Thirty-one years ago, the first Gull River Open Canoe Slalom Race took place at the Minden Whitewater Preserve in Ontario. Since then, the event has become a classic, serving as a model for engaging new paddlers and growing grassroots participation, all while retaining top-level competitors.

Whitewater canoeing groundbreakers Wendy Grater, Fred Loosemore, George Drought, Jim MacLachlan and Maureen Bretz founded the event. “At the time, you could only race on a gated course at decked-boat slalom events,” says Bretz. “We felt there was a need for a slalom event just for open canoes.” During the first few years, 17-foot tandem tripping boats with truck in- ner tubes for flotation dominated the river. “There were almost no dedicated solo boats,” recalls Bretz.

Slalom canoeing rewards both strength and experience. This led to the addition of a Master’s class during the race’s second decade, for the growing set of men over 40, tired of being outdone by the young summer camp guides, home after a season on the river.

In 2003, the category was expanded further. “The first year I was coordinating the event, we introduced a solo class for Women’s Masters,” says then race director and medalist, Beth Kennedy. “There were only a handful of paddlers that first year but the class has since grown to the same size as the Women’s Solo category.”

Last year—the event’s 30th anniversary—a new category was added once again, as aging race organizers vied for glory and hardware. The Legend’s class gives men and women over 55 a break from the now crowded Master’s class. Before the introduc- tion of the Legend’s category, the same boaters consistently won the Master’s. “The over 40 class was starting to get crowded, with most of the best paddlers now qualifying for that category,” says longtime competitor, Peter Farr. “It’s great to be able to race in the Legend’s class where there’s room to move up the standings.”

CREATING A FAMILY-ORIENTED RACE

The Gull Race has also evolved into a family gathering. The Solo Men’s, Women’s and Junior’s classes consist of a range of paddlers from North American champions to those who dust off their canoes for their third or fourth run of the season. The Junior–Senior Tandem class usually consists of proudly grinning parents paddling with their children, like Rapid publisher Scott MacGregor and his son, Doug. “Racing with Dougie is the most fun I’ve had at the Gull,” says MacGregor. “We started racing together when he was four.” Doug’s medals hang on his bedpost all year long.

As modern whitewater open boating matures, so do pioneers like Bretz who continues to compete every year. “Where else can you see a competitive, challenging slalom race where the youngest competitor is three and the oldest is in their 70s?” says Bretz. “It serves as a breeding ground for new paddlers, having junior boaters mentored by others.”

With a record number of race starts there is clearly a demand for competitive, family-oriented events like the Gull Race where world-class open boaters race alongside legends in the making.

Mark Scriver enters the Gull Race yearly. While he’s creeping up on Legend status, he also keeps up with his sons. For more info on the event, visit www.whitewaterontario.ca.

This article first appeared in the Summer/Fall 2011 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.

I rarely see my friend Jon any more. We’ve sea kayaked together for years, and he’s been a fixture in the open-ocean paddling community. But he’s disappeared. Disappeared into a canoe, and it’s all the fault of the Brits.

The new requirements of the British Canoe Union—in which Jon and many of my other sea kayaking buddies are coaches—require competency in multiple paddling craft and environments. Longtime sea kayakers had to cut their paddles in half and start kneeling in open boats on rivers.

Jon loves it, he’s addicted to half a paddle and boats that fill up with water when you crash through waves. He now has six canoes outnum- bering his kayak fleet.

So I did what anyone would in my situation—complain. Why does coaching sea kayaking require knowing how to canoe?

Of course, there are plenty of good reasons. Coaching means working with other sports in a student’s history, and canoeing is a common one. Coaches employ a variety of techniques to provide feedback to learners: using half a paddle is very effective. I’ve been in tight rock gardens where

I could only paddle on one side of my kayak anyway.

I stopped whining about my lack of partners for sea kayak adventures, dusted off my ancient whitewater kayak (two knee surgeries make kneeling in a canoe impossible), and joined them on the river.

“For every kayaker who starts canoeing, a canoeist must start kayaking.”

Soon I was hooked. Half an hour from home, the water was clear and clean, and the current pushed us along from one play spot to another. I upgraded my whitewater kayak and went on a seven-day river trip with my now kayaker-canoeist buddies. We didn’t once have to wake up at 5 a.m. to catch an inconveniently scheduled tidal current.

Then something even cooler happened. Suddenly, new river-rat friends wanted to go sea kayaking. Diehards from the single blade scene bought NDK Explorers and asked me about trips in British Columbia and Alaska. It was as if there was some Newtonian Law of Conservation of Paddlesports Disciplines I’d missed in high school physics, where for every kayaker who starts canoeing, a canoeist must start kayaking.

That also makes sense. When sea kayak coaches started canoeing, whitewater open boaters suddenly found themselves sharing eddies and shuttles with sponsored, 5-star kayakers with some hefty trips under their belts. The allure was irresistible. The sea kayaking industry couldn’t have come up with a better way to expand their sport.

Now I sea kayak with people who tell stories about open boating down the Grand Canyon. I recently watched a canoeist-turned-sea kayaker pull off a back ferry across Canoe Pass that his instructor couldn’t mimic. As the saying goes, “Advanced sea kayak strokes (like cross-bow jams) are basic canoe strokes.”

I see my old sea kayaking friends again. It’s anyone’s guess what kind of boats we’ll be paddling.

But these days Jon is really into poling—pushing his way upstream in a canoe with a 12-foot-long stick. I doubt that will catch on. It sounds kind of silly. 

Sometimes, you need to step back from the battlefield to get perspective on the bigger picture. The picture I’m looking at encompasses an overflowing island metropolis in the foreground and, in the background, a river. It’s framed in red tape and hangs wearily. Should it fall, it will shatter into a million pieces, lost forever. That picture came to me last October as I headed to the Big Apple to paddle and ride around Manhattan Island.

With three folding kayaks and three folding bikes, we were well equipped for our two-day venture. The goal of the trip was simple; to see Manhattan, its denseness and its grandeur, the clash of old industry and modern metropolitan life. None of us had been to New York City before.

Amidst the fury of downtown Manhattan, we anxiously unloaded our rides—three guys unfolding extra-small bikes with chrome fenders and oversized springy seats.

From Pier 66 we toured southwest to Ground Zero, grabbed a coffee, rambled through the maze of skyscrapers on Broadway Avenue amidst a rush of yellow cabs and pigeons, grabbed another coffee, continued to Times Square, grabbed a third coffee, and then ripped around Central Park. We finished our ride along the shore of the Hudson River, pedaling in darkness, the odd streetlight casting an amber glow on the endless backdrop of cityscape.

Viewing the chaos from its periphery

As our day came to an end, we felt a need to step back from the flashy lights, car fumes and crowds. To truly see the big picture that was Manhattan Island, it was necessary to view the chaos from its periphery.

The Manhattan Kayak Company, located at Pier 66, is well suited as a starting point for island paddlers. Even though the center was closed for the season, the staff was happy to provide local beta, such as this pearl: “Staten Island Ferries—the big orange ones—do not stop for anything.”

For paddlers, the relationship between a community and its natural environment is a no-brainer. Yes, I’m talking about river conservancy and the fact that the lives of not only river dwellers, but also entire communities, suffer from the ongoing degradation of their natural resources. Our eight-hour circumnavigation put the island into focus as a community, like so many other communities, which has overlooked its long-term dependence on the health of its ecosystems.

We paddlers slip neatly, and sometimes blindly, into our own communities of paddlers who understand this notion of preserving what we use to play and relax for the greater good. The picture painted by our paddle reflects the urgency that now, more than ever, is the time to help other communities understand.

Even urban islands of 1.6 million people, even centers of culture and finance, even Manhattan.

Cameron Dube is an outdoor educator and avid paddler based near the Ottawa River. He loves Starbucks. 

This article first appeared in the Summer/Fall 2011 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.