Aldo Leopold was a man who wore many hats: writer, philosopher, forester, professor, wildlife manager. And canoeist.

Born in Iowa in 1887, and a graduate of Yale’s School of Forestry, Leopold spent his early professional days in the American Southwest. But he is best remembered for his later years in central Wisconsin, the scene of his classic literary work, A Sand County Almanac.

Sand County is a month-to-month collection of outdoor observations and essays about wilderness, wildlife and the American land ethic. After its publication in 1948— ironically the same year Leopold died of a heart attack while fighting a brush fire on a neighbor’s farm—the book developed a life of its own. It captured an immediate and devoted readership and thrust Leopold into the same company as Thoreau and John Muir—men whose writings have had profound impact on the meaning of nature to humankind and the value of wilderness to our survival.

To Leopold, wilderness encompassed many things, tangible and otherwise, but more than anything else it was a place “big enough to absorb a two weeks’ pack trip, and

kept devoid of roads, artificial trails, cottag- es or other works of man.”

In Sand County, Leopold lamented the fact that self-propelled backcountry travel was rapidly disappearing from the American scene. He wrote: “Your Hudson Bay Indian now has a put-in, and your mountaineer a Ford.” He implored those interested in opening up every last vestige of the country to motorized traffic to pause and reflect. “Mechanized recreation already has seized nine-tenths of the woods and mountains; a decent respect for minorities should dedicate the other tenth to wilderness.”

When Leopold wanted to escape “from too much modernity,” he would seek relaxation on one of Wisconsin’s few remaining undeveloped rivers.

One of his favorites was a 50-mile stretch of the Flambeau within the 90,000-acre Flambeau River State Forest. His impressions then are hauntingly similar to those that paddlers experience today on many of America’s “wild” rivers.

“When I finally launched my own canoe in this legendary stream,” he wrote, “I found it up to expectations as a river, but as a wilderness it was on its last legs.”

Leopold was gravely concerned that civilization’s voracious appetite for wild land would ultimately threaten not only the Flambeau, but all areas that had yet to see a bulldozer, dam or timberjack.

Despite its shortcomings, he heaped praise on the Flambeau: “…at early dawn one can still hear it singing in the wilderness.”

It’s up to all of us to keep that song alive for future generations. Otherwise, as Leopold mused in closing his chapter on the Flambeau: “Perhaps our grandsons, having never seen a wild river, will never miss the chance to set a canoe in singing waters.”

– Larry Rice has canoe-camped on the Flambeau and is glad to report that its tree-lined shores, abundant wildlife and nice stretches of whitewater still make it one of the most beautiful paddles anywhere.

This essay originally appeared in Canoeroots and Family Camping magazine.

What am I supposed to be looking for out here in this canoe? I’m suspicious of how easy it is to zone out, rarely thinking about anything more profound than what’s for dinner.

It’s certainly not because I have all the answers to life’s more difficult quandaries. Can time spent in the Boundary Waters, Adirondacks or Algonquin really provide answers to my questions about life back home? Can hours spent on a webbed seat, kneeling, bug-bitten and sun-baked, really change my outlook on work? My relationships? My path in life? These things creep into my head when I’m out for a paddle.

Most of the time, however, I don’t think about them at all. Instead, I’m focused on the heat, the location of the next portage marker, the bugs, my aching shoulders or, most often, my next meal. My brain is just as scattered here as it is when I’m hours—or days—away, at my desk, behind the wheel of my car or lying awake at night. The meaning of life flits through my mind, then quickly gets pushed aside by the need to hit the shore for a pit stop.

I’ve spent entire Saturday afternoons contemplating the placement of a barrel and portage pack in my canoe, optimizing balance, tilt and access. Then, when I’m back at the car, tying down the boat, I become addled with guilt over not taking advantage of my surroundings to meditate on life.

Isn’t it enough to pick a route, enjoy a different place and relax with a paddle in my hands? Should I be trying to find myself? Is that really what I’m supposed to be doing out here?

So, I force the questions. I try more demanding routes to push myself, hoping to prove what I’m capable of. I slow down, be more mindful and write it all down in my Moleskine.

People are always talking about finding themselves while paddling. Bloggers broadcast mysterious deep sentiments revealed by cedar and canvas. Sales pitches promise journeys of self-discovery. People recently returned from trips glow with an aura that suggests a life-changing event.

This trip, these adventures, this paddle—they’re supposed to mean something. And maybe they do. But when I look back, I’ve never really been able to recognize a life-defining passage while it’s happening. It’s in sharing stories around the campfire circle on future trips, or in flipping back through old journals years later that I gain the perspective that I want so badly to find right away.

I snap myself out of it and focus. How much deep thought and soul-searching is enough to figure it all out? Do I really need to try so hard? I’m not sure. But I know I’m hungry. And, for now, that’ll have to be enough.

This article originally appeared in Canoeroots & Family Camping, Fall 2012. Download our freeiPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it here.

Twenty-five years ago, at the age of 15, my right leg was amputated due to cancer.

After my amputation, my mother sent me to an adventure camp where I was exposed to whitewater canoeing, which sparked my interest in paddling. But it was not until a cold winter day nine years later that I had my first experience in a sea kayak. I was instantly hooked. I loved how the kayak cut through the water with speed and grace, and since I was accustomed to using both arms to get around on crutches, paddling felt natural and I wanted more.

Three months later, a few friends, my future wife and I went on a four-day kayaking trip to Masonboro Island, North Carolina. It was this challenge of not being able to control the elements and environment—having to adapt to tides, weather and unexpected situations— that inspired me.

Over the years, I’ve adapted my kayak as well. I removed the right thigh brace, which serves me no purpose. To compensate, I glued a shaped foam block under my left knee to give me more control with this leg. Next, I modified the right hip pad, turning it vertical so it would push my hip against the back band, giving me a tighter fit in the cockpit. It’s not enough to allow me to roll up or surf to my right side, but it lets me edge my kayak better to the left. Though these are limitations, they are also valuable challenges that keep me humble when on the water.

In 1998, I started an outreach kayaking program for teens at the local YMCA. I wanted to expose youth to situations they could not control, but had to overcome—the difficult lessons I learned as a teen battling cancer. At first, the kids saw me as handicapped. After watching me unload the kayaks from the trailer and gearing them up without skipping a beat, they would quickly realize that limitations are only what you make them. This was the reason why they believed me when I told them they could kayak.

To enhance the quality of the program, I acquired my BCU 3 Star Kayak Award, Rescue Award and Level 2 Instructor. This training was not adapted for me and I was expected to perform all the skills that were necessary to pass the course. I was honored to have my instructor assessment performed by the legendary Derek Hutchinson. By the time I left the Y 10 years later, 1,000 new campers were being given the opportunity to try kayaking each summer.

Kayaking puts me on an even playing field with my peers. After the amputation, I could still do things like cycle and play basketball, but I could never perform at the level I did before. In a sea kayak, I was suddenly ahead of the curve, teaching my friends to be better paddlers.

I have excelled at the sport. Maybe it’s because of all the kids I’ve towed throughout the years, my willingness to paddle out in bigger surf or my love of paddling in rough water. Or maybe it’s just a simple appreciation of overcoming tough challenges.

Wes Hall continues to teach and safety boat in North Carolina and strives to expose more physically challenged people to the benefits of paddling.

The fleeting moment in time captured in the above photo—like every moment in our lives, and every photograph—is unique and unrepeatable. For me, that’s the magic of photography.

In the popular doctrine of photography, this is not a great shot. A professional eye would notice the crooked horizon, over-exposed sky and not-quite-sharp focus. A better composed portrait would not be—or at least not reveal that it was—shot at arm’s length by the subject. Nor would it be shot with a disposable camera purchased pre-loaded with Kodak Max 400 at Wal-Mart.

Professional photography instructor and frequent contributor Neil Schulman notes that in a strong image, the photographer “creates tension and anticipation through composition,” urging the viewer to imagine what happens next. This image contains no such tension, the faces seem relaxed, the anticipation passed. But that is precisely why I like it.

The disheveled hair, tanned faces and satis- fied smiles hint at an exciting story—the subtle “Just give ‘er” stitched into the polypro suggests that it might even be an epic story…

Conor called the Rock to Rock a “rite of passage”—a balls-to-the-wall straight shot down 80 kilometers of Lake Superior coast from Michipicoten Bay’s Rock Island to Sinclair Cove’s Agawa Rock. We slipped our kayaks into the river and drifted out onto the lake at 2:30 a.m. under a moonless sky. As dawn broke somewhere off Grindstone Point, a thick fogbank closed in around us and we placed all of our faith in the magnetically charged needle on Conor’s bow. Another hour of paddling and the fog lifted, the wind came howling out of the north and the lake blew itself into a seething frenzy.

Conor sailed down the wave faces, hooting with delight. The 22-foot tandem that I sterned was less nimble—it wallowed in the troughs like a wounded water buffalo, burying

Kim to her armpits while I perched high and dry on the following wave crest. Conor and the distant shore alternately appeared and vanished behind the lumpy wave tops.

As we neared the soaring rose granite and ancient pictographs of Agawa Rock, the lake seemed to tear at our victory with the combined power of its many manitous. Fuelled by Twizzlers, Mars bars, vitamin I and a fierce desire to stay upright (Kim and I had yet to master the tandem roll), we battled with sets reaching 10 feet high. I’m sure my hapless bow partner wasn’t exactly filled with confidence by my invocation, repeated loudly as each wave descend- ed over us,“holy shit, holyshit, HOLYSHIT!”

We reheated wind-chilled limbs on the sun-warmed, black basalt “survival rocks” in Sinclair Cove before huddling for this self-portrait. When I look at it now, I see all the excitement, euphoria and exhaustion of our 13-hour accomplishment.

It’s said a photograph is worth a thousand words. If this is true—and, at the risk of making my job obsolete, I believe it can be (after all, I’ve just written 500 about this one)—than a photo annual, while light on text, is immeasurably rich in stories. 

Senior editor Virginia Marshall has since upgraded her camera kit, but she still loves the written word.