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. 

Publishers often send us new kayaking books to review. When I got Jon Bowermaster’s latest from National Geographic, Descending the Dragon: My Journey Down the Coast of Vietnam, I was struck by something very odd. I counted 78 photographs between the covers, exactly six of which showed any sign of the paddlers or their kayaks. That’s less than eight per cent of the images in a kayaking book having anything to do with kayaking. What’s going on?

The late photographer Galen Rowell wrote about a concept called “image maturity.” He said that when a subject is new to the audience, you offer them the photographic equivalent of a two-by-four to the head— obvious photos that are a direct depiction of the subject. In Rowell’s example, the popular photo for stories about Nepal trekking in the 1980s was a portrait of a Sherpa. In recent years, editors passed over that image for ones that they previously thought “too subtle.” As trekking became more familiar, the maturing audience got the same message out of increasingly abstract pictures while the old images became ho-hum.

By this definition, Rob Howard’s photos in the Vietnam book are very mature. Like the one printed above, they are pictures of the world Bowermaster’s team saw from the seats of their kayaks. Images of fishermen, streetside merchants, bicycles, fishing nets, floating villages, rowboats, bamboo boats, dogs, schoolgirls, war memorials, Buddhist monks, sandals, cows, jellyfish and pagodas. Images far more diverse and informa- tive than the so-called lifestyle photos in a kayaking magazine.

In Rowells term’s, this magazine has some growing up to do. Eighty per cent of the photographs in a typical issue of Adventure Kayak include kayaks. Rowell points out that image maturity is audience-dependent. Meaning that a subject’s enthusiasts, like the readers of a kayaking magazine, should be the most sophisticated audience—in theory the quickest to be turned off by a visual cliché. And yet we usually just bonk readers on the head with pictures of kayaks.

But I’m not just talking about photos. Bowermaster’s text, too, focuses on the people, the politics and the culture of Vietnam, not the usual trip details of paddling, eating and weather. Bowermaster sees himself as a journalist first and a paddler second. He calls kayaks floating ambassadors. They’re a tool to see a place and meet its people.

I emailed Bowermaster with this observation and he replied, “I’m glad you got the message.” The message is a whole philosophy of travel, a way of being and seeing.

Something valuable from my childhood canoe trips has been lost. It’s not the Swiss Army knife my dad gave me when I was nine (that’s lost too, but don’t tell him). It’s not the oversized poncho that was supposedly the only piece of raingear a growing canoeist needed (I finally outgrew it).

What’s lost is the single portage carry. Time was we would land at a portage, each paddler would shoulder a canoe or a pack and two paddles and walk the portage trail exactly once.

Canoe tripping should be about leaving not just civilization behind, but its trappings too.

Now we get to a portage and become beasts of burden. We hoist a pack full of video cameras, stoves, sleeping pads, hammocks, water filters, solar chargers, cameras and coffee makers. With knees about to hyperextend we bend over and collect a few handfuls of Pelican cases, water bottles and fishing rods before shuffling to the end of the portage. After dumping the first load we retrace our steps to see if the pile is any smaller. Countries have been invaded with less sophisticated supply lines than those on modern-day portage trails.

Ray Jardine would not approve. Jardine has sailed around the world, hiked the longest trails in America and once pioneered the world’s hardest rock climbs. He has sea kayaked the Northwest Passage and canoed many northern rivers including the Kazan and Coppermine.

Through it all he saw himself and others suffer from bent spines and cluttered campsites. In 1992 he self-published The Pacific Crest Trail Hiker’s Handbook, a trail guide that tells readers not just where to hike, but how to hike. Jardine thinks if hikers are carrying more than 12 pounds of gear they are missing the point and might as well stay home. Why bother lugging around a sleeping pad when you can sleep on “leaves, pine needles, and duff” he wonders.

No doubt most canoeists would dismiss that with a snort between laboured puffs into a full-length Therm-a-Rest (the one with a fuzzy top). But it wasn’t long ago that that was how it was done. Until I was 11, when I first saw the temptress that was a roll-up drybag, everything I needed for a canoe trip would fit into a bedroll that rolled up smaller than a rugby ball.

True, it was wound pretty tight, you wouldn’t want to be nearby when it sprang open, but everything I needed for two weeks of lake-hopping north of Superior was packed in the folds of that thin sleeping bag. Taking my reliance on gear as a measure, I was more of a man then than I am now, and I hadn’t even hit puberty yet.

I’ve since been so seduced by stuff sacks full of supposed essentials I’m little more than a burro on the portage trail and an equipment manager at the campsite. These aren’t roles that lend themselves to enjoying the outdoors. Canoe tripping should be about leaving not just civilization behind, but its trappings too.

As Jay Morrison points out in his feature on shedding pounds, the ability to reclaim a fast and light style of travel in the wilderness requires just a little discipline. I’m going to take his advice and try to be more like my friend Dave. When we paddled the French River over Thanksgiving a few years ago Dave showed up with a drybag not much bigger than my bedroll of yore. I think he enjoyed the trip, but I can’t be sure; I was too busy fussing with gear to notice.

If I ever find my Swiss Army knife, I hope I have the sense to leave it behind in favour of a knife that doesn’t have a corkscrew, magnifying glass and toothpick.  

This article first appeared in the Fall 2008 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.

Five seven five. Every evening by the water Taku writes haiku in Japanese and Chinese characters using a brush dipped in a well of black ink. We’re 25 days in at the base of Kagiami Falls on the Albany River. Taku sits and writes. His newness to tripping is refreshing—everyday he learns something, sees it in a different way than I do. I want to learn more from him so I press him on his ritual. Looking up from his script to the setting sun, the words come calmly.

“Your daily existence in the boreal is simple—it consists of moving forward and doing what’s necessary for survival and comfort. In the city, all the annoying details of life are a distraction. The isolation of the wilderness removes the clutter and makes me more reflective and meditative.”

He glances at Kagiami Falls then returns to his haiku. In a few words, he has captured this place. Five seven five. 

Our 3,100-kilometre trip began in downtown Winnipeg. Carrying our gear down the aptly named Portage Avenue, we parted gawking lunchtime crowds and put in at the Red River. Our route would take us to Parry Sound on Lake Huron’s Georgian Bay via Lake Winnipeg, the Bird River, Woodland Caribou Provincial Park, Lac Seul, Lake St. Joseph, and the Albany, Kenogami, Kabina, Pivabiska, Missinaibi, Mattagami, Grassy, Sturgeon and French rivers. The route dances above and below the 51st parallel, the partition that separates pristine boreal forest in the north from the industrialized south. It’s a line on the map you might be hearing more about soon.

So they not only had a canoe museum, they appeared to have a Cuban angle on the whole love-in-a-canoe theme as well. 

The dermatologist assured my mother and me that many other 10-year-old boys also suffered from what he called crotch rot. In case you avoided this itchy ailment, blue jeans and cotton swimsuits don’t dry quickly and where things don’t dry, fungus grows. Trust me.

The treatment was a small jar of white cream, applied liberally twice daily. The solution however is to spend more time—and sometimes money—when shopping for kids’ outdoor gear.

A friend of mine is a manager in a very posh ski shop north of Toronto, a place where the skintight ski suits are trimmed with furry hoods. Yet many of her well-to-do customers refuse to spend $59 on snowboard helmets for their kids. Why? Because they say they’ll just grow out of them.

I want my two kids to enjoy their time camping as much as we do and outfitting them with good gear has been worth every penny.

To me, helmets for kids are a no-brainer in any gravity or action sport. of course they will grow out of them, but what about now? Aren’t their heads worth protecting no matter what size?

Nobody runs, jumps, falls, rolls and climbs more than camp kids—rain or shine. In my mind we should be dressing them in hard-shelled, quick-drying, fuzzy, waterproof, breathable, cool, bug-proof and rugged clothing; whatever it takes to protect them, but also whatever it takes to make their time outside as enjoyable—and rash free—as possible.

The sun is probably the most dangerous and underestimated hazard our children encounter. Too much sun can ruin any camping trip, not to mention cause long-term damage to their skin and eyes. Properly fitting sun hats with good coverage and SPF-rated beachwear are worth it. After five summers guiding whitewater rafts I can barely open my eyes on a sunny day without a good pair of shades. Some parents don’t bother with sunglasses for their kids because they say they’ll just break or lose them.

Do you remember being dressed in a garbage bag instead of a raincoat? How expensive were raincoats that it made more sense for our parents to blow through a box of garbage bags every camping trip? Not to mention the fact that plastic sacks with three big holes cut in them really aren’t that dry.

Socks that fall down in boots are not only annoying, sweaty bare feet in boots get blisters. Companies like Smartwool and Wigwam have virtually eliminated this childhood nuisance, not to mention that these socks dry quickly and resist odours.

Smart shoppers save money by buying clothes that will serve double duty, like long underwear for camping in the summer and skiing in the winter. They choose colours that both boys and girls will wear as they are passed down, or ferret out other outdoor families through the scouts or ski clubs and buy, sell or trade clothes. shopping out of season can save you up to 50 per cent. While rooting around at a used clothing store we found a $28 MEC sunhat for $3. Don’t limit yourself to camping brands; just consider the styles and fabrics that will keep kids dry and warm or cool and shaded.

I want my two kids to enjoy their time camping as much as we do and outfitting them with good gear has been worth every penny. I’ve stopped thinking of this as an expense, but rather an investment. If we don’t invest and outfit our kids with gear that allows them to be warm, dry and safe it won’t only be the clothes they grow out of, it will be the outdoors. 

This article first appeared in the Fall 2008 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.