Part one of a Q&A with the opinionated and knowledgeable Cliff Jacobson on all things canoe camping related!
“This is a continuation of our interview with Cliff. We just turned the camera on and let him go wild, talking about whatever he wanted to about canoe camping and camping gear! There’s some excellent in-depth advice given here.” — MorrallRiverFilms
Nine Rivers from Matt Perpick on Vimeo.
Nine Rivers follows four men on a month-long, thousand kilometre canoe journey through the Canadian shield. Share the hardships and splendor of the North on this journey to Hudson Bay.
A film by Dave Hartman, Matt Perpick & Adam Biehler.
At first we were skeptical; insect repellant in pill form? But after eating an all-natural Mozi-Q tablet we did seem slightly less desirable to the blackfly and mosquito population in buggy May. According to Mozi-Q, active ingredient Delphinium makes all sorts of insects, including head lice and bed bugs, less inclined to bite.
From the manufacturer: “Mozi-q is a formula containing five homeopathic remedies: Staphysagria, Ledum palustre, Urtica urens, Cedron and Grindelia. They are in low C and D potencies, thereby acting at the physical level for their common indication, to reduce the frequency and severity of insect bites.”
Would you try it?
$9.95-$24.95 | www.mozi-q.com
This article originally appeared in the Late Summer/Fall issue of Canoeroots and Family Camping. Read the entire issue on your desktop, Apple or Android device.
At Otto Vallinga’s backyard boat building shop in the little community of Corunna, a poster on the wall depicts the wise words of well-known wooden boat builder, Captain Pete Culler: “Any man who wants to can produce a good boat. It takes some study, some practice and, of course, experience. The experience starts coming the minute you begin and not one jot before.”
Get On The Water Touring Canoe Specs
Length. 15’7”
Weight 50 to 58 lbs (depending on construction details)
Max width 33”
Capacity 1,070 lbs
MSRP $1,500
getonthewater.ca
At the outset, building your own kit canoe can be intimidating, but the rewards are plentiful, Vallinga assures me. As the owner and founder of kit boat designer, Get On The Water, which celebrated its tenth anniversary this summer, he’s witnessed the pride and joy of customers post-build.
“There’s more satisfaction in building your own boat; to be out there in something you made, something you crafted,” he says.
Constructed using western red cedar strips, Get On The Water’s gleaming 15-foot, seven-inch Touring Canoe is beautiful. The design is the result of Vallinga’s 15-plus years in the boat-building world; a modern canoe designed for joyful paddling.
“Every wood boat is different, even when it’s the same design, because every piece of wood is different—the grain, the texture, and the way the light plays on the surface,” adds Vallinga.
On the water I find it tracks effortlessly, maneuvers gracefully and offers plenty of stability—there’s something magical and unmatched about the ride of a wooden boat on water.
At 55 pounds and with such a pretty finish, it’s not a model I would choose for rugged wilderness trips, but for a cottage cruiser and day tripper I can’t think of a more attractive option. The Touring Canoe is a perfect match for discerning recreational paddlers.
Vallinga says the building project takes about 100 hours and, though it’s not necessary, it doesn’t hurt to have a background in woodworking.
While Get On The Water offers the build plans alone for $70, purchasing the kit simplifies the project. For $1,500, your local UPS delivery guy will drop off cardboard boxes in various shapes and sizes, containing pre-cut cedar strips as well as epoxy and fiberglass sheeting. You’ll want to hold on to the 70- page instruction manual. The supplies come direct from boat-building supply shop, Noah’s Marine. For the budget-minded, a DIY build is more cost effective than the $3,000 to $4,000 purchase price of most off-the-sawhorse wooden designs.
Purchasing Vallinga’s design also comes with the assurance of assistance via phone or email, should the woodworker run into trouble, which Vallinga assures me happens rarely. Perhaps it’s my own inexperience when it comes to woodworking, but I’m surprised when he tells me that no one has ever called in a panic, claiming to have ruined their canoe.
So long as you follow the steps, you’ll end up with a water-ready boat, Vallinga says— any imperfections only add to the story of the craft. “Your wood boat, whether built from a kit or from scratch, was crafted by you for you. It was your sweat, your time, your passion that have brought it together.” —KP
Get the full article in the digital edition of Canoeroots and Family Camping, Summer/Fall 2014.Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
I‘d never cheated in a kayak race before. Come to think of it, I’d never won a kayak race before, either. Now I’d done both in one shot, and it felt pretty good. I’d better explain.
The Great Canadian Kayak Challenge and Festival is the largest purse paddling race in the country. When I was invited to attend the festival, I promised to make the trip to northeastern Ontario but told guy Lamarche, Manager of Tourism, events & communications for the city of Timmins and the passion behind the event, I wouldn’t be racing. I was recovering from both a hernia operation and a bulged disk between my L4 and L5 vertebrae. I hadn’t been in a boat all summer.
It’s hard, however, to say no to a guy who convinced a blue-collar mining town to throw a kayak party as their premier tourist event.
Every August, the festival brings together arts and culture vendors, a highland dance competition, kayak instruction, a Sunday morning paddle, a triathlon, two nights of free concerts and $20,000 worth of fireworks on the banks of the quietly meandering Mattagami River.
When I arrived Friday night, guy slapped me on the back (ouch!) and told me I was signed up for the celebrity race. he had taken care of my registration. I just needed to find a kayak.
All kayak races begin and end alongside the festival grounds and in front of huge riverside grandstands.
The most physically demanding course is the 35-kilometer elite challenge. somewhere in there is a 100-meter portage— not because it is navigation- ally necessary, but to make the race more interesting. shorter recreational, novice and youth courses and the easy, three-kilometer celebrity invitational class round out the challenge. All divisions offer huge cash prizes, except the celebrity class.
Bows bobbing behind the starting line, I learned these guys were racing for something more precious than money: bragging rights.
Forget country starlet and Timmins high school girl Shania Twain or the dozens of NHL stars born here. This was a five-year grudge match between Timmins’ real celebrities—the local media and politicians.
Rounding the halfway point, I was running pretty even with four other boaters: a radio personality for Q92, Timmins Best Rock, a journalist for the Timmins Press, a city councilor and, paddling beside me, the much-loved city mayor. He told me they all knew who I was, “You’re the ringer kayak magazine editor guy brought in to mix things up.” He was smiling, but I couldn’t tell if he was joking.
I didn’t feel much like a ringer. I was just happy to find I could sit almost comfortably in a kayak.
Two hundred meters from the finish line conversation ended. It was an all-out horse race. After 3,000 meters and 23 minutes there were only four seconds separating the first four boats across the finish line.
I took the win, but not for very long.
Overhearing two race officials talking at the finish line about the elite division rules, I asked about the other divisions.
The celebrity division, it turned out, limited boat length to 14.4 feet. I would have known this if I’d registered for the race myself, or if the marshals measured the celebrity class boats as they had for the cash divisions.
I’d raced a borrowed kayak that was two feet too long; a speed advantage that could make all the difference. I marched myself to race control and demanded to be disqualified.
The celebrity division title remains where it should, in Timmins. After five years finishing in the top five, local rock and roll DJ Tom Parisi won gold. And in this northern mining town, gold runs in the veins.
Scott MacGregor is the founder and publisher of Adventure Kayak magazine. This year’s Great Canadian Kayak Challenge and Festival takes place in August. thegreatcanadiankayakchallenge.com.
This article first appeared in the Summer 2014 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.
My good friend Tom O’Connor first paddled into my ocean more than a decade ago. Self-help gurus often expound on the powerful effects the company you keep can have on your life, counseling disciples to ditch those friends who drag them down, and hold tight to those who lift them up. For me, kayaking has been the gateway to those naturally buoyant characters— enabling me to cultivate friendships that reinforce the things most important to me.
I first became acquainted with Tom (whose name I’ve changed to avoid embarrassing him) through email, when I was working as the editor of this magazine and he was one of many aspiring writers sending me queries about his paddling adventures. Then, one summer I bumped into him on the water.
We were both out for solo kayak trips, and when our paths crossed and we drifted together to chat for a few minutes, it seemed like the most logical thing in the world. Of course we’d run into each other in the middle of nowhere, in kayaks, and immediately start talking as if we’d known each other all our lives.
Tom moved to the West Coast for journalism school while I was living there, so we often got together for trips. I remember a dozen rounds of cribbage scores scribbled on tattered paper in the dripping winter rain. Naturally we both thought this an acceptable way to spend a February weekend—kayaking in a temperate rainforest, test paddling a leaky demo boat in a five-meter swell, stopping to bail every half hour. Tom was reviewing a hammock that clearly wasn’t made to withstand horizontal winter rains, leaving him to wrap himself in garbage bags every night. Hilarious. We laughed about it then and we laugh about it now.
In thrall to the outdoor culture of the West, I stayed there as a long as I could and then bemoaned the circumstances that brought me back east. Meanwhile, Tom confidently concluded that the maddening city and the wet coast weren’t for him. And also that he didn’t need to finish his master’s of journalism to be a journalist.
He dropped out of studying writing to actually write—something that never occurred to me in half a decade of grad school. When they tried to offer him a fast-track way to finish the degree, just so they could have the honor of calling him an alumnus, Tom politely declined.
He happily moved back to his small northern hometown and built a successful career writing about the land of his roots, wasting no energy wishing to be elsewhere. And that was where our paths ramified in wildly different directions, although we still keep in touch by email and meet once or twice a year to go kayaking.
Tom sends emails like people used to in the ‘90s, eschewing social media in favor of proper reports on his ever-wilder adventures. He orders boatloads of books at deep discount off the Internet and updates me on what he’s been reading. All the hours I squander in city traffic, doing dishes or the family’s laundry, he must spend reading. Which might explain why, though he’s a decade younger than me, Tom so quickly surpassed me in wisdom.
Once, after I emailed him that I didn’t know how I’d forgive myself for sacrificing a great travel writing opportunity to stay with my family, he wrote: “Forgive yourself by making the most of this time with your daughter and wife. It sounds hokey, but time goes by way too fast—especially when kids are involved. Do something special with them and write about it.” This was a guy in his mid-twenties offering advice to a guy in his mid-thirties.
Tom’s life has become my compass for how to live simply and focus on the most important things. Last time I drove out to the sticks to visit him, I came home wrung with doubt about how I was spending my days and resolving to apply a What Would Tom Do (WWTD) principle to my life. He so unselfconsciously embodies the dirtbag ethic of living more richly with less stuff, not out of any sort of righteous commitment, but simply because he couldn’t imagine living any other way.
WWTD means not constantly stressing about money, because none of the things I truly love are expensive. Not feeling bad that I don’t have a fancy house with more than one bathroom, or a vacation home like some of my friends (Tom believes second homes are a waste of resources, not surprising since he spends so little time in his first one). WWTD means owning little else but a garage full of kayaks and canoes and a basement full of skis. WWTD means investing more in life experiences and close friendships than in conventional definitions of getting ahead.
If Tom were a petty person, it might have split a rift between us when I admitted that I spend upwards of $1,600 a month on groceries. At my house we sometimes treat ourselves to a $30 salmon fillet from the sustainable fishmonger and an $8 pint of handmade local ice cream, topped off with a premium microbrew or a $22-a-pound, locally roasted, single origin coffee.
Last time I stayed at Tom’s house we filled our plates with samosas and hummus he’d bought from the culinary students at the local college, adding some rice from his pantry. He pulled a few beers from the back of his fridge that somebody had given him in exchange for a favor. Then he asked, “Do you want to share a tea bag?”
I joke that Tom is more successful than me at living the life I always wanted. Somewhere along the way he morphed from being my friend to being something more, a touchstone to a roaming existence of wilderness adventure that I once aspired to, the dream of a successful outdoor writing career and all the freedom and excitement that implies.
Even if I can’t keep up to Tom himself, I will always keep up our friendship. His stories are an inspiration; reminding me those dreams aren’t really impossible, they just required different choices than the ones I made. Choices that for me would have been daring and radical, but for Tom came as naturally as breathing.
Waterlines columnist Tim Shuff is a former editor at Adventure Kayak and embraces both the playful and serious sides of paddling.
Paddle beside me and be my friend. | Feature photo: Ryan Creary
This photograph, taken by Werner Furrer Sr., the patriarch of the Werner Paddles family, reflects the coastal camping scene back in the early 1970s.
At left is Werner’s son Erich, wearing denim cut-offs and providing a bit of privacy as his brother Bruce slips into something more comfortable…well, at least into something. Werner’s wife, Marta, presides over the cooking area while Rita, a family friend, tends to the campfire griddle. Tom Derrer, founder of Eddyline Kayaks, whose first sea kayak Werner will design in 1975, chills behind his stellar shades and mustache while Werner Jr. mellows out in a tie-dye sweatshirt, waiting for breakfast.
The two decked, open-ocean canoes in the background were hand built by Werner and Derrer, the direct predecessors of that first Eddyline sea kayak. The boats are lashed together catamaran-style—all the better to carry a few sturdy cardboard boxes full of food—and propelled by canoe paddles and a small outboard motor.
A lot has changed in the four decades since this picture was taken. Young men generally don’t wear their socks quite so high or their shorts so short. Cotton clothes have given way to technical fabrics designed for moisture management in the wilderness. Heavy rectangular tarps have been replaced with ultralight nylon, catenary-cut shelters. Even more game-changing than silicone-treated tents and tarps are the effects of Silicon Valley. Satellite messaging, GPS pinpointing and smartphone connectivity have become commonplace on wilderness trips.
My father introduced me to wilderness camping in the 1960s when I was in my tween years. I wore the same clothes that I wore at home with the addition of a scratchy wool shirt, sweater and socks for cold weather. The only shelter we had was a square of black Visqueen plastic sheeting without grommets or even a hemmed edge. We pulled it taut with cords tied around walnut-sized rocks captured in the corners of the plastic. Communication options were limited to smoke signals and semaphores.
By today’s standards we were woefully equipped. There were times when I was miserable, but they served to heighten the moments of elation: gazing up at a bright Milky Way streaked by falling stars, crouching on all fours to kiss a mountain stream and drink its sweet cold water, standing amid the dappled light of a forest carpeted with luminous green moss.
In the ‘60s and ‘70s, you didn’t need permits for camping—even the most popular areas could scarcely be called crowded. The only other person the Furrer group saw on their tour of the Bunsby Islands off Vancou- ver Island’s west coast was a very old native woman who lived there. Leave-no-trace had not yet become an institution or catchphrase—“You didn’t even have to talk about it,” Werner Sr. tells me when I visit his home in Everett, Washington, to reminisce about this photo. Leaving wild places as one found them was automatic, a gesture of respect and affection for the land.
While there have been some significant changes to the wilderness experience, it still provides us with an opportunity to answer a question Werner posed to himself on his very first expedition, a two-week paddle on a remote river in Northern Ontario: “How do I get along with myself?”
Later, as a father, the isolated coasts he paddled with his family gave him the chance to teach his children valuable lessons about discipline and self-sufficiency.
We may now bring different resources into the wilderness, but we can only hope that what it brings to us will always be the same.
Reflections columnist Christopher Cunningham is the former editor of Sea Kayaker magazine.
This article first appeared in the Summer 2014 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.
White Pine Pictures announced on Friday that principal photography has begun on their newest feature documentary Spirit Land: In Search of the Group of Seven. Filmed on location in the Algoma region north of Sault Ste. Marie and along the north shore of Lake Superior, shooting takes place through September and early October, capturing the beauty of the Fall colours as they were so dramatically captured by Canada’s revered Group of Seven.
Produced for theatrical release and for broadcast on TVO, the documentary channel and CTS, Spirit Land follows authors, canoeists and wilderness photographers Joanie and Gary McGuffin, and art historian Michael Burtch, as they search for the locations visited by Canada’s most celebrated landscape painters. The film combines original photography, archival materials, paintings and re-creations.
Spirit Land is the next in a series of award-winning art documentaries produced by White Pine Pictures, including Oscar-shortlisted and critically acclaimed Genius Within: The Inner Life of Glenn Gould, Winds of Heaven (a portrait of West Coast artist Emily Carr) and West Wind: The Vision of Tom Thomson (screened in over 80 venues across Canada, Europe and the U.S. and honoured with 6 international awards.)
Spirit Land is an ambitious undertaking featuring a recreation of the iconic #10557 boxcar that became the home of Lawren Harris, A.Y. Jackson, JEH MacDonald and Frank Johnston in the Agawa Canyon in the summers of 1918 and 1919. CN and The Algoma Central Railway donated the boxcar car which has been refitted with period props and set dressing.
I‘m tired of the jokes. What do you call a kayaker wearing a suit? The defendant. What do you call a paddler whose van is in the shop? Homeless.
Kayakers are often portrayed—and we portray ourselves—as the aquatic equivalent of itinerant ski bums. Every outdoor sport has its stereotype of impoverished, scruffy, mildly Kerouackian vagabonds: surfers migrating between beach parking lots or climbers squatting in Yosemite’s Camp 4. Fitz Cahall’s popular podcast, The Dirtbag Diaries, renewed the old myth for the Internet age.
It’s time to ditch the dirtbag image. First of all, it’s not true. Like most outdoor recreationalists, paddlers are relatively rich. And I don’t mean the “rich in spirit” sort of rich. I mean fat stacks of greenbacks rich. Second, and even worse than being false, the dirtbag stereotype is actually hurting us, and hurting us where it counts.
According to a recent analysis by the Outdoor Recreation Industry, $646 billion was spent on outdoor recreation in the US in 2012 alone. That’s billion with a B. It’s a phenomenal amount of money, as much as Americans spend on cars and gasoline combined.
“According to a recent analysis by the Outdoor Recreation Industry, $646 billion was spent on outdoor recreation in the US in 2012 alone.”
Outdoor recreation is larger than the total economic activity in Switzerland, where wealthy Europeans vacation in St. Moritz and Mafiosi and kleptocrat dictators stash their money in numbered accounts. Outdoor recreation even approaches the GDP of Saudi Arabia. We dirtbags are as loaded as an oil Sheikh.
The outdoor industry also creates six million jobs in the US, ten times more than Apple, the darling of Silicon Valley. In corporate terms, we’re twice the total assets and revenue of General Motors and Chrysler combined. They got an $80 billion bailout when times got tough. Now who’s “too big to fail?”
Kayakers are also individually wealthy. Most are professionals with college or advanced degrees. Fifty-five percent of kayakers make over $75,000 a year. Time is a bigger barrier to the sport than cost by a factor of four. We can afford that carbon-fiber paddle, we just may not have enough weekends and vacation days to use it.
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Perhaps the dirtbag image is nostalgia for the early years when pioneering paddlers loaded into VW microbuses and spent entire summers out on trips. Or maybe the image is driven by guides and instructors—a small minority of kayakers—who make nothing close to $75K a year.
If we’re so wealthy, why are water trail sites being closed for lack of money to maintain them? Why are clean water laws attacked as “bad for the economy” when a $646 billion economy depends on clean water?
Money is power. Let’s embrace that power. “We just need to put our mouth where our money is.”
Money is power. Let’s embrace that power. As Adam Andis from the Sitka Conservation Society says, “We just need to put our mouth where our money is.” Let’s flood the halls of power with lobbyists. Big Oil has their lobbyists, but we have deeper pockets than Exxon or Shell. We want clean rivers, access to the shoreline, campgrounds kept open and wild places kept wild. River restoration should have the political urgency of a dip in the NASDAQ and the media breathlessness of a Justin Beiber scandal. People’s jobs are on the line.
Of course, it’s not that simple. When you lift the hatch cover on our raw economic power, it’s very decentralized. Four-fifths of the outdoor economy comes from travel rather than gear. The money goes to ferries in the San Juan Islands, the Super 8 motel near the Gauley River and my post-paddling beer more than to manufacturers and retailers. That makes our power harder to wield. Those scattered businesses may not even know how much their bread is buttered by outdoor enthusiasts.
“It’s much easier to capture the impact of pharmaceuticals or oil and gas, so that crystalizes more quickly in the minds of policy makers,” says Kirk Bailey, chief lobbyist for the Outdoor Industry Association.
The outdoor industry is also dispersed geographically, while industries such as big oil, high tech and finance have concentrated their clout locally in Texas, Silicon Valley and Wall Street, where they can affect the fortunes of governors, senators and congressmen, and create friendly political climates. But Adam Cramer, who lobbies for the Outdoor Alliance, sees an opportunity to turn the ebb into a flood. “I’ve heard floor statements from congressmen citing figures from the OIA survey,” he says. “When you put an economic argument of that magnitude on the table, it can be a game changer.”
But the game won’t change if we keep clinging to the dirtbag identity. Congressmen and governors don’t take dirtbags seriously. We’re rich, so let’s act like it.
There is one valuable thing we should take from the dirtbag lifestyle, though: how to work together. Whether it’s chipping in ingredients for a gourmet camping dinner, fixing a cracked hull on a remote beach, or uniting our voices for better policy, collaboration is where we excel.
I’m not talking about merely uniting Greenland-style kayakers and Euro- bladers, or even whitewater boaters and sea kayakers. I mean everyone who plays outside: paddlers, hikers, fishermen, skiers, climbers, hunters, mountain bikers, wilderness pogo-stick enthusiasts—the whole shebang. We should also make room under the tarp for the motorized crowd. People riding ski lifts or car camping on the coast have skin in this game, too.
What does this unified front look like? First, travel destinations like restaurants, motels, gas stations and chambers of commerce need to know who their customers are, and what they care about. Second, we need to magnify the work of groups like the Outdoor Alliance, which brings together paddlers, climbers and mountain bikers to advocate for public lands. “Being in D.C. isn’t enough. You have to have an outside game that bubbles up locally,” says Cramer, citing a union of outdoor recreationists that kept vast acres in Colorado wild.
Trade associations can mobilize gearheads to ensure we have decent places to use our gear. Individual paddlers should learn some new strokes, too: the armies who appear for river cleanups can also be armies who send emails when park funding is on the chopping block or a railroad claims it’s exempt from clean water laws.
And it’s time for new jokes. Or at least new punch lines. Not long ago a friend called for advice on a kayaking trip she was planning in Johnstone Strait. When she isn’t paddling or cycling, she’s the Chair of the Environment and Natural Resources Committee of the Oregon Senate. What do you call a kayaker wearing a suit? Madam Chairperson.
Neil Schulman is the co-founder of the Confluence Environmental Center, a paddler and a political wonk. Ask him about water policy at your peril.
This article first appeared in the Summer 2014 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.
Why do we love whitewater? Life hacks, sex appeal, urban play, real adventure, and more. From A to Z, here are 26 things we can’t live without. (We’ll, we could do without the letter Q). This feature was originally published in Rapid, Summer/Fall 2014.
Adventure. The real kind. We’re talking free flowing water, first descents, international exploration, or even an easy local run that gets your heart pumping, your palms sweating and reminds you you’re a living, breathing, mortal creature. In March, Google Maps launched a ‘street view’ descent of the Colorado River—it’s cool, but as paddlers we can adventure to places like the Grand Canyon in a real life, off-the-couch kind of way.
Camaraderie. Heartwarming right? When we asked Rapid’s Facebook fans what they love most about paddling, we expected to hear about big water, epic expeditions and cascading creeks. Nope! Almost 70 percent of respondents said fellow paddlers were what made their paddling lives complete.
D-Rings. It’s amazing that such a small, simple and strategically-placed piece of metal can be so essential.
Excuses. “Oh your skirt imploded? Well in that case…bootie beer.”
Festivals. Races, waves, podiums, concerts, big bucks and bon fires. A gathering of the greatest people you could ever hang out with? Yes, please.
Gear. In 2014 Adventure Technology launched a new unbreakable paddle design and Esquif Canoes announced a new hull material as tough as Royalex and twenty times more abrasion resistant. Kayak designs continue to evolve, drysuit designs are sleeker than ever and every year paddling products get lighter, better, faster, stronger.
~H~Hacks. Sure, we love a high-end, ultra-light, sexy new Gore-Tex anything as much as the next guy, but we also love how many hacks there are for boaters on a budget. Don’t have a hundred bucks to drop on new river shoes? Your high school gym class sneakers will do the trick. Can’t afford physio? Tennis ball massage. No roof rack? Pool noodles.Popped float bags? Beach balls. Don’t want a mortgage? Live in your van!
Click here to continue reading in the free desktop edition of Rapid, Summer/Fall 2014.
This article originally appeared in Rapid, Summer/Fall 2014. Read the entire issue on your desktop, Apple or Android device.
