Himalayan Hijinks: Whitewater Kayaking In Nepal

two whitewater kayakers paddle down a rocky gorge in Nepal's Himalaya Mountains — Thule Behri, day two of five. Dave Mourier and Jon Combs probe yet another drop in the deep, monsoon-flooded canyons of the remote Dolpa region. | Feature photo: Maximilian Kniewasser

In the fall of 2008, I traveled solo to Nepal. I brought only my boat, my camera and a vague idea of the whitewater potential of a small country with the Himalayan Mountains as its backbone, but I was hopeful that would be enough. Nepal has everything you could want for whitewater kayaking: plenty of gradient, post-monsoon high water, and a mountain-dwelling populace intent on keeping adventurous visitors fed and comfortable.

Kayakers Witness Huge Avalanche Above Glacier Lake (Video)

two whitewater kayakers paddle through a rocky, monsoon-flooded canyon in Nepal's Himalaya Mountains — Thule Behri, day two of five. Dave Mourier and Jon Combs probe yet another drop in the deep, monsoon-flooded canyons of the remote Dolpa region. | Feature photo: Maximilian Kniewasser

Himalayan Hijinks: Whitewater kayaking in Nepal

I arrived just as the last monsoon clouds were clearing and managed to join a raft-supported trip on the high volume, low elevation Sun Kosi. Led by Dave Allardice, a new Zealander who pioneered whitewater rafting in Nepal, the trip celebrated 20 years of successful rafting in the Himalaya and reunited many of the first generation guides for one more run on this 300-kilometer, multiday beauty. The Sun Kosi trip also connected me with two keen and hilarious American boaters, Mefford Williams and Shawn Robertson, who became partners for ensuing paddling missions.

Meet you in Kathmandu

In Kathmandu, the frenetic capital of Nepal, Williams, Robertson and I regrouped at the Hotel Holy Lodge to organize transportation and figure out logistics for some higher elevation assaults. Walking into the Holy Lodge, a known kayakers’ hangout in the tourist ghetto of Thamel, we were surprised to see some familiar faces.

JJ Shepherd of South Carolina, a veteran of Himalayan kayaking missions, had just rolled in from a rafting trip and Norwegian huckster Benji Hjort was on a quick sabbatical from his teaching job. Seconds later, a distinctive voice announced the presence of Kiwi talent and young punk Sam Sutton as he emerged from his room with his usual larger-than-life charisma.

Most people have trouble breathing above 2,500 metres. Not these Nepali porters—they have plenty of energy for a game of volleyball at well over 4,000 metres in the Annapurna Sanctuary. With 7,000- to 8,000-metre peaks all around, the Sanctuary is just a two-day hike above the Modi Khola put-in. | Photo: Maximilian Kniewasser

You have to love Nepal’s whitewater kayaking community

You show up alone in a distant country and somehow find a solid team of old and new friends just in time for the first big mission. But what was that mission going to be? Shepherd directed our focus on the Modi Khola, a river flowing right out of the spectacular Annapurna Sanctuary.

Modi Khola, day two. Kiwi hotshot Sam Sutton was our team’s fearless probe in the steepest rapids and long, continuous stretches of the upper Modi Khola. On the easy run-out rapids of the lower river, beneath the gaze of sacred Machapuchare, Sutton styles a pillow rock with typical flair. The takeout, as with most rivers in Nepal, is at the first road bridge. You simply wave down a bus—no shuttle required. | Photo: Maximilian Kniewasser

We endured the six-hour bus ride to the Annapurna Conservation area from atop the rickety Tata’s roof, hanging on for dear life and ducking overhead power wires. The strenuous, one-and-a-half-day hike from the Annapurna Sanctuary trailhead up the Modi Khola valley rewarded us with one of the most spectacular river put-ins in the world.

Annapurna South and Machapuchare peaks loomed nearly six vertical kilometers above the steep mountain creek. A total of eight 7,000-plus-meter summits in the surrounding Annapurna Massif, including 8,091-meter Annapurna One, fed the Modi Khola.

A few initial kilometers of wonderfully continuous class IV soon evolved into stomping class V rapids as the creek gained volume and inertia. After a long day on the river, we walked to a nearby village for a dinner of Dal bhat (a Nepali staple of rice and lentils) and a comfortable bed in a trekkers’ lodge. On the Modi Khola, as with many rivers in Nepal, we could enjoy a multiday paddling trip without any of the usual discomforts.

Paddling trips from Pokhara

From the tourist town of Pokhara, Nepal’s adventure capital, we organized many more trips. Some classic rivers—such as the Seti, Kali Gandaki and Marsyangdi—could be reached with relative ease from Pokhara using public buses, cabs and ancient footpaths. Heading to a few of the more remote rivers required patience, perseverance, some major string pulling and even the odd bribe. But fly-in trips like the Thule behri and Humla Karnali reward determined paddlers with some of the longest, best class V multidays anywhere in the world.

Four people, a dog, and two yaks carrying whitewater kayaks, walking along a narrow path on the side of a mountain with snow.

Nepal’s Legendary Karnali River Is A Kayaker’s Dream

Rapid magazine spring 2010 cover This article originally appeared in Rapid’s Spring 2010 issue. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.

Thule Behri, day two of five. Dave Mourier and Jon Combs probe yet another drop in the deep, monsoon-flooded canyons of the remote Dolpa region. | Feature photo: Maximilian Kniewasser

Making History In Paddling Towns

In Kent Ford’s documentary The Call of the River: A Hundred Years of Whitewater Adventure, he traces the history of whitewater from its humble beginnings in Europe through its position today as a major outdoor sport.

Paddling as we know it here in North America began in the early ‘70s with an emerging counterculture of hippie adventurers. With topographic maps they headed for the hills in search of virgin runs landing in what are today’s best-known paddling towns. In this issue we’ve featured 50, including my own—Palmer Rapids. Like many others, it became a paddling town in spite of itself.

Person paddling on river with mist rising up

50 Of The Best Whitewater Towns To Visit Before You Die

Making history in paddling towns

Europeans first settled the rugged area in the mid-1800s, scraping out livelihoods with subsistence farming and logging. Hundreds of men drove logs down the Madawaska River each spring to the lumber mills in Palmer Rapids. Men died. “The river killed your father,” widows warned their children.

In 1931 Ontario Hydro (now Ontario Power Generation) rebuilt the timber crib dam constructed in 1881 to hold back water for the spring log drives. It was rebuilt again in 1957 with channel excavations completed in 1967, just in time for the 1972 release of the movie Deliverance and the subsequent first wave of Grumman canoes.

Palmer Rapids quickly became a training ground for canoe tripping summer camps, Black Feather and private groups planning longer, northern expeditions.

Meanwhile further upstream Hermann and Christa Kerchoff opened the Madawaska Kanu Centre on what is known as the Middle Mad section. North America’s oldest paddling school brought a European whitewater flavor to the area—specifically, kayakers.

In the early 1980s, the Ministry of Natural Resources proposed the creation of the Madawaska River Provincial Park. Local residents saw the plan as a threat to land ownership and motorized use of the river, and this marked the beginning of ill feelings toward “goddamned paddlers.”

The park was approved in 1987, but with boundaries scaled back to 200 meters on either side of the 22-kilometer whitewater section from Aumonds Bay to the village of Griffith. Then the recession in the early ‘90s gutted resource management in the province and the park management plan was shelved, downgrading it to a non-operating waterway park.

Powerful Partnerships in the Whitewater Community

Here’s where I come in—me and everyone else. With the introduction of the Perception Dancer and Royalex canoes, not only did the number of paddlers on rivers everywhere double; apparel switched from natural fibers to purple and teal synthetics. Remember the ill feelings toward paddlers? Now we stuck out like sore thumbs.

In 1997 Lee Chantrell, Shawna Babcock and I registered Paddler Co-op, a non-profit paddling school to teach no-frill paddling courses. In a bar after our first tradeshow I got the idea of a paddling magazine, moved to Palmer Rapids, and 11 months later launched the first 16-page sampler issue of Rapid magazine.

[ Browse the widest selection of boats and gear in the Paddling Buyer’s Guide ]

A quiet acceptance

Today Paddler Co-op’s outreach program has made inroads. A two-day paddling program for students at Palmer Rapids Public School marks the first time in 200 years that local residents have actually paddled the rapids. Paddler Co-op operates an office and campground out of the facilities left vacant by the MNR in the ‘90s. It is on this site that Rapid hosts Palmer Fest, making a whitewater festival the second largest tourist event in the 700-square-kilometer municipality.

Jasper, British Columbia: The Second Coming Of A Paddling Town

A few of the 50 whitewater towns in this issue are investing millions in building whitewater facilities. Others are viciously divided on the importance of the natural, economic and recreational benefits of their rivers. Some, like Palmer Rapids, have resolved to a quiet acceptance of our mango Gore-Tex drysuits.

If whitewater is still a major sport at the end of the next 100 years I believe it will be because of these four reasons: Deliverance dies with VHS; we’ve gained the respect of politicians proving we are revenue-generating and pain-in-their-ass neutral; we’ve banded together to protect rivers from development; and we’ve grayed the line between local and boater through education and respect for those who truly call the rivers their home.

Scott MacGregor is the founder and publisher of Rapid, whose office remains in downtown Palmer Rapids.

Cover of the Spring 2010 issue of Rapid Magazine This article was first published in the Spring 2010 issue of Rapid Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.

Paddlers now welcome. | Feature photo: Scott MacGregor

How To Extend Your Paddling Season

There’s no reason you can’t get on the water this spring as soon as the ice goes out. Paddling in the cold is safe and fun as long as we remember what our mothers taught us—dress for the weather, sure, but also for the water.

As a general guide, follow the 100-degree rule: dress for cold water any time the water temperature and air temperature add up to less than 100 degrees F (37 C). Also take into account other factors like your experience, the distance you are from shore, water conditions, and whether you’re solo or in a group. If in doubt, consider the water temperature, assume you’ll go over and dress for immersion.

The point is to be safe and also comfortable, and with the right clothing, you can have both.

Your Body in Cold Water

When dressing for cold water—anything below about 15 C (60 F)—it helps to understand what happens physiologically when you are immersed. There are really two dangers to prepare for: the shock of initial immersion, and the cooling effect of prolonged immersion.

This is a key point made by the world’s leading authority on the subject, Gordon Giesbrecht , director of the University of Manitoba’s Laboratory for Exercise and Environmental Medicine. Nicknamed Professor Popsicle, Giesbrecht has voluntarily lowered his body temperature below the hypothermia threshold (35 C; 95 F) over three-dozen times for the good of science.

Contrary to what you might think, Giesbrecht’s experiences show that it takes some time to become incapacitated by hypothermia in cold water. His 1–10–1 principle explains what happens to the uninsulated body in cold water: In the first minute of immersion you gasp and hyperventilate; the danger in this stage is that you’ll panic and inhale water.
If you can remain calm, control your breathing, begin to tread water or hold onto your boat, the initial shock will subside and you’ll have about 10 minutes of good muscle function to call for help, climb back into your boat or head for shore. Then the cold starts to take effect but you’ll remain conscious for about one hour.

Dressing properly can prolong every stage of this process: reduce the shock of cold water immersion; increase the time you have to rescue yourself; and increase your survival time if you have to wait for rescue.

Wetsuits

Wetsuits are snug-fitting garments made of neoprene rubber that let in only a small amount of water, which is then heated by the body to provide a protective layer of warmth. Paddling wetsuits are generally made of 3-millimetre neoprene. In warm air temperatures, it can be more comfortable to wear a wetsuit all day than a drysuit, especially a shortie or farmer john– style suit that covers just the core. Wetsuits offer the versatility of adding a splash layer such as a paddling jacket for protection from wind, spray and rain. Wetsuits are less expensive, longer lasting and easier to maintain than a drysuit (there’s nothing worse then blowing a gasket or getting a pinhole in your drysuit).

Drysuits

A drysuit creates an actual barrier between you and the cold water. Drysuits are made of completely waterproof material complete with latex seals on the wrists, ankles and neck. The best suits use waterproof-breathable materials like Gore-Tex to reduce condensation, and include essential features like built-in socks and relief zippers.

By creating a wall between you and the water, a drysuit eliminates the “gasp” effect when you hit the water. How long you can last once immersed is determined largely by what you wear underneath. With a drysuit you have the ability to regulate the warmth by adding or subtracting under layers. The best way to refine the layering system is to jump in the water and see how it feels.

You have a choice between a one-piece drysuit or a two-piece drysuit, comprised of a jacket and pants or bibs. A one piece is the norm, because it’s the most watertight. There are advantages to a two-piece, however. First, with the top and bottom being separate, you’re able to get more movement in the groin and shoulders, and better options for fit since the top and bottom can be purchased in different sizes. Also, for the upper layer you can wear either a full drytop or another type of jacket such as a hooded anorak—which is not as watertight but more versatile and comfortable. With the latter, since there is no rubber neck gasket which some believe is the Achilles heel of the full drysuit, you’re spared those embarrassing neck hickies. In warm, calm conditions when you’re not worried about flipping, you can just wear the bottoms to keep your lower half dry.

Under Layers

The warmth of a drysuit comes from the layers you wear underneath: a base layer and an insulating layer. For the base layer, wear a synthetic fabric such as polyester or polypropylene that wicks moister away from the skin. The insulating layer can be synthetic such as the Immersion Research Thickskin Union Suit (immersionresearch.com; $95 US), merino wool, or a synthetic-merino blend such as Woolpower, which is woven with terrycloth loops to hold a layer of air next to the skin.

Merino wool is pricier than synthetic but has several advantages: it doesn’t feel prickly like traditional wool; it absorbs up to 30 per cent of its weight in water while still providing insulation; it is a renewable, natural product;
it doesn’t retain odours; and for après paddle fireside safety, it’s flame resistant.

Splash Layers

When the water temperature is relatively warm but the air temperature is cold, consider putting on a paddling jacket and pants. These splashproof items are perfect for wearing over wetsuits. A hooded paddling jacket also saves weight by doubling as a raincoat.

Hats, Mitts and Booties

Extremities get the final word. Neoprene booties and gloves, with additional neoprene bootie and glove liners for extra cold conditions, work wonderfully. For the coldest conditions, use pogies (mitts that Velcro to a paddle shaft) and wear thin neoprene gloves underneath.

For the head, a balaclava-style paddling hood provides the ultimate warmth, or you can wear a neoprene or fuzzy rubber skull cap (helmet liner) or a plain old wool tuque.

Kayak Dream Homes: Launch Pad

Stories

Photo: Paul Caffan — Kayak Dream Homes: Launch Pad

When you have seals crawling up onto your front lawn and spray from the Tasman Sea breaking over your roof then you know you live close to the elements.

I moved into my house on the west coast of New Zealand 25 years ago. The previous owners sold it when their long-drop toilet fell into the sea. They thought their crayfisherman’s cottage would be next and they were glad to get rid of it.

I was enchanted by the incredible view. I stood on the golden beach and watched the rollers slamming into defiant rock pinnacles and I decided I’d rebuild it from the piles up.

I started mixing sand, cement and beach rocks by hand. Then I bought a cement mixer and built up walls in front of the house. I must have poured 70 square metres of concrete over the years. Now the waves don’t crash over the house anymore, but I’m still privy to such a dynamic environment, right on my doorstep.

Inside, the house is done up quite simply. There’s one main room with the kitchen, my bed and a sitting area, with double glass doors

that open onto the sea. There’s also a small study, a garage and an upstairs snuggery, or loft, where guests can crawl up a ladder and sleep. There’s a shower, and the toilet is in the back of the garage. The position of the car means that any unsuspecting person walking in only gets a view of your head.

Above the car, my five Nordkapp sea kayaks and a k1 are hanging from the roof. They mean a lot to me as they accompanied me on my vari- ous sea kayaking expeditions including around Japan, around Alaska, and several thousand miles in Greenland. The Nordkapps I paddled around Australia and New Zealand are on permanent display in those countries’ respective National Maritime Museums.

The study is full of thousands of books. I collect books about kayaking and the Arctic and love go- ing to secondhand book shops searching for rari- ties. I’m also passionate about opera and usually have Boito’s Mefistofele blaring out of the house.

In between kayaking trips, I used to work as a mining geologist. It wasn’t unusual for me

to be picked up to go to work by helicopter. At low tide, the pilot would land on the beach, and at high tide, he could just get two-thirds of the skids on the lawn, and I’d jump on.

I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I reckon I’ll fall off my perch here and they’ll find me on the lawn with the seagulls picking my eyes out. In the summer, I can wander round naked all day, take my wave ski for a surf outside the door, then relax in my outdoor swimming pool right on the brink of the sea. I watch the sunset with a glass of red or a medicinal dram of whisky. What could be better?

Paul Caffyn made sea kayaking history with his 60-day circumnavigation of Australia in 1981. He has also paddled around New Zealand, Iceland, Alaska and Japan.

This article first appeared in the Spring 2010 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine as part of a feature on kayak dream homes. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Kayak Dream Homes: Going Green on Superior

Stories

Photo: Virginia Marshall — Kayak Dream Homes: Going Green on Superior

The first time I sat in a kayak I thought, “I have to have one of these things.” I started as a weekend paddler, fitting it in when I could.

At 63, I wasn’t getting any younger and I knew I had a lot to learn if I wanted to realize my dream of paddling the remote coast of Lake Superior. I started taking courses, eating a healthy raw food diet and losing weight. I learned how to roll, surf and paddle Greenland-style. This year I’m preparing for the Paddle Canada Level 3 certification.

My husband and I discovered this 93-acre property on a weekend drive up the north shore. I spent a year hiking the three-quarter-mile shoreline of the property, searching for the spot where the sound of the waves and the view were just right.

An architectural graduate friend helped us design the plans. We wanted a building that was aesthetically satisfying but also sturdy, low-maintenance and energy efficient. We used a lot of windows to bring the outside in. Since we are on a bluff facing almost due west, we have spectacular sunsets year-round but we are also exposed to heavy winds that build across hundreds of miles of fetch. We had to have special engineering and use triple-pane glass to withstand the wind. Paired with an energy-conscious lifestyle, a windmill and solar panels generate enough power to cover nearly all of our electrical energy needs.

There are a few disadvantages to living here. It’s not as carbon-friendly as I’d like because of the gas used to drive an hour to town for groceries. It’s socially isolated and a bug net is requisite for spring gardening. But there are many rewards: being immersed in nature, fall- ing asleep and waking up to the sound of wind and waves—it’s a spiritual place. And I can put my kayak in the water whenever I want.

Tammy Story, a retired nurse, and her husband live in a cliff-top home on Lake Superior. A latecomer to sea kayaking, Tammy now upstages the regulars at winter pool sessions with an array of greenland-style rolls and last summer completed her first extended trip, an eight-day odyssey on Lake Superior’s north shore.

This article first appeared in the Spring 2010 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine as part of a feature on kayak dream homes. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Kayak Dream Homes: Changing Gears

Stories

Photo: Dan Miller — Kayak Dream Homes: Changing Gears

I wanted nothing between me and the ocean. And now we have this place on Change Islands in Notre Dame Bay off the north-central coast of Newfoundland.

We spent a lot of time in the community, so people got used to seeing us. I put out word that I’d be interested in buying a house as our around-the-bay home. In 2005 something became available—and was affordable with some left over to be able to consider renovations (prices are noticeably higher now).

The house is just a bungalow converted from a two-storey house by an older couple who no longer needed the room and simply removed the top floor. But for us, it means we can arrive with our loaded van and within half an hour be on the water with the groceries put away, the water running and the beer cooling. That’s the joy of it.

A big part of the charm is that it’s a little bit hard to get to: it’s a five-hour drive from St. John’s, then a 20-minute ferry ride and another 20-minute drive. So it really is a temporal and spatial separation from regular life. And where else can someone have a view that looks straight down Dildo Run!

And you know what’s amazing? We paddle with icebergs, whales, sea ducks and dolphins. And there are some areas that, when it’s calm, the water is so clear you can see down 40 to 50 feet. It’s like an aquarium.

And there’s such variety of paddling. Within 10 minutes from the house you can be paddling in everything from Level 1 to Level 4 conditions with nothing between you and Greenland. But no matter which way the wind blows, there’s always somewhere sheltered to paddle, around the many islands and little passages. It’s incredibly beautiful.

In fact, it offers such variety of padding conditions that the Newfoundland kayak Company (Dan is a certified instructor) ran a Level 2 course out of our place. We even had people bunking in the garage. That’s something we’d certainly do again.

Leslie Grattan is an independent environmental consultant and Dan Miller is a retired federal fisheries biologist turned full-time paddler and photographer. The affordability of properties in Newfoundland’s outport communities make it fairly common for folks in St. John’s to have a home “around the bay.”

This article first appeared in the Spring 2010 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine as part of a feature on kayak dream homes. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Kayak Dream Homes: Living with the Flow

Stories

Photo: April Link — Kayak Dream Homes: Living with the Flow

It’s been a long-term dream to raise a family on Maurelle Island since it was such a gift to grow up here. I wanted to raise my own son here. My aunt lived in this house when it was floating off of Read Island. I remember walking down through the woods to get to her cabin as a kid; it always had a fairytale quality.

The house, built by a French Canadian from bent saplings, was designed like a boat hull, but is built light, so when the wind blows, we feel it!

Our cove is really a one-of-a-kind location. Not often do all the qualities of southwest exposure, an excellent water source, shelter from wind and close proximity to Surge Narrows Marine Park all come together.

But the winters are long, we’re really dependent upon technology and it takes a lot of extra effort to be social when you live out here. It becomes a water world with the rain pounding the cedar shingles, the waterfall raging from the hillside and the high tide lapping against the pilings under our home.

We began the project with the plan for a home, but as kayakers, the potential for a base camp was obvious. We’ve both guided the west and east coasts of Vancouver Island plus Abel Tasman National Park in New Zealand. We wanted to remove what we don’t like about commercial sea kayaking and run a business our way. The kayaking business enables us to live in a remote place yet still support a family.

Go with the Flow Adventures has three guest cabins, a wood-fired hot tub, shower houses and a workshop with plans for a closed-in, octagonal living room based out of the gazebo frame (which was crushed by a tree one winter storm) and also an open communal space for yoga, tai chi and cedar weaving workshops in the off-season.

We have some of the most beautiful, protected paddling on the Inside Passage, so it became our vision to reconnect people with the natural world.

Brody Wilson and Cristina Fox own go With The Flow Adventures on Maurelle island, where Wilson grew up, in the Discovery islands near Campbell River, B.C. They inherited their house in 2000, floated it to their land and, two years and six figures’ worth of renovations later, were ready to move in.

This article first appeared in the Spring 2010 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine as part of a feature on kayak dream homes. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Kayak Dream Homes: Voluntary Simplicity

Stories

Photo: Shawna Franklin — Kayak Dream Homes: Voluntary Simplicity

Most people don’t realize how noisy their refrigerator is. Or how much of their leisure time they spend on the Internet, watching the television, or on the phone.

When we get home we don’t have those distractions so we can relax and enjoy being in the house, listening to the birds sing and the trees blowing in the wind. For years, we lived in a 12- by 12-foot wooden cabin—144 square feet, which Leon says was his true dream house! So we don’t have much room for possessions. We only have what we need which means four plates, four bowls, four knives and so on.

We do have hundreds of books because we love to read. We’ll often spend two hours a day with a good book. We love sea kayak expedi- tions because of how close we feel to nature and the way we live is an extension of that lifestyle.

We run a kayaking store and school on Orcas Island, Washington, so in the office we have electricity, but at home, candles provide our light, a woodstove provides our warmth, we have a well for our water, and a composting toilet with a fantastic view of our pond and the forest.

Shawna is an artist so her linoleum block prints decorate the house and she’s made a beautiful glass tile mosaic around the woodstove.

We’ve built a new house so that Shawna’s 82-year-old mother and sister, who has Down Syndrome, could come live with us. We couldn’t expect them to live like we do so they have electricity in their portion of the house, called the “power pod,” while the shared portion of the house (kitchen, dining room, living room and our upstairs bedroom) is still off the grid and as simple as possible. While we built the house we lived in the upstairs of our barn where we store our kayaks. That was really cozy and also off the grid.

Through our past lives as biologists and our kayak expeditions we have come to appreciate how beautiful and fragile the planet and our lives are. It is because of this that we try to live a life that is rich in experiences, simple in what we need, and has as little impact as possible—so that we can continue to have opportunities spending time in a diverse, beautiful and untamed wilderness.

Leon Sommé and Shawna Franklin, BCU kayaking coaches and owners of Body Boat Blade international, have matched their home life to the simplicity of their paddling trips. Leon says that because of the crises that are facing our world today, like global warming, “voluntary simplicity isn’t voluntary anymore.”

This article first appeared in the Spring 2010 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine as part of a feature on kayak dream homes. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Kayak Dream Homes: Pasture

Stories

Photo: John Dowd — Kayak Dream Homes: Pasture

Our group was camped on a remote surf beach exposed to the west coast swells off Clayoquot Sound in British Columbia, making a video on weather for sea kayakers. We had chosen that location because it offered an unobstructed, picturesque view of the weather systems as they moved in off the Pacific.

In the far corner of the beach a small gray cabin was tucked into old growth forest, high on a bank above a small boathouse. Salal crowded against the walls and untrampled grass grew up to the doorways. The house was built of driftwood posts and sun-bleached shakes split from huge cedars that lay piled along the hightide line. Its interior resembled the cabin of a wooden ship. Sixteen-foot-high windows faced south into what had once been a garden, now congested with alder and salal. To the north, panorama windows looked over the beach and the northern coastline dotted with tiny islands. Adjacent to the house was a large workshop in need of repair.

I took photographs then returned to my friends on the beach.

“Well, I’ve found my dream place,” I announced. On the water and off the grid.

Bea was remarkably sanguine about giving up her job and moving to the wilds when I showed her the pictures back in Vancouver. It was exactly what we had been looking for. We tracked down the owner (who loathed kayakers) and convinced him to rent to us.

We enjoyed the hard work that first year: clearing the vegetation around the house, bringing back the old gardens, rebuilding the workshop and then adding a guest cabin. Our first winter project after getting the place in order, and six chords of firewood drying in the wood- shed, was to build a small lapstrake sailboat from beach lumber. The next year we opted for rocking chairs! Now, five years in, we spend our time doing the sorts of things we have been putting off for years: writing and painting the stunning land- scapes we can see from our porch and looking after two dogs, two cats and three laying hens.

During the summer and fall we catch two or three coho or spring salmon each day by wading into the water and casting out a Buzz Bomb. Although our nearest neighbor is some four hours’ walk away, and the trip to town takes two hours by kayak, it is by no means a lonely spot. The beach is popular with kayakers which makes
for a lively summer social scene. From October through to April, however, there are no visitors besides family and a few hardy friends. Storms parade by and the nights are long. We love it.

Cell phone reception can be a problem (we have to walk a quarter mile) and we lost Internet access when Telus fiddled with the local trans- mission tower. For our weekly run to town we now use a rigid inflatable with a 30-horsepower engine, but breaking out through surf with an inflatable can be problematic, and when it is too big, kayaks are the only way to go.

John Dowd is one of the founders of the sport of sea kayaking and wrote the classic guide Sea Kayaking: A Manual for Long-Distance Touring, now in its fifth edition. John and Bea Dowd paddled from Venezuela to Florida in 1977.

This article first appeared in the Spring 2010 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine as part of a feature on kayak dream homes. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Why I Migrate: Reflections Of A Baja Kayak Guide

Stories

“We are the memory of the road we’re on.”

—Aaron English

October, 2009: Ol’ Blue, my trusty pickup truck, turns 200,000 miles on a California highway and breaks down at the oceanfront Aliso Creek rest area 45 miles north of San Diego. The unexpected stop is still a long way from my winter home base in Loreto, Baja California Sur, Mexico, but luckily not too far from a friendly kayak shop.

I spend a week sleeping on the floor at the kayak shop, Aqua Adventures, playing in the sea and importing kayaks to Mexico. Importing the kayaks takes longer than the truck takes to repair, so the truck doesn’t cost time, just $530. Some people pay a lot more than that for an adventure!

Baja Bound: Planning the Perfect Baja Getaway

Reflections of a Baja Mexico kayak guide

A week later, with kayaks imported and Ol’ Blue back to life, I set off under a crescent moon and Venus in the dawning sky. I cross the border at Tecate preoccupied with worries—about the truck, my progress, my safety on the road—then stop to remind myself that worrying doesn’t help anything. Enjoy the ride. Take what comes. It will be okay.

So I do. I enjoy the music, the passing hills and weird familiar plants—cirio, agave, cholla, cardon cacti. I savor the delicious solitude of driving alone in my truck with thoughts, memories, feelings all my own.

aerial photo looking along the Baja seaside highway with arid, rolling hills in behind — Rolling hills along the road to Baja. | Photo: Josh Withers/Unsplash

overhead photo of a large cactus and other plants in Baja Mexico — Bird’s-eye view of some of Baja’s “weird familiar plants.” | Photo: Josh Withers/Unsplash

The warm glow of evening paints itself on the curious boulders of the Cataviña landscape. The shadow of my truck with its kayak top hat and trailer passes through boulders and cacti like a ghost.

After paying the rancher at Rancho Santa Inez, I set out my sleeping bag under a spectacular ceiling of stars. Not just individual stars, but the swath of The Milky Way, clear as a trail in the wilderness. A trail with distinct puddles of galactic light to skip through.

I am sleeping between a trailer full of kayaks and a mesquite tree, to a chorus of crickets, the flatulence of distant truck brakes and the sound of some large ungulate chewing and digesting indiscreetly in the nearby shrubbery.

Lights come on in the house of the ranching family who runs the campground. It’s time to move again. I hold the naked morning to me for one last snuggle, then get up to pack my sleeping bag.

Life on the road to Baja

The landscape from San Ignacio down is incredibly green after the rains last month. I crest a rise in the road to catch a glimpse of a hand walking across the pavement. No, too hairy. A tarantula, silhouetted for a moment against the sky, legs outstretched in an inspired gallop. How did it just miss the 18-wheeler coming the other direction? I straddle it with my tires and send it a wish to miss the others behind me.

Tarantulas migrate. Follow some irrepressible calling to move in a direction despite perils. Do they ever weigh the relative merits of just staying home this year? Or is it no longer home if you belong in another place at that time? Does some inner voice just say Move, and it does? Can the chunky arachnid hear the soundtrack of freedom as it struts through an ever-changing landscape? Does its heart sing as it passes a familiar landmark? Should we consider it lucky, brave or ignorant as it sets out on its journey?

I confess that I’ve been unable to hold down an indoor job for an entire year ever in my life. Boiled down to basics, I breathe, I paddle, I go to Mexico. It started with an innocent little invitation: “Get a sea kayak, learn to paddle it, and drive me to Baja. Then you can tag along for a few trips.” I did this as an ignorant adventurer, as a guide and now as a business owner. It’s been 13 years and the rhythm has become my life.

woman paddles the Current Designs Karla touring kayak on a calm, somewhat cloudy day

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What do we migrate for?

Birds wheel over the rocks and ocean at Cabo San Lucas in Baja Mexico at dusk — Seabirds wheel over the rocks and water at Cabo San Lucas. | Photo: Christopher Kuzman/Unsplash

I’ll speculate that part of the reason we “civilized” humans go into wilderness or the sea is to remind ourselves that we are not ultimately in control. Perspective. Humility. Some might call it adventure.

I migrate for work. I can make a better winter living as a guide/coach in Baja than I can in Washington. I migrate for sun. Solar heating. I migrate for Baja. Its landscape, starscape, seas; its people; the energy of the place. I migrate back north in the spring for trees, the garden, the community of farmers, paddlers and friends, and summer work. But do I follow a voice any different from that spider, or a gray whale, or an elegant tern?

Migration. That pull to move some place different, yet familiar. To leave security for a time and accept the vulnerability of travel.

Migration unleashes my mind and heart from the daily duties of running a kayak company, a farm and a symposium. Those are creative, too, but in a more structured way. My only mandate now is to go south. Be open to the journey. Open the senses. Open the heart. Breathe.

Some people take vacations. I migrate.

several sea kayakers at the bay of a lake

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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 Kayaking and Sea Kayak Baja Mexico.

This article originally appeared in the Spring 2010 issue of Adventure Kayak. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.

For this kayak guide and business owner, Baja Mexico sings with a siren’s call. | Feature photo: Ginni Callahan