Floating in the water, holding onto their tandem sea kayak for dear life, Robert Beltram and Judith Gotlieb knew they were in trouble. More than halfway through a four-week trip on Lake Superior, they had capsized in high waves. Within minutes, the kayak was swamped and the pair was starting to feel the lethargic effects of the cold water despite their wet suits.

Beltram activated their personal locator distress beacon and two and a half hours later a Canadian Coast Guard C-130 search plane spotted them. Another 30 minutes, and they were both plucked from the water by a Coast Guard helicopter and transported to a local hospital for hypothermia treatment.

Up until the early 20th century, large rescue operations were highly unorganized and often ineffective. It wasn’t until the sinking of the Titanic in 1912 that the international community was galvanized to put a greater importance on safety at sea. The first draft of the International Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea, or SOLAS, was signed in 1914.

The development and acceptance of the SOLAS treaty was a fundamental turning point in maritime safety. Governments began to research safety infrastructure, leading to the development of early ship to shore radio communication networks and more accurate and standardized mapping technology.

One of the greatest advancements in search and rescue technology was the development of the Cospas-Sarsat (Search And Rescue Satellite) system. Jointly conceived and funded by Canada, France, the United States and the former Soviet Union in 1979, the Cospas-Sarsat system consists of five geosynchronous satellites called GEOSARs and six low-earth polar orbit satellites called LEOSARs. Together, the satellites work to pinpoint your location and transmit the necessary information to authorities.

Once a distress signal from a personal locator beacon, satellite messenger or EPIRB is activated, the signal is relayed from these satellites to one of 66 ground stations. The ground station processes the message and generates the distress alert, which is automatically passed along to one of 31 Mission Control Centers scattered around the world. The Canadian Mission Control Centre is in Trenton, Ontario, while U.S. emergencies are sent to the United States Mission Control Center in Silver Spring, Maryland. Mission Control confirms the location and reports the emergency to the local Search and Rescue point of contact.

In Canada, search and rescue falls primarily under the responsibility of the Canadian Coast Guard. Responsibility for marine emergencies stateside falls to the U.S. Coast Guard, while if the emergency occurs on inland waters or wilderness areas, the Department of the Interior or the National Park Service takes charge.

Keep in mind that after you activate your PLB it can take up to 45 minutes before your signal is picked up by satellites and passed along to your local rescue team. Depending on location, sea state and weather, it could be several hours or even the next day before help arrives.

Beltram and Gotleib were lucky. As a great symbol of international cooperation, it isn’t unheard of for the United States and Canada to share rescue resources. It was a HH-65 Dolphin rescue helicopter from Traverse City, Michigan, that was sent to pluck them from the icy waters. At the end of the day, it’s about getting the help there quickly—and sorting out who’s going to foot the bill later. 

David Johnston is the founder of www.PaddlingHQ.com. He also teaches kayaking, organizes the Georgian Bay Storm Gathering and, incredibly, holds down an actual real job as a public servant.

This article first appeared in Adventure Kayak, Early Summer 2013. Download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it on your desktop here. 

A haystack in the middle of the river; that’s my first challenge of the day. It’s a metre-high mound of churning water that will knock our boat right over if we hit it in the wrong place.

“We” are eight paddlers from the south, transplanted to the Wernecke Mountains of the eastern Yukon. Our highway is the Bonnet Plume River, 320 kilometres of class I to VI rapids, dangerous sweepers and frigid water temperatures. And always the current. This is a river in a mad rush to reach the Arctic.

To come on this river, I’ve had a crash course in whitewater paddling. And I’ve lucked into Mark as a canoe partner. He’s calm, instructive and quick with his praise, which I shamelessly eat up. I’ve forgotten I’m a strong, independent woman who runs her own business and no longer needs any- one’s approval—and who certainly doesn’t like being told what to do. I’m depending on Mark’s instructions, eager to do as he tells me, relieved he never loses his temper. A part of me is standing back, shaking my head in disbelief. I seem to have gone careening back to childhood.

Tightening the sprayskirt around my waist, I’m as excited and nervous as a little kid.

“Don’t forget to smile,” our guide calls out as Mark and I eddy into the current. I plaster a grin on my face.

At first it’s genuine enough. Mark steers us into the black tongue to take us past the rocks and boulders on our left. I’m digging my pad- dle in hard under his calm instruction.

We plow through our first standing wave. A great weight of cold water is heaved onto my lap. Another swell of water is in front of me, and I’m grinning my way through it. But, suddenly, the canoe is veering left and straight ahead is a roiling wall of water towering over me. Where did this come from?

I don’t want to be here.

The bow rears up and the world goes cockeyed. The next instant I’m gasping in the frigid water beside the canoe. I grab hold of the gunwale, and the canoe carries me relentlessly downstream.

There’s only one problem: I don’t know how to get to shore. I’m going to be carried down the river forever.

Panic. Keening sobs rising inside me. I can’t breathe. No, this isn’t going to help. Calm down. Sur- prise when my body obeys. Though maybe it’s respond- ing to the sight of our guide’s bright yellow jacket as he runs along the shore.

Our guide throws a rope and I stop the canoe’s determined down- stream progress and am pulled to safety.

I want comforting arms around me; I want a soothing voice telling me it wasn’t my fault, there was nothing I could do.

“What happened?” I gasp.

“You did a classic air brace,” comes the wry reply, and I’m sent away to run up and down the shore to get warm.

It’s 10:30 by the time we finally make camp. The day has been a 12- hour adrenaline rush. After our guide has gone off to bed, I discover the lunch bucket I was using to do the dishes has completely melted on one side—I left it too close to the fire.

I’m stricken with little-girl fear. Our guide will be furious. We seem to be losing or ruining his equipment, piece by piece.

The others wander off to their tents, and I’m alone in the night. Not ready for sleep. The long hours of sunlight have wreaked havoc with my internal clock. I sit on a rock on the gravel beach and look across the river to the black spruce tree silhouetted against the faint blue glow of the sky and, silently, I sob.

I weep because I’m sure I’m going to be in trouble over the bucket. I weep because I’m alone and so out of my element. But I also weep for the spruce trees. Tonight they look like people trudging resolutely up the mountainside. Pilgrims seeking wisdom.

I thought I’d found wisdom, a modicum anyway. I thought I’d left behind my childhood need for approval and attention, and my fear of being rebuked. And yet here I am, sitting on a rock in the Yukon, and I’m a little girl sobbing her heart out. No more secure, no wiser than that little girl I thought I’d grown out of long ago. And the spruce trees on the other side of the river seem tonight to be all the other sad souls of the earth.

It’s our last day on the Bonnet Plume, and we’ve left behind the big canyons and big water. The river here is braided into many channels, separated by gravel bars of amazing symmetry and strewn with spruce and birch tree sweepers that are a deadly trap for an unwary canoe.

There’s no slackening in the speed of the river; if anything it’s fast- er. There is a sense of urgency, of momentum being gained, of being rushed, inevitably, to some conclusion.

I look at the trees lining the shore, many of them leaning at pre- carious angles, some of them, through no will of their own, about to plunge into the river, others already lying dead in the current, and I realize why on this trip I seem to be reliving my childhood: I’m one of those spruce trees. They seem to be trying to escape the river, but can’t—like me trying to escape that little girl I thought I’d outgrown. I thought I could free myself of her. Only to find myself seemingly right back where I started.

But I’m not where I started. In fact, I’m nowhere I’ve ever been be- fore—doing things, like navigating rapids and hiking mountains, that were never, even in my imagination, a part of my childhood. I can no more help my childlike reactions in this unfamiliar new world than spruce trees can avoid tumbling into the river.

And so, as we navigate the last kilometres of the messy, rushing Bonnet Plume, I am filled with a compassion for myself I’ve never felt before. And a quiet joy in being me.

Brenda Missen lives, writes and stores her canoe on the banks of Ontario’s Madawaska River. Her memoir recounting a decade of solo canoe trips is called If Jesus Were an Algonquin Park Bear. This is an excerpt from an earlier work.

This article first appeared in the 2009 Late Summer issue of Canoeroots and Family Camping magazine. Read the issue in our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it online here.

My father always told me never to judge a book by its cover. Well, that’s not exactly what he said. My dad was a professional boxer and he actually said you shouldn’t judge a fighter by the colour of his trunks. But you get the picture.

I was reminded of his wisdom last week. Some tripmates and I were finishing up a remote route through Ontario’s Penokean Hills region. It’s a network of aqua blue lakes and clear streams north of Lake Huron’s North Channel that’s alive with feisty trout. It was a perfect trip, one that was to come to a tidy end when we reached the fishing lodge where we had scheduled a bush plane to pick us up. Poor weather made that impossible the first day, then the second, then the third. When rain changed to snow, we began looking for an alternate means of escape. That’s when the guides at the lodge, Chris Moose and Peter Roberts, suggested they drive us out by ATV.

Imagine, a bunch of snobby canoeists being rescued by ATV, the devil’s own bush buggy, the arch nemesis of canoeing. ATVs emit more greenhouse gases then any car on the road, their noise pollution ranks down there with personal watercraft and car alarms and those complaints are nothing compared to the way they tear up the ground while breaking down the barriers that keep remote areas remote.

The problem was, we all had jobs and families to get back to and waiting for another couple of days until the snow disappeared didn’t seem to be an option. So we took deep breaths and two-stepped over to the four-strokes for a ride back to civilization.

It wasn’t a pleasant trip. The so-called trail was 28 bone-jiggling kilometres long. Three hours later it ended at a river we had to ferry across before Moose could hitchhike down a dirt road to pick up his truck, a 1991 Ford with no working tail lights, tires that were balder than Bruce Willis and a stereo that had to be hit twice on the left and three times on the right before it would pump out a mix of Culture Club and Pet Shop Boys.

Arduous as the effort was, it worked. We got back to our own vehicle and made the seven- hour drive back to our jobs and families.

Moral of the story? Yes, ATVs can be a menace to wilderness areas. But so can canoeists trying to squeeze in wilderness adventures between strictly scheduled bush plane flights. It’s not the way you enter the wilderness but how you interact with it while you’re there that’s important. That’s another thing my father tried to teach me. Don’t look upon wilderness trips as something to squeeze in between appointments you aren’t prepared to miss.

We got to know the drivers of the malevolent machines during our joyless ride out to civilization. It was obvious that both guides loved the Penokean Hills region and would be dedicated to preserving it long after we had left. Moose and Roberts aren’t jockeying for the devil; they are the boxers who wear camo trunks and end up knocking down their arrogant opponent in the first round.

This article first appeared in the 2009 Late Summer issue of Canoeroots and Family Camping magazine. Read the issue in our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it online here.