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.
Jim Coffey, of Davidson, Quebec, claims to have broken the record for highest successful waterfall descent in an open canoe.
The former record, which had been unchallenged for over 20 years, was held by American Steve Frazier after descending Big Falls (16m) on the Elk River in North Carolina (USA).
Coffey’s accomplishment was made on the Cascada de Truchas (18m) on the Alsaseca River in a remote part of Mexico in the State of Veracruz.
Coffey, who owns a whitewater tour company in Mexico, had been considering running the falls for four years. Coffey states, “It is nice to get some notoriety for our sport by raising the bar. With modern boat designs and strong up and coming paddlers, i think you will see canoes going harder, faster, bigger and taller than what they have ever done before”.
Canoe collector Ken Kelly poses in front of a few of his prized pleasure craft. | Feature photo: Judith Strieby-Raska
There’s more than just a little wickedness in the history of the canoe, and the largest collection of it resides in Grand Rapids, Michigan, in the possession of Ken Kelly. His collection of old-style courting canoes, vehicles of furtive love in a bygone era, fills the rafters of his quaint northern Michigan cottage, garage and the second story of a nearby warehouse.
Kelly is smitten by the old-world charm of wood and canvas canoes, particularly those of the early 20th century—models paddled by men courting women. It was a period full of music, mischief and romance.
Collector Ken Kelly shares his love of antique courting canoes
“The magic for me is the beauty of the wood, the quality of the craftsmanship and the feel of them on the water,” says Kelly, a wine dealer who owns 22 antique canoes in total. His private collection is one of the largest in North America and one of the highest quality collections of courting canoes anywhere in the world.
While Kelly’s boats span nearly 90 years of North American canoe history, most were built for romance and style during the early 1900s, a period when courting your gal in cities like Boston, New York, Detroit and Minneapolis, meant heading out on a moonlit river for a little smooching in the canoe. It was a time when young women let their suitors do the paddling and the canoes were accessorized with phonographs, picnic baskets and pillows, all the better to canoodle with. The ardor of that era began to cool in the 1920s with the advent of the Model T Ford—couples had more options.
“The magic for me is the beauty of the wood, the quality of the craftsmanship and the feel of them on the water.”
Kelly’s favorite canoe of that era is his 1915 Alden Kingsbury, a long-nosed, 16-foot canoe he had meticulously restored. It is one of many designs that originated on the Charles River during a period when canoe builders competed for public attention; a time when “social canoeing” was popular recreation and area boat houses rented to couples for an afternoon or evening.
“It’s stylish and fast, and when I heel it over in the traditional Canadian style, it has a sweet spot and becomes very stable. It’s a slippery design that I like to paddle solo,” says Kelly. The 58-year-old is also the president of the Wooden Canoe Heritage Association, a non-profit group with 1,650 members across North America and Europe.
Canoe collector Ken Kelly poses in front of a few of his prized pleasure craft. | Feature photo: Judith Strieby-Raska
WCHA is made up of antique wood canoe enthusiasts, some of whom are collectors, though the membership is mainly comprised of folks that have one or more wood canoes that they intend to restore or enjoy paddling. The organization hosts its 35th national assembly this year at Paul Smith’s College in the Adirondacks. Drawing 300 to 400 people and their canoes every year, it’s the largest gathering of its kind in North America.
Kelly joined WCHA in 1994 and was elected president in 2009. The challenge today, he says, is getting paddlers interested in the old-world beauty, lore and poetry of wood canoes, when the attention is elsewhere.
“It’s a challenge trying to think of what we can do to get people who are doing the same thing in plastic and Kevlar, into wood canoes and out on the water,” says Kelly. “The on-water experience in wood is unsurpassed.”
Collection got its start on a no-motor lake
Kelly’s fascination with antique canoes developed in 1994 after learning he could not have a motorboat on the lake where he and his wife have their cottage. He had been looking for a vintage Chris-Craft runabout and shifted to considering a wood and canvas canoe to compliment the 1933 hand-crafted log cabin on the property.
His first was a 16-foot Old Town OTCA, built in 1963. It cost $800 and needed some work.
“It was nice and had a painted design on it, but I decided to repaint it,” Kelly says. “I went to put it up on the cabin wall for winter storage and thought it looked pretty nice; why not leave that one up there and get a second one to use.
“It’s stylish and fast, and when I heel it over in the traditional Canadian style, it has a sweet spot and becomes very stable. It’s a slippery design that I like to paddle solo,” says Kelly. | Photo: Judith Strieby-Raska
“I ended up finding a few others, mostly that needed repair, but it wasn’t very long before I had six canoes,” he adds.
“About a year after I got that first one, I realized I liked the look of the long decked courting canoe,” says Kelly, the type with the graceful, ornate designs and long, wooden decks that had no functional purpose other than style, and to create a more intimate space for turn-of-the-century couples. “I didn’t think I’d ever find one so I commissioned a builder who had an old mold and had him build me a replica of a Charles River Torpedo, a 1915- to 1920-era canoe.”
Kelly still owns that courting canoe along with 16 others, three or four of which will be displayed at the Canadian Canoe Museum in Peterborough, Ontario, starting in April when the museum opens a yearlong special exhibition called “Canoes and Romance.”
Thanks to Kelly’s care, these antique canoes remain ready to go a-courting. | Photo: Judith Strieby-Raska
“We have gramophones, postcards, posters and great movie clips,” says John Summers, the museum’s general manager. “We have covered bigger themes in the past, such as the fur trade and exploration—this will be the pop culture of canoeing on display.
“Ken’s canoes are beautiful and courting canoes are a beautiful stage in canoeing. The flourish of the Charles River scene is a relatively small part of canoeing history, but it’s a fascinating part,” he adds.
Kelly’s wife agrees to be courted by canoe—once in a while
For her part, Kelly’s wife, Mary Reed Kelly, has long known of her husband’s penchant for collecting things. She tolerates it in good humor but does not consider herself a paddler, venturing out on the water only occasionally. Before canoes, she says, there were antique watches, sports cars and furniture. Kelly is also a master-gardener and a wine collector.
“He loves the idea of having beautiful things,” Reed Kelly says. “Ken always tries to make sure they are in the best shape they can be. He takes great pride in being able to say: ‘I took care of this.’”
“His specialty is courting canoes—that’s okay with me, once in a while,” Reed Kelly says wryly.
“She is happy to go for a ride occasionally and sit in the position that a woman would when being courted and let me paddle her around,” Kelly says chuckling, okay with the fact he often plays the role of lonely courtesan.
On his own time, Kelly enjoys paddling for recreation at the cottage and with other WCHA Michigan chapter members, who gather for weekends on different rivers or lakes each year. He has recently taken to developing his freestyle paddling skills.
Kelly’s collection includes, among others, a 1916 Peterborough canoe that hangs from the ceiling of his cottage. That’s where his best canoes are displayed amid a flood of courting-era memorabilia. It is where his 1915 H.B. Arnold canoe hangs over the door to the porch. There are also classic Old Town canoes, a 1930’s Carleton, a 1920’s E.M. White and a B.N. Morris, all of which were built in Maine.
Morris is considered by many to be one of the finest wood and canvas canoe builders. Kelly’s newest addition at the cottage is a restored 18-foot B.N. Morris that was built in 1918 for the canals of Belle Isle, the Detroit, Michigan island park on the Detroit River. The canoe’s sweeping lines and graphics convey the genteel nature of the era long past.
Future plans for the collection
Having 22 canoes does present logistical issues, Kelly says. Storage is one, as is the expense of having them restored. Sometimes he will sell one or more to make room for another he has found.
“The phase I am in now is that it has to be really special for me to add another, and I can’t do that unless I get rid of one,” he says.
Kelly admits he is looking for a very special Peterborough canoe, a 1904 Comfort-Craft model, commonly known as “The Girling Canoe”—just guess why.
A modern-day man with vintage tastes, Kelly views courting canoes as a vintage unmatched. And as with fine wines, if one picks well, they only get better with time.
Howard Meyerson is an award-winning outdoor writer and avid paddler from Michigan. He enjoyed paddling one of Ken Kelly’s antique canoes in 2012 on a trip down Michigan’s Au Sable River.
This article originally appeared in the Spring 2014 issue of Canoeroots. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.
Canoe collector Ken Kelly poses in front of a few of his prized pleasure craft. | Feature photo: Judith Strieby-Raska
Practicing a kayak roll is an essential skill for experienced paddlers and those that may be the occasional weekend warrior. At the beginning of every paddling season it is highly recommended to spend time in varying water conditions and practice this kayaking skill. Roll troubleshooting was my first attempt at an instructional video, and it was one I was told countless times to avoid doing as this subject always seems to be up for great debate.
As instructors, I think we typically overcomplicate this skill for the student. We only have a certain capacity for information, especially when stressed, so I looked to keep our approach as simple as possible. This video proved to be ideal for those with some previous roll practice, although I have found beginners to respond just as well. (Click here for kayak rolling tips to help beginners and children.)
Chris Wing has been an instructor for as long as he has been a kayaker. He started H2o Dreams out of a desire to spur growth and reverence for paddle sports education all while providing a different spin to the presentation of familiar topics. Visit www.whitewaterdreams.com for more info.
This article originally appeared in Canoeroots and Family Camping, Spring 2014.
This article first appeared in the Adventure Kayak, Spring 2014 issue. 
This article originally appeared in Canoeroots and Family Camping, Spring 2014. Get more great gear reviews by downloading our free 
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. 
This article originally appeared in the Spring 2014 issue of Canoeroots. 
