A January cold snap in Squamish, British Columbia, meant ice formations were coming up all around the valley. Ice climbers were out on the hunt in full force, getting after it while the getting was good.
As a professional adventure photographer, I’m always looking for the next spectacular shot. The day before venturing on this wild trip, I hiked into scenic Mamquam Falls. Through the icy spray, I spied hanging daggers and frozen fangs clinging to the overhanging rock-face amphitheater—an ice extravaganza.
I went home, made a few phone calls, and rallied a team together. It was essential to make this vision come to life. Ice climbing spots are short-lived in our temperate rainforest zone; they are there one day and gone the next. This scene was so unique and special because it might only form once every 10 years.
Cold play. | Feature photo: Jimmy Martinello
With the stoke on, the team soon swelled to five and we had a full safety crew. Because sharp objects, like crampons and ice axes, are not the best mix with inflatable paddleboards and drysuits, we packed along a piece of plywood for each board so we could have something to step on to access the ice while wearing our crampons and without risking blowing a hole in our boards.
I had been up to the falls from the bottom a few times on my paddleboard to establish rock climbing routes in the summer, so I was familiar with the access, but now the rocky riverbank was covered in ice. We arrived at the access, armed with our plywood, inflatable paddleboards, drysuits, PFDs, and all the climbing and ice gear essentials. We paddled upriver to start and then climbed a short little pitch, a mix of snow, rock and ice, hauling up our gear and boards behind us.
When we reached the upper falls, we paddled into the cauldron of water at the base of the raging falls, surrounded by hanging daggers of ice. It was a playground like no other.
We all had a go shuttling our climbing crew across the river to attempt the frozen icicles dripping off the falls. This was Valterai Rantala’s very first time ice climbing. After his climb, he took the cold plunge of reward, as seen in this photo. I don’t know what was more exciting—climbing up or jumping down.
Climbing in a mist of spray, hanging off tools, clinging to the ice and being surrounded by an orchestra of colors and sounds was mind-blowing. I’m so grateful for days like these and having an incredible team of adventure-seeking friends to make it happen.
Jim Martinello’s photography and film work have been published worldwide, including in National Geographic, Outside, Outpost, Mountain Life, and many more.
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Ambrose Salmini was going through a rough patch in April 2022 and like many of us he took comfort in fishing. But that wasn’t going well either.
“It was five days in a row and I did not even have a bite. I can’t really explain how strong that urge to catch a fish was,” he says. “I’d leave work early and come home any time between midnight and two in the morning.”
Ambrose’s obsession with stripers often pushes him to go beyond what most anglers consider reasonable, such as fishing from a kayak in heavy chop and 40-mile-per-hour gusts. Such was the case on day six of his quest, when he pulled into a Union Beach, N.J. lot popular with fishermen. On any normal day it would be bustling with activity, but on this wind-whipped afternoon it was eerily empty.
Striper madness nearly turns deadly for kayak angler
As Ambrose unloaded his bright green kayak an older man approached. “I know you’re not going out there.” When Ambrose replied that he was, the old-timer looked him dead in the eyes.
“You’re an idiot. You’re crazy,” he said. “Be careful.”
Ambrose didn’t give the warning a second thought. He had fish on the brain, and as tough as the conditions looked for kayaking, they were promising for stripers.
“Seeing the wind and the waves, I thought, ‘Good, the fish will be here because it’ll be dirty. They’ll be stirring up bait. There’s going to be fish everywhere,’” recalled Ambrose, who launched through the shore break without even taking time to put on his life jacket.
The old-timer looked Ambrose dead in the eyes.
“You’re crazy,” he said. “Be careful.”
It was tough going from the start. Ambrose struggled to get off the beach and put his lines in the water. He was out of his element and knew it, but just as he decided to turn back his reel screeched to life. For a few glorious minutes Ambrose forgot all about the wind and waves. “Battling that fish in those conditions was an incredible rush,” he says. “It’s why I fish.”
From fighting fish to fighting for survival
When he finally got the fish to his kayak, he let out a joyous whoop and reached for his phone. He wanted a photo to commemorate the moment, and that meant punching in his passcode and setting the self-timer with one hand, all while wrangling a 20-pound striped bass with the other. As he worked, the kayak drifted broadside to the waves, one of which rolled under him just as he hoisted the fish for the photo. “That shift in weight, combined with the wave, tipped me over,” Ambrose recalls. “I went into survival mode the second I hit the water.”
The Striper capsized Ambrose’s kayak, sent his phone and rods to the bottom, and got away with his Rapala grips.
Without a life jacket, Ambrose struggled to keep his head above the surface. His waders filled with water, pulling him down. Struggling to stay afloat, he realized the gravity of his situation.
“With no life preserver on and the big waves come in, I was swallowing saltwater and really struggling to breathe. My waders were filling with water, pulling me down like a sinker,” he says. “It’s hard for me to explain fully that feeling. There was a good 10 seconds where I was kind of grappling with the fact that I’m probably going to die drowning, fishing away from my family.”
The kayak immediately began to drift away, and in a moment of clarity Ambrose lunged after it and latched on. The water was 48 degrees. Ambrose had only a few minutes before hypothermia would set in, robbing him of the strength to grip the kayak. Climbing back aboard with his waders full of cold seawater was out of the question, so Ambrose turned toward shore and started kicking. He didn’t seem to be getting any closer, but the exertion kept him warm.
Help arrives, sirens blaring
Fortunately, the old man in the parking lot wasn’t the only one who had taken an interest in the lone kayaker fishing the storm. Someone watching from their apartment window saw Ambrose capsize, and dialed 911.
Ambrose watched from the water as squad cars and a fire truck pulled into the empty fisherman’s lot, lights blazing. “I was choking on saltwater, freezing, and genuinely afraid I wouldn’t make it,” he says. “But hearing the sirens gave me a little bit of hope.” Then, inexplicably, the emergency vehicles rushed off in a different direction. Ambrose kept kicking.
A few minutes later, officers from the Union Beach Police Dept. Marine Unit arrived in a patrol boat and hoisted Ambrose aboard. Soon he was shivering in the back of a Union Beach Fire Dept. aid car, with the heat cranked up as high as it would go.
“With no life preserver on and the big waves come in, I was swallowing saltwater and really struggling to breathe.” –Kayak Angler Ambrose Salmini
Lessons Learned from a Brush with Death
Reflecting on the incident later, Ambrose acknowledges his mistakes and the thin line between passion and recklessness. The combination of inadequate equipment, dangerous weather conditions, and lack of essential safety gear nearly cost him his life.
“Going out in those conditions without a life vest was laughably stupid,” Ambrose admits. “It’s a miracle I’m here to tell the story.” Ambrose did survive, and he told his story in a YouTube video that garnered thousands of views. One of the people who commented on his video was the person who made the life-saving 911 call.
“Buddy, I was watching you from my living room,” wrote the person, identified only by their YouTube handle. “Glad I stumbled across this video and that you are okay. As a kayak fisherman myself my heart started pounding when you went over … Good luck and tight lines.”
Cyril Derreumaux arriving in Hilo, Hawaii, after 92 days, aboard his 23-foot-long kayak Valentine, named after his sister. | Feature photo: Tom Gomes
In 2022, Cyril Derreumaux kayaked solo and unsupported from California to Hawaii, relying entirely on human power—a feat that came mere years after he’d sworn off long-distance ocean paddling.
Cyril Derreumaux prepares for Atlantic kayak crossing
Perhaps even more remarkable is the French-born adventurer didn’t start kayaking or canoeing until he was 32 when he moved to California and got hooked on outrigger canoeing. As part of a team, he raced from California’s Newport Beach to Catalina Island, followed by the 32-mile Moloka’i Hoe from Moloka’i to O’ahu. At the time, it felt like an insurmountable distance. “How do I train for six straight hours of paddling?” he remembers thinking.
Then came surfski and canoeing. Still a relative newcomer competing against seasoned pros in the 715-kilometer Yukon River Quest, Derreumaux’s team finished in 45 hours, placing second. With it came a realization: “Maybe long distance is what I really like.”
Cyril Derreumaux arriving in Hilo, Hawaii, after 92 days, aboard his 23-foot-long kayak Valentine, named after his sister. | Feature photo: Tom Gomes
Rowing was the natural next step. He competed in the 2,400-mile Great Pacific Race from California to Waikiki, Hawaii. His team completed the race in 39 days, earning a Guinness World Record. But for Derreumaux, it also marked what he thought was the end of his long-distance ocean paddling career.
“I loved the experience at sea, but I said, ‘I’ll never do this again. It’s too tough,’” he says.
Yet, something inside him was jolted from its slumber when he read The Pacific Alone, the story of Ed Gillet’s 1987 solo kayak crossing from California to Hawaii in a tandem Necky Tofino.
By the numbers
$80,000:Funds needed to cross the Atlantic.
2.5 mph:Max nautical speed.
3 hours:Average amount of sleep per night at sea.
2 hours:Time Derreumaux had to spend making fresh water daily after his watermaker broke.
91 days, 9 hours:Time it took to kayak from Monterey, California, to Hilo, Hawaii.
2:Number of Guinness World Records Derreumaux holds.
“I was mesmerized,” says Derreumaux.
True to form, Derreumaux wasn’t satisfied with just reading books. He spoke with Scott Donaldson, who was the first person to kayak solo across the Tasman Sea in 2018. Peter Bray—the first person to kayak solo across the Atlantic without sails (paddlingmag.com/0168)—put him in touch with his boat builder, who had retired. Derreumaux convinced the designer to build one last boat; an ocean kayak with a custom-designed pedal system.
He applied this same dogged persistence and systematic approach to prepare for what he knew would be his biggest challenge—paddling without a team. “I’m an extrovert, and I knew it was a mental game, so I tried everything,” he says. His arsenal included the Wim Hof breathing method, working with a coach, hypnosis and yoga.
In 2021, Derreumaux set out amid rough seas and high winds and lost his sea anchor. He was picked up by the U.S. Coast Guard six days later. By 2022, he was ready to try again. He knew his second attempt wouldn’t be smooth sailing but couldn’t have predicted a tropical storm would flood a compartment, causing problems with his batteries and steering lines. His desalinator failed, requiring him to make fresh water manually. And as his time at sea stretched out, so did his rations. Although he’d prepared for 70 days on the water, in the end, it took him 92.
“It was probably the hardest thing I’ve done so far, but I discovered something about myself being alone,” he says. “I want to feel alive. I’ve always found a lot of pleasure in pushing the limits.”
Now 47, Derreumaux’s next expedition is in December, when he will attempt a 3,000-mile solo crossing of the Atlantic from the Canary Islands to Barbados. It will be roughly the same distance as his last, but it will be far from the same journey.
“It will be a different spiritual trip,” he says. Derreumaux is currently raising funds for the expedition on GoFundMe.
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Cyril Derreumaux arriving in Hilo, Hawaii, after 92 days, aboard his 23-foot-long kayak Valentine, named after his sister. | Feature photo: Tom Gomes
Dawn patrol searching for moose. | Feature photo: Ian Finch
The moose is under threat in the mosaic wilderness in far northern Minnesota, close to the Canadian border. It’s estimated moose once numbered 10,000 in the state, but the population fell by 64 percent more than a decade ago.
Paddle-powered research on precipitous moose population decline
Seth Moore is the lead biologist for the Grand Portage Band of Lake Superior Chippewa and he’s become a leading voice on Minnesota’s moose. His scientific work has focused on sustaining the iconic species for the band’s annual subsistence moose hunt, which has been conducted for thousands of years. The band calls this Seventh Generation Planning—a process of protecting the moose so future generations can continue the same subsistence practice as their great-grandparents. It’s a vital cultural thread connecting the modern-day band to their ancestors. As subsistence hunting has become increasingly uncommon as the moose population dwindled, Moore and fellow biologists have been tasked to protect the moose.
Dawn patrol searching for moose. | Feature photo: Ian Finch
Last year, I connected with Moore to explore the moose decline from a scientific and native perspective as part of a two-year-long film and photo project. Together, we launched a 10-day canoe route into the borderlands between Canada and Minnesota, reported to contain healthy populations of moose but in low numbers. Alongside U.K. filmmaker Jamie Barnes and Quebecois expedition canoeist Martin Trahan, the journey aimed to film and photograph the moose in their natural habitat as we learned from Moore about ecosystem health and threats facing North America’s second-largest land mammal.
Echoes of the moose call
In August, our group of four watched from a small sandy beach as our floatplane thundered off into the distance behind a wall of vaporized water produced by the engine thrust. Within the hour, our canoes pushed upstream through small rivers interlinking this wilderness’ vast peppered lake systems. Our plan was to paddle into the quietest and most marshy corners in this wilderness paradise at dawn and dusk. Amongst the swamps and flooded high grass is where moose would frequently travel in the tangled habitat and wild they called home.
Our route took us through swamp systems, lengthy portages and immense lake and island regions. Day after day, we probed and paddled into motionless swampy bays. In shallow waters, Moore often pointed and whispered to me, “Moose tracks underwater,” his trained eye spotting sign of a used trail and frequented local habitat. In my canoe, Moore mimicked a moose call using a half-cut white bleach bottle. The echoes and acoustics from his call reverberated in the immediate area and throughout miles and miles of dense, impenetrable forest, only to bounce back to the drifting canoes. The four of us would sit and wait for the return call of a nearby bull moose or female cow. Each time, silence was the only response.
The repetition of call and no response permeated each morning while paddling into the tangerine colors of sunrise, and each evening, paddling under the purple hues of sunset. Around the fire each night, eating fish caught by rod and line, the haunting sound of loons echoed around the lake. Packs of wolves howled, and we howled back from the shoreline. Moore estimated two active packs surrounded us. I uncovered wolf scat on a long, narrow portage trail. On closer inspection, Moore noted the scat predominantly consisted of moose calf hair.
In moments like this, Moore transformed from paddler to biologist. He reached into the depths of research and data he’d uncovered so far, sharing the grim story he felt was unfolding for the moose if left to the natural cycles. He told us in recent decades, warming winters have allowed white-tailed deer to migrate farther north into moose territory. As part of the natural predation cycle, wolves followed the white-tailed deer, only to discover the easy pickings of moose calves, derailing the repopulation of the next generation.
Biologist Seth Moore calls for moose. | Photo Ian Finch
But one of the primary sources of adult moose fatalities has been the arrival of brainworm, also brought by the deer. The parasitic roundworm inhabits the brain cavity and does not affect white-tailed deer. But in moose, it leads to a lack of sensory perception, deafness, weakness and ultimately, paralysis and death. According to Moore’s research, brainworm has been killing up to 30 percent of the adult moose he’s studied over the past 18 years at the tip of Minnesota’s Arrowhead region.
Additionally, shorter and warmer winters mean more ticks survive when previously they would flounder under snow cover. Biologists have found moose covered in more than 100,000 ticks. And some moose will scratch themselves bald against trees to relieve themselves of the irritating ticks, scouring off large chunks of the fur needed to stay warm.
According to Moore, these are the likely reasons moose populations declined and haven’t recovered. Fundamentally, a changing climate is at the heart of the issue.
Perhaps it’s not surprising on an expedition investigating the decline of the moose population, after nine days and nights, we tiredly paddled two canoes into the take-out location with not a single sighting. The team was quietly disappointed. After every effort made, we’d seen only ghosts and footprints.
Six months later, in February, Barnes and I joined Moore for fieldwork in Minnesota to continue our film and photo project. We took part in a helicopter population survey and witnessed Moore collar a moose, take blood, tick and body data, and then carefully release it. The awe of being so close to a moose—weighing between 800 to 1,300 pounds and majestic even in its drugged stupor—was overshadowed by the record-breaking winter warmth in the region, highlighting the challenges this iconic species continues to face.
Ian Finch is a former U.K. Royal Marine Commando, a photographer and expedition guide. Find him online at @ianefinch.
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Dawn patrol searching for moose. | Feature photo: Ian Finch
Burnaby, 2024 — Mustang Survival, the Canadian brand known for innovative solutions for the most demanding marine environments, announced on August 15 the launch of the Quadra Dry Suit. This brand-new minimalist, multi-purpose drysuit is designed for those who enjoy shorter-duration water activities and is available in men’s and women’s versions.
The Quadra Dry Suit is an excellent introduction to Mustang Survival’s high-quality standards. It features the same tough and durable three-layer Marine Spec BP fabric used in their other drysuits, with a design inspired by the gear they’ve innovated for military and public safety agencies and subjected to the same comprehensive testing.
Read a field-tested review of the Quadra in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine.
Key features of the Quadra:
Durable Fabric: Waterproof and abrasion-resistant 3-layer Marine Spec BP fabric holds up in challenging saltwater environments
Custom Fit: Trimmable latex neck and wrist seals for maximum protection and comfort
Easy Maintenance: Collar and cuffs design make repair and replacement straightforward
Adjustable Waist Belt: Ensures a snug fit, accommodating various body types
Heavy-Duty Reinforcements: 500D Cordura® panels on the seat and knees add durability
Convenient Drying: External hanging loop simplifies the drying process
User-Friendly Zipper: Waterproof YKK® AQUASEAL® zipper for easy donning and doffing
Leak-Proof Assurance: Every suit undergoes comprehensive leak testing, ensuring superior performance and reliability
“Drysuits often come with a hefty price tag, and understandably so as a lot of engineering and materials go into a specialized garment that keeps you completely dry,” says Anja Mueller, Head of Marketing at Mustang Survival. “With the Quadra, we offer people new to cold water marine activities the same quality materials at a budget-friendlier price.”
Men’s Version: Ocean Blue/Admiral Grey and Red/Admiral Grey, sizes small to 2XL
Women’s Version: Bluefin Blue/Admiral Grey, sizes X-small to X-large
Retail Price: $849.99 USD / $999.99 CAD
Why a Mustang Survival dry suit?
Every model of recreational dry suits uses the same rugged 3-layer Marine Spec BP material and 500 Cordura® reinforcement material found in the successful Hudson and Helix designs.
One hundred percent of the suits that leave the factory are thoroughly leak tested using pneumatic air pressure and must have zero leaks at 0.6 PSIG. Competitor suits have been put through these same testing procedures, and they have failed to perform at the same level.
All dry suits exhibit a consistent, clean aesthetic design DNA and are sleek and functional. They deliver performance through well-thought-out designs and features that reduce the bulk of redundant and unnecessary material overlaps and excessive patterning.
Learn about Mustang Survival’s Jacksonville Manufacturing facility—the epicenter of innovation for the Sentinel Series Water Rescue Dry Suits in Episode 2 of the web series Behind the Seahorse.
About Mustang Survival
Pioneer in the design and manufacture of lifesaving solutions since 1967. Mustang Survival is committed to the protection and enhancement of those who push themselves to extremes on the water, whether for work, duty, or to escape the daily grind. www.mustangsurvival.com
Paddlers have been asking for a lighter, composite version of the Virgo, and P&H Kayaks has delivered with this new release. Chris Hipgrave, director of sales for P&H, toured the Paddling Magazine team through the latest evolution of the brand’s best-selling sea kayak at Canoecopia in March 2024. The demo model was one of the first composite Virgos to arrive in North America.
P&H unveils composite upgrade for best-selling touring kayak
“The plastic Virgo is our best-selling sea kayak by far,” Hipgrave said. “It’s really been a runaway success for us. But we’ve been hearing from customers that they want a composite, lighter version on the water. So, we’ve done it.”
“We took all the things that make the plastic Virgo amazing and put it into a lightweight, high-performance composite package,” he added.
Image: Courtesy P&H Sea Kayaks
The new composite Virgo retains all the features that made the original plastic model a hit while shedding considerable weight. The 15-foot plastic Virgo weighs between 54 and 56 pounds, whereas the composite version weighs just 34 pounds.
“We took all the things that make the plastic Virgo amazing and put it into a lightweight, high-performance composite package.”
“Super light,” says Hipgrave. “It still has all the storage. We have a lot of bow and stern storage and our typical four-hatch system. It is exactly the same setup as our plastic boat.”
This new offering will appeal to paddlers who have long appreciated the Virgo’s design but are looking for a higher-performance, lightweight alternative.
Key features of the P&H Virgo include:
V-hull cuts cleanly through the water but softens towards the kayak’s center for comfortable stability.
Functional details include split paddle recesses, a drop-forged, anodized aluminum security point, a paddle park, and a full complement of deck lines and bungees.
Moderate rocker allows the Virgo to pick up and carry speed efficiently when flat but swing around effortlessly on edge.
Flared bow edges give a dry ride through choppy water and lift the boat over waves on the paddle out from the shore.
Celebrating five decades—or thereabouts—of rich, recreational paddling history. | Feature photo: Robert Faubert
When Ottawa River paddlers feel the pull toward Phil’s Hole at the start of a whitewater run this summer, they will have reason to feel nervous. The 60-foot-wide recirc is hard to avoid and has been known to treat kayaks like playthings. They might take some comfort, though, in knowing recreational paddlers have been feeling—and surviving—the same nervousness for half a century now.
50 years of rapids and revelry on the Ottawa River
The large-volume Ottawa River separates Ontario from Quebec and runs through the nation’s capital. It has floated a watershed’s worth of logs downstream to lumber mills, served as a fur trade thoroughfare and hosted Indigenous travel for millennia. And yet, in the early 1970s, the fact it was home to truly world-class rapids seemed to surprise what was then just a nascent whitewater paddling community.
In 1973, Ed Coleman was a university professor in Pennsylvania with a side gig running canoe trips down the rocky Petawawa River in Ontario’s Algonquin Park. After a revealing aerial tour, Coleman told three of his guides to test out the whitewater he had seen “somewhere near Beachburg.”
The three spent a day driving rural roads, trying to get views of the river guarded by unexciting farmers’ fields. Finally, at sundown, they saw huge waves at the end of a pool and camped nearby.
Celebrating five decades—or thereabouts—of rich, recreational paddling history. | Feature photo: Robert Faubert
Guide Phil Coleman, who would later lend his name to the hydraulic welcoming boaters to the run, recounted the next day scouting the Ottawa, getting as far as Garvin’s Chute after following the smaller left, or Middle, channel. “The whitewater was huge. It was clean. It was warm. It was beautiful. All three of us were blown away. We had never imagined such a river.”
The makings of a major destination
News of the rediscovery didn’t get far in the thinly spread whitewater community. A few months later, Hermann and Christa Kerckhoff were promoting their recently founded Madawaska Kanu Centre (MKC) at the Toronto Sportsmen’s Show. Next to them were the Lamont brothers, who ran a wilderness survival school on Calumet Island. The brothers told the kayakers about the monster whitewater downriver from their school. Hermann, who had competed in the 1972 Olympics in slalom kayaking, had a daughter, Claudia, who was 13 then but already the Canadian women’s whitewater champion. The family pulled Claudia out of school one day next spring and drove five hours through the farmland of southern Ontario with two Kevlar kayaks on the roof.
Putting in just downstream of Phil’s, they followed the lazy current not left, where Coleman’s party had gone, but to the right, down the Main Channel.
“We had started to think it had been a waste of time,” says Claudia. Then they saw Black Chute—a.k.a. The Lorne—home to the famous Garburator and Buseater features. “Oh my God,” remembers Claudia. “Neither of us had ever seen whitewater so big.”
After completing the run through massive wave trains at Butcher’s Knife, Normans and Coliseum, they saw the Lamonts and Christa Kerckhoff waiting for them on shore.
“We were bursting,” remembers Claudia. “We had just paddled something the world needed to know about, something that was going to be a major destination.”
She was right. Fifty years later, more than two million people have floated down those rapids on rafts, many with Wilderness Tours, which grew out of Ed Coleman’s outfitting operation. A portion floated with other operators like OWL Rafting, started by the Kerckhoffs and continued by Claudia, her husband Dirk van Wijk, and daughters Stefani and Katrina.
And while most visitors have been raft-borne, the many thousand guides and safety boaters employed by the rafting companies have engendered a playboating scene that grew to global prominence in the 1990s.
Wilderness Tours owner Joe Kowalski guides a raft with former Canadian prime minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau (front left), circa 1981. | Photo: Courtesy Wilderness Tours
Dirk Van Wijk doing an ender at Centre Slot, circa 1980. | Photo: Courtesy Claudia Van Wijk
LJ Wilson surfing Baby Face in a Perception Pirouette, circa 1987. | Photo: Courtesy Claudia Van Wijk
The Ottawa welcomes the world
Joe Kowalski has been running Wilderness Tours since 1974. The former student and guide of Ed Coleman remembers the early days when recreational kayaks were hard to come by and hard to paddle.
“We called them Tupperware boats, like the Perception Dancer,” says Kowalski. Ottawa River eddylines were home to some serious enders, but you could only do so much in these boats.
Then Eric Jackson started showing up for a week or two every summer, and the playboating scene took off in lockstep with more sophisticated boat materials and designs. When the World Freestyle Championships came to the Ottawa River in 1997 and local paddler Ken Whiting won in a capable Wavesport X, the table was set for an explosion in popularity for whitewater and the Ottawa.
The river became a mecca for the world’s top paddlers, including Eric Jackson, Steve Fisher, and locals like Benny Mar, Anna Levesque, Tyler Curtis, Billy Harris and Nick Troutman.
The boats may change, but the stoke remains the same. | Photo: Dan Stewart
They came because the Ottawa is home to features allowing the best paddlers in the world to push the limits of freestyle, but that’s only half the story. The Ottawa scene achieved a critical mass of activity because it’s also, in Kowalski’s estimation, “the world’s best intermediate whitewater river. It’s not extreme, but it has extreme play spots. It’s a great place for people to go from intermediate to advanced.”
The reasons why are many. Numerous hydropower dams upriver spill water from the surface, meaning the Ottawa is unnaturally warm. It flows over granite, not soft sedimentary rock, so there are next to no undercut features or strainers, making it as safe as whitewater of its caliber can be. To top it off, it’s only an hour from the nation’s capital, with paved access close to both sides of the river.
All of which allowed it to have an outsized influence on the paddling community beyond its banks. Alastair Baird has lived on the Ottawa’s banks all his life, worked in the paddling industry, and served as manager of economic development for the local county. He notes many of the rafting companies hired guides from the U.S., New Zealand, South Africa and Europe, who have gone home and contributed to their own whitewater industries. “Similarly, a number of the Alberta, B.C. and Quebec rafting companies were created by people who first worked on the Ottawa. It really kickstarted the industry in Canada.”
The inaugural Ottawa Paddlefest took place June 21 to 23, 2024, celebrating the Ottawa River’s golden anniversary with clinics, films, live music, vendors and shuttles.
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Celebrating five decades—or thereabouts—of rich, recreational paddling history. | Feature photo: Robert Faubert
Call it destiny the day Tom Hudson paddled through the town of The Pas on the Saskatchewan River, some 8,000 miles from his home in New Zealand. Hudson was two months into his solo canoe trip across Canada and leaving The Pas when he heard a dog bark. Something of about the barking gave Hudson pause. He turned his canoe around to investigate and soon the canoeist would rescue the dog from the river.
Man on solo canoe trip across Canada rescues dog from river
Hudson found the dog, which he later learned was a 14-year-old Great Pyrenees named Ivy, along the river bank. Ivy was half submerged under the water, with her rear stuck beneath a log. Hudson was able to free the dog from beneath the log, but she had no strength in her legs.
“She obviously hadn’t been able to rest or sleep, because obviously if she did, her head would have dropped under the water,” Hudson told the CBC. “She was just there in the water, awake and exhausted.”
Ivy wan’t able to move under her own strength. Seeing this, Hudson picked the dog up and loaded her into his canoe. He then looked for the closest home he could find and brought Ivy to the dock. It happened to be Ivy’s home and they had been looking for her for days. Hudson stuck around for a while and recorded Ivy’s reunion with her home as they cared her back to health.
As for Hudson, he’ll continue documenting his canoe trip across Canada. His goal was to reach Montreal this year, however he now expects with the changing seasons it will take him a second year to complete the trip. While the man from New Zealand has attested he has no prior canoe experience, he’ll likely have a new outpouring of fans after empathetically pausing his journey to rescue the dog named Ivy.
Wojciak typed “toddler life jacket” into the Amazon search window and chose one with more than 6,000 five-star reviews. When the vest arrived the next day, Wojciak discovered it was not a true life jacket at all. It was a “life jacket swim vest,” and the label clearly stated it “will not prevent drowning.” Wojciak, a popular content creator with nearly 18,000 followers on TikTok, shared her experience online.
“If you have a baby, please watch this video. I do not want you to make the same mistake that I almost did,” she says in a video that quickly went viral.
In the United States, life jackets for boating are approved by the Coast Guard, assuring they meet certain specifications and have undergone rigorous testing. The vest Wojciak bought didn’t even pass spell check.
“Here is what the inside of the jacket looked like,” she says in the video, pointing out a label that, at first glance, looks a lot like a Coast Guard approved life jacket. “The first red flag is the word ‘intended’ is spelled wrong. It says, ‘intened use: swim vest for kids.’
“It is not a life jacket,” Wojciak continues. “Right here it says, ‘will not protect against drowning.’”
The Amazon listing described the vest Wojciak ordered as a “kids swim vest life jacket.” Even though the term life jacket was included in the product description, the item was in fact a child’s swim vest. They are not the same thing.
A life jacket will protect your child in an emergency. A swim vest won’t.
Yet in a recent search on Amazon for “toddler life jacket” only three of the first 10 results were for U.S. Coast Guard-approved life jackets. The others were swim vests providing less protection. Searches for “Kid’s Life Jacket” and “Children’s Life Jacket” yielded slightly better results, with six of the top 10 results being U.S. Coast Guard-approved.
Amazon isn’t the only online retailer offering swim vests in response to searches for life jackets. Google, Walmart, Target and others fail to make this critical distinction. That means parents should be especially vigilant when purchasing life jackets for their children.
How to be sure your child is protected
When choosing a life jacket, the first thing you should look for is the U.S. Coast Guard approval label. If you’re shopping online, look to see if the Coast Guard approval is included in the listing. You may also be able to see the Coast Guard label in the product photos. The label will be located on the inside back panel of the life jacket.
As Wojciak discovered, the printed labels on some swim vests can look similar to the Coast Guard label—even if the device is not certified. Look closely to make sure your child’s vest is U.S. Coast Guard approved.
Photo: Roland Chanson
The Coast Guard categorizes life jackets by performance Type and/or performance Level.
Level 50, 70, 100, 150
Type I, II, III, V
The number in performance Level devices indicates the minimum buoyancy of the device in newtons. For example, a Level 70 device provides 70 newtons, or 15.74 pounds of buoyancy. That’s roughly equivalent to the 15 pounds of float in a Type III life jacket.
The Coast Guard is transitioning away from the Type ratings, but you’ll still find plenty of new life jackets classified that way, and they’re perfectly fine. The important thing is that any life jacket you buy be Coast Guard approved.
Most kids in a supervised recreational boating situation will be best served by a Type III life jacket. Featuring the classic ski-vest design, Type III jackets are easy to put on, comfortable and, when properly sized, will keep a conscious child afloat with their head above the water until a parent or other rescuer can quickly swoop in. Inflatable jackets of any type are not approved for kids under the age of 16 and are not recommended for nonswimmers.
Kid’s sizes are based on weight, with typical designations being infant (8 to 30 pounds), child (30 to 50 pounds) and youth (50 to 90 pounds). Avoid the temptation to give a child growing room by purchasing a jacket that is too large. A struggling child may sink out of it when in the water.
Takeaway for boaters and parents
U.S. federal law requires all children under age 13 to wear a life jacket at all times while underway, unless they are below deck or in an enclosed cabin. It goes without saying that a swim vest doesn’t cut it.
Life jacket laws vary by state, so be sure to check the rules in your state. Adults engaged in certain water sports, such as wakeboarding, waterskiing or operating a personal watercraft are also required to wear a life jacket in most states.
Every vessel is required to have a U.S. Coast Guard-approved life jacket for everyone on board. Swim vests don’t count. The life jackets must be the proper size for the intended wearer, in good and serviceable condition, and readily accessible.
The best life jacket is the one you wear, so it’s important to shop for life jackets that are both comfortable and approved by the Coast Guard for their intended use. Check the fit each time you go boating and adjust as necessary. This is especially important for growing kids.
It’s important for boaters and parents to understand that a swim vest is not a life jacket. It’s a swim aid. Swim vests have less buoyancy and are intended for use in calm water, like pools. They aren’t a safe option kids on lakes, rivers, or oceans.
Still, the two types of devices look very similar, and after mixing up her own online order Allie Wojciak wanted to make sure other parents were aware of the difference.
“I should have read that description more carefully, but I searched for ‘life jacket.’ This is one of the first that came up and it had so many five-star reviews,” she says in the video, which received more than 270,000 likes. “Luckily we figured that out, I returned it, and got another one that does say it’s Coast Guard certified—an actual life jacket.”
Wojciak has one piece of advice for parents shopping online for life jackets. “Please make sure that it is actually a life jacket, to make sure your baby is safe this summer.
The harbor of Long Beach, California has seen its share of remarkable vessels, but perhaps none as intriguing as the one Los Angeles artist Sam Shoemaker launched on its waters. Shoemaker recently caught the attention of social media with images of a full-size mushroom kayak grown in his studio and bravely brought to a marina adjacent to the second busiest port in the U.S. for a float test.
More specifically, Shoemaker’s kayak is made of the mycelium of a polypore, a shelf fungus, harvested from near his place in Los Angeles. Mycelium is the vast, interconnected, thread-like root network of a fungus that often stretches well beyond the fruiting bodies we see above ground that make their way to grocery aisles. The mycelium of fungus can grow to thousands of acres. With this kind of potential, Shoemaker saw the opportunity to mix art, science and paddling.
“I think that it’s really meaningful for people in the creative community to explore what is possible with these mushrooms,” Shoemaker shared. “And I feel that maybe our understanding of mycelium and how it can be used in these applied ways are pretty rudimentary.”
Sam Shoemaker and the mycelium kayak grown in his Los Angeles studio. Image: Ian Byers-Gamber
Ever incredible fungi
Fungi has shown promise in experimentation as an alternative in industrial applications such as packaging and building materials, even for textiles in the fashion industry. The draw: it is natural, renewable, benefits environmental impact, and to speak to that point further, fungi are decomposers capable of storing carbon.
As a student more than a decade ago, Shoemaker heard of an artist Phil Ross who was creating art installations with mushrooms grown on agricultural byproducts. The idea was fascinating to Shoemaker and the spore to pursue fungi art sprouted. Shoemaker has used the growing organisms as the medium of his sculpture work—which have regularly featured geometric shapes built with molds, then exploding outwardly with fungi. Now his myco sculptures have evolved to a working art taken to the harbor.
“using a wild mushroom collected off the streets of Los Angeles to build a 15-foot boat is a very impractical thing to do.”
A kayak grows in Los Angeles
For Shoemaker, the first step to growing a boat was finding a kayak design to use as a template. He connected with his muse where many others have, on Craigslist. The design, a Malibu Kayaks CK 4.4, a 14-foot sit-on-top from a now defunct brand. Shoemaker used the Craigslist find to produce a two-part mold inside of which he placed hemp as a substrate for the mycelium to consume and grow on. It took just four weeks for Shoemaker’s kayak to reach size. He then dried it in an oven to a cork-like hydrophobic material and coated it with beeswax to seal it. Once complete, the kayak weighed in at 135 pounds.
Shoemaker acknowledged he’s not the first to have pioneered mushroom paddlecraft. That title likely belongs to fellow mycophile Katy Ayers, who showcased her mushroom canoe at the Nebraska State Fair in 2019 and has since gone on to a Fulbright scholarship in advanced biological sciences.
“Katy put a really good and interesting idea into the ether,” Shoemaker credited. “And there’s always been talk of mushroom surfboards. I’m doing things a little bit differently than the way Katy built that boat. I thought it would be interesting to apply some of these different ideas to that idea and do something that could be used on the ocean.”
With the help of friends, Shoemaker carried the mycelium boat of his own to the water in Long Beach and proved he had something that floats.
Feature Image: Ian Byers-Gamber
Seaworthy mycelium
The artist’s post about the successful launch drew more attention than he ever could have imagined. There were plenty of wowed responses, and along with those, plenty of critiques. Some said it was no kayak but a baguette. Others questioned the hefty weight. Aspects Shoemaker openly agreed are part of the process of bioengineering his vessel.
“People have reached out to me about the boat to say, ‘That seems quite heavy and impractical,’ to which I say, using a wild mushroom collected off the streets of Los Angeles to build a 15-foot boat is a very impractical thing to do. If anything, I’m relieved that it only weighs 135 pounds.”
To Shoemaker’s defense, a kayak’s weight is not completely tied to its buoyancy and capability if the design and materials are sound. Popular fishing kayak models today easily tip the scale well beyond 100 pounds.
Shoemaker considers his mushroom kayak a prototype toward a larger goal—producing a craft capable of making the 22-mile open water crossing from L.A. to Catalina Island. The artist was quick to point out this is something he will spend ample time preparing for and will be accompanied by an experienced support crew. Shoemaker hasn’t gotten ahead of himself, however. For now, he has returned to the studio to tinker with his methods and grow more kayak designs if he’s to make the attempt.
“I’m not interested in making props. I want to go on a journey. I want a boat that can actually be used for something.”
Paddle safe and responsibly, always wear a life jacket.
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. 
