Learn to turn your canoe easily and quickly with the cross-bow draw technique. Chad Casey at The Lodge at Pine Cove (frenchriver.com) in French River, Ontario shows off this stroke that can be used by solo paddlers or a tandem team.
Author: Paddling Magazine Staff
As I paddled up the beach I was greeted by a sign that read, “State park boundary—welcome to… the Real Florida.”
In a hyper-politicized world where some people get piqued by things as insignificant as a not-festive-enough holiday red Starbucks coffee cup, I’m surprised that a government sign would be allowed to suggest something as controversial as the idea that this natural area is somehow any more real than the heavily built-up tourist zone down the beach, especially here in this most fantastical of states.
I was in Florida for a family vacation, and after a few days in the super-artificial Disney World Magic Kingdom, we’d come to this beach to wind down and relax before jetting back north to the winter cold.
For me it was also a last chance to dip my paddle in some unfrozen water. There was a laid-back, long-haired, middle-aged dude with a Florida perma-tan at a shop on the strip who rented me a boat and delivered it to my beach house in his cargo van. I saw the state park on a map and knew that’s where I had to go—always pointing the bow towards nature, like a compass needle seeking what I’d always thought of as the real world. But this was the first time I’d seen it labeled that way on a sign.
As I paddled north from the congested commercial strip of tacky surfwear shops and coral-colored stucco high-rises, where the beach had been literally bulldozed of all signs of vegetation, I noticed the dune grasses, palm trees and mangroves growing thicker and closer to the water. The houses got lower and squatted further back from the beach. Everywhere evidence appeared, suggesting how the beach had looked for thousands of years before the recent history of human intrusion: fewer footprints and tractor tracks and more shells, more slender silver fish darting below the surface and stingrays skimming away from my shadow.
The artificial can be enjoyable for sure. At Disney World, my family stayed in the Animal Kingdom Lodge where, from our balcony, we could watch zebras, wildebeest and giraffes roaming a “savannah”—with a chain-link fence unsubtly keeping Africa in, and the forest and fauna of inland Florida out. The setting of the lodge was lovely, but it occurred to me that seeing tortoises and armadillos roaming a native forest of palms and pines outside my window would have been no less appealing (and that had we wanted to see “the Real Africa” we probably could have flown to Kenya for about the same price).
The artfully crafted world inside the Magic Kingdom was certainly an escape, right down to the steel-and-composite Swiss Family Robinson “tree.” The substrate of nature upon which this vacation paradise was built was buried under so many layers of artifice that I couldn’t even begin to guess what reality might have been left. On the other hand, the Disney experience was so much like life in the big city—complete with strictly regimented schedules, bus commutes, long lineups, crowds, stress and its own rush hours—that I’m surprised it felt like a vacation at all.
Having gone to such effort and expense to experience artificial entertainment, the slower speed and perspective of paddling reminded me how much beauty and serenity and wonder and excitement there is all around us, for free.
After Disney’s high-octane thrills, all-you-can eat buffets and high-tech entertainment, the quiet beach was surprisingly compelling. I marveled more at a tiny shriveled sea horse the size of my thumbnail than at the Day-Glo animatronic animals of Under the Sea—Journey of the Little Mermaid.
I’m pretty sure that when my six-year-old daughter sighs, “I miss Florida,” she is thinking of sitting in my lap on the sand watching a pair of osprey diving for their breakfast at sunrise, not sprinting to be the first in line for selfies with Ariel the mermaid in her grotto of painted concrete.
A pragmatist might argue that our so-called natural world is now so influenced by human activity—right down to the species in the ocean and the temperature of the air that has been altered by human climate change—that there is no valuable distinction to be made between what I find here on the beach and the engineered kingdom that is Disney World. It’s all artificial now.
Still, I think we need to remember and live as if there is something that came before us, a world shaped by forces much larger, the one kayaking puts us in touch with. That to me is the real Magic Kingdom. But don’t take my word for it. It says so right there on the sign.
Waterlines columnist Tim Shuff is a firefighter, freelance writer and former editor of Adventure Kayak. He doesn’t care what color cup his coffee comes in.
No artificial ingredients in this Florida state park. | Feature photo: Virginia Marshall
Although Wally Schaber is just 65, his legacy looms large enough to be considered in a column dedicated to canoe heritage. A longtime outfitter, outdoor retailer and founder of Black Feather Wilderness Adventures, he’s seen more of North America’s wild country than most of us ever will. His favorite of all places, however, is the valley of the Dumoine River, the subject of his charming new book.
The wild Rivière du Moine (Dumoine) and Deux Joachims portage have been noted for centuries in the journals of great explorers as they made their way across Canada. Today, the Dumoine is the last of 10 major Quebec fur trade routes and tributaries of the Ottawa River to avoid industry and modern colonization.
Full disclosure: Wally and I have been friends for years. Our initial encounter in the 1970s took place on a riverbank not far from the Canoeroots office, and was described by one wet-suited flibbertigibbet as a “chance meeting between two bears from the Moscow Circus.” We took that as a compliment.
On one level, Wally’s debut, The Last of the Wild Rivers, is a well-researched cultural history of the last undammed river flowing south from the high country of West Quebec. Many locals know the Dumoine as a go-to short-excursion whitewater river. Indeed, it was the canoeing potential of the Dumoine that brought Wally into the watershed for the first time in 1969. Having spent time year-round in the area for nearly half a century, the place has written itself into this paddler’s soul. The book is much more than a river biograpy, it’s a river elegy and love story between a man and a very special place.
As powerful and personal as his story is, at its core the book is a plea for paddlers and anyone who cares about wildness in any form to recognize the rarity of the Dumoine River and what it represents. This watershed remains in more or less the same state as experienced by the entire march of human history. Set in a continental, or even global framework, the Dumoine holds values and virtues that are all but gone elsewhere—free flowing, clean, unfettered, undeveloped land and water.
Having considered all of the options, and recognizing that instruments for river and watershed protection vary from jurisdiction to jurisdiction, Wally is recommending protection in the form of Du Moine Aquatic Reserve. With threats from every possible source still looming—threats that have compromised just about every other significant watershed in the world—he knows that without substantial public support from all types of valuers of rare and wild places, other interests may well prevail in the Dumoine watershed too.
“The raw wilderness must not change,” he writes. “[To survive, humanity needs] clean water, plentiful wildlife, mature uninterrupted forests, peace and tranquility, and a beautiful, wild, free-flowing river.” Amen.
Like a splash of fresh, cold water, The Last of the Wild Rivers is a call for us to imagine the river, indeed all remaining undammed, undeveloped rivers, and their futures—to imagine them whole—and to take action on their behalf, to take action now.
James Raffan is the former executive director of the Canadian Canoe Museum. Get your copy of The Last of The Wild Rivers at burnstownpublishing.com.
This article originally appeared in Canoeroots Spring 2016 issue.
Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.
Nothing will help you to win friends and influence people quite like a little something sweet after a hard day’s paddling. If you master the art of the campfire dessert, you will never have to eat a meal alone. Here are some easy ones to get you started.
Take the ice cream cones and sprinkle a layer of chocolate chips in the bottom. Cover with a layer of mini marshmallows. Continue to layer chocolate chips and marshmallows until the cone is full. Now wrap in foil and cook over the coals for 3-5 minutes or until the marshmallows are melted.
Place the peach halves on the foil and top with butter and oats. Sprinkle brown sugar on the top. Wrap and place on the hot coals for 10-15 minutes until peaches are cooked through.
Tip: For a more decadent dessert, add chocolate chips, nuts or substitute granola for the oats.
Lay out a sheet of foil and place a banana on the foil. Slice the banana along the inside curve, leaving about an inch on both sides uncut. Spoon in the teaspoon of chocolate chip and top with a tablespoon of marshmallow. Fold the sides of the foil up around the banana so it can stay upright; leave the top part exposed so the marshmallows can brown. Cook for 10 minutes on the coals.
Nikki is an author specializing in green living, and adventure travel. She’s traveled the globe, swum with sharks and been bitten by a lion (fact). Catch her adventures here.
From coast to coast, early season paddling events offer great opportunities to refresh and refine skills before that big summer trip. Think of it as the ultimate spring training—after all, if you can master wet exits and rescues in May, imagine how easy they’ll be in August.
“Spring is really the best time to get people excited about kayaking,” says James Roberts, co-owner of Ontario Sea Kayak Centre (OSKC) and, with partner Dympna Hayes, founder of the annual Paddlepalooza Kayak Festival, held in May on Georgian Bay.
Early season events provide an opportunity for participants to engage with coaches and potential new paddling partners through an accessible, social chan- nel while months of paddling pleasure lie ahead—and spring fever is at its worst. Brush up on skills rusty from a long winter, swap gear that lay untouched last season, and trade stories around the campfire to find your next best paddling trip.
While northern paddlers will need wetsuits or drysuits to brave spring’s chilly waters, further south, spring offers an idyllic alchemy of air and water temperatures seemingly made just for paddlers. Whether April showers or May flowers, check out these great spring paddling events near you.
May 13–15; Summerton, South Carolina| www.traditionalpaddlersretreat.com
This third annual weekend fosters friendships, skills, knowledge and gear all built around traditional and Greenland paddling techniques and culture. This year, join renowned mentors Helen Wilson, Christopher Crowhurst and Dubside to hone your strokes, rescues and rolling.
May 20–22; Parry Sound, Ontario | www.ontarioseakayakcentre.com
Featuring top coaches, superb scenery, great camping and a Saturday night party with live music and a limbo contest, the festival includes on-water clin- ics in strokes, rescues, rolling and more, plus dry land lessons on risk manage- ment, cooking, campcraft and navigation.
June 10–12; Parry Sound, Ontario | www.ontarioseakayakcentre.com
This fun, all-women paddling festival is perfect for beginners to advanced paddlers, featuring kayak, canoe and standup paddling (SUP) skills sessions. Plus, don’t miss slipping into a mermaid tail for a twist on aquatic adventuring.
This article first appeared in the May issue of Paddling Magazine. To read more from Paddling Magazine, click here.
Learn proper technique for punching holes on the river with Brendan Kowtecky with AO Boatwerks (http://boatwerks.com/) at Burleigh Falls, Ontario.
Author: Paddling Magazine Staff
This is where the magic happens. Ontario Sea Kayak Centre co-founders Dympna Hayes and James Roberts have transformed their cozy home and 16 acres of rugged Canadian Shield into one of the country’s premier kayak schools and outfitters. From their 400-square-foot basement gear room, the couple outfits trips in their home waters of Georgian Bay as well as Baja, Norway, Saguenay and Vancouver Island. What’s their secret to managing all that gear? “Every season, look at the gear you have and what you actually used. Then get rid of the gadgets that you didn’t,” Hayes pauses and exhales her contagious, rapid-fire laugh, “so you can buy more gear!”
1. Commercial shelving from a defunct Target store is the ultimate gear room pick. “It was the day before they were closing for good and there was nothing left except the store fixtures,” recalls Hayes. “The store manager was so taken with our story, she let us have two aisles—$6,000 worth of shelving—for $60.”
2. Hayes uses a dive slate to teach dead reckoning, and to record departure and arrival times for her own navigation. It’s equally useful for writing tidal information, making student notes during on- water lessons, and jotting down ideas that pop into her head on long tours. “Plus it works in rain and waves and cleans quickly with a handful of sand.”
3. “If I’m sore and damp, I can’t be cheerful and take care of other people’s comfort,” Hayes says of her favorite camp luxury, a Helinox chair. Roberts offers his own creative recommendation: “Use it in your tent for sleeping. Just fold the legs and leave the chair sling assembled—it cradles your pillow holding it under your head, makes a perfect cubby to keep your headlamp and book close at hand, and keeps wet tent walls and polar bear jaws off your head.”
4. Hayes has half a dozen pragmatic uses for yoga mats on kayak trips. “They’re perfect for kneeling when loading your kayak, can be used as a heel pad in your boat, make a fine welcome mat for your tent, and add insulation and dryness under your sleeping mattress.” She’s also a yoga instructor and offers yoga kayak trips on Georgian Bay throughout the summer. “I’m going to get all hippy yoga freak on you now,” she teases. “After sitting all day on the water, it feels great to plant your feet and ground yourself to the Earth.”
5. “The Outback Oven works just like a real oven—we’ve done seared beef tenderloin, baby potatoes and baked brie in these babies.” And, of course, it’s perfect for baking. “You can have fresh, warm bread on the last day of a two-week trip, or on any cold, rainy day to lift spirits.”
6. “Ladies, do yourself a favor—get a Freshette and a drysuit with a front relief zip. From behind, it’s so discrete that you’ll look like a dude.”
7. Roberts recommends the Evernote app to keep meticulous lists and impress grannies in the grocery store. “I cut and paste menu plans and gear lists from trip to trip—it adjusts the amounts for the number of participants and generates custom shopping lists.”
8. Hayes and Roberts spend some 50 nights per year in their Hilleberg Staika tent. “It’s our all-time favorite tent. It stays put in squalls on Georgian Bay’s bare rock islets, keeps us bone-dry in West Coast rainforests, and didn’t buckle under insane winds in Norway’s fiords.” After years of scrimping on shelters, the couple took a cue from their well-heeled, Hilleberg-equipped guests. “What a difference,” says Hayes, “seriously the best money I ever spent.”
9. These 10-year-old merino long underwear represent Hayes’ favorite thing about outdoor gear. “It isn’t throwaway—because it has to be something that you can fix while you’re out on trip, it’s made to last, and it’s made to be repairable.” She says of her stripy Smartwool, “I can’t see these ever falling apart—I think I’ll have them for 20 years.”
The Ontario Sea Kayak Centre is located in Parry Sound, Ontario. Every September they run Canada’s longest running traditional paddling event, Ontario Greenland Camp. Watch THE CANOE, an award-winning film that tells the story of Canada’s connection to water and how paddling in Ontario is enriching the lives of those who paddle there. #PaddleON.
This article originally appeared in Adventure Kayak Spring 2016 issue.
Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.
Mariann Saether is on fire. After swooping in and grabbing gold at her first-ever Sickline race in 2015, we caught up with Saether and learned there’s way more to this powerhouse than paddling. At 35, Saether is a full-time teacher, a writer, an academic and more, on top of being a pro athlete. Here’s how she makes it all happen.
Saether attributes her success at the 2015 Sickline Race to a simple fact: “Being fitter than ever before.” Getting to that point was no easy feat, but Saether seems to see athletics the way most of us see breathing—a basic part of everyday life. Growing up in Otta, Norway, she played handball, rode horses, performed in dance shows and musicals, did synchronized swimming, snowboarding and, finally, baton twirling. “It’s a Norwegian thing,” she says with a laugh.
On top of paddling every single day, leading up to Sickline Saether hit the strength training hard. “Circuit training, weight lifting, push- ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, squats—it all makes a difference when I’m on the water,” she says. Rounding it out was her routine of running, yoga, on-water interval training and slalom practice.
“Before a competition I can’t really talk to people. I need to be really focused on myself and contain my energy,” Saether says. The habit got her into a bit of trouble when she first started competing in the U.S.—as others chatted in the eddy and cheered each other on, Mariann sat quietly on the sidelines. They thought she seemed too serious, even unfriendly. As time went on, they learned it’s just how she needs to prepare. As others throw high fives, Saether quietly imagines every stroke of the course. “I think about where to pull and where to relax, and I make a plan B—if I fuck up that move, what am I going to do?” she says.
“It’s the same whether it’s a race or just running the river. At a big rapid I don’t just walk up to my kayak and jump in and go. I always take a minute to visualize.”
“When I started kayaking it felt like people just started seeing me as ‘the kayaking girl,’” says Saether. But there’s much more to her life than that. In her nine years of post-secondary education, Saether has earned a degree in medieval history, studied philosophy, psychology, Norwegian, English and Spanish. “I think maybe the next phase of my life has started, where I’m not satisfied with just being a kayaker for the rest of my life,” she says. This year Saether is teaching history, science and Norwegian classes to 16- to 19-year-old students, and she hopes to one day make her living as a writer.
“When I go out on the river, it’s a place to breathe and it’s a place to relax and it’s a place to forget about all the normal real-world stuff. It gives me a chance to reenergize. It’s an inner thing—I just have to do it,” Saether says. Though she loves other sports, Saether says nothing compares to the bliss she feels when she’s paddling.
“There’s no other time my mind is completely blank. Especially when I run a big rapid—it blacks out everything else. When I was heading in to the crux of the Sickline course I could hear the crowd start cheering and yelling and whooping, but as soon as I entered the whitewater part, I heard zero. Nothing. In a way it’s meditation—a way of kick-starting the brain. It gives me a lot of energy. It gives me a lot of peace.”
This article originally appeared in Rapid Spring 2016 issue.
Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.
It takes us seven and a half hours to slog across. We silently wonder how we’ll continue for another 650 kilometers but neither of us dare say a word.
Back in the depths of winter, the Yukon River Quest (YRQ) sounded like a fun challenge to my partner, Geoff, and me. It was the cabin fever talking. I should have known, because despite being the canoe-crazy one in the relationship, this was all Geoff’s idea.
The longest annual canoe and kayak race in the world, the YRQ takes paddlers 715 kilometers from Whitehorse to Dawson on the remote Yukon River in northern Canada. There are just 10 hours of mandatory rest stops along the way, and racers must finish in 84 hours.
Competitors fight the elements, the clock and each other, but by far the hardest battle plays out in each boat as sleep deprivation and exhaustion take their toll.
This same route transported tens of thousands of prospectors during the Klondike Gold Rush between 1897 and 1899. We’ve come for the same reason as those stampeders—the promise of adventure and glory.
In the spring, I browsed the competitor bio section on the YRQ website. It was daunting. There were Ironman participants, past winners and expedition paddlers with marathon CVs as long as their bent-shaft blades. Geoff and I hadn’t paddled more than 30 kilometers on flatwater in a day.
Soon after ice-out we began a regime of endurance training on weekends and short, brutal interval sessions on weekdays at 5:30 a.m. With concerning regularity one of us hit snooze and we fell back asleep.
Most troubling was our stroke rate: marathon canoeists paddle 60 to 80 strokes per minute; trippers typically average just 25 to 30. To get our cadence to a competitive level we bought ultralight carbon fiber bent shaft blades from Grey Owl Paddles and enlisted 71-year-old Bob Vincent, a decorated marathon canoeist, who’s been known to compete in a matching red and white polka dot Spandex suit. For two hours on a sunny May morning, Geoff and I had Bob and fellow coach Gwyn Hayman to ourselves. They offered first-hand tips, variations for steering and advice on quickening the recovery phase of our strokes. It helped.
By early June we could easily hold 54 strokes per minute, though we still felt galaxies out of our league. Our focus wasn’t on winning—we just wanted to finish in the time limit.
We settled on a deceptively simple strategy: Just keep paddling.
Like many fantastically outlandish ideas before it, the Yukon River Quest was hatched over drinks in a dive bar. Created to celebrate the centennial of the gold rush, the first race traced the 700-mile route stampeders took from Dyea, Alaska, over the Chilkoot Trail and down the fabled river to Dawson, Yukon.
To further mimic the struggle of the stampeders, YRQ co-founder Jeff Brady had participants carry 50 pounds of useless gold rush-era gear, including a cast iron frying pan, hatchet, shovel, hammer and five pounds each of nails, beans and flour. Most teams made it in five days.
The pre-Whitehorse leg and unnecessary equipment regulation were dropped after 1998, creating the bona-fide paddling marathon we know today. Since then, almost 2,500 canoeists and kayakers have competed.
“People come to the Yukon River Quest because they want to say they’ve done it and check it off the bucket list,” says Brady, who will compete in his sixth race this summer. “The real challenge is for people to stay up and keep paddling. The vision of paddling under the midnight sun is beautiful, but what your body goes though is horrific.”
We arrive to a mandatory gear check the morning of the race laden with some 150 pounds of equipment, water and food. We’ve prepped 70 small meals each, one for every hour we expect to be on the river. PB&J sandwiches, baguettes, cheese, cookies, fruit cups, granola bars, beef jerky, grapes and one large, cold, cheese pizza come aboard.
“This is the hardest thing you’ll ever do,” warns 56-year-old John Little, a 10-time YRQ veteran we meet at the start line. “But it’s good to do something like this once a year and remind yourself what you’re made of.”
“If you can do this, you can do anything,” Little adds.
Little’s words echo in my mind 10.5 hours later, back at the end of Lake Laberge. We pull on warmer clothes for the cool night ahead. A quarter of teams scratch each year and hypothermia is the number one reason for dropping out.
Entering the jade green current is refreshing after lake travel. This far south, the sky darkens to twilight between midnight and 4 a.m. Mist blots out the shining half-moon. We’re alone.
Fish flies come out in force, covering our bodies and gear. Grayling leap alongside our canoe while bats twist and dive to feed. It’s beautiful, but soon exhaustion and hypothermia stalk us through the night. Our only defense is to eat, drink and keep paddling. We agree the take-out pizza was an exceptionally good idea.
Mid-morning and hollow-eyed we arrive at the Big Salmon River monitoring point. A voluntary rest stop, there’s only a few paddlers here, all in obvious discomfort. Some are sick, others sore, nauseous and demoralized. No one says the word scratch, but most are considering it. “We have to get out of here,” Geoff says to me. I tape up blisters forming on my palms and we get back on the water. Just keep paddling.
We reach the mandatory rest stop Carmacks at 7:24 p.m. We’ve traveled 301 kilometers in 30 hours.
Sleep deprevation is a funny thing. Just 20 hours awake and the average adult begins to function as though they’ve had two alcoholic drinks.
Continue to stay awake and simple tasks like bandaging a blister or navigating a channel, begin to seem as insurmountable as K2. Navy SEAL sergeants leading recruits through training exercises during the notoriously sleep-deprived and aptly named Hell Week report that simple obstacles, like a fence, have reduced grown men to tears.
Confusion, vision disturbances, tremors, emotional volatility. It’s sleep deprivation, rather than distance, that breaks paddlers on the Quest. Hallucinations are common, a sign that the brain is not interpreting stimuli correctly.
Many paddlers reported the same apparitions I saw—canoes pulled up on shore, people standing on the banks, giant illegible words carved into rock walls. Otters revealed themselves to be floating sticks, shore-side cabins gave way to the crisscross of downed trees, the voice at our backs was always just the wind.
Situated roughly halfway through the race, the Coal Mine Campground in tiny Carmacks is the first opportunity racers have to pause the clock and rest for seven hours.
When we arrive, most racers are sleeping. The ground is covered in an explosion of brightly colored canoes, kayaks and dry bags from four-dozen teams. The leaders have already come and gone, arriving a full 12 hours ahead of us. Their speed is bewildering.
Obviously out of the running for a podium finish and feeling absolutely wrecked, we decide to stay longer than necessary at Carmacks to get more sleep. When we wake, a full seven hours later, only eight boats remain.
Though sore, we’re invigorated by our night of rest. We get back on the water at 5:25 a.m.—just 415 kilometers to go. Cheery volunteers promise the worst is behind us. Liars.
A couple hours outside Carmacks, we approach Five Finger Rapids, a major obstacle for gold rush stampeders where steamwheelers wrecked and men died. Due to low water levels, it’s the first year where no boats capsize.
As the river valley meanders, we hopscotch under rain clouds, spotting moose, beavers and a porcupine. We meet only one paddler who isn’t racing. This grizzled canoeist is on his way to the Bering Sea, three weeks distant. A yellow Lab dozes in his cedarstrip, chin on the gunwale. We tell the paddler about the race, he tells us we’re crazy.
Evening brings a 50 mph headwind. We paddle directly into it for hours. Some competitors pull off the river to wait it out and we begin to catch up and pass a handful of boats. Creedence and Stan Rogers blast from our waterproof speakers, and when we get tired of them we take turns singing—terribly.
It’s dusky and drizzling around midnight when the canoe wobbles and I glance back. Geoff is sitting wide-eyed and upright, his paddle across his knees. “Did you just fall asleep?” I ask. He gives a silent nod. A sleepy lean of Geoff’s 6’8” frame would certainly pitch us into the frigid water, and the river here is wide, with steep banks and swift current. A swim would be dangerous, and the end of the race. “Eat. Drink. Paddle,” I say. Energy in, energy out—consuming and moving is the only way to stay awake.
Close to 3 a.m. we spot the campfire at Kirkman Creek, a tiny flickering beacon in the blue and black half-night. We’re elated to have made it. This is a mandatory three-hour stop before the final push to Dawson. A jovial man dressed head to toe in camo welcomes us; another with a Yosemite Sam mustache offers hot soup.
We set up our tent and take off soaked clothes, feeling blessed for the opportunity to drop into unconsciousness. Climbing naked into my sleeping bag, the heaviness of sleep drowns me. My hands throb, my back aches, my skin is cold and clammy. I’m exhausted, yet filled with a dreamy, joyous feeling radiating from the middle of my stomach. This is an adventure in one of my favorite places in the world with the man I love. “I’m so happy,” I tell Geoff. And then I’m out.
Two-and-a-half hours later, The “Good morning” trill of a volunteer comes too soon. I sit but can’t summon the motivation for anything more. Exhaustion-induced euphoria has evaporated. It’s cold. Aches have stiffened. Even more disheartening, it’s still raining. Geoff buries his face in the wall of the tent. We both ask if the other wants to continue.
“We’d wake people and they’d get angry, they’d want to fight us,” longtime Kirkman Creek volunteer Greg Spenner told us later. “Others were confused—they didn’t know where they were, or why they were there.”
We know why we’re here. It’s just 150 kilometers to Dawson, nine more map pages. There’s nothing to do but paddle. We pull on damp clothes, pack up soaked gear and push off under a grey sky. Though it’s just a fraction of the distance, the final section of the race is the crux for many. Exhaustion, slow current and navigating islands and gravel bars as the river widens takes its toll. I can barely keep my eyes open. The joy of adventure is forgotten; it’s the promise of real sleep that keeps us doggedly stroking away.
River curves stretch for mind-bending miles; we chase current only to have it seemingly disappear. I have a rushing sound in my ears and the visual sensation of starring in a stop motion film. Geoff is downing Advil to battle seizing muscles. We round a bend just before the 60-Mile checkpoint, the last of the race, and come face to face with a headwind so strong, whitecaps form as the river reverses on itself. Everything is loud and bright and astonishingly hard. I’m not sure whether to laugh or weep.
Just keep paddling.
When we finally spot the modest rooftops of Dawson, I feel kinship with the stampeders who must have seen a similar sight and felt the relief of respite at the end of a hard journey. There are cheers and a horn marking our arrival. We feel strong and weak, powerful and vulnerable.
It’s the first canoe trip where I’m happy to reach the take-out. It’s Saturday at 7:09 p.m. Our official finishing time is 69 hours. We had started paddling Wednesday at noon. We’re in 39th place of 58 teams. We hug, kiss and high-five. We are so done.
With its painted building facades and dusty roads, Dawson has succeeded in appearing pleasantly trapped in 1898. Amongst the RVers and period-costume-wearing tourist office employees, the paddlers are easy to spot. Fascinating is the change in the faces of competitors we met just three days prior—everyone’s aged. Eyes sunk, cheekbones protrude and fine lines amass.
Everyone sleeps.
At the banquet the following day we discover a race beyond our own limited perspective. A tandem kayak won in 44 hours and 51 minutes; a tandem canoe hot on their stern finished just 42 minutes later.
How did teams speed to Dawson a full 25 hours before us? There’s a mix of strategies we learn, including the high-tech, such as GPS units used to find the fastest current, and the dedicated—some wore condom catheters. Then there was common sense. “You don’t get out of your boat, except for Carmacks and Kirkman Creek,” advises Gaetan Plourde, one half of the winning tandem canoe team. Marathon canoeing experience helps.
When I ask who plans to return next year I get a variety of responses. Some can’t wait, others tell me the race was psychological torture, and swear never to come back.
“No one else will understand what we went through unless they’ve also done it,” kayaker Patrick Novak tells me. We’re standing in the Downtown Hotel bar, watching our comrades shoot back Dawson’s infamous Sour Toe Cocktail—a shot of liquor with a preserved human toe added as garnish. I agree.
The emotional roller coaster the race provides is fascinating and devastating. In the past 72 hours, we’ve all glimpsed ourselves at our strongest and weakest—it’s not an experience anyone forgets. And it might be a little addicting.
“Let’s do it again next year,” Geoff suggests as we walk back to our cabin under a sleepless sun.
“Or how about with a voyageur team—wouldn’t that be fun?” I ask. Though we’re in enthusiastic agreement, it’ll be another four days before the tingling in my hands goes away and Geoff can raise his arms above his head.
Why do it? The same reason people have always gone to Dawson—the promise of adventure, glory and gold.
Kaydi Pyette is the editor of Canoeroots.
This article originally appeared in Canoeroots Spring 2016 issue.
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Hailing from the north shore of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Michael Callaghan is the founder of paddlesports school, Magtogoek Écotours. He’s kayaked on the West Coast from Baja to Alaska, but always returns to the quiet beauty of Québec.
With 1,200 kilometres of sparsely inhabited coastline, Quebec’s North Shore is a little-known kayaking paradise. Locals refer to these frigid waters—the yawning mouth of the mighty St. Lawrence River—as the ocean.
When I was young and foolish, I would venture out in jeans and rental kayak, as clueless about Gore-Tex as I was about the capricious weather and formidable currents. In the decades since, I’ve safely explored much of the North Shore’s cloudberry coast.
I’m constantly amazed by the region’s pure, unspoiled wilderness. On an average day, I can observe several species of whale, from beluga to blue. I’ve also learned about the Innu First Nation’s culture and enjoyed the boundless hospitality of the North Shore’s people. With a population of just 55,000 on a territory twice the size of England, visitors are always welcome.
Tadoussac, gateway to the region, is a three-hour drive east of Québec City. Beyond here, the road unwinds for another nine hours before stopping abruptly at a sign that reads, simply, “The end.” To explore further, you’ll need to take a ferry, plane or kayak.
If you have a day visit Tadous- sac and Les Bergeronnes, the whale-watching capital of Eastern Canada. Observe blue, fin, minke, humpback and beluga whales from your own kayak, or with a guided tour.
If you have a long weekend tour the spectacular Saguenay Fjord. From Ste-Rose- du-Nord, paddle and camp beneath towering cliffs and share the waters with beluga and seals.
If you have a week explore Mingan Archipelago National Park Preserve’s chain of an- cient rock islets. A crown jewel in the Canadian parks system, the Mingan Islands’ limestone sea stacks, puffins, gannets and Innu First Nation culture intertwine along 100 kilometers of coast.
If you have two weeks take the coastal ferry from Sept- Îles to Harrington Harbour. Continue northeast up the roadless coast to St-Augustine for 10-plus days of isolated, world-class paddling through hundreds of wild islands.
AVERAGE SUMMER HIGH: 15°C (July)
WILDLIFE: Peregrine falcon, wolf, black bear, lynx, moose, seal and whales.
EXPOSURE: Ever-present fog, rapidly changing weather, water temperature 2–4°C year-round. Exposed coastline with infrequent landing opportunities.
TIDES: Tidal exchange reaches 6.5 meters in Saguenay Fjord, 3.5 to 4 meters everywhere else; cold-water currents to six knots in Mingan Islands.
DIVERSION: Don’t miss the Marine Mammal Observation Centre (CIMM) in Tadoussac. The Innu Nikamu aboriginal music festival, held every August near Sept-Îles, is the largest in Canada.
OUTFITTERS: Mer et Monde Écotours—day, sunrise and evening tours in Tadoussac. Kayak Latins du Nord—guided kayak camping in Saguenay Fjord. Magtogoek Écotours—instruction, day trips and expeditions.
MUST-HAVE: Drysuit, satellite phone and an ability to “nowcast“ the weather.
This article was originally published in Adventure Kayak, Volume 16 • Issue 1.
This article originally appeared in Adventure Kayak Spring 2016 issue.
Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.
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