Fox 40 is invaluable for getting the attention of an errant paddler.
Combining rope and dynamic waters carries a risk of entanglement. This is one of those rare items you always carry and hope you never need to use. Safety knives should be corrosion-resistant with a secure sheath. A knife is one of the most common lash tab accessories, ensuring your knife is within easy grasp—you’ll find lash tabs on most touring and whitewater PFDs. Look for a knife with a blunt tip and serrated edge, like CRKT’s Bear Claw. Keep it sharp—resist the urge to use your safety knife for slicing the salami.
On a bright day, light reflected from the water can increase exposure to damaging UVA and UVB rays by about 10%. Wear a wide-brimmed hat and long sleeve UPF-rated clothing, and protect exposed skin with broad-spectrum waterproof sun block and lip balm.
In addition to a waist-worn tow belt, many kayak guides also wear a PFD-integrated tether—known as a pigtail—for rapid extractions. Pair North Water’s PFD Sea Link with their quick-release chest belt ($55) for a tow system you can deploy, or escape, with one hand. The Sea Link’s shock absorber eases stresses on the rescuer. A slim, floating pouch contains 15 feet of additional line, so you can go from contact tow to short tow with the release of a buckle.
Opinions vary on the perfect, do-it-all tape for hasty, on-water repairs. Good ol’ duct tape is a sound option for many jobs, but for bombproof patches on composite and plastic boats, carry a square of waterproof gutter tape.
Keep track of weather observations, note wildlife sightings or simply jot down your thoughts. Rite in the Rain makes waterproof notepads and journals in a variety of compact styles.
A petite, waterproof kit with basic wound care is all you need in your PFD. Add water treatment tabs, electrolytes and energy chews to prevent dehydration and bonking. Ginger candies are a natural, non-drowsy way to ward off seasickness. Finally, keep a length of waterproof, self-adhering athletic wrap in your kit to support joint injuries. Try the Ultralight Watertight .5 from Adventure Medical Kits.
Consider a marine VHF radio like Cobra’s HH350—and the training to use it correctly—if you are travelling offshore, for extended periods in remote locations, or in areas with heavy boat traffic.
For paddling after dark or in heavy fog, you’ll need a light to make it easier for others to see you. A compact, waterproof strobe-like Princeton Tec’s Aqua Strobe attaches to your PFD shoulder strap or lash tab and doubles as a personal locator light in the event of an emergency.
At a recent kayaking skills workshop, the roar of turbojet CT-114 Tutors from a nearby airshow silences classes with every flyover. We can’t help but pause to search the skies for the aerobatic planes. After glimpsing one of the winged wonders, a student tells me, “Your sea kayak looks just like a Snowbird!”
Norse Kayaks’ Bylgja Sea Kayak Specs
Length: 17 ft Width: 21.6 in Weight: 53 lbs Paddler Size: 130-249 lbs Price: $2,999 CAD norsekayaks.com
Indeed, with its bold red-and-white decks, sweeping lines and crisp angles, Norse Kayaks’ Bylgja I’m paddling turns nearly as many heads as the unmistakable jets of the Elite Canadian Forces Air Demonstration Squadron.
My Norse is on loan from Trailhead Paddle Shack, an eastern Ontario outfitter bringing these kayaks across the Atlantic and making them available to North American paddlers.
The Norwegian sea kayak
As the name suggests, Norse is a Norwegian brand that began producing composite sea kayaks in 2013. The boats are designed in Bergen, on the fjord-fractured west coast of Norway, and built at a dedicated factory in Sri Lanka.
Trailhead co-owner Jason Yarrington sourced the boats on a visit last year to Germany’s PADDLEExpo trade show.
I was looking for a composite sea kayak company that was well priced and well built. “I found that with Norse,” Yarrington explains. “They also paddle really well and have some great designs.
The finish on my fiberglass Bylgja is not only eye-catching, the vacuum-infused glasswork is lightweight and reinforced with aramid in the keel and chines for added durability.
Norse Founders, Kjetil Sandvik And Torgeir Toppe, saw an opportunity to apply their combined experience in paddlesports sales and instruction to building kayaks.
As long-time Boreal Design distributors, the partners noticed demand for affordably priced performance composites remained high after the Quebec, Canada-based company filed for bankruptcy in early 2012.
Production of Boreal Design boats resumed later that year after the brand was acquired by Kayak Distribution.
Upswept bow and stern, combined with hard chines and a v-shaped hull make Norse’s Bylagja sea kayak for nimble maneuverability. | Photo: Virginia Marshall
Norse’s reinforced fiberglass kayak
The Greenland-inspired Bylgja, a Scandinavian word meaning wave, I am paddling is just one member of Norse’s diverse family of kayaks, which includes designs for touring, expedition and fitness paddling.
Also in the line-up are four ruddered models, a tandem tripper and a crossover with a surfski-derived hull.
Fans of Boreal Design will notice Norse Kayaks bear a resemblance to those boats. Borrowing details such as the signature printed seam tape and molded paddle rest in front of the cockpit.
The founders say their familiarity with the brand informed both their designs and building methods.
The finish on my fiberglass Bylgja is not only eye-catching, the vacuum-infused glasswork is lightweight and reinforced with aramid in the keel and chines for added durability.
Even more impressive is the price point: sub-$3,000 CAD for the fiberglass layup, with a 44-pound carbon version available for $3,499 CAD. That’s at least a grand cheaper than most comparable composite kayaks.
Norse Kayaks’ playful sea kayak is easy to handle in rough waters
Okay, I can hear you asking, but how does this fiberglass kayak paddle?
“Bylgja is designed for medium to large paddlers who are looking for a playful kayak easy to handle in rough conditions, but still tracks well for touring,” says Sandvik.
I spend most of my time in softer chined, more rounded hulls, so getting the most out of the Bylgja’s V-shaped hull and boxy chines requires some experimentation and adjustment.
larger paddlers looking for a nimble, hard-chine touring kayak won’t be disappointed.
Before long, however, I can see the advantage. For intermediate paddlers, these hard lines translate to effortlessly carved turns and coaming-below-the-water edging.
I’m able to balance brace with relative ease, relaxing and allowing the boat to rest comfortably in a deep edge. Filling the generously sized hatches for a multi-day trip increases primary stability.
Touring in two-foot chop, the loaded Bylgja loses a bit of hull speed and feels less lively than paddling with empty hatches. Tracking is on-point in all conditions; dropping the skeg tames gusty crosswinds and following seas.
Norse Kayaks’ Bylgja’s roomy, oval cockpit is designed around a larger paddler- say goodbye to barked shins on entries and exits. The downside: minimal thigh braces offer limited contact for shorter legs. | Photo: Virginia Marshall
Viking imagery adorns Norse’s printed seam tape, while recessed deck fittings and compass mount on this sea kayak keep the topside sleek and stylish. | Photo: Virginia Marshall
Norse’s touring kayak hatch system
Reaching my first campsite after several splashy crossings, I am disappointed to discover water puddled in my day and stern hatches.
Refitting the rubber Kajaksport hatch covers helps but does not eliminate the problem.
Every hatch system is a trade-off between ease of use, dryness and durability. Kajaksport covers have a proven track record for longevity, and many I’ve used—including the Bylgja’s bow hatch—are perfectly dry. However, I find it’s a struggle to get these fitted just right.
On the subject of hatches, it’s worth noting the deck hatch just in front of the cockpit accesses a small mesh bag hanging below the deck.
This offers less dry storage than a molded-in compartment, but doesn’t reduce volume in the cockpit.
Norse’s best kayak for larger paddlers
The Bylgja’s 33-inch-long oval cockpit opening privileges larger and taller paddlers who will find they can enter seat-first, then bring their legs inside—just like us shorter folks can with a smaller keyhole cockpit.
The drawback for mid-sized paddlers is items stored under the front deck bungees—bilge pump, water bottle, map case, etcetera—are out of reach, and even accessing the deck hatch or skeg slider is a stretch.
The rear coaming also catches me too high for comfortable layback maneuvers, which is unfortunate, since the Bylgja rolls just like a Greenland-style kayak should.
I’d love to see Norse offer a smaller, sportier cockpit to match the sporty performance of this new boat. Still, larger paddlers looking for a nimble, hard-chine touring kayak won’t be disappointed.
At a retail price lower than nearly any other full-size composite we’ve tested, Norse Kayaks offers outstanding value. Factor in their flashy looks, and squadrons of Bylgjas could soon be sighted on waters near you.
It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No, it’s a Bylgja. Feature Photo: Virginia Marshall
This article was first published in the Early Summer 2018 issue of Paddling Magazine. 
This article was first published in the Summer 2018 issue of Paddling Magazine. 
