Survival: Shoulder Dislocation on Chile’s Michimahuida River

Stories

Photo: Dustine Shewfelt — Survival: Shoulder Dislocation on Chile’s Michimahuida River

Chile’s Michimahuida River is a long and committing day run in a steep, isolated valley in northern Patagonia. the glacier-capped mountains through which the river tumbles are volcanic and troubled by frequent eruptions that turn the turquoise waters pasty grey. In 2009, Theresa Landman and her husband Bob Daffe put on the Michimahuida with a party of four other kayakers 10 months after the most recent explosion of volcanic ash and just two days before another eruption. After the group roped down a hillside of mud and ash, an otherwise clean descent turned ugly in the river’s second canyon. Landman explains what went wrong.

I have been whitewater kayaking for 20 years and paddled lots of class IV–V rivers in Chile, Argentina, Africa, Mexico, New Zealand, Ecuador, Nepal, the United States and Canada. Bob had paddled the Michimahuida in 2006.

In the second canyon, I ended up in a chute with many shallow rocks in pushy water and flipped. I tried to roll up but my paddle blade hit a rock as my arm was fully extended. I actually heard a popping sound and wondered if it was my shoulder. I had no choice but to let go of my paddle and work my way out of my kayak with one arm. I started to swim, concerned that I would get swept into the heart of the rapid. I was lucky to wash onto a mid-river rock in a slower section of the rapid.

When Bob arrived, I was clutching my arm across my chest in the telltale position for shoulder dislocation. He set up a rescue on a tether to get me to shore. I wanted to keep my shoulder and arm in the least excruciating position but I had to remove my lifejacket and dry top so Bob could examine the injury. He sent the group ahead to finish the river before dark, leaving just the two of us with a bit of food and spare clothes.

Bob had set dislocated shoulders seven times before and was optimistic mine would go in. I lay as flat as I could on the rocks and Bob placed his foot against the side of my chest and pulled my arm straight. When he applied traction, the pressure and pain eased. After 15 minutes, we heard a distinct click as my shoulder muscles relaxed. Bob gently moved my arm upwards and I felt my shoulder slide back into place. It was instant relief for both of us, despite the fact that we were on our own and a cold, heavy rain had begun.

SEEKING MEDICAL ATTENTION

To progress downriver, I bushwacked through a thick forest of bamboo and Nalga (a giant, Chilean equivalent of Devil’s Club) while Bob paddled the rapids on his own, waiting every 100 metres. Where the river was calmer, I held onto the back of Bob’s boat while he paddled. Eventually, Bob spotted my kayak floating in an eddy. I began paddling easier sections interspersed with difficult portages. At dusk we spotted a cave that became our home for the night. We made a fire to dry our gear and slept in our paddling clothes.

At daybreak, we found the river in flood and the class V rapids impassable. Bob now had to portage two boats over house-sized rocks and around cliffs. Where portaging wasn’t an option, we got back in our boats. I flipped once and tried to roll, but my shoulder was too weak so I went back under and rolled up on my offside. We reached the takeout at 10:30 a.m. to find that our group had initiated a rescue. At the police station they told us that a helicopter was on its way but couldn’t fly due to the bad weather.

I saw a doctor in Chile who made sure the shoulder was back in properly and that there were no other injuries. They put my arm in a sling and gave me some painkillers.

I am now more cautious around holes. To improve my strength and confidence, I exercise my shoulder regularly with a Thera-Band.

SHOULDER DISLOCATION 101

Shoulder dislocation is the most common acute traumatic injury in kayaking.
Surgery is required in 13 per cent of acute paddling-related shoulder injuries.
Reductions should only be performed by trained individuals in the backcountry where evacuation is lengthy and difficult. If a dislocation occurs in the frontcountry, seek treatment at a hospital rather than attempting reduction on the river.
Following a simple reduction, immobilize shoulder in a sling for five to seven days.
95 per cent of all shoulder dislocations are anterior, meaning the head of the humerus (upper arm bone) is pushed forward out of the shoulder socket.
The U.S. Canoe and Kayak Federation recommends back paddling as an effective exercise for increasing strength and stability of anterior shoulder muscles.

Theresa Landman and Bob Daffe own and operate Tatshenshini Expeditions in the Yukon.

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

Survival: Spinal Injury On The Kicking Horse River

Stories

On July 13, 2009, Scott Feindel and three other experienced paddlers kayaked off 98-foot Wapta falls on the Kicking Horse River, a popular tourist attraction inside B.C.’s Yoho National Park. The group hiked in 25 minutes for a preliminary scout, decided the 490-foot-wide drop warranted a closer look and put in 15 minutes upstream. After scouting thoroughly both up- and downstream from both sides of the river, two paddlers ran the falls. Scott Feindel lined up the lip next.

I’ve spent thousands of days on the river instructing, playing, completing as a member of the Canadian Freestyle Team and creeking on day trips, multi-days and expeditions.

That afternoon, I watched Jakub Nemec and Chris McTaggart make first and second ever descents of Wapta Falls. I remember scouting extensively, walking back and getting into my boat. I think I remember seal launching into the water and ferrying out to the lip. After that I don’t remember anything until several days later in the hospital.

THE INCIDENT

Feindal moments before he broke his back. Photo: Shon Cottrill — Survival: Spinal Injury on the Kicking Horse River

Due to the width of the river, my main concern was being off line. As we had discussed, the team alerted me when I was off, but due to the speed and character of the river, I was unable to get on line. I dropped 70 feet to a rock shelf and was ejected from my boat for the remaining 30 feet. Jacub and Chris pulled me, unconscious, from the class I water below.

[ Also read: Kayaking Big Waterfalls: How High Is Too High? ]

I owe my life to the level-headed efforts of all my paddling crew. They alerted rescue using a SPOT GPS messenger and hiked out to a road construction first aid site where Ryan Galleger notified RCMP, then hiked oxygen back in for me.

My friends immobilized me and froze their asses off at the base of the falls for two and a half hours. Marc Ledwidge and Aaron Beardmore from Banff, Yoho and Kootenay National Parks Visitor Safety Program strapped me into a rescue basket that was flown out by Alpine Helicopters pilot Lance Cooper. From the accident site I was airlifted to another helicopter waiting nearby to fly me to Golden Hospital’s emergency room.

THE EXTENT OF THE INJURIES

Once stabilized in the Golden ER, I was transported by STAR’s air ambulance to Calgary’s Foothills Hospital. I spent several days in emergency, four weeks in trauma, and over four weeks in rehabilitation before being granted early release for uncooperative behavior.

I fractured my T12 vertebra, broke 15 other bones, collapsed my right lung and partially collapsed my left, and suffered a severe concussion when my brain collided with the front of my skull.

[ View all whitewater kayaking helmets in the Paddling Buyer’s Guide ]

At first I was wasted on morphine, oxycontin and oxycodone, but the rehabilitation weeks were long. Meanwhile, close friends and family had to deal with the initially unknown extent of my injuries—whether I would be able to walk, and if my long-term mental capacity had been affected. My sister Shannon and good friend David were in emergency when my first purposeful words were a smart-ass remark in David’s ear, which I think alleviated some early stress.

THE EFFECTS OF THE ACCIDENT

I’ve been very fortunate to have a full recovery. The experience has taught me many important life lessons, and that the decisions I make on the river affect the people I care deeply about. I have always felt that the risks and consequences were mine alone to bear, but seeing the stress and heartache that I put my loved ones through, as well as the potential long-term care that might have been needed, I realize this is simply not the case.

[ Also read: Six Whitewater Missions You May Have Missed During The Pandemic ]

I would not have run Wapta if I didn’t feel I had the skill and base of experience to do so safely. I have no regrets, but simply wish to thank those that helped me, and hope that others can learn from my mistakes to safely achieve their goals.

SPINAL INJURY 101

Broken bones account for nine per sent of acute whitewater paddling injuries and are most common in the back, chest and ankles.
33 vertebrae in four regions – cervical, thoracic, lumbar and pelvic – make up the spinal column.
If a spinal injury is suspected, lay the victim on an even surface on his back and immobilize the cervical spine (C-spine) with a cervical collar or rolled up towel or foam pad.
Among acute injuries have the longest duration of recovery and effect on paddling.
Shallow, rocky rapids and significant vertical drops pose high risks for head, neck and back injuries.

Scott Feindel would like to thank his paddling crew, Parks Canada Safety, Alpine and CMH Helicopters, STARS Air Ambulance, RCMP, Ryan Galleger, Golden emergency, the folks at Foothills Hospital and Bodhi Tree Yoga for helping with recovery. Most of all, he thanks his sister Shannon and friends and family for their love and support.

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

Racing’s Big Comeback

Stories

Photo: courtesy Fibark Boat Races Inc / The Mountain Mail — Racing's Big Comeback

For the past couple of years I’ve told anyone who will listen—and many who won’t—that racing is the next big thing in whitewater. There’s some irony in this. In a coming-full-circle kind of way, racing is where whitewater paddling started.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not talking about the Kevlar, gates and Lycra shorts of the World Cup slalom genre. I’m talking about recreational racing, river running. Jump in whatever you paddle, start at the top and get to the bottom as fast as you can. In North America, this has been going on since the 1940s.

In The River Chasers (Sigel Press, 2001), Susan Taft chronicles the history of whitewater paddling and the development of river running. The earliest North American river running focused on exploration. The 1930s saw descents of most of the great rivers, including the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. Following these conquests, attention quickly turned from exploration to competition. For the next 50 years, from the Appalachian Mountain Club’s first downriver race in 1940 right up to the whitewater kayaking boom of the 1990s, racing was the epoxy that held the sport together.

The granddad of these competitions is Salida, Colorado’s FIBArk downriver race on the Arkansas, run continuously since 1949. In the 1950s, light-years advanced European racers were paid $300 each by race organizers to come to Salida and kick butt. They brought boats, river running skill and fitness as yet unseen.

Roger Paris, Walter Kirschbaum and Erich Seidel—all European champions—upped North American paddling to a whole new level. Legends such as Milo Duffek made extended stays and taught clinics. Paddlers from across the continent converged at FIBArk and went home amazed, armed with new techniques, boat design ideas and courage to push the boundaries. Even today, in the weeks leading up to the June festival, normally eddy-hopping Colorado playboaters can be seen blasting downstream on training runs.

“RACING BECAME A SUB DISCIPLINE OF SLALOM”

Whitewater racing’s first appearance at the 1972 Munich Olympic Games further rallied North American paddling around racing, but the Europeans proved far braver and more skilled on the manmade host course in Augsberg. North American paddlers returned home humbled yet determined to catch up.

It is at this point that racing became Kevlar, gates and Lycra tights. Downriver, or wildwater, racing became a sub discipline of slalom, even though it was the creator of it. Recreational boaters, uninterested in the precision required of slalom, went looking instead for un-run rivers and surf waves. Playboating was born. Where the Olympics were anticipated to be a boon to the sport, they more likely ostracised racing from the mainstream.

Racing as river running is back. With freestyle going the way of slalom as a specialty event, traditional river festivals looking for something new and more paddlers crossing back and forth between mountain biking, triathlons and other fitness sports, the timing is right. River running boats are back in style. Paddlers are revisiting classic runs to beat unofficial fastest times.

The Green River Narrows Race in North Carolina attracts 800 participants and spectators every November. This spring’s Hell or High Water race on the Petawawa River saw 106 racers, a 300 per cent increase in participants over last year. Events like this prove you can have the laidback, social atmosphere of paddling even with a stopwatch at the bottom. It becomes a great reason to get together. That is, after all, where whitewater paddling started.

Jef Jackson is a professor of Outdoor Adventure at Algonquin College in Pembroke, ON.

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

Extreme Creek Racing: Bigger Than Rodeo

Stories

Photo: Blake Mahoney — Extreme Creek Racing: Bigger Than Rodeo

Over the past several years, extreme creek racing has exploded in popularity. Where a decade ago a handful of small-scale races catered mostly to dedicated locals, now there are hundreds of races organized for all skill levels. Last year, the Adidas Sickline Extreme Kayak World Championship on Austria’s Oetz River brought together over 100 racers from 22 different countries, proving racing has become a global craze.

“Extreme racing is the way forward,” predicts New Zealand’s Mike Dawson, who took second place at the 2009 Championship. “It’s going to get bigger every year!”

With international corporations like Teva, Red Bull and Adidas hosting televised and tweeted events drawing hundreds of competitors and tens of thousands of spectators, and commanding media coverage that reaches hundreds of thousands of people at home, racing may be the trend that finally pushes kayaking into mainstream sports. At least that’s the hope of ambitious race creators like Adidas Sickline’s globally minded Olaf Obsommer.

WHY RACING IS THRIVING – FOR PARTICIPANTS AND SPECTATORS

So why is racing succeeding as a spectator sport when other kayaking disciplines have struggled? The answer, like racing itself, is simple. Racing is exciting and easy to follow. The first person to cross the finish line, or the competitor with the fastest time, wins. There is no confusing judging or points system as in freestyle. Throw in an element of danger and potential for some carnage and you have a surefire fan favourite, even for non-kayaking spectators.

“Extreme racing is similar to watching a movie,” explains Joel Heath, founder of the Teva Mountain Games. “Even if it is just for a moment, the audi- ence lives vicariously through the boater’s experience and that rush of adrenalin surges through both boater and spectator.”

As racing gets more exposure, sponsorship and hefty cash prizes—up to $5,000 now at some events—are following. This conspicuous end of the racing phenomenon—hard whitewater courses, elite racers, high profile sponsors and the sport and industry observers who follow them—is pushing kayaking forward, but this growth is also a catalyst driving the other, more subtle end of the trend—race-hungry, everyday Joe boaters and burgeoning local racing scenes.

Every year, more grassroots races are popping up on local runs, inviting boaters of all abilities to take up the challenge and join in the fun. The motivations are universal: competition, the promise of an exciting day on the water with friends or the sense of accomplishment in piecing together a perfect run.

If you have yet to experience the thrill of a race, don’t sweat the clock. It’s becoming increasingly easy to find one that suits your skill level. Ask your local club and check out online forums and chat boards. In the United States, the U.S. Whitewater Racing Association brings together a race database and event hosting guidelines.

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

Hunting Monsters: The Quest for the World’s Biggest Wave

Stories

All photos this page: Patrick Camblin — Hunting Monsters: The Quest for the World's Biggest Wave

River gauges this spring recorded unseasonably low water in the Northeast but that didn’t stop a dedicated band of professional kayakers from launching themselves on a single-minded mission that’s become an annual tradition: the quest for the world’s largest surfable river wave.

Stakeout, as this quest has come to be known, originated in 2000 when Marlow Long and I got our first taste of mammoth waves on the Ottawa’s Bus Eater. This wave was unlike anything we’d ever surfed and we were confident that if we scoured the countryside, we could find more like it. Aided by Google Earth, our expanded search started the following year in Quebec, exploring the high volume rivers that cover this region. We soon discovered many rivers with potential but without adequate flows, and so the wait—and our stakeout—began.

Hunting giant waves requires keeping your eye out for potential, watching levels and hustling to the rivers as they start to spike. Each spring, the monsters awake with the thaw as the banks.

Hot on the trail, our group—an international crew including Ben Marr, Rush Sturges, Steve Fisher, Joel Kowalski and B.C. Boys Logan Grayling, Micah Lyall and brothers Max and Dylan Davidson—piles into sagging RVs and questionable motels along the backroads of Quebec.

The province has rewarded us with some of the world’s best river waves and ample opportunity to progress freestyle kayaking. Giants like Black Mass, Detonator, Sirens, Half Mast, Ginormica, Biggie and Gladiator have been discovered on Stakeout, making the long drives, excessive flat- water, unavoidable bendering and general mayhem that comes with a group this size entirely worthwhile.

members of stakeout stand around campfire

STAKEOUT GOES DOWN UNDER

While the search continues in Quebec, others have taken the cause to more distant lands.

In February, a team led by freestyle icon Anthony Yap headed deep into Western Australia’s isolated Kimberly region during cyclone season on a month-long, self-supported expedition in hopes of finding monsoon-swollen river waves. While the skies stayed clear and the river low during the expedition, the crew remains undaunted.

“The Kimberley has amazing potential,” says Yap. “Huge monsoonal downpours, rapidly fluctuating river levels and some amazing rapid forma- tions have left me convinced that there are epic waves out there—we’ll continue the search until we find them.”

Much of what drives Stakeout and other wave- finding missions is the fact that there are so few known big-river waves suitable for freestyle. Their formation takes a certain unique set of circum- stances. High volume rivers are the best bet for giant waves but adequate gradient and the right riverbed topography are necessary as well. A decade of experience has shown the best waves— those with good shoulders and larger surfable windows—to form off slanted shelves. Fast, unaerated water and some slower water behind the wave to back it up combine at the best spots.

Given all the critical elements in play, there are perhaps only 15 world-class big waves around the globe and most run for only a few short periods throughout the year. So where will the quest for these elusive giants take big wave explorers in the years to come? China and Russia show promise—both have vast areas with high volume rivers as yet untapped for freestyle. And the Stakeout crew has a top-secret list of drainages that should keep the dépanneur Red Bull and diesel flowing for many cold Mays to come.

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

Surf Like a Snowbird: Heading Down South for the Winter

Stories

Photo: Conor Mihell — Surf Like a Snowbird: Heading Down South for the Winter

It takes a few days to overcome the feeling of isolation and nervous fear you get sitting in a sea kayak 300 metres offshore in towering Atlantic Ocean swells. The return to shore involves navigating several lines of two-metre-high breakers. At low tide, when the overhead waves crash violently on shallow sandbars, the ride is even more harrowing. I spent Christmas Day tiptoeing along the edge of the surf zone, catching long rides in my 16-foot boat on glassy shoulders and handling the breakers with carefully executed side-surfs.

There’s a well-established tradition of Canadians trading snowy winters for sunnier climes. Paddlers are a part of this trend, but the mangroves of the Florida Everglades, the desert coastline of the Sea of Cortez or the Canyonlands of Utah don’t crawl with Canadians in the same manner as a Sarasota beach or Cancun nightclub. Roadtripping to your winter paddling destination offers its own unique advantages—like the benefit of bringing your own boats and having the mobility to arrange your own vehicle shuttles. And, there’s the enjoyment of the journey itself.

On a dark, cold December morning, my friend Craig shows up 15 minutes before the 6:00 a.m. departure time that he’d deemed two hours too late. His compact pickup truck is buried beneath three boats—a sea kayak, whitewater kayak and his surf kayak. As my wife, Kim, and I scramble to pack last-minute items and secure our four boats atop my equally half-size pickup, Craig tells us how he typically drives 16 hours a day.

“But I only slept a few hours last night,” he adds, “so we may have to stop an hour or two earlier today, if that’s okay?” Kim flashes a look of relief. With that, we hit the snowy northern Ontario highway, en route for five days of Christmas surf kayaking in the southern United States.

Craig has made a habit of this annual migration, driving south for two weeks of paddling when the grip of winter seems never-ending. To flip the pages of a Rand McNally atlas with him is to learn of the vast potential of winter paddling options: On one trip in the Florida Everglades he paddled at night through a minefield of alligators; another time he dodged board surfers at Cape Canaveral; and then there was the off-season island-hop he and a friend made to Ocracoke Island, North Carolina.

Two years ago, Craig and our friends Jorma and lorraine spent the holidays surfing ocean waves off the southern Outer Banks of North Carolina and whitewater boating on Appalachian rivers. The three of them (and two dogs) piled into roadside motels, bartering for discounted holiday rates and cranking bathroom thermostats to dry their gear. It was on this trip that Craig was given his Wave Terrorist CB handle for his reckless abandon for paddling, and Jorma and lorraine’s rusty Escort wagon became known as the Doghouse.

plans for a sequel came together seam- lessly. Jorma, who was previously featured as Adventure Kayak’s thrift store expert, Lorraine and the dogs would drive down a few days early to get their whitewater fix. Meanwhile, Craig, Kim and I hit the road to rendezvous in the town of Surf City on Christmas Eve. Trip goals were simple: Endless surf, lots of laughs and cheap accommodations.

Somewhere in Michigan, Craig gave us the dash-mounted GPS he’d borrowed for the trip. he said it was too hard to track the screen and drive at the same time.

From the cab of our truck, Kim became chief navigator, calling out directions and relaying them to Wave Terrorist by way of a Motorola walkie-talkie. Approaching Columbus, Ohio, in pre-Christmas rush hour, our convoy fell apart. Traffic thickened and sped up, exits blurred past and Craig’s truck was swallowed by a pulsing tide of last minute shoppers in SUVs.

“Wave Terrorist, you’re in the wrong lane,” blurted Kim as Craig disappeared up an off-ramp heading for downtown.

“I’ll find you,” was the only reply.

After an hour of waiting on the shoulder of I-270, Kim and I agreed to carry on. Then my last, shot-in-the-dark call for Wave Terrorist was acknowledged, albiet by garble.

Minutes later, Craig pulled over. Downplaying his adventurous lap of the Columbus’ city centre, he was ready to get back on the highway and make up time. After another navigational blunder amid a confusing network of highway junctions along the Ohio-West Virginia border, we eventually red-eyed to one-star accommodations south of Charleston, West Virginia, for the night.

If you drive a two-day, 2,000-kilometre diagonal from the great lakes across the Appalachian Mountains to the Atlantic seaboard, you’ll hit Surf City, North Carolina.

This tourist-trap town is located 150 kilometres north of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, at the southern tip of a 300-kilometre-long strip of sandy islands that shield the U.S. Intracoastal Waterway from the outer coast. While the popular surf beaches of Cape hatteras and the northern Outer Banks yield larger, more reliable waves year-round, Surf City waves average over a metre in December. The town is less popular among turf-warring board surfers and is generally free of strong currents and sharks. For barely $100 per night, the five of us rented an apartment-style motel suite a stone’s throw from the ocean.

After 24 hours on the road, we emerged from the trucks, leaned into a northeast wind and gazed towards Bermuda. Jorma and Lorraine rolled in just after dark, overloaded with dogs, boats, wet paddling gear and a healthy selection of cheap beer, boxes of wine and a Mason jar of moonshine. With the wind whistling through the palm trees, surf lashing the beach and sugarplum fairies dancing in our heads we shared tales from the road.

We awoke the next morning to barreling waves and a deserted beach. A merry Christmas indeed.

By boxing day we were no longer the crazy Canadians obliviously battling chilly gale force winds. The swell became higher, the wave period longer and the surf less sloppy. Craig had a Zen moment when he skipped down the face of a glassy giant in his planing-hull surf kayak, carved a bottom-turn and peered into the black, foam-rimmed tube. Jorma ventured far offshore to ride the biggest breaks in his whitewater boat. Kim and lorraine shredded the foamy waves closest to shore. We all stumbled back to the motel exhausted.

By day three we fell into a surfer’s routine: Breakfast, morning session, lunch, afternoon session, and then an evening-long happy hour at the motel.

I eventually let myself believe that the dozens of dorsal fins cutting the water offshore were only dolphins, and I figured out more aggressive ways to handle the intimidating breakers. On our last day, the waves were so clean that we could hardly bear scampering to shore to sponge out the bilge. happy hour for me happened on the water, when the low-angle sun caused the waves to sparkle and steep breakers cartwheeled my sea kayak end over end. The foaming waves were soft and forgiving, begging me for just one more ride. Until the sun set, I obliged, rolling up and punching out for that final glorious surf.

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

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

A Forager’s Manifesto

Stories

Photo: Bruce Kirkby — A Forager's Manifesto

Fishing for food embodies much of my truth as a kayaker. For me, sea kayaking and fishing are natural adjuncts. We sea kayakers tour for a lot of different reasons. But in my book, a week of tasty fish fillets is one of the best.

Take, for example, a recent trip to the Brooks Peninsula. My friend Steve and I had spent the better part of the afternoon paddling and fishing in vibrant seas, tepid sun and vagrant autumn breezes. Alone on the remote northwest coast of Vancouver Island, we had paddled ashore to fly fish the mouth of Battle Creek for coho salmon.

The only action we had was one feisty buck salmon jumping multiple times five feet in front of us. With the tide pushing in, the wading was dicey; waves and surge pulses hit us randomly and threatened to knock us over.

We got back in our boats, pushed off and spent the last hour trolling Battle Bay hoping to find a fish or two hanging out up top. When it looked like fate would surely give us the stiff we pointed our bows toward camp half a mile distant. But dragging those flies, mind you, every stroke of the way.

Steve was well ahead of me and my mind was drifting toward the beers we’d stashed in the creek when I looked up to see a salmon leaping repeatedly around his boat. I reeled in my line, dug hard with my paddle, and watched as Steve reached back for his rod and waved wildly in my direction.

It was an extremely long fight and nearly dusk before he finally had the fish in his lap. We stashed the fish in the rear hatch and pad- dled ashore, while I envisioned salmon fillets grilling over a little driftwood fire.

The perfect end to a day of kayaking.

I love ocean kayaking in a coldwater para- dise like this, camping and fishing day after day, night after night until my inner savage is stilled, my “wild quota” is met once again. The way I see it, just because we’re on a kayak trip doesn’t mean we don’t try to eat locally, organically, fresh and wild. For me, tapping into seafood resources completes the kayaking experience.

Sure, I bring along a few freeze-dried meals for when I’m too wiped out to cook, but for the most part, the staples we bring are intended to complement a seafood buffet—sautéed onions and garlic and carrot with a little red cabbage and apple salad over Basmati. If the fishing turned out to be a total bust, I’d be looking at a lot of low-cal dinners.

Fortunately that has never happened. The ability-to-live-off-the-sea index is very high in British Columbia. The more remote you are, the better it gets. If you’re lowering a jig off the edge of a kelp bed or a rocky point, you’re fishing in the right place; odds are, something will bite. This is not dry fly fishing on the henry’s Fork. These fish are wild and hungry and eager for the lure. You’ve got to be a fishing klutz not to bring the bacon back to camp here.

How do I do it? For salmon, I usually fly fish, casting or trolling a bucktail, unweighted, right on top, using a 9-weight rod. But a good handline and a lead or painted metal jig, jigged up and down just off the bottom, or even troll- ing that bucktail, will catch most everything.

When the inevitable storm comes along, I harvest ahead for one day, but no more—a basket chilling in a pool in a forest creek is our only refrigerator. If I’m confined to the beach, I look at the next tier of critters. Even an aver- age low tide will usually reveal barnacle beds, from which horseshoe barnacles can be care- fully gathered, then steamed and drenched in butter and tamari for dinner. Or perhaps there are crab in a nearby lagoon we can wade for or trap. And there are always trout up the fresh- water coastal streams. More often than not, a meal is salmon fillets grilled over a beach fire, or chunky lingcod fillets with pepper and lime, prepared in a ceviche dish.

living off of the sea as you explore is about more than the nutritious food that you put on the table; it is an integral part of wilderness exploration. In fact, it’s that return to the primacy of needs-based hunting and gathering that cre- ates the kayaking buzz for me. Not only does it give me something soundly pragmatic to do; it provides both the excitement of fishing (which is a near universal thrill) and a wealth of seafood entree options.

No matter what you catch or how you prepare it, a fresh seafood diet for an extended pe- riod of time is something to look forward to on any kayak trip. In the spirit of “chop wood, carry water,” out here it’s chop/carry and catch fish, and there is a deeply refreshing quality about such direct imperatives.

Rob Lyon is a former fly fishing guide who lives in the San Juan islands. He can be reached at [email protected]. learn more about kayak fishing in Adventure Kayak’s sister publication, Kayak Angler.

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

Building Your Boat

Stories

Photo: Ginni Callahan — Building Your Boat

I took the thin plywood panels out of the box and lined them up on the plastic floor covering. A Pygmy Arctic Tern. Too excited to wait, I stitched and glued the middle butt joints with epoxy after only a cursory glance at the directions. Then, hmm, there was another butt joint at the bow; together it didn’t seem to fit in my 16-foot workshop. I re-measured the room. Still 16 feet.

Hello? Pygmy? Do you sell different sized Arctic Terns? Oh. I meant to order a 14-foot model.

No problem, Ginni, just ship it back in the box.

Too late! That is how I got to build two kayaks in one 16-foot room. And, that is when I learned that life is never the adventure we first expected.

A boat is a creative extension of a life—even if it is from a kit. Your hands make it. You rig it to your needs and tastes. My 14-foot Arctic Tern has mahogany pad eyes with a blue deck line running underneath around the perimeter of the boat. Mahogany end toggles match the pad eyes. After my latest trip to Australia, the kayak may also get a sail.

For me, that little Arctic Tern opened more doors than I thought existed in this labyrinth of life. One little kit boat project, some years playing in surf, a symposium in northern California, a Welsh filmmaker… One door just kept opening to another in a dizzying maze of kayaking adventures I had never even dared to dream. Where does all that good fortune start? In a 16-foot room.

The boat-building bug may be more manageable in kayak size, but of course it isn’t limited to kayakers. Go to Marina Seca in Guaymas, Mexico, and you will find a revolving community of international project addicts of all flavours: fibreglass, aluminum, steel, Ferro cement and wood. Pandora III, a 50-foot schooner with two broken masts and wood rot completely through is a box that should have never been opened. But there is one so smitten with her that she will be his life’s work. Thankfully, he is still a young man.

What am I doing in Marina Seca? I’m hanging with another sea lover and boat artist on his steel-hulled sailboat. Instead of building a boat, I’m chopping my fibreglass Romany in half in preparation to fit it onboard to explore the world under sail and paddle.

Looking back to my Arctic Tern days, I believe: You shape the boat, then let the boat shape you.

Ginni Callahan is a sea kayak guide on the Sea of Cortez, Mexico, in winter and on the Columbia River and Oregon Coast in the summer. She owns Columbia River Sea Kayaking and Sea Kayak Baja Mexico.

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

What Color Should You Wear To Be Seen On The Water

Skills
Safety & Rescue

Photo: Ryan Bonneau — A sea kayaker is dressed in bright paddling clothes as he paddles on a dark, rainy day.

One of the most frequently asked questions in sea kayaking is: What is the best color for visibility on the water? Opinions vary, research is scarce and personal experiences are conditional at best. So the bottom line, it seems, is that it all depends.

Our eyes have sensory cells called rods and cones. Rods are more abundant and help us see the size, shape and brightness of an object. They are also more sensitive than cones, which show us colors and detail. Cones detect specific wavelengths corresponding to red, blue or green. We use our cones to see during the day. In low- light conditions we see mostly with our rods, and those images are basically black and white.

[ Further reading: 7 Most Important Skills For Sea Kayakers ]

In those general terms, a color seen in full sunlight would begin to appear differently as light subdued, caused by either atmospheric conditions such as fog and rain or as nightfall approaches.

The U.S. Navy’s medical research lab conducted a study on color and visibility in 1951. Researchers sought the best visibility colors to aid search and rescue operations at sea. They compared the existing basic yellow of the then-current G.I. survival raft to other colors in the spectrum that might be more visible.

They determined that yellow-red colors were more visible than yellows of the same brightness. They also found that light targets against dark backgrounds were easier seen than dark against light and that the old G.I. rescue raft yellow wasn’t very visible at all.

The general conclusions gleaned from the Navy study were that against normal sea background colors, yellow-reds (think oranges) are most readily detected; the redder the better for visibility in a given value range; and visibility increases by 30 percent when the target color is lighter than the background. A Coast guard friend of mine throws another color into the discussion. Robin’s egg blue stands out extremely well in water from the air.

So what should one’s choice of color be for optimum visibility? Consider the conditions in which you expect to paddle most often. For sunny, clear, bright days, favor reds. If you’re in an area that is commonly overcast, misty and foggy, favor bright yellows or red-yellow. Composite kayaks can be ordered in custom color combinations, but for single-color plastic boats, reds and yellows are probably the best all-round against both dark and frothy waters.

More important than your boat color may be your life jacket, especially if you get separated from your boat. The same theory applies to picking your best life jacket and clothing color. To be more visible at night, carry lights and consider reflective tape on your body and boat, and maybe even a radar reflector for an even greater chance of being spotted.

Tom Watson is a freelance writer with over 20 years experience as a sea kayaker. He specializes in kayak safety, skills and survival techniques.

Journey of the Spirit: Kayak’s Ancient History

Stories

The ancient Inuit chose as their domain a very inhospitable environment. A vast, frozen land devoid of the essentials of life. Those who inhabited the coastal areas were especially deprived of the gifts of the land—natural resources in the forms of vegetation and land animals were simply not available. The sea became their source for sustenance and their needs dictated the path of their ingenuity.

Karl Bjorn Hansen runs with his qajaq up the shoreline in the youth portage race.

How Paddling Became Greenland’s Cultural Renewal

Journey of the spirit: Kayak’s ancient history

Life for the ancient Inuit depended on their ability to make the most of the meager materials at their disposal. To not create meant extinction, so they created perhaps one of the greatest design and engineering feats in history. From a dearth of construction materials, and in the worst of environments, the Inuit developed the kayak.

Made from bones and driftwood, covered with seal skin sewn by the hands of a craftsman, the original kayaks made a mockery of the harsh land in which they were built. The noble hunters braved the extreme elements to pursue the elusive seals, developing the necessary skills to manoeuvre their vessels and hunt from the confines of the cockpit. It was a job held in high esteem. The hunter was the provider of life for his village. Without his success- ful forays over the treacherous waters, the Inuit people would not survive. his was an existence tied to courage and heroism. And tied to a boat—the hunter’s boat!

One can readily imagine the social position of the Inuit kayaker. His was an existence predicated on risk, for the dangers he faced from the cockpit of his tiny vessel were always present. The ancient kayaker, after having sighted and then stalked his prey in the unforgiving waters, would trade paddle for harpoon and, in the pitching swells, launch his weapon while maintaining the delicate balance that kayakers often seek so desperately with a flick of the hips.

With the fate of the entire village riding on his skill and courage, the kayaker’s launch into the hunt was a momentous occasion, heralded with sacred chants and actions focused on success and survival. What a scene must have ensued as the hunter, at one with his kayak and the frigid waters, pushed off from the icy shoreline and pulled those first few strokes of his mission. The kayak, its decks laden with harpoon and attached air bladder, would quickly become a silhouette on the horizon.

As you slip into the cockpit, dare to feel the spirit for which your kayak yearns. The ancient lines and purpose that have evolved its existence speak a sacred language to you, if you care to listen. For those onlookers who see only a recreational paddler dipping the first paddle strokes of a pleasant journey, feel pity. They do not see the spirits of the hunter and hunting vessel that guide your voyage.

Michael Walmsley resides in Orangeville, Ontario, where he and his wife operate Inukshuk Kayak, a company enhancing the culture of kayaking through art.

Cover of Adventure Kayak Magazine Summer/Fall 2010 issue This article was first published in the Summer/Fall 2010 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.

The ancient kayaker, after having sighted and then stalked his prey in the unforgiving waters, would trade paddle for harpoon. | Feature photo: Lomen Bros/Wikimedia Commons

1...507508509...565 Page 508 of 565