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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
Carving a descent through 6,200 feet of unyielding granite, water from the South Fork San Joaquin has earned a reputation for being the hardest working water in the world. On its turbulent journey, the water is reused nine times as the river runs a gauntlet of lakes, tunnels and powerhouses all part of the Big Creek Hydroelectric Project. Construction of Big Creek began in 1912 and the last powerhouse at Balsam Meadow, built in 1987, is 1,000 feet underground and carved from solid granite. Big Creek, California’s largest hydro project, swallows all but a trickle of the South Fork’s aquamarine waters.
Information regarding the project is held as tightly as the hold on water flows. In late August, American Whitewater volunteer Paul Martzen heard rumours of a release.
“The hydro project had to move more water than they could get through the generators,” explained Martzen. Thirsty farmers down the valley meant water in the South Fork, and a shot at a first descent. The flow window would be brief and uncertain—the release starting on the Friday of Labour Day weekend. “My contact was fairly sure that the release would last through Sunday.”
With a three-day window, a group of four California and Oregon kayakers decided to go for it. Ben Stookesberry, Darin McQuoid and Matt Thomas drove through the night to meet with Kevin Smith for a once-in-a-lifetime assault on the river.
“It was no surprise that we had to portage large sections of Mono Creek, a small tributary inundated by 500 cubic feet per second,” says Smith. “The Middle Fork San Joaquin is known as the hardest run in California, but the South Fork takes everything about it to the next level.”
The run is filled with inescapable granite gorges, mandatory class V+ rapids, complex portages and pure wilderness scenery. For the first three days the group was surprised at how much they paddled, but late into day three it was painfully obvious they wouldn’t get out in the alloted time.
“Large sieves made us leave river level and portage over gorges,” says Thomas. Increasingly numerous and treacherous portages made for slow progress. As three days stretched to four, Big Creek’s gates closed and the South Fork eased back underground into restless hiding.
“The South Fork San Joaquin is the hardest of the High Sierras,” says Stookesberry. “It’s an absolute classic multi-day.”
Too bad it’s gone.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of Rapid Magazine.
Days before, local reports on the Marmora Area Canoe and Kayak Festival website said Beaver Creek was still frozen. At 3 p.m. when we finally arrive, however, the water beneath the take-out bridge is running high and fast.
We head to the put-in eight kilometres upstream—no shuttle arranged, agreeing that we’ll walk back to the truck if we have to.
The Beaver is considered an intermediate to advanced class III-IV run, one you could run in four hours but typically stretch to a full day. Now 3:30 on a cold, sleeting early spring afternoon, we need to hustle to get down before dark.
At the bottom of Triple Drop, the first significant rapid, the Beaver slips away from us beneath a layer of spongy ice. The half-frozen crust is thick enough to support the surface area of our boats, but not enough that we can walk on top without falling through. After a kilometre of poling with paddles and swinging our boats beneath our arms as if on parallel bars, we face an icy crossroads.
Straight ahead as far as we can see is another 500 metres of ice. To the right a flooded but open channel dekes into the woods. We figure with the 50-year record high water and the constriction of ice below, this temporary channel will link back to the Beaver’s main flow.
After the first couple kilometres of fast-moving class I and II we know we’ve left the Beaver for good. We also know that we are well past the point of no return. Joking of a new first descent, we continue threading our way down through flooded hardwood forest.
Finally, at the intersection of an old train bridge and hydro line corridor, we climb up to take a look. Beyond the bridge the swollen creek feeds through dense bush, thick and constrictive as a kitchen strainer.
We guess we have an hour of daylight left, tops. Eating the last of our lunches and weighing our options, we thank God that our wives and girlfriends aren’t here. Infrequent faint rumbling of heavy equipment off to the right urges us to begin dragging our boats in this direction, away from the river.
By the time we reach a log landing, the skidder crews have long gone home. We continue hiking, boats now scraping along a muddy bush road, until we reach the end of a country road and the home of Dianne MacDonald. Dianne is feeding her birds when her flashlight bounces off the reflective strips on my drysuit.
“Are you guys kayakers?”
“Yes.”
“What in Lord’s name are you doing in my yard?”
Too difficult to explain.
Dianne feeds us cookies and hot tea, loads us in the back of her deceased husband’s Dodge Dakota and drives us 22 kilometres back to where we had set off to almost run the Beaver.
Hunkered down out of the wind and sleet we’re giddy with our good fortune. It turns out that continuing past the bridge would have meant two kilometres of bush-crashing leading into a 100-acre swampy meadow. Dragging our boats in the other direction would have taken us down 16 kilometres of snowmobile trails before reaching Beaver Creek.
Even with a river full of ice, missing the run entirely, hiking out in the dark and hitching a ride with a kindly widow, we agree this is river running at its best—exploration, camaraderie and adventure. You just don’t find this in a man-made whitewater park.
“I certainly hope you boys have learned your lesson,” Dianne warns, waving and driving away.
“Oh yes, ma’am,” we shout. Knowing full well we haven’t.
Scott MacGregor is the publisher of Rapid, Adventure Kayak, Canoeroots and Kayak Angler magazine. This year on the Beaver he’ll be carrying a compass and wearing shoes.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of Rapid Magazine.
The Baja Peninsula is a 1,000-mile-long invitation to adventure. In places you can stand on mountaintops and see both the Pacific Ocean and the Sea of Cortez. The Pacific coast is where expedition paddler Dan Kennedy broke his nose over the deck of his Nordkapp while landing through surf. The Sea of Cortez is where most sea kayak companies run trips.
The Sea of Cortez is the world’s youngest and richest ocean at about 100 miles wide. The Guaymas trench, in roughly the middle, plunges nearly a mile deep and contains belching volcanic and hydrothermal vents which support life based on hydrogen sulfide instead of sunlight. That discovery was a major shift in our understanding of what makes life possible.
Baja seems to be a place of new perspectives, a place of opening. Something moves people. Is it the incredible scale of the landscape? The inspiring tenacity of the plants and intertidal life? The hugeness and mystery of the whales? Is it what a vacation does to people?
Those who are tuned into energy fields say that between the coastal Sierra de la Giganta mountains and the islands near Loreto is a basin for catching energy. No matter how you look at it, the view from Carmen Island stirs the soul as the evening sun works its way over the peaks and long rays pick out Los Tres Reyes and other spires in turn.
There are four ways to trip in Baja with something for every type of paddler: destination trips, mini expeditions, road trips and full-on expeditions. Here’s a sampler with a taste of each so you can dream and plan your own perfect Baja trip.
1. DESTINATION TRIPS
Destination trips are the most straightforward, where you launch and land in roughly the same place and paddle around for a week or so in between. popular destinations include three national marine parks with islands: Bahia de Los angeles—or Bay of L.A. — (1,013 km or 630 road miles from Tijuana), Bahia de Loreto (1,700 km or 1,100 miles) and Espiritu Santo (near La Paz, 2,414 km or 1,500 miles). Recently protected for their uniqueness, fragility and abundance of life, these parks also manage kayakers. Permits can be bought in the park office in the respective towns.
Sample trip: Circumnavigate Carmen Island, Loreto Access: Loreto International Airport. Recommended launch: Puerto Escondido, 24 km (15 miles) south of town via taxi. Kayaks: local rentals to appropriately skilled individuals; custom guided trips; scheduled outfitter trips. Length: 120 km (65 nautical miles), 8–10 paddling days. Permits: Parque Nacional Bahia de Loreto. Highlights: White limestone fossil formations on the south end of the island and in Marquer Bay, historic salt village, spectacular geology on the rugged northeast end, excellent wildlife viewing opportunities. Experience Sez: the steep north end is exposed to wind and swell. Choose your weather window wisely for this crux move—it’s 37 km (20 nautical miles) between protected landings. On calm days, access can be had at four or five beaches along the way. Carry water, organize a resupply boat, desalinate, or take your chances at the salt village or from yachts.
2. MINI EXPEDITIONS
Mini expeditions go a short distance, so the shuttle constitutes less than 50 per cent of the travel budget and adventure quota. The most popular and accessible mini expedition is Loreto to La paz, or variations thereof.
Sample trip: Loreto to la Paz Access: international airports in Loreto and La Paz; regular buses between. Recommended launch: Puerto Escondido (24 km or 15 miles south of town) or Agua Verde (80 km or 50 miles south), via taxi which can carry kayaks. Recommended pick-up: Punta Coyote, almost 97 km (60 miles) north of La Paz. Kayaks: Custom guided trips; scheduled outfitter trips; rentals in Loreto or La Paz to appropriately skilled individuals. Length: Agua Verde to Punta Coyote: 130 km (70 nautical miles). Puerto Escondido to Punta Coyote: 180 km (100 nautical miles). Loreto to La Paz: 300 km (160 nautical miles), 8–14 days. Permits: Parque Nacional Bahia de Loreto, perhaps Parque Nacional Espiritu Santo Highlights: Solitude, mountains and sea. Agua Verde to Punta Coyote is uninhabited coast except for a few fishing villages. Experience Sez: it’s remote! Play conservatively. Filter the water you get at Timbabichi, Los Dolores or Los Burros. San Evaristo has a desalinization plant, a very basic grocery store, and cold beer.
3. ROAD TRIPS
Road trips have the fun of exploring Baja by land as well as sea and target paddling destinations along the way. This has been my favorite method of exploring.
Sea of Cortez road tripping destinations include Bahia de Los Angeles and Bahia de Concepcion. Pacific destinations: La Bufadora and Asuncion.
Sample trip: Coast to coast Access: Drive from the border Kayaks: BYOB or rent from San Diego–based Aqua Adventures Length: 10+ days Permits: Bay of L.A. Buy permits at park office. Highlights: it’s the journey! Driving attractions include the Valle de los Cirios (strangest plants on the planet) and the Viscaino Biosphere reserve. Bay of L.A.: Coronado island volcano hike, island hopping, and floating rocks. Bahia Concepcion: protected waters, sandy beaches, nighttime bioluminescence, hot springs. La Bufadora and Asuncion: world class pacific surf and rock gardening. La Bufadora is featured in the video This is the Sea 4. Experience Sez: prepare your vehicle; carry tools and spare parts. Be thoroughly versed in pacific surf before tackling La Bufadora or Asuncion. Lock your vehicle or leave it with someone you trust.
4. EXPEDITIONS
Expeditions commit serious time to travelling by sea. Paddling the length of the sea of Cortez often begins in unremarkable san Filipe. “The only reason people start at san Filipe is to say they did the whole thing,” declared expedition paddler Dan Kennedy after starting there three times.
Expeditions come with a bonus shuttle adventure. For example, according to Jen Kleck of aqua adventures, “a couple recently paddled the length of Baja and found transport back to San Diego for them and their kayaks in a semi heading north empty. They made this connection at the Costco loading dock in Cabo. A couple of guys heading to Mulege have arranged transport back north with a gringo who owns a hotel in Mulege.”
Sample trip: San Felipe to Cabo San Lucas Access: get creative on this one. Have a friend drop you off in San Filipe and figure it out in Cabo. Or just stay. Kayaks: BYOB. length: about 1,300 km (700 nautical miles), 3 months. Permits: Check in at park offices as you pass by. To fish, you need licenses for both your kayak and yourself. Ask at the park offices about where to buy. Highlights: living with the rhythms of the sea and its animals, remote sections nobody else bothers to do the logistics for. Experience Sez: a basic command of Spanish would be really helpful.
Ginni Callahan is the founder of Columbia river Kayaking and Sea Kayak Baja Mexico. She teaches and guides during summer on the Lower Columbia River and during winter in Baja, Mexico.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
AGES 0–2: There is no such thing as too young. However, the safety considerations you would use on your own trips are magnified when a baby is involved. Small people are far more susceptible to hypo- and hyperthermia. All decisions revolve around keeping the baby warm (but not too warm) and dry. Put the baby in a sling to keep it close, or in your lap or on a foam pad on the cockpit floor. Use a large towel or umbrella for sun or drizzle protection.
Capsizing is not an option. Plan routes to minimize risk: no large crossings, close to shore, lots of spots to land and camp.
AGES 3–9: Michael Pardy, owner/operator of SKILS kayak and leadership school, saw the birth of his son Rowan not as the end of his paddling career, but as the addition of a new paddling partner.
“I never wanted rowan to remember his first time in a kayak. I wanted paddling to just simply be a part of his life,” explains Pardy.“So we have been paddling with Rowan since he could sit in our laps.”
Today, Rowan Jones-Pardy has spent more time in a kayak than just about any 11-year-old. The centre hatch of a tandem is where rowan spent much of his time on the water.
Pardy tries to include other families and friends in his and Rowan’s kayaking experiences, both for company for rowan and to help share the workload. The right boat helps, too. “The Current Designs Libra has a huge center hatch that allows kids room to move around, entertain themselves and be more comfortable.”
Pardy stresses the need to choose trips appropriate to this setup, keeping in mind that there is no spray skirt on the center hatch. “Obviously you can’t go out into conditions with large waves or exposed waters, but at this age the point is simply to get out on the water with your kids.”
AGES 9 AND UP: Once they’ve developed basic paddling skills, as well as some strength and confidence, it’s time to get them into their own cockpit: the bow of a tandem or a small, properly fitted solo boat. Plan routes with many options to keep beach playtime long and paddling time short—an hour max on the water before and after lunch.
Consider a water taxi. If they don’t want to paddle, head for camp, hook up a tow, or take over in the stern. You may cover less ground than when they were just a toddler along for the ride. Have patience, and you may hear the words every paddling parent dreams of: “Where are we going next year?”
10 LITTLE THINGS THAT MAKE A BIG DIFFERENCE WITH LITTLE ONES
Tea towel: For shade or to cool toddlers, or clean up unexpected eruptions.
Camp crafts: A small canoe paddle is ideal. Decorate it on a weather-bound day. Or tie a plastic fish to it so they can “fish” en route.
Cloth diapers: Simply rinse and air out on deck for reuse on long trips.
Hammock time: Critical for naptime—for both parents and kids.
Baby sling: great for toddlers and small children to keep close to mom or dad in the boat, or to free hands around camp (nurturedcub.ca).
Tarp: A good tarp is a fort, a mudroom, a shaded sanctuary, and a dry haven all in one. It keeps dirt out of the tent and provides a sheltered all-weather play area.
Friends: Yours and theirs. Other families help share the load and share the fun. If your kids are having fun, so are you.
Beach camps: Choose a nice flat, mellow, kid-friendly beach camp.
Backpack: Give your child their own daypack with their toys, sunhat, warm clothes and other gear. This helps build independence.
Umbrella: Great for sun and rain.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
From a perch on a rocky breakwater, I once watched a transient orca pod driving in a lone minke, the violent attack sending whitewater spray over a gathering crowd. The orcas ate only a portion of the small unfortunate whale, then moved on.
Kayakers are just as transient and yet we defend our turf with much the same vigour as the orca might if some other pod came along for a nibble. We travel in small family pods much like our orca buddies, seeking not minke, but a reconnect with the natural world—some minute patch, a scrap untouched, wilds to call our own. The question is: Can we truly expect to find solitude in a ma- rine park setting? Claiming small islands and beachfront properties, and then acquiring expectations of unwritten exclusivity in such a setting: is this realistic?
I landed on an unseasonably warm April day at the penthouse of all the islands located in a West Coast marine park. I got out of my kayak, the water translucent emerald green, and alas, some people had beaten my group to this gem. Oh well. We didn’t really expect to get this particular island to ourselves. With most of the beach cov- ered in logs, a bigger group had laid claim to the meadow above. A single tent appeared tucked in the far corner of the beach.
We settled into unloading gear, and who should happen by but the owner of the lone tent—someone we knew from home. I approached him with my usual open hand and good nature.“What a great surprise!” An evening of comfortable chatting by our campfire waits, I thought. But this was not to be. He watched, he waited and when we had set up our camp in its entirety, the barrage ensued.
For setting up camp beside him, he called me a bully and insensitive, and insinuated that my friends and I had paddled all the way there with the purpose to ruin his time on “his” island. He had been there over a week and said we should move away. I found out that the group in the meadow was leaving in the morning. There was our answer! I would relocate after a day-paddle, and that would get our group out of his hair the next morning.
The negotiations were not going well. None of our apologetic solutions were good enough. He wanted us gone! He was insistent that we go someplace else, but where, as now it was well and truly dark? He returned to his tent, dissatisfied. The mood in our camp dropped like a stone. We were astonished at the behaviour. How could he be so unfriendly? What was the big deal? Weren’t we all friends, and why had he taken up three campsites for one person? He had spread out his gear as if to say,“There is not room at the inn.”
The next morning brought a new angle on his tirade. Now we had ruined his lay-in. I left my buddy to play diplomat as I walked up the beach to get some fresh air. We left for our paddle with our plans intact to move to the meadow. Returning, we found the island vacant. The meadow dwellers had jumped on water taxis and zoomed away. Our grumpy neighbour was also gone and could be seen paddling across the channel, leaving a final list of grievances scribbled on a bit of paper pinned to one of our tents.
The episode left me feeling downhearted. We had encroached on this guy’s minke, I accept that. However, it is a marine park, a public park after all. To expect it to be absent of public is ridiculous!
In my years of travelling by kayak, I have been in similar situa- tions. Every time I have been greeted warmly and enjoyed memorable experiences due to my courteous approach to nibbling the other pod’s minke.
Be open to your new neighbours paddling into “your” islands. Remember we are all in it for the same reasons, and that commonality should bring us together, pod to pod. Share and share alike in the great “public” outdoors. There is enough minke whale to go around!
David Barnes is an artist on Saltspring Island, British Columbia, whose latest kayaking memoir is titled Dreaming in NuchatLitz.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
In an emergency that leaves you stranded or incapacitated, use your head and follow these seven universal survival steps from former Alaska kayak guide and search and rescue team member tom Watson. (To remember the seven steps, use the acronym KISSWEP.)
STEP 1: KNOW Know that you are in trouble. Acceptance is the first step to developing your best survival tool: a positive mental attitude.
STEP 2: INVENTORY Assess the immediate area for further danger; assess for injuries to self and others; assess the surroundings for resources you can use in the following steps.
STEP 3: SHELTER Keep dry and warm. Hypothermia is a constant threat. Building a fire is secondary if bad weather is near. Once shelter is secure, work on the fire!
STEP 4: SIGNAL Use anything that draws attention and stands out in contrast to background or surroundings. Develop several ways to be seen: bright clothes, fires by night, smoke by day, signal mirrors.
STEP 5: WATER Find it, purify it and drink it—often. Look for dew on leaves, grass, or rainwater runoff. Filter all ground-source water if you can.
STEP 6: EAT You need food for fuel. Consider berries, some barks, tide pool critters. But if you don’t know what it is, don’t eat it! And don’t eat much if you don’t have water as well.
STEP 7: PLAY Yes, play, not pray. games help to keep spirits up. Unless it’s dangerous, it’s best to stay put and keep a positive mental attitude. focus on rescue. Be a survivor!
This article first appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
A Midwinter Night's Dream: Beating the Winter Blues
1. Go around the Rock
Newfoundland escaped the radar of most expedition kayakers until recently. Wendy Killoran became the first woman to circumnavigate the Rock in 2006, and last summer Greg Stamer planned a “fast and exciting” trip around North America’s easternmost landmass. After paddling the 2,100 kilometres in a rocket-fast 44 days, Stamer reflected, “I’m not sure what was most impressive, the coastline and wildlife…or the hospitality of the Newfoundlanders.” Expect big water crossings, Norway-like fjords and copious amounts of granite—but also sweeping sand beaches and some of the friendliest people on earth.
Get inspired: gregstamer.com
2. Circumnavigate the Sunshine State
“If you want to test yourself against everything Mother Nature has to throw at you, you have found the way.” So begins the description of the Ultimate Florida Challenge, a 1,920-kilometre race around Florida that’s organized by WaterTribe, a speed-crazed small-boat marathon outfit. For mere mortals, it’s pos- sible to sea kayak Florida’s diverse coastline of mangroves, manatees, beaches and paradisiacal islands with far less suffering. The 26-segment, 2,350-kilometre-long Florida Saltwater Paddling Trail runs from Pensacola to Fort Clinch on the Georgia border, and includes the Florida Keys.
Get inspired: floridapaddlingtrails.com
3. Paddle an Inland Ocean
In 2003, Nancy Uschold, co-owner of Marquette, Michigan’s Sea Kayak Specialists, took the summer off to paddle around the lake that sits at her doorstep. Her 1,820-kilometre journey around Lake Superior linked some of her favourite paddling destinations, like the isolated beaches of Ontario’s Pukaskwa National Park and the oxidized cliffs of Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. “I was lucky to have a summer that, though cold, foggy and rainy early on, had very few storms,” Uschold wrote. “I only took one weather day in 10 weeks—unheard of on Lake Superior!”
Get inspired: Superior: Journeys on an Inland Sea, by Gary and Joanie McGuffin. Boston Mills Press, 1995.
4. Explore a Watery Eden
The roots of North American sea kayaking can be traced to the Inside Passage from Alaska’s Glacier Bay to Seattle. Mountainous islands scrape the sky and shield paddlers from Pacific swells but also create tricky currents and gusty winds. Orca whales mark the top of one of the world’s most productive marine food chains and grace the totem poles of a rich First Nation seafaring culture. Since the early 1970s, the 2,000-kilometre route has become a rite of passage for countless paddlers. Most inspiring is Audrey Sutherland, a grandmother who has logged thousands of Inside Passage miles. Her motto: “go simple, go solo, go now.”
Get inspired: Kayaking the Inside Passage, by Robert Miller. Countryman Press, 2005.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine.
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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.
This article originally appeared in Rapid’s Spring 2009 issue. 
Destination trips are the most straightforward, where you launch and land in roughly the same place and paddle around for a week or so in between. popular destinations include three national marine parks with islands: Bahia de Los angeles—or Bay of L.A. — (1,013 km or 630 road miles from Tijuana), Bahia de Loreto (1,700 km or 1,100 miles) and Espiritu Santo (near La Paz, 2,414 km or 1,500 miles). Recently protected for their uniqueness, fragility and abundance of life, these parks also manage kayakers. Permits can be bought in the park office in the respective towns.
Expeditions commit serious time to travelling by sea. Paddling the length of the sea of Cortez often begins in unremarkable san Filipe. “The only reason people start at san Filipe is to say they did the whole thing,” declared expedition paddler Dan Kennedy after starting there three times.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions 
