While out exploring the beach in Green’s Harbour, Newfoundland, Lee Gilbert discovered this gnarled branch framing a view of House Cove. ” I called it the ‘witch’s hand’ due to recovering from ankle reconstruction and my legs were dead tired by the time I walked this small section of remote beach!” says Gilbert, who blogs about his kayaking adventures at A Whole Bunch of Ings.com.
On remote expeditions, your canoe is your number one survival tool. Losing it is not an option. When traveling solo on whitewater expeditions, the only self-rescue gear I have is 100 feet of rope (one 70-foot throw bag plus the painter rope) attached to the canoe and to me.
If I flip, this setup frees my hands to swim hard and reach shore quickly with enough slack to hold my canoe in a dynamic way.
I clip into the rope via a quick-release belt on my PFD. Of course, it’s potentially very dangerous to swim attached to 100 feet of rope—it can snag on rocks and other obstructions, pinning you in the current—but in continuous, high-volume rapids with no recovery pools, this method may be the only option to retrieve your boat.
I only use this solo canoe self rescue technique when the risk posed by losing my boat outweighs the risk of swimming with the rope.
Using this technique has saved my life. Traveling solo on the Nahanni in a September snowfall, I flipped in Wrigley Whirlpool, a nasty rapid that took me by surprise 5 km upstream of its indicated location on my map.
I had just enough rope to swim to shore before the line shuddered with the load of the canoe. With the strong current, swimming my fully loaded canoe to shore would have taken far more time than I had in the icy water.
This article was originally published in Rapid‘s Summer/Fall 2010 issue. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions here, or browse the archives here.
Your remote expedition survival tool. | Photo: Destination Ontario
There’s a difference between being lost and not knowing your whereabouts. Throughout my wilderness travels I’ve succumbed to the second more than the first. On river trips I’ve been totally mystified on which twist or turn of the river I was propelling myself around. I’ve crossed countless lakes, clueless of which bay I was drifting across. I’ve wandered off more portage trails than I care to admit. I even once guided a film crew to the wrong access point on a familiar river—how embarrassing!
Fortunately, being totally lost has been rare. But it has happened. And when it does, the anxiety factor increases dramatically. They say not to panic but when you are truly lost it’s hard not to run through the woods in a cold sweat, waving your arms around, screaming, “I’m going to die! I’m going to die!” at the top of your lungs. At least for me anyway.
My worst case was during a solo trip down the Missinaibi River in my early twenties. It was on an early morning drift when I noticed a lone wolf lapping up water along the bank. As I snapped open my camera box, the wolf took flight into the thick boreal forest. Keyed up from the sighting, I beached my canoe and ran through the bush in hopes of catching up to the animal and capturing it on film.
Ten minutes into the chase I realized the wolf was long gone and I hadn’t a clue where I was. My compass and map, of course, were sitting on the deck of my canoe. Suddenly, each jack pine surrounding me looked identical to the next, the mosquito population seemed to increase considerably and the forest became deafeningly silent. Yes, I began to panic. Who wouldn’t?
My days as a Boy Scout didn’t help much. I retained little from our meetings at the community church every second week, except that moss grows on the north side of the tree. Apparently, it doesn’t. Moss was growing on all sides of the trees where I was standing.
In my youth we didn’t have television shows like Survivor Man or Man vs. Wild. I gathered my woods lore through shows like Grizzly Adams and Gentle Ben.
It was an old episode of The Forest Rangers that saved me. I recalled Joe Two Rivers telling the gang that you can deduce direction from the sun. I remembered that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Since it was early morning and the wolf was sighted on the west bank of the river, I figured that if I walked toward the rising sun, I would eventually get back to the river. I did. And there to greet me was the wolf standing a few feet from my canoe.
This time, when I unsnapped my camera box and the animal dashed into the woods again, I decided to stay put. I jumped back into my canoe and spent the rest of the day being slightly unsure of my whereabouts, but not lost.
Fun fact: Although Kevin Callan is known for his longtime Butt End column in Canoeroots, his debut article was published in the second issue of Rapid in the spring of 1999. His Butt End column kicked off in the Spring 2006 issue of Canoeroots.
Someone tell Kevin the river is behind him and the correct direction is “down.” | Feature photo: Kevin Callan
Usually we don’t have to defend our reasons for paddling because it is so obvious to us why we do it, but a funeral is different. Some time ago a friend of mine went to a funeral for a young man who had been a fellow kayaker. The man had been caught on a log on a difficult run, trapped, and drowned in his kayak. My friend tried to say a few words about him. He found himself talking about how much the man enjoyed kayaking, how he celebrated his time on the river and how much fun he had there.
He thought he’d done a good job explaining, until afterwards several members of the family cornered him and challenged him in an attempt to understand their grief.
How could taking such risks be worth it when it ended this way—a smart 22-year-old with his whole life ahead of him, gone, drowned doing something for fun?
My friend struggled for answers, and slipped into clichés, “At least he died doing what he loved.” At which the mother broke down in tears and said, “I miss my son. Dying isn’t loving.”
Tongue-tied and embarrassed, my friend did the best he could, but later confided to me, “They kept asking questions and I didn’t know what to say. Looking at the mother, I said all the things we normally do but it sounded stupid with her standing there crying.”
When somebody dies paddling, the entire house of cards—the laughter, exhilaration, friendships and good times—suddenly collapses. We’re left with a feeling of pain that is utterly foreign to everything that seems so special about the sport.
We need to try to find answers and dump the clichés in the trash where they belong. Clichés are thoughtless denials whose purpose is to save us from facing the disconnect between what we want to believe and the death that is staring at us. Statements like “that’s the price of pushing the envelope” beg a lot of questions: Why is this envelope so important that its price is death?
I don’t hear many answers on any of today’s blogs or videos. If someone thinks that this cliché is an answer, then he should try it out on the mother of a friend who has died. Hopefully before the words escape his lips, he’ll realize how dumb the statement really is.
We choose to go on the river of our own free will; we don’t have to be there. We aren’t saving our family or waging war against an evil empire. We aren’t doing anything that has value in the outside world. However, we are doing something that can have huge personal value, suffuse our lives with energy and challenge and beauty. But little of that is expressed in the usual reasons that people give, and it certainly isn’t expressed in any cliché I’ve ever heard.
Please, from now on if you hear somebody saying a cheap, unthinking cliché, ask him what he really means. Demand an answer. If we’ve got our finger on the pulse of this wondrous thing called a river, and if we are going to go places where death is a possibility, then we need to think more deeply about why we’re there. Because when you add death into the equation, the answers change.
Doug Ammons has been a world-class kayaker for 25 years, and is a PhD in psychology, musician and martial artist. He was recently named “one of the ten greatest adventurers since 1900” by Outside magazine for his audacious class V solo expeditions.
This article originally appeared in Rapid, Early Summer 2010. Download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it here.
Crystal clear Caribbean waters in Riviera Maya, Quintana Roo, on Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. Where is your paddling paradise? Share your photos and comments below, on Adventure Kayak’s Facebook page, or send to [email protected].
This photo was taken by Flickr user Grand Velas Riviera Maya and is licensed under Creative Commons.
Long-time, affordable recreational kayak manufacuturer Pelican International, based out of Laval, Quebec, has just released a new Premium line of kayaks for Spring 2013. The new Premium kayaks are designed for paddlers who are willing to invest a little more in their kayak, without breaking the bank.
Pelican’s new Premium models offer higher performance hull designs, premium components and features and are made from a new polyethylene RAM-X Premium material. A special additive on the deck creates a glossy finish for a higher-end look, without sacrificing bombproof durability.
Premium sit-in models include:
Escape 100X and 120X:
Liberty 100X
Premium sit-on-top models include:
Strike 100X and 120X:
More information can be found at www.pelicansport.com
This review of Teva Itunda was originally published in Rapid magazine.
The Itunda is yet another solid entry into the somewhat overwhelming field of river sandals. These sandals weigh in on the plush side, with a comfy fabric upper, EVA foam ‘Shocpad’ midsole and quick-adjust, single clip closure. Teva’s Spider Rubber outsole is grippy on slick river rocks, with enough tread to handle rugged portages.
Available in men’s and women’s sizes.
www.teva.com | $100
This article originally appeared in Rapid magazine, Early Summer 2010. Download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it here.
“Day after day I’m more confused / Yet I look for the light through the pouring rain…” Nothing puts the world into perspective quite like a weathered, sun-silvered wave of driftwood. Location: Agawa Bay, Lake Superior.
Want to see your photo here? Send to [email protected] with subject line Daily Photo.
Every year, spring runoff entices paddlers to brave the frigid water, unpredictable levels and boulder-strewn runs of the Northeast. The breadbasket states challenge even seasoned class V paddlers with some of the wildest, most technical drops, canyons, gorges, creeks, undercuts and falls in the country. Rapid asked veteran Northeast hair boaters for their pick of the region’s 12 toughest runs. Pack a clean pair of shorts if you fire up a spring road trip to any of our dirty dozen.
Upstate New York
Each section of the Oswegatchie can be run on its own or combined into one of the best days on any river. The Fine section is paddled the least and has a handful of big, powerful drops that will truly test your courage. The Middle Branch saves its crux for the end of the run— Sluice Falls. This is a steep, multistage drop that pinches through an opening just over a boat width wide with a rock outcropping that can literally knock your block off. Drive hard river left, duck and cover. —Phil Kompass and Geoff Boyd
Danby, Vermont
The continuous nature of the Big Branch can mean 15-minute laps for boaters who know their way around the river or a full-day mission for groups unfamiliar with the run. Slick rock walls line cave drops, but the true beauty of the Big Branch comes from its seemingly endless boofs and relentless action. —Nate Warren
Colton, New York
The Raquette will keep your pride in check. Maybe it’s the hyper-aggressive rock or the shallow—but not shallow enough—slides, or maybe it’s the channel-wide holes that make it so ominous. Starting off with a 50-foot chute into a hungry hole, this river packs a lot of whitewater into its one-and-a-half-mile length, making it great for a multi-run day. —Phil Kompass
Brownville Junction, Maine
Gulf Hagas is a three-mile section of whitewater along the northern reaches of the Appalachian Trail. It boasts clean waterfalls, long technical rapids and mandatory class V. Hundred-foot, overhanging cliff walls with protruding ice formations characterize a typical late spring run down Hagas. A bad place for broken gear, this is frequently a place of broken egos, too. —Nate Warren
Franconia Notch, New Hampshire
The put-in for this run used to be right below the Old Man in the Mountain, a famous rock formation that can be seen on signs and license plates throughout New Hampshire. They didn’t move the put-in; the old man’s face fell off in 2003. As for the river itself, its challenging drops are most difficult at high water when the granite slides are fluid and the perpetual whitewater causes sections to blend together. —Nate Warren
East Middlebury, Vermont
The Middlebury Gorge is one of the holiest places to paddle. The inner gorge is sure to amaze even the most well traveled boater with a 15-foot vertical drop, an elusive boof and two undercut eddy pools below. If you don’t know the lines, follow close behind someone who does. Otherwise you risk landing in one of the many undercuts that make a clean run through the Middlebury so critical. If the first quarter mile feels like boat abuse, you probably hit the gorge at its best. —Nate Warren
Degrasse, New York
Lengthy canyons and some of the biggest drops in New York make this stretch of the Grass one of the toughest runs in the state. It’s also typically snowing when the Twin Falls section is at a runable level, adding to the rush. —Geoff Boyd
Fowlersville, New York
No list of tough rivers in the Northeast is complete without the Moose. Spring flows typically make this run quite juicy with some pretty serious holes along the way. Multiple lines are available for each drop, allowing you to make your day as tough or not-quite-as-tough as you want. —Geoff Boyd
Keene, New York
A Lake Placid area standout, the Boquet keeps creekers who have spent too much time away from the mountains from getting soft. One mistake can quickly lead to another on this hectic river where wild rapids and gnarly boulders keep your mind and body fully alert. —Phil Kompass
Pike County, Pennsylvania
Dumping into the Delaware Water Gap, this two-mile creeky section is white-knuckle all the way. Steep slides, 90-degree turns, undercuts, 20-foot drops and narrow slots round out Hornbeck’s host of nasty features. Strainers and sieves add to the technical nature of this run—a great opportunity to brush up on your scouting skills. —Michael Mechan
Livermore, New Hampshire
This four-mile boulder garden in the Mt. Washington valley is worth the long drive and hike in. Bring an experienced Sawyer paddler or be prepared to spend a good chunk of your day scouting. The river has few distinct rapids and it gets steeper as it progresses. Don’t make this your warm-up run for the season. —Nate Warren
Keene Valley, New York
It takes time, effort and luck just to put on this damn run. John’s Brook is much steeper than the pool and drop rivers most characteristic of the Northeast. The unrelenting pitch, healthy dose of wood and sieves, and difficult, continuous class V whitewater make this run stand out on the list of contenders. —Phil Kompass
This article originally appeared in Rapid magazine, Spring 2011. Download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it here.
Wisconsin resident Mary Fairchild is fascinated by her region’s geology, “Located between the Great Lakes and the Mississippi River, Wisconsin is divided into five distinct geographical regions providing a variety of amazing hiking and kayaking.”
This photo was taken by Flickr user Mary Fairchild/Mfairlady and is licensed under Creative Commons.
This article was first published in the Summer/Fall 2011 issue of Canoeroots Magazine and was republished in the 2023 Paddling Buyer’s Guide.