Team River Runner organizes social events like this fun race in D.C. for vets and their families. | Photo: courtesy of Team River Runner // Robb Sharetg
A desperate man stands in a room with a shotgun, a fishing rod and a choice. One tool represents despair, the other hope. He chooses life—the fishing rod—and goes kayaking.
A woman is run down at the side of the road in Iraq while changing the tire on her Humvee. She wakes up from a two-year coma, able to function in every way but without the ability to remember anything from day to day. Then she goes kayaking, and that becomes the first thing she remembers in three years.
“The experience was so positive that it cracked the shell on all the bad stuff,” explains Jim Dolan, who tells me these stories as examples of the many lives he’s seen kayaking save.
Dolan is the founder and director of Heroes on the Water (HOW), an organization that takes wounded U.S. veterans out kayak fishing. Dolan, an avid kayak angler who flew for the U.S. Air Force for 13 years before a career as an American Airlines captain, saw helping wounded veterans as a call to duty.
“We owe these guys our best,” he says. “They have given so many pieces of themselves. We need to help get them up and running again. Kayak fishing is a great way to do it.”
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the therapeutic connection between kayaking and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).
I’m preoccupied by some disturbing news that emerged in Canada last year: the suicides of eight military veterans in as many weeks. This led to my reading the excellent book by the Iraq war journalist David Finkle, Thank You For Your Service, which gives an intimate look into the lives of a few U.S. veterans and the extreme challenges they face getting healed.
Kayak therapy: inexpensive and effective
Who is doing anything about this? Kayakers, it turns out, are playing a vital role.
Dolan describes kayaking as physiotherapy, occupational therapy and mental therapy rolled into one. It’s remarkably effective and also damn cheap.
“There are organizations that spend five grand to take a guy or gal to Montana to go fly fishing, but for five grand I can take 100 guys out and do it in their backyard,” explains Dolan. “I can take them out tomorrow. It’s immediate, it’s inexpensive, it’s now and it’s local. It’s extremely simple.”
HOW often works with veterans who have been injured in explosions, suffering brain injury and mental stress. As Dolan describes it, the brain essentially shuts down for self-protection.
“They come back wound tight as a drum. They have hypervigilance, TBI (traumatic brain injury), post-traumatic stress. Until they can unwind, getting back to their family or their job or their education is very, very tough. We get them out in the water, get them to relax and teach them they don’t need to be wound as tight as they are over there.”
That feeling after a good day on the water, that all is right with the world—every kayaker can understand its healing power. Now there’s empirical evidence to back it up. A 2013 study of HOW’s program in Pensacola, Florida, found that participants experienced a huge reduction in PTSD symptoms: a 78 percent reduction in overall stress; 77 percent in hypervigilance; 63 percent in avoidance behavior.
TEAM RIVER RUNNER ORGANIZES SOCIAL EVENTS LIKE THIS FUN RACE IN D.C. FOR VETS AND THEIR FAMILIES. | PHOTO: COURTESY TEAM RIVER RUNNER/ROBB SCHARETG
This shouldn’t come as a surprise. Symmetrical, repetitive activities like cross-country skiing and inline skating are widely recognized as particularly effective therapy for PTSD. Kayaking’s steady left-right-left-right tempo works in the same way, enabling both halves of the brain to work together to process traumatic memories.
An equally important factor in the success of these programs is the social network and support system they create.
Beginning in Texas in 2007, HOW has grown to 43 locations in 24 states, with affiliates in the U.K., Australia and New Zealand. Another U.S. veterans’ therapeutic kayaking program, team River Runner, which offers whitewater and flatwater kayaking without the fishing, started at Walter Reed army Medical Center in Washington, D.C., in 2004 and now has over 40 chapters across the U.S. with more than 2,000 participants a year.
But with an estimated 24 million cases of PTSD in the United States alone, the need is much greater.
Kayaking as preventative medicine
There are also many PTSD sufferers outside the military.
In 2011, recreation therapist and musician Zac Crouse kayaked and bicycled home from eastern Ontario to Halifax, Nova Scotia, as self-treatment for PTSD he developed after seeing his best friend die whitewater kayaking. He documented the 82-day journey in the film and accompanying album, Paddle to the Ocean (Best Sea Kayaking Film, 2014 Reel Paddling Film Festival). As a result of the trip, he found the frequency and intensity of his symptoms went way down—echoing the Pensacola findings.
“In the simplest terms, doing physical activity every day is an essential part of being human. We’ve gotten away from that and it’s killing us,” says Crouse.
It just makes sense that reintroducing physical activity will promote healing. Traveling under our own power opens us up to the world in ways that our mechanized and virtual lives do not, encouraging a healing attentiveness akin to meditation.
“There is no instant remedy for mental health,” Crouse acknowledges, “but living a healthier, active lifestyle is part of that process.”
As a firefighter I’ve coped with my own minor symptoms of acute post-traumatic stress after bad calls. And I have colleagues with full-blown PTSD who’ve had to take extended leaves of absence or retire early. I’m starting to think of my kayaking less as a hobby and more as a vital dose of preventative medicine.
Maybe my next step will be to take Dolan’s lead and find a way to share that with others. As he says, “this is a hobby, but it’s also a cause. There is an absolute need.”
Waterlines columnist Tim Shuff is a former editor at Adventure Kayak and embraces both the playful and serious sides of paddling.
This article first appeared in the Early 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.
Breaking the Mold: Traditional Design Meets New Tech
While their roots can be traced back thousands of years to ancient Arctic cultures, sea kayaks as we know them today are just a few decades old. Folding kayaks had been around since the early 1900s, but it wasn’t until the advent of a modern composite material—fiberglass—that commercial production really got going.
Some of the earliest fiberglass kayaks appeared in Seattle in the 1960s. Many of these home-built models were precursors of the now-classic West Coast designs: high-volume cruisers with capacious cockpits. But in the summer of 1968—as an impressionable 15-year-old kayaking for the first time—I paddled a very different style of boat.
It was a homemade fiberglass version of a slender West greenland kayak, born of a union of an ancient form and emerging materials. as a composite sea kayak, it was among the first of its kind.
The late John Heath, an authority on traditional kayaks, was living in the seattle area not far from my family’s home. Heath had experimented with making fiberglass versions of alaskan and greenland kayaks by building sacrificial frames, requiring only the keelson, chines, gunwales, stems and deck ridges to define the shape. He covered the forms with layers of glass fabric and saturated them with polyester resin. When the laminate had cured, he pulled the wooden pieces out through the cockpit opening, destroying the building form in the process.
The kayak I paddled was made by one of Heath’s friends using a different approach. He first built a complete replica. Then, protecting the canvas skin with a plastic wrap, he laid up a fiberglass hull and deck in separate operations. Removed from the skin boat, the cured composite pieces were overlapped and duct tape employed to keep the seam waterproof. The construction was crude but the shape was true to the traditional design and spared the kayak used to create it.
The small cockpit opening made for a tight squeeze. I sat directly on the hull with my legs pinned flat by the foredeck. Bits of fiberglass from the resin-starved laminate made my bare calves itch. It was, to put it mildly, uncomfortable.
Unaffected by winds and undeterred by rough water, the kayak’s sharp, low bow drove through waves as if they weren’t there. the paddling was exhilarating. By the time I’d come ashore my legs were fully asleep. I’d push myself out of the cockpit and crawl onto the beach until feeling returned.
MERGING OLD FORMS AND NEW TECH
Bits of traditional kayak designs showed up in commercial boats as the paddling industry grew. One of the first to draw heavily on a greenland kayak was Valley’s Anas Acuta, produced in 1972.
Today, many composite kayak forms are derived almost entirely from the Greenland tradition. In 2008, Tahe Kayaks of Estonia debuted their Greenland model at Germany’s Kanumesse show. I introduced myself to tahe owners Marek and Janek Pohla and asked if I could try it on for size.
The brothers eyed my six-foot-plus, 210-pound frame: “you won’t fit.”
I sat on the aft deck, pointed my toes, wriggled my kneecaps under the coaming and dropped into the seat. squeezing into the gleaming, carbon and glass fiber Greenland brought back memories of my introduction to kayaking and of the pioneering efforts of Heath and others. It was a snug fit, but this elegant and logical apogee of merging old forms and new technology felt just right.
Reflections columnist Christopher Cunningham is the former editor of Sea Kayaker magazine. He still favors Greenland-style kayaks.
This article first appeared in the Early 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.
On my first visit to Grand Marais, I sat down for breakfast at the Blue Water Café under a 15-foot mural of Lake Superior. I thought, one day I want to paddle that entire shore.
Years later, I moved here and got a job guiding kayaking. I was green and the big lake, as locals call it, taught me plenty of lessons. Namely, it’s cold!
Superior rarely rises above 55°F. Paradoxically, because it is so big, it holds its temperature and seldom freezes near Grand Marais. I have a six-year record of paddling at least once, every month, on the lake.
Despite its brutal temperature, the endless horizon where clouds meet unsalted sea draws me in. I lose track of time listening to the sound of surf pounding the 1.1-billion-year-old basalt shoreline.
A peaceful feeling comes with paddling under the 200-foot cliffs of Palisade Head, gazing through the limpid water at boulders that fell eons ago. the big lake feels timeless and you can easily forget your workaday life when paddling here.
TRIP SUGGESTIONS FOR GRAND MARAIS
If you have a half-day paddle west to the Fall river and swim under a 25-foot waterfall.
If you have a day begin an intermediate trip in tettegouche State Park and paddle northeast around Shovel Point, a rhyolite lava flow that juts out into the lake. Continue through the Cave of Waves natural arch then return to Palisade head.
If you have a weekend head across the border to Ontario’s “Sauna Islands.” Park in Little Trout Bay and paddle to Victoria Island for your first night. On the second, enjoy a sauna on Thompson Island.
If you have a week paddle from Gooseberry to Grand Marais on Minnesota’s Lake Superior Water trail, which features campsites about every 15 miles. along the way, visit Split Rock Lighthouse, Tettegouche and the Manitou River waterfall.
GRAND MARAIS STATISTICS
Population: 1,351
County Lands: 92% public
Wildlife: Bear, wolf, moose, deer, coyote, bald eagle, pine martin, fisher, lake trout, steelhead, salmon
Campsites: cobblestone, sand
Exposure: 150 miles of fetch. Longshore NE and SW winds product the biggest conditions.
Diversion: Build a skin-on-frame kayak at the North House Folk School.
Best Eats: Dockside – fresh caught fish and chips. Sven and Ole’s Pizza – the Uffda Zah is a favorite. Sydney’s – land on the beach for a Stealth: frozen custard, blueberries, and Oreos.
Bryan Hansel’s life and livelihood are inextricably entwined with Lake Superior. A professional photographer and founder of North Shore Expeditions, Hansel has paddled all of the American shoreline of the lake, but chooses to call Grand Marais home.
This article first appeared in the Early 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.
Five W's: Kayak Builder and Artist Kiliii Fish | Photo: Oliver Ludlow
Skin-on-frame kayak builder, photographer, filmmaker, expedition kayaker, climber, musician, wilderness survival instructor and primitive skills guide—if we had to put a label on Kiliii Fish, it might be outdoor adventure Renaissance man. For Kiliii, 28, teaching, shooting and paddling are all extensions of the same creative urge, a drive nurtured by the wild frontier of the Pacific coast and stoked by a fascination with traditional techniques. We caught up with the Seattle-based artist to learn how he balances modern know-how with 5,000 years of primal expertise.
WHO kindled your interest in primitive skills?
My Nanai grandma used to tell me stories about her childhood in siberia. Her people were hunter-gatherers, living close to the land. one story really stuck with me—she and her dad caught a fish that was bigger than their boat. she would have been paddling a 13-foot canoe and the fish they caught was a kaluga sturgeon, one of the largest freshwater fish in the world. Being from the border of a country where it’s still not cool to be indigenous, my parents weren’t really into the traditional stuff. But for my brother and I, who grew up here, it was great for our imagination.
WHEN did you realize the power of what you teach?
I’ve taught skin-on-frame workshops to native Iñupiat and Yupik kids in Alaska whose traditional technology these incredibly lightweight, high performance boats originally come from. they don’t understand how amazing it is, and how important the kayak was to their ancestors. For many native people, there’s a lot of hating who they are. There’s a huge lack of pride. It was eye opening and heartbreaking to see them look at a kayak that came from their ancestry—that they built with their own hands—and hear them say ‘wow, this is the coolest thing ever.’
WHERE do you find creative inspiration?
That quietness you get from being in the flow— not just in the zone of whatever sport you’re doing, but also being in the flow of nature—that inspires me. Sometimes the flow in sea kayaking is having an amazing ride on a wave. But other times it’s that quiet moment when you’re bobbing in the swell and there’s no distinction between you, your boat, the puffin in front of you, the wave and the sky—that place and that feeling become embedded in my photographs.
Five W’s: Kayak Builder and Artist Kiliii Fish | Photo: Oliver Ludlow
WHY do you do this stuff?
That quietness you get from being in the flow— not just in the zone of whatever sport you’re doing, but also being in the flow of nature—that inspires me. Sometimes the flow in sea kayaking is having an amazing ride on a wave. But other times it’s that quiet moment when you’re bobbing in the swell and there’s no distinction between you, your boat, the puffin in front of you, the wave and the sky—that place and that feeling become embedded in my photographs.
WHAT is the downside to teaching survival?
When you’re doing primitive survival stuff, you spend a lot of time starving. There’s a lot of hungriness and suffering. After a few years of toughing it out, I moved to the Pacific Northwest. If you’re near an ocean, then there’s food to be had. Survival school itself wasn’t really sustainable financially—it’s hard, because anyone who wants to learn survival is generally broke. You teach it because you love it.
Learn more about Kiliii’s traveling skin-on-frame workshops at seawolfkayak.com. See his photos and films at kiliii.com.
This article first appeared in the Early 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.
I gasped for breath as the cold water hit me, looking up at the droplets shimmering brightly in the summer sun. the tumbling falls thumped a bass drumbeat on my neoprene skirt. I could just hear my father, in his kayak a few feet behind me, over the water’s roar: “you’ll draw upon this memory soon enough.”
He was right. twenty days later I was in Panjwai, one of the deadliest districts in afghanistan’s Kandahar province, commanding a leopard tank. Many times over the next eight months, I would find peace and strength in that vivid memory.
Returning home, the memory lingered. My father’s observation, paddling beneath the falling water, surviving another tour of duty—together they reminded me of the true essence of life. I sold my house in the city, moved my family east— way east, to Newfoundland—and bought a depreciated, 70-year-old saltbox by the sea, complete with weeds and small conifers sprouting inside. six months of renovations later, we moved in.
KAYAKING AS SUSTENANCE
This new existence makes time for paddling whenever the weather permits. Now, I kayak to sustain myself: easing into the meditative bliss of gliding across calm water, gathering wild edibles for supper.
Shouldering my kayak after one such outing in House Cove, I spotted a skull and scattered vertebrae in the sand.
to be honest, I thought the worst. Instead, I had stumbled upon the remains of a minke whale and a harp seal resting in a field of strand wheat, lungwort and beach pea. Pink and blue lungwort flowers and white pea blooms flourished among the bleached bones. a perfect contrast of life and death right before my eyes. seeking to capture one side of this precarious balance, I composed the picture in black and white.
A simple filter can change a photo’s subject, much as a single decision can transform a life.
This article first appeared in the Early 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.
THE GRASS REALLY IS GREENER. | PHOTO: VIRGINIA MARSHALL
Not so long ago, I departed my bicycle in a most dramatic fashion. The bike stopped rather abruptly; I continued over the handlebars.
For a moment, as I hurtled through the warm late-summer air, utterly at the mercy of the juggernaut of my own 20-mile-per-hour momentum, the sensation was not unlike falling into the sweet spot on a wave. That instant when your stern lifts, your kayak accelerates and you relinquish all power to the unstoppable force of the water. A fly on the windshield of a freight train; weightlessness and awful anticipation.
Then my body hit the unyielding pavement, and the impact registered a simple truth: I should have gone paddling.
WHY THE KAYAK IS THE BEST WAY TO EXPERIENCE THE OUTDOORS
It isn’t just two-wheeled activities that are trumped by boat and blade. sure, avoiding the gruesome task of scraping gravel out of road rash is compelling incentive to head for the water, but there are a host of other reasons kayaking is a superior vehicle for outdoor adventure:
The View
It just doesn’t get any better than from the water. Paddle within arm’s reach of the coast for an intimate perspective, or head offshore to feel humbled by the big picture.
Comfort
Foul weather is a fact of outdoor life, but our boats and equipment shelter us from the worst of it. Once you slip on a drysuit or paddling jacket and seal yourself into the cockpit, even the dirtiest downpours are all but forgotten.
Wildlife
Maybe it’s the silence of the hull slicing through still water, or the unthreatening profile of our slim crafts. Certainly it helps that our playground is the rich littoral intersection of land and water. Whatever the reason, frequent wildlife sightings are one of paddling’s finest perks.
THE GRASS REALLY IS GREENER. | PHOTO: VIRGINIA MARSHALL
Headwinds
Okay, even kayakers whine about the wind. But try tackling a stubborn blow in a canoe, or worse, stomping on your pedals into a soul-crushing headwind on a prairie highway.
Escape
Hiking is pedestrian. Cycling a more efficient, yet still earthbound, enterprise. But to paddle is to transcend. Kayaking grants entry to a secret world, unseen by those trapped on terra firma.
Kayaking is more than mere hobby; it’s absolutely vital. In that light, it hardly seems a fair yardstick for other out- door pastimes. So despite scarred elbows and mangled shifters, I still ride my bike—to the local launch, kayak in tow.
Adventure Kayak editor Virginia Marshall now keeps vigilant watch for potholes.
This article first appeared in the Early 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.
n. A piece of music sung or played in the open air. | Photo: Emma Drudge
Interested in impromptu adventures? Mad River Canoe’s Serenade could be your partner in crime. The Serenade is a unique hybrid design, melding a canoe hull with kayak comfort. At only 42 pounds, this 13-footer’s light weight and versatility make it perfect for spontaneous after-work paddling sessions or for the days when your tandem partner bails.
“It’s a real spur-of-the-moment type boat,” says Buff Grubb, product manager at Mad River Canoe. “And because it’s light and small, it’s easy to car-top solo.”
More familiar with speedy-and-straight 15-foot touring solos, I was impressed with the hull speed and glide of the Serenade’s shorter design.
Its minimal rocker, just an inch in the bow and half that in the stern, allows for maneuvering but makes the Serenade easy to keep on course.
The fiberglass shallow-V hull offers plenty of stability and instantly put me at ease. I was comfortable leaning far out over the gunwales to test my balance despite icy spring water beneath me.
Its stability has made the Serenade a favorite amongst photographers and sportsmen in the two years since its release, says Grubb, adding that it’s a boat designed for the twistys—marshes, backwaters and meandering rivers.
The ultra-comfy seat is a distilled version of parent company Confluence’s Phase 3 outfitting, featuring a contoured seat, backrest and leg lifter—perfect for paddlers who get sore knees or require lumbar support. This sports-car-style seating had me resting lower than I’m used to, just two or three inches above the hull. This position spurs many canoeists to opt for a kayak paddle, though the boat was designed for use with either, according to Grubb.
I started out with a double blade but soon switched to my trusty single blade and immediately found my rhythm.
The seat itself is super easy to remove for transporting and uses a simple system of two cords and jam cleats to secure the seat on aluminum rails.
For die-hard traditionalists that love the hull but can’t abide by a kayak-style seat, Mad River will unveil the Serenade outfitted with a traditional cane bucket seat later this summer.
A capacity of 300 pounds means the Serenade can easily accommodate a weekend’s amount of gear. “For lengthier tours, five or six days out, you’re going to want a longer and more efficient hull anyways,” says Grubb. “The Serenade truly is the grab-and-go boat you want when the fever hits.”
This article originally appeared in Canoeroots & Family Camping‘s Early Summer 2014 issue. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions here, or browse the archives here.
n. A piece of music sung or played in the open air. | Photo: Emma Drudge
The line from the source of the Vaal River to the ocean via the Orange River is the largest continuous water body within the borders of South Africa with a distance of more than 2,500 kilometers. In January–March 2015, three adventurers—Troy Glover (Canada), Brett Merchant (Australia) and Franz Fuls (South Africa)—will follow this line from the source of the Vaal River to the mouth of the Orange River at Alexander Bay. The team will be engaging with local communities on river conservation, with a focus on education and biodiversity.
The Cause
Rivers all over the world are impacted and affected by the presence of humanity. While we need development, commerce, industry and mining we must make sure that we do not destroy our most valuable resource, water, in the process.
A healthy river system demonstrates high levels of biodiversity. Polluted rivers have less species living in them. Key indicator species either migrate or die as rivers become polluted. It is therefore important that riverside communities monitor the water quality of their river and become involved in conserving its biodiversity.
Mini-SASS is a well recognised tool developed specifically to monitor biodiversity in rivers. It is cheap, simple and easy to use. Data is loaded onto Google Earth, from where scientists and laypeople can access and use this easy tool.
The team will engage with communities (mostly agriculture and schools) on river conservation, and hopes to start mini-SASS projects along the way while visiting already established mini-SASS sites. Learning the few skills required, farmers can start establishing a baseline of river health in their area using this recognised tool, and schools can start with long term education projects around natural science and conservation through a mini-SASS initiative.
The River
The Vaal River starts close to Breyten, Mpumalanga. It passes through the Mpumalanga Highveld grasslands biome. The Highveld is a massive catchment feeding the Vaal, Usuthu, Assegaai, Nkomati, Crocodile, Olifants and various other critical rivers on which South Africa depends for its water security and sovereignty. Agriculture, opencast coal mining, heavy industry and municipal sewage systems have potential impact on this section of the river.
By the time the river reaches the Vaal Dam the river receives water from the Lesotho Highlands (Senqu and other rivers), Heyshope Dam (Assegaai River) and Usuthu River through a water network diverting water from other catchments to feed the water hungry and heavily industrialised Gauteng Province.
Around the Vaal Dam, which supplies water to Gauteng for personal and industrial use, petrochemical plants and heavy industry reside in the catchment, and just below the dam the Klip River brings water from municipal areas and the gold mining sector into the river.
By now the Vaal has become a big river. It enters the Free State Province, where various towns reside next to the river. This area is characterised by huge grasslands, resembling the plains of the Americas. Municipal Water management, agriculture and diamond mining can impact the water and biodiversity in this area.
By the time the river enters the Northern Cape the landscape has become more arid. Human survival depends on water, and as a result small towns and settlements congregate around the river banks of what has now become the Orange. Farmers irrigate arable land next to the river and some mining (mostly diamonds) occur close to the river in search of alluvial deposits.
Different cultures start to become more visible, where the Swazi, Zulu, Ndebele, Sotho and similar cultures are more prevalent in the East, the San and Khoi people are indigenous to the arid Karoo landscape. Languages change, and among common languages the dialect differs. With scarcity comes greater awareness for conserving water. Yet human settlements, agriculture and mining still has potential to impact the river system.
Fracking in the Karoo also has potential to impact the river. The scale of the impact will only be accurately verifiable if permission is granted and actual operations start its extraction cycles.
At Augrabies National Park a massive waterfall awaits, which will be a forced portage, probably the longest portage for the team. Entering the falls in a boat is certain death. This unique water feature in an otherwise barren landscape may soon be affected by hydro-power initiatives.
The river finally meets the border between South Africa and Namibia, entering desert area, and then exits into the Atlantic Ocean at Alexander Bay (South Africa) or Oranjemund as the Namibians call it on their side of the border.
The Team
Troy Glover hails from Wemindji, Canada – Ice Road Truckers country. His spring hobby is to monitor pack-ice forecasts and when conditions are right he launches his ocean kayak into James Bay, dodging ice bergs on multiday expeditions. Troy is a teacher with a B.Sc. in a water related discipline and he is passionate about experiential education, especially with First Nations students. His education and science background with his passion for conservation will be invaluable on this trip.
Franz Fuls is the expedition leader. Based in Ermelo, close to the Source of the Vaal he has witnessed the slow deterioration of the environment along the headwaters of the Vaal River. Franz is an industrial engineer, freelance investigative journalist and adventure sport fanatic (rock climbing and white water kayaking).
Brett Merchant, a prospector from Adelaide, Australia with adventure in his blood. Brett did a source to sea expedition of the Murray River in Australia in 2013, mostly solo. His experience on this journey of similar length will be very valuable, and Brett will lighten up the trip with his home grown Australian humour and will maintain the balance between conservation and industrial growth needs with his career background.
Non-Profit Partnership
WESSA (the Wildlife and Environment Society of South Africa) is a South African environmental organisation with a mission to implement high impact environmental and conservation projects which promote public participation in caring for the Earth.
With a remarkable 87-year history, WESSA has a strong track record of delivering human capacity development projects by working in strategic partnerships, thus enabling people to make more sustainable lifestyle and environmental management choices. Critical focus areas include life-supporting eco-systems such as water, energy, and biodiversity.
The term professional athlete elicits images of the elite—pros that get paid to train and compete at the highest level, making a living doing what they love. In the world of whitewater there are only a handful of athletes who can paddle year round without having to get their hands dirty.
The truth for many of today’s top kayakers is that their days of extreme racing, waterfall hucking and freestyle combos are earned with weeks of hard work slinging beer, pouring concrete, digging holes or saving lives. Take a look at the double lives of these pros to see how top kayakers divide their time between work and whitewater.
How whitewater pros get paid and paddle
Tyler Fox, Concrete Laborer. | Photo: Courtesy Tyler Fox
1 Tyler Fox, Concrete Laborer
Tyler Fox doesn’t try to combine his paddling time with a job that pays his bills.
“I typically enjoy buckling down and pounding out a month or so of solid concrete work followed by a couple months of traveling and extensive paddling,” he says.
When the work is hard and the weather is unforgiving, Fox daydreams of paddling. “On really long, hard, shitty days at work, I like to think about getting paid in enjoyment. For example, instead of getting paid x amount of dollars that day, I like to think about how many days of traveling or paddling I can get out of the money that I make during that day.”
Fox supplements his seasonal concrete work with on-water jobs, including kayak instructing, raft guiding and photography, and is currently in New Zealand training hard for the upcoming season of extreme racing.
“I put concrete into places that need concrete in them,” explains Fox, of his less-than thrilling work for Ontario-based company, Monkman Forming. “The crew of people I work with makes it much more enjoyable,” he says of the other kayakers among his concrete co-workers.
“It’s just a quick month here and there to boost the bank account, so that I can head off on another adventure.”
Dream job
“Fireman.”
Wisdom from the workforce
“We need to own money, but we don’t have to let that money own us. If you’re struggling to go kayaking because of your work and you don’t enjoy your job, get one that allows you to do what you really want. You can always go back to your stink-ass job if you can’t handle having all that fun.”
Kelsey Thompson has made the transition from professional paddler to full-time filmmaker.
“I started shooting video of myself paddling to help improve my technique for competition,” says Thompson. As time went on though, he spent more time on shore shooting his friends kayaking, and soon Thompson discovered that it was the filming itself he had passion for. “When I started shooting cool sticks and leaves I knew something had changed.”
A former Canadian Freestyle Champion, Thompson’s work-to-play ratio has shifted. Though competitive kayaking has taken the back burner, paddling is an integral part of his nine-to-five.
“I shoot and edit films of all kinds, but 90 percent of the content is paddling related,” says Thompson. “I pretty much always paddle when I work.”
His job as an independent filmmaker is a dream come true. “Over the years I’ve learned to love shooting video as much as paddling. I’d say that’s what I like most about my job, the fact that I actually enjoy doing it!”
Dream job
“Filming some other outdoor sport” (skiing is his first love).
Wisdom from the workforce
“A lot of people associate work-life balance with sacrifice but if I have to work an eight-hour day I almost always have time to do something before or afterwards. For me it comes down to motivation—I just need to get up and do it!”
Nicole Mansfield, Server. | Photo: Tommy Hood
3 Nicole Mansfield, Server
After a day of whitewater in the Pacific Northwest, Nicole Mansfield isn’t sitting back enjoying a cold one—she’s serving them. The hours and flexibility of slinging beer and serving tables at a brewpub in White Salmon, Washington, allows Mansfield to kayak competitively.
“I try to make it to most of the local competitions,” Mansfield says, “but as a trade-off, I usually miss the after party.”
The evening hours of beer pouring fit perfectly around her paddling plans.
“I have a full day for kayaking, skiing, hiking or whatever else before showing up for dinner service at 5
One of the toughest parts of her daily aquatic to terrestrial transformation is telling customers how she got her newest collection of stitches, Mansfield says. “Explaining how I split my forehead open ‘rafting’ Metlako [a nearby waterfall] gets old.”
Dream job
“Big mountain skier, garbage man or helicopter pilot.”
Wisdom from the workforce
“Find a job that allows you to paddle frequently and doesn’t stress you out too much. Set goals for yourself; I find it easier to go to work if I have trips I’m saving for.”
Tyler Curtis, Heli Ski Guide. | Photo: Patrik Trädgårdh
4 Tyler Curtis, Heli Ski Guide
Tyler Curtis works on and off the water to sustain himself year-round. National coach for the Norwegian Paddle Federation, sales agent for Sweet Protection, author, private kayak coach and international paddling guide, Curtis is fully immersed in kayaking.
Recently, though, Curtis has spent his off-seasons submerged in snow instead of water. As a lead helicopter ski guide 200 kilometers from the Arctic Circle in Kittelfjäll, Sweden, his day job has high stakes.
Each day Curtis monitors snow conditions, briefs clients on helicopter safety, plans trip logistics and chooses safe terrain for each heli ski group’s adventure.
The five-time Canadian Freestyle Champion has transferred paddling skills to each new job. “The biggest thing I have gained through kayaking, which I apply to everyday life, is communication and having the social skills to deal with people,” he says. “This comes in handy when working in the tourism and customer service industry.”
Curtis’ lifestyle allows him to continue to be competitive in the freestyle and extreme racing scene. “By focusing on a lifestyle that allows me to work with the things I love, I don’t really see any of it as being work but rather living life to the fullest.”
Dream job
“Owning and operating a timbering company.”
Wisdom from the workforce
“Use your job to facilitate your paddling. Picture kayaking in your future and work toward it—don’t sacrifice everything for paddling today and miss out on a lifetime of paddling.”
Evan Garcia, Filmmaker. | Photo: Eric Parker
5 Evan Garcia, Filmmmaker
While many paddlers toil away on land, there are some who have made the river their office. Evan Garcia is one of those lucky people. As a professional filmmaker, Garcia has established himself as a whitewater storyteller—he’s worked his way into getting paid to paddle every day.
“My job is to kayak at a high level and make films about whitewater and the lifestyle of us river people,” says Garcia.
Though he’s well known for his smooth racing style, waterfall running and filming of remote and exotic multi-day river expeditions, Garcia says it wasn’t easy to get where he is now.
He maintains what he calls a gypsy-kayaker lifestyle by managing his spending. “I don’t buy things I don’t need, splurge, or waste money…money is my one-way ticket to the river,” he says.
Garcia’s dedication has paid off. “I’m proud of myself for making the life choices that brought me here,” he says. “I knew that if I put everything I had into my paddling, maybe someday I could be one of those people that call the river their occupation.”
Dream job
“Owner of a tiki bar on the shores of the South Pacific.”
Wisdom from the workforce
“When I was working outside of the paddling scene I felt something special, every time I got on the water I was so stoked! Don’t lose that spark—when you get out on the river, soak it all in.”
Ben Marr, Manual Laborer/Driller. | Feature photo: Ryan Creary
6 Ben Marr, Manual Laborer/Driller
Ben Marr knows work and play go hand in hand. “Hard work for money, hard work for the take-out,” he says, comparing his off-season work to his big water boating.
When he’s not on the water, Marr is drilling holes and planting dynamite for a geo seismic exploration company in Grand Prairie, Alberta.
“My job is physically intense and demanding,” says Marr. “My pay is production based, so the more efficient and speedy I am, the better. I like that.”
He was introduced to the job by fellow paddlers who, like him, saw it as an opportunity to make money and have the flexibility to travel and kayak.
Marr does feel some of the perks of being a pro. “I could support a decent paddling season with my job but because paddling is priority número uno, I take off a lot of time to shred,” he says. That’s where sponsorships come in, providing a financial boost that helps Marr spend more time paddling than digging holes.
Dream job
“Rally car driver or professional lawn mower.”
Wisdom from the workforce
“Move to a place where kayaking is more accessible so you can cut down on time spent getting to and from the river. Make kayaking your priority. If you want it bad enough, you’ll find a way to make it happen.”
“The biggest skill I was able to take from kayaking and apply to my job is staying calm under pressure,” says Shannon Carroll. “I’m basically paid not to get excited when shit hits the fan. Instead, I have to perform.”
As an ER nurse in Grass Valley, California, she deals with everything from heart attacks to gunshot wounds.
Carroll had been kayaking professionally for eight years when she realized she was tired of being broke every fall.
Since becoming a nurse, Carroll has found “more financial freedom to focus my kayak energies on the specific type of kayaking that is my passion, creek boating,” she says.
The shift work that comes with the job allows Carroll chunks of time off to paddle— she’s currently training for an all-female paddling expedition to Brazil—and working in healthcare has helped her appreciate those opportunities more than ever.
“You can’t put a price on your health,” she says. “I see people everyday, young and old, being diagnosed with life altering diseases and I’m thankful that I’ve had the opportunity to lead the life that I’ve lived.”
Dream job
“Professional singer.”
Wisdom from the workforce
“Whatever you do, put your happiness and health first. Work and school will always be there—travel and live life to its fullest.”
Mariann Saether, School Teacher. | Photo: Martina Wegman
8 Mariann Saether, School Teacher
Well-established in the whitewater world, who knew Mariann Saether is equally proficient in her professional life? With a Masters degree in Medieval History, Saether teaches history, social science, English, Norwegian and math at a secondary school in Norway.
“It is an amazing feeling to be able to guide the youngsters through a pretty important phase of their lives,” she says. She acts as a mentor for many of her students who compete in skiing at a high level, helping them balance training with academics— a feeling she’s familiar with.
“I hope to make it to the Grand Prix in Quebec, but it is the same period as 60 of my students have their exams so it is not likely,” she says.
With an already-lengthy list of paddling accomplishments from freestyle to first descents, Saether is feeling the pull towards competitive paddling.
“The challenge,” she admits, “is to get enough time to paddle, which has left me pretty close to showing up to some of my classes still in my kayaking gear.”
Dream job
“Author.”
Wisdom from the workforce
“Have an end goal but break everyday life down to smaller goals. Do not be too hard on yourself if you cannot do it all every day.”
This article was first published in Volume 16, Issue 1 of Rapid Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Ben Marr, Manual Laborer/Driller. | Feature photo: Ryan Creary
The Outer Island Survey team landed on every beach to collect data no one else could. On Coronation Island, Paul Norwood makes a botanical inventory. | Feature photo: Adam Andis
Want to know if the deadly fungus Batrachochytrium dendrobatidis is affecting the Boreal toads and rough-skinned newts on Alaska’s Coronation Island? To find out is no beginner-friendly bit of citizen science. Here’s what you have to do:
Kayak the foggy and swell-battered outer coast for six days. Land through surf and wrestle with maddening thickets of devil’s club and alder to reach the alpine zone. Catch the elusive amphibians in chilly ponds. Rub a swab along the squirming creature’s belly, then break off the swab’s tip and attempt to air-dry it for five minutes in the notoriously soggy climate. Place the swab in a tube and label it. Bushwhack back down to the coast and launch through the surf. Paddle another 10 days to reach a post office. Mail the samples to a lab in Ohio for analysis.
In Alaska, kayakers go to extreme measures for citizen science
The hardships of conducting field ecology in remote and rugged places like Alaska are legendary. But that same ruggedness draws kayakers from all over the world. The brainchild of Adam Andis, Wilderness Stewardship Director of the Sitka Conservation Society (SCS), the Outer Island Survey partnered experienced kayakers with the Society and the U.S. Forest Service. The expedition represents part of a growing strategy for extending science into wild places using sea kayaks as the vehicles.
Map: Chris Brackley
A thick braid of current-swept channels and mountainous islands, Alaska’s panhandle may be small by the standards of the 49th state, but it is still a vast wilderness. The panhandle is dominated by the Tongass National Forest, a single forest larger than the state of Maine. Hemmed between icefields and the North Pacific, travel is by floatplane and boat. The season is short. Weather delays are as common as rain.
On Coronation Island, Paul Norwood makes a botanical inventory. | Photo: Adam Andis
The Kuiu, Coronation Island, Warren Island and Maurelle Islands wildernesses lie in one of the most isolated parts of this already-remote area, clinging to the southwest edge of the panhandle, exposed to the stormy Gulf of Alaska and the massive tidal exchanges of Chatham Strait. In June 2013, the Outer Island Survey team spent 16 days tracing every nook and cranny along 230 miles of this wild coastline, collecting data no one else could.
Working from 6 a.m. until well after sundown, they surveyed alpine plants, swabbed amphibians and landed on every single beach to check for invasive plants and signs of human use, from modern campsites to centuries old culturally modified trees. They recorded birdsongs, mammal tracks and every human encounter, including distant fishing boats and airplane flyovers. After dark, they hiked into the woods to play owl calls and listen for responses.
The results of Andis and his team’s efforts will help shape an accurate picture of ecological well-being and human use on these islands, allowing conservationists and land managers to create strategy based on facts on the ground. “We can use the data from the Outer Island Survey to inform management decisions and assess what’s a reasonable carrying capacity for outfitter permits in the wilderness,” says Tory Houser, a Recreation Planner for the Forest Service. The data will also provide a baseline for a 2018 Forest Plan update.
The hardships of conducting field ecology in remote and rugged places like Alaska are legendary. But that same ruggedness draws kayakers from all over the world.
Recruiting skilled ocean paddlers
This rubber-boots-on-the-ground approach to ecology is essential in remote landscapes like Alaska’s Southeast. Far from the watching eyes of land managers, these areas can easily suffer from benign neglect during the long intervals between visits. Camps and boat traffic can intrude into areas meant to be refuges. Sensitive species can decline before anyone notices.
Rob Avery explores a living cave on Coronation Island; the rock formations inside are actively growing. | Photo: Adam Andis
In one cave, the team discovered daddy long-legs entombed in cave-growing fungi. | Photo: Adam Andis
A rough-skinned newt awaits swabbing on Warren Island. | Photo: Adam Andis
Southeast’s particular geography makes studying the region as critical as it is difficult. Islands like Coronation, far out to sea, will be the last to feel the disruptive effects of invasive species that are spreading across the globe. But if invasive species do make it to Coronation, they will spread like wildfire thanks to the isolated biogeography of small islands.
Southeast Alaska is also the northern limit for many plant species. “We expect forests to move northward with warming trends,” says Lauren Oakes, a researcher at Stanford University who used kayaks to study Alaska yellow-cedar decline, “so the latitudinal margins are a critical laboratory for understanding the effects of climate change.”
Declining Forest Service budgets in the sprawling Southeast have taken “spreading thin” to the point of gross understatement. “We’re lucky if we can get out there once a year,” says Houser. “You charter a boat months in advance, and then you get held up by weather. We couldn’t put in the time you can from a kayak, seeing the shoreline on a slow, intimate level.”
Nor can satellite imagery, LIDAR and Geographic Information Systems provide answers. These gizmos can’t reliably tell a stand of Alaska yellow-cedar from hemlock, let alone distinguish native from invasive plants in the alpine zone where a whole botanical community exists in a single square foot. Satellites can’t spot outlaw cabins hidden under trees, swab newts or measure the elusive feeling defined as “wilderness character” that includes everything from the sound of aircraft to footprints on a beach.
The Sitka Conservation Society has long tapped local paddlers, hikers, hunters and fishermen to report on-the-ground conditions, but the Outer Islands’ pounding surf, open-water crossings, powerful wind and thick fog demanded a more experienced team. Andis, an advanced American Canoe Association instructor and former Alaska sea kayak guide, sought out skilled ocean paddlers from the broader sea kayak community. He recruited Rob Avery, a Seattle-based BCU five-star paddler and veteran of Alaskan expeditions; Cris Lewis, who hails from California’s Half Moon Bay and cut her teeth in the rock gardens of Cape Mendocino; and Paul Norwood, a 13-year Sitka resident, SCS intern and botanist.
The outer coast of Coronation Island is exposed to the full fury of the Pacific, eroding the limestone cliffs into massive rock gardens, canyons and caves. | Photo: Adam Andis
“Nobody but seasoned sea kayakers could go where we went,” notes Avery, “A trip like this requires interpreting the weather and currents, reading the barometer and knowing what the sea will be doing.”
Adding a scientific workload to an already challenging expedition took its toll on the group. Wind slowed their pace, and two expedition members fell ill from the daily grind. On top of coping with sea conditions, complex navigation and camping in bear country, there were data sheets to keep track of, plant presses to keep dry and extra batteries to haul around.
Decisions had to be made for science. “Do we want to paddle six more miles up that inlet and back to survey that beach—yes, we have to,” explains Avery. “You’re not on a pleasure trip. There’s a job to be done and we’re going to do it right.”
Alaska’s natural bounty
There’s another critical element to the hands-on-science done by outdoors lovers: a deep and complex relationship with wilderness. It’s been central to Alaska ever since William Seward scraped together $7.2 million in 1867 to buy 586,412 square miles of wilderness from the Russian Empire.
Alaska’s natural bounty is its raison d’etre. Everyone who comes here, for a week or a lifetime, comes either for the natural environment, for a job related to the natural environment or for a job providing infrastructure to those who are here for the natural environment. As a tourism report dryly notes, “Very few people visit Alaska for the culture or the built environment.” The conflicts that have polarized Alaska over the decades have been about the best use of this bounty: as board feet, fish, solitude or science.
The team paddled with humpback whales in the Maurelle Islands. | Photo: Adam Andis
In Southeast, 50-year contracts between the Forest Service and the timber industry after World War II built an economy on logging old-growth trees from public lands and feeding massive pulp mills. Commercial and recreational fishing made up the rest. Conservation gathered steam with the environmental laws of the 1970s, culminating in the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act in 1980, which spawned the state’s vast network of parks and wilderness areas.
By the late ‘80s, both sides in the logging versus environment debate had dug in. Conservation organizations saw the Forest Service as favoring logging and settled on two strategies: litigation and lobbying. Then the ground began to shift under their feet. Tourism overtook timber, then fishing, in job creation and economic impact. As the economic tide turned, wilderness science offered a path to common ground amongst Alaskans who loved the land.
Today, conservation groups still litigate and lobby, but SCS also fights for the Forest Service’s budget, trying to stave off a 50 percent cut in wilderness management and redirect funds from large timber operations toward science and stewardship.
“We’re surrounded by public lands, and we depend on them for subsistence, for our fish and deer and beach asparagus,” says Andis. “All the tourism operators understand viewsheds and pristine areas. They have to.”
In addition to local paddlers ground-truthing proposed timber sales in preparation for appeals, in 2009 the Sitka Conservation Society began running wilderness expeditions to provide the Forest Service with data for management. Two years later, they also helped the Southeast Alaska Conservation Council create similar trips. By 2013, SCS was running 21 expeditions to nine wilderness areas, including nine paddle trips.
Adventurers and scientists for conservation
The trend of paddlers donning lab coats under their PFDs reaches well beyond the borders of Southeast Alaska. “In the sea kayak community, people have always gone on expeditions to raise awareness of one thing or another, but now we’re seeing more involvement in hard science,” says Steve Weileman, who founded The Ikkatsu Project in 2012 with partner Ken Campbell. Through expeditions and films, The Ikkatsu Project monitors and raises awareness of tsunami debris and plastic pollution on the Olympic and Aleutian coasts. Weileman and Campbell conduct beach surveys and water sampling and share their findings with NOAA and other scientific organizations.
Over a demanding 16 days, the Outer Island Survey team hiked to alpine ponds and collected samples from amphibian populations. | Photo: Adam Andis
The Outer Island Survey team posed on a remote beach. | Photo: Adam Andis
On the Maurelle Islands, intertidal fields of edible beach asparagus supplemented the team’s meals. | Photo: Adam Andis
SCS runs more paddle-based expeditions each year. But the surface has barely been scratched. “Kayakers, climbers and hikers have the potential to gather data scientists need but can’t access,” says Gregg Treinish, founder of Adventurers & Scientists for Conservation, a Bozeman, Montana-based organization that has been matching adventurers with scientists since 2011. “There’s a potential army of outdoor enthusiasts all around the globe—we have over 1,400 adventurers collecting data for 130 scientists on everything from ocean microplastics to ice worms.”
Nor is a rugged expedition required. “We have samples collected by the world’s best mountaineers and by people going for an afternoon spin across Lake Washington,” notes Treinish.
One of the challenges with citizen science is collecting data accurate enough to be useful. Few paddlers with skills for the open coast can also tell invasive Timothy grass, Phleum pretense, from the native Phleum alpinum, or recognize the song of a Eurasian Collared Dove. The Outer Island Survey team was built to address both. Andis and Norwood’s deep ecological knowledge helped Avery and Lewis recognize and collect useful data. “Paul would say, ‘We’re looking for this plant, here’s where it grows, see if you can find it,’” recalls Avery. “If you have good powers of observation and can be detail-oriented, a non-scientist can contribute.” Andis agrees, “Anyone can take photos, report problem areas, fill out simple data sheets and record GPS points.”
Citizen science closes the gap between trained scientists and outdoor enthusiasts. Anyone can take photos, report problem areas, fill out data sheets and record GPS points.
Matchmaking groups like Adventurers & Scientists for Conservation offer another window onto how to close the gap between trained scientists and outdoor enthusiasts. When someone going on a trip contacts them, ASC scours the scientific literature for related projects. When a scientist wants samples from a particular spot, ASC looks for someone headed there. Scientists use Skype to train adventurers on sampling and surveying techniques, and ASC confirms results with labs and looks for large data sets.
Outer Island Survey member Cris Lewis says there’s another reason to embrace your inner scientist. “If you want to learn the [local] ecology, what better way to do it?” she asks, “That education was part of the magic.”
What drives paddle-powered science
Budding wilderness stewards may well have an even greater impact than paddle-wielding science nerds. During a debate about protecting Southeast’s salmon streams, veterans of the Sitka Conservation Society’s science expeditions generated 60 letters and several hundred postcards. The potential is huge. “Americans spend about the same amount of money on outdoor recreation as we do on cars and gasoline every year,” Andis says, “We just need to put our mouth where our money is.”
The rubber-boots-on-the-ground approach to ecology is essential in remote landscapes like Alaska’s Southeast. | Photo: Peter Mather
Ultimately, a deep love for wilderness drives paddle-powered science. “I suppose I could have done something in my backyard, but in the larger sense, places like Coronation are my backyard,” muses Avery. Andis is philosophical about his chosen craft. “I think doing our work by kayak rather than by floatplane or motorboat is what the writers of the Wilderness Act would have wanted,” he says.
Even as SCS continues to disseminate the Outer Island Survey findings, fundraising is underway for upcoming expeditions. Meanwhile, on Coronation Island, mysteries remain. “Some years we see tons of wolf sign, and then nothing for five years,” notes the Forest Service’s Tory Houser. “What happens? Does the population crash? Do they swim to other islands?” Someday, someone will find out. They might arrive by kayak. One of them might be you.
Extreme citizen science tips
1 Do your research
Make finding scientific opportunities a part of your trip planning. “Is there a friends group? Is there a land manager? Usually the answer is yes, but most people don’t plan ahead or make contact,” says conservationist Adam Andis.
2 Don’t be intimidated
“We were afraid we wouldn’t be taken seriously,” says Steve Weileman of The Ikkatsu Project. “All of a sudden, there were seven PhDs who wanted to meet with us. They thought we were rock stars.”
The Outer Island Survey team landed on every beach to collect data no one else could. | Feature photo: Adam Andis
3 Make it a party
“It’s harder to work with individuals than with groups, for reasons ranging from communication to liability,” says the Forest Service’s Tory Houser. Working with clubs and shops can provide people power and a social component.
4 Use your voice
Let decision makers know you value wild places. “Any time you visit public land, write a quick email that says you appreciate that place and send it to two people: the land manager and your elected official,” says Andis.
Scientists in sprayskirts
From urban waterways to the planet’s most remote coasts, paddlers turned citizen scientists are using kayaks to bring back findings no one else can. Here are a few to look out for:
Outer Island Survey team member Rob Avery’s ghoulish alter ego. | Photo: Adam Andis
Adventurers & Scientists for Conservation matches outdoor recreationists with scientists who need data from the field.
Center for Coastal Margin Observation & Prediction uses a sensor-laden kayak to collect data on water quality and algae blooms in the Columbia River Estuary.
The Ikkatsu Project tracks tsunami debris for NOAA on the Olympic and Aleutian coasts.
The Kamchatka Project, a crack kayak team led by Bryan Smith, collected hydrologic and water quality data on pristine rivers in the Russian Far East in 2010.
U.S. Forest Service Kayak Rangers in Tracy Arm-Ford’s Terror Wilderness near Juneau, Alaska, monitor air quality emissions from cruise ships.
Margo Pelligrino, a self-styled “stay-at-home mom who paddles for the ocean,” collected microplastic samples on outrigger journeys along the Atlantic, Gulf and Pacific coasts between 2007 and 2010.
Forest Succession Study at Stanford University used sea kayaks in the summer of 2012 to study the ripple effects of Alaska yellow-cedar decline linked to climate change.
The Cetacean Society and Bay Area Sea Kayakers collect observations of harbor porpoises, which have returned to San Francisco Bay after a 65-year absence.
Willamette Riverkeeper volunteer paddlers monitor water quality on Oregon’s Willamette River.
Neil Schulman is a kayaker, writer and co-founder of the Confluence Environmental Center in Oregon. He lived in Southeast Alaska long before cellphones or Google Earth.
This article was first published in the Spring 2014 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
The Outer Island Survey team landed on every beach to collect data no one else could. On Coronation Island, Paul Norwood makes a botanical inventory. | Feature photo: Adam Andis
This article first appeared in the Early 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.
This article was first published in Volume 16, Issue 1 of Rapid Magazine. 
This article was first published in the Spring 2014 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. 