No Tornado Warning

Stories

Photo: flickr.com/jimmybrown — No Tornado Warning

When my eldest son Jason was 16, we planned a father–son kayaking trip from Flowerpot Island near Tobermory, Ontario, all the way home to Windsor. The first leg of this journey would take us down the east side of Lake Huron’s Bruce Peninsula to the town of Wiarton.

At daybreak on the first day the air was warm, hazy and heavy. Normally I would have checked the weather on my VHF, but I had made a foolish agreement with my son—no electronic distractions, no Walkman, no video games—so I did not bring the VHF radio either. It was a mistake I would never make again.

A mile offshore, the water was waxy smooth but there was a roll to it. To the northwest, there was a dark blue, steel- grey line in the sky.

A half-hour later came a noise like the drone of hundreds of motors behind us. Something big was moving in. Things darkened so fast, only minutes before the sky had been clear. The air began to swirl. Flowerpot Island, now miles behind us, vanished from left to right behind sheets of rain. We could now see the leading force of the wind front on the surface of the bay. There was no thunder, no lightning, just the deafening roar of rain racing full throttle over the emptiness toward us.

I knew it would reach us before we reached the mainland, still about 20 minutes away.

“THE SKY DID STRANGE AND AWESOME THINGS”

Things in the next moments happened very, very fast. The sky did strange and awesome things. The air temperature plummeted to that of a blustery November day. Boiling clouds of purple and green rolled towards the surface and us with the action of an exploding fireball.

I fixed my eyes on my son and—wham!— at that split second, it hit! This force of air was so violent that it blew me over. I struggled to brace and roll up into the maelstrom.

The low, green sky said “take shelter” to anyone from the Midwest. We knew this, yet there was no chance of shelter. Ex- panding contorted clouds, looking as they would burst, only acted as a harbinger of worse yet to come. The sheets of rain found us and giant drops stung as they hit, then hailstones added blows to the head.

Again I swung my gaze toward Jason. One cloud beyond him caught my attention. An ominous spin had begun and soon a funnel hung. The father instinct kicked in and I sprinted toward my son. I yelled to him to raft up but he could not hear.

The funnel, for some reason, held at a distance above the water. Below it, spray began to blast up from the seas as if some giant, invisible food processor had touched the surface. Blasts of spray began to rise and spin. Then, for a short moment, it all seemed to stop until—“whoosh”—the spinning spray jumped up and joined the cloud. Georgian Bay was being sucked up into the sky. The birth of a waterspout, right before our eyes!

I could not reach Jason in time.

When the waterspout came it was as if we were standing far too near railroad tracks as a speeding locomotive passed. Ears hurt. It was hard to breathe. Kayaks felt the pull toward it as metal to a magnet.

It missed.

We had survived.

Jason had held firm and strong. I was so proud of him.

Our ordeal was not over yet. The seas had become too large to land. We decided to paddle on to Lion’s Head Harbour, over 50 miles from Flowerpot Island. After nine and a half hours of paddling we entered the harbour just after dark and found a motel.

The next morning, I ventured outside to survey our chances of paddling. It was dreary and miserable. Some fishing tugs had pulled into the harbour during the night. The boys on the first tug welcomed me aboard and filled me in on a very bleak extended weath- er forecast: gale- and storm-force winds, rain and high waves for the next five days.

I called my wife: “Ingrid, can you get out the map of Ontario? See the village of Lions Head? Come and get us, love.”

Steve Lutsch has been an avid kayaker since the 1970s. He lives in Windsor, Ont. Jason went on to buy a fleet of kayaks. He likes rough water, but never wants to paddle 50 miles in one day again.

This article first appeared in the Fall 2008 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

“Old” Men and the Sea

Stories

Photo: Joe Mullen — "Old" Men and the Sea

In the late afternoon when most septuagenarians head to restaurants for early bird specials, Ed Engel, 71, and Joe Mullen, 76, are more likely landing their kayaks on the beach, riding the final wave of their weekly “out of sight” trip, which involves paddling into the Gulf of Mexico until they can no longer see the condos of southwest Florida. People of any age could get exhausted simply reading about the treks and trials of these kayak veterans.

Ed and Joe have been best friends for eight years. Together, they have completed the WaterTribe Challenge, a 300-mile unsupported race from Tampa Bay to Key Largo, four times. Having organized and guided several Baja tours, they returned to the Sea of Cortez last fall for a challenging circumnavigation of Guardian Angel Island. They’ve paddled the Maine Island Trail and the St. Lawrence Seaway (during a journey from Lake Ontario to Lake Champlain). They have wetted hulls from the Gulf of Alaska to the Sea of the Hebrides. Having already paddled the Inner Hebrides, they will return for five weeks to paddle the Outer Hebrides this summer and then follow the Caledonian Canal system across Scotland, passing through Loch Ness.

Though paddling about 200 days a year sets this pair apart from most retirees, Ed and Joe have a typical Florida lifestyle. Ed traded New Jersey suburbs for a bungalow on an island only accessible by boat. (When he misses the last ferry, he paddles home.) When not paddling, he plays tennis. Joe frequents the greens, having moved to a golf course community from Maine.

COMPANIONSHIP, WANDERLUST, AND A SENSE OF PLAY

A retired engineer, Ed tinkers constantly. He holds a patent on a kit boat he designed and produced in his backyard, and he teaches Greenland paddle making. He builds skin-on-frame kayaks out of PVC pipe and blue plastic tarps. Joe’s enthusiasm makes him the social director. On trips, he arranges nightly wine and cheese.

Their grandfatherly style has made Ed and Joe popular kayak guides and instructors. Both ACA-certified, they have inspired hundreds of students. Their outgoing nature has led as easily to worldwide friendships as it has to the rescue of complete strangers.

What drives these guys? Companionship, wanderlust and a sense of play that come with second childhood. They tease each other incessantly and throw back cold ones with thirtysomethings at the take-out. They volunteer as students or victims during BCU and ACA training sessions, hamming it up like Academy Award candidates.

These chronologically gifted chums seem to have uncorked a fountain of youth whose secret ingredients are kayaking, relationships and adventure. And a positive attitude doesn’t hurt. When asked what injuries plague them, they recite the golden rule that pushes them across the nautical miles: No whining!

This article first appeared in the Fall 2008 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Editorial: It’s Not About the Camera

Stories

Photo: Tim Shuff — Editorial: It's Not About the Camera

One of the privileges I have as the editor of this magazine is the very close personal relationship I have with the editor of this magazine. Every year I can sneak a handful of my own photos into the shortlist for our Photo Annual and pass them off as somebody else’s. When I send the list to our designer, I hope that one of mine will make the final cut, but that rarely happens.

The problem is not my camera. I have a Nikon D200 semi-pro DSLR with a $900 lens that I bought on impulse a year ago and am still paying for. Many of the photos we print come from the same gear.

One of the questions that every pro gets asked again and again is what kind of cam- era they use. This must drive lensmen crazy. Nobody asks writers what kind of pen they use, or what kind of word processor they have at home. But everybody assumes that the secret to the photographer’s art lies in his tools.

Which is great for camera companies. They know we think this way, which is why they emblazon the model name on their neck straps and why Nikon and Canon offer discounts for real photographers who buy their products. People like me can’t get those discounts. I’m exactly the sort of rapt amateur who always looks to see what kind of camera the pros are using and then goes out and buys one at full price, thinking it’ll mean I can sell my vacation snapshots to galleries and quit my job to shoot for National Geographic.

This year I indulged my camera-envy by printing what kind of cameras our Photo Annual photographers used. This is something that other magazines do, namely Outside. They print the photo data with their gallery shots, as if we could use the f-stop and shutter speed to reproduce the images for ourselves.

But the information does as much to bust the camera myth as to feed it. You’ll see that some of the photos came from $300 point- and-shoots. Without the telltales embedded in the digital files we’d be unable to put a price tag on the cameras that made them.

SHOOT MORE PHOTOS, MORE OFTEN

There are some fundamental truths. Most of the people who send us great photos are either professional photographers or kayaking guides, or make their living doing a bit of both. These lucky folks have a few things going for them. They go to beautiful places all the time. They take photography seriously and work hard at it. They shoot more photos, more often. They carry their cameras up hilltops on tripods or into cold water in waterproof housings or wake up at dawn when the light is just so. They also have “the eye”—that creative genius that sees the shots the rest of us miss. Then, of course, they go to the trouble of sending us their pictures, which helps a lot. They do all of the things that have always resulted in great pictures, the camera notwithstanding, which is why you see many of their names in our magazine over and over again.

I’m slowly learning my lesson. This year Nikon brought out the replacement for my camera, the D300, which everyone says is better and faster and smarter than the one I have (the price of mine instantly dropped by $500). I desperately want to buy it and a $2,000 wide-angle lens, but after selecting photos for this issue, none of which were taken with this year’s new cameras, I’m determined to resist. I’m going to spend that money on a vacation instead, where I can go paddling and take more pictures.

This article first appeared in the Fall 2008 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Open Canoe Technique: New Canoe Song

Skills

Photo: Jason Chow — Open Canoe Technique: New Canoe Song

Have you ever heard that old pearl of canoe wisdom look where you want to go and the boat will follow? I’ll admit I paddled to this tune for some time. However, more recently I have discovered that this statement doesn’t quite point in the right direction when learning how to use your body to effectively turn your canoe.

The reality is that when we look where we want to go our heads turn and there is a tendency for our shoulders to follow. It is the movement of your shoulders, rather than your head, that is the foundation for all turning strokes.

Slalom paddlers are experts at this as they are constantly changing direction as they catch eddies and zigzag their way down the course. They have developed an effective way to use shoulder rotation and bow and cross-bow strokes to quickly and dramatically turn the boat with one stroke before scurrying around the next obstacle.

To understand what they are doing, I imagine that I have a laser pointer on each of my shoulders. When I want to change direction I plant a draw or cross-draw or ideally a Duffek or cross-bow Duffek with both pointers shining toward my intended path. By doing this, especially when turning, I wind up my torso. The magic is that my knees and thus the boat will follow toward my paddle.

Use your body to effectively turn your canoe

The next time you’re in front of a computer on a spinning office chair, point both shoulders at the computer screen and then plant your feet firmly on the floor. Twist both your shoulders so that they are either pointing 90 degrees to the left or right of your computer screen, then lift your feet and snap your shoulders back towards the computer. You should notice two things happening: your shoulders are moving toward the screen and; your knees are moving toward the wall that you were just looking at.

Now try it again, but this time turn only your head. Not much happens. Without winding up your torso you will reduce the effect of the boat rotating toward your paddle.

Pointing your shoulders in the direction of travel also creates the room you need for one-stroke bow draws or cross-draws. Torso rotation allows you to plant your strokes further from the bow. Without rotating your shoulders you will invari- ably run out of room for your paddle—the paddle will slap into the side of the canoe before the turn is completed. Therefore, you’ll be forced to take the time to do a number of turning strokes with challenging recovery strokes.

The third advantage to leading with your shoulders is that you are forced to engage the larger and more powerful muscles of your torso. By doing so, you avoid the mistake of using your smaller and weaker arm muscles. Your turning strokes will be much stronger and you will reduce the likelihood of injury.

Trade your office chair for your boat and try catching eddies or zig-zagging your way around some rocks by twisting your torso so both shoulders are pointed toward your destination. Plant your draw or cross-draw and allow your knees to drive the boat toward your paddle. With a bit of practice you and your canoe will be dancing to a brand new tune.

Andy Walker is a five-time winner at the ACA Open Canoe Slalom National Championships.

This article on effectively turning your canoe was published in the Summer 2008 issue of Rapid magazine.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2008 issue of Rapid Magazine.

River Alchemy: A Giant Among Rivers

Stories

Photo: Richard Frank — River Alchemy: A Giant Among Rivers

For such a giant in river conservation’s history, from the water he looks frail and diminutive—just a very old man sitting on a stool, in his thin and fraying best suit.

If someone were to write a book about me, I would want a title as good as the one written about David Brower: Encounters with the Archdruid. As a founding member of the Sierra Club, Friends of the Earth, and the Earth Island Institute, Brower was three times nominated for the nobel Peace Prize. He famously defeated the damming of the grand canyon in 1966, and in doing so launched the environmental movement.

David Brower has more to do with how we think about the environment today than any other factor

Written in 1971 by the incredibly prolific John McPhee, Encounters with the Archdruid is now in its 27th printing. It confirmed Brower as the articulate, driven and absolutely fearless spokesperson for the environment. At a time when the idea of “the environment” was only just beginning to have a place in public consciousness, McPhee somehow convinced Brower to spend a week rafting the Grand Canyon with Floyd Dominy, the man in charge of damming the west’s rivers. McPhee’s genius as a journalist captures the interaction between these polar opposites and ideological figureheads and captures Brower at his best.

One of the rivers where I guide is still flowing because of David Brower. In 1954, he made it his personal crusade to keep Utah’s Echo Park in Dinosaur national Monument from being dammed. It is a magical place on the Green River of serpentine sandstone canyons. It is a place that enchants clients and lifetime guides alike.

Before we reach the proposed dam location four days into a trip, I always make a point of stopping on a beach just upstream. In the sand I draw a big map of the west and make mountains and canyons and use blue cam straps for rivers, red ones for state lines. By the time I’ve finished, clients have gathered to see what’s going on. I use the map to tell the story of the damming of the west, and how the place where we are standing would be under water if it wasn’t for the impassioned defence of David Brower. People are always hooked by the presentation, and I hope it changes the way they view our endangered rivers.

There is one trip in particular I’ll never forget

The dam talk went as usual, with the usual client reaction of disbelief and anger and promises to do something themselves. Also, as usual, the next day and last on the river, the showers and thoughts of home replace yesterday’s resolutions. Except this time, as we neared the take-out, there was a commotion on the riverbank. there were drop screens, photographers and lighting assistants working around an old man hunched on a stool with his back turned to us.

My raft was the last to scrub to shore. Excited clients whispered the same urgent question back to me: “Is that David Brower? Is that the guy who saved our rivers?”

I couldn’t tell.

As we pulled to the boat ramp the old man was off his stool and gingerly over the rocks to meet us. he was pale and thin; his crystal blue eyes clouded with age. I’m not sure why, but I remember his cheap Velcro running shoes and threadbare suit.

Thank you for everything you’ve done

Before he had a chance to speak, my clients surrounded him. “Thank you Mister Brower. Thank you for everything you’ve done.” They lined up to shake his hand, and one by one all thanked him.

Brower’s eyes welled with tears. He just stood there, surrounded, flooded by an outpouring of appreciation. I stood at a distance tying up my raft. I was speechless and deeply regret not thanking him myself. Quite frankly I couldn’t. A little more than a year later he died at the age of 88. A giant indeed. I still don’t know how the clients knew it was him.

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

This article on David Brower was published in the Summer 2008 issue of Rapid magazine.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2008 issue of Rapid Magazine.

Urban Legend: Ottawa River Ruins Wave

Trips

Photo: Mariann Saether — Urban Legend: Ottawa River Ruins Wave

From McCoy’s to Champlain, tight-knit groups of paddlers have been passing hushed whispers around about the possibility of an untapped inner-city monster wave on the Ottawa River.

Every now and then when the water runs high, rumours of this urban legend bubble to the surface. Since early sightings more than two years ago staff from the Ottawa Kayak School have joined in the search for this elusive Bigfoot. Patiently waiting and watching, it was said to graze by some old mill ruins near the Deschenes Rapids section of the Ottawa River, on the Quebec side.

Although difficult to fathom any kind of secret on one of the busiest whitewater rivers in the world and a two-time host of the World Freestyle Championships, pro paddler Mariann Saether got caught up in the hunt.

“It was being compared to the infamous Buseater or a larger Garburator and it seemed too good to be true,” she says.

But lo and behold this spring the river swelled to 4.6 on the nearby river gauge, providing perfect conditions to flush the beast from hiding… almost.

The wave lurks within the stonewalled ruins of the mill, an impossible scout from shore.

“It forms in the ruins and has some dangerous consequences—the river flows into some dead- end stone walls if you don’t make your ferry out— but all things aside the wave looked fantastic,” says Saether. “It is amazing because it is huge, powerful, and has a lot of air potential.”

The wave is formed as swelling overflow goes through the ruins and over a stone ledge. The flow picks up speed as it is constricted by the walls. Two reactionaries lead the way into a green wall of water, an approach Saether describes as similar to looking down a bowling alley.

Missing the small eddy on the right after the wave results in a 20-minute walk back to the top to start all over again.

Now that the controversy of the feature’s existence has been settled, the next to resolve is the name. Some are calling it Heavy D for the Deschenes Rapids, others call it the Ruins Wave.

This article on the Ruins Wave was published in the Summer 2008 issue of Rapid magazine.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2008 issue of Rapid Magazine.

Gear for Good

Stories

When hard-core hucker and Team Riot freestyler Karl Moser graduated from the University of Oregon in 2005 he wanted to get as far away as possible from the influences and demands his degree would bring. He was looking for greater inspiration than starting a career, but little did he know a short stint as a river bum would lead to so much work and reward.

“I was young and completely addicted to kaya king from watching Wicked Liquid [Steve Fisher’s 1999 playboat movie on the Zambezi River in Africa] and I would watch it over and over again until the tape finally gave out,” says Moser, now an award-winning filmmaker with Epicocity Project and a head coach with the World Class Kayak Academy. “I had this dream to go to Africa and huck my meat on the Zambezi. When I finally graduated from college—much to my mother’s lament—I flew to Africa for a two-month kayaking adventure.”

Knowing little about the Ugandan kayaking scene when he left, Moser says he was completely blown away by how good the local boat- ers are, despite poor-quality gear or sometimes no gear at all.

“It’s not uncommon to see local kayakers bombing down class III in a broken kayak, a makeshift paddle and no helmet. They just don’t have access to very good gear, but they have an amazing learning curve,” Moser says. “We literally had guys start rolling on Monday, and then trying donkey flips at Nile Special on Saturday.”

The seed got planted for a Christmas for Africa gear drive

He and paddling partner Aaron Rettig would meet up with local paddlers each day. They developed friendships and started to teach them skills like rolling. As the days passed, more locals collected to watch and learn and eventually an informal club began to take shape. Seeing the lack of and the poor quality of equipment they had, Moser began to think their skills deserved better.

So slowly from there the seed got planted for a Christmas for Africa gear drive. Moser returned home with his idea and spent a year or so hammering out how they could gather equipment and ship it overseas. After a few phone calls to potential supporters Moser realized his idea of donating gear would take off.

“The response was incredible,” he said. “NRS literally gave us a shopping cart and told us to ransack their warehouse.” Soon after Wave Sport, AT Paddles, Shred Ready Helmets and Astral Buoyancy jumped on board.

The gear was collected over the summer and shipped on a two-month sea voyage for delivery just before the end of December. In all, 14 kayaks, 21 paddles and lifejackets, 15 skirts, 18 sets of booties and 22 helmets made it into the hands of Ugandan kayakers living and working on the rivers.

“The big thing to understand is that kayaking for the Ugandans represents a way to better their lives. The average Ugandan makes $600 at par annually or about $2.50 a day for back-breaking labour,” Moser explains. “A safety kayaker on a commercial rafting trip can make between $2.50 to $5 per day, and gets fed. If they have medical training and speak good English, they can become a guide bringing home $20 per day. So kayaking isn’t just a sport to them; it’s a way to have a vastly better life.”

Christmas for Africa is also the title of Moser’s upcoming documentary showcasing last year’s effort, a film Moser hopes will raise awareness and further his charity work.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2008 issue of Rapid Magazine.

Boat Review: Infiniti 175 TX by Seaward

Photo Bryan Walker — Boat Review: Infiniti 175 TX by Seaward

The new Seaward Infiniti is one of very few high-performance skeg kayaks made of lightweight, thermoform plastic. With a choice of both 15- and 17-foot versions, we tested the 17. “High-performance” in this case we assume to mean a design suited for advanced skills that involve edging—because edging is what the Infiniti does best. It may well be named for the number of angles it can be comfortably tilted to.

Unloaded, the Infiniti has a low to moderate initial stability that invites the paddler to take full advantage of its edging capability. The initial stability increases with payload.

The curve of the Infiniti’s shallow-arch hull is subdivided by several hard chines. Where some multi-chine hulls have very distinct “dial in” points that noticeably carve a turn when engaged, the Infiniti behaves more like a soft- chined boat. It edges smoothly to any degree of lean and carves only slightly, while being very easy to turn with the paddle.

Despite this easy turning on edge, the In- finiti tracks very well too. It hardly weather- cocks at all in high winds even without the skeg deployed. In fact, before I figured out the counterintuitive slider—which drops the skeg when pushed forward—I spent a lot of time wondering if the skeg was up or down.

Some kayaks are designed to turn upwind with the skeg up and downwind with the skeg down. This is a tradeoff that gives more options for control in different sea conditions but makes the boat more skeg-dependent. The In- finiti doesn’t go there. The small skeg is helpful—particularly in downwind runs—but not essential.

The Infiniti has a stylish raised deck (casket-style, with hard lines like the NDK Greenlander) that provides ample volume in the cockpit as well as the hatches. The cockpit opening, too, is large. There is space for larger paddlers with inseams up to about 34 inches. The seat pillars are spaced wide enough to give lots of hip room and smaller paddlers can pad them out. The back band, seat and thigh braces are very comfortable, though some complained the skeg control dug into their left knee.

The Infiniti will comfortably fit all but the largest and smallest bodies. Intermediate to advanced paddlers will enjoy it for its combination of edging performance, cargo capacity, good looks and numerous standard features.

Screen_Shot_2015-06-26_at_10.14.56_AM.png 1) Features galore

Seaward’s bonus features include a com- fortable neoprene back band with ratchet adjustments, paddle float straps with in- genious quick-release buckles (pull the red tab to eject) and a tow (or locking) bar behind the seat.

2) thinking inside the box

The slender skeg box takes up little space in the 90-litre rear hatch. The skeg has an anti-jam design that deploys when you pull on the cable (because the cable attaches to the skeg in front of the pivot point). Inside the Kajak-Sport hatches, total storage capacity is high—224 litres.

3) the edge of infiniti

The hull, distinctive with multiple hard chines like a folding kayak, edges smoothly to any degree of lean. The long waterline and sharp ends provide good speed and tracking when not on edge.

SPECS

length:…………… 17 ft 5 in (532 cm)
width: ……………. 22.5 in (57 cm)
depth: …………… 13 in (33 cm)
cockpit size: …… 33 x 18 in (46 x 33 cm)
total storage:….. 59.2 gal (224 l)
weight: ………….. 52 lbs (23.6 kg)
MSRP: ……………. $2,475 Cdn

This article first appeared in the Fall 2008 issue of Adventure Kayak magazine. For more boat reviews, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Butt End: Canoe Virgin

Stories

Photo: Kevin Callan — Butt End: Canoe Virgin

The first time I attempted a canoe-borne romantic escapade was shortly before an article I wrote on making love in canoes hit the newsstands. The article covered all the bases—but I had yet to do actual primary research.

I was okay with this. It was my wife, Alana, who wasn’t going to stand for it. She believed journalistic integrity demanded that we make love in a canoe. Alana left me to figure out the details while she put our three-year-old daughter to bed.

Getting out on the water was going to be impossible. We live in the middle of a city and didn’t have a babysitter. At first I thought a quick (though not that quick) solution would be to just flip the canoe over on the back lawn. But I worried the set-up would lack romantic quality. Instead, I put the 16-foot boat through our back window, rested it beside our fireplace, placed two glasses of wine on the bow seat and put a CD of nature sounds in the stereo.

The mood was set. I sat in the stern, wearing only my bathrobe, and waited for Alana to return for the big surprise. Before long she did, but with our daughter in her arms. Kyla had a slight fever and needed comforting before going to bed.

There was no getting around the embarrassment, but Kyla saved me by asking if we were going camping. I spent the next hour playing camp-out with Kyla and her dolls.

So there I was, still a canoe virgin and, according to Alana, also a complete idiot for hauling a canoe into the house and thinking she’d be up for a romantic encounter in a boat resting on a shag carpet. The good news is my daughter thinks I’m the coolest dad ever for bringing in extra props for her dollhouse. She cried the next morning when I took the canoe back outside. So did I.

The problem was, I had to write another piece about making love in a canoe for my next book. And the publisher wanted photos.

I decided to buy a blow-up doll. I went to a joke gift shop and, since I had Kyla with me and the inflatable dolls were on display in the back near some rude sex toys, I asked the sales clerk to retrieve one for me. As she went to fetch it a woman from Kyla’s daycare wandered into the store. When the woman stopped to say hello, the clerk yelled out, “Which model do you want?”

I panicked and blurted out, “The cheapest one.”

“The androgynous one it is, then,” came the reply.

I slinked out of the store with my doll double-bagged, hoping to never see the woman from Kyla’s daycare again, and wondering how I would photograph a moment of passion involving an inflatable hermaphroditic canoeist.

For better or for worse I’m still a canoe virgin, but I was lucky enough to have a neighbour who really wanted to help me out of a tight spot. If that’s not why he offered to pose for me then I don’t want to know the real reason.

Kevin Callan does not recommend inflatable dolls as a substitute for a proper PFD.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2008 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.

Paddling The Stikine, The Fastest Canoe River In The West

Canyon with river running through — Don't paddle or you'll miss it. | Photo: Dave Quinn

“The Stikine is huge, man. And fast,” exclaimed a canoe guide I know when I told him our plans to spend 10 days paddling 240 kilometers of the Lower Stikine River.

“The river just rips by, all those huge boilers and whirlpools. My advice: don’t paddle, or you’ll get to the end too soon.”

With this bizarre warning, we piled our gear—paddles included—into the truck and headed north.

The fastest navigable free-flowing river

The Stikine rises on the Spatsizi Plateau in northwestern B.C. before squirting violently through the unrunnable (for mere mortals, at least) 100-kilometer Grand Canyon of the Stikine.

From the bottom of the canyon at Telegraph Creek, British Columbia, to its communion with the Pacific at Wrangell, Alaska, the river drops nearly 1.3 meters per kilometer, a grade that makes it the fastest navigable free-flowing river in North America.

Even at our put-in at Telegraph Creek the size and strength of the Stikine stuns us—a 200-meter-wide channel of silt-laden water churns by at more than 20 kilometers per hour.

The Stikine’s cargo of salt

In 1879, legendary naturalist John Muir visited the Lower Stikine, calling it, “a Yosemite 100 miles long” whose “views change with bewildering rapidity.”

As we leave the drier pine forests of the interior behind and enter into the granite and glaciers of the Coast Mountains, we understand this to be a great compliment to Yosemite. Here the river becomes a boiling, coffee-with-cream-coloured waterway several hundred meters wide. We heed my friend’s advice and stow our paddles, feet dangling over the gunwales in the icy water.

Our canoes spin a lazy dance, showcasing a 360-degree panorama of peaks. The ABS bottom of the canoe hisses through the Stikine’s cargo of silt, and the cool air hints at the scent of pulverized granite in icy water. Bewildering indeed.

The wildness of this valley is etched on every sand and gravel bank we visit. Wolves, grizzly, black bear and moose have all scribbled their stories here. In Little Canyon—a notorious challenge both to modern canoeists and the sternwheelers that ferried 19th-century optimists inland to the Cassiar and Klondike gold rushes—we spot what looks like a bear swimming the confused waters of the 100-meter-deep rock cleft. Instead we realize that in this boiling, whirlpool-filled canyon, 170 kilometers from the sea, we are seeing our first seal.

Three men sitting on sand bar pouring scotch. — This sand bar is always open. | Photo: Dave Quinn

An artery of trade and travel

Like its scenery, the Stikine has a rich and storied past. An artery of trade and travel for millennia, local legend tells of a vast ice wall that once blocked the valley, under which the entire Stikine flowed through a gaping ice tunnel. To test whether their canoes could safely pass, traveling groups of the indigenous Tahltan would send an old woman through in a canoe. If she emerged unscathed, they knew the tunnel would offer safe passage downstream to trade with, or raid, the Tlingit villages on the coast.

Today a remnant of this ice wall lies in a pool of its own meltblood—a large iceberg-choked lake separated from the river by a thin, treed moraine. Resisting the forward push of the river, we portage to this hidden lake and pass a day of contrasts playing chess and reading in the warm white-sand beside grounded icebergs. Ten-thousand-year-old ice commands us to break out our supposedly well-aged scotch, and we toast the Tahltan, the gold rushers and the spirit of adventure that brought us here.

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The First Nations presence on the Stikine is strong. Fading pictograms dot the shore, while sandy eddies bristle with well-tended salmon nets hung from long pine poles. Five salmon species return each year to the Stikine and have been a source of conflict for decades. Alaskan, Canadian and First Nations fishers have all angled for the grizzly’s share of the catch. Although the so-called Salmon Wars ended with a 1999 treaty, it is an uneasy truce and tensions are still palpable on both sides of the border, each country blaming the other for declining salmon stocks.

The Stikine salmon squabble was nearly rendered moot in the late 1970s when B.C. Hydro unveiled a plan to build five immense dams along the Grand Canyon of the Stikine and the Stikine’s main tributary, the Iskut River. The hubris required to build sufficient dams along this river is hard to conceive of, and I’m happy it didn’t prevail. After nearly a decade of opposition by conservationists and First Nations, the dam plans were scrapped, and Stikine River Provincial Park was created.

A landscape still unscarred by modern industry

After another diversionary side trip upstream through Shakes Slough to the granite-girded and iceberg-laden Shakes Lake, we relent to the last leg of our journey and enter Alaska.

Here the river meets its match and finally slows as it runs into Pacific tidewater. And with the tides comes fog. We feel our way by compass through nomadic sandbars and finally across five kilometers of Pacific swells from the mouth of the Stikine to the barnacle-caked dock at Wrangell where we trade the wilderness of the Stikine for the rough-and-ready, deep-fried town full of bumper stickers reminding us of the driver’s constitutional right to bear arms.

The estuary at the mouth of the Stikine is immense—the accumulated energy of this river has created a sprawling finale that encompasses a 27-kilometer-wide delta. The Stikine here seems pristine and permanent; unbreakable. It has persevered through glacial assault, First Nations battles, two gold rushes, the Salmon Wars, and B.C.’s plans to shackle it with hydro projects.

But even B.C.’s most remote rivers are within range of the crosshairs of industry, and the scopes of two industrial giants are set on the Stikine. Shell Canada has announced plans to develop coal-bed methane fields in an area known as the Sacred Headwaters—the rolling, wildlife-rich plateau where the Stikine, Nass and Skeena Rivers come to life.

Downstream in the headwaters of the Iskut River, the Lower Stikine’s main tributary, Teck Cominco and NovaGold have permits to create in Galore Creek the world’s largest copper- gold mine—an open-pit operation involving more than 80,000 hectares of Stikine wilderness, processing 65,000 tonnes of ore a day. Skyrocketing access and construction costs in booming B.C. have led to the recent suspension of the project, although the mineral giants have promised to “reassess the project and evaluate alternative development strategies.”

As paddlers, we sought out this pocket of the old world, a place still unscarred by modern industry. We are like the gold seekers who came before us, searching for something rare and precious.

Like daring to paddle too hard on the already fast waters of the Stikine, if we rush to industrialize our last wild areas, we may find we come to the end of them too soon. The power of the Stikine is such that to paddle it is to appreciate the importance of knowing when to stow your paddle.

If you go

Access

The drive up the Stewart-Cassiar Highway and along the 113-km gravel road to Telegraph Creek is an adventure in itself. Park your car and rent canoes at Stikine Riversong Inn at Telegraph Creek. To return, arrange a jetboat shuttle with Riversong ($2,200 CAD).

You can also fly or take the ferry from Seattle to Wrangell and arrange a jetboat shuttle to Telegraph Creek with either Riversong or a Wrangell-based operator. Due to border bureaucracy, air shuttles are no longer available.

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If you go

Access

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