Standing Waves: Seeing Green

Trips

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Photo: Alisdair Marshall — Standing Waves: Seeing Green

Perched largely above the Arctic Circle between the 60th and 85th parallels, Greenland stores 10 per cent of the earth’s freshwater reserves in the form of a giant ice cap slowly melting into the sea. The island’s rivers flow straight off this ice cap, tumbling furiously down mountainsides and into barren valleys home only to caribou and the occasional stray polar bear.

Greenland is also the birthplace of kayaking

The first qajaqs were constructed of sealskin stretched over driftwood and bone 2,000 years ago. since then, generations of the native inuit people have paddled, hunted and fished along the island’s treacherous coastline using these seafaring crafts. One place they never ventured was inland to ply the rivers. They simply had no reason to.

In 2007, English adventurers Ali Marshall and Simon Tapley became the first paddlers to explore Greenland’s largely untracked interior in search of runnable whitewater. The two-man expedition was challenged by the difficulty of running adequate safety on the river, viscious weather and sketchy information and transportation.

“We’d gamble on valleys sometimes three days’ walk away to find all the gradient lost in big falls too high to paddle,” says Marshall.

The hit-or-miss nature of their six-week expedition only made the reward of good whitewater that much greater. After sailing down the island’s west coast with a great danish cod fisherman in a boat called Nardvhalen—and later being rescued by the same when a storm blew their tent and kit into the sea—the men launched a two-week assault on the rivers flowing into the Bjornesund Fiord.

“It was a true wilderness at least 100 kilometres from other people,” says Marshall. “It really summed up the reasons we came to Greenland: warm weather melting a seemingly infinite snow pack, smooth ancient granite and good gradient.”

The promise of more undiscovered whitewater lured Marshall and Tapley back to Greenland

In the summer of 2008, this time better prepared and with the addition of two more paddling friends, Mike Scutt and Graham Milton. The short, plastic creek boats they brought with them—evolved from the ancient qajaq design to perform in a different medium—were nearly unrecognizable to the locals.

“We stopped in Qaqortoq where a man hand crafted traditional Inuit kayaks,” Scutt recalls. A thriving local qajaq club let the visitors try their seaworthy speed machines but declined an offer to demo the team’s strangely-shaped, garishly-coloured boats. “They laughed at our plastic whitewater boats,” Continues Scutt.

The English paddlers described their experiences to the qajaq club. How they had spent two weeks crossing fiords, walking over land, hitching rides on tractors and quad bikes and being dropped off by speedboat at the mouth of a brown, silty river churning through an impassable canyon. They told the Inuit kayakers about the arduous trek up around the canyon into a tributary full of waterfalls, smooth slides and beautiful, blue snowmelt water. After showing the local paddlers footage of running a long, steep slide, milton told them that all the pain and struggle to get there was worth it for that moment of ecstasy he felt in the pool looking back at that monster.

The locals’ reaction? “I think part of our descriptions were lost in translation,” says Milton.

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2009 issue of Rapid Magazine.

Open Canoe Technique: Trouble Brewing

Skills

By

Mark Scriver

Photo: Rick Matthews — Open Canoe Technique: Trouble Brewing

Imagine you’re accepting accolades for a perfect run of Coliseum on the Ottawa River when a boil in the outwash flips you and all your credibility. if you’ve spent most of your paddling days on smaller rivers, the seemingly random power of big-water boils and their seam lines are likely to catch you off guard. Whether you’re in a solo playboat or paddling a loaded tandem on a northern river trip, these features demand your attention. With the right strategies, even the strongest boils can be made a fun part of whitewater paddling.

Named for the appearance of the water, like a lobster pot on the stove, boils are most common where there are powerful flows and water depths of at least three metres. A boil on large volume rivers like the Ottawa or Nahanni might be the shape and size of a pitcher’s mound. To understand boils and seam lines we need to first consider the movement of water in the vertical dimension.

Boils are caused by a current that flows upward, erupting on the surface. It could be a current that was deflected by an obstruction on the riverbed, in which case a boil will be pretty consistent and stationary. Or it might be a fast-moving current that collides with a slower one and is forced upward, creating an inconsistent boil that surges and dissipates, or reappears up- or downstream.

Seam lines form at the edge of a boil’s mound. Where there is water coming up, there’s water moving down to fill the void. seam lines are like vertical eddylines formed where diverging vertical currents meet.

Boils can be distinguished from whirlpools—another big water feature—by how and where they form. Whirlpools typically appear near the top of deep, strong eddylines and move downstream where they dissipate.

Boils and seam lines usually form further downstream where the eddyline is less distinct

Knowing where and how these features form helps you to avoid them. Avoidance is your first and best strategy. Plan your moves ahead so you don’t have to turn too aggressively and kill your speed in an unstable situation. If you are going to hit a boil, you’ll have to paddle uphill to get over the mound. Approaching with speed and continuing to paddle maintains your momentum across the boil and makes it easier to steer when you reach the seam line.

Cross seam lines at 90 degrees whenever possible and move away from them quickly. These are often the trickiest part of the boil since the water is pulling down on one side of your boat and pushing up on the other. The same loose hips you use to stay balanced atop the surging mound will allow you to make the quick adjustments needed to counteract the seam line’s opposing forces.

In the event of a capsize, boils, seam lines and whirlpools can make it difficult to roll. If you do swim, hang onto your boat—the downward currents in strong features can outweigh the buoyancy of your PFD, taking you momentarily below before firing you back up to the surface.

This article on boils was published in the Early Summer 2009 issue of Rapid magazine.

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2009 issue of Rapid Magazine.

Skills: Falling Flat

Skills

By

Kelsey Thompson

Photo: Stephen Wright — Skills: Falling Flat

Running big waterfalls can be one of the most dangerous aspects of kayaking. Witness professional kayaker Dunbar Hardy, who endured 10 days in traction followed by a year of rigorous physiotherapy after breaking his back on a 50-foot falls in Ecuador. Or Corran Addison, who says he still feels intense pain nearly 20 years after shattering vertebrae on a 70-foot drop. Both injuries occurred landing flat from too great a height. When scouting a significant drop, the foremost decision for any paddler is whether to boof for a dry, flat landing or plug for a wet nosedive into the plunge pool.

To Boof, or not to Boof?

Identifying whether a landing is soft enough to absorb a flat landing takes practice and experience. As a general rule however, the more flow going over a drop, the more aerated the water at the bottom. Frothy, aerated water acts like an airbag in a vehicle and makes for a softer landing. If there is very little flow going over a drop, the green water below provides very little cushioning so landing flat can feel a lot like slamming onto a concrete floor. Nearly all of your boat’s momentum stops upon impact, forcing your body—mostly your spine—to absorb the shock. Therefore, the higher the drop and greener the landing, the more vertically you’ll want your boat to enter.

Tuck it in

Consider this: you have left the lip of a waterfall that you planned to plug but are now falling flat to the pool below. To save your spine, you need to drop your bow for a more vertical entry. The easiest way to do this is to tuck your body hard against your front deck. Shifting your weight forward like this will slowly start to angle your bow downwards. When you’re running a fairly large drop, staying in this position will cause your boat to become more vertical throughout the fall. Tucking forward also curves your spine which helps protect your back. If your bow doesn’t drop enough and you are still headed for a flat landing, prepare to be slammed against your front deck. Turn your head to one side so your helmet takes the impact instead of your nose.

Stomp the drop

A second method to get vertical is to stomp the drop. Stomping involves aggressively changing your angle in mid-air. It is more difficult than simply tucking forward and hoping for the best, but it’s also more effective on medium-sized drops when you don’t have enough time for a slow-motion weight transfer.

Think of your body as a swiss army knife. Start closed in an aggressive forward position on your front deck, pulling your knees to your chest. Move to an open position by sitting up and leaning slightly back while pushing your legs and heels away from your upper body. While the stomp can drop your bow quickly, it also leaves your body in a very vulnerable position. The secret to stomping safely is to tuck forward again just before landing. This motion can pull your bow back up so be careful to shift your weight forward slowly by crunching your abs rather than pulling up with your knees.

The stomp technique works really well for small, quick angle adjustments and is best suited to shorter drops. With such potential for serious injury, it pays to practice both of the recoveries described above. Practice stomping drops that you can boof safely so you don’t risk injury if you land wrong. Although the stomp is very effective in the right situation, tucking onto your front deck goes a long way to protecting your back in all scenarios.

Kelsey Thompson is a professional kayaker and three-time member of the Canadian Freestyle Kayak Team.

This article on waterfalls was published in the Early Summer 2009 issue of Rapid magazine. This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2009 issue of Rapid Magazine.

Dream Departures: Saguenay Fjord

Trips

By

Lorenzo Del Bianco

Long believed by early explorers such as Champlain to be the gateway to a fabled kingdom that the Iroquois described as mysterious and bursting with precious metals, the Saguenay Fjord was carved out of billion year old rock by glacial activity during the last ice age.

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2009 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Sea Kayak Certification: Inside Kayaking’s Top Rank

Stories

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Conor Mihell

Photo: Jonathan Walpole — Sea Kayak Certification: Inside Kayaking's Top Rank

When Bruce Lash started kayaking in 1983, he never imagined one day leading a group of paddlers across 12 kilometres of open water on lake Superior in November. The self-proclaimed “ordinary paddler” and firefighter from Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, first became interested in sea kayaking as a means to better duck hunting. Less than a decade later, he was paddling with top kayakers, the likes of Derek Hutchinson and Valley Canoe Products designer Frank Goodman, and had started the first sea kayak company on lake Superior. lash became part of sea kayaking’s highest order in 1995 when Nigel Dennis, a British Canoe Union (BCU) coach and legendary expedition paddler, signed his 5-Star Sea Award.

Lash says his 5-Star assessment included everything the Holy Grail of sea kayaking is known for: rough water landings, broken boats and night navigation. Early on in the crossing portion, a paddler panicked and had to be towed for most of the way. Then, Dennis flooded someone else’s bow hatch—camping gear and all—and left lash to pick up the pieces. All the while and ever deadpan, Dennis watched on from a distance.

“It was like a rite of passage,” says lash. “I’ve never been so intimidated in my whole life. But there was a certain comfort in knowing that the assessor put you in those situations knowing that you had the tools to get out of them safely. And because I went in ready for the worst, it was achievable. But it felt really, really good when it was over.”

Despite its iconic status, the BCU wasn’t the first national governing body of paddle- sports. The American Canoe Association (ACA) started up in 1880, long before 1936 Olympic hopefuls created a union of English paddlers. But sea kayaking was barely known in North America when the sport’s highest standards were set by BCU grandfathers and whitewater paddlers Hutchinson, Tom Caskey, Sam Cook, and John

Ramwell in the 1960s. 

BCU programs are divided into training and assessment stages. Since the beginning, the goal of the BCU’s top sea kayaking award has been to train and assess expedition paddlers for their ability to lead groups in advanced sea conditions.

In north America meanwhile, where sea kayaking blossomed without for- mal instruction, the ACA’s only sea kayaking offering by the 1980s was a course that corresponded with the bottom rung of the BCU’s five-step ladder, says Dave ide, who began paddling in Traverse City, Michigan, in 1983. “All the ACA had were beginner-level courses. The British were doing things like kayaking around Cape Horn and Nigel [Dennis] had kayaked around all of the British Isles. They were very into the adventure aspect and the rougher ocean, and had an instruction program to back it up.”

The British invasion began when Czech ex-pat and former whitewater slalom world champion Stan Chladek began importing British-built sea kayaks to his Detroit paddling shop in the late 1970s and BCU instructors to his Great lakes Sea Kayak Symposium in the mid-1980s. Ide says that Britons Hutchinson, Goodman and Howard Jeffs were recruited by Chladek to oversee the ACA program. But it quickly became obvious that the British system of instruction was more refined, and BCU North America became its own entity.

Ide, a long-time AT&T telephone employee who still lives on the shore of lake Michigan, admits to having an addictive personality. As quickly as he became hooked on sea kayaking, he also became one of North America’s highest-ranking paddlers. He surfed his 18-foot Nordkapp with Goodman, Dennis and lash at Chladek’s Gales of November rendezvous on lake Superior’s Canadian shore, explored Vancouver island’s gale-battered Brooks Peninsula and paddled the violent tide races of the British isles. He achieved his first BCU instructor award in 1990.

After taking Advanced Proficiency Sea (now 5-Star Sea) training on lake Michigan, ide joined the 5-Star fraternity in 1993 when he led a group of paddlers, including assessor Dennis, in fog and five-metre seas on the boomer-ridden coast of Maine. “I was the only one with a chart and to get back to shore we had to follow a particular path around a bunch of is- lands,” says ide. “When we made it in safely, Nigel said he’d be happy to sign my endorsement.”

The Advanced Proficiency curriculum was about “stretching the boundaries of your skill level,” says ide. Still, it was doable. Ide says that then—as is still the case with the 5- Star today—candidates were told the skills and knowledge they were expected to demonstrate well before being assessed.

“Some of the skills sounded intimidating—like throwing away your paddle and rolling up with a spare in breaking waves,” he says. “But practiced, and by the time the assessment came around I could do it without fail. The hardest parts were the leadership and navigation aspects. You never knew what they were going to throw at you.”

In 1994, Ide became a senior instructor and, along with New York’s Bill Lozano, was handed the unenviable task of administering the BCU in North America—while the tea-sipping grandfathers watched on from across the pond. When Ide sanctioned Lash’s 5-Star Sea assessment on Lake Superior, the old guard balked. “It never really flew with the people in Britain that we could have an endorsement that was non-tidal,” says Ide.

Sam Crowley, an Ide-trained sea kayak instructor from Marquette, Michigan, says there were complicated politics involved: “The BCU has always had this thing where some have aspired to go global and others have wanted to stick to England. In the late-1990s, the ‘stick to England’ camp won.”

The BCU withdrew high-level instruction in North America for a time. As the BCU’s influence here waned, homegrown American and Canadian paddlesports programs flourished. Both the ACA and Canada’s national paddlesports organization, Paddle Canada, developed beginner to expert programs with skills and instructor streams that parallel the BCU hierarchy. Yet interestingly—whether out of deference to the legendary status of the BCU’s top honour or just poor marketing—both labelled their top award a level 4. Both level fours have yet to equal the 5-Star’s prestige.

Back in England, the BCU remained the domain of some of the world’s best sea kayakers. Today the BCU torch burns brighter than ever in the hands of a fresh, younger generation of expedition paddlers and ocean playboaters like Jeff Allen. 

To understand the BCU program, says Allen, an instructor, expedition paddler and owner of Sea Kayaking Cornwall, you have to realize that its awards are based on the sea conditions of Great Britain’s North Atlantic coast.

“The biggest problem with the running of 5-Star assessments in the U.S. is the lack of strong tidal flow,” says Allen. “It’s not that the U.S. doesn’t have 5-Star conditions. But the strong tides [of the British Isles] are intrinsic to the BCU 5-Star Sea award.”

Allen, who has sea kayaked around Japan and Antarctica’s South Georgia Island, admits to having never heard of the BCU when he started paddling in the mid-1990s. “At first I thought what a mess—levels, stars, A grades—and assessors and coaches griping at the system,” he says. “There may be a certain amount of British bull, but I quickly realized that the core of the system is as strong as it gets.”

After several 5-Star dry runs in Welsh overfalls as a “crash test dummy,” Allen found himself under the leadership microscope in 2003, taking a group across the Straits of Gibraltar. The typically three- to four- hour crossing from Spain to Morocco turned into a nine-hour suffer-fest, with Allen and assessor Fiona Whitehead both towing other participants in buffeting winds.

“Because I prepared religiously, I can’t say that it was a challenge,” says Allen. “In my training I worked through the what-ifs, looked for answers and developed strategies.”

Unlike the early days, female paddlers have played an increasingly important role in today’s BCU—and are instrumental in bringing the resurgence of the BCU’s North American influence. Since Trys Burke became the first woman to achieve the coveted Level 5 Coach award and was certified to assess 5- Star candidates in 1998, Fiona White- head and American Jen Kleck have also become top-ranked coaches.

Inspired and intimidated by the 5- Star Sea’s reputation, Ginni Callahan, a sea kayak guide and instructor who splits her time between Washington’s Puget Sound and Baja, Mexico, challenged the award in 2005. She did her assessment in Wales under the auspices of Nigel Dennis, Rowland Woollven and Fiona Whitehead, in the powerful, unfamiliar tidal races of Holy Island.

“It was my first time paddling in England and behind it all there was this sense of the impossible,” says Callahan. “On the whole, sea kayakers in England don’t paddle in the same type of conditions that we paddle in here on the Pacific. The tide races are so dynamic. It’s true that the sea conditions over there are un- like anything in the U.S.”

Callahan says British-trained sea kayakers seem to have a fondness for hardship and an affinity for disaster. “I went over and practiced for a few weeks before my assessment and helped out as a rescue boater at Nigel’s symposium,” she says. “The symposium was a real eye-opener. Participants could choose between three streams of instruction: Playing in the tide races, rescues and incident management, or taking out Nigel’s old beater kayaks for a crash and bash. In the end, all three groups seemed to blend into one. It sounds crazy—and it was—but it really got me thinking on my toes.”

When it came time for her assessment, Callahan says the biggest challenge was the night navigation. She was responsible for leading the group on a set route in pitch darkness. As she completed the last leg, the single streetlight she was using as a target was missing and she was reduced to hoping for the best.

“When we got close to the beach and the light was gone, I was certain I’d screwed up,” says Callahan. “All the while, the rest of the group and the assessors were just watching me sweat it out. But it turns out I was right on. The light had been turned out for the night.”

Ten years after Dave Ide’s reign, instructors like Ginni Callahan, Jen Kleck, Leon Sommé and Shawna Franklin have re-established the BCU in North America. Sea Kayak Georgia and Florida’s Sweetwater Kayaks in- vite some of England’s finest instructors for their annual BCU weeks. And on the West Coast, Kleck runs 5-Star training courses and is planning a 5- Star assessment in the tide races of San Francisco Bay.

Callahan says the award’s “Holy Grail” reputation is only half right: “The assessment isn’t about trying to trip you up, it’s about getting you to lead. It’s accessible for those who’ve done their homework and have the leadership knack. Still, the award is real in the sense that it actually means something.”

Conor Mihell is a freelance writer and kayak guide based on Lake Superior. He holds the BCU 4-Star Sea award and is a Paddle Canada Instructor-Trainer (conormihell.com).

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2009 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Thirst for Knowledge: Where’s a Girl to Go?

Stories

By

Terry Johnson

Photo: flickr.com/littledebbie11 — Thirst for Knowledge: Where's a Girl to Go?

“Quit drinking,” my husband said. “You’ll just have to pee more.”

New to kayaking, I had a major problem to figure out this summer. How the heck do women pee from these things?

On our first trip, we had to stop every two hours for me to go. I decided there had to be a better way after reading fabulous stories of women on expeditions doing 10-hour marathon days. How are they doing this? I must know since we are planning our own circumnavigation this summer around Manitoulin Island. It would be handy to discover this secret before then.

I began a desperate quest for knowledge. I ordered back issues of kayaking magazines that looked like they might have hidden tips. I bought kayaking videos and books about kayak expeditions. I found few answers. In Kabloona in the Yellow Kayak, Victoria Jason describes having a drysuit with no relief zipper and holding it all day until she could unpeel on shore. Not an option for my weak bladder.

At last I came across an advertisement for a women’s drysuit that included a relief zipper and a “Shewee.”

Ah ha! I was off to the outdoor store to find a Shewee. I purchased a P-Mate—the same idea. The sales girl told me, “Just climb onto your deck and go. It’ll wash off.”

She had obviously never seen me practicing reentries. If I could do one of those headstands in a kayak, then I wouldn’t have this problem.

Time to ask the experts. I nervously sent an email to the well-known expedition kayaker Justine Curgenven. The very next day I received an answer. (In trying to convey my excitement at this to a hockey-loving friend, I compared it to him getting a personal e-mail from Wayne Gretzky. How she had the time to respond to my wee request between all her touring for her latest movie, I don’t know.) My quest was over.

She presented three options.

1. Pee on a sponge (ew).
2. Try the P-Mate into a bottle. (This, Justine admits, is pretty awkward.)
3. Raft up and put one foot on my kayak and the other on another kayak and pee in between. Yeah, okay. In fact, Justine told me there is a short clip in her latest movie This is the Sea 4 that shows this being done.

So, unfortunately, there is no magic formula, but I now have something to work on for the summer. After several weird attempts at standing on my back porch and peeing off it, I’m still unsure about lying down with a drysuit on in a tiny coffin-like space and aiming into a bottle while bouncing around in waves. And since I’m not going to quit drinking anytime soon, my new strategy involves “stopping to smell the roses” whenever I want to. At least until I can do a headstand.

Terry Johnson lives in Whitefish Falls, Ontario, and writes personal anecdotes of her outdoor adventures (terrylynnjohnson.com).

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2009 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Rock the Boat: Let’s Get Political

Stories

By

Alex Matthews

For me there’s a certain ritual associated with heading out to kayak surf. There’s the obsessive monitoring of online wave plot predictions, winds and tides. And the spirited debates and often ridiculously over- optimistic hopes about what day will yield the best surf. Authoritative predictions are made, and then come the day, the traditional early morning phone calls and emails crisscross our little surfing community as we make the final call—do we risk the long drive in hope of surf? Or do we abort in favour of going sea kayaking closer to home, running a river or (gulp) doing yard work?

I’ve been paddling the surf breaks that form at the mouth and point at Jordan River on southern Vancouver Island since the early ‘90s. Jordan river is about one and a half hours’ drive from Victoria—out past the community of Sooke—on the island’s west coast. Its proximity to victoria has made it a very popular destination with an ever-growing number of board surfers, as well as a handful of misguided souls (like me) who kayak surf.

Now Jordan river and a huge chunk of land that stretches along that section of coast is threatened by major development. Despite very vocal opposition from the public, it’s unclear what the fate of the land and the surf break will be. The dispute dates back to January 2007, when the provincial government gave a logging company, Western Forest Products (WFP), approval to release 28,000 hectares of its private land from management under the province’s Tree Farm License system. The decision allows WFP to sell the land—including the Jordan River area—for corporate profit. A Vancouver-based developer has plans for 2,550 hectares, including a village of 10,000 residents at Jordan River, a marina and hundreds of rural lots.

The province’s auditor general, John Doyle, said in a July 2008 report that the decision to release the land was made without due consideration for the public interest. Due to pressure from environmental organizations and the public, the regional government put in a new bylaw that requires a minimum lot size of 120 hectares for most of the area. The bylaw also restricts the subdivision of existing lots into anything smaller than 10 acres. This is staving off major development for the moment, but WFP and the Association of B.C. Landowners have challenged it in court.

Perhaps the potential loss of one surf break on Vancouver Island doesn’t sound very important. Maybe it seems irrelevant. But look at it this way: Jordan River is the canary in the coal mine alerting us to the pressures on our favourite backcountry paddling destinations. If we paddlers do nothing to manage expansion as our population grows and urban sprawl sprawls, it is not a question of if each of us will lose one of our favourite paddling destinations, but when.

In B.C., an incredible number of waterways have been targeted for small independent power production. The amazing Okisollo rapids and Surge narrows off of Quadra Island were recently threatened by a hydro project. In the face of strong opposition, the provincial government announced the cancellation of both applications. Great news, but don’t celebrate too long because not very far away, another proposal is threatening the beautiful mainland watershed in Bute Inlet.

This summer, as I paddled Vancouver Island’s west coast from Port Hardy round Cape Scott and the Brooks Peninsula, it struck me how many campsites we use through convention and the good graces of their custodians, rather than by permission or any formal land use agreement. Much of the coast south of the Brooks, for instance, is subject to land claims from First Nations. Our access is a privilege, not a right, and despite the reassuring presence of all the sites listed in guidebooks and on maps, in truth we could lose access very easily. The clock is ticking.

Unless we start to give some thought to preserving the areas that we love to visit by kayak and act to establish land use agreements that support marine trail systems (such as the ambitious B.C. Marine Trail concept), we may find that touring possibilities become very restricted. The loss of just a few strategically placed campsites can make linking many kayaking routes unsafe or virtually impossible for the average paddler.

Of course expansion and development is not all bad and hydroelectric power generation is a necessity for our power-hungry lifestyles. But I for one want to try and help steer development so that it happens within a carefully considered, publicly approved plan and timeframe, that protect as many green places as possible. Because when it comes to making shopping malls, radial tires and light bulbs, we humans are fantastic. But we suck at building a dragonfly, grizzly bear, gnarled pine tree or a pristine stretch of coastline.

Now I’m going surfing. While I still can.

Alex Matthews would rather be out paddling. He recently organized a paddlers’ rally to oppose a mega-yacht marina in Victoria’s harbour.

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2009 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Editorial: Encounter with the Anti-Guru

Stories

By

Tim Shuff

I met Jerry at the Northeast Canoe and Kayak Symposium in New Jersey last September. Jerry was one of the symposium’s volunteer instructors.

Jerry handed me his business card. I use the term business card loosely, for Jerry appeared thoroughly retired. The card bore his name in bold, psychedelic-coloured letters, his summer address in yonkers, his winter address in Fort Lauderdale, and three clipart pictures of a kayaker, a peace symbol and a baker—Jerry’s own personal BCU three stars.

As kayak instructors go, Jerry’s aims were typical—within minutes he was offering to take my kayaking to another level. Yet his methods were unconventional—he proffered a container of homemade brownies, promising they would improve my paddling and possibly make me “a better writer.”

I was intrigued. The man’s reputation had preceded him, however, and I had vowed to eschew any such offer. Hanging with Jerry nonetheless turned out to be a symposium highlight. He gave me a refresher course in kayaking’s laidback and fun-loving side.

Jerry spun tales of work at New York’s Downtown Boathouse, a volunteer-run place where anyone in the world who knows how to swim can walk up, take a lesson and borrow a kayak free of charge at any time. Why don’t we have that everywhere?

Jerry also told me about how he and 60-odd friends paddle around manhattan each August. “If you tell people you paddled around manhattan and Greenland,” he said,“they’ll say‘Wow, you paddled around Manhattan?’”

“Fuggedabout Greenland. manhattan is a seven-hour paddle and the current does all the work. We stop at museums along the way to wait for the tide to turn.”

Jerry also instructed me in the finer points of dock-and-dine, a staple of his Florida winters. Dock-and-dine involves finding a nice waterfront restaurant within easy paddling range for dinner. The key is to phone ahead. mention that you don’t mind sitting on the patio. And, Jerry added, “If it rains, call a cab.”

Before chugging back to the Big Apple in his aging white BmW, Jerry urged me to come down to Florida sometime. “Put a shout-out on a bulletin board. Say ‘I’m coming down. Who wants to meet me at the airport with a boat?’” He assured me I’d be well taken care of.

Want to be hardcore the Jerry way? Try some 5-star dock-and-dine. Just wait until the weather warms up enough for it to be thoroughly pleasant and relaxing. Invite your friends. And remember: If it rains, call a cab.

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2009 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

A Final Descent Of The Ashlu River

By

Bryan Smith

two whitewater kayaks float in the Ashlu River in British Columbia while a third sits on a rocky ledge — The tranquil pool of Tea Cup Eddy offers an evanescent reprieve from the Class V cataracts of Box Canyon. | Feature photo: Phil Tifo

I pile the last creeker atop an already swollen stack of boats, recklessly exceeding the recommended load for my rack. A posse of river runners who flood into Squamish every year at this time is packing the last of their gear into my truck. Across a bed of perennials, my neighbor is washing his Windstar and staring in disbelief at our macramé of boats. Two more vehicles stacked to precarious height pull into our quiet cul-de-sac.

My cell phone is ringing with stragglers looking to get in on the mission. We are heading up the Ashlu today; this is the last season that the river will be free-flowing. Paddlers from all over the world are now chomping at the bit to explore the majestic, moss-covered granite canyons of the Ashlu before it is diverted into a tunnel.

Kayaker running a waterfall with another kayaker waiting below.

6 Tips To Supercharge Your Next River Run

A final descent of the Ashlu River

Fifteen years ago in British Columbia, running rivers and creeks was at the very core of whitewater. Entire mountain ranges of expeditions and adventures were to be had in long pointy Dancers, Overflows and Corsicas. Sporting thick neoprene and teal Pro-Tec helmets, function far outweighed fashion for the early pioneers. The thought of giant aerial blunts at Skookumchuck had not crossed their minds. They were too busy trying to determine the magic amount of flow and gradient that would make possible successful descents easily accessible from logging roads.

In 1993, Stuart Smith launched into the upper sections of the Ashlu and returned with reports of polished granite bedrock and crystalline blue water. Four years later the next wave of local Squamish paddlers, including LJ Wilson and Sam Maltby, completed the first descent of the Ashlu’s lower reaches, now known as Box or Commitment Canyon. The river quickly became the most sought-after classic in the Sea-to-Sky Corridor. Just 30 minutes outside of Squamish, the rapids were clean and the scenery was colossal. Little did these paddlers know BC Hydro had already identified the Ashlu as one of the best candidates for what they call “run of the river” hydroelectricity generation.

Crossing into a changed landscape

It’s now the fall of 2008 as we caravan toward the Ashlu River. Driving almost due north out of Squamish we turn off the Sea to Sky Highway and slip through First Nations reserves around the town of Brakendale and cross the dam-besieged Cheakamus River. The vine maples’ giant leaves litter the narrowing road as we pass under their thick canopy beneath the lurking shadow of the Tantalus Range. The hot summer has melted most of the snow off the peaks, leaving the bluish-grey glaciers exposed and glistening in the sun.

The pavement soon turns to gravel as we hook a left off the Squamish Valley Road to head up the Ashlu drainage. The once overgrown logging road barely passable with a 4×4 is now a wide and well-traveled thoroughfare. Power poles line an immense clearing that parallels the road for several kilometers, interrupting the otherwise dense forest. I can’t help but think about how much the landscape must have changed here since the first paddlers explored this valley almost 15 years ago.

security checkpoint at Ashlu River in British Columbia — Inside the security checkpoint. | Photo: Phil Tifo

We reach the security checkpoint at the entrance to the construction zone and my vehicle license plate number is documented as is everyone’s name. The guard has the same look of disbelief that my neighbour expressed just a couple hours earlier. “Watch out for the rock trucks, park to the side of the road, be sure to report back to us when you leave, and have fun,” he says.

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The checkpoint is a metaphor for the deeply divided local struggle over the Ashlu. On one side of the fence stand bitter paddlers, local residents and fishermen who fought to keep the valley wild through three years of public hearings. On the other side stands the Ledcor Group, with hundreds of personnel and pieces of heavy equipment, and the sweeping pro-industry legislation that supported the construction of this private power project.

We drive up the road, through the construction and past the tunnel site. Massive iridium lights tower overhead, sprouting on alien steel poles where an earthy grove of giant Douglas fir trees once stood. One of the mossy roadside cliffs is now scraped bare with a four-meter-wide bullet hole punched into it. This is the exit end of the tunnel, where the water of the majestic Ashlu will one day pour through power-creating turbines. Dust created by the boring machine billows out of the hole and settles in a grimy film on a 30-tonne Volvo dump truck awaiting another load of gravel. The river flows just below in a perfectly natural state, unaware of its fate.

tea cup eddy along the Ashlu River before it was rerouted underground — The tranquil pool of Tea Cup Eddy offers an evanescent reprieve from the Class V cataracts of Box Canyon. | Feature photo: Phil Tifo

The Ashlu is a river runner’s dream

The Mile 25 Bridge above the waterfall we call 50/50 is our immediate destination. This is where we get a good visual on flow and decide that the level looks perfect for us to link three different sections for what will amount to my favourite B.C. river run.

To run the Mine Section, through the Mini-Mine and straight into Box Canyon, we have about 10 km to cover with at least two mandatory portages. This is the first time anyone in our group has attempted to run these three sections of the Ashlu in a single day. This feat has been accomplished before, but with the hydro development underway, today’s run may be the last.

We put in on river-left just upstream of an abandoned granite mine. The derelict trucks, buildings, pipes and fuel barrels have been rusting a slow death since the late seventies. The trashy landscape reminds us how humans have scarred this beautiful valley many times before. Walking through the forest to our put-in, the thundering sound of the Ashlu drowns out the distant noises of excavation and all of the energy expended to get here feels well worth it.

On the river, I splash my face several times before tucking my skirt under my drytop and securing my helmet. Directly below is a technical Class IV rapid and immediately the group’s focus turns from environmental issues to running the river.

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The Ashlu is glacial-fed late in the season. The silt deposited by the glaciers gives the water a milky, opaque color that blends almost seamlessly into the polished granite bedrock. This is a river runner’s dream with everything you could possibly want. Clean water, technical boulder gardens, runnable waterfalls, ledges, stunning scenery and enough eddies to break the run down rapid by rapid. Every section of the Ashlu is pool-and-drop. Up high the Ashlu has runs for Class III paddlers, in the middle it becomes Class IV and the lower sections challenge even the best Class V boaters.

Dropping deeper into the Mine Section our attention is consumed by the river. All the earlier sights of hydro development have been replaced with narrow horizon lines. I blink my eyes to take a picture for my neighbor and the guard. If they could only see the ferns waving high along the canyon rim, hear the power of the river squeezing through the granite canyon, smell the pitch from the Douglas firs baking in the sun or just feel the refreshing splash of the cool water they might understand our motivation to squeeze into eight feet of plastic and paddle down the river. They might understand why so many of us fought to keep the Ashlu this way.

A calm green path leads into the lip with not even a small wave or ripple in the way. Then you fall through the air…

After two hours on the river, the Mine run is easing and we approach the weir and diversion site. Once a shallow Class III boulder garden, this stretch of river has now been transformed into a composition of concrete structures designed to control the flow of the river. Soon the Ashlu will have a two-way valve, where water can either be directed through the gaping maw of the diversion tunnel or released into the canyon below. Big excavators are digging the foundation for a building to house the computer controls. We drop over the weir one by one and realize the same water we are floating on will soon be used for electricity. Once diverted into the cavernous tunnel the water will be sent thundering through the mountain, spinning three giant turbines to power up to 20,000 homes.

The Box is directly downstream. It’s entrance is guarded by a tricky 10-meter waterfall named 50/50. Every time I see the falls, I think of a trip I took down the river with Willie Kern in 2006. An icon among expedition paddlers, Kern has more than a decade of paddling experience on rivers around the world. Together with his twin brother and five other team members, Kern bagged a first descent of Tibet’s Tsangpo Gorge in 2001, widely acknowledged as one of the greatest kayaking expeditions of all time. His reputation has led to a belief held by many of his contemporaries: “If the Kern brothers won’t run it, nobody will.” That day on the Ashlu, Kern told me the waterfall should be named “10/90… 10 percent of the time you look at it and don’t run it and 90 percent of the time you walk right past it.”

We all hop out at the calm pool above. Instantly people start talking about wanting to run it. We formulate a plan and scout the line while the rest of the group portages around to the ledge below. A calm green path leads into the lip with not even a small wave or ripple in the way. Then you fall through the air becoming engulfed by the falls itself before getting spit out in the pool below. In a matter of seconds the run is over. Four of us run it and one manages to come out upright. Today we are 25/75.

Ashlu Falls on the Ashlu River in British Columbia — Ashlu Falls on the lower Ashlu River in British Columbia. | Photo: Andrew Enns/Wikimedia Commons

Work continues to keep wild rivers flowing

Over the past few years I have surrounded myself with paddlers who enjoy running rivers. Not just people who want to go paddle whitewater, but friends who share the passion for exploring, working as a team and using kayaking to travel through the world’s most majestic places.

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A sense of exploration with unpredictable aspects is ultimately what we are after. The challenge of having to pick apart the river and being rewarded for getting it right are second to the wilderness experience and camaraderie found in paddling as a team.

It is hard to stomach the loss of rivers like the Ashlu. Our battle to keep wild rivers wild parallels the plunge we took at 50/50. Up against a power company and the government in our fight to save the Ashlu, our chances of success may have been 50/50. River runners everywhere need to continue to work hard as a team to plan our lines through the myriad of proposed power projects. If we don’t, before long we may find ourselves walking them all.

Bryan Smith is a filmmaker based in Squamish, British Columbia, and a veteran of expeditions in India, Peru and North America. His award-winning films 49 Megawatts and Pacific Horizons are available through Reel Water Productions.

This article originally appeared in Rapid’s Spring 2009 issue. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.

The tranquil pool of Tea Cup Eddy offers an evanescent reprieve from the Class V cataracts of Box Canyon. | Feature photo: Phil Tifo

Skills: Sweet Momentum

Skills

By

Andrew Westwood

Photo: Marilyn Scriver — Skills: Sweet Momentum

Traditional canoe instruction says that the most effective steering strokes are done in the stern; typically stern draws, rudders and pries. But try watching experienced solo boaters and more often than not you will see them steering at the bow. In whitewater, momentum means the difference between catching must-make eddies and falling short. Bow control strokes maintain precious momentum, while steering from the stern essentially slams on the brakes. Choosing to steer from the bow or stern is determined by where you are going on the river and the momentum needed to make your move.

Power Steering

Steering from the bow, called power steering (Rapid Open Canoe Technique V10, I2), relies on adapting your forward and cross-forward strokes to control your boat angle. The advantage of power steering is that these strokes add to your momentum. The efficiency of using forward strokes means that you eliminate the drag caused by momentum-killing strokes like stern pries and rudders.

Picture yourself planning an S-turn across some fast moving water. In executing the move your canoe will begin facing upstream and travelling against, and then progressively across, the current. The swiftly flowing downstream water dragging on a stern draw or pry will kill your momentum and possibly blow the move. Power steering, with propulsion and control coming from forward strokes at the bow, is a much better method of maintaining momentum and controlling angle to pull off the move.

Stern Control

Stern strokes such as pries, rudders and draws are the traditional steering strokes used by all canoeists. They work incredibly well for steering. Anytime you need to turn your canoe in a hurry, the leverage created by these strokes is practically guaranteed to do the trick. The downside of these friction strokes is that they all slow you down—some more than others.

So, when is the best time to use stern control? Anytime you have enough momentum to counter the drag of the stroke—like when you are charging downstream and want to eddy out. You are carrying loads of downstream momentum and facing a rapidly approaching 180-degree turn. A sure way to make that eddy turn happen is a stern control stroke. Friction here is not an issue—you are going downhill, building momentum as you approach the turn—heck, you may even want to slow down.

Making the Move

Making your move every time will depend on matching your paddling technique to how you plan on using the current. Your strategy has to account for the momentum gained or lost from both strokes and the river current. Think of bow control as having less friction and higher efficiency, while stern control gives you leverage and security. In the end, choosing to steer from the bow or stern comes down to one simple rule: Use the type of control strokes that provide you with the momentum you need to make your move.

Andrew Westwood is an open canoe instructor at the Madawaska Kanu Centre, member of Team Esquif and author of The Essential Guide to Canoeing. www.westwoodoutdoors.ca.

This article first appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of Rapid Magazine.