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How 16 Canadians Became Connected By Canoe

Powered by 16 strong backs, the 36-foot-long Montreal Canoe practically charged down the river towards the nation’s capital.

Weighing 275 pounds, it was a remarkable sight on Ontario’s Rideau Canal, but even more remarkable for the difficult questions being asked within. What does a reconciled Canada look like? How do we mend the gaps between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Canadians?

Heavy questions. The kind of conversation conventional wisdom says isn’t fit to be had in the company of strangers. Yet, it’s this precise lack of public discussion 16 Canadians set out to tackle. Calling the 10-day journey Connected By Canoe, in-boat discussions about reconciliation with Canada’s First Nations were at the heart of this Canadian Canoe Museum-sponsored initiative. The team traveled 211 kilometers on the Rideau Waterway, from Kingston to the nation’s capital, Ottawa.

Their timing celebrated Canada’s sesquicentennial of Confederation, while coinciding their arrival with the opening day of the Community Foundations of Canada conference. The diverse group represented Canadians of many backgrounds, including several First Nations people and new immigrants. And in the way journeys of distance and heart open people up then bind them together, soon it seemed entirely normal to discuss thorny issues with new friends who were mere strangers days ago. No one doubts the integral role the canoe played in Canada’s past.

The Question The Connected By Canoe Journey-Makers Asked Is, Can The Canoe Now Guide The Country To A More Unified Future?

Ten days later, when they arrived in Ottawa, they had a lot to say. On the following pages, five participants from the voyage reflect on the journey and share their ideas on what a reconciled Canada really looks like, and how the canoe can help get us there.

James Raffan

James Raffan

Former executive director, Canadian Canoe Museum // Seeley’s Bay, Ontario

Connected By Canoe started with the idea the canoe can be as relevant to the future of Canada as it is undeniably relevant to its past. It was fun, but also a really effective way to bring people together to discuss things hard to talk about.

Many of the stories we hear of the intergenerational effects of conquest are just horrific. The information is out there, but to be sharing a meal or portage carry with someone with a personal story is very different than reading about it in a newspaper. One memorable revelation was from one of the First Nations paddlers on the journey. He said, “I thought you guys”—meaning white, European Canadians—“I thought you guys knew and didn’t care, and it turns out you don’t know, and now that you do, I see the angst on your face.” It’s a breakthrough.

The term reconciliation is a loaded and fraught bit of language in the sense reconciliation at its core is between Indigenous people and the federal government, which hasn’t honored treaties.

Connected By Canoe Is Absolutely No Substitute, It’s Simply One Idea—The Intensity Of A Canoe Journey Can Bring People Together

My hope is people will pick up the idea and use it.

Connected By Canoe was an intentional effort to show how the canoe can be relevant as a leadership force in a country needing to do some soul-searching. We can’t undo the wrongs of the past, but we can create a path forward.

When you put people in an isolated social setting with the common goal of getting from A to B, sharing food, sharing helplessness in the face of the weather, camaraderie grows. These social interactions occuring in the canoe fundamentally changed how people relate with each other.

What Does A Reconciled Canada Look Like?

Escaping our assumptions. The only way you can get an inkling of what those are is to take a risk; talk and listen to different people. And a canoe trip is a wonderful place to do this.

Erick Mugisha

Erick Mugisha

Nursing student, Loyalist College // Peterborough, Ontario

I went on a five-day canoe trip the summer prior to Connected By Canoe. I had been living in Canada for only a couple months then. I just loved the clean water—it made me feel so good and I felt a responsibility to keep it healthy. Many people in Canada get in a canoe for fun, but you are really missing something if fun is all you feel.

After the first canoe trip, I wanted to share what I felt. I feel like the Earth is like our mother who raised us and provided us with everything. What’s the point of being disrespectful? It’s like we are troubled children—we’ve given her so much trouble, but she takes it as a challenge and keeps on giving us what we need.

As Individual People, Pollution Is Often Not Our Own Fault

Pollution is something someone else did. You don’t have to be like the people who misused the environment, but you do have to take responsibility for the way the environment is now and make it better.

Reconciliation for Canada and First Nations is maybe similar. We can’t blame one another if we want to progress, we have to accept what happened and find something to bring us together to go forward.

As One Of The Youngest People On The Connected By Canoe Trip, I Enjoyed Hearing From Experienced Paddlers And The First Nations

I was inspired by their way of thinking—cherishing so many living things in this world. Canadians should have this knowledge of the Native perspective—it opens minds. Protecting the health of the environment could be what brings people together.

Kristen Ungungai-Kownak

Kristen Ungungai-Kownak

Student, Carleton University // Ottawa, Ontario

The question I brought to Connected By Canoe was how to better connect the northern parts of Canada with the southern parts.

My heritage is Inuk. I grew up in Rankin Inlet until I was nine, then we moved to Iqaluit, the capital of Nunavut. Now living in Ottawa, I see a disconnect. Not everyone has the opportunity to travel to the North, or vice versa, so I try to share what it’s like up north.

To Me, Reconciliation Looks Like Granting Everyone Access To Education

The real history of Canada isn’t taught everywhere and not offered to everyone. Only once it’s known, can there be a real conversation.

There’s a history behind why we need reconciliation, and why we need it now. My history program at university touches on Indigenous people, colonization and the effect settlers had on our culture, but had I not gone to this program I would not have had this perspective on my own history.

When I first learned, I’d felt betrayed. I thought about my family members and my friends’ families, how they were affected by residential schools. My parents never had this discussion with me, and my friends’ parents who went to residential schools were very closed off. For me, it was the first time learning why.

Through The Connected By Canoe Trip I Felt Uplifted And Inspired—It’s Not That Canadians Ignore The North Or Don’t Care, Many Just Need An Opportunity To Connect

On the trip, I presented throat singing to some communities. Traditionally its done by two women, but I split the group into two, with people on either side and taught them to throat sing together.

Sharing one aspect opens up conversation and curiosity, and people started asking questions about traditional gender roles and contemporary issues for First Nations today. It opened my mind to the communities in southern Canada—they are interested, and just need a chance to connect.

Gary Running

Gary Running

Retired // Seeley’s bay, Ontario

James Raffan knew I paddled the Rideau Canal every year during National Paddling Week in June. The Connected By Canoe group needed someone who knew the Rideau system well and could drive a van.

So, I became the roadie for the trip.

I Didn’t Know Much About Reconciliation, But James Was Stuck And Needed Help

As we went along, I realized what the whole thing was about; how the Canadian government treated its Indigenous people. It was a real eyeopener. I listened a lot. Growing up, I didn’t really know these things.

While they were paddling, I drove a bus and a big, long trailer. I had no experience at all—the whole thing was about 60 feet long. That was a rude awakening too. The Rideau Canal waterway is beautiful, with lots of fur trade history. I was happy to share my knowledge.

You know, we do a lot of talking, but we don’t always practise but we preach. I know so many people who know the commandments on the way in the church door, but forget them on the way out.

It Took This Trip To Show Me What Was Done To Canada’s Indigenous People

At one point we were going around a circle sharing stories, and when it came to my turn to speak I said I used to be a proud Canadian, but I’m not so proud anymore.

This history should be taught in the schools. I think maybe it’s a step towards reconciliation. I was never taught what went down. Schools and teachers don’t speak about it and they don’t teach about it and I would not have known if it wasn’t for this trip. I’m 64 years old. Many other people don’t know too.

Stephen Hunter

Stephen Hunter

Algonquin Negotiation Representative // Bancroft, Ontario

There’s a real commonality once you get into a canoe. If you don’t work together in a 16-person canoe you’re not going anywhere. A lot was said on the Connected By Canoe journey about the canoe in general—cheemun to the Algonquin people. It’s iconic to us, indicative of everything we are. It was also a tool used to colonize the country. Imagine trying to use rowboats to navigate west.

The Canoe Was Integral To The New People In Terms Of Getting Into This Country, Mapping It And Colonizing It

It was great we did this journey, but it was a long time coming. There were lots of tears on the trip as people opened themselves up and talked about their personal stories.

The conversation needs to continue in order to heal some of the pain of the Indian Act and I think we’re on track. I have hope—not for me, but for my great-great-grandkids—this country is going to be a great place for them.

What Can Readers Do?

They can love the guy next door. Care about the person who lives down the street. Step out of the bubble you live in.

There’s no letsgetengaged.com or official engagement center. There are friendship centers and pow-wows and Indigenous tourism associations and many ways to engage with Indigenous communities. In terms of building a stronger community though, the answer lies inside the reflection in the mirror.

To have a full appreciation, you really need to reach out to the guy next door, listen to his story and share your own story. Doing this, like we did in the canoe, creates stronger streets, communities, cities and provinces. Caring about the guy next door is a lost art, and it’s one we need to revive. It’s so damn simple to me.

I See Reconciliation As A Continued Willingness To Engage With First Nations People

And an openness to adopting some of our values, and lending them to modern issues and problems.

For a long time, the system set out to break us apart and to separate us from each other. As we move forward, I believe you’ll see us come together as First Nations people, with our traditions and the profound respect we share for community. And by community I mean this great Earth—this Mother—we live on.

Community is in our animals and birds, our flora and fauna, and this connection we all share but many have forgotten. Reconciliation looks like a world of respect for each other, and all living things.

Text by Kaydi Pyette

The Re-Evolution Of Whitewater Kayak Design

several paddlers surrounded by kayaks with mountains in the background
Looking back, to look to the future.

If you’ve ever run shuttle with someone over 40 you’ve heard this before, but listen up, because it’s important. Modern kayaking began on the day in 1973 when the first plastic boat hit the market. Until then, you made your own boat out of fibreglass, usually on a borrowed mold, always in an unventilated basement.

Your boat was 13 feet, two inches long because the slalom rulebook said it should be, and the first thing you learned was to miss all the rocks because if you hit one you’d be back in the basement, huffing resin and sanding patches.

Then the Hollowform River Chaser came out, and suddenly it was okay to run into things.

Slowly at first, boaters discovered it could be fun to bounce off obstacles. The boof became a core river running technique. Splats became a thing, and shallow wave holes went from places to be avoided to the most popular play spots on the river.

A whole new style of kayaking was taking hold, and it set off an explosion of innovation in the 1990s

Rodeo was king, with athlete designers like Eric Jackson and Corran Addison driving the progression both in the shaping room and on the newly ascendant freestyle circuit.

At the start of this creative spasm, the Perception Pirouette, heralded as “the ultimate playboat” in the company’s 1993 catalog, was 11 feet, two inches long. Less than a decade later, somewhere around the time Popular Science declared the Dagger UFO the “most agile kayak yet,” which was never released but became the Dagger G-Force 5.9. In fairness, no kayaker today would call the Pirouette a playboat, and the unremarkable UFO lasted about as long as the bunions it ground into the tortured toe knuckles of its owners. But the trend towards ever-smaller boats had finally approached its logical limit.

The only place left to go was back to the future.

boater flipping his blue kayak in a whitewater rapid
The 7’9 Jackson Kayak Antix is one of the shorter kayaks in the new category of river runners. | Photo: courtesy Jackson Kayak

Full circle

The design explosion of the 1990s gave us a number of iconic boats like the Prijon Rocket and the quintessential slicey playboat, the WaveSport X. But no boat has had a more lasting impact than the Dagger RPM, a squash-tailed eight-foot, 11-inch revelation debuting in 1995.

Eric Jackson won the 1993 World Freestyle Kayak Championship in a ‘glass prototype, but the production version took two more years to reach the market because Dagger boss Joe Pulliam thought it was too radical for mainstream success. The market proved him wrong.

The RPM would become the best-selling whitewater kayak ever, and 23 years later is enjoying a resurgence

“People still gravitate towards it,” says Dagger designer Mark ‘Snowy’ Robertson. “It’s kind of a soul-boating thing. The grace of the way the boat flows downriver is what attracts people.”

The same could be said of the new generation of playful river runners following in its footsteps, including Dagger’s own Axiom, Jackson Kayak’s Antix, Pyranha’s Ripper and Soul Waterman’s Funky Monkey.

Liquidlogic joined the party in 2015 with two variations on the theme, the eight-foot, 11-inch Braaap, and the aptly named nine-foot Mullet. The moniker perfectly describes the boat’s design parameters—business up front, party in the back, with a not-so-subtle nod to its mid-90s inspiration. True to their old-school roots, the Braaap and Mullet both have displacement hulls, with tapered low-volume sterns making every eddyline a playground.

The resemblance to the RPM and other old-school classics like the New Wave Sleek and Perception Whip-It is no coincidence, says Liquidlogic head of design Shane Benedict. The lineage is direct, and like many trends in whitewater paddling its roots drink deeply from the Green River.

The iconic North Carolina Run is home to the Green Race and some of the most influential designers in the sport…

…including Dagger’s Robertson, Pyranha’s Robert Peerson and Benedict, who even as a self-professed “old guy” still logs upwards of 70 Green laps a year.

There may be no better routine in boating than daily Green laps, but it’s still a routine. So a few years ago Green regulars began pulling all sorts of old boats out of barns and backyard sheds to keep it fresh.

“There are a lot of old boats floating around, and somebody would get ahold of one of them and just have the best day out on the river,” Peerson says.

In their heyday, few would have dreamed of piloting those boats down a class V creek, but for today’s skilled boaters they’re the perfect craft to wring just a little more fun out of a familiar run. The manufacturers took note, and soon the re-evolution of the downriver playboat is in full swing.

“People are rediscovering the things we were doing a long time ago, figuring out stern squirting and cartwheeling and the flatwater stuff,” Benedict says. “The old boat revival was hot and heavy on the Green so it was pretty easy for us to see it and say, ‘Let’s see if we can make a new squirty boat that can get them out of those $300 used boats.’”

That’s exactly what happened.

The slicey river runners have taken the kayaking world by storm

They’re especially suited to class III-IV standards—backyard runs boaters know well, with both challenging rapids and plenty of opportunities for play. More advanced paddlers are using them to spice up bread-and-butter class V runs.

Nearly every company now has one on offer, and judging by the eddy chatter and general excitement it’s hard to go wrong with any of them.

Dagger’s eight-foot, six-inch Axiom and Jackson’s seven-foot, nine-inch Antix are among the shorter boats in the class, with planing hulls that surf well and snap in and out of eddys. They’re on the playful end of the spectrum, designed to extract the maximum amount of fun from every seam, pillow and wave on the river.

Soul Waterman’s Funky Monkey is a rangy nine feet, nine inches, built for speed with a flat-bottomed hull and a little less bow volume than other boats in the class. Pyranha’s nine-foot Ripper takes the pronounced bow rocker and fast-is-fun approach of its acclaimed 9R creeker and mates it to a playful stern. The Mullet is the harder-partying of Liquidlogic’s two slice-tails, while the Braaap is more of a river-runner, with a narrower hull profile (24 inches wide compared to the Mullet’s 26 inches) and more balanced volume distribution. Both draw on slalom influences and in the right hands will make race-inspired eddy carves and stern pivots into things of beauty.

The Party Braaap straddles the gnar-play divide thanks to a slicier stern than the original. Liquidlogic spins it in the same mold as the standard Braaap, then uses a template to squash the stern into a more playful profile while the plastic is still warm. The result is more predictable than rolling over it with a truck, and just as strong as a fully molded boat.

But wait, there’s more

The slicey re-evolution started in the tail, but it’s not going to end back there. New playboats coming to market this spring take the logical next step, extending low-volume slice to the bow with shapes reminiscent of such revolutionary designs as the WaveSport XXX.

Jackson’s squirty double-ender, the MixMaster, began shipping in February. “The type of paddling you do in it is different than a modern freestyle kayak,” says JK president Eric Jackson. The combination of length, low volume and narrow ends engaging the water—Jackson calls them wings—is the key to a toy box most kids today didn’t even know existed. Factor in the freestyle progression of the last decade and a half, and it will be interesting to see what the new generation of boaters does with these slicey playboats, Jackson says.

Even the old dog has learned some new tricks

“I have already been able to do some new moves in it nobody was doing in the 1990s and 2000s in that style boat, because I’m applying what I have learned in my modern freestyle kayaks,” Jackson says.

Liquidlogic also has a slicey playboat on tap. The company has been testing prototypes since Gauley Fest last September, with the much-anticipated design set to ship in April. At press time Benedict told us the shape was dialled in, with a seven-foot, eight-inch planing hull and 55 gallons of volume centred around the cockpit, though the name was still a work in progress. Homeslice has been bandied about, as has Obsession—a nod to Liquidlogic’s influential original playboat, the Session.

“It’s slicey on both ends, so it’s very much like the older playboats,” Benedict says. “There’s definitely some history of the Session in this boat, as well as one of my earliest designs, the Mr. Clean from back in the Perception days.”

Ironically, the segment pushing kayak design to the bleeding edge in the 1990s and early 2000s has seen the least innovation in the last few years.

Sub six-foot freestyle designs like Jackson’s Star series have evolved incrementally, with the bulbous hull profile and squared-off stern surviving to reproduce again and again. These boats bounce, loop and spin like tops, so perhaps they’re so well adapted to their park-and-play habitat that, like sharks, they have no more need to evolve. More likely, the creative attention has just been focused on other aspects of the sport and will turn back to freestyle in time.

One thing is certain. The athletic progression has continued across the board.

“There’s been little design progression from about 2005 to 2015, but the techniques, the skills, the tricks, the creeks, the drops—what people were doing with these boats—increased exponentially,” says Corran Addison, who was the poster boy of new school innovation until the mid-2000s, when he found a new focus for his manic energy in paddle surfing.

Now back in the kayak game after an eight-year hiatus, (see the Soul Waterman Main Squeeze review) Addison sees parallels with surfing’s so-called shortboard revolution. In the 1970s, surfing progressed rapidly from longboards, which are nine feet or longer, to shortboards which are often less than six feet. The new shapes were harder to ride and required faster, more critical waves. As a result, surfers either got really good or they stopped surfing altogether. Then in the 1990s longboards made a comeback—with a difference.

“The longboards from the ‘90s were not the same as in the ‘70s because the shapers incorporated what they learned with shortboards,” Addison says. A similar dynamic is playing out now in kayak design.

Designers simply have more experience and more data to work with

They have a better understanding of how inputs like rocker and hull profile interact, and this means better boats for everyone.

As an example, Addison offers his new Soul Waterman 303. “It’s a 10-foot high-performance playboat inspired by a 27-year-old Riot Scorpion,” he says. “You hear this and you say what? But I’d just spent a week paddling through the Namib Desert on the Orange River and left my Main Squeeze, a six-foot, 10-inch all-around freestyle boat, on the oar raft. I paddled all but one day in the Scorpion, because it’s fast and I was squirting and splatting every rock in sight and surfing every wave.”

Addison says the only thing the Scorpion couldn’t do is spin and blunt, so when he got home to Montreal, Quebec, he grafted a high-performance hull and modern outfitting onto a deck inspired by designs like the Scorpion and its old-school stable mate, the Sabre. The result is a 10-foot playboat which spins and blunts, at least with Addison at the controls.

Is this the future?

It remains to be seen, but as Benedict says, “It’s nice to see what Corran is up to.”

The need for speed

While downriver boats have been all about slicey sterns of late, the creek boat evolution has been all about speed, with designs like Pyranha’s 9R and Waka Kayak’s Tuna ushering in a new generation of fast, highly rockered, planing-hull creekboats.

“Speed and bow design are two things critical in creekboat design in the past five years. Add user-friendliness and you have a winner in the market,” Jackson says, citing as an example his company’s Nirvana, which debuted in 2017 featuring pronounced bow rocker and a speedy nine-foot planing hull.

More new creekers are recently arrived or in shops this season

Dagger’s new Phantom was designed with extensive input from the company’s pro team. It features a highly rockered bow combined with low stern rocker and a defined parting line—a combination Dagger’s Chris Gragtman’s says will “go over everything and anything you put in its way,” and accelerate out of drops “like a Jet Ski.”

Liquidlogic’s new Delta V 88 creeker is the brainchild of Pat Keller. The eight-foot, six-inch design features a soft-edged displacement hull and rocker profile devotees of the Braaap will find reassuringly familiar. The boat also features “Turbo Booster” pockets on the stern, which Keller says help the boat accelerate away when loaded after a drop. The creeker’s name is a play on the quick acceleration: Delta V is science-talk for change in velocity.

several paddlers surrounded by kayaks with mountains in the background
Looking back, to look to the future.

Pyranha’s latest creekboat also has a name needing explaining

The Machno has nothing to do with spicy corn chips or Latin masculinity—it’s a shoutout to the Afon Machno, a tributary of the Fairy Glenn run where the Pyrahna U.K. crew put the prototypes through their paces. The Machno’s lines are reminiscent of the company’s trend-setting 9R, with a semi-planing hull and plenty of rocker in bow and stern.

Waka Kayaks, the small New Zealand-based company making an outsized contribution to the latest generation of creekboats, also has a new model, the OG. “It has loads of rocker and rides over everything,” designer Kenny Mutton says of the eight-foot, seven-inch planing-hull creeker. “We made it for full-on creeking—basically something you could just fall down the river in—but we were surprised how nimble it is in and out of eddys. It’s really fun on class III too.”

The future

Kayaking has a long history of niche designs, from squirtboats and longboats to kid crafts. Paddlers like to pass themselves off as free spirits, but when it comes to running rivers they can be an obsessive lot. Take Dagger’s original Green Boat, which enlisted an entire company in a mad conspiracy to win the Green Race. It worked, and then Dagger found a market for it, prompting other companies to debut their own 12-footers—Jackson with the Karma UL and Liquidlogic with the Stinger.

Though built purely for speed, boaters soon found these longboats make great self-support kayaks as well. Expedition paddler Ben Stookesberry used a Karma UL on long expeditions in Arctic Labrador and Colombia, both of which combined several hundred miles of flatwater punctuated with sections of class V whitewater.

Ordinary boaters can look to the more attainable example of Liquidlogic co-founder Woody Callaway, who uses longboats for Grand Canyon self-support trips. This last winter he logged back-to-back trips, living out of his Stinger XP for almost a month.

This sort of trip gives rise to so-called crossover boats such as the Dagger Katana and Remix XP. These boats are ideal for multi-day trips on moderate whitewater, with hatches for gear and drop skegs to improve tracking on long flatwater sections. Whitewater is full of such niches just waiting for boats to fill them.

“There’s so many designs I want to do. The hard part is finding enough people who want to buy them,” Benedict says.

It’s a good point. Almost all whitewater kayaks are made of rotomolded plastic, which comes with some serious upfront costs, starting with the cost of the mold. Companies need to sell boats in volume to cover those costs, so they look to design boats appealing to a wide enough cross section of boaters.

There’s a theme here

Companies design boats to meet market demand, but some of the most iconic boats, now and throughout the history of kayaking, have come about because someone wanted a boat no one else had asked for. We got the Green Boat because Dagger got behind Pat Keller’s mission to win. We got the Remix because Benedict and Callaway wanted to paddle fast boats again. Addison designed one of his best-selling boats, the Terrible Two, because he wanted a toddler tandem to take his 18-month-old son on the river.

This is where technology comes in. It can bridge the demand gap.

For years, some of the U.S.-based Pyranha crew wanted to make a longboat based on the 9R, but they couldn’t convince owner Graham Mackereth to invest the cost of a mold for such a niche market. Finally, they took it to Kickstarter. “Chris Hipgrave put it together and the first day 60 people signed up,” Peerson says. “When we got to 100 pre-orders we got an email from Graham: ‘Well played, boys.’” The boat—called the 12R naturally—should be ready in time for the Green Race this November.

That’s one way to do it.

Another is to create one-off custom kayaks, using composites and computer-assisted design

Addison has staked his young company’s future on the concept, which he got to know well during his time in the surf industry. Almost all surfboards are custom, shaped in foam either by hand or CNC machining, then hand-glassed. Addison is doing the same with kayaks right now. He already sells more composite boats than plastic ones.

Addison is known for big, out-of-the-box ideas, but he’s not the only one buzzing about composites. In a world where a top-of-the-line road or mountain bike costs upwards of $5,000, surely there are whitewater boaters who will pay $2,000 for a custom kayak, says Dagger’s Robertson. There’s already a proven market for composite boats in freestyle, where big water and big air are driving factors. And while Mutton thinks today’s composites are too brittle for creekboats, plastics are getting better all the time. Waka is trialing a promising new polyethylene now.

There’s no telling exactly what the future will bring, but with designers brimming with ideas and plenty of old concepts still waiting to be reimagined, there are already more good designs than ever before. You don’t need to be over 40 to know boaters have never had it so good.

Wild Women Of Renfrew County Are Painting With Canoes

different coloured paint on canvas

At least once a year for the last 10 years, artists Kathy Haycock, Linda Sorensen and Joyce Burkholder have loaded up canoes or their backpacks and embarked on a painting adventure somewhere in the wilderness of Algonquin Provincial Park.

There they pitch tents, hook up a trailer or rent a cabin and venture out on their own for hours at a time. In this wilderness cherished by backcountry canoeists, they commune with nature and paint in solitude, reconvening each evening to share and critique each other’s work over a cold beer and some good food.

The excursions are an annual highlight for the Wild Women of Renfrew County, Ontario, a three-hour drive west of the nation’s capital, Ottawa.

The threesome meet often, taking day trips into the wilds closer to home. They snowshoe in winter and hike and paddle in summer, setting up their easels alongside the lakes and marshes, rivers and streams, in the forests, on the hilltops, and along the shorelines of the Canadian Shield.

They Paint The Distinct Landscape—Its Trees And Waters, Rocks And Vistas—In All Its Seasons, Hues And Moods

The subject matter, its ruggedness, the windswept white pines, silvery blue waters and rocky shores, draws inevitable comparisons to the Group of Seven, but their varying styles differ greatly from the likes of Franklin Carmichael or A.Y. Jackson. It’s brighter, warmer, less desolate, and more whimsical and welcoming.

Along the way, the three earthy women have carved their own niche and cemented their  reputations both as a group and as individual artists thanks, in part, to their well-received book, Wild Women: Painters of the Wilderness.

Published three years ago and now in its second printing, the volume was a labor of love. More than just a story of three female artists and their burgeoning success, Burkholder says the book is “largely about the wilderness—painting the wilderness, preserving the wilderness, celebrating the wilderness, and sharing with people there is still wilderness out there in all its glory and beauty.”

In her forward to the book, Carol Heppenstall, director of arts and culture at Adventure Canada, says the three have followed in the footsteps of Emily Carr and Doris McCarthy, immersing themselves in the natural world, “searching for its essence and the emotional pull of the wild.”

“En Plein Air [Outdoor Or On-Site] Painting Requires An Adventurous Spirit Present In All Three Women,” Heppenstall Writes

Unbeknownst to one another at the time, the three painters came from diverse backgrounds to become self-described hippies on 1970s-era communes around Renfrew County, living for years off the land without electricity or running water.

There were communes scattered all over the region then. The rural setting was ideal for the counter-culture growing out of youthful idealism and discontent with the materialism of urban life, a shift in North American values and the violence of the Vietnam era.

It was a time, says Burkholder, when “you could make almost anything by hand and sell it.”

To one degree or another, all at some point in their creative lives were fabric artists. Now in their mid-60s, each came to painting by a different route. They met years after their hippie lives had faded into the past, though not from memory.

Burkholder and Haycock began painting together 12 years ago

Sorensen, until then primarily a studio artist, joined them two years later. For these three women, strength came in numbers.

“Each of us brought something to the group. It might have been places we knew, connections we had. The sharing has been invaluable. We’ve all grown as artists as a result,” says Sorensen.

All live well off the beaten path, yet scores of collectors manage to find them at all times of year and during the twice-annual studio tours organized by 20 to 25 area artists and tourism associations.

“It’s not easy for artists to co-operate,” says Burkholder. “I think out there in the art world, it’s competitive. There are a lot of people painting—a lot of good painters. And it’s not easy to retail your work.”

But we have all hugely gained from being mutually supportive and sharing the promotion and the work of putting on exhibitions, hauling things around, and the cost. We all have had to put our egos aside and realized we’re greater if we work together,” she adds.

For all their time together and the similarities in the subject matter they paint, their evolving styles, colors and mediums have always differed. Even when they paint side-by-side, they are each in their “own little world in the wilderness,” says Haycock.

Kathy Haycock’s roots in art are deep

Her father was Maurice Haycock, an Ottawa-based geologist-turned-celebrated artist of the North. Yet Kathy didn’t turn to painting in a serious way until later in life, 10 years after her father died in 1988.

Her earliest memories are of him returning home from extended trips to the Arctic, crates of paintings in tow and a headful of spellbinding bedtime stories to tell. The walls of their home were lined with paintings from a variety of artists.

“He was always gone every summer when I was growing up and he’d bring home all these paintings of faraway places. It’s not pictures I saw, I saw paintings—his interpretation of these places. I was just entranced there was this incredible, friendly world out there that was so vast.”

Haycock Is The Only One Of The Wild Women Without Formal Training As An Artist

She painted with her father once, but didn’t take it up again until after his death when her sister arrived on her doorstep with some of his equipment.

Until then, she’d been a weaver, making tapestries and selling through a now-defunct Ottawa gallery. She’d moved to Renfrew County, taken up the hippie life and eventually began building log homes with her husband.

After her first painting, “I couldn’t think about anything else,” she says. “I felt so elated. This glow lasted a couple of days, and then it started to recede until I went and painted another one. And then I felt that way again. I think it must be like an addiction. It still is.”

A biker who’s owned everything from a Honda to a Harley, Haycock has painted all over the North, the West and the American Southwest, but the Algonquin region is the place she has felt most at home since she moved here decades ago.

For her, the challenge and the satisfaction lies largely in capturing the character and the feeling of the country. She’s found her own way in what she calls canoe painting, a form of landscape artistry she first experimented with on an Arctic cruise, then refined while exploring Alberta’s Kananaskis country.

She doesn’t paint canoes—the only one of the Wild Women who doesn’t.

She paints from canoes as she and her husband leisurely putter along a river or a lake, powered by a small trolling motor and a five-hour battery.

“The scene moves by slowly as I paint it,” she explains. “The angle changes, yes. But I’m painting the character of the country. In painting, it doesn’t have to be a picture-perfect rendition of a thing. You don’t get obsessed with the stupid little details.”

Linda Sorensen Was Born In London, England, And Came To Burlington, Ontario, At Age Two

She received her baptism in art from none other than famous wildlife painter Robert Bateman, who was her art teacher at Lord Elgin—now Robert Bateman—High School.

“He was fabulous,” she says. “He was just very passionate about what he was doing, teaching art. At the time, he was not famous, but he was an advocate for the environment, so he passed on his values about it. He’d been all over the world.”

The stories he told, the art he discussed, the passion he exuded—it was all his own. And it made him all the more inspiring, Sorensen says. She took four hours—half her curriculum—of Robert Bateman a day: painting, drawing, pottery and art history. She took textiles from Birgit Freybe, who would later become Bateman’s wife. Freybe even wrote an endorsement for the Wild Women book.

“Bateman was instrumental in my development,” said Sorensen. “He believed in me as a young, creative person. He kind of took me under his wing and nurtured my ability and my interest.” The two remain friends and correspond.

Except for “some dabblings in different mediums,” Sorensen would eventually drift away from the traditional arts, for 25 years devoting her creative energies instead to raising three children.

“It became my art,” she says. “We did the pioneer thing. We built a log cabin. We renovated an old horse stable. We grew gardens, fed the family, raised chickens and ducks. I was very much into the self-sufficient thing. I had a friend who used to say ‘art in everyday living.’ I adopted this as my philosophy. I was just totally enchanted by the lifestyle.”

She returned to painting the same year Haycock took it up, 1998

Ensconced in her home, now studio, deep in the woods south of Renfrew, she was determined to make a living at it.

Her work is diverse and popular. She branched into wilderness cards, now her bread and butter, and established a base of clientele all over the region, from the Canadian Canoe Museum in Peterborough, Ontario, to a gift store in Algonquin Park, along with galleries and shops scattered across the region.

She paints in water-mixable oils—smaller works en plein air; larger, more detailed stuff in-studio.

It’s taken 10 years to learn how to feel comfortable and be happy with the outdoor work,” she says. “Painting outside has a much more organic feel to it.

Comfort is reflected in the popularity of her work. Like the others, she has, for all intents and purposes, “made it” as an artist, though she’s reluctant to say so. “How do you define ‘make it?’ Is it money? Is it how you personally feel? I think I’m approaching that place, in that I’m making a better living. If money reflects success, I would say I’m starting to feel successful at what I’m doing.”

There was a time when Joyce Burkholder had a gallery in the nearby village of Wilno

Famous for its tavern, and showed her work at least 10 times a year at exhibitions across Southern Ontario and beyond.

She has long since moved her paintings into the forested backcountry south of Wilno (population: 300) where, like her two colleagues, she has her own home studio and gallery. She brings her pieces out only once a year to exhibit with the other Wild Women. The rest of the time, art enthusiasts flock to her door.

Educated at the Ontario College of Art, the Toronto-born Burkholder knew from an early age what she wanted to do and her dream never died. She moved to a commune in 1970, where she was “totally happy” for 20 years living on her own in a 16- by 16-foot cabin, selling art and living off the land. “The whole deal, I did it, big-time,” she says.

She was a weaver, then started painting on silk, moving on to watercolors, then acrylics

Now she paints in oils on canvas almost exclusively, though she teaches the gamut.

She attended workshops, admired other painters, and studied with many of them.

“But I think I’m mostly enthralled and ecstatic about just being in nature,” she says. “It’s so mind-blowing. There’s always something to see—some effect of the light, some phenomenon like mist. There’s always something, and it’s inspiring.”

After 35 years, the changes remain subtle; the excitement is anything but. “Whenever I arrive somewhere and set up to paint, I’m shaking. I’m just ecstatic. It’s a rush,” she says.

Burkholder was painting outdoors with various groups before she was introduced to Haycock. She loved the supportive, inspiring aspect of sharing the work and experiences of other artists.

She doesn’t remember how the two met “as painters,” but Haycock says they likely first set eyes on one another three decades ago when she and a friend rode their motorcycles over to Burkholder’s neighbouring commune in Maynooth, Ontario.

Burkholder remembers two tall girls arriving one day on bikes. They had no way of knowing at the time how their lives would ultimately intertwine.

They formalized their artistic relationship two years after getting together when they brought Sorensen into the fold, deciding on the name Wild Women: Painters of the Wilderness, along with a plan to exhibit together and support each other

“People remember the name, I’ll tell you. They’ve all got a joke about it, too. But that’s okay.”

Their collective and individual popularity alike soared after the book’s publication.

Burkholder’s work is constantly in evolution. “I feel like I have a whole bunch of styles and like every painting is possibly a different approach. So I’m always changing. I strive to change; I want to change.”

The Wild Women’s art has seen them through good times and bad. It has been their sanctuary and their outlet, their support and their sustenance—both spiritual and material. It is at the center of their souls, never far from their consciousness. And neither are they, from one another.

Time goes by and the emails will inevitably start. Scattered, at first. Then the pace picks up, and pretty soon an excursion is on the books. A day trip. It may be into Algonquin Park, by a lake someplace, or out to a cottage. They’ll meet there, bringing their hiking boots, snowshoes or a canoe.

The Wild Women are on the move

They’re more confident now, and less anxious to forego their hard-earned creature comforts as they venture into the unknown.

Still, they go. The anticipation is more than they can bear. Art is about to happen.

Stephen Thorne has been telling stories for more than three decades. In his work as an award-winning journalist, Stephen has lunched with Taliban warlords, dove in a mini-submarine to a previously undiscovered WWII shipwreck, and rode the train with Pierre Trudeau’s casket as the former prime minister traveled home for the last time. Stephen now enjoys exploring the lighter side of life from Ottawa, Ontario.

13 Foolishly Asked Questions To Canoe Outfitters

cartoon of man being lowered out of a helicopter in a canoe

Canoe Outfitters Have To Be Truly Patient, Knowledgeable, And Sometimes Even Psychic To Answer Their Clients’ Quirky Questions.

Here are some of the oddest inquiries fielded by businesses in Ontario’s Algonquin Provincial Park last year.

  1. While enroute in the interior of Algonquin, should we assume we will not be able to
    buy food at any snack bars along the way?

2. Would it be useful to have wheels for the canoe, or are the trails to rugged for a wheeled canoe?

3. Is there a way we could get lost or go into a whitewater river by mistake?

4. Is it OK if I email you for a blackfly update May 5 in the evening, for a May 6 response? I am allergic to blackflies and my coming depends on your thoughtful and kind prediction for their emergence.

5. How far is Algonquin from Ontario? Is there a train from Toronto to Ontario and then a bus to Algonquin?

6. I’m wondering if you can suggest a secluded lake that’s not hard to get to, has lots of fish, and no portaging is necessary. Does this exist?

7. I am heading on the Western Uplands Backpacking Trail and need to know how much is it to rent a light two-person canoe for seven days?

8. How far do we have to canoe from the base in order to reach scenic surroundings?

9. We’re interested in a place that “someone” told us about. Perhaps you could tell me a little more about it. The only thing I know is that it’s an island, and to get to it or near it, we will have to pass under either a bridge or a culvert.

10. Would you be able to transport me to and from the lakes I would be canoeing on?

11. We like nature and we want to keep it pretty. Is there anything we need to know about that?

12. I live in Ottawa and want to visit, but I have no idea how to get there or what to expect at this time of year. Would you please write back?

13. I purchased longjohns at your store on January 5. To my dismay, I found out while trying to urinate they do not have a fly. I was not told when I bought them there was no fly. The salesperson was a female so perhaps it’s understandable the omission of a fly would be of no consequence to her. I do not want these longjohns for which I paid $44.95 plus tax. Can I return them for a refund?

This story originally appeared in the 2004 issue of Canoeroots. Recirc is a new column sharing some of our favorite stories from the first 20 years of Rapid, Canoeroots and Adventure Kayak.

Why You Should Smell Your Paddling Gear

cartoon character smelling foul smelling gear with a smile
Illustration: Lorenzo Del Bianco

As far as I know, I’m the only kid who liked the smell of mildew. When I wandered to the back of the garage, I’d get a whiff of what I called, “camping smell”. The source was an old army surplus canvas tent that had been packed away wet too many times.

I didn’t associate the fragrance with fungi of the genus Erysiphales brought on by excessive moisture, instead I smelled paddling trips on the Great Lakes and the coast of Maine, roasting marshmallows, and mucking around in tidepools.

As I write these words, I’m recovering from an injury that’s kept me out of kayaking for several months. When I wander into the basement and catch a whiff of salty neoprene I can feel the rise and fall of the hull. The Russian physiologist Ivan Petrovich Pavlov would be proud.

Pavlov won the Nobel Prize For Proving The Conditional Reflex. By ringing a bell at dinnertime, he showed that a sound—the bell alone—would trigger the digestive system in dogs. This discovery way back in 1904 made him, unknowingly at the time, the first to explain why being a gearhead is good for kayakers.

Like the bell causing the dog to drool, when my hands grip the shaft of my surf and rock-gardening paddle, I feel my torso muscles coil for a sprint through the rocks. The feel of that particular shaft tells my body to break down adenosine diphosphate and be ready for a sudden burst of exertion. And that’s just in my basement.

Most long-time kayakers have a love-hate relationship with gearheads. We malign folks who focus on gear more than skills, or who accumulate garages full of boats but don’t paddle them. Gear can be a barrier to the experience—more stuff to lug around, rely on, break, lose and spend money replacing—money that could otherwise be spent on paddling trips. But our friend Pavlov proved that the sensory experience of outdoor gear triggers how our body acts. And in kayaking, gear is our connection to the water.

Unlike rock climbers who grab tiny holds directly with what little skin is left on their fingertips, we feel the texture of water through the shape of the hulls of our boats and the stiffness of the blades and shafts of our paddles: our gear is our fingertips. When we’re off the water, that conditional reflex remains a link to the exhilaration, joy, and peace of paddling. Medical research shows that when we can’t be doing the real thing recalling time in nature is good for our blood pressure, creativity, and peace of mind.

[ See the largest selection of boats and gear in the Paddling Buyer’s Guide ]

But in ringing bells and feeding dogs, Pavlov missed something else about human beings. Really want the paddling juju? Grab a neoprene skirt or, if you’re really brave, a pair of booties. And take a whiff.

Another pair of pair of Nobel Laureates, Richard Axel and Linda Buck, won the the big prize in 2004 for figuring out how smell affects the brain.

Smells trigger the strongest reactions and memories of all our senses. Smells go directly into the hippocampus and amigdyala, parts of the brain related to immediate response, emotion, and memory. No wonder we love the smell of the sea or home cooking.

So, if we want to be primed for either action on the water, or memories of it, we’re doing it all wrong.

As a photographer, I trade in the visuaI. When I’m stuck in the city, I use sight cues to remind me of wilderness. A marine chart of my favorite island chain hangs on my wall and my screen saver cycles images from memorable trips. I use sounds too. My cell phone pings with birdsongs from remote canyons. Naturalists have been sold nature sounds relaxation tapes for decades. But these sights and sounds skip the all-important hippocampus and amygdala.

[ Plan your next paddling adventure with the Paddling Trip Guide ]

Since smell is the strongest trigger, let’s embrace it. I’m closing up my lavender and peach blossom Glade air freshener and searching online for a scent infuser loaded with the briny balm of tidepools and decaying seaweed with subtle hints of sweaty drytop. I’ll put it on my desk in the office.

When my coworkers complain, I’ll tell them that three Nobel Laureates told me to do it. Maybe they’ll get the hint and send me home to go kayaking. If not, I’ll break out the mildew, must and mold scented candles.

Illustration: Lorenzo Del Bianco

Why Paddling Is The Best Antidote To Climate Change Despair

person gazing up at a sea of stars with a headlamp
Guardian of the galaxy, people from the edges of things bring understandings back from the forest to the kingdom. | Photo: Henry Liu

I sometimes struggle to justify my seemingly selfish outdoor pursuits, my obsession with the obscure and anachronistic art of paddling in a world that is facing an environmental crisis of mind-blowing proportions.

I mean, there’s disturbing news out there, stories that ought to be plastered all over the headlines but are usually buried in the back pages. Like the fact that global wildlife populations have dropped by 60 percent since 1970—and two-thirds will be gone by 2020!

And I won’t even get into climate change, how much catastrophic warming is already locked in no matter how much we change our habits now. Stephen Hawking recently predicted we have 100 years to colonize other planets or face extinction.

Meanwhile, in the face of all these existential threats, our culture is in total denial. Oil exploration is booming. Environmental regulations are being shredded. The Paris climate agreement, our last great hope, however toothless, may be on the rocks. The chasm between the severity of the problem and the comparative business-as-usual state of news and politics and everyday life is staggering. To paraphrase the environmental journalist Wen Stephenson, we are all navel gazing while the planet burns.

These dark thoughts are not something to bring up in polite company. My friends and I have all settled into our adult lives. We’re fully vested in the status quo. The combination of dire predictions and sheer helplessness makes for a downer of a dinner party topic.

Taking this stuff on alone is worse.

I came across the story of a New Yorker who was so worried about climate change she couldn’t sleep. She was taking the stairs everywhere to save electricity and pamphleteering idling motorists to get them to turn off their engines. She just couldn’t get why nobody else seems concerned. I saw myself ending up as she did, seeking professional therapy. I mean, the world is ending. Why aren’t we shouting it from the rooftops?

There’s a diagnosis for this now. It’s called eco-anxiety. The American Psychological Association just released a report about it, how worrying about climate change is ruining our mental health. “The psychological responses to climate change, such as conflict avoidance, fatalism, fear, helplessness, and resignation are growing,” it concludes.

person secluded staring up at the sea of stars

Where does the paddling lifestyle fit into all this, I wonder. Kayaking is not exactly zero impact. It burns resources, and uses high tech equipment made from petrochemicals. Truthfully, the thrill of a great trip often inspires me to buy more gear or plane tickets for the next adventure. Even as I write this, I’m shopping for a new SUV, something big and burly enough for long family trips to remote areas with boats on the roof. Wouldn’t I be doing more to help the planet if I just stayed home and took public transit to the library?

I’m not sure.

Despite all the inherent contradictions, I think that outdoor adventure makes for better people and a better planet. But not for the reason that we usually assume: that going into nature magically makes us care more about it, which for all I know may not even be true.

First of all, paddling on an ocean, or gazing up at the stars, which constantly reminds you how small and insignificant you are, liberates you from the illusion of your own importance. After all, it is not only mentally unhealthy try to singlehandedly save the planet, it’s pretty much impossible.

The environmentalist Derrick Jensen covers this in an aptly titled essay, “Forget Shorter Showers.” He argues that carbon emissions need to be cut by at least 75 percent, and that no amount of changing light bulbs or avoiding driving could ever bring us close.

“The whole individualist what-you-can-do-to-save-the-Earth guilt trip is a myth. We, as individuals, are not creating the crises, and we can’t solve them,” states Kirkpatrick Sale in Jensen’s essay.

It’s just an illusion of our hyper-individualistic, consumer society to think we’re so important as to be able to make a real difference through our personal choices alone. Spending time in nature is the ideal salve for this burden. It’s hugely comforting. What a great relief to realize that you’re not personally responsible for wrecking the planet—or fixing it!

Quite possibly outdoor travel does teach us to care for the Earth, but more importantly it teaches us not to care too much.

In these times what is really required is not individual change, but radical, cultural and political change. This is the second reason that I think outdoor adventure has value. It’s a transformative experience that opens the door for major upheaval. Ever noticed how staring into a campfire at the end of a long paddling day triggers those deep thoughts about life’s big questions? We’ve all felt it. Coming home from a long wilderness journey shakes you up and makes you ripe for transformation, not in a “switch to LED light bulbs” kind of way, but in a dramatic, paradigm-shifting kind of way.

The British environmental writer Paul Kingsnorth defends the value of what he calls, walking up the mountain: “Most of the world’s great religions, philosophies, art forms, even political systems and ideologies were initiated by marginal figures. There is a reason for that: sometimes you have to go to the edges to get some perspective on the turmoil at the heart of things. Doing so is not an abnegation of public responsibility: it is a form of it. In the old stories, people from the edges of things brought ideas and understandings from the forest back to the kingdom which the kingdom could not generate by itself.”

Now, I haven’t descended from the mountains with any stone tablets or great, world-saving insights thus far, but at least I have come back feeling a whole lot happier. It provides an antidote to despair that we can too easily feel being bombarded by news that the world is falling to pieces.

[ Paddling Trip Guide: View all kayaking, canoeing, rafting and SUP adventures ]

Back to that APA report, if we’re to deal with the impending challenges, we need our wits about us. We need ingenuity. We need psychological resiliency. We can’t succumb to hopelessness or the dangerous fad of denial.

There’s many a day that I’ve felt total despair, a virtual paralysis of worry that drives me to think crazy thoughts like, “I should give up paddling to reduce my ecological footprint,” only to be replaced after a couple of hours on the water by a joie de vivre and readiness to tackle just about anything.

I’ll never give up paddling because it’s the best therapy I know. Heading outdoors with a paddle in hand puts us in a sharp, healthy, tuned-in, problem-solving frame of mind, which is a much more powerful position from which to change the world, or at least put up with whatever the challenges the future may bring.

Tim Shuff is a former editor and now regular contributor to Adventure Kayak magazine.

Guardian of the galaxy, people from the edges of things bring understandings back from the forest to the kingdom. | Photo: Henry Liu



This article was first published in Issue 51 of
Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions here.

Jon Babulic’s Journey From Construction Manager To Custom Canoe Builder

Man paddling a long wooden canoe
Babulic's skin-on-frame kayaks are elegant and perfectly fitted to the paddler.

Two years ago, Jon Babulic had a successful career in construction management and hadn’t taken more than a week off since graduating university.

When his company restructured and offered him an out, the 43-year-old Guelph, Ontario resident decided it was time for a vacation.

“I figured I’d take the summer off, then go back to work in the fall,” recalls Babulic. In just a few short months, he estimates he canoed, kayaked, sailed and fished some 2,500 kilometers. “I paddled like a lunatic,” he chuckles.

Small boats are in Babulic’s blood. Growing up on Lake Superior, he would borrow his father’s kayak, a 1980s Perception Dancer whitewater design. By age 8, he remembers fellow cottagers gathering on the beach to watch father and son surf the crashing waves. He’s even more at home in canoes, trolling for lakers or seeking out remote fishing holes.

During that first summer of freedom, Babulic wished for a lightweight solo canoe he could transport easily into the backcountry. “But I couldn’t get my head around spending $4,000 on a Kevlar boat. And I wasn’t in love with any of the shapes, so I decided to build my own.” It’s not as crazy as it sounds. Babulic already had the necessary woodworking skills, a hobby he learned making bamboo fly rods.

Browsing Pinterest one rainy afternoon, Babulic spotted a skin-on frame design and immediately saw the lightweight advantage of this construction method. The final piece fell into place when Babulic stumbled across an open-source naval architecture program from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

Babulic built his first skin-on-frame canoe in just four days. The result was lightweight and strong, and even better, “it paddled like a real canoe.” Over the next year, he “built and paddled, then built and paddled some more.” Everywhere the builder and his eye-catching creations went, people admired the translucent hulls.

Babulic realized he had the makings of a new career

“I thought, ‘What the hell,’” he laughs, and Backcountry Custom Canoes was born. Last year, Babulic built some 20 canoes and half a dozen sea kayak prototypes. The Backcountry Custom Canoes website lists three broad categories: solo canoe, tandem canoe and sea kayak.

Within these parameters, however, his designs are infinitely customizable. “The beauty of skin-on-frame construction is that I can build any shape imaginable,” he says, “creating a truly custom boat that’s fitted perfectly for you.”

[ Paddling Buyer’s Guide: View all kayaks ]

Babulic’s boat design process

Typically, it begins with a discussion about how the kayak should look and paddle, informed by the customer’s preferences and other boats they enjoy. “You could tell me, ‘I want a Romany-style kayak with three hatches and a rounded chine, but a bit shorter with a little less rocker, and I want it to be half the weight,’” he explains. “Then I take your measurements, shape the wood around you, and build it to fit.”

He uses Douglas fir for the stringers and longitudinal pieces, and sturdy black ash for the steam-bent ribs and cross members. Ribs are pinned in place with bamboo skewers, glued and tied to the stringers with nylon. The completed frame is then spray-coated with urethane varnish and is ready for the final—and most tedious—step: skinning.

Along with the painstaking process of laminating the cockpit coaming, this is Babulic’s least favourite part of the build. It takes three days to hand-sew the sheets of ballistic nylon around the frame. He then finishes the skin with urethane and adds epoxy “skid plates” to high-wear areas.

Each one of Babulic’s kayaks takes two weeks to construct

A 30-pound, 17-foot base model starts at $3,000 Canadian. Along with the unique aesthetic and considerable weight savings compared to composites, he insists his skin-on-frame boats are tougher than most hardshell kayaks. If you run into something, the skin flexes to absorb the impact, he explains.

Any damage can be repaired with contact cement, and heavily abused hulls can be re-varnished or even re-skinned as needed. Durability and longevity aside, “They’re really fun to paddle,” he says, “a crossover between organic wooden boats and more modern shape and performance.”

The kayak Babulic dropped off at the Adventure Kayak offices is one he designed for his 72-year-old, 6’2”, 250-pound father, “so Dad could go surfing again.” The elder Babulic is a former middle linebacker in the Canadian Football League and, as his son explains, “He surfs like a guy who played for the Saskatchewan Roughriders in the ‘70s.” In other words, “It’s a tank!” Babulic admits with a laugh.

At the opposite end of the spectrum is a prototype he calls the Needle. It’s a race-inspired design that borrows traits from Epic surfskis and Rockpool Kayaks’ speedy Taran. “I wanted to experiment with form, to see if I could take a thousands-of-years-old technique and make a modern surfski,” he says. “The ultimate combination of old and new.”

To paddle a Backcountry Custom Canoe design is to return to the ancestral origins of kayaking: each boat built for a specific person, with attention to where and how he or she will use it.

This article originally appeared in Issue 51 of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions here, or browse the archives here.

Kayaking And Being Held Captive By Colombian Guerrillas

graffiti on an abandoned building in Columbia
Photo: Chris Korbulic

The Colorado-born kayaker had just arrived at his put-in, the village of La Tunia in the southern Colombian jungle, on his way to a first-decent of the Apaporis River.

“The writing was literally on the wall,” Ben Stookesberry recalls.

Stookesberry, Chris Korbulic and Jessie Rice, Spaniard Aniol Serrasolses and Frenchman Jules Domine had planned a month-long expedition down the remote river in the northwest Amazon basin.

The graffiti on this wall of an abandoned building, once occupied by the notorious Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia known by the Spanish acronym FARC, was fairly recent but according to Stookesberry, did not alarm them at the time.

“The village was mostly empty. This seemed to follow the narrative of the peace process,” says Stookesberry.

[ Plan your next paddling adventure with the Paddling Trip Guide ]

In late 2016, the Colombian government and FARC signed a peace accord in which the latter tentatively agreed to demobilize. From the Arctic Circle to Papua New Guinea, Stookesberry has kayaked plenty of what he calls “fuhgeddaboudit” whitewater.

Kayaking The Columbian Waters

graffiti on an abandoned building in Columbia
Photo: Chris Korbulic

Though the Apaporis does boast class V rapids, this river has been on his list not because it is particularly challenging paddle.

We had a different mission,” he explains. “We wanted to explore a river that was isolated politically. Our mission was not so much to test the river’s navigability as much as test the peace process.

The real test happened about 500 miles into the expedition. A motorboat containing a woman and several men, all toting AK-47s, pulled the paddlers over to the riverbank and searched them and their boats. The woman in charge starting going through the images on my camera and when she handed it back to me I could see that she had deleted the card.

This began a three-day ordeal during which the FARC soldiers held the paddlers in a series of jungle camps. Awaiting orders from an unnamed, unseen commander, the soldiers questioned Stookesberry and the others and confiscated many of their belongings.

After the commander confirmed the paddlers’ identities their gear was returned and they were free to continue on their trip. Instead, they decided to fly out from a small airstrip in the village of Pacoa Buenos Aires.

Fearing they might be held indefinitely, two of the paddlers had secretly communicated their position using GPS messengers to emergency contacts. They feared that if the FARC had discovered this, their relative goodwill would have quickly evaporated.

Even still, Stookesberry underlines how well the guerrillas treated him and the other kayakers, “In the past, I don’t think our situation would have de-escalated as quickly or amicably.”

Featured Photo: Chris Korbulic

Kayaker Bren Orton Living Unleashed

kayaker Brent Orton looking up at photographer

It’s hard to be down when you’re always looking up

When Rapid caught up with Bren Orton this April, he was just days away from the debut of Unleashed, the new big water competition held in Quebec. The 22-year-old known for his distinct freestyle on huge waves and hucking waterfalls all over the world is part of a collective called Send, the organizers of Unleashed. Bren explains that his goals for the event are similar to those of any amazing day kayaking: to have a great time with great people on amazing whitewater.

ON GETTING STARTED IN WHITEWATER

As a nine-year-old living in Warrington, England, Orton went on a school trip outside of the city where students participated in a range of outdoor activities.

One of those was kayaking. After the trip he begged his parents for a kayak. The sport began taking up most of his free time.

I did all sorts of things to get out of school to kayak.

While he was in school, sitting at his desk he would fidget with his calculator or erasers, sending them down imaginary lines. Today Orton can’t imagine where he would be or what he would be doing if he weren’t a kayaker. “I don’t think there’s any alternative.”

THE MOST INTERESTING PLACE KAYAKING HAS TAKEN HIM

Almost every year Orton spends a few weeks in the village of Nicartu in Uganda, right beside the world-famous Nile Special wave. Orton first went when he was just 16 years old—he borrowed his grandmother’s credit card to book the flight. “But I paid her back immediately,” he says. The warm water and amazing community keep him coming back when the Northern Hemisphere’s rivers are frozen solid.

THE IMPORTANCE OF LEARNING PATIENCE

Orton says the most important thing kayaking has taught him is patience, a quality that pervades all aspects of the sport.

You have to wait for the right water levels and the right conditions.

The patience also extends to his own abilities, especially allowing himself the experience of being humbled by rivers and different conditions. This was highlighted for Orton during a super high water run of the Little White Salmon this past spring. He considers it the biggest challenge of his kayaking career so far.

THE MISCONCEPTIONS ABOUT PRO KAYAKERS

Images of professional kayakers travelling to remote and far-flung rivers can lead to misconceptions about their lifestyles.

A lot of people think we have a ton of money to go and travel.

However, this was the first year he didn’t need to work a random job like digging graves or manning call center phones to fund his kayaking plans. He says his life isn’t glamorous and money can be tight. The sacrifices he makes seem small given he gets to paddle amazing rivers with his closest friends.

ON THE FUTURE

Over the next two to three years, Orton wants to focus on running waterfalls. He has a few big projects he’s developing that center around big drops. He also wants to continue working on his racing, freestyle and big water paddling.

My ultimate goal is to be the best all-around kayaker I can be.

One Question For 13 Kayakers

man sitting in kayak reading Fellowship of the ring

Dane Jackson

I would love to make music. I definitely love to rap. One more thing to look up to Rush Sturges for, besides kayaking.

Tyler Bradt

I like to crochet hats.

Claire O’Hara

I once represented Great Britain in soccer.

Adriene Levknecht

A lot of people don’t know that I actually work as a paramedic for the largest EMS agency in South Carolina.

Mariann Saether

I used to be a baton twirler for 12 years. I led my local marching band in parades. Yeah!

Sage Donnelly

I have a deep love for Chinese food—sweet and sour bean curd to be specific. Oh, and jelly beans.

Erik Boomer

I am a pretty good seamster—that’s a male seamstress.

Chris Gragtmans

I am also a commercial real estate broker and investor. That world absolutely fascinates me. I hope to be part of the fight against urban sprawl.

Nick Troutman

I like art, painting, drawing and creating.

Ben Stookesberry

I love to Rollerblade

Corran Addison

I’m a dedicated student of 19th and early 20th century European history, and to a lesser degree classical history of about 400 BCE to about 400 CE. And I love racing sport bikes.

Nouria Neuman

Outside kayaking I’m a little bit of a dork. I studied political science, I love weird books, modern art museums and I would be very happy if you took me to a good opera or classical music concert.

Bren Orton

I can read.