Only a handful of times have I been to the edge—life threatening, soul searching, that-almost-killed-me events. The kind, to put it mildly, I never wish to experience again. What I remember about these brief, endless moments on the river is two things: first, the burning of water blasting through my sinus cavity and behind my eyeballs; and second, the confusion.
The other half of my life is considerably more sedate. I’m an academic, which means I read a lot, teach some, think about ideas and go to conferences. While sometimes I still walk away saying, “That almost killed me,” for the most part it is a safer place. Within this reading, teaching, ideas and conference circuit, there are a couple of gurus. One of them, a round, grey-haired sociologist, specializes in confusion.
Sensemaking, actually. The opposite of confusion. Sensemaking is “the process by which people give meaning to experience” he writes in his seminal work on risk management and error prevention. Karl Weick is fascinated with how individuals make sense of a situation. His specialty is how people deal with crisis.
Back to the edge.
It was a medium drop on the Upper Yough with a way-left boof line. Lock the lip, boof…why am I not coming up? Where am I? How long did it take me to figure out I was getting surfed between the curtain and the rock wall? Minutes? A second? Hard to tell. My confusion was dark, loud and all consuming.
The field of risk management and accident investigation commonly retraces the decision-making process preceding and during a critical event. In this case, the decisions preceding my slip (being 16 inches off line) were sound. What should occur next—the decisions in the moment of crisis—either minimizes or escapes the situation. This is where Weick and sensemaking comes in, or doesn’t.
Confusion precludes decision-making. Weick explains that how one makes sense of a situation directly affects what gets decided. If sensemaking does not catch up with a situation that is desperate and life threatening, then other critical decisions are not made.
“The less adequate the sensemaking process directed at a crisis, the more likely it is that the crisis will get out of control,” he concludes.
The thing with theory is that it doesn’t help with the water blasting my eyeballs and the rock wall where I want to put my paddle. In this case I didn’t make sense of where I was until I had already minimized the problem to something I could deal with. I needed air. As I focused on solving my basic air problem, I eventually figured out what was going on.
Weick can explain this, too. “There is a delicate trade-off between dangerous action which produces understanding, and safe inaction which produces confusion…people don’t know what the appropriate action is until they take some action and see what happens.” In effect, trial and error helps define what is going on, and brings sense to the confusion. Waiting to see what happens only makes things worse.
Sensemaking grows with experience. A wider range of experience allows wider breadth of sensemaking. That doesn’t mean I’m going to volunteer to get pinned just to get a sense of it. I’d rather take my chances on the conference circuit.
Three of us headed west last summer for a trip on what is known as Saskatchewan’s voyageur highway—a loop starting at La Ronge and ending at Misinipe via the Deschambault, Sturgeon-Weir and Churchill rivers. Towed behind our car were the two newly built birchbark canoes we would paddle on this historic, 18-day journey.
We regarded the 6,800-kilometer roundtrip drive as a necessary evil, not really part of the core trip experience. It turns out that bark canoes tagging along behind your car is the equivalent of showing up at the office sporting a cast—everybody notices and has a story to share.
At six a.m. in a blink-and-you-miss-it pit stop, we drew such a curious crowd that we nearly ran over a couple of them just trying to get back onto the road. Where did we get the canoes, they wanted to know. Did we make them ourselves? Are we really using them for a trip? What happens if we crack them up on a rock?
At another stop, we returned to find a tattooed Harley rider leaning against the canoes. Out of his leather jacket he pulled a denim-bound photo album, eager to show us pictures of a trailer he’d built for his hog. It was in the shape of a canoe. As far as he was concerned, we were brothers.
By the halfway point of our drive, we had developed a system where one of us would pump the gas, another would head to the washroom and the third would act as public relations officer back at the trailer.
On Portage Street in downtown Winnipeg, we returned from shopping to find two Native men circling the canoes, soaking in every detail. For one of them, the boats were a throwback to something he’d heard about from his Anishinabe elders. The other man, a senior writer and researcher for the Aboriginal People’s Television Network, told us, “If you guys die on this expedition in these bark canoes, let me know because it might be newsworthy.” I said I would.
Our route to La Ronge included a drive north through remote eastern Saskatchewan, where we hoped to put the canoes in a tributary of the White Fox River and paddle up to the village of Love, thus empirically proving that you can actually make Love in a canoe. Sadly, the creek was no more than a damp, weed-choked gully. Canoes went back on the trailer and three smelly, road weary men made Love in the car instead.
Taking rooms that night at a motel in the nearby diamond-mining town of Nipawin, our disappointment was swept aside by a trucker we met in the bar.
“You say the word and let me join your expedition,” he implored us. “I’ll call the dispatcher right now and tell her where to find the truck. I’d give anything to paddle in a birchbark canoe.”
This article first appeared in the Spring 2011 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.
There are nearly 200 different species of woodpeckers—19 call North America home.
The ivory-billed woodpecker was long thought to be extinct until a sighting in 2004. Since then, thousands of enthusiasts have flocked to Big Woods, Arkansas, in search of the bird and the $50,000 reward for its find. Join the hunt and you may also spot elvis or Bigfoot.
The original voice of Woody Woodpecker was provided by Mel Blanc who also recorded the voices of Bugs Bunny, Yosemite Sam, Porky Pig and countless other cartoon characters you watched on saturday mornings growing up. Ha-ha-ha-haha!
A woodpecker can peck up to 20 times per second.
Woodpeckers use the drumming sound of their pecking to attract mates and establish territory. Many species are known to hammer on utility poles, metal downspouts and even brick chimneys. Ouch!
Woodpeckers have small brains wedged tightly into reinforced skulls to reduce shock and avoid concussions.
Used to pluck insects from the holes it bores, a woodpecker’s tongue can be up to four inches long—too large to fit inside its mouth. Instead, the tongue is stored in a special chamber that wraps around the inside of the bird’s skull.
The late ‘70s punk rock revival of the mohawk hairstyle is often attributed to Robert Deniro’s 1976 role in Taxi Driver. Who’s going to tell Glen Plake he’s been sporting a woodpecker?
This article first appeared in the Spring 2011 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.
When asked what they enjoy most about the sport, many paddlers say it is the inherent freedom. Some stretch the definition of liberty to include the freedom to be naked. Unfortunately, that doesn’t always sit well with bystanders—or with the law.
Take, for a graphic example, Corran Addison’s off-river mishap at the ‘93 World Freestyle Championships on Tennesee’s Ocoee River.
“I’m getting changed—not too discretely but, hell, it is just an ass isn’t it?—and some ranger sees me and flips his lid,” recalls Addison. “He comes over and is giving me shit an’ so I say ‘What’s the problem? See something you like and it bothers you?’”
TIPS FOR STAYING COVERED
While most paddlers will admit there have been times when they were not too discrete about changing at the put-in or take-out, the fact that Addison ended up in jail suggests you might want to handle things a bit differently. Instead of thinking up excuses for when you’re caught with your pants down, stay covered with these tips.
MISDIRECTION: Although frequently practiced by paddlers and magicians with equal alacrity, disaster can be just a stumble away. I discovered this painful truth while trying to change at the back of the rafting bus. A combination of sudden braking and my pants firmly around my ankles ensured that I didn’t get any tips that day and my guests couldn’t look at me with- out giggling (in my defense, the water was really, really cold). The problem with misdirection: too many variables.
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TOWEL TECHNIQUE: The standard waist wrap offers adequate coverage but can be cumbersome and prone to malfunction. Having a friend hold the towel allows for greater ease of movement but also requires a great deal more trust. Be mindful when changing beside your car, as objects in mirrors appear smaller than actual size.
PONCHO PROTECTION: The poncho is a useful tool, but can also make you look like one. Design and cut are crucial for this hands-free, flash-free method of changing. Rain ponchos are easy to find but can rub the wrong way. Cotton or fleece is more comfortable. A tenty garment made from these materials is actually called a muumuu.
BATHROBE BUSINESS: Hugely under-utilized, the common bathrobe (complimentary at nice hotels) is comfortable on the skin, allows you to change with ease and is great for lounging après paddle.
Remember, just because you are comfortable airing things out doesn’t mean others want to be subjected to it. Stay out of jail, help keep river access open and maintain good boater- public relations—when changing to and from your river gear, do your part by covering yours.
Dan Caldwell now prefers the towel technique for stealthy clothing swaps.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2011 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.
Easier to get out than in. | Feature photo: Dan Patrinellis
Looking downriver from the Chelan Dam, it’s hard to imagine the volume of water that carved this gorge through Chelan, Washington. For three fleeting weekends last year, paddlers were satisfied to take advantage of a modest 400 cfs release.
An agreement made in 2006 between American Whitewater, the U.S. Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC) and the local energy agency is the basis for a three-year flow feasibility study that concludes this year. The project’s outcomes will include a recreational resource management plan that directly addresses the needs of whitewater paddlers.
Last July and September, the ongoing work of Thomas O’Keefe and American Whitewater gave paddlers the opportunity to demonstrate safe use of the waterway.
“The utility, federal regulators and the local community will be carefully evaluating the outcome of these releases,” says O’Keefe. “The success of the weekends is judged not on the number of paddlers or the number of trips, but on our ability to be safe.”
Easier to get out than in. | Feature photo: Dan Patrinellis
Before putting in, paddlers were greeted by project leader Kris Pomianek and two security guards. They were required to sign in and were issued permits following a briefing on what was expected of them during the day’s descent. Pomianek told paddlers, “Because these releases are part of a study required by the FERC, the local utility takes things very seriously.”
Authorities originally objected to these releases over concerns surrounding hazards known to lay hidden within the gorge. Although short, the run brims with horizon lines, class V drops and vertical walls, constantly reminding paddlers that there is no easy exit from the gorge. At one set of rapids, The Point of No Return is crudely spray-painted on a rock face.
Paddlers can be optimistic about their playgrounds
The initial study only allows access for hard-shelled kayaks. O’Keefe implored boaters to respect the policy and insisted that access for inflatables could be explored when the management plan is revisited at the end of this year.
The efforts of O’Keefe and a small group of Washington boaters resonate with paddlers across the U.S. and Canada who are fighting for shared access to their local waterways. This project makes it clear that with a willingness to work alongside authorities and compromise, paddlers have reason to be optimistic about reclaiming their playgrounds.
Referring to the Chelan Gorge, O’Keefe speaks to whitewater activists everywhere. “Our actions will have implications for the future of this run and other regulated rivers across the continent.”
Dan Patrinellis was thrilled to join a group of paddlers taking part in the test release on the Chelan Gorge last summer. For more info on this and other river stewardship projects visit www.americanwhitewater.org.
This article was first published in the Spring 2011 issue of Rapid Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
These swashbucklers make breaking world records seem as easy as crossing the street. | Feature photo: Gabriel Rivett-Carnac
Gathering for a storm. | Feature photo: Virginia Marshall
David Johnston is screaming like a school girl at this year’s Storm Gathering. A dozen eager hands release the stern of Johnston’s kayak, launching it off Snug Harbour’s six-foot-high pier. For a moment the boat arcs gracefully through the air, and then the bow dives into the cold, clear water.
The kayak enders, submersing Johnston and 12 feet of gleaming red and black fiberglass beneath the harbor. Briefly, a Darth Vader sticker and Union Jack behind the rear hatch are all that is visible.
Johnston’s head and body resurface first, like the conning tower of a submarine. He is grinning and laughing his high-pitched laugh. The Snug Harbour Dock Launch Competition is a Johnston favorite and already a Storm Gathering classic.
Wind, waves and fun at the 3rd annual Storm Gathering
We are assembled in a sheltered nook 20 kilometers northwest of Parry Sound, Ontario, for the third annual Georgian Bay Storm Gathering. It’s mid-October and the combined water and air temperature in degrees Celsius barely scrapes the double digits in the morning. Yet some 50 paddlers have traveled from as far away as Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, and Victoria, British Columbia, to get together for one last weekend of sea kayaking before winter sets in.
The Snug Harbour Dock Launch Competition. | Photo: Virginia Marshall
Some entries are less graceful than others. | Photo: Virginia Marshall
Nearly half of them are now cheerfully hurling themselves off the Snug Harbour dock. Leading the charge are Johnston, Storm Gathering’s energetic creator and co-organizer, and Tim Dyer, 25-year veteran owner of nearby White Squall Paddling Centre and fellow event ringleader.
The running Storm Gathering joke is that Johnston and Dyer started the event as an excuse to go paddling in wind and waves with a bunch of experienced paddlers. Like any good myth, this one is half true.
In 2007, Johnston and a friend were looking for alternatives to sanctioned certification courses as a means to develop advanced paddling skills.
“We considered traveling to the U.K. or California, but we were too cheap,” recalls Johnston. Their solution was to rent a cabin in Tobermory, Ontario, fly in an accomplished instructor, share the cost with half a dozen friends and go paddling. The following autumn, Johnston partnered with Dyer to grow the idea into a public event and Storm Gathering was born.
“The goal of Storm Gathering is to build a community,” says Johnston. “Sea kayaking is like rock climbing or whitewater paddling; you can only reach a certain point on your own before your skills plateau. We’re connecting paddlers with each other so they can progress.” Where other symposiums focused on drawing in new paddlers, the Gathering targeted committed kayakers with the lure of challenging conditions in a safe and supportive environment. According to Johnston, the timing for such an event was perfect.
“You would never have been able to run this event five years ago,” he says, citing the recent availability of good, affordable drysuits; recognition of sea kayaks as true rough water vessels by the press and public; and skyrocketing interest in rolling brought about by the popular Greenland-style paddling trend.
Paddlers travel from far and wide for one last weekend in the sea kayaking season. | Photo: Virginia Marshall
Like any new event, Storm Gathering has had its share of growing pains. Both the inaugural year and the 2009 gathering suffered from uncooperative weather: Flat calm and bluebird skies for three whole, stinkin’ days.
“I told Tim [Dyer] that if it is calm this year, we are done,” Johnston tells me Thursday evening. He’s smiling; the historical weather data he studied to find the dates with the best chance of strong winds on Georgian Bay is finally paying off. This year’s weekend forecast is much more promising: 20- to 25-knot winds and waves to three feet.
Day One – Friday October 15
Forecast: Strong wind warning in effect, wind north 15 knots, increasing to 20 near noon.
“Most of you tell yourself, ‘Some day I want to try this.’ This is that day—we’ll try anything,” Johnston addresses the circle of still-groggy faces gathered post-breakfast in Snug Haven Resort’s spacious log lounge. He’s introducing the weekend program: four loosely structured on-water workshops, padded with dry land discussions, presentations and generous allowances for goofing around in boats, soaking in the resort hot tub and sharing stories. One of this morning’s sessions is called Attack of the Savage Rocks.
Two hours later, I’m watching a delicate-looking woman getting hammered against the rocks. Together, her matching drysuit, PFD, helmet and shiny new kayak comprise an investment of at least $4,000. The sound of fiberglass on granite grates my ears as kayak and occupant are dashed between polished stone and curling wave. She keeps her wits, pushes off and escapes.
Gathering for a storm. | Feature photo: Virginia Marshall
She doesn’t cry. Betty Wang, like the other participants I’ve met here, is grateful for any learning experience, even an expensive and potentially painful one. She read the registration disclaimer: Please note that due to hard rocks and big waves, there is a good chance that boats, paddles and gear will get damaged, broken or lost.
At day’s end, only a few paddlers are too tired to race to the adjacent harbor for Johnston’s dock launch competition. When the line-up for falling off in boats starts to resemble the nearby Hwy 400 artery on a summer long weekend, people who celebrated mid-life nearly a decade ago leap like lemmings into the harbor. Johnston and Dyer—radish and mango drysuits clashing like cymbals—run hand-in-hand off the end of the pier, literally into the sunset.
Forecast: Strong wind warning in effect, wind north 10 knots, backing to southwest 15 late afternoon, then increasing to 25 late evening.
“Just give it everything you’ve got and get them the hell outta there.” Tim Dyer is debriefing a rough water extraction scenario in his inimitable soft-spoken yet hard-hitting way.
The surprise scenario is a Dyer classic that sets the eight participants in his workshop scrambling to retrieve his “unconscious” body from the over-turned kayak, and then holds them in rapt attention as the challenges of the mock rescue are addressed.
In the millpond calm of the morning, the conditions might be contrived, but the learning is not. Reality is dirty, demanding and unpredictable—just like Dyer’s workshop.
The second day wraps with a fresh fish feast and uproarious gear auction at Gilly’s Restaurant in Snug Harbour. Afterwards, participants stagger back in the blue light of a neatly bisected half moon to Snug Haven’s cloister of cozy cottages. The cottages each house four to five participants, making them a social affair— building community—as well as a practical answer to the sub-zero evenings.
This year, dubious bunk assignments have seven instructors—business adversaries outside this gathering—sequestered in a single cabin, sharing dish duty while guarding trade secrets.
The second day wraps with a feast and gear auction. | Photo: Virginia Marshall
“The goal of Storm Gathering is to build a community,” says Johnston. | Photo: Virginia Marshall
Day Three – Sunday October 17
Forecast: Strong wind warning in effect, wind southwest 20 knots, backing to northwest 20 early morning, risk of waterspouts.
White horses gallop through the four-kilometer-wide passage. Kayaks alternately disappear amid, and emerge from, the rolling sea. A snorting giant, foaming at the mouth, consumes Snug Harbour light. Moments later, the cheerful red and white dollhouse reappears on the horizon and I adjust my wind-blown course for it, continuing methodically toward the goal.
A flash of blue at the edge of my vision catches my attention. I turn my head to see Stewart Todd, a tirelessly enthusiastic new kayaker, ripping across the face of another long roller. Todd’s return journey from the Snake Islands is 30 percent longer than the rest of ours as he zigzags across the channel, pursuing waves like a hound on a scent.
The storm has finally arrived at Storm Gathering. Cumulous clouds are piling up in the western sky and the forecast is calling for a risk of waterspouts and exponentially increasing winds for the rest of the week. Too bad tomorrow is Monday.
Back in the harbor, we’ll huddle in circles and swap tall tales involving harrowing rescues, near misses and half-mile surfs before packing vehicles for the long drives home. So, I ask Johnston, are you still thinking about calling it quits next year?
“No way,” he grins, “We’ll be back.”
Virginia Marshall is the former senior editor of Adventure Kayak magazine.
This article was first published in the Spring 2011 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Gathering for a storm. | Feature photo: Virginia Marshall
You’ve dreamed of an expedition since you started kayaking. Now, finally, you’ve picked a departure date, bought your food, packed it into hundreds of tiny Ziplocs, waterproofed your tent, found the perfect floppy-brimmed hat, purchased spare sunscreen and camera batteries, obsessed over charts and waterproofed your tent again.
It’s time to look at your boat. Your vehicle on this odyssey needs some preparation as well. You don’t need a specialized expedition kayak to go on an extended trip. You can transform your weekender into an expedition workhorse with these easy do-it-yourself modifications.
Add a Keel Strip
Reduce wear and tear on the bow and stern hull by adding a keel strip to your glass boat. Plan a half-day to apply this two-inch-wide strip of fiberglass tape covered in gel coat to the keel line of your kayak.
If you don’t have the time or interest to get your hands dirty, fashion a temporary keel strip out of 3M Scotchgard Paint Protection Film. Though not as tough as fiberglass and gel coat, this very strong, clear vinyl sticker can be applied in under an hour.
Be Rescue Ready
Make it easy for search and rescue teams to spot you by adding reflective tape to the top and bottom of your boat. Not all reflective tape is created equal. 3M SOLAS tape has very high adhesion strength and reflectivity—even a square inch of tape can catch the searchlights of rescue helicopters.
Outfit Your Kayak for Comfort
On an expedition, plan on sitting in your kayak for five to eight hours a day. Before your trip, pay attention to how your body connects with the seat, backband and thigh braces—if anything is uncomfortable on a daytrip, it will quickly become unbearable on a multi-day.
If your seat isn’t padded, consider purchasing a plusher seat or customizing for comfort with thin sheets of self-stick closed-cell foam. Thicker pieces of foam can be shaped into thigh braces or under-leg support and affixed with contact cement for a permanent fit.
Find and Fix Any Cracks or Leaks
Test all the moving parts on your kayak for wear and breakage. Pay careful attention to the rudder or skeg components and cables. If anything looks worn, replace it before your trip.
Carefully inspect hatches and bulkheads for cracks or leaks. Put the boat on an incline and fill the hatch partially with water. Watch for water seeping through the other side of the bulkhead. Cover any leaks with marine-grade caulking or a fiberglass patch. Also, if your hatches don’t have leashes, tie some on—most hatch covers don’t float.
Even after a thorough inspection, expedition filmmaker Justine Curgenven recommends, “Pack a repair kit with string, deck bungees, a spare rudder or skeg cable, emergency putty to fix a hole and lots of duct tape. On a remote trip, take a fiberglass repair kit.”
Rig a Storage Net on Your Front Deck
Gulf of St. Lawrence expedition veteran Serge Savard advises, “Install mesh across your front deck to replace those useless bungees. The mesh stores items like charts or a water bottle more securely. I added crossing bungees with an adjustable squeeze toggle in the center to prevent items from sliding around.”
Install a Deck Compass
A deck-mounted compass is an expedition necessity. It is accurate at any degree of tilt, hands-free and a permanent fixture so you’ll never forget it at the campsite.
Some kayaks come with a molded deck compass recess, making installation a snap. If yours doesn’t, there are several compass models that are designed to mount to any flat surface. Mount directly over the center of the boat for accurate readings and close enough to the cockpit that you can see the bearing without squinting.
Use Wasted Space
Expedition paddler and wooden kayak designer Bryan Hansel says, “When I’m spending eight hours a day in my kayak, I like to have a handy place to organize snacks, sunscreen and other frequently used items. I don’t like reaching behind in a blind attempt to find a small item in the day hatch. I installed a North Water underdeck bag between my knees to hold all the loose gear that’s hard to find elsewhere.”
Squeeze 20 liters or more of extra space from the area between your foot pegs and the forward bulkhead—perfect for a large dry bag. Epoxy a vinyl D-ring anchor to the inside of your kayak near the bulkhead and use a short lanyard to clip the dry bag in place.
Line the Decks
If your kayak doesn’t have full perimeter deck lines, add them now. Deck lines provide you with a secure place to hold on after a capsize and make it a lot easier for rescuers to handle your boat.
To install deck lines, first measure the perimeter of your boat and add 12 inches to allow for slack. Deck eyelets and 1/8-inch diameter rope are available from sailing shops.
Bungee for Self-Sufficiency
Writer and expedition kayaker Derrick Mayoleth says, “String one- to two-inch wooden beads (found at art supply stores) onto the deck bungees to keep the cord off the deck so you can easily slide your spare paddle underneath.”
Care For Your Feet
Adventure Kayak senior editor Virginia Marshall says the most rewarding customization she made to her 16-foot Valley Avocet for a recent 50-day expedition was pad- ding out the foot area. “If you like paddling barefoot or with open-heeled shoes, glue or friction-fit a rectangle of closed-cell foam—an old sleeping pad works well—to the hull below the foot pegs. It cushions and insulates, keeping feet comfy and warm.”
David Johnston is a sea kayak instructor and creator of the outdoor industry resource site, paddlinginstructor.com.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2011 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
I’m frequently astounded by some of the sea kayak techniques that make their way into books and magazines, get talked about at symposiums and are taught by self-proclaimed instructors. Some are unlikely to work in real world situations; the worst can be damaging to your body.
Flipping through a well-thumbed copy of Living Canoeing (Redwood Press Limited, 1969) recently, I found an illustration of towing technique that suggested the rescuer secure the towline by wrapping it around his bicep and gripping the end in his teeth.
If this technique were published today in a magazine how-to article, how would readers decide whether this is current and best practice?
We need true experts in our field to referee and filter out the bad information. It is time to raise the bar. There is a lot of good information out there, supported by science, and we have experts who can safely and supportively advance us. I am personally indebted to these experts for the paddler that I am today.
Experienced does not, by default, mean expert. My mother had over 60 years experience driving a car, but I would not go to her to teach me how to drive. Experienced just means time behind the wheel or in the cockpit. An expert combines this with a devotion to ensuring this is time spent developing best practices, not bad habits.
Peer review advances new ideas and methods and moves the sport forward at a faster rate.
What defines an expert in paddlesports? Experts have extensive experience paddling in a wide range of conditions and environments, experimenting with various techniques and diverse equipment. Experts also understand complex and variable outdoor environments— weather, wind, currents, sea state, surf, etc; body biomechanics; equipment design and how all of these relate to technique.
An expert’s information is current practice, works in real world conditions and is effective and efficient. And it is accepted by others of equal standing in the paddlesports community.
Reckless experimentation and fresh ideas from paddlers new to the sport drive innovation, but when these ideas are presented for public consumption, there is a greater responsibility to the paddling community. The best approach to meeting this responsibility is the process of peer review by a panel of experts.
Peer review is one of the most powerful tools we have to maintain standards and make sure that disseminated information is current and worthwhile. Peer review advances new ideas and methods and moves the sport forward at a faster rate.
No expert is outside the process and all reviews are open to the public. Strongly held beliefs must be held loosely so that as new information and evidence streams in, opinions can change and those who are resistant are removed from their pedestals.
Leon Somme is the co-founder of Body Boat Blade International, an award-winning kayak school located on Orcas Island, WA. Leon is a BCU Level 5 Coach aspirant, holds BCU awards in sea, surf, whitewater and open canoe and is an expert for Adventure Kayak’s new, peer-reviewed technique column.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2011 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
The once-cheery white paint on Michipicoten Island lighthouse’s flying buttresses is peeling. The doors and ceilings of the 80-year-old lightkeeper’s house sag.
Michipicoten Island’s compact cluster of eroding buildings isn’t alone. Late last May, the federal government of Canada quietly declared the still-active beacon “surplus” along with nearly 1,000 of its maritime brethren across the country.
The announcement came packaged with the new Heritage Lighthouse Protection Act—legislation “to conserve and protect heritage lighthouses” that elected officials, the Heritage Canada Foundation (HCF) and various other groups across Canada worked for over a decade to enact.
“This move undermines the intent of the Act, leaving the door open to the lighthouses’ abandonment and demolition by neglect,” says HCF spokesperson Carolyn Quinn.
The Act establishes a process to select and designate federally owned lighthouses for heritage status, requiring their maintenance by the Department of Fisheries and Oceans (DFO). However, it excludes surplus ones— which, not incidentally, now constitute 96 percent of all major light stations—from being designated. Unless, that is, community groups or private individuals commit to buy them and take responsibility for their upkeep.
Surplus lighthouses will be on the auction block for two years—until May 29, 2012. Interested parties must apply to Parks Canada for heritage designation and present a business plan to prove they can manage such a site. Ac- tual navigation aids would remain the property of, and continue to be maintained by, the Coast Guard. Preference is being shown to non-private buyers—community conservation groups, not-for-profits and municipalities—for whom the price is just $1.
“We’re trying to do good things,” says DFO Senior Divestiture Analyst Andrew Anderson.“We’re very sensitive to the fact that these [lights] are of enormous value for heritage purposes.” Anderson continues that the sale of lights isn’t new, “We’ve been doing this for 10 or 15 years.”
Only now the clock is ticking. After the divestiture period, those lights that remain unsold will face an uncertain future.
My Canada includes lighthouses
“It’s difficult to speculate what would happen to unsold surplus lighthouses,” says DFO spokesperson Nelson Kalil.
Kalil says that maintaining the 480 still-active—and 490 inactive—surplus lighthouses is beyond the budget and mandate of the Coast Guard. He emphasizes it is the lights, not the structures themselves, which are essential. “They can be replaced with simpler structures whose operation and maintenance would be more cost-effective.”
Many see this as government double-speak for an obvious outcome: Remote havens that have served mariners for two and a half centuries will disappear and be replaced by steel skeleton towers.
Former B.C. lighthouse keeper Jim Abram is among those who predict the replacement beacons will be “inferior” and of little use to mariners seeking shelter in storms.
If the DFO had hoped to pass the buck to another federal department, it doesn’t seem to be working. Parks Canada has been offered some of the lighthouses, including those within national parks like Pukaskwa Park’s Otter Island and Newfoundland’s iconic Cape Spear, but this “hasn’t fit into that department’s strategy” says Kalil.
For kayakers and other coastal recreationists, equally disquieting as the loss of safety and heritage is the thought of “No Trespassing” signs plastered on these sometimes-rare patches of public land. On some parts of the coast, the familiar red and white enclaves are the only guarantee of an unmolested campsite.
In a passionate letter to the Kingston Whig Standard, a Simcoe Island, Ontario, resident summed up Canadians’ sense of loss, and raised the call for action:
“If this is fiscal responsibility, it is, frankly, fiscal responsibility Canadians can ill afford. My Canada includes lighthouses. Does yours?”
This article first appeared in the Spring 2011 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
The view is every bit as unique and spectacular as the viewpoint.
I am standing 20 feet above Lake Superior with arms outstretched to steady myself. My form fills the dark, rectangular defile cut into the rock face of South McKellar Island.
Like me, the men who carved this mine adit—a horizontal tunnel burrowing roughly 450 feet into the heart of this tiny outcrop—were on a fervent search. Where they sought silver nearly 130 years ago, I am looking for a healing peace. To me, the true treasure here is the lake itself, as gentle this day as an outsized millpond.
Below my feet, our three kayaks are lashed to a giant iron staple driven into the rock. Looking landward toward Pie Island, the view is of stunning headlands, sheer cliff faces and rugged shores cloaked in spruce. In an exchange of roles, the lake seems to have switched with the land as a place of refuge. Sky and water ap- pear interchangeable. It is a peace-giving place, and that is precisely why I am here.
I slammed the door last summer on a 29-year career as a special education teacher serving deaf and hard-of-hearing students, terminally fed up with administrative bureaucracy.
A mutual passion for paddling has connected me with some amazing individuals over the years. On this two-week trip from Pigeon River to the tiny hamlet of Rossport, Ontario, I travel with a lifelong speleologist. We poke our bows and noses into every rock fissure, mineshaft and sea cave.
Stillness of the Paddle
Keep your senses open and your ego in a box and you have quite a lot to learn from the company you keep out here. What you see on the surface is rarely all there is. This is as true of the wilderness as it is of the people passing through it.
We are blessed with another ethereal calm on the morning we make the 10-kilometer crossing from Pie Island to Thunder Cape through the heart of a busy shipping channel. The huge lake freighters steaming in and out of Thunder Bay will not even see a kayak, much less adjust course for one.
No one speaks as we paddle. We are all keenly alert for ship traffic, but there is so much more to this stillness. Gulls, cormorants and calling loons are the only witnesses to our passage. I will remember this fine morning as one of the most peaceful I have ever experienced kayaking.
I am a bit past middle age right now. There are certainly many other waters to explore. However, in the time I have left to paddle, it is my choice to travel deep rather than travel broad. The peace I find kayaking on Lake Superior is a gift that can be shared only between intimates.
Tim McDonnell lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where he is busy savoring retirement and dreaming of his next Lake Superior kayak trip.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2011 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2011 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions 
This article was first published in the Spring 2011 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. 
