Betcha Didn’t Know About Monarch Butterflies

Stories

Photo: Jonathan Pratt — Betcha Didn't Know About Monarch Butterflies

The monarch butterflies’ greatest feat is their migration ritual, flying south like flocks of birds. Starting in late summer, some individuals endure a 3,200-kilometre (2,000-mile) voyage from their extreme northern range in Canada to overwintering grounds in Mexico.
Fossil records reveal that butterflies once lived with the dinosaurs— roughly 150 million years ago.
Although the Butterfly Effect is best known as a 2004 Ashton Kutcher cult movie classic, the concept of the butterfly effect first originated from MIT meterologist Edward Lorenz, who in his 1972 paper wondered if a tiny event, such as the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil, could create widespread consequences elsewhere, such as a tornado in Texas.
Butterflies generally have thin bodies, brightly coloured wings and knobs at the end of their antennae, whereas moths have fatter bodies, camouflaged wing colours and pointed or hairy antennae.
One female monarch can lay up to 500 eggs—ouch!
Two very different monarchs appear on the sold-out, full-colour, 2005 Canadian 50-cent silver coin produced by the royal Canadian Mint—the orange monarch butterfly on the obverse and the monarch Queen elizabeth II of england on the reverse.
Milkweed, the monarchs’ main source of food, contains toxins that accumulate in their bodies overtime—making the butterflies emetically poisonous to predators.
A tasty alternative, the viceroy butterfly, protects itself from predators by mimicking the colours of its poisonous doppelgänger.
The most-performed opera in North America is Giacomo Puccini’s famous tragedy, Madame Butterfly. Tickets to the performance at the Winspear Opera House in Dallas, Texas, range from $64 US for back- seat bleeders to $425 US for premium orchestra.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2010 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.

Family Camping: This is Canoeing

Stories
Family
Columns
Off the Tongue

Scott MacGregor

This photo of me and my son Doug was taken on the Petawawa River in Algonquin Park last October by British filmmaker Justine Curgenven. She had called me six months before asking if Canoeroots and Family Camping would like to be involved in her latest project—an unnamed canoeing DVD featuring the who’s who of modern canoeing.

She’d filmed the Mountain river in the Northwest Territories with Wendy Grater; waterfalls on the Moose river in New york State; Becky Mason at home in Gatineau Park; on trip with Birchbark Man, Erik Simula (on this issue’s cover); and in Wausau, Wisconsin, for the Open Canoe Slalom Nationals with John Kazimierczyk, who won his 100th gold medal.

The list was an award-winning cross-section of canoeing, a cross-section Paul Mason later called, This is Canoeing—which soon became the title of the two-DVD box set.

Is this really canoeing?

I’ve spent half of my life paddling through these niche communities of expeditions, instruction, whitewater slalom, waterfalls freestyle canoeing. It wasn’t until Doug was born that I truly understood what really is canoeing, or at least where it begins.

And so I presented an awkward pitch that went something like this. “Justine, you’re sort of missing the biggest piece of canoeing; you’re missing the family canoe trip. Why don’t you make a film about me?” Not exactly humble. Not exactly about me either.

Canoe sales have been flat for almost a decade. Some blame the popularity of kayaks. Other reports indicate that as a society we are spending more time connecting with WiFi than we are with the outdoors.

I believe canoe sales have fallen simply because guys like me waited 10 years until our thirties to have children. Until you walk out of the delivery room you can mountain bike, climb and kayak. But only a canoe will carry into the backcountry a eureka Bonavista family tent, a Graco Pack’N Play and a safari of stuffed animals.

Curgenven’s Dougie Down the Pet has since won Best Professional Documentary at the National Paddling Film Festival and Best Canoeing Film at our reel Paddling Film Festival.

“Seeing the journey though a young boy’s eyes reminds us all of the simple joys of adventure and the thrill of spending time in the natural world,” says Curgenven. “I am convinced that if all parents introduced their kids to the great outdoors at such a young age the world would be a better place in 20 years time.”

The Outdoor Industry Association reports that 75 per cent of the time parents are the number one influence—they introduce children age six to 12 to outdoor activities. That’s great, but what influences parents?

For some it may be Curgenven’s award-winning film. For me it’s the dream of someday paddling northern rivers, waterfalls and birch-bark canoes with my adult children. I know for that dream to come true I need to invest in the future today.

Scott MacGregor is the publisher of Canoeroots magazine.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2010 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.

Hot Dogs and Poutine

Stories

James Raffan

It’s not that I’ve completely run out of people to paddle with, or that getting old necessarily means becoming unsociable, but I have to admit that lately my canoeing has, more often than not, gone to the dogs. When I’ve asked around the house over the last few years if there’s anybody who’d like to go for a paddle at, say, six o’clock on a frosty morning or perhaps around threeish, when a totally word-processed body needs a bit of a stretch, it’s my dogs who have most enthusiastically answered the call.

Our kids have flown the coop and my wife has a life beyond our empty nest. But the dogs are there and always keen. They make excellent ballast, they’ve learned how to sit still, enjoy the camaraderie of the canoe and never disagree with my route. Over the years, they’ve also come up with some damn good editorial suggestions as we’ve dipped along Cranberry Lake.

Turns out that there’s something of a Canadian tradition for dogs as trail companions. Ask any aboriginal person, especially Inuit, whether they’d rather have a $250 electric bear fence alarm system or a dog in their canoe when paddling through bear country. They’ll go with the dog every time.

As long as there have been cameras and ethnologists present to press the shutter, if you look carefully in black and white archival im- agery—and it doesn’t seem to matter if you’re east, west or in the middle of the country— you’ll find a dog tucked in amongst the family and the load in bark canoe photos. Sometimes you’ll even spot dogs with panniers or drawing a little travois on the portages.

Sir George Simpson, who eventually became the governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company, followed that tradition in his first canoe journey into Athabasca country with a little canine he called Boxer. The great explorer, Alexander Mackenzie took a prodigal dog (prodigal because he lost it on the way out to the Pacific and found it on the way back) in his canoe.

CANOE CALAMITY

But stop the presses. There’s a genuine canoe calamity in progress—I fear that Canada itself is going to the dogs. Commenting in the Globe and Mail on the results of a nation-wide survey about all things Canadian, Roy MacGregor, one of this country’s great canoe champions, observed that more Canadians have sucked back an order of poutine than have been in a canoe. No wonder obesity is reaching epidemic proportions.

It’s not that Quebec’s greasy-spoon treat is dog food—although my four-legged paddling partners would be the first to agree that there’s nothing quite so delicious. But I believe our national identity should be held together by our shared love of the canoe, not a plate of french fries and sticky cheese curds slathered in thick, dark brown gravy.

This June 26 put down your plastic forks, grab your paddles and join fellow paddlers across the country in celebrating National Canoe Day.

Can’t find a paddling partner? Find someone new to take canoeing or take your dog. Let’s turn the tide on the next nationwide survey before a grey-bearded academic at the Prince Edward Island Potato Museum creates National Poutine Day.

James Raffan is the executive director of the Canadian Canoe Museum. Some of his best friends are dogs.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2010 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.

Canoes: The Perfect Craft for SUP

Stories

Jon "Shaggy" McLaughlin

Photo: Jon — Canoes: The Perfect Craft for SUP

Never stand up in a canoe. It’s one of the golden rules of canoeing, right? The explosive growth of stand up paddling (SUP) has many canoeists thinking that this myth couldn’t be further from the truth, as single- bladers from across North America are discovering that canoes are a perfect—and often overlooked—craft for SUP.

SUP is not just a surfing sport. It’s especially popular among flatwater enthusiasts from weekend warriors to fitness racers. SUP strokes involve the whole body, making it a great core workout, while also building balance by working smaller muscles in the feet and legs. “I was amazed the first time I stood up and paddled my canoe with a SUP paddle,” says Bruce Bergstrom, owner of Sawyer Paddles & Oars. “The ease, power, length of stroke and stability one gains by standing is remarkable.”

Standing lets you see both deeper into the water and further downstream. The strokes for stand up canoeing are essentially the same as for solo canoeing—Js, pries, draws and cross strokes all can be done standing, and with a far greater range of motion and power than when sitting or kneeling.

STAND UP CANOEING IS NOTHING NEW

Top open canoeist Mark Scriver takes a SUP paddle on trips and paddles half the time standing up. “On big, wide and sometimes shallow rivers where you’re looking for the best channel, it’s easier to use a SUP paddle and remain standing than to stand up, look, sit down and paddle.”

In 2009, founder of Stride SUP, Luke Hopkins, and his brother Ty competed against 48 other canoes in a three-mile race down Virginia’s New River. Luke and Ty tandem paddled standing up, negotiating class II–III rapids and winning the race…by a long shot! Even Luke was surprised: “I was shocked by the performance and power using a long paddle. Our strokes were eight feet long and had so much power behind them.”

Standing up in a canoe is actually nothing new…ever heard of canoe poling? Anglers and hunters have long been standing up to pole and paddle through southern bayous. When it comes to canoe fishing, Guillaume Chassé of Esquif Canoes thinks standing up is the only way to go, “Stand up canoeing is the best way for an angler to cast his line, and it’s easier to haul in your catch.”

As the sport of SUP on boards continues to gain popularity worldwide, stand up canoeing has nowhere to go but, well…UP! The biggest hurdle is getting people to try it. As Clay Feeter, publisher of Stand Up Journal, says, “Standing up and flexing your legs and back becomes so easy and understandable once the newcomer gives it a try. But you don’t get it until you try it. Getting people to feel it is the next step.”

Jon “Shaggy” McLaughlin paddled 148 miles of the Northern Forest Canoe Trail across the Adirondacks from Old Forge to Plattsburgh, New York. He paddled the entire route standing up in his canoe.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2010 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.

Editorial: Grabbing Canoeing by the Tail

Stories

Stephanie Park

What I’m about to say might come as a shock, but as the editor of Canoeroots magazine, I must be completely upfront and honest with my readers. So, here’s my confession.

I’m a recovering sea kayaker.

I had blissfully completed another summer as a sea kayak guide on Lake Superior when I met, on a cool September morning at a northern Ontario animal shelter, the little fur ball that would change the course of my paddling career.

Her doleful puppy-dog eyes caught my attention through the steel bars in spite of the chaotic howls and barks of the other prisoners. The little, one-year-old chocolate lab-husky mix with the sparkling eyes begged, “Take me home.”

Leash in hand, I became a first time dog owner with no idea what to expect. Three days later, I was made fully aware of my new circumstances when I came home to a shred- ded mess of magazines, a feathery cloud of gutted down pillows and several well-scattered clusters of yellow polyurethane foam from…my couch!

“MY LOVE OF CANOEING CAME FROM MY DOG, TESS.”

But that wasn’t all she was going to change.

Most canoeists can say their love of the single blade came from family canoe trips into the interiors of Algonquin Provincial Park or summer camp. In this issue’s Basecamp column, Canoeroots publisher Scott MacGregor learns the true joy of canoeing from his son on a trip down the Petawawa River. But for me, my love of canoeing came from my dog, Tess.

My passion at the time was definitely sea kayaking and I was determined to share it with her. So I set down a comfortable mat in the rear hatch of my 17-foot kayak. I loaded her into the boat and paddled away—I thought that she would sit still.

Instead, she precariously balanced herself on top of the kayak, ignoring my commands: “Sit down! Tessie, SIT DOWN!”

It wasn’t until she saw a flock of ducks taking flight that the kayak rolled and we both plunged into the frigid water of Superior.

It was at that moment, as her claws dug into my arms like the talons of a frightened parrot, that I learned she couldn’t swim. A month later, I sold my yellow Current Designs and bought a red Nova Craft Prospector. And a doggie PFD.

That was seven years ago. After numerous canoe trips, I don’t regret the trade one bit. The only thing I wish I had done sooner was read this issue’s feature article, “Ruffin’ It,” in which dog paddler Kevin Callan gives his top tips on canoeing with your dog. It would have saved me (and Tess) some initial frustration.

I still sea kayak…a bit, but don’t worry, I’m over it. And Tess wags her tail when I bring out her dog PFD and has learned many times over to sit perfectly still in the canoe, except when she sees ducks.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2010 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.

The Evolution Of Whitewater Parks

Stories

Conor Mihell

Whitewater park — Urban Oasis: Whitewater Parks can transform neglected areas and generate lively new paddling communities. | Photo: Mathew Corke

Once upon a time, the city of Grand Rapids, Michigan lived up to its namesake. The Grand River tumbled six vertical meters over a distance of 2 km through the city’s center on its way to Lake Michigan. Then came the construction of North America’s first hydroelectric facility in 1880, kicking off a century of urbanization. The river was straightened and channeled over a series of concrete weirs, and it was even proposed to be paved-over for a parking lot.

“The Grand looks like a drainage ditch right now,” says local kayaker Chris Muller. “It’s a leftover from the industrial days when it was a place to gain power and get rid of sewage.”

Muller and his buddies Chip Richards and Roger Starring are downing pints of Dirty Bastard Scotch-style ale at Grand Rapids’ Founders Brewery and Taphouse when I chat with them over a sketchy mobile phone conference call. For the past year the threesome’s Grand Rapids WhiteWater (GRWW) organization has been spearheading a proposal to “put the rapids back in the Grand” in the form of a downtown whitewater paddling course. The proposed take-out, coincidently or not, would be on the doorstep of their favourite downtown brewpub.

While Richards and Muller have been dreaming of a whitewater park in downtown Grand Rapids for five years, the plan became more of a reality when the city of 197,000 launched a “green” urban development strategy in 2008. GRWW lobbied that a whitewater park was an ideal fit. Re-engineering the Grand River would enable fish migration and remove a handful of dangerous low-head dams.

Citing the economic figures of downtown whitewater parks in other U.S. cities, the organization argued that a kayak course on the Grand would draw locals and tourists and inject millions of dollars into the city’s core. For example, the weekend-long Reno River Festival, held each May in downtown Reno, Nevada on the Truckee River—a former concrete and rebar sluiceway itself—brings in 40,000 people and upwards of $4 million in revenue.

Grand Rapids Mayor George Heartwell and the city’s Downtown Development Agency took note: a whitewater park became a priority in the city’s Green Plan, and the downtown agency promised $25,000 for a feasibility study and initial plan.

Across the United States and Canada, boaters like Muller, Richards and Starring, engineers and city councils are rallying around whitewater parks as the future of paddling and a cornerstone of intelligent urban design. In late May, the three factions will convene for the third Whitewater Courses and Parks conference in Salida, Colorado to discuss “issues important to river parks’ environmental and economic sustainability.”

According to conference organizer Risa Shimoda, a marketing expert, boater and chair of the International Whitewater Hall of Fame, whitewater paddling is approaching a “tipping point” in becoming part of the urban recreation vernacular. “If every city had one along with their basketball courts,” she says, “the sport would change dramatically.”

The whitewater park boom

Paddlers are opportunistic when it comes to making the best of altered waterways. Boaters queue up for the pre-determined water releases of dammed rivers around the world. Human-made features like Lock 19 in Peterborough, Ontario and Scudders Falls on Pennsylvania’s Delaware River are playboating favourites. Similarly, the whitewater playground of the Ottawa River was shaped in part by decades of log-driving and hydroelectric development. Minden’s Gull River is a well-used training ground for slalom paddlers in southern Ontario.

“If it weren’t for maintaining water levels on the Trent-Severn Canal, the Gull would be a hiking trail in the summer,” says local boater Jeff Strano, the manager of Algonquin Outfitters’ Boatwerks. “I think a lot of people are under the illusion that these rivers are the result of Mother Nature and nothing else. That’s a fallacy.”

[ Paddling Trip Guide: View all whitewater instruction clinics and courses ]

Organizers of the 1972 Olympics took whitewater to a new level when they dynamited, hauled boulders and pumped water to create a kayak course in Augsburg, Germany for the Summer Games. Six years before, the Arkansas River in Salida, Colorado was reconfigured specifically for whitewater paddling. After Augsburg and Salida became the world’s first artificial and in-stream whitewater parks, the concept of engineering and excavating recirculating “rivers” or converting dull, dammed and sometimes polluted natural waterways into paddling hotspots didn’t catch on in earnest until 1990. That’s when Gary Lacy, a kayaker and civil engineer, created Boulder Creek Park in Boulder, Colorado, thus beginning the whitewater park boom and the state’s reign as the world’s capital of engineered whitewater.

Lacy’s Boulder-based Recreation Engineering and Planning company has built the lion’s share of North America’s 50-odd whitewater parks. “He’s the godfather of these things,” says Scott Shipley, the engineer who worked with Lacy in 2006 to create Charlotte, North Carolina’s $36-million U.S. National Whitewater Center, an artificial, pay-to-paddle facility that features a massive conveyor belt to shuttle boaters from the bottom to the top of the course. Denver’s McLaughlin Whitewater Design Group is another key player in the industry, having designed North America’s only other artificial park, McHenry, Maryland’s Adventure Sports Center International, in 2007.

But Shipley is the field’s rising star and one of its loudest proponents. Best known for competing at the 1992, 1996 and 2000 Olympic Games and winning three K1 slalom World Cup championships, Shipley has become a leader in whitewater park design. Currently, he’s putting the finishing touches on London, England’s whitewater venue for the 2012 Olympics. The Broxbourne Whitewater Park is entirely human-made, pumping water from an 11,500-square-meter reservoir and channeling it down consecutive 160- and 300-meter courses at rates of up to 15 cubic metres per second. Like a climbing wall, Shipley’s course is entirely modular: Flow can be altered by changing the course’s gradient, and patented obstructions known as Rapidblocs can be reconfigured to create different features.

“My first designs were well within the box of conventional thinking,” says Shipley. “But in London, they said, ‘go out and create whatever you can imagine.’ The next generation of whitewater parks will reinvent the whitewater experience and evolve the sport.” Shipley curbs his enthusiasm when asked what the future of whitewater parks will be. “The future is a secret right now,” he says. But he promises that the new London facility is “a flash of what to expect.”

The freedom to paddle year-round

The future may someday be dominated by boaters like Jason Craig, the 16-year-old 2009 world junior freestyle champion, who learned to loop, helix and pan-am in the whitewater park on Reno’s Truckee River. Shimoda says parks play two roles in developing future freestyle stars: Making paddling easily available to masses of people, and making it safe. Society’s general fear of water is reduced when whitewater is made more accessible and controlled, similar to what indoor gyms and halfpipes have done for climbing and snowboarding, she says. “The key is when the kid asks the mom or dad to go kayaking, the parents have to be okay with it.”

It makes sense that the precise, ordered world of whitewater slalom has also gravitated to engineered whitewater. The Canadian team trains extensively at Rutherford Creek, Canada’s most complete whitewater park facility in Pemberton, B.C., and the U.S. national team is based at the artificial course in Charlotte. As much as U.S. coach Cathy Hearn, a longtime slalom competitor, misses “migrating like gypsies from river to river depending upon the season,” and the ad-lib, reactionary skills developed by paddling wild rivers, she says artificial parks offer broader exposure to the public and potential sponsors, consistent training and better coaching—not to mention on-site showers and nearby accommodations. “Gone are the days of sleeping in your wetsuit so it won’t freeze overnight,” she says.

For recreational paddlers, like Grand Rapids’ Muller, Richards and Starring, whitewater parks mean the freedom to paddle—often year-round—without making a road trip. It goes without saying that cities with these opportunities have a markedly higher number of paddlers. Colorado has long been a boating stronghold; world-class freestyle boaters Jay Kincaid and Canadian Ruth Gordon migrated to Reno; and in Charlotte, Shipley says the U.S. National Whitewater Center introduced nearly 1,000 people to kayaking in its first six months alone.

[ Also read: Top Whitewater Parks ]

In Colorado, whitewater parks are becoming central to sustainable urban design. Jed Selby was only 24 years old when the lifestyle of professional kayaking started to burn him out. The former World Cup freestyle competitor has since become the developer of an environmentally conscious neighbourhood on the Arkansas River in Buena Vista, Colorado (pop. 2,200), a sleepy town in the Rocky Mountain foothills southwest of Denver. Selby and his sister, Katie Urban, found a goldmine when they happened upon 10 hectares of riverside land adjacent to downtown Buena Vista in 2003. The siblings convinced their father to help finance the $1.2-million price tag, and South Main was born.

A whitewater park became part of their urban development theory—along with 500 units of residential and commercial property. With house prices ranging from $200,000 to $1.5 million, however, Selby admits that his neighbourhood will never be overrun by dirtbags. As South Main, like all other whitewater parks, broadens the demographics of paddling, it hints that perhaps the activity is maturing. “Hanging out at the Slave [River], getting attacked by mosquitoes, is only fun for so long,” says Selby. “I didn’t want to be living in my car on the side of the highway my whole life.”

Backhoe digging in river — Construction Boom: Buena Vista Whitewater Park is just one of a half dozen parks in the U.S. benefitting from improvements or expansions this year. | Photo: Jed Selby

The shock of trying the real thing

The proliferation of human-made whitewater begs a couple of questions: Does creating a virtual reality of what’s long been defined by an organic, risky and high-skill experience change the essence of whitewater paddling? And are today’s up and coming park boaters missing out on skills and savvy honed only on wild, free-flowing rivers?

The generation of paddlers who learn their skills exclusively in parks with designer waves and carefully conceived eddies will be in for a shock when they launch into a natural river and try the real thing. Whitewater parks are controlled environments with safety procedures and sometimes even lifeguards. They do not have undercuts, sieves, strainers, deadly hydraulics or no-eddy gorges. They never force boaters to weigh the risks of running a drop blind. A park boater will never have to hike out of an unrunnable canyon, or know the joy of sighting water through the trees at the end of a difficult portage.

But as an engine of growth, whitewater parks cannot be questioned. They simplify boating for beginners and veteran paddlers alike. “There’s something to be said about setting a shuttle and running a river,” says Kincaid. “But there’s also something nice about paddling on your lunch hour.”

Beyond the role of parks in the growth of the sport, Strano believes bringing whitewater to population centres like southern Ontario’s Golden Horseshoe is necessary for the salvation of wild rivers. Park boaters are potential river stewards waiting in the wings. “After a whitewater park,” says Strano, “real rivers are only a short step away.”

In-stream whitewater parks on once-feral rivers like Michigan’s Grand inject new life into these long-restrained waterways. The benefits are two-fold—for townsfolk and boaters living near these rivers, and for the health of the aquatic ecosystem. Artificial parks can be built anywhere with adequate funding and revenue base—no river required—and represent the true paddle anywhere vision of proponents like Shipley and Shimoda. As facilities like the U.S. National Whitewater Center prove to be economically viable, others are springing up around the world.

Like it or not, in a world of ever-shrinking attention spans and ever-increasing consumption of packaged adventure, whitewater parks will play a critical role in the future of our sport—economically, if not spiritually. “We’re no longer in a world where people go out and seek these things way out in the woods,” summarizes Shipley, “[whitewater parks] put these things right in the centre of the existence of Generation Y.”

This article originally appeared in Rapid‘s Early Summer 2010 issue. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions here, or browse the archives here.

Conor Mihell is a writer based in Sault Ste. Marie, ON.

Urban Oasis: Whitewater Parks can transform neglected areas and generate lively new paddling communities. | Photo: Mathew Corke

Steve O’Meara: The Man Who is Kokatat

Stories

Virginia Marshall

Photo of Blue Puma's 1984 catalogue cover: courtesy Kokatat — Steve O’Meara: The Man Who is Kokatat

Every cloud has a silver lining. Even if that cloud is a powerful, global sports brand suing your struggling start-up for trademark infringement. In the case of Steve O’Meara, the shimmer within the storm was Kokatat.

When the natural resources student from San Francisco’s Bay area arrived in the small coastal community of Arcata, California, to attend Humboldt State University in the late 1960s, he knew he’d found a special place. The keen outdoors- man could spend his free time kayaking northern California’s wild coast and rivers, trekking among the redwoods or climbing in the nearby Klamath Mountains and Coast Ranges.

When he graduated in 1971, O’Meara found the only thing lacking in Arcata was prospective employment. Determined to stay, the enterprising 23-year-old scraped together the capital to start a small outdoor equipment retail store catering to backpackers and cyclists. It wasn’t long before he discovered that the products he wanted to sell simply weren’t available. Recognizing a need, O’Meara plunged ahead with blind optimism.

“I didn’t have much business background and I definitely didn’t have any production background,” he recalls, “how to make the stuff was learned on the fly.”

With his then-business partner Chuck Kennedy, O’Meara purchased a couple sewing machines, started scrounging raw materials from local suppliers and branded his new company Blue Puma. Operating out of the back of their retail store, O’Meara and Kennedy manufactured high-end, made-to-order down sleeping bags, parkas and bivy sacs.

In 1976, the men were among the very first in the outdoor industry to recognize the potential applications of a new waterproof/breathable fabric called Gore-Tex. A bivy sac crafted from the material brought Blue Puma national recognition.

In 1980, O’Meara’s friends Don Banducci and Rob Lesser asked him to create paddling clothing for their upcoming expedition on the Alsek River in the Yukon/Alaska.

“We developed a very basic paddling jacket with a neoprene cuff and some fleece under garments—it’s sort of laughable now,” remembers O’Meara. Nevertheless, says Lesser, the Alsek paddling jackets were superior to the wool and flimsy nylon paddling clothes of the period.

Blue Puma was gathering momentum. Then, in 1986, O’Meara received a letter from Puma shoe company alleging trademark violations. Without the money to fight the charges, he was forced to change the name.

Re-branding the company offered O’Meara the opportunity to narrow his focus. “I decided I’d rather be a bigger fish in the small pool of watersports,” he summarizes.

A friend suggested the name Kokatat. Meaning “into the water” in the language of the indigenous Klamath River people, the new name fit perfectly with O’Meara’s commitment to paddlesports and keeping production in Arcata.

REBRANDING AND REINVENTING

Even with a clear purpose and a fresh name, Kokatat almost ceased to exist. Struggling to secure financing, turn a profit and weather stiff competition from new rivals like Stohlquist, O’Meara put his company up for sale. “The offer I got was kind of insulting, so I decided I had to turn the company around,” he says.

Kokatat’s success hinged on recognizing paddlers’ needs and figuring out innovative ways of satisfying them. In 1986, Kokatat created the industry’s first paddling drysuit. Gore-Tex and ad- vanced laminates and treatments followed.

O’Meara also recognized the importance of credibility and product feedback generated through sponsoring professional paddlers. Since the Alsek expedition, Kokatat has signed no fewer than four World Champions and outfitted the U.S. Olympic team.

O’Meara credits Kokatat’s popularity with pro- fessional athletes to a tradition of function-first designs. For their part, Team Kokatat’s interna- tional ambassadors have helped transform utilitarian function—and mango onesies—into paddling haute fashion.

For both longevity and ethics, O’Meara is admired throughout paddlesports. “Steve is an example of the entrepreneurial rocks upon which the whitewater industry worldwide was built,” says Lesser. “He never [sold] out to the consolidators of this industry. I couldn’t speak more highly of his manufacturing philosophies.”

After four decades, O’Meara is still enjoying the daily challenges and rewards.

“Kokatat changes about every five years so it’s endlessly interesting for me,” he says. “People ask how I can do the same thing for 40 years and I tell them, ‘I don’t.’”

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2010 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.

Kickin’ It Old School: 50 Years of the Strathcona Park Lodge

Stories

Virginia Marshall

Photo: Strathcona Park Lodge — Kickin' It Old School: 50 Years of the Strathcona Park Lodge

On Vancouver Island’s Upper Campbell Lake, an emerald jewel just steps from the doors of Strathcona Park Lodge and Outdoor Education Centre, Brian Creer dipped a paddle last June to celebrate five decades of outdoor experiences at the lodge. Now 90, Creer was on hand to guide the evolution of British Columbia’s busiest white- water education centre for many of those years.

Strathcona Park Lodge (SPL) started in 1959 as a traditional wilderness lodge. “Outdoor [adventure] for us was trout fishing and maybe taking a canoe out on the lake,” says Jamie Boulding, current co-Executive Director and son of lodge founders Myrna and Jim Boulding. Hollywood stars and other well-to-do visitors flocked to SPL in the 1960s, lured by the great fishing, rustic charm and remote beauty of neighbouring Strathcona Provincial Park.

THE EVOLUTION OF THE LODGE

The focus evolved in the early 1970s, when Creer—then the most influential whitewater kayaking and canoeing instructor in the province— and a handful of top outdoor teachers joined SPL’s developing outdoor education program. Instructors arriving from Outward Bound influ- enced programs at SPL in these early years, but the Bouldings maintained a unique ethos at the lodge focused on participation, personal growth and, most of all, play.

After 1977, when SPL ran the first semester of the newly founded Canadian Outdoor Leadership Training (COLT) program, many instructors at the outdoor centre were drawn from the ranks of COLT graduates and former SPL students. Since then, the centre has averaged 350 person days per year whitewater paddling. That’s over 10,500 days of whitewater spanning three decades.

Now entering its 51st year, SPL is still one of the busiest commercial whitewater training centres in B.C. The staff remains faithful to the original “if we make it fun, they’ll do it forever” philosophy.

In fact, says Boulding, the only things that have really changed are the equipment and the ever-evolving skills taught. School groups decked out in hockey helmets and rain jackets no longer line up beside 13-foot fibreglass kayaks, ready to tackle river or sea, but the rambling log cabins of the lodge still house new generations of kayakers and Creer—when he gets a chance—still puts paddle to water on Upper Campbell Lake.

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2010 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.

Dream Departures: The Minks and McCoys – Georgian Bay

Trips

Lorenzo Del Bianco

For artists and kayakers alike, Georgian Bay is one of the most inspirational places on earth. For paddlers in southern Ontario, it’s practically in the backyard. Check out below for an illustrated guide around the Mink and McCoy Islands.

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2010 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Paddling on Faith

Stories

Jon Turk

I was paddling as hard as I could, but my bow kept falling off the wind. I looked nervously at the GPS, and then turned it off so I could concentrate on the sea. Fifteen minutes later I turned it back on, to confirm my fears that I was drifting inexorably downwind. I was alone in the vastness, where I wanted to be, except that I would have been so much happier if I were on course. A flying fish leapt out of the water and skimmed over the waves, bright and silvery in the morning sunlight. Gaua Island was still 40 miles away, and if I missed that tiny spot of terra firma, I would die. The next landfall was Australia, 1,500 miles to the west.

I turned the GPS off again and put it in my pocket, because the digital read- out couldn’t save me—it would only quantify my doom. When my boat slid off the next wave, my outrigger caught in the trough and the kayak rotated 30 degrees, as if I were dancing with one foot nailed to the floor.

Life had felt so jaunty the day before when I lashed the outrigger to my plastic Ocean Kayak sit-on-top, fashioning a few pieces of wood with a machete and tying them together with some string. The outrigger was supposed to give me stability so I could sleep, because I had romantically envisioned a placid ocean and a peaceful night alone beneath the Southern cross.

Now, bobbing on unfettered ocean swells in the northern Vanuatu chain, I looked behind me to see Maewo Island, only eight miles away but unreachable because it was upwind. Ahead of me, Gaua Island lay below the horizon, recognizable only as a waypoint on my GPS. I suddenly realized the utter madness of hodge-podging a new boat design together on a tropical beach and setting out, without sea trials, onto the open ocean.

I had to cut the outrigger loose. Without it, I would have to paddle the next 40 miles in one big push, without rest. But there was no choice, so I grabbed my knife and jumped into the water. my PFD floated over my head because I had forgotten to zip it shut.

I was bobbing in the water, only my chin, nose and eyes floating, and from this perspective, even my diminutive, vulnerable Ocean Kayak sit-on-top seemed so secure, so substantial, like the deck of a grand passenger liner. I was seasick for the first time in thousands of miles of sea kayaking and felt like throwing up. Seasick? Or terrified?

“Okay, Jon. Take a deep breath. You’ve made a miscalculation, or a stupid blunder, and now you’re swimming with a knife in your hands and your PFD floating above your head, off course, surrounded by the vastness of waves and sky. But, you’ve survived so many close calls at sea—in kayaks, yachts and commercial fishing boats. You know what to do. One step at a time. Get the situation under control. Step one: Zip up your PFD, dummy!”

A few weeks before, I had set out from the capital city of Port Vila with Aundrea Tavakkoly, a big wave surfer from Hawaii and California, but she hadn’t bonded to the kayak as she had her surfboard, so she left the expedition and hitched back on a yacht, and I continued on alone. My goal was to paddle to the remote northern islands of Vanuatu, the Banks and Torres groups, and then make passages of 125 and 200 miles, first to the Santa Cruz Islands and then to the Solomon Islands.

The seasickness faded as soon as I pulled my PFD tight. The next wave rolled toward me with a tiny fringe of white teeth, grinning, not baring its fangs. I rose gloriously to its crest, and scanned the great expanse of sea, rolling ceaselessly, yet unchanging.

I cut the lashings loose and felt a combination of tangible relief and abject terror as my safety net drifted off into the sea. Then I hoisted myself back into the boat, hefted my paddle and took a few strokes. The boat jumped, as it was designed to do.

I raised my simple square sail and caught the wind. The boat skimmed, planed and danced, responding to my tiller. One wave broke over me, knocked me sideways and I stalled out on the next. Then I lined up perfectly, took a few hard strokes and surfed, hull hissing, sliding obliquely off the face, like a Hawaiian king on a wooden surfboard with feathered headdress dancing in the wind.

I turned on my GPS, estimated my drift, calculated, recalculated and then mentally checked my figures again. I could make land- fall if I paddled as hard as I could—and never stopped to rest. I popped open one precious can of Chinese peanuts and planned to eat a small handful between paddle strokes every time I felt totally out of energy. The rest of the time I would push my body relentlessly to exhaustion—and beyond, if needed.

The night before, at the bon voyage party on Maewo, in the village Nakimal or meeting hall, a young man named Namu asked me, “What is the aim of your voyage?” Night had descended and a few men were playing drums, one made of a hollowed log and the other out of a wooden shipping crate. A smoky kerosene lamp swung from a pole.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe I am just going from island to island, like going from day to day.” I paused, “What is your aim, in life?”

Namu didn’t answer and a few other men picked up guitars and started to sing.

An hour later, during a lull in the music, Namu suddenly addressed me, as if no time had passed. “I still don’t know. I am thinking.” But then we all got stoned on kava and the answer never came, which is just as well, because there is no answer.

There are two kinds of exhaustion: muscle fatigue and loss of alertness. As morning drifted into afternoon and afternoon waned toward evening, I felt confident that my muscles would sustain me. The total distance, after all, was only 48 miles on a broad reach off the Trade Winds—with the wind as my enemy because it blew me too far westward, but also as my friend because it simultaneously propelled me forward.

The sun softened and reddened, then settled on the horizon and flattened out, as if it had fallen too fast and landed with a splat. I had been in the boat for 15 hours and I was losing alertness. I grasped another tiny handful of peanuts and they sloshed around in my empty stomach, tiny and without impact, just as I sloshed around on this sea.

Darkness descended quickly and I set my paddle down for the first time in many hours. The coolness was welcome, unlike nightfall in higher latitudes. By now, I was about three miles from land and slightly upwind of the island, so I no longer needed to struggle. I switched on my headlamp but the vast night absorbed the feeble electronic glow and made it feel puny in its attempt to civilize what could not be tamed. I turned off the light. I could no longer see waves approaching, and without the visible anticipation, felt uncomfortable carrying sail, so I lowered the halyard and bunched the nylon under my knees. Without the sail, the kayak responded less playfully, but with more stability, and night enveloped me with a warm, embracing hug. If I felt alone in the ocean during daylight, I felt even more alone as an invisible speck in the inky blackness of night.

After another hour, I heard the sound of breakers, and then paddled carefully toward shore until I felt the waves steepen beneath me. For so many hours I had refused to let exhaustion overrun the castle of my mind, but now my willpower seemed to collapse catastrophically. In a moment of weakness, I thought that I couldn’t paddle another foot and my only re- course was to soldier straight into the surf, take my hits, and make it to shore, somehow.

Immediately, an internal voice cried out, “That’s a really stupid idea!”

Many of the islands in the Vanuatu chain are bordered by shallow fringing reefs extending about a quarter-mile offshore. It was close to low tide, so the surf was breaking against hard coral, submerged beneath only a few feet of water. I set my paddle down again, reaching into the night with my limited senses. I could see a faint, dark outline of timbered hills that were conspicuous because they were even blacker than the blackness of night. The surf sounded as if it were hitting something hard, with a thud, a different sound than the gentle whoosh of wave against sand. I thought about the irony of paddling 47 and three-quarter miles from Maewo only to be seriously injured so close to land.

I backed into deeper water, pulled out my chart and flicked on my headlamp. The chart showed an anchorage a few miles downwind, but no headland, bay or cove to provide obvious shelter. There must be a channel through the reef, I reasoned, and a calm lagoon inside. I needed to find that channel. I paddled westward, parallel to shore, as close to the surf as I dared, listening. After a few miles, the sound of surf lessened. I inched inward and the swell felt more rounded. This must be the channel. I felt a tingle of exhilaration, took a deep breath, tightened my grip on the paddle and prepared to head boldly toward shore.

What if I were hallucinating in the darkness, acting on hope, rather than reason? I marked this point on my GPS and then backed out into deeper water, turned parallel to the beach, and continued paddling westward, downwind. In a few moments, the surf sounded louder again and the waves were more asymmetrical. Then I turned upwind and followed my senses back to what I believed to be the channel opening. I tuned on the GPS and learned that I was only few hundred feet from the place I had marked previously. I felt reassured because my senses led me to the same place twice in a row.

This is the ultimate joy and focus of an adventurer’s life. Make a decision based on a sensual contact with the environment—a decision based more on intuition than on linear logic—and then trust your life to it.

I turned toward land, took a few strokes and paddled into the channel entrance. Surf was breaking to my right and left and I could hear the waves rise, curl, expel air with a woomph and smack hard onto the coral.

I stopped, surrounded by chaos and danger reverberating in the night. The danger was abstract, like a metaphor or a myth, because the waves were merely beating against coral, as they always have, and I was cradled by a gloriously gentle South Pacific swell. The rich aroma of tropical forest had already replaced the smell of the sea. With my emotions drained, I paddled shoreward until I entered the lagoon. Then I turned east until I was in mirror calm, sheltered water. I paddled shoreward again until my bow crunched gently against the sand.

Jon Turk didn’t complete the long passages to the north, for fear of being blown off course, but he plans to return to the South pacific. His new book is The Raven’s Gift: A Scientist, a Shaman, and their Remarkable Journey through the Siberian Wilderness, from St. Martin’s press. He can be reached at jonturk.net.

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2010 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

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