A spooky October snowstorm when the river froze. | Feature Image: reader submission from @burchillcharles
It’s spooky season, and we asked paddlers for their 12-word paddling horror stories. From creepy crawlies to downright unnerving, here’s what you sent in:
1. “Find abandoned building by river. No wait… Abandoned prison! Those are cells.” —@paddlecentric
2. “Shots fired, I threw down my kayak and ran for the river!” —@kaycee.maas
Whitewater & halloween costumes. | Image: reader submission from @campoutsidephotos
3. “Franklin Island, two in the morning, black bear scratching at my tent.” —@miss_t_bliss
4. “The drop of water running down my leg was actually a spider!” —@tropic_anna_24
5. “In the thick Mississippi fog, his paddle stirred the water over her.”— Lucas Schwalle
6. “Lip of stout. Drain plug out. Upside down and swimming.” —@justjeffv
Pumpkin-headed paddling. | Image: reader submission from @suphikeexplore.co.uk
8. “Giant leech and six babies draining blood from my foot.” —@camperchristina
9. “The storm-ravaged shore retreated no matter how frantically I paddled.” —@bascamper
10. “Anytime I get up in the middle of the night to pee is a terrifying experience.” —@em.outdoors_
A spooky October snowstorm when the river froze. | Feature Image: reader submission from @burchillcharles
11. “Huge splashes after dark. Otter in the island bay in the morning.” — Joe Johnston
12. “My family and l were at Silent Lake camping. We stayed up late one evening watching the fire. A slow cool breeze drifted up to the campfire. My son went, ‘Mom?’ I said it’s okay, we have a visitor. Welcome l said. The firelight flickered strangely, and it sounded like someone actually sat down. It stayed for a time and then moved on.” —Patti Johnson
13. “The skulling draw of his paddle failed as the shoreline wolves inched closer.” —@nash_david_
The author below Victoria Falls on the Zambezi River. | Feature Image: Boyd Ruppelt
The cam strap dug into my shoulder through my t-shirt while I trudged through the airport, along with the rustling sound of the cheap tarp I had strapped around my “surf ski.” I was on my way to the Zambezi River, a proving ground for top paddlers, attempting to cloak my short whitewater kayak many airlines refuse to take.
Curious stares, side-eyes, and random glances of amusement were directed toward me as I awkwardly positioned myself closer to the check-in counter. I was still well-kept and clean-shaven, not yet the image of a man on an indefinite paddling trip. My pale skin hinted at months, years, working inside—a weekend warrior at best. But the goal was a correction.
Bracing for impact on the Zambezi. | Image: Boyd Ruppelt
Confessions of a school science teacher turned pro kayaker
At the age of 35, and with nothing else to lose, I was finally pursuing my dream to kayak the world full-time as a sponsored athlete. With a taste of professional kayaking in college, I had shelved the dream when I married at 26, but kept it tucked away under life’s many callings, ambitions, loves and expectations. Now I was all in and traveling alone, with nothing more than a loose plan and a kayak.
I never set out to become divorced, homeless and unemployed. Divorce is heartbreaking enough, but letting go of everything I had worked for in life to start over again was brutal. Doubling down, selling everything, and resigning from a decade-long teaching career was only slightly less scary. I resigned from one of the best private schools in the region, a position in the 99th percentile for teacher pay. On the upside, my savings got a little bump from the leftover equity from selling my house. I promised myself not to drain my account. These days, paddling sponsorships rarely provide significant money or cover travel. It’s about minimizing costs and maximizing social media reach in hopes of a future payday. So, I knew I would have to find work along the way.
Starting with a 16-hour flight from Atlanta to Qatar, my initial journey would take several uncomfortable and lonely days. The common questions people ask when they meet you, had suddenly become so simple they felt complicated. “So, what do you do? Where do you live? Where are you going after this?” I have no idea. For now, the ticket says Livingstone.
The author below Victoria Falls on the Zambezi River. | Feature image: Boyd Ruppelt
Rite of passage on the Zambezi
Arriving in Zambia the warm humidity billowed into the airplane cabin. When we stepped off, my eyes were fixed on the ground crew unloading our luggage in hopes that my kayak made it with me, maybe even unscathed. After 36 hours, little sleep, and a seven-hour time change, I stepped into an intimidating scene of rowdy and weathered overlanders and post-college backpackers. Torn between hunger and exhaustion, I was trying to figure out what to do with myself—fortunately, the only other kayaker there found me. Immediately, I had a new family for my stay. But I was also immersed in a new culture, in a place with a river that would keep me on my toes while pushing every boundary I’d known.
My first strokes were no different. Jet-lagged and weak, I paddled a playboat on the Zambezi River for the first time. It only took the first vortex of an eddyline to humble me.
Downstream the deep black walls cast a shadow over the green water of the Batoka Gorge and crocodiles dipped from view. I was soon looking down at a two- or three-story horizon into a chaotic wave train lined with safe but horrendous-looking holes: rapid Number Five. Accelerating down the most dynamic tongue I’d ever seen, I couldn’t believe I was finally there, then, the pulsing explosions of water snapped me out of it. I was engulfed.
The Zambezi was a quick teacher. I felt like a child when I arrived in Zambia, unsure and cautious of my surroundings, and unceasingly aware of my privilege as I hid away my expensive cameras and drone, almost as essential as a kayak. The river was a place where I was safe enough to grow, the only venue that allowed for introspection and immediate consequences that I could understand. The month on the Zambezi strengthened my confidence, and as big water will do, made me decisive—leading my next move to Chile.
Running the Rio Fuy, Chile. | Image: Eli Castleberry
Paying the dirtbag tax in Chile
To pay for a season in South America, I had to instruct and guide. From the outside, it looked like the dream: staff laps to get to know new lines and blow off extra steam. My runs however were always accompanied by the media hustle, and usually the fixing of preventable problems under increasingly heated and rushed conditions.
Guide life is often accompanied by limited food, shifting accommodations, and hoping guests leave leftovers from an underfunded chef in a kitchen. Some days, after the river, you even find yourself working in said kitchen. After months of the seasonal grind, people pleasing and customer appeasing, there was finally a moment to post a precious GoPro clip to hit Instagram.
I tell anyone interested in working as a guide that it’s 80 percent awful but the 20 percent makes it worth it, if it’s what you want. Eventually, my thirst for fulfillment led me to a monumental personal victory: running Demshitz Drop. It was the technical 60-foot waterfall I never thought I wanted.
Reflections under northern skies
A season later—sunburnt, weathered, and with longer hair—I found myself camping in the snowy rain in Canada surrounded by better freestyle paddlers, easily half my age. I recognized their energy and ambition as every camera was carefully set up and placed. Their media was meticulously collected and reviewed in hopes of earning the mythical big break. I wondered if that part of me was beginning to fade. The perpetual discomfort of scrounging for every dollar and waiting for waves in the most beautiful and inconvenient places reminded me how much I like to have the warmth of a partner and a home.
Under the Northern Lights, I had a chance to reflect on my years as a paddler and what this experience taught me. When I first gave up my dream in college, I watched any grasps of recognition I earned fade unpityingly into a distant memory—unshared by the masses and hidden by the turn-over of our little community.
From left to right: David Silk, Luke Pomeroy, Mark Zielonka, Casey Williams and Boyd Ruppelt during a Stakeout at Riviere Mistassibi. | Image: Boyd Ruppelt
The true scent of Polypro
When I chose to rejoin this dream after personal tragedy, I lived the fact that it’s never too late to create the life you’ve always wanted, but it also comes with some tough trade-offs. Financially, I broke even, but the dearest price I paid to travel the world was the loss of connection to my local crew and community. Local rally messages ceased, and when I was home, paddling became lonely.
Choosing paddling as a career also meant dealing with the intruding expectations of strangers, unsolicited judgments, and often existing only adjacent to the dream lifestyle while supporting the dream for others in hopes of earning enough to live this way for another day. It’s accompanied by a never-ending hustle for sales, media and clients and an unquenchable thirst for the next adventure or accomplishment to post.
These jaded troughs though are just part of the deal. If moments make you wealthy and experience gives you wisdom, then paddling made me rich, and the rivers have made me wise.
Boyd Ruppelt is currently on Team Jackson Kayak, instructing signature weeks in Chile and Canada, and traveling internationally to kayak. You can find him through his instructional YouTube Channel, @CleanLineKayaking, or at BoydRuppelt.com.
The author below Victoria Falls on the Zambezi River. | Feature image: Boyd Ruppelt
Scott Johnson (third from front) with his team in the Crossing in 2023. The Crossing begins at midnight and takes most participants between 12 and 15 hours to finish. | Feature photo: David Scarola
An avid surfer from the age of 13, Scott Johnson thrived in the water. “I don’t remember a time of my life that the beach wasn’t there,” he says in the 2024 documentary, Double or Nothing.
It was also prolonging his life; the ocean air helped loosen the mucus building up in his lungs, a symptom of cystic fibrosis (CF) that makes it difficult for patients to breathe.
Racing 80 miles on borrowed lungs
It wasn’t until Johnson was 29 his health began to fail. Bedridden for two months, he began contemplating suicide. But he received a second chance in the form of a double lung transplant.
Since then, he’s attempted seven Ironman triathlons, successfully completing one. In 2022, on the 20-year anniversary of his lung transplant, he attempted to paddleboard 80 miles from the Bahamas to Florida as part of the Crossing, an annual fundraiser for patients and families struggling with CF. In doing so, he became the first double lung transplant survivor to take on the challenge.
Scott Johnson (third from front) with his team in the Crossing in 2023. The Crossing begins at midnight and takes most participants between 12 and 15 hours to finish. | Feature photo: David Scarola
Paddling Magazine: Where did you first hear about the Crossing?
Scott Johnson: I was at a paddleboard race called the Carolina Cup in Wilmington, North Carolina. I was hyping up some friends who were racing, while my wife toured the expo. She met Piper’s Angels. She found me and said, “You have to talk to these people. They’re insane. They do a race from the Bahamas to Florida—and it’s all for cystic fibrosis.”
I was like, “Yeah, that’s pretty crazy.” But in my mind, I thought: “That is just my kind of crazy.”
PM: Who is Piper?
SJ: Piper is the daughter of Travis Suit. He founded Piper’s Angels—the nonprofit behind the Crossing for Cystic Fibrosis—when she was diagnosed with CF at age four. When I first met Travis and told him my story, it hit him in a profound way. When I was born in 1972, the average life expectancy for someone with CF was two. I told him having CF isn’t a death sentence. Miracles can happen. And when I looked up, he was crying. In meeting me, he saw what was possible for children with CF.
PM: What challenges does paddling with borrowed lungs present?
SJ: I’m good at maintaining a steady pace and can go all day, which is why I’ve gravitated to endurance events. But I’m not very fast. Anytime speed gets introduced into the mix, my whole body just falls apart.
On the day of the Crossing in 2022, there was no wind. Usually, the prevailing winds give you some help across. The water was so calm, it felt like an oven. My team realized we wouldn’t make the cutoff time at our pace of 3.5 miles per hour and would have to double our speed. I knew I couldn’t maintain it, so I had to call it quits around mile 43. I do a lot of crazy stuff, but I never put my health in such jeopardy it might end my life.
SJ: The progression is you can do longer, you challenge yourself, and you keep going. I push the lungs I have to the absolute limit because it is a gift I don’t want to waste.
PM: When are you attempting the Crossing again?
SJ: The Crossing is much harder than any Ironman I’ve ever done. With an Ironman, the distances are extreme, but there are three different disciplines. With the Crossing, it’s just paddling, so you have to be mentally prepared. There’s a saying in the endurance community: you learn more from your failures than your victories. I finished the Crossing as part of a relay team in 2023, but I’m going back in 2025 to try and do it solo.
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Scott Johnson (third from front) with his team in the Crossing in 2023. The Crossing begins at midnight and takes most participants between 12 and 15 hours to finish. | Feature photo: David Scarola
Oct. 10, 2024, Seattle, Wash. – Astral is proud to introduce its latest GreenJacket LE in collaboration with whitewater legend Dave Fusilli. This limited edition jacket is about enjoying the river with everyone, rolling deep, and being supportive of each other’s dreams, similar to a wolf pack. Featuring motifs of wolves, waterfalls, and the “Brown Claw,” this is Astral’s 15th limited edition life jacket since 2009. The LE collection represents a unique effort to push the limits of innovation at the intersection of performance, design, and creativity alongside athletes, artists, and nonprofits.
This collaboration GreenJacket LE, available in a Demshitz Purple colorway, is inspired by Fusilli’s desire to celebrate the whitewater community, who have supported his journey and goals as a kayaker. “This LE represents my journey as a whitewater kayaker,” said Fusilli. “The wolf explains a lot about how I became the paddler I am today. I couldn’t have done it without the help and support from my pack of friends. Do not underestimate what just a little bit of help can provide for someone who is motivated.”
This legendary vest was also selected as one of the best life jackets for whitewater paddlers by Paddling Magazine’s editors.
Fusilli adds, “The star shines on the mountains, where snow melts into the rivers that run through the valley. After such a journey, which many of us kayakers can relate to, you probably have a change in your perspective. Such great experiences may make you see things differently, which is represented by the third eye of the wolf. I think it’s so important to try to see things from the other side.”
Alaska-based artist and pilot, Meg Smith adds that “When Dave called me to design this LE, I was more than hyped! To create a meaningful piece of wearable art for a longtime friend who has done so much for a sport I love has been an honor and one of my favorite projects.” The LE is Smith’s second collaborative LE design with Astral. “I’ve always viewed Dave as being part of a Wolfpack and him being an Alpha. Demshitz always rolled in a posse. No matter when yinz have come and gone through the wolfpack, yinz are always family to him. I love that about Dave.”
The GreenJacket LE available in Demshitz Purple shares the same platform, architecture, and features as the industry-leading GreenJacket Rescue PFD. It is available online at astraldesigns.com and at select retailers.
Astral will donate 5% of online sales of its latest GreenJacket LE to RISE Erwin, a non-profit directly benefiting the rural communities at the intersection of the Nolichucky River and Appalachian Trail in Southern Appalachia that are beginning a long road to recovery after Hurricane Helene.
ABOUT ASTRAL
Established in 2002, Astral designs high performance wilderness equipment created in the least toxic, lowest impact ways. Built on decades of experience and experimentation, Astral has assembled athletes, artists, and craftspeople to build the cleanest, most beautiful, and highest performing gear. Astral has significantly reduced toxic PVC foam from the PFD industry, invented breathable life jackets, won awards for their paradigm changing footwear designs, and developed the stickiest rubber ever worn on wet rock. Visit www.astraldesigns.com for more information.
“I’ve been growing pumpkins since 2011 and I’ve been paddling pumpkins in the local pumpkin regatta since 2013,” Kristensen said.
The Guinness World Record for longest journey by pumpkin boat paddling
On the morning of October 12, Kristensen embarked on his pumpkin odyssey with the goal of breaking the then current Guinness World Record for longest journey by pumpkin boat paddling.The then-current record was 39.17 miles held by Steve Kueny on the Missouri River set on October 8th, 2023.
Breaking the longest paddle in a pumpkin record has been on Kristensen’s mind for a while.
Gary Kristensen paddles his pumpkin boat on the Columbia River | Image courtesy Temira Amelia Lital
“There was a lady in our giant pumpkin growing club who set the record many years ago, somewhere around 16 miles I believe,” said Kristensen. “I’ve always thought it’d be kind of cool to do that. I had an extra pumpkin in my yard this year that looked like it would be good for a long journey, so it felt like the right time to go for it.”
Armed with a sturdy looking pumpkin, a double-bladed paddle, safety equipment and a support team including an old friend in a pontoon, Kristensen decided to make his attempt on October 12, 2024.
Challenges of pumpkin boat paddling: from high winds to high tides
Kristensen’s adventure had a rocky start. Initially, he struggled to average two miles per hour and was then forced off the water temporarily by high winds.
“We were supposed to have a 15-mile-per-hour tailwind, what ended up happening was a 35-mile-per-hour tailwind. The waves were crazy big. We ended up having to stop only three hours and 45 minutes into the trip to wait out the waves on the beach. Water had been coming over the side of the pumpkin, almost sank it.”
Gary Kristensen after setting record for longest journey by pumpkin paddling | image courtesy of Kyle Kristensen
Landing to wait out the wind was one challenge; once Kristensen’s paddle resumed, landing in the dark to rest proved another. Rather than land, Kristensen opted to paddle his pumpkin boat for almost 17 hours straight, his friend in a pontoon nearby to keep him company and for additional safety in the dark.
“Pumpkins are fragile. If you hit a rock it could be game over. I didn’t want to risk damaging the pumpkin so that leg was 16 hours and 45 minutes,” Kristensen explained.
As soon as they could see well enough to safely land the pumpkin on a sandy beach Kristensen laid down on the pontoon boat to try and sleep. Kristensen slept for only about an hour, waking to find that the tide had gone out and his pumpkin boat was now high and dry.
“We spent like three hours trying to dig the pumpkin off the beach, where it was stuck, and finally got it back in the water to start paddling again,” Kristensen explained.
Ultimately, Kristensen would paddle a total of 26 hours to go 45.96 miles by way of paddling a pumpkin, securing the world record.
Paddling a pumpkin boat versus a traditional kayak
Paddling a pumpkin boat for 46 miles is no walk in the park. To prepare for the trip Kristensen trained by kayaking every weekend and running every day. While kayaking, he would put pool noodles around the kayak for additional resistance, but according to Kristensen it is still not anything like paddling a pumpkin.
Inside Gary Kristensen’s record-setting pumpkin boat | Image courtesy Gary Kristensen
“The pumpkin goes nowhere,” Kristensen explained. “It feels like when you pull the paddle back nothing happens.”
Kristensen’s pumpkin started out at 1224 pounds before he carved it; after carving, the pumpkin boat still weighed 950 pounds. For reference, the typical kayak weighs anywhere from 35-70 pounds.
Inside the pumpkin boat, Kristensen simply put down a yoga mat and alternated between sitting and kneeling throughout the duration of his paddle.
What makes a good pumpkin to paddle?
All of which begs the question—what exactly makes a good pumpkin to paddle?
“The more it looks like a kayak and is naturally shaped like a kayak, the better,” Kristensen explained.
According to Kristensen, the pumpkins that make the best boats are pointy on both ends, symmetrical and have smooth skin. Kristensen grows his giant pumpkins on a piece of plywood with foam on top rather than dirt to help keep the bottom flat for a more stable ride.
Gary Kristensen’s pumpkin boat and support team | Image courtesy Temira Amelia Lital
In addition, it also helps if the stem and the blossom of the pumpkin are level, meaning the ribs of the pumpkin would run parallel to the beam of the pumpkin boat, and the pumpkin is pointy on both ends, almost like a bow and stern.
“It started out to break the record but at the end it was just a cool adventure,” Kristensen said.
In his potentially record-breaking pumpkin journey, Kristensen also reconnected with an old friend from high school, who drove the pontoon that trailed Kristensen for the journey and proved instrumental as a support team member.
“We had put lights on the boat and the wires started catching on fire. A seat and a lifejacket caught on fire and he took care of that and fixed it,” Kristensen explained. “He was also the one that ended up doing most of the digging to get the pumpkin unstuck.”
Kristensen is not done with the Guinness World Record for longest journey by pumpkin boat paddling. Next autumn, he plans to go farther, longer, and hopefully break his own record.
I met Shannon Litzenberger flying home from the world’s largest consumer paddlesports show. She was returning from a conference at a remote island retreat center.
Litzenberger is an award-winning contemporary dancer and choreographer. Cool. But she’s also a freelance strategist, policy thinker and leadership developer.
“If our collective task is to imagine and co-create a better world for future generations, what role does culture play in this project?” she asked me.
I shrugged. I hadn’t thought about the culture of the paddlesports business in a long time.
“The culture we abide by today—including the stories we live by, our normative behaviors, rituals, metaphors and codes of belonging—has produced the world we live in now,” she added.
I walked off flight AC1900 wondering how Litzenberger’s ideas on a culture of collective thriving and leadership could work in our world. If Litzenberger attended the Paddlesports Trade Coalition Colab in Oklahoma City, what leadership capacities would she help us develop to navigate the many intersecting crises we face today?
The real problem with paddlesports
I helped curate the opening panel discussion at the PTC Colab. I asked longtime paddling industry professionals what they thought our greatest successes and failures had been in the first 50 years. What should we keep doing? What should we leave behind?
I realized that during the early years, the culture of the paddlesports industry wasn’t too far from paddling culture. We were creating an industry, one new paddler at a time. Driving sales, as we say these days, went like this: Meet people at the water with a trailer full of boat and gear samples. Take them down a river, across a lake or along an ocean shoreline. As Litzenberger would say, “These sensory capacities—attuning with the world around us, paying attention so we might discover beauty, awe and inspiration—is what helps us all understand how to be in relationship with ourselves and our world in a good way.”
Boat orders wrote themselves.
Why we’re here. | Feature photo: Ryan Creary
For years, industry leaders gathered in Salt Lake City for Outdoor Retailer’s Summer Market. They didn’t gather around a table, per se, but there were enough carpet conversations among company owners to develop new ideas and plant seeds for the industry’s future.
Between sales meetings, fiercely independent-minded, highly competitive leaders of the top paddlesports brands and scrappy startup entrepreneurs discussed industry issues. Yet, the core culture remained virtually unchanged.
Today, we have MBAs parachuting in to maximize returns for shareholders or plum profits for a quick flip of the company. Companies who are experts in plastics manufacturing look at boats as new line items in revenue forecast spreadsheets. Meanwhile, the rest of the industry is forced to adapt, or feel like they should adapt, a business culture that never had any business in the business of paddlesports.
Selling more was a by-product of sharing what we all loved with more people. Investors understood the connection to the water and believed what we believed. Twenty years ago, nobody was hired into sales or marketing roles because they were expected to double revenue in two years. They were hired because they understood what paddlesports meant to customers.
“As soon as we foreground industry and background the experiences we are trying to bring to life, we screwed up.”
— Shannon Litzenberger
Revlon’s co-founder Charles Revson used to say, “In the factory we make cosmetics; in the store we sell hope.” The day the beauty industry stops selling hope is the day consumers start asking why they are spending $40 on tiny tubes of wax, oil and pigment.
“As soon as we foreground industry and background the experiences we are trying to bring to life, we screwed up,” says Litzenberger.
I don’t know what kind of paradigm-shifting changes will be tabled at the inaugural Paddlesports Trade Coalition event. But I do know we aren’t selling as many boats and boards as we were during the bonkers years of the pandemic.
Participation during lockdown grew because people connected with themselves and the natural world. And they bought boats, boards and all the fixings. They bought everything we could make. They didn’t care about color. They didn’t haggle on price.
Litzenberger asked me, “How would the paddling industry organize itself differently if all that was needed were simple invitations to experience beauty, awe and a connection to the elements?”
I don’t know how exactly, but the who behind any paradigm-shifting cultural change is easier to find. You’ll find the answer stuck to the bumpers of station wagons and pickup trucks anywhere there’s water.
“The world is run by those who show up.”
Scott MacGregor is the founder of Rapid Media.
This article was first published in the 2024 issue of Paddling Business. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
A polar bear tastes the air when he sees us, trying to get our scent. | Feature photo: Frank Wolf
Instinct tells me to turn around. Urgently.
The worst-case scenario is a polar bear right behind me, I think, not believing it as I write in my diary by the fire. I look over my shoulder, and two piercingly black eyes in a creamy white face meet mine. For a moment, I wonder if I am dreaming. Twenty meters away, dinner-plate-sized paws pad slowly but purposefully toward me.
“Polar bears, polar bears and polar bears! That’s what you need to worry about,” said Nigel and Kristen Foster, the last people to kayak this route 20 years ago. My partner JF Marleau and I had pulled out of this trip four years previously when a group of four canoeists who had spent two weeks on the coast told us they saw three polar bears within 10 meters of their tent at night. Now, reinforced with a team of four, we are kayaking 1,000 kilometers through the remote Canadian Arctic, carrying food for 30 days between two isolated communities.
Our route follows the east side of Quebec’s Ungava Bay, home to the world’s largest tidal range, and a southern trace alongside Labrador’s dramatic Torngat Mountains. Inuit have traveled through this area for centuries, and many still hunt here. Polar bears thrive thanks to plentiful seals. A nearby pupping area fattens them in shortening, climate-changed winters to survive the lean, ice-free summers. Hundreds migrate to the northern tip of Nunavut and Labrador at this time of year, which is exactly where we are heading.
JF holds up a polar bear skull at the start of our trip. | Photo: Frank Wolf
JF and I meet Larry Chomyn and Frank Wolf in Montreal in early June and fly north to Kuujjuaq, where we jam into a rickety 12-seater. Boxes, bags and a kid’s bike cram the tiny space between the friendly pilots and us. A roar of engines lifts us airborne, and I peer down at an endless plateau of bare grey rock dotted with pockets of scrubby green vegetation and thousands of lakes. An Inuit man in front of me plays Candy Crush on his phone until neat rows of colorful box-shaped houses appear below. We land in the isolated village of Kanjiqsujuak, Quebec’s northernmost settlement.
Polar bear watch
It is sunny the next morning, but the sea is nowhere to be seen. The tide tables say it will be back at 1 p.m. In Ungava Bay, the ocean rises and falls the height of a six-story building each day, disappearing up to 10 kilometers away. Sometimes patience is the better part of valor.
When water oozes under our fully loaded kayaks at noon, we take a team selfie before pushing off into frigid water. Butterflies are partying in my stomach at the unknowns ahead.
The author sets off into a colorful sunrise in Ungava Bay. | Photo: Frank Wolf
“How low is my kayak in the water?” Larry asks. Two large drybags are strapped onto his back deck, and I can barely see his seam. I hope the 15 oatmeal breakfasts in one of them will survive; there are no villages or resupply points for the next month.
Enthusiasm, excitement and pent-up energy power us forward against a brisk headwind and a steep, choppy sea. When the current turns against us, Larry and I cut close to the rocky shore while JF and Frank take the direct line across a bay. We don’t have a plan beyond moving north. It is our first trip together, and no one wants to impose their leadership.
Rocky vistas give way to vast muddy plains as the tide drops, forcing us to paddle farther from the glacier-smoothed hillocks of the treeless tundra. My paddle hits the bottom repeatedly, and it feels like the sea is racing to leave us stranded. We debate camp options while the wind blows us backward. Paddling toward what we think is a gravel beach proves to be a rock shelf fronted by a two-kilometer-wide boulder-strewn plain.
After scanning the map, we head to an island. Scrambling and slipping over wet boulders is the warm-up for a 400-meter leg-burning steep, rocky ramp. After seven round trips of gear hauling, we pitch camp by ancient stone circles at the flattish summit. Remote trips like this are hard work on and off the water. It’s not always fun, but I relish the unbeatable feeling of being physically and mentally spent. Now I have time to scan the rocky plateau stretching away as far as I can see. Tan lower slopes turn to carpets of black lichen above the high tide line.
That night, JF wakes me for watch. His nose is like an ice pack as he kisses my cheek. Shivering, I layer up and pull my neck buff up over my mouth. It is midnight; I have two hours on lookout.
A bright orange line along the horizon sits below layers of slate grey clouds. Our tent silhouettes are obvious, but I worry a bear could creep up on us. I sit on our one camp chair under a flapping tarp, shoulders hunched against the cold, two shotguns at my feet. One contains six shots of lethal ammo, and the other contains bear bangers. Grabbing a couple of lichen-crusted rocks to pound together, I complete my defense. I am surprised to find peace and enjoyment in the alone time.
A new rhythm
We shift our day to the tidal rhythm, rising at 2 a.m. to launch nearer to high water. As the water level drops throughout the day, reefs force us ever outward, and we go around islands rather than risk dead ends.
After a week, a barely rippled sea under a pink sky dotted with cotton wool clouds welcomes the new day. We should make quick progress, but ice floes are common and photos slow us. Promising myself I am done with photos, another glinting, sculpted iceberg appears. We are approaching the northeast tip of continental Canada and drawing nearer to the broken-up ice pack. Onshore gusts are like opening the freezer door, cold air rushing through me. I wiggle my numb toes constantly and regret not bringing more warm clothes. A harp seal pops up its round, grey head behind JF, reminding us this is prime polar bear habitat. Small bergs look just like bear heads and we study them carefully.
JF and Larry pass an iceberg that likely made its way from Greenland. | Photo: Justine Curgenven
Crossing between fjords in the Torngat Mountains. | Photo: Justine Curgenven
Steep, rugged mountains line both sides of the breathtakingly beautiful McLellan Strait, which leads to the east coast. The following day, we approach the ice-choked narrow channel with anticipation, knowing the currents fly through at up to eight knots. Progress is almost impossible. Icebergs of all shapes and sizes fly toward us, and continuing would be like cycling the wrong way up a motorway. Pulling our kayaks up a rocky beach to wait out the tide, we explore a wide terrace.
Farther back is a bottle-shaped depression hewn from the ground. I gasp, recognizing the outline of an ancient sod house—an Inuit shelter. Walking gently inside, the remains of earthen walls reach up to my waist, their musty smell filling my nostrils. Reaching out, I can almost touch all three sides. I marvel at how people survived and thrived in such a small space in such a harsh world.
Some of our friends think we are brave for paddling in this cold, windy, polar bear-ridden land, but we are merely passing through with all our food, warm clothes and technology. The Inuit quietly lived here for centuries, taking gifts of land and sea when offered, hunkering down and eking out in times of scarcity. I aspire to such wisdom in my more contrived wilderness experiences and struggles.
Frank snaps a photo of the first polar bear we saw. | Photo: Justine Curgenven
Place of the spirits
We see our first bear the next morning. Larry points to Almaty Island, a few hundred meters away. The bear is sauntering purposefully over the rock, oblivious to us. I am struck by its size and majesty. Frank paddles in for a closer look. I follow behind, drawn magnetically to the powerful predator. About 100 meters away, we stop. What long leg fur, I think, like hairy flares. Finally, the bear sees us and turns, his nose held high and tongue out to taste us. He is imposing.
“It’s a male, probably four or five years old,” Frank shares. He pulls out his phone and enters the details on a bear tracking app he contributes to.
We see bears almost every other day after that. The next one is way high up on a ridge. It turns onto its belly to slide down a snow patch like a kid. I giggle. He moves on and disappears from view. We paddle around a corner looking for him, and a small ice floe catches my eye. It doesn’t move. Two black eyes and a shiny black nose give him away. A few days later, approaching a fjord called Bear Gut, another polar bear swims toward us, lifting his nose high to smell us.
After we pass him, I stop to film, and the bear swims around behind me, a few boat lengths away. As I concentrate on keeping my camera steady, he drops his head under the water and disappears. I hear Frank say, “aquatic stalking,” and I strongly sense I don’t want to find out what that means first-hand. I curse my slowly retracting camera lens before thrusting my paddle deep and pulling as hard as I can. We don’t see the bear again.
A polar bear tastes the air when he sees us, trying to get our scent. | Feature photo: Frank Wolf
The Torngats take their name from the Inuktitut word Tongait, meaning place of the spirits. I feel reverent amongst the steep, towering peaks that reach skyward, connected to the ancient energy. Sharp flanks and sinuous ridgelines are exposed, giving a rawness to these ancient rock piles. Every imperfection is laid bare like we’re seeing the skeleton of the Earth herself.
We are three-quarters of the way through our trip when the polar bear sneaks up on me. I have become complacent, focusing too much on diary writing and not looking around often enough. By the time I leap from my chair, the bear is two meters from me. The flare gun is at my feet, within reach, but I dare not look down to get it. Taking my focus off this bear could be my last mistake. Instead, I shout, “Go away! Go away! Go away!” The bear stops, his eyes locked on mine.
My brain whirrs. Can I grab the flare gun without looking down? Can I use the fire behind me? The two shotguns are five meters away—too far. There’s no time to regret my lack of preparation. I am strangely aware of the beauty and closeness of this magnificent creature while fearing for my life. I shout continuously: “Go away! Go away!”
The bear takes a slow step toward me. Instinct takes over, and I grab the nearest object—the lightweight camp chair I was sitting on. Holding one metal leg, I thrust toward the bear, swinging it wildly. “Go away! Go away!”
One of the campsites that a polar bear visited. | Photo: Frank Wolf
The bear lunges backward, moving his head away from impact. Even with the seriousness of the situation, it’s almost funny such a huge, powerful creature is scared of a one-pound chair. Still, I’m merely buying time. I’m desperately searching for my next move when a loud bang rings through the air. I later find out it’s Larry, quick to get out of the tent and fire a warning shot. The bear turns and bolts, knocking over the tripod of paddles holding our water filter. Relief floods me, and I lower my eyes and grab the flare gun.
Holding one metal leg, I thrust toward the bear, swinging it wildly. “Go away! Go away!”
As I look up, I see the bear halt, turn around and start back toward me. I point the flare gun at him. He’s five meters away but not paying me any attention this time. He starts sniffing the paddles. There’s another bang, and the bear bounds away 30 meters. I fire my flare just above his head, hoping to reinforce the warning, but it only seems to remind him of unfinished business. Before the flare even hits the ground, the bear stops, turning back around, eyes locked on me again. Head down, accelerating in my direction.
I spin around, desperately searching for another flare or another gun. I see JF behind me with a shotgun. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blur of white and whip around. The bear has changed tack; he’s off to my side and charging at Larry and Frank, who are standing by their tent. My heart lurches. Frank doesn’t have a gun and runs behind the tent. The bear is a leap away from our teammates. Larry holds his ground and fires a bear banger with a loud crack. Stopping at the last possible moment, the bear U-turns rapidly and charges away over the tundra.
This time, he doesn’t come back.
JF poses besides a polar bear scratch pad at the former Inuit village of Killiniq. | Photo: Frank Wolf
After checking in with each other and ensuring the bear has gone, the others return to bed, and I am left alone again by the fire to finish my watch. Heavy feelings swirl with adrenaline: relief, excitement, guilt and resolve.
A few mornings later, we discuss the close call. There are many lessons. As the trip wore on without incident, our tents got too far from each other and we didn’t put our fence around them, expecting the person on watch to see a bear.
From now on, we will put the tents closer together and always use the bear fence. Each tent will have a gun, and we will be on high alert at all times. I’m happy everyone walked away from the incident, but I can’t shake a dull ache in my stomach, a heavy guilt that my inattention risked everyone’s lives, including the bear’s.
As we draw closer to our endpoint in Nain, everything feels tamer. In the Okak Islands, JF excitedly shouts “trees” and points at a few pockets of stunted conifers. Later, valleys are covered in lush green grass and bushes. It gets warmer; I no longer need a hot water bottle during night watch. I wander around in my thermals to dry them, realizing thin merino is no match for the probing proboscis of the suddenly plentiful mosquitos. The hardiest follow us hundreds of meters out to sea.
Cruising beside cliffs, the sleek black back of a minke whale emerges; the graceful arc of the fin is gone as quickly as it appeared. We see more black bears than polar bears, sometimes three in a day, their dishevelled fur highlighted by the sun. I notice how tiny they look in comparison.
Polar bear tracks in the garnet-rich sand of Iron Strand. | Photo: Frank Wolf
After 28 days, we start our last five-kilometer crossing to Nain on glassy seas. After so long with only the wind and waves, the piercing buzz of a helicopter jars my ears. It’s strange to be back in the bustle of even a small community. In four weeks, we’ve seen 10 polar bears, 14 black bears, dozens of caribou, a walrus and just five people. There aren’t many places in the world so isolated.
JF’s definition of a good adventure is one where we’re part of the food chain, and this one surely qualifies. I just hope never again to be quite so close to being the dish of the day.
Justine Curgenven is an award-winning filmmaker, a sea kayak guide, and a lover of wilderness and laughter. Her ambitious expeditions have placed her among the world’s most legendary paddlers. Find her online at cackletv.com.
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
A polar bear tastes the air when he sees us, trying to get our scent. | Feature photo: Frank Wolf
Type 2 fun immersion. | Feature photo: Mustang Survival
For decades, Mustang Survival was the brand of life jacket you’d expect to find hanging in the boathouse at the cottage, stowed on a commercial fishing vessel, or aboard a Coast Guard icebreaker. The company’s life jackets and insulated floater coats were utilitarian, without the flash and features of other brands.
With a lineage stretching back over 50 years, it’s no surprise the familiar seahorse logo was most often associated with “frumpy, orange and safe,” a historical description acknowledged by Tyler Bazant, the company’s product designer for professional, defense and aerospace.
Mustang Khimera PFD. | Image: Mustang Survival
Yet, despite being designed for first responders, Mustang’s technology has been steadily making its way into the hands of everyday paddlers. As the company expands its offerings beyond commercial use, paddlers are appreciating the advanced safety features and innovation packed into Mustang’s gear, including unique life jackets such as the Khimera, a dual-flotation PFD combining foam and inflatable technology. First released in 2019, the Khimera evolved from the specialized demands of rescue swimmers seeking a vest that maximized mobility but didn’t skimp on floatation when needed. In short, it captured the same sweet spot demanded by standup paddleboarders and sea kayakers. The latter adoption marked a turning point for Mustang Survival.
“We woke up and realized we were a brand, not an engineering, design and manufacturing company,” says Bazant, who has worked with Mustang for over 20 years. “We realized we had this legacy lineage—this journey—and we’ve been leaning into it the last five years. Part of that has been focusing more on water sports. The Khimera is a product that’s born from that refocus.”
The pros donned in Mustang Survival gear in the 1980s. | Photo: Mustang Survival
Mustang Survival was created “almost out of spite,” says Bazant. In the late 1960s, founder Irv Davies manufactured down jackets from a facility on Water Street in Vancouver, BC. He experimented with foam to cut the cost of down insulation. According to Bazant, the vendor selling him the foam said if you fell in the water wearing one of Davies’ jackets you’d float. The tease was a lightbulb moment for Davies. And so, the Mustang Floatjacket—a hybrid life jacket and insulated parka that’s standard issue for anyone working around icy water, from commercial fishermen on subarctic waters to oil rig workers, was born. “They still call them ‘Mustangs’ in the [Canadian] Coast Guard,” says Bazant, “and we still make them.”
Davies’ invention came about around the same time floatation devices were becoming standard for all boaters. Historically, “life was cheap,” wrote C.J. Brooks, a Navy captain and physician in the Canadian Forces who passed recently in October of 2024. “The drowning of a sailor or a fisherman was considered an occupational hazard.”
Upwards of 40,000 officers and passengers on Royal Navy vessels lost their lives in World War II because a personal issue life jacket did not exist, Brooks writes. It wasn’t until the 1960s that the U.S. Coast Guard started emphasizing the strong correlation between drowning deaths and lack of life jackets. Movement by the Coast Guard in the 1960s and ‘70s to legislate life jackets—and distinguish between life jackets (vests with a self-righting capacity) and more streamlined yet buoyant PFDs—kickstarted a global trend. Mustang Survival came along at the right moment.
Archived diagram breaks down what made the Floater Coat a success. | Image: Mustang Survival
Finding the path to paddlers
Mustang’s roots are written into Bazant’s job title—professional, defense and aerospace. From its inception, the brand made a name for itself amongst professionals working in high-risk aquatic environments, including the Canadian and U.S. Coast Guard and military, law enforcement, Navy SEALS, and NASA. Research and development, including multiple iterations of prototypes, were par for the course. With so much testing and refinement, final products were rightfully recognized as gold standards of innovation. It was a tidy (and no doubt lucrative) space to occupy. But aside from clunky life jackets and drab PFDs that still turn up in cottage country, Bazant says Mustang missed out on key segments of recreational users—namely, paddlers.
“The nerd side of the business is very deep and long,” he laughs.
The tide began to change with the advent of inflatable life jackets. In the 1990s, Billabong, a popular surfing brand, commissioned Mustang to create streamlined, inflatable floatation bladders to help Hawaiian big wave surfer Shane Dorian survive epic wipeouts. Mustang engineers became recognized for their precise and durable radio-frequency welded seams. That was nearly three decades ago, about the same time the company created one of the first inflatable waist belts for paddlesports, which was met with mixed reception.
Full on winter paddling. | Photo: Mustang Survival
Chris Christie putting Mustang gear through winter paddling in B.C. | Photo: Marshal Chupa | Mustang Survival
“Paddlesports retailers looked at it, and they said, ‘What do we do with this?’” recalls Bazant. However, this “horrible bomb in the recreational sector” was embraced by the U.S. Navy, Bazant adds. “They asked us to add attachment points for a light and sea dye and made it the standard abandoned vessel pouch on every boat in the fleet.”
Fast-forward to the 2010s, and Mustang’s waist belt inflatable became popular with the expanding number of standup paddleboarders. Currently, the brand manufactures a pair of waist belt inflatables, including the tiny Minimalist and compact Essentialist belt packs, both of which provide up to 16.9 pounds of buoyancy and are approved by the U.S. Coast Guard and Transport Canada.
Images: Mustang Survival
The Khimera’s inflation pull-tab. | Image: Courtesy Mustang Survival
The Khimera PFD inflated. | Image: Courtesy Mustang Survival
The Khimera ushers in the hybrid inflatable evolution
Despite their compact size and proven performance, inflatables can be a stretch for paddlers more familiar with foam PFDs. Enter the slim-fitting, PFD-shaped dual-floatation Khimera. Like most Mustang products, it has professional origins, starting as a rescue swimmer vest for first responders in helicopter rescues.
“They need to wear life jackets but don’t want it to be bulky because it’s hard to see when they’re going down the wire,” explains Dave Abt, the head of Mustang’s public safety and industrial business department. “The solution was to create a vest [known as the MRV170] that doesn’t restrict movement and provides additional floatation when it’s really needed. It was and still is the only vest in the market of its kind.”
Expedition paddlers such as Norm Hann choose the Khimera for its lightweight, dual flotation design. | Photo: Mustang Survival
For the Khimera, “The technology stayed the same with small changes and some features removed for the rec market,” notes Abt. Mustang scaled back the flotation to 7.5 pounds of foam and 13 pounds of manually deployed inflation, which was plenty to achieve U.S. Coast Guard and Transport Canada certification.
Canadian expedition paddlers Norm Hann and Bruce Kirkby chose Khimeras for their daunting 50-kilometer crossing of the Hecate Strait, from British Columbia’s northern coast to Haida Gwaii, in June 2023. “We’re huge fans,” says Kirkby. “It’s a lightweight, dual-flotation PFD that we’ve used on expeditions, training and travel. The Khimera weighs almost nothing, which means no additional strain on the back, especially during long days. The dual floatation offers serious protection in all sea conditions.” The Khimera was also selected as one of the best life jackets for paddleboarders by Paddling Mag editors.
As much as Bazant hopes Mustang makes big strides in the paddlesports sector, he’s certain it won’t be at the expense of the brand’s emphasis on safety and innovation. He looks forward to more game-changing products like the Khimera, which bridge the gap between professional and recreational users, and employ high-tech and dependable air bladders to make safety as streamlined and comfortable as possible. “We’ve never been the cool brand,” he says. “We’re the reliable brand.”
“When the chips are down, pros come to us to use our equipment,” Bazant continues. “When you work in this space, it quickly becomes apparent performance is all that matters. You either deliver, or you don’t.”
Type 2 fun immersion. | Feature photo: Mustang Survival
EIC Kaydi Pyette with the People's Choice Award for Best Print Publication.
Paddling Magazine is stoked to announce its win of the People’s Choice Award for Best Print Publication at the Outdoor Media Awards, held during the Outdoor Media Summit from October 14 to 16, 2024, in Missoula, Montana. Competing against legacy publications like Outside and Backpacker, this recognition underscores Paddling Magazine’s dedicated audience and excellence in outdoor media.
A huge thanks to our readers who voted for us and made this win possible!
The award was recieved on October 16, 2024, in Missoula, Montana, at the Outdoor Media Summit.
EIC Kaydi Pyette with the People’s Choice Award for Best Print Publication.
Editor-in-Chief Kaydi Pyette attended the event to accept the award on behalf of the Paddling Magazine team. “We’re incredibly grateful to our loyal readers, whose passion for paddling continues to inspire us,” said Pyette. “This award reflects the strength and enthusiasm of our community, and we are committed to continuing to deliver the stories that entertain, inform and inspire our readers to paddle forever.”
This is Paddling Magazine’s third major award in 2024, after receiving the Best Magazine: Special Interest and the Grand Prix awards at the National Magazine Awards in June.
“We’re incredibly grateful to our loyal readers, whose passion for paddling continues to inspire us.”
In addition to receiving the award, Pyette also spoke about the evolution and endurance of enthusiast print media on a panel discussion alongside editors from Ori Magazine and Adventure Journal. The panel explored how niche publications are navigating the digital age, keeping audiences engaged with compelling content and transforming how readers interact with media today.
The three-day Outdoor Media Summit offered a packed schedule of events, combining one-on-one meetings, breakout sessions and industry discussions. It kicked off with a product showcase, where participants visited brands including Old Town, Simms, NRS and Eddyline to preview the latest 2025 products. (We’ll tell you all about those products as soon as their embargoes lift!)
On day two, Field & Stream Editor-in-Chief Colin Kearns delivered an inspiring keynote detailing the revival of the 129-year-old print magazine and shared strategies for staying relevant and sharp in a competitive media landscape.
The annual summit serves as a platform for connecting outdoor media professionals, discussing industry trends and celebrating achievements, like Paddling Magazine’s award.
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On October 9th, 2024, Casey Bryant Jones received a text from brother-in-law, whitewater coach Joel Kowalski:
“Another big flare happened. Tomorrow night is supposed to be as big as the one this May!”
Casey Bryant Jones is a whitewater paddler who manages the Ottawa Kayak School at Wilderness Tours. In his spare time, he’s an adventure photographer and filmmaker. Bryant Jones has a string of epic whitewater shots under his belt from the Ottawa River to Kern River. Yet there was one shot that had remained an elusive lifelong dream: Kayaking rapids under the aurora borealis.
What is the aurora borealis?
This October, the National Atmospheric and Oceanic Administration (NOAA) issued a G4 Geomagnetic Storm Watch, sharing, “a coronal mass ejection (CME) is an eruption of solar material and magnetic fields. When they arrive at Earth, a geomagnetic storm can result. Watches at this level are very rare.”
The effects of a geomagnetic storm at this level include potential critical impacts to infrastructure and technology, and the aurora may be seen as far south as from Alabama to Northern California.
Particles from geomagnetic storms travel down the Earth’s magnetic field. When the particles interact with the gasses in our atmosphere, they sometimes produce light which appears to the human eye and cameras as the aurora borealis.
Large geomagnetic storms like the G4 storm this October are often produced by cornmeal mass ejection (CME), or plasma ejected from the sun traveling at high speeds. Generally the higher the solar wind speed, the more active and farther south the aurora is seen.
The Northern Lights on the Ottawa River over whitewater kayaker Joel Kowalski. Image Casey Bryant Jones | YouTube
How kayaker Casey Bryant Jones captured the Aurora Borealis on The Ottawa
Initially, the forecast had called for clouds but just a half hour before sunset the sky began to clear. Bryant Jones and Kowalski decided to go for it– this was their chance to whitewater kayak under the northern lights.
They launched from Bryant Jones’ home along the Ottawa River, within the National Whitewater Park which protects the Rocher Fendu Rapids. The National Whitewater Park is a part of the greater properties of Wilderness Tours and the Ottawa Kayak school, where Bryant Jones works as a manager. Here, Wilderness Tours has protected roughly 5,000 acres around the river.
A half-moon lit the way while Bryant Jones and Kowalski began their paddle.
“We knew that we would have to basically paddle one rapid from where we would be putting in and we would have two rapids after Garvin’s Chute as we weren’t going to run Garvin’s in the dark. In both cases, we took the most relaxed line,” Bryant Jones said.
“I’d never seen the Northern Lights, but it’s genuinely been something I’ve been interested in getting the opportunity to photograph for the better part of 15 years. It was really exciting.”
To chase his dream shot, Casey Bryant Jones needed to come prepared. Photographers often use a technique called long-exposure photography to capture images of the night sky.
Here’s what Bryant Jones packed to create his images of the aurora while whitewater kayaking:
K&F Concepts Travel Tripod
Sony A1 camera with Sigma 16-28 f2.8
Sony ZV-E1 camera with Sony 24-70 f2.8
DJI MIC2 for audio
GoPro 12
Sirui Carbon Travel Tripod
All in all, this came out to two dry bags worth of equipment in order to photograph the Northern Lights.
“You have to be thoughtful with how you pack it and thoughtful with where you place it inside the kayak as well,” Bryant Jones added.
If it seems like we’ve had more aurora borealis action recently than ever before, it may be because right now we are in a period of solar maximum. Solar activity is on an approximate 11-year cycle, and we are at the peak of that cycle and expected to remain in that peak until early 2026.
According to NOAA, particularly active regions on the sun tend to be repeatedly directed at the Earth from one solar rotation to the next, meaning if there was geomagnetic activity and aurora today, there might be aurora again in about 27 days.
There are a few ways to stay updated on the change of a major geomagnetic storm producing aurora in the near future:
The NOAA NWS Space Weather Prediction Center shares updates on space weatheron Facebook as updates are issued. Another great gauge of real-time aurora potential is to find a north-facing live camera near you. Live cameras can often be found in National Parks, and can be used as a gauge of whether you are currently able to see the aurora near you.
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. 
This article was first published in the 2024 issue of Paddling Business. 
