We hadn’t even backed out of the driveway and we were only going eight minutes to the general store for a bag of milk. This had to stop.
I could hardly blame them, the seven-inch LCD screen hung there from the ceiling. It was like taking a date to a sports bar and trying not to watch the game. Besides, it was far too easy to stop the whining by just pressing play.
For our family, this habit started innocently enough. We live a five-hour drive from both sets of grandparents. That’s a long way to be strapped into car seats. For long trips, Disney is a good way to pass the time. But, like most bad habits, you think you can stop whenever you want until you realize you’re pressing play on a drive to the corner store.
My problem with in-car entertainment systems is that pressing play turns me into a chauffeur. I may as well be rolling up the plexiglass of a limo: “I’ll drive. You kids enjoy the movie; help yourselves to the mini-bar.” This is not the way it’s supposed to be.
When I was a kid, getting to ride with my dad on saturday mornings was a special treat. I looked forward to it all week. The Silverado emblem on the red steel dash, the rumble of the diesel engine and the smell of Export A zregular smoke that didn’t escape out the triangular, no-draft window he’d crack for me. It was 1979 and I was eight years old, legs dangling from the bench seat and the Gatlin Brothers’ All the Gold in California crackling out of the AC Delco speakers. I don’t remember where we were going or what we did. It didn’t matter; those Saturday mornings I was riding with Dad.
My new DVD player rule—no movies on adventure days—came about last fall on a drive to Algonquin Park. We’d planned a hike, playing naked (them, not me) on remote beaches and then a bike ride for ice cream. It was the Daddy Day that we’d been looking forward to all week. and it began with, “Can we watch a movie?”
If all I can remember of the trips with my dad is the drive, this is likely to be true for my kids. I don’t want their memories of our Saturday adventures with me to be Finding Nemo piped through wireless headphones.
To make things easier, my new truck doesn’t have an on-board entertainment system. We play eye spy, tell stories, talk, sleep (them, not me) and watch the 3-D super-wide screen—looking out the windows. And, we listen to music.
To our adventures with Dad ipod playlist I’ve added All the Gold in California, but their favorite is Joan Jett’s, I Love Rock N’ Roll.
Now when we head to the ski hill or the lake, before we back out of the driveway I hear, “Dad, can we rock it out?”
Even if they don’t remember our canoe trips in the Barron Canyon, and all they remember is singing with their dad, I’m okay with that.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.
From the riverbank, a family motioned for us to pull ashore. The mother, father, two teens and kid brother regarded us curiously. Their jean shorts and Nike t-shirts contrasted with the landscape behind them, a boundless expanse of forest, steppe and mountains rambling off to the horizon.
I glanced back at Eric on the stern seat. “Might as well go say hello,” he said, steering our heavily laden canoe toward shore. Ulysse and Elsa followed in the second canoe. Pulling ashore, we exchanged greetings, “Sain bainuu”—Mongolian for, hello. When we asked what they were doing, the family showed us a large pail filled with red currants and pointed toward the forest. We presented our own small bag of sad-looking berries that we had picked a couple days before.
The game of show-and-tell continued as the family matriarch unwrapped a newspaper containing five plump fish. Again, we displayed our modest catch: a six-inch fish that Eric had reeled in hours before. Surprisingly, it was the first fish of our trip.
Half a year prior, preparations for our three-month journey through Mongolia and Russia had included shipping canoes, applying for visas, navigating a labyrinth of logistics and learning useful phrases in not one, but two languages. We scrounged for what little information existed on the route’s rivers and lakes. Among our research was rumor of the region’s piscine delicacies.
In Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia’s capital, we packed our food and purchased a few last pieces of gear. Back from shopping, Ulysse proudly showed me his two fishing rods and exclaimed,
“We will eat fish every night!”
His bearded face glowed beneath a hat that was stitched with the words, Serious fish. He had even brought along all the ingredients required to make sushi.
From Ulaan Baatar, we drove for three days over unmarked, rough tracts in an overloaded Chinese van. After getting stuck in a bog for five hours, our driver motioned he could go no further. We portaged and paddled the last 70 kilometers to the northern tip of Lake Khovsgol in far northwestern Mongolia.
From Khovsgol we could see the serrated peaks that formed the Russian border. Our destination, Lake Baikal, was just 200 kilometers east as the lammergeier flies, but we were following the natural flow of the water on a meandering, 2,000-kilometer semi-circle through the steppe and taiga forest.
Khovsgol was nicknamed “the blue pearl” for its pristine, turquoise water—so clear that we could see the fish swim up to our hooks, and right on past. Situated in a transition zone between Siberian taiga and Central Asian steppe, the lake area is protected as a national park larger than Yellowstone. Rolling hills silhouetted the eastern horizon, while the high mountains on the opposite shore still carried snow.
The environment created dramatic weather patterns: in the morning we enjoyed warm July sunshine, but the afternoon skies frequently turned dark and stormy. We spent a week paddling 126 kilometers south to the lake’s major outflow, the Eg River.
We arrived at the Eg to find the river in full flood.
The narrow, braided channels caused more difficulties than we had expected. Strainers—fallen trees through which the stiff current flowed heedlessly—hid around every corner. Often just six meters wide, the river sometimes whipped us around a bend only to find a tangle of branches completely blocking our path. Our 17-foot canoes dumped and pinned on several occasions. Fishing rods lay forgotten at the bottom of the canoes as we focused instead on paddling 40–50 kilometers a day. The Eg, and the Selenge River into which it flowed, were hailed for their world-class sport fishing. Native taimen, members of the salmon family, grew up to 1.5 meters long and weighed up to 50 kilograms, making them some of the world’s biggest freshwater fish.
We didn’t see any elusive taimen in the Eg, or downstream in the equally murky Selenge. Where the rivers met, however, we remembered a local fisherman’s advice: “The best place to fish is at the confluence of two rivers.” Seizing the opportunity, Eric cast a line into the water and was rewarded with a bite. Not a giant taimen, but our hoots and hollers could be heard from miles away as he reeled in our first catch.
It is just a few hours later that we meet the Mongolian family. It’s not our first encounter with the locals who live along the riverbanks. A couple days earlier we had helped a sick man, his family and two doctors across the river to an ambulance waiting on the other side. Now, we notice the family seems more interested in our canoes than our puny harvest. They, too, are looking for a shuttle across the river.
By the time we have successfully ferried the family and their gear across, we have exhausted our Mongolian vocabulary and offer the mother our phrase-book. She rifles through the pages, pointing to key words: eat, food, sleep, house. She gestures downstream and we follow.
The family help haul all our gear up to their house, located just downstream in a village that shares its name with the river: Selenge. The small dwelling is a one-room log cabin equipped with two windows, a tin roof, a TV and a karaoke machine. The house sets them apart from a vast number of their countrymen—30 percent of Mongolians are nomadic herders, a greater number per capita than in any other country. The nomads live in gers, traditional Mongolian yurts that can be quickly dismantled and relocated from season to season.
We are motioned to join the family in sitting on the floor. Soon we are served traditional hot, salted goat milk tea and a stew of noodles and meat. The Mongolian diet is mostly derived from the animals they herd: meat, fat and a hard-dried, slightly moldy milk product they call cheese. Short, flat noodles are mixed with unidentifiable meat and cubes of fat in a big, cast iron pot and served for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Complementing this diet is Mongolia’s specialty drink, araig—fermented mare’s milk served warm. The family proudly pours us each a glass.
When it’s time to sleep, we move the remains of dinner aside and lay our mats and blankets on the floor beside those of the family. Six of us can barely lie shoulder to shoulder, the three children sleep in a space by the door and the dog curls up on the last available square foot. It’s very cozy.
For the next two days, the kids keep us busy touring the town, swimming in the river, hiking to a Buddhist statue, dressing up in traditional Mongolian clothing and playing soccer in the nearby fields.
The Selenge meanders into Russia, eventually branching out to create a delta that stretches 30 kilometers wide. The banks slowly give way to a swampy marsh. We inhale a cool breeze, eagerly awaiting our first glimpse of the lake we have heard and read so much about—Baikal. Finally it comes into view, a blue expanse stretching out to the horizon.
Baikal is literally a sea of superlatives. At roughly 25 million years old, it is the most ancient lake on Earth. Sometimes referred to as Russia’s Galapagos, it’s home to over 1,200 endemic animal species. Most famous of these are the nerpa seals, the planet’s only freshwater seals. We often spot them curiously watching our canoes from a safe distance.
Nestled in a rift between continental plates, Baikal’s depth reaches 1,637 meters, making it the world’s deepest lake. This incredible depth, combined with a surface length of 636 kilometers and a width of 60 kilometers, means Baikal holds more water than all five Great Lakes combined—20 percent of the world’s unfrozen fresh water.
The lake’s size makes it a daunting place to paddle. When the winds pick up the swell can grow to several meters in height.
An old fisherman spots us and rows his small wooden boat in our direction. A tattoo of a lighthouse is inked into the weathered skin of his right arm; his face is wrinkled from a lifetime spent under the screaming Siberian sun. He looks each of us in the eye, and through very animated sign language, warns us of Baikal’s violent storms: Never stray far from shore.
The lake marks the final leg of our journey. We’ll spend the next three weeks paddling around Baikal’s southern tip to its only outflow, the Angara River, and finish in the metropolis of Irkutsk.
We pull ashore on the first sandy beach we spot and celebrate our arrival Russian style: with a shot of vodka and a dive into the frigid waters. Tonight we’ll dine on omul, a delicious Baikal fish—courtesy of our generous fisherman friend.
The Vada Canoe Team
(left to right)
ULYSSE BERGERON
Economic journalist by trade, Ulysse is passionate about nature, writing and traveling. He has voyaged to the far north, paddling the Yukon and Mackenzie rivers. A gustatory optimist, Ulysse always believes the meal he is currently eating is the “greatest ever.”
ERIC McNAIR-LANDRY
Brother and sister duo Eric and Sarah specialize in skiing and kite skiing expeditions to the cold, desolate parts of the world, including Antarctica, the North Pole and Greenland. Adventure seeking is in the McNair genes—Eric and Sarah were raised in Iqaluit, Nunavut, by renowned Arctic explorers Matty McNair and Paul Landry; their grandparents were three-time U.S. National Canoe Slalom Champions. A Jack-of-all-trades, Eric is able to build a flying machine with only a knife, duct tape and one shoe.
ELSA FORTIN-POMERLEAU
Elsa cut her paddling teeth on Quebec’s whitewater rivers. She’s just getting started, recently completing a degree in outdoor education and joining the team in Mongolia for her first big expedition. Trip mates revere Elsa’s five-star camp meals and her ability to stay incomprehensibly clean on trip.
SARAH McNAIR-LANDRY
Sarah is the youngest person to have reached both the North and South poles. Frequently traveling with brother Eric, she has an impressive résumé of skiing, dog sledding and kite skiing expeditions. Sarah was inspired to return to Mongolia after she and Eric became the first to cross the Gobi desert using kites and buggies. Allergic to the 9-to-5, she has directed several adventure and environmental documentaries.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.
For the record, we’ve never met a kid who doesn’t dig animals. If you’re looking for a can’t-miss family adventure, try a wildlife theme. There are a herd of wonderful animal-, bird- and even insect-watching opportunities from coast to coast every month this summer. From May to September, this safari list helps you go where the wild things are and inspire your budding biologists.
Moose on the Loose
Since the first two moose were introduced to Newfoundland in 1878 and another four in 1904, the island’s population has grown to over 120,000—the densest in North America with one moose for every four Newfoundlanders. The animals are so numerous that a Canadian Geographic documentary called them “thousand-pound rabbits on stilts” and, earlier this year, a St. John’s lawyer launched a class action lawsuit against the provincial government for failing to control the population. The abundance of moose may have some locals miffed, but it almost guarantees a glimpse of these magnificent animals. Head to Gros Morne National Park in late spring when moose supplement their diets with salt runoff from roadside ditches. While there, hike some of the beautiful trails and take a cruise on Western Brook Pond beneath massive, billion-year-old cliffs.
Puffin Patrol
Kids love watching the antics of puffins. With their colorful, toucan-like bills and awkward splashdowns, puffins resemble clowns with wings. During summer, the birds abandon their lives on the open ocean for a brief stint ashore to nest. Five islands off the Maine coast provide the only Atlantic puffin viewing in the United States. The best is Machias Seal Island, a grass-covered rock 10 miles equidistant from Maine’s Downeast Coast and Canada’s Grand Manan Island. Tour boats depart daily from Cutler, ME, and Grand Manan, NB, and land visitors on the island where a ranger answers questions and blinds offer viewing from as close as three feet. On your tour, you’ll also visit a seal colony and, if you’re lucky, spot resident humpback or north Atlantic right whales.
Bat Buffet
Southeastern New Mexico’s Carlsbad Caverns National Park is best known for its incredible cave complex: over 117 caves including North America’s deepest, third longest and largest chamber—the 8.2-acre Big Room. The caves are widely recognized as some of the world’s most spectacularly decorated—cave speak for the remarkable, naturally forming mineral structures inside. Each evening in summer, however, a spectacle of a different kind erupts from the park’s namesake Carlsbad Cavern. Nearly 400,000 Mexican free-tail bats swirl like a living tempest out of the cavern entrance, embarking on a nightly feeding frenzy that devours several tons of insects. Head to the viewing amphitheatre at sunset for front row seats of the action. Of course, while you’re there, don’t miss out on one of the self-guided or ranger-led family-friendly cave tours.
Catching Caribou
Lake Superior’s Slate Islands are home to one of the most southerly and readily viewable woodland caribou populations. Lying 12 kilometers off the lake’s north shore, this rugged, circular cluster of islands was formed by an ancient meteorite impact. Because of their isolation—no natural predators live on the Slates; the caribou crossed over ice in 1907 during a rare winter freeze—these normally shy animals will stroll curiously into your campsite and swim fearlessly across the narrow channels between islands. The Slates are accessed by boat from the nearby towns of Terrace Bay or Marathon. The inner harbor of the archipelago is sheltered from Superior’s notorious winds and can be explored by canoe or sea kayak. Kids will also enjoy exploring the network of caribou trails that criss-cross the islands and the light station at Sunday Harbour.
Kodiaks and Sockeye
Every summer, vast numbers of West Coast salmon return from the sea to spawn in the rivers where they were born. The sight of hundreds of thousands of fish thrashing and leaping their way up clear mountain streams is remarkable in itself, but if fish don’t get your family’s pulses racing, the local mega-fauna certainly will. In southeastern Alaska and northern British Columbia, sleuths of grizzly bears gather at river mouths and rapids to gorge on the frenzied fish. Take a floatplane or boat to Alaska’s Katmai National Park in July to watch hundreds of bears fishing at Brooks Falls. Three observation platforms accessed via short hiking trails provide safe lookouts while the bears wait for salmon to literally leap into their mouths. Camp or stay at the private Brooks Lodge, and bring your fly rods for world-class sockeye fishing.
Where the Buffalo Roam
Yellowstone National Park sprawls across 2.2 million acres and three states— Wyoming, Idaho and Montana—making it a bit daunting for first-time visitors. But don’t worry, aspiring Animal Planet ambassadors don’t have to scour the whole park; head instead to the richest congregation of its famous wildlife—the Lamar Valley. Spend a day rubbing shoulders with hardcore wildlife watchers in this northeast corner of the park, where many of Yellowstone’s 3,000-plus bison share the meadows with elk, pronghorn antelope, wolves, grizzlies and black bears. Go in August during the rut to watch bison bulls face off in ground-shaking dominance displays. No visit to Yellowstone is complete without hiking among the spouting geysers at Upper Geyser and Norris Basins.
Monarch Migration
People have been watching migrating monarchs for thousands of years. But until 1975—when butterflies tagged in Canada were discovered in the volcanic mountains of central Mexico—we had no idea where they were going. It turns out the delicate creatures are driven by an insatiable hunger for milkweed. Every year in late summer, thousands of butterflies begin the 3,000-kilometer migration south. When the energy-conscious monarchs reach the Great Lakes, they search for shorter ways across. On the north shore of Lake Erie, Ontario’s Point Pelee National Park provides an excellent start. For the best viewing, go in September and hope for cold weather and southerly winds. The rabble will roost in the trees to wait for better flying conditions. Bring binoculars to join a park naturalist for daily migration counts and bicycles for the park’s scenic paths.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.
The moon is about 238,900 miles (384,000 kilometers) away from Earth. It has roughly one quarter Earth’s girth, an eighth its mass and one sixth its gravity.
Because of the difference in length between calendar months and the lunar cycle, every two to three years, one season will have an extra full moon. In a season with four full moons, The Farmers’ Almanac calls the third a blue moon.
Michael Jackson first popularized the moonwalk performing his 1983 hit song, Billie Jean.
Because of its orbit and rotation, we always see the same side of the moon.
2011 marks the 32nd annual Mooning of Amtrak Day in Orange County, California, an event that is just what its name suggests—some 10,000 participants bare their bottoms at passing trains.
The moon’s gravitational pull on Earth is the main cause of the rise and fall of ocean tides.
There are rumors that Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon synchronizes perfectly when played as a soundtrack for the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz. The band denies the connection.
The last moon landing took place in 1972. A total of 12 astronauts have walked on the moon. Or have they…?
Margaret Wise Brown wrote the iconic children’s bedtime story Goodnight Moon in 1947. Goodnight room, Goodnight moon, Goodnight cow jumping over the moon.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.
Tying your shoes is one thing, but how about some knots that help around camp? Once you’ve mastered these you’ll be able to tie up your canoe, set up your tarp like a pro and stop your draw string from getting lost in your waistband. Have some fun around the campfire practicing these handy knots.
A Taut Line Hitch
lets you adjust the tension on a rope, making it great for setting up tarps and tightening tent fly lines. Practice tying the hitch around a stick.
Start by passing one end of your rope around the stick and crossing it over the long part of your rope. Make sure to leave a long tail.
Next, bring the tail of the rope up through the loop from behind.
Bring the tail of the rope up through the loop a second time, from the same direction.
Now, bring the end down alongside the long part of your rope and cross it underneath, creating a new loop.
Bring the tail around the long part of your rope and pass it down through your new loop.
Pull your hitch tight. the knot should slide easily up and down the rope until it’s under tension, when it should grip the rope and stay tight.
A Square Knot
or reef knot can be used to tie two lines together.
Make an X by crossing the end of the left-hand rope over the end of the right-hand rope.
Bring the left-hand end down behind the right-hand end, and back overtop again.
Repeat the process, making another X with the new right-hand end overtop of the new left-hand end.
Bring the right-hand end behind the left- hand end and back overtop.
Pull both ends to tighten.
A Bowline
is a secure knot that creates a loop in the end of your rope. It’s perfect for tethering a rope to your canoe and your canoe to a dock or tree.
Make a loop near one end of your rope.
Take the short end, or tail, of your rope and feed it up through the loop.
Next, take the tail and wrap it around the long end of your rope.
Feed the tail back down through the loop.
Tighten the knot by pulling the ends and the loop.
A Figure Eight Knot
is used as a stopper-knot. Tie one on the end of your drawstring to stop it from getting lost. it’s also the basis behind many more complicated knots used in boating and rock climbing.
Cross one end of your rope over the long part of your rope, creating a loop.
Then, pass the tail under the long part of your rope.
Feed the tail back through the original loop you created.
Pull your eight tight.
Up for a challenge?
Try tying a figure eight behind your back, a one-handed bowline or a square knot with your eyes closed. grab a friend and have a tie-off to see who can tie a taught line hitch the fastest.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.
Mushrooms are mysterious and magical, and when identified and prepared properly, wild varieties can be a delectable addition to any camp meal. Like any other activity in the backcountry, good judgment is your best tool when collecting wild edibles. Beginners should consult an expert or thorough guidebook and everyone should forage by the wisdom that if you’re not completely sure what it is, leave it in the wild.
Here’s a taste of three types of wild fungi to inspire your next trip meal.
Sulphur Shelf
Description: The sulphur shelf grows on deciduous trees in clumps of overlapping caps with no stems or gills. look for brilliant orange-red caps and pale sulfur-yellow undersides.
Where and When: You’ll find them from mid-summer through fall across North America. The sulphur shelf always grows in clusters on living trees or deadwood.
Cooking: It’s also known as the chicken mushroom because of its texture and taste. Cut off the outer edges of the caps and simmer them in stock for 45 minutes to bring out their meaty flavor.
Golden Chanterelles
Description: Look for trumpet-shaped caps with wavy edges. Their flesh is frim and white and they smell slightly fruity. Chanterelles’ gills are think, blunt-edged, fork towards the outside of the cap and run partway down the stem.
Where and When: This type grows on the ground and is not to be confused with look-a-likes that grow on wood. Find them in hardwood forests from Alaska to Florida, and everywhere in between, throughout the summer and into the fall.
Cooking: Because they’re tough, chanterelles require long, slow cooking. Best sautéed, cook them in butter until they’re tender and then season them with salt and pepper.
Common Morels
Description: Morels are easy to recognize and delicious to eat. their elongated caps are attached to the stem at the bottom and covered with distinctive brown pits and white ridges.
Where and When: Look for morels growing on the ground in moist areas and in streambeds across the continent. They pop up during the few weeks just after the first spring flowers bloom.
Cooking: Morels need to be cooked thoroughly to ensure edibility. They go well with butter and garlic so try them with a pasta dish or on garlic bread.
If it’s your first time eating a specific mushroom varietal, start with a very small amount—even types known to be safe can cause reactions in some people. Be sure only to pick where permitted. And remember, always do your research when hunting for wild edibles so you don’t confuse your choices with a poisonous species.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.
Ric Moxon charges into Wicked Wanda. On the Stikine, you scout massive holes and then you run them. No whining. | Feature photo: Maximilian Kniewasser
We haven’t been on the river two hours and things are already borderline unmanageable. With the level at a raging 20,000 cfs, eddies have disappeared and the rapids flow one straight into the next. Austin Rathman, my good friend and sole partner in this adventure, and I somehow make it to camp one, over-adrenalized but safe for the time being. We pitch our tent just as torrential rains begin that will dump through the night.
The next morning we face a tough decision: Continue downstream on one of the continent’s hardest rivers at a level that is already too high and surely rising fast, or attempt a three-day hike out through northern Canada’s remote, grizzly-infested wilderness, where we may get lost, frozen or eaten.
The steep walls of the Day Two Narrows make escape impossible. | Photo: Maximilian Kniewasser
50% success rate
When I started kayaking and first heard about the Grand Canyon of the Stikine, considered by many the Everest of rivers, my imagination ran as wild as the class V rapids I made my goal to one day challenge. I became captivated—friends and family would say obsessed—with the river. I learned about every trip down the canyon.
Rob Lesser led the first team into the gorge in 1981, running most of the river at a very high level but pulling out short of a complete descent. Four years later, Lesser returned with a smaller team and helicopter support to realize the descent. In 1990, Lesser, Tom Shibig and Doug Ammons made the first self-supported descent, redefining expedition kayaking. Then, in 1992, Ammons completed a daring solo run, a feat often compared in paddling circles to Reinhold Messner’s solo of Everest.
Thirty years and over 30 expeditions on, Stikine trips still face only about a 50 percent success rate. Many crews have been forced to climb out of the gorge, sometimes in the most dramatic manner. In 1989, a barefoot Bob McDougall free climbed hundreds of feet up the vertical walls above Entrance Falls after nearly drowning in the rapids below.
These stories gripped me. I studied topo maps of the area and berated friends with tales of a canyon so deep that almost no sun reaches the bottom. A canyon where the only way through is to survive 100 kilometers of some of the most treacherous, most remote whitewater on earth.
As I grew better and more experienced, the trip migrated from distant fantasy to real possibility. After three years gaining experience in multi-day expedition boating, I thought I was ready.
Ben Hawthorne gets a taste of what’s to come at Entrance Falls, the first rapid of the Grand Canyon. | Photo: Maximilian Kniewasser
Ric Moxon, Taylor Cavin, Ben Hawthorne, Daz Clarkson, the author and Cody Howard celebrate after surviving V-Drive. | Photo: Maximilian Kniewasser
A lesson on the raw power of the Stikine
It’s late August when Rathman and I decide to run the Stikine. We’ve been checking conditions for a trip on the Homathko River, but our research shows a fair weather window for more northern British Columbia— Stikine country. We don’t know anything about the water level—the only way to know this is to stand 100 feet above the river on the bridge at Highway 37.
Stikine veteran Scott Lindgren calls the two-day drive north on the Stewart Cassiar Highway, “The longest, loneliest, most apprehensive drive that a kayaker can face.” Rathman agrees.
He’s been here before. Almost two years ago, Rathman was part of a team that put on with too much water. The trip was a reality check, a lesson on the raw power of the Stikine. With two horrendous swims, one of them by Austin, the team abandoned any hope of a descent and made a grueling three-day hike out.
The water level at the bridge is a tough guess. We put on and float seven kilometers downstream to Entrance Falls, the first rapid of the Grand Canyon. Scouting this rapid requires us to scale the 500-foot cliffs that funnel the river into a narrow chaos of whitewater. From our aerie, we can see the house-sized boulder mid-river of which it’s said, “Five feet go, one foot no.” Squinting from this height, we aren’t sure how much is showing above water.
Not that it matters anymore. We are here and we are ready. Rathman wants to face the beast that nearly killed him. I am eager to run the river I have been gripped by for so long.
Paddling into Entrance Falls, I barely see the top of the rock we scouted. Both of us have great lines through the enormous, crashing waves and our euphoria blinds us to this last potential warning sign. By the time we realize there is way too much water in the canyon, it’s too late—any route other than downstream now seems undesirable at best.
Ric Moxon enjoys the fall colors on one of the canyon’s few open sections. | Photo: Maximilian Kniewasser
A second attempt down the Stikine
Precisely three years and 15 days later— mid-September 2010—I stood once again by the Highway 37 bridge, posing for a group shot at the infamous Stikine sign. This time the pre-trip photo would show six grinning faces—old and new friends Ric Moxon, Taylor Cavin, Ben Hawthorne, Cody Howard, the one and only Daz Clarkson and myself— in front of the words, WARNING Grand Canyon Of The Stikine Extremely Dangerous Rapids Downstream Unnavigable By All Craft.
I had spent a great deal of time contemplating whether or not I would dare a second attempt. But, like Rathman before me, it was now my turn to face my demons. As first descent team member Lars Holbeck famously said: “I should go back someday and see if it really is as scary as I remember.”
The river beneath the bridge was running at medium flow, a much more manageable 12,000 cfs. Instead of a torrent of brown mud, the water was clear and green. With fine weather the whole time, the level remained consistent for the three days we would spend in the canyon.
Even so, the whitewater was at the absolute limit of what is runnable. The Stikine tested us with massive, complex puzzles like Pass or Fail, and made certain we never forgot where we were.
Portaging around Site Z rapid, Daz fell nearly 30 feet onto jagged rocks and was lucky to emerge with only cuts and bruises. Ric’s skirt imploded when he got stuck in a monster hole, causing him to swim for his life just upstream of The Wall. Entering V-Drive, Ben was scooped up by the top wave and hurled 50 feet through the air, clearing the school bus-sized hole below.
Finally, I endured the most violent trashing of my life in The Hole That Ate Chicago. The possibility of swimming out of The Hole through the rapids below was a nightmarish scenario and a late reminder that the river was far more powerful than I ever could be.
Daz Clarkson squeezes through Tanzilla Slot, the end of the canyon. | Photo: Maximilian Kniewasser
Austin Rathman and the
author battle butterflies
in 2007. | Photo: Maximilian Kniewasser
Going battle
In the damp chill of dawn, Rathman and I agree that our best option is to head downstream. In order to beat the flood that we fear will soon catch us up, we’ll try to paddle out of the canyon today, running the normal day two and three sections in one shot.
The madness starts with the notorious Site Z ferry, which leads straight into the Day Two Narrows, the deepest and darkest reach of the canyon. We are survival boating, simply reacting to the exploding masses of water—the lines don’t exist. Scouting is impossible for most rapids and too time costly besides. We get swallowed by boils, slammed against walls and stuck in cavernous holes. The size of the features and the raw force of the water are far beyond what we imagined possible. A swim here would be fatal.
I don’t see Austin. He disappeared some time ago, and as the seconds continue to drag past, I begin to fear the worst. Should he have been ripped from his boat, there would be nothing that I could do for him. On the Stikine, you may have a team for mental support, but on the water you are on your own.
At last Rathman emerges from the bottom of the rapid; he’d been stuck in a nasty pocket eddy with an eddy fence surging several meters high. Exhausted from this ordeal, we plunge onward and are pulled blindly into Scissors.
Frequently portaged, Scissors is widely regarded as the most consequential rapid on the river due to the badly undercut rocks into which the current drives. Luckily for us, the undercuts are well below the rising water and we wash through unscathed. Later, we run V-Drive—indescribably massive at this level—and eventually make it to Tanzilla Slot, a five-foot-wide defile signaling the end of the immense canyon. We explode through the gap riding 20,000 cfs—well above maximum recommended flow for a Stikine run.
When we finish the class IV run-out below the canyon, we are brothers who have gone to battle and come out the other side as changed men. Just how changed I have yet to realize.
I don’t get in a kayak for nearly a year after we return from the Stikine. Once back in a boat, things aren’t the same. On difficult whitewater, I’m nowhere near as confident. It’s a long time before I regain my mental strengths and begin to charge as hard as I used to.
Photo: Maximilian Kniewasser
A reward from the river
Despite the occasional humbling beat-down, my second round on the Everest of Rivers was as close to a perfect trip as I could have hoped. The clear, crisp autumn air made the Stikine’s already spectacular geology a little extra remarkable. Fall colors—the brilliant gold of trembling aspens, birch and tamarack—glowed in mesmerizing patterns in the warm, low-angled light. Mountain goats skillfully climbing the steep 1,000-foot walls served as a sense of scale and put the grandeur of the place into true perspective.
After returning home, memories of amazing scenery, great campfire banter and exciting but enjoyable rapids quelled any lingering nightmares from my earlier descent.
I can’t help but wonder if the Stikine rewarded me for my willingness to face its deep gorges for a second time. It wasn’t easy to overcome three years of haunting doubt, but it certainly was worth it. In returning, I was able to fully absorb the magic of the canyon and appreciate the intimacy of the experience.
A trip down the Grand Canyon of the Stikine shows our sport in all its elegance. It is a place so astonishing that every descent represents a new chapter in the life of a soul boater. In my case, the first descent very nearly spelled the end, but the second marked the rebirth of my paddling life.
This article was first published in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Rapid Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Ric Moxon charges into Wicked Wanda. On the Stikine, you scout massive holes and then you run them. No whining. | Feature photo: Maximilian Kniewasser
At its roots, the term freestyle is pretty self-explanatory. You are free to do whatever you want, expressing your style however you want. Freestyle kayaking is no exception; paddlers invent new moves on waves and in holes, and add personal flair to existing maneuvers.
Unfortunately, when it comes to scoring freestyle competitions, freedom and style could not be further from judges’ minds. To do well in competition, paddlers are forced to check their style in the eddy and conform to the definitions in a rulebook.
The system rewards speed over execution, assigning the same point value to a move whether it is performed perfectly or sloppily. This often leads to poor form and makes competitions less appealing for spectators. The loss of spectators, and competitors, is the single biggest hurdle facing freestyle kayaking competitions today.
This shouldn’t come as a shock to anyone who’s attended a freestyle event lately. Competitor turnout at freestyle events around the globe has dwindled tenfold in the past decade. The senior men’s class at the World Championships dropped from 131 participants in 2003 to just 70 in 2007 (the 2009 Worlds drew a more encouraging 103).
“Numbers are down at the big events, especially in the pro classes,” multi-time U.S. Free- style Team member and pro circuit competitor Bryan Kirk says. “Although participation seems to be increasing at new amateur events like the World Kayak Hometown Throwdown series, I’m not sure it will ever equal what it was in 2000.”
Decreasing kayak sales, waning sponsorship dollars and a slew of less-than-ideal event venues contributed to this decline, but competition format has played a critical role. Since its incep- tion, the freestyle scoring sheet has changed almost every year, making it hard for competitors to keep track of how they’re judged, and nearly impossible for spectators to keep track of who’s winning.
Fixing the scoring system could help solve the attendance problem. But the change needs to happen at a fundamental level. Simply putting a number value on each move just doesn’t work for freestyle kayaking. The current bonus points for amplitude and trick combinations are not enough.
“The problem with the scoring system is that it produces a big gap between the top paddlers, who can do every trick both ways, and the average competitors,” says Jeremy Laucks, OC1 World Champion and long-time pro tour judge. “The hard tricks are worth so much more…that if you don’t have them wired, you’re not competitive. For a lot of competitors, that’s discouraging.”
A NEW SYSTEM NEEDED
A new system needs to be devised that will reward competitors for flawless execution, style and creativity. Nearly every sport that celebrates the same free and style roots as kayaking is judged subjectively: half pipe snowboarding, freestyle skiing, skateboarding, bmx, figure skating, even baton twirling. A skater is not awarded a set number of points for merely landing her triple axel, regardless of how it is executed. So why is a kayaker?
Adopting a system like this would give athletes a rubric that stands the test of time, no matter how many new moves are invented or how drastically boat designs evolve. More importantly, it would bring freedom and style to competition, and with it the paddlers who are the lifeblood of the sport.
Kelsey Thompson is a four-time member of the Canadian Freestyle Kayak Team and the current national champion.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.
Santa Cruz Island is 22 miles off the California coast and is home to 145 species of animals not found anywhere else. Explore with our illustrated trip guide found below.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
For many, sea kayaking is synonymous with quiet paddles into the sunset and multi-day trips on scenic coasts. Lovely, challenging even, but not exactly thrilling. That’s changing.
Over the past five years, interest has exploded among a growing subset of paddlers in a more adrenalized aspect of the sport: rough water sea kayaking.
Sea kayaking in rough water isn’t new. Small pockets of paddlers have been taking long boats out to play in surf, rock gardens and tidal races for over 25 years. When Stan Chladek founded the infamous Gales of November on Lake Superior in the mid ‘80s, the annual event drew up to 50 of the sport’s top paddlers, including Nigel Dennis and Dave Ide.
Footage of early pioneers like Eric Soares and the Tsunami Rangers careening through impossibly narrow passages and exploding haystacks, along a cliffed-out coast pounded by 20-foot Pacific swell, is still hair-raising nearly three decades later.
Recently, these humble beginnings have been eclipsed by a mainstream fascination with rough water, as more casual paddlers discover the joys of playing in waves.
But why now, and where is this bumpy course headed?
Extreme Kayaking Boat Design
Boat design has played a quiet role in shaping how paddlers get out and play. Five to 10 years ago, the dominating sea kayak designs were high volume boats designed for stability, speed and straight-ahead touring. There was a perception among manufacturers that paddlers were only interested in going on 10-day trips, and the designs reflected that idea.
“Sea kayak manufacturers used to be really slow to react to the changing needs of paddlers,” says Keith Wikle, creator of the sea and surf kayak website, Gokayaknow.com. “ They would release a boat and freeze the design, going a long time without any updates. Valley Kayaks, for example, used to have a really ancient line-up.”
That design deep freeze has begun to thaw. The selection of low volume boats specifically designed and built to perform in surf and around rocks is the greatest ever. Several companies—including P&H, Rockpool and Sterling kayaks—are on the cutting edge and have released innovative boat designs aimed at performance-oriented paddlers. Valley, which still offers the Anas Acuta—first released in 1972 and one of the very first commercially produced sea kayaks—is also launching a brand new play design this year.
“Sea kayaks are changing,” says Rowan Gloag, producer of The Hurricane Riders rough water film shorts. “Speed, tracking and rudders are being replaced by rocker and maneuverability. This doesn’t mean that existing designs are flawed, but it does give people more options based on the type of paddling they choose to do.”
Training and Equipment
The availability of training and suitable gear have also influenced the popularity of rough water paddling.
“The BCU [British Canoe Union] craze that hit the United States in the mid-90s was a result of the credibility of this type of kayaking,” says Wikle.
North American BCU coaches who trained in the U.K. emphasized skills and safety in rough water and current. They brought that rough water experience and the equipment that goes with it—boats and safety gear—with them when they returned home. Wikle says some now-popular rough water gear— such as helmets and rescue PFDs with integrated tow systems— was also adapted from whitewater or swiftwater rescue.
Media
Video depicting “extreme” sea kayaking, readily available via YouTube, Vimeo and Facebook, is perhaps the single biggest growth factor.
Today’s healthy crop can be traced back to 2004’s groundbreaking film, This is the Sea, from Welsh filmmaker Justine Curgenven. Of course, Curgenven wasn’t the first to make a sea kayak film, but she was one of the first to mount cameras on the boats and send paddlers—herself among them—out in tidal races.
We were no longer watching paddlers from shore; we were right there paddling and hooting down the waves with them.
This is the Sea presented a different vision of sea kayaking. The film inspired countless paddlers to think about sea kayaking as more than just a mode of transportation or an activity for calm waters. Among them were other filmmakers, notably Bryan Smith who took production and cinematography to a whole new level with his films, Pacific Horizons and Eastern Horizons.
“Bryan Smith and Justine Curgenven’s DVDs were a major influence in the creation of The Hurricane Riders,” says Gloag. “I’ve lost count how many times I’ve watched Pacific Horizons. One of THR’s goals was to share rough water paddling—an amazing and visually stunning aspect of sea kayaking—with as many people as possible. Through YouTube, THR has reached over 115,000 people around the world.”
Too Much of a Good Thing?
With popularity and interest at an all time high, some fear that rough water paddling could tarnish the overall appeal of sea kayaking.
“My concern is that this image of sea kayaking will dominate and scare folks away from the sport,” says Michael Pardy, instructor, guide and owner of SKILS paddling school.
Sea kayakers need only look to their river cousins to see how a similar scenario played out in whitewater kayaking in the mid-90s. The whitewater community became gripped by a hot new craze called playboating. It looked fantastic in print, so an eager media helped proliferate the idea that you had to be out in the biggest, baddest whitewater to have fun. Unfortunately, the sport’s gnarly image had an unintended effect. Over the next 10 years, new whitewater paddler participation dropped significantly.
“One related concern,” continues Pardy, “is the potential shift away from touring-oriented training toward rough water paddling.” Overall, he sees this departure from sea kayaking’s roots as a “mixed blessing.”
Keith Wikle disagrees, “I think the popularity of rough water sea kayaking can only be a good thing. It means that more people are excited about paddling and pushing their comfort levels a bit.” He says sea kayaking needs to shake its reputation for being “a lame sport for old graybeards in Tilley hats.”
“The more we excite people about sea kayaking’s dynamic potential, the better.”
Gloag echoes Wikle’s sentiments, “I have learned more techniques paddling Skookumchuck [tidal race] than I ever thought were possible in a sea kayak. I am the paddler I am today because of rough water.”
On the Horizon
The next five years will no doubt witness some big changes in the world of rough water paddling. Expect the combination of more participation and increased media awareness to produce innovators and leaders who will take it to a whole new level.
“Twenty years ago, just sea kayaking was exciting. Now, that’s not enough,” says Pardy. “We see this trend in nearly every adventure sport—skiing, climbing, cycling and surfing have all fostered specialized sub-disciplines, along with their associated iconography, idols and tools.”
Boat deisng is going to continue playing a key roll in shaping the sport,” predicts Wikle. He says new play sea kayaks like the Romany Surf by Sea Kayaking UK and P&H’s Delphin exemplify a trend toward incorporating design cues from whitewater and surf boats, such as planing hulls and carving rails.
Wikle believes we’ll continue to see more highly rockered sea kayaks in the 15–16-foot range—considerably truncated from the traditional 17–18 feet. “These features are really critical when you want to accelerate down-wave quickly, pivot off the crest or carve turns.”
Growth will also come from the paddling community itself.
“As rough water paddling matures,” Pardy forecasts, “it will coalesce into its own community, with its own social media, equipment, language and training.” He cites events like San Francisco’s Golden Gate Sea Kayak Symposium, Oregon’s Lumpy Waters Symposium and Ontario’s Georgian Bay Storm Gathering as examples. Many paddling schools, he adds, now offer kayak surfing and rough water handling courses alongside more traditional general kayak skills development workshops.
Pardy predicts the rough water community will be globally known but regionally based.“Most folks involved in this sport are day adventurers, so it will be popular in regions with easily accessible, relatively predictable rough water near larger popula- tion centers.” He believes California, the Pacific Northwest and the U.S. Northeast are likely hotspots.
“We are at the base of the mountain and we have a long way to go before the summit,” Gloag summarizes.“Through creativity and a willingness to push this sport, the next few years will be very exciting for rough water paddling.”
David Johnston is a sea kayak instructor and creator of the outdoor industry resource site, paddlinginstructor.com.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
This article was first published in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Rapid Magazine. 
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions 
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2011 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions 
