Keep your electronics charged with Goal Zero’s new solar panel and rechargeable battery kit. Use the solar panel to charge the four AA batteries, then charge any USB device with the battery pack. It’s simple and quick. The whole kit is compact and weighs a pound and a half, not bad for unlimited power.
Rechargable AA batteries are included and a handy built-in LED flashlight is located on top of the battery pack to help you search in your dark backpack. Plug in any small USB-powered devices to the battery pack or into the solar panel to recharge them anywhere. It’s powerful enough to handle smartphones, readers and tablets.
This article originally appeared in Canoeroots and Family Camping, Spring 2014. Get more great gear reviews by downloading our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it on your desktop here.
“The jewel of Michoacan calls the team back to her waters for a final adventure after difficult terrain and low water challenges the expedition. The next trip is already being planned.”
Jaime Sharp knows sacrifice is the flipside of the shiny coin of adventure. The 32-year-old guide, videographer and founder of World Wild Adventures left behind a good job and a beautiful woman to follow his dream. In 2011, Sharp fled the promise of a settled life to paddle the length of New Zealand. Three years later he remains an unapologetic vagabond. These days, Sharp hangs his hat in a shed in Vancouver Island’s Nanoose Bay. Equal parts office, gear garage and bachelor pad, the shed is a strategic—if Spartan—home base for Sharp’s on-the-road lifestyle. — Virginia Marshall
The shed belongs to a friend. It’s on an acre and a half right on the water. The shelving, plumbing and Internet connection were already here. I can pull my 23-foot bus right inside. It’s what I call ‘tactical homely.’
I wanted a mobile kayaking HQ that I could paddle, live and work out of. My dream vehicle was a four-wheel-drive Sportsmobile. What I could afford was this 1990 Ford E350 Diesel medical transport bus. I use the wheelchair ramp for walking boats in and out. I bought the bus for $3,000 and drove to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and back to make sure it was going to hold together. It has a bed, diesel space heater, battery inverter and kitchen. My plan is to drive down to the Baja Sea Kayak Symposium in April, then work my way back up to B.C. while filming for a paddling series about exploring the West Coast.
This duffle contains the TRAK folding sea kayak that I paddled down the Grand Canyon in winter 2012. When I first saw an ad for these boats, I was intrigued. I wrote TRAK a proposal: I would take their kayak all over the world with me and make films about it. The TRAK Files marked my first foray into making a professional online film series.
On the right screen, I’m editing photos from the Grand Canyon. On the left, I’m backing up film from recent paddling trips to the Bay of Fundy and the United King- dom. Shooting video is a lot more work than shooting stills. Editing takes months, not days. Creatively, the stories you can tell with film are engrossing, but there’s a real satisfaction in capturing a moment in a single frame. It’s more like a trophy.
I’m a closet Star Wars geek. And, yeah, the Ewoks are my favorite.
I made this traditional bow and arrow with a Bushmen friend in Namibia. It’s an effective little bow, but more importantly it’s a memento of my travels and the friends I’ve made along the way.
I found this wild boar tusk on my New Zealand expedition. Walking away from everything and using all my money to fund this trip was a huge sacrifice. Of course, things don’t go exactly as planned. The weather in the Pacific that year was terrible: cyclones, floods, the tsunami in Japan, an earthquake in Christchurch. I got bitten by a venomous katipo spider and had to be evacuated off a remote beach at 3 a.m. in excruciating pain. Ultimately, it ended up being a trip down the North Island. But experiencing the journey just for myself created a lot of growth, strength and healing. It was one of those crossroads when you make a critical choice and your life takes a completely new direction.
This article first appeared in the Adventure Kayak, Spring 2014 issue. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.
When I look back on that trip, I’m not surprised that we went laden with enough parachute cord and emergency blankets to weather the Apocalypse. But I cringe to re-member that we paddled out in near gale-force winds with neither the knowledge or strength to rescue a swamped boat stuffed with hundreds of pounds of tied-in gear.
So concerned with the imagined dangers, we failed to see the real peril in the cold water all around us. Our own assessment of the hazards left us woefully misguided; only knowledge and experience can lead to an accurate perception of risk.
Not surprisingly, at campsite 33, we had an emergency-free week—no bears, burns or boredom. The military shovel was never unfolded, the knives stayed sheathed and the flare gun remained unloaded.
Slowly, with each subsequent trip, our worries fell away, as did the unnecessary gear. We’d been so busy packing to slay unlikely what-if scenarios, it took years to realize that only the finely tempered edge of experience can strike a dragon’s heart.
A decade later, Canoeroots’ managing editor, Kaydi Pyette, still brings the badminton kit—just in case.
Opinion: There Be Dragons
This article originally appeared in Canoeroots and Family Camping, Spring 2014.
“I wouldn’t have thought it possible to cry so much and for so many days on end. I cried because it never became easy. I cried because I had no one with whom to share the beautiful moments, and no one to encourage me. I cried because my resolve, my strength, my resourcefulness had to be enough and I was scared they would eventually be inadequate.”
This is one of the more thumb-sucking passages from Going Alone, a collection of essays from women adventurers. I read this and 19 other deeply personal accounts of solo wilderness experiences in preparation for my own extended voyage—seven weeks on the open coast, alone.
I felt ready. Ready to be lonely, fearful and weepy. But beneath the forlorn blinking of an automated lighthouse, alone on a tiny island far offshore, I felt more perplexed than distressed. I waited for the crushing loneliness that would constrict my chest, stealing my breath and my confidence. I fed warm carrot soup into a hollow stomach and watched, quite dry-eyed, a heartbreakingly beautiful northern sunset.
“Aren’t you scared?” asked nearly every person I encountered. It was not an unreasonable question. I knew all too well the hazards of coastal touring in remote areas by oneself: unpredictable, fast-changing weather and sea conditions, long stretches with difficult or no landings, frigid waters, defensive mama bears, lost or damaged equipment, making poor decisions. In my years on the lake, I’d lost count of how many times I had watched the search and rescue Hercules circling the steely skies above foam-streaked waters. I had witnessed forensic divers searching for the body of an experienced solo paddler who’s final decision – to go rather than to stay – had proved deadly.
But when I inventoried the dozens of emotions I experienced every day, fear was seldom amongst them. Most of the time, I felt calm, at ease. An expedition, I have always believed, is open to anyone who dares to depart with hatches and imagination full. Even if your boat—like my own 16 feet of rotomolded yellow plastic—is more weekend warrior than devoted tripper. Even if so are you.
I wasn’t afraid of the dark. I didn’t lie awake fretting over the night noises beyond the walls of my silnylon sanctuary. Even the unpredictable moods of the great, restless waters didn’t scare me. But I scared myself a few times. In six-foot waves on a remote five-mile crossing. In a clumsy slip beside a two-story drop to unyielding bedrock. In the reflection of a mirror in a campground washroom after 43 days on the water.
Perhaps solo kayak expeditions would enjoy broader appeal if more people learned to differentiate between irrational fear and actual risk.
My gut twisted and my skin prickled the evening a man appeared from the bushes near my tent. My hands were so numb on the aforementioned crossing I wondered if the paddle would slip from my grasp. Falling to my knees on the far shore, I thanked the evergreen hills, the copper cliffs and the howling wind for sparing my foolish self.
It’s healthy to experience fear in these situations, as long as you can rein it in and keep enough wits to make your way back to safer circumstances. Our fight-or-flight response—unchanged through millennia of evolution—is what has kept us alive in the face of saber-toothed tigers, thunderstorms and Simon Cowell.
It is an irrational fear that is problematic. The clamoring, claustrophobic fear that doesn’t bow to fight or flight. Fear of the dark beyond your vestibule. Fear of being alone. Fear of growing old, or sick, or even just less willful. Fear of being afraid.
Fear is a strange bedfellow. Like a good story, a carefully crafted paranoia is rarely hampered by the truth. I have friends from the country who are terrified of the city. And urban friends who fear if they venture too far beyond city limits, they are sure to meet a slow painful end, if not from wolves or exposure than from an equally silent killer, boredom.
Photo: Aleksey Kupriko
This fear of nothing to do is a surprisingly prevalent one. Or perhaps it is not so surprising. After all, we live in the most hyper-stimulated, over-programmed place and time the world has ever known.
Here’s a typical conversation, this one with a curious passer-by I met outside a campground office:
“You’re out here alone?” asks curious. “Yes,” I reply.
“By yourself?” curious confirms. “Uh-huh.”
“What do you do all day?” A refreshing break from the “Aren’t you scared?” line of questioning.
“Well, I paddle until late afternoon, then I make camp, cook dinner, explore the beach, jot down my thoughts…”
“Sure, sure, but after all that—don’t you, y’know, get kinda… bored?”
“Nah, I like having time to just sit and think and quietly observe nature,” I say.
Open-mouth stare.
“Besides, I’m quite tired by the end of the day,” I continue awkwardly, “I go to sleep pretty early.”
“Oh yeah, of course,” curious nods. It’s the first thing I’ve said that makes any sense. The ability to quickly summon unconsciousness is evidently the only thing that’s kept me alive in the absence of smartphones, Twitter feeds and Duck Dynasty downloads.
As Annie Getchell, a fellow solo sea kayaker, writes in Going Alone of trying to describe her experience to friends post-trip, “How do I explain about returning to stimulation instead of being?”
Perhaps solo kayak expeditions would enjoy broader appeal if more people learned to differentiate between irrational fear and actual risk. If you need evidence our sensors are screwy, look no further than the millions of dollars spent every year preparing for a zombie apocalypse. How is it acceptable to worry about the un-dead, but I am crazy to paddle by myself?
The dawn of the dead notwithstanding, most of us face relatively few mortal threats in our day-to-day lives. Immersing yourself in a wild environment, develop- ing the mindfulness to safely negotiate its hazards, finding the awareness that comes without constant artificial stimulation, acknowledging your apprehensions and calmly setting them aside—all of this is immensely and uncommonly rewarding.
In the words of another solo woman adventurer and writer, Jill Frayne, “To be in undisturbed places is good for humans and, at least once, you have to go alone. Nature brings us to ourselves.”
On the subject of fear, Frayne continues, “Sometimes camping alone puts an ache in my throat, a feeling close to homesickness. But I don’t think fear explains it. I think the feeling has to do with nature herself, the force of her presence. Nature gets us down to size, disquiets us, makes us anxious and lonesome and thrilled.”
Am I scared? The only thing I truly fear as a kayaker is the day that no one paddles alone because it’s too dangerous—or worse, too boring.
Editor Virginia Marshall does have another fear: tripping without chocolate. But she insists it is completely rational.
This article first appeared in the Adventure Kayak, Spring 2014 issue. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.
Turn heads on the trail with Woolrich’s new cape—though the poncho-like design is unique, it’s the combination of three plaid patterns that’ll really catch the eye. Pull it on while paddling and portaging and get protection from the elements. For the brave gentleman, a men’s anorak version is available.
This article originally appeared in Canoeroots and Family Camping, Spring 2014. Get more great gear reviews by downloading our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it on your desktop here.
Between squinted eyes fighting to hold back the driving rain, we surveyed our landing spot. Beyond the sandy beach, there was only dense forest of jack pine and black spruce as far as the eye could see. We zipped our jackets a little higher and adjusted our packs a little tighter. With a wave goodbye to the captain of our shuttle, the aluminum catamaran was swallowed in the mist leaving us alone. We were walking out.
A superior adventure on the Lake Superior Coastal Trail
Voyageur route
Hiking the Coastal Trail in Pukaskwa National Park on Lake Superior’s northern shore had been a family decision. My husband, Fraser, and I had carefully consulted with our sons, Luke, 10, and Zach, 8, as the remote and rugged route required planning, training and commitment on everyone’s part.
Up until then we had enjoyed multi-day canoe trips and weekend hikes as a family, but 60 kilometers over seven days burdened with heavy packs was a daunting proposition. Our biggest concern was that on this single-access-point trail, failure was not an option. Blisters and tears would not be grounds for rescue.
Feature photo: Jennifer Johnson
The 1,900-square-kilometer national park is the definition of isolation, part of the longest undeveloped shoreline anywhere on the Great Lakes. The solitary road that leads into the park terminates at Hattie Cove campground where we would complete our hike.
Truly a backpacker’s paradise, the trail is part of the larger, and yet to be fully realized, 1,100-kilometer Voyageur Route, which will one day carve a continuous hiking path from the eastern shore of Lake Huron to the western shore of Lake Superior.
The trail hugs the shore and is a maze of ascents and descents, fallen trees and car-sized rock slabs; at times it’s so steep hiking poles are set aside in favor of good old-fashioned scrambling. Boulder fields are vast and ankle twisting, shifting and slippery when wet. I took each step as if the next could result in a trip-ending injury, while Luke and Zach made a sport of it. I cautioned them to be careful, but “obstacles make it more interesting” they assured me.
Steady hands
River crossings became our favorite obstacle. Spring run-off on the White Gravel River brought wide banks and a swift current. The water was ice-cold, even more so than the brisk air. At its deepest, the river cut us at the knees and sprayed us even higher. We strategized a team effort that carried us across both figuratively and literally, Zach hitching a ride on Fraser’s back. Walk briskly, plant feet and hiking poles firmly, and keep moving.
With each river crossed, I saw the confidence growing in the boys. Their steps came more easily, the placement more precise. They called out warnings of upcoming hazards and held back branches, offering steady hands for support. Luke repeated, “Thanks for bringing us,” like a mantra and I was so glad that we had.
Golden ticket
We fell into an easy routine. Each evening Fraser and I set up camp while the boys played at our campsite, each one seemingly plucked from a glossy travel brochure targeted at busy urbanites like us dreaming of empty beaches.
In heavy hikers, bear whistles around their necks, the kids dug in the sand, burying each other, sketching masterpieces with sticks and unearthing treasures of smoothed glass, perfect skipping stones and once, a half of a tennis ball lost from some far shore. They could have discovered gold for how thrilled they were.
With no electronics to turn to, their imaginations were entertainment. Activities that back in the city would be deemed uncool were thrilling with nobody watching to pass judgement. I was amazed by their resilience; never too tired, never bored, and rarely a complaint. When the May blackfly clouds became too thick, we climbed into our sleeping bags and I read to them from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
When the topography became demanding—which was often—banter was replaced with grunts of exertion and the thud of boots drumming against rock and earth. We wiped the mix of rain, sweat and bugs from our eyes and sported cuts, bruises and bites like badges of honor. For possibly the first time in their lives, our guys faced real adversity. In doing so, they were finding themselves one step at a time, proving to themselves just how capable they were, both physically and mentally.
On past trips, Fraser and I had acted like camp counselors, assuming most of the responsibilities. To complete this trip, the boys had to become our tripping partners. They carried their share of the load, did their share of the work and deserved to share the credit. Four equal members hauling gear, route finding, menu planning and bear calling.
A week of jumping crevasses, marveling over bear prints and crossing dizzying suspension bridges taught them more about problem solving, judgement and teamwork than the best efforts of parents or teachers ever could.
Pint-sized backpacking
When determining your hiking route, take your kid’s attitude, excitement and previous experience into consideration, advises author, father and avid backpacker, Michael Lanza.
If you’re just getting started, choosing an easy to moderate hike and keeping it short and sweet is key to fostering a love of the sport, says Lanza. As editor for Backpacker magazine, he and his wife have tripped extensively with their two children, now 11 and 13.
“In moderately hilly terrain, a kid carrying little or no weight can easily maintain a two-mile-per-hour pace while walking,” he advises. Don’t ask too much of your younger child though—little ones “will go very slowly because they want to explore instead of just plodding forward.”
While adults should expect to shoulder the lion’s share of pack weight, part of maintaining a child’s interest is allowing him to contribute to an expedition.
“Don’t ask a kid to carry a pack; let the child ask to be given a pack to carry,” advises Lanza. By doing this, you create an association in the child’s mind that adults and older kids who are strong, experienced hikers carry packs. “Your child will want to be that kid, and you should then constantly compliment his ability to carry a pack,” he adds.
While adults are generally advised to carry between a quarter and a third of their body weight, making a child’s pack that heavy could put them off of the experience all together. “For a 50-pound child, I’d keep pack weight around 10 to12 pounds or less,” recommends Lanza.
To inspire participation and interest in making miles, offer small rewards. “Bring a treat they don’t often get to have to help build a positive association with hiking in their minds,” says Lanza.
Play games on trail (anything but I-Spy) and “pick a hike that has terrain features that will interest kids, like creeks or lakes that are safe to play in, waterfalls, rocks to scramble on, or the likelihood of seeing animals.”
Most importantly, aim for fun and not distance in the early years. This way you stand the best chance for a future filled with family backpacking adventures.
This article was first published in the Early Summer 2014 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
A superior adventure on the Lake Superior Coastal Trail. | Feature photo: Jennifer Johnson
I think the high school administrator thought I would give up on taking the group of troubled kids out into the wild after I was told the school board no longer allowed on-water activities, such as canoeing or kayaking. I don’t give up that easily. I countered the absurd regulation by changing the proposed canoe trip into a backpacking trip. There were no rules against walking. Not yet anyway.
Getting permission still wasn’t easy. I had to jump through hoops to satisfy the paranoid administration, including filling out a 12-page document reminiscent of my taxes that confirmed my trip leading experience. Of chief concern was whether I could handle a bear “situation” if it occurred while we were in the wilderness.
Despite detailing the unlikeliness of encountering a bear—and my many years handling such rare encounters—the trip almost didn’t go ahead. The handwringing and misplaced fear left me frustrated.
Cutbacks, rising costs and the ever-looming threat of litigation are all reasons that school boards are more hesitant than ever to green light wilderness trips.
It’s the students who miss out. It’s well documented that outdoor programs encourage mental and physical health. Outdoor adventure exper iences increase self-confidence as students are encouraged to navigate new challenges, manage risks and practice self-care. Immersed in nature, kids can’t help but engage with the curriculum. Plus, they skip class less—there’s 100-percent attendance for classes in the wilderness.
Illustration: Lorenzo Del Bianco
We had discussed what the students should do if they encountered an unwelcome ursine, but there were no bear encounters during our weeklong trek in the woods. The only wildlife sighting of note was a porcupine. It was living under an old outhouse and caused one student to let out an unholy scream in the middle of the night. Oh, and a family of raccoons that tried to steal a pair of smelly sneakers.
I found out on our return that it was the high school itself that saw all the action.
While we were playing it safe in the wilderness, a black bear took a stroll through the schoolyard on its way to feast in one of the town’s fast food restaurant dumpsters. The high school principal ordered a lock down and a tactical police unit arrived to gun down the bear. The incident made national news.
The principal didn’t see the irony of the situation.
Risk isn’t often as obvious as a 400-pound black bear with a Whopper craving, but it’s a part of everyday life. Risk exists in the wilderness and on the playground. It’s on the road, on the water and even in your home. It’s inescapable. Better to learn to manage risk and grow from that valuable experience, rather than try to hide from it.
By the end of our week in the woods, I think the students agreed with me. I’m just happy that what we learned on trip can be so readily applied to everyday life.
Kevin Callan once scared a bear away from his daughter’s sixth birthday party with nothing more than a canoe paddle. Follow his adventures at kevincallan.com.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2014 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.
After an epic series of grunts and profanities, it happened. Our bus was finally gaining traction in the sand and on its way home from where it dropped us. We were at the put-in of the Karnali River, in Nepal. It had taken us a day and a half of bumping around in the back of that rickety bus to reach this remote Himalayan waterway that’s only run 10 times a year.
The 21-day trip would be the final exam in the first year of the Adventure Guide program at Thompson Rivers University. The program is one of the most thorough job interviews around—instructors have two whole years to watch a student’s performance on wilderness trips and whitewater to determine whether they’re a good fit for guiding.
In the year leading up to the trip, I’d been pushed so hard that the territory outside my comfort zone was starting to feel like home. Nepal took everything to the next level; it was our longest trip yet and in an utterly unfamiliar setting.
Though my 10 classmates and I had swapped gum-stained desks and true or false questions for kayaks and high-volume class IV whitewater, this was definitely still an exam.
The river’s first test came almost immediately. Sitting in an eddy by the first rapid, taking in the mountainous Nepalese landscape, my nerves went haywire. It only took one unexpected surge to send me into the water. Sheepish and annoyed, I dragged my kayak to shore, blaming the jet lag, the new boat and the days of rattling around in the back of a bus.
The learning continued through the untouched jungle of the Karnali. Eddy hopping was no longer just for scouting lines. It was the quickest way to reach shore for emergency bathroom breaks that couldn’t wait until the end of a rapid—the intestinal turmoil of international travel followed us all through the biggest whitewater of our lives.
Exam Time
Camping was a whole other adventure. The banks were dotted with villages and within 20 minutes of setting up a tent the entire youth population of the nearest village was standing outside, their smiles as mischievous as their intentions, as they waited for any opportunity to investigate our belongings. Armed with a Nepali vocabulary of only ‘hello’ and ‘thank you,’ the rancid smell emanating from my gear was my only defense.
As the trip went on, I realized the challenges we continually encountered were perfect guide training tests—they inspired reflection on whether or not I was prepared for a life on the river. If I wanted to translate my passion for paddling into a career, I would have to get used to this stream of ever-changing challenges.
As we paddled back to the bus, three weeks and 113 miles later, the familiar relief of passing an exam washed over me, but this time it was different. For me, completing this test meant that the challenges of the Karnali River would be the first of many. CODY NYSTROM
This article was first published in the Spring 2014 issue of Rapid Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
This article originally appeared in Canoeroots and Family Camping, Spring 2014. Get more great gear reviews by downloading our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it on your desktop here. 
This article first appeared in the Adventure Kayak, Spring 2014 issue. 
This article originally appeared in Canoeroots and Family Camping, Spring 2014.
This article was first published in the Early Summer 2014 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. 
This article was first published in the Spring 2014 issue of Rapid Magazine. 
