Skills: Pulley Power

Skills

Photo: Matt Leidedker — Skills: Pulley Power

You’ll never feel more helpless on a remote river than when your canoe has flipped, filled with water and been pushed up against rock. Trying to free a wrapped canoe with your hands is only so much isometric exercise, and trying to lever it off with a paddle is a quick way to make kindling. Fortunately, with a handy kit of a throwbag, some webbing, two prussic loops, two carabiners and two pulleys you can set up a mechanically advantageous system to triple your pulling power.

• The line pulling on the canoe (the load line) will be under tremendous strain, so fasten it to a sturdy attachment point such as the junction of a thwart and gunwale. The line should wrap below the submerged gunwale, around the back and overtop of the canoe before heading to shore. This will cause the top gunwale to roll upstream when the line is tightened, spilling water and lightening the load.

• Angle of pull is important when choosing your anchor point on shore, usually a tree or boulder. Consider at what angle the current is flowing into the boat. With very few exceptions, the better angle will be achieved by pulling from as far upstream as your rope and available anchors allow. Invest some time in planning the extraction. Consider the forces at play, the possible angles of pull and how best to unbalance the forces that are pushing the canoe against the rock.

• Establish the anchor by looping the webbing around the tree or rock. Fix the pulley to the webbing with a carabiner and run the line coming from the canoe through the pulley.

• Now comes the mechanical advantage. Attach a prussic to the load line between the anchor and the canoe as far away from the anchor as possible. (A prussic is a loop of smaller cord that is wrapped around the load line in such a way that it tightens on the line when pulled on.) The prussic will act as a fixed point on the line, allowing you to establish a second pulley midway between the canoe and the anchor. Run the rope through the pulley and back toward the anchor.

• You may need to engage a brake on the load line in order to reposition the prussic or to take a rest. Loop a second prussic onto the line on the load side of the anchor pulley. You may need to have someone keeping the prussic from getting jammed as the load line enters the pulley. The prussic will tighten on the line if you slowly release the line and the prussic at the same time.

Tips

• Use static or low-stretch rope (not climbing rope). It doesn’t store energy and act like a slingshot when something breaks.

• When pulling, make sure your lines are as parallel as possible to maximize the system’s efficiency.

• Equip yourself with proper pulleys. Using carabiners as pulleys imparts too much friction on the system.

Mike Desrochers anchors load lines as a professional water and ice rescue instructor (watericerescue.com) and anchors a rhythm section as the drummer of the Rapid Palmers.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2007 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.

Betcha Didn’t Know About Rainbows

Stories

Photo: Vasiliy Yakobchuk/istock.com — Betcha Didn't Know About Rainbows

Rainbows form when sunlight bounces off airborne water droplets. When the light enters the droplet it is refracted—or deflected—slightly before reflecting off the back of the droplet. The refraction causes the light to disperse into groups of different wavelengths, which form the spectrum of colour you see.
If sunlight reflects three times inside the raindrops, a double rainbow forms. The second rainbow is dimmer than the first, and its colours are reversed.
Neil Diamond, Johnny Cash, Mariah Carey and Dolly Parton have all recorded albums entitled Rainbow.
Rainbows are only visible when the sun is low in the sky and behind the viewer.
The Greenpeace ship Rainbow Warrior was named after the Cree prophecy “When the world is sick and dying, the people will rise up like warriors of the rainbow.”
The rainbow flag first flew in 16th century Germany as a symbol of hope and social change. The gay pride flag flew for the first time in 1978 at San Francisco’s Gay Freedom Celebration.
A rainbow can be seen best with polarized sunglasses.
René Descartes injected some empirical rigour into the study of rainbows in 1637. Previously, they had been explained by mythology. In Greece, they were a pathway from heaven to earth for Iris the messenger. In India, rainbows were the bow of Indra, the god of lightning and thunder.
The first ship of the Royal Canadian Navy was the HMCS Rainbow.
According to Christianity and Judaism, the rainbow is a symbol of God’s promise to Noah that there would be no more floods on earth. Hydro-Québec considers this a non-binding agreement.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2007 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.

Editorial: A Not-So Clear-Cut Issue

Stories

Photo: Algonquin archives a06025 — Editorial: A Not-So Clear-Cut Issue

There were whispers around camp that there was something otherworldly about him. Some said he was a Wendigo, the semi-human cannibalistic beast from native legend. How else could a man so large—dressed in an orange jumpsuit no less—drift through the woods so quietly that he could appear behind you just as you were bundle planting or balling up a root system and cramming it into the ground?

The sins of bundle planting and root balling aren’t important outside the world of treeplanting, but they were important to Dane. He was the forester charged with making sure we were planting trees that would grow. Dane could make you replant a day’s worth of trees. On top of that he had a moustache all the guys admired and he knew his way around the bush. He was the guy you wanted to have around if the ATV got stuck in a sinkhole. Though probably not a cannibal, Dane commanded respect.

I suspect he can’t paint as well as Tom Thompson, and no doubt Esther Keyser knows better campsites, but Dane the logger is the Algonquin Park icon that springs to my mind when someone mentions the park.

I’ve spent far more time in Algonquin Park with a shovel in hand than a paddle. During three seasons treeplanting there I bounced along many of the park’s 8,000 kilometres of logging roads with a foreman at the wheel, testing the limits of our van’s suspension and stereo systems. I rode to work every morning with my face against the window, grabbing glimpses of lakes that would have been better viewed from a canoe.

I proved skilled at hiding my planting gear where my foreman couldn’t see it so I could sneak through the buffer of trees between logged areas and lakes. Sitting on the shore I would feel the callouses on my hands and think of how easy it would be to put in a 40-kilometre day.

Once a week we passed the park gate on our way to Pembroke for a day off. I often imagined stopping and changing the name to Algonquin Tree Farm. I thought people should know that 78 per cent of the park is logged.

My dreams of criminal activism went unfulfilled and the sign remained unmolested. Ten years later there is an easier way to register my opinion. Ontario’s Minister of Natural Resources recently asked the Ontario Parks Board to propose ways to reduce logging in Algonquin Park. The board suggested an increase in the amount of park land that is actually given park-like protection from the current 22 per cent to 46 per cent. If approved, almost half of Algonquin could soon be off limits to logging. The MNR expects there will be public consultations when the minister proposes making the change official.

I think I know what sort of consultation Dane would offer the minister. Dane once gave me the impression that, to him, the trees of Algonquin didn’t just look good on a postcard, their pulp would look good in the postcard.

Dane might tell the minister that Algonquin was initially created to keep homesteaders and settlements away from the valuable wood supply, not the canoe routes we’ve since scribed on a map.

He might also tell the minister that good people in towns just like the one this magazine is based in rely on logging in the park for their livelihood.

That’s a tougher one to answer, but the minister could point out that even with these changes more than half of the park will retain its tree farm function.

The minister could also point out that these changes might save some money in maintenance costs if would-be vandals are less inspired to deface park signs to point out what goes on behind the gates of this supposed sanctuary of provincial wilderness. After all, it’s not just the park gates that have signs. There’s a sign on the road leaving the Toronto airport telling all the tourists that fly here for the wilderness we have left that they are only 252 kilometres from a park that is becoming less and less like a tree farm.

This article first appeared in the Summer 2007 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.

In Parting: The Upside of Rolling

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Photo: Peter McBridge/Aurora Photos — In Parting: The Upside of Rolling

When it comes to rolling, I think sea kayakers are like Steve Carrell’s character in the movie The 40-Year-Old Virgin—they can go a long way through life without ever doing it. Perched precariously on the surface as we are, there’s a feeling that eventually it’s going to happen—we’re going to flip and need to know how to roll—but the pressure to be ready for that day that may never arrive can become an obsession and a debilitating fear.

Learning to roll a sea kayak is hard. You’re doomed from the start because the very conditions most likely to flip you are also the ones in which you least want to be practicing. should a sea kayaker ever flip over on a trip—god forbid—that makes for a truly epic moment. Witness Southern Exposure, Chris Duff’s book about his expedition around New Zealand’s south island. It includes a map marking the location of every capsize.

We paddle through the worst stuff with our teeth clenched, hoping nothing goes wrong, and then practice our rolls on sunny afternoons in calm water by the beach where we can call a buddy over to perform a t-rescue when we blow our hip flick, bring our head up first and start carping for air. And thus we never really get it.

That was me a few years ago. To celebrate my 30th birthday I did a long expedition on the open coast, and at the time I had no roll. A strong brace and a “please don’t flip” mantra kept me alive, but the fear of capsizing took the fun out of some of the most spectacular parts of the trip.

ROUGH WATER PRACTICE

It takes rough water practice to really nail the roll. What finally taught me to roll after years of failure was moving from the ocean to the river. A whitewater paddler would never map out every spot he capsized; rolling on the river is like falling down while learning to snowboard—it’s just what you do. You flip again and again at the worst possible times, when the waves are big, the eddy lines are a mess and the water’s full of air and boils.

For a while I harboured sea kayaker fears—what if I flip over, what if I swim? I blew some rolls and pulled the skirt and swam through a few big rapids, but in time the roll became a reflex and my fears vanished. Then I went back to the ocean and found my entire outlook had changed. As competitive roller Cheri Perry says in the new movie This is the Sea 3—describing how it feels to be the master of 30 rolls—“I was afraid of capsizing. Now I’m not afraid of capsizing.”

Now every time I roll up I feel like celebrating. Celebrating that I’ve beaten the fear, that I’ve finally got the skill, and that I’m back up on the right side of that thin line we float on—the side where the air is. I feel like Steve Carrell at the end of the movie, doing his post-virginity Bollywood-style dance number to “this is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius.” rolling feels good, and I wonder why I waited so long.

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2007 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Crazy to Roll: The Obsession With Rolling

Stories

Photo: Paul Villecourt — Crazy to Roll: The Obsession With Rolling

“Can you roll?”

As little as it has to do with the real reasons for paddling, sometimes it seems that your acceptance into the ranks of skilled sea kayakers depends on answering yes to this one question.

If countless winter pool clinics and the ubiquitous symposium and après-paddling rolling demonstrations are any indication, today’s sea kayakers are crazy about learning to roll. We want to learn as many ways as possible—with a bowling ball, brick or broken arm—and ob- sess over endless permutations of the “what if I flip?” question. And once we figure it out, we want to show off to anyone who will watch.

Inasmuch as rolling seems to have become the holy grail of sea kayaking, it never used to be the case. Tipping over was a matter of life or death for the first kayakers, so most aborigi- nal kayaks were designed to remain upright. Certain Greenland kayaks may have been used for recreational rolling, but their more practical, higher-volume hunting kayaks were not.

Still, it can be presumed that kayaks have been rolled and righted by any means possible for as long as people have paddled the sea in search of food. Rolling was first documented by arctic missionaries in 1765.

The first European to roll was Austria’s Edi Pawlata—father of the extended paddle roll that so many beginners have learned to hate. That was in 1927.

In 1930, British explorer Gino Watkins was taught to roll by the Inuit. While Watkins was the first European to learn Greenland-style rolling, he was also the first to blow a roll in real-life conditions. After leading an expedition to Greenland, Watkins disappeared while paddling alone off its icy coast.

TRUE MASTERS OF THE ROLL

It is recreational whitewater kayakers—not Inuit skinny-bladers—who are arguably the true masters of the roll. In whitewater, rolling is a requisite skill. Flip over in a rapid and you have two choices: Roll and be done with it, or swim and suffer whatever consequences await. Probably because rolling is an everyday occurrence, you don’t often see a bunch of whitewater boaters demonstrating countless ways to roll in an eddy at day’s end.

But for sea kayakers, the reason for the roll is less cut and dried. Having to roll in real life touring conditions is rare. Sea kayaking is more about understanding and respecting the sea, says John Dowd, a paddling sage from Cana- da’s West Coast who wonders if learning to roll does kayakers more harm than good.

According to Dowd, being able to roll is a “distraction” that opens a Pandora’s Box of other problems—including poor seamanship and decision making, among others—and those who insist that rolling is an essential skill make sea kayaking inaccessible to reams of would-be paddlers.

“I’ve never in my life had to roll at sea because of a misadventure,” says Dowd, who’s been paddling for some 45 years. “If you have to roll while touring, it’s because you made a massive error of judgment.”

Yet in the end, there’s a stronger case for learning the roll than for depriving yourself of the skill. According to Doug Alderson, the chairman of Paddle Canada’s sea kayak program development committee, it’s not possible to be a “good” sea kayaker without a roll.

“The first quarter of a roll is tipping over, the second and third quarters are about hold- ing your breath and having some patience, and the final quarter is a high brace. All competent paddlers must have a good high brace.”

Alderson argues that rolling is a necessary skill for those who want to venture offshore and along exposed coastlines. It’s also a means of better boat control and confidence. “If you don’t want to learn to roll, buy a 36-inch-wide folding kayak with sponsons,” he says.

Being able to roll may one day save your life. Even John Dowd concedes, “How can you argue against having the skill?”

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2007 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Rock the Boat: Holey Crap

Stories

Illustration: Lorenzo Del Bianco — Rock the Boat: Holey Crap

Fashion and Function may go hand in hand, but trendy Swiss-cheesy footwear comes with a cost not mentioned in all the hype by doctors and nurses who tout the good foot health of the holey shoe.

Everyone it seems has joined the foam clog shoe army-of- many-colours. I am hearing the clop-clopping of holey soles more now than the traditional summertime thwack-thwacking of the once-predominant flip-flops. Not since the barbarian peasants scurried to the hills at the sounds of approaching Romans wearing the prototype Teva has a footwear craze been so successful. The Age of Aquarius has a soft, squishy, rubbery feel.

Last year PROFIT magazine placed one of the holey shoe companies at the top of their “hot 50” list as it saw spectacular advances in revenue. Of course these things are profitable. Think of all the extra shoes that are manufactured from the punched-out plastic disks!

Holeys are seemingly useful, and they are cheap. a pair of these will only pull about $16 out of your wallet. Crack-proof, wear-proof, everything-proof and they float too! Who cares, so did my beat up old pair of sandals.

We are told that holey shoes are good for kayaking, yet I have to wonder after my own experience with holey shoes just how many of these happy feet belong to kayakers.

After another season of paddling in old sandals that were be- coming more duct tape than sandal, I gave in. I clop-clopped from one end of the outdoorsy store to the other, and on my return trip I was sold.

There are no surf waves in outdoorsy stores. In that safe, dry environment I envisioned myself leaping in and out of my kayak for a quick pee secure in the knowledge that I would not bring water back with me. Holey shoes have holes, you see. The water just magically disappears mid-leap! No one told me that they don’t stay on when you are leaping in and out of a kayak.

The general consumer may be buying the sales pitch, perhaps rightfully. I once saw the holey shoe in a gardening shop. This makes sense as they are far more suited for puttering in the yard. The holey clog is as destined to be found propped up out- side the backdoor of the avid gardener as it is rare to encounter fast-rising surf as you weed the daisies! What about us, the paddlers of the sea? The footy industry has scant concern that we are special needs sorts. We leap! And most our time spent leaping in and out of a kayak is onto awkward spots that are rocky or surf-pounded. Upon leaping we appreciate it if our footwear comes along for the ride. Is this too much to ask beyond profit margins that our holey shoes do more than float?

Probably, as the second problem with holeys lies in the essence of their design— the holes.

Did anyone at holey shoe central consider that what goes out also comes back in? It is simple physics that there is an equal reaction for every action. Drainage versus suction. A case in point: Two unfortunate tiny fishy souls who were trapped wiggling on my toes. Hapless victims of entry level physics, one in each shoe no less.

This happened as I lugged my kayak through a mucky canal sending all but two fish swimming away. The event brought to the surface childhood fears of creepy sea things nibbling my toes. The shredded wound inflicted by a piece of clam shell that I picked up while flushing the fish was a reminder that fashion and function ran hand in hand at my expense.

I am not the only one to peer through the shoe-holes and see the light. A friend working at an outfitter was offered a free pair if she would promote them by wearing them at work.

“Fire me if you want, I’m not wearing those!”

Perhaps an uprising has begun?

Admittedly, my cushy holeys I wear for everything—except kayaking. I now paddle in a pair of water shoes that, though they have holes, are so far fish-free and stay on! As for multipurpose foot duds, I have yet to find anything to match the fashion and function of my childhood favourite for both cruising the city and mucking about in the sea—a good solid pair of red sneakers.

David Barnes is an artist, photographer, and author of a self-published book of kayaking essays, Black Pearls of Wisdom: Tales of the Tribal Kayaker. He lives on Salt Spring island, British Columbia.

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2007 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Editorial: An Audacious Adventure

Stories

Photo: Bill Stevenson/Aurora Photos — Editorial: An Audacious Adventure

As soon As Andrew McAuley began his attempt to paddle from Tasmania to New Zealand, his story jumped off the Internet and into my life on the opposite side of the world. Too quickly I found myself editing a story about a tragedy. Andrew’s tale became the subject of many conversations with my partner and a gauge by which we measure our own values of security and family and how much we would put on the line for adventure.

We are left with Andrew’s recovered kayak, his photos, videos and sound recordings. One recording is his tired voice speaking out of the eye of a storm. There is no tone of regret, just the stark realization of the challenge he’s committed to, out on the edge and not knowing on which side he’s going to fall. At one point he says, “It’s an excellent, excellent, excellent adventure— provided I make it.”

Andrew left his wife, Vicki, a stay-at-home mom raising their three-year-old son, to attempt the most audacious of kayak exploits: traversing an ocean alone. He almost made it across the Tasman Sea. But he didn’t make it home.

THE GRAVITY AND INTEGRITY OF DREAMS

With hindsight there’s a temptation to come down on one side or the other. Either he was a hero, or he was an irresponsible father. He was brave, or he was selfish. He was meticulous, or he was careless. Some have been quick to judge. “Andrew McAuley must qualify for a Darwin Award,” wrote one blogger. There are those who have said worse and those who think they could have done a better job of being Andrew than Andrew himself, as if that wasn’t absurd.

The man was who he was. He was the type who, as I learned watching his movie about kayaking the Antarctic Peninsula, celebrated the end of a grueling kayak trip in icy waters by stripping down to his underwear, climbing up the mast of a yacht, kicking away at some ice to get a clear launch and leaping into the near-frozen ocean, while his friends looked on wearing down parkas and drinking scotch.

There are always a few people like that among us, and some of the spirit to take those risks lives in each of us to varying degrees. The journey to become a kayaker begins when you stand on the shore and dream of going farther. The greatest things we do begin with dreams like that. We are lucky to have those people who live life to the max. They give integrity and gravity to our dreams. They show that the wildest dreams can be lived, that they have wonderful power—and that they also have consequences.

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2007 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Boat Review: The EuroX 16.8 by Dagger

Photo Liz Burnside — Boat Review: The EuroX 16.8 by Dagger

X stands for crossing the English Channel, away from the strict Greenland-inspired, rigid-skeg-controlled British tradition to the more laissez-faire, relaxed attitude of the French and their large-proportioned folding kayaks with big rudders: The Dagger Euro-X is an imaginative hybrid that unashamedly tacks a rudder and some extra volume on a boat with visible Greenland ancestry.

X is for extra-large. This is a deep boat for larger paddlers and multi-day trips; storage space is ample. With a light load, the Euro-X promises a dry ride, bobbing above the waves like a message bottle on the Dead Sea.

Despite its high-riding feel, the X is well balanced in wind, showing little weathercocking in a mild crosswind. In stronger cross or rear quartering winds, the rudder becomes a nice energy saver (the rest of the time, it sits in a groove on the back deck to prevent the foot pedals from being overly mushy).

X is for excellent performance. We were favourably surprised to discover that the Euro-X has a spirit that belies her size. Nothing fancy here—just a standard shallow-V, soft-chine hull—yet turning performance is as nimble as a hard-chine boat while the long waterline and minimal rocker provide good speed.

Moderate initial stability makes it easy to put the X on edge to carve an outside turn or execute other advanced manoeuvres like a bow-draw turn. High secondary stability offers a clear point of resistance when trying to edge the boat steeply. This combination makes the X pleasingly easy to tilt for controlling direction in surf and to recover when you lose your balance—excellent for intermediate paddlers developing confidence on edge.

X marks a cross-purpose design for the generously proportioned and indecisive. It strikes a great balance between sportiness and high volume, between traits of the large, comfortable ruddered cruisers of Europe and North America and the lively Greenland-inspired boats of the Brits.

The Euro-X is an enjoyable value-priced boat. It’s almost perfect for larger paddlers looking for an affordable expedition vehicle or rock-resistant ocean playboat.

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X-CELLENT BACK SUPPORT

The gel-padded bucket seat extends forward to cradle the thighs and holds a water bottle. The wide seat’s built-in hip support can be padded out to suit smaller buns. The mid-height back support is a reasonable compromise between the needs of back-deck rollers and laid back boomers.

THE X COMES WITH A HEX

An included hex wrench adjusts the padded plastic thigh braces in almost every direction, allowing just about any large paddler to get a grip. Dagger spares no adjustment options for the backband: there are two straps for macro adjustments and two ratchets for micro tweaks.

X IS FOR ACCESSORIES

Cool “X-cessories” include a locking bar behind the seat, comfy rubberized grippy handles, moulded GPS and compass recesses, and a smooth, easy-to-reach rudder control beside the cockpit. The packing convenience of a large oval hatch is sacrificed for the security and deck space afforded by the small round bow hatch.

SPECS

length: 16 ft 8 in (5 m)
width: 23.5 in (59 cm)
weight: 65 lbs (29.5 kg)
max load: 400 lbs (181 kg)
cockpit: 35 x 18.5 in (89 x 47 cm)
MSRP: $1999 CD, 1675 USD

This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2007 issue of Adventure Kayak magazine. For more boat reviews, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Whitewater’s Greatest First Descents

Stories

Photo: Wolfgang Weber/NWT — Whitewater's Greatest First Descents

For every sport, there are defining moments, brief seconds in time that last forever, recognizable by fans and non-fans alike. The shot heard ‘round the World, the immaculate reception, Gretzky’s 894th goal, whatever they are, these events resonate and things are a little bit different from that moment forward. We don’t have a World Series, Super Bowl or Stanley Cup. Instead we etch first descents upon whitewater’s hypothetical mantle as our greatest achievements. Sometimes first descents are more than the birth of new runs; sometimes they make us believe anything is possible.

ALEXANDREA FALLS, TWIN FALLS TERRITORIAL PARK, NORTHWEST TERRITORIES

By Neil Etienne

When Tao Berman successfully cleaned Alberta’s 98.4-foot upper Johnston Falls in 1999, the paddling community perked up. Waterfall descents have increasingly gotten higher but this one not only gave hope the century mark could be broken, it was proof a 100-foot drop was really just a matter of the right river, the right levels and the right stuff.

Although he was washed from his kayak, in 2002 Tim Gross paddled himself over Oregon’s 101-foot Abiqua Falls, setting a new limit to test. In 2003, seasoned waterfall runner and extreme steep creeker Ed Lucero serendipitously discovered Alexandra Falls and all the pieces fell into place.

Heading into the Northwest Territories for a few days of surfing on the Slave River, Lucero, then 37, was shown the first major jewel on the fabled Water- fall Route, NWT Highway 1.

“I had no idea Alexandra Falls even existed so I wasn’t heading out to break any records by any means,” Lucero explained. “Once I saw it, I almost immediately saw the perfect line. It became a crossroads for me. I went there for a week and a half and plotted out whether or not I should do it.”

Topping out at nearly 106 feet, Alexandra Falls would have been the ideal location to plummet into fame for many paddlers. Lucero saw something more; a 105.6-foot-high soapbox, the ultimate chance to make a statement. He would stand up to fear in the hopes others would too.

“We were a country living in fear. We were at war, people were afraid to live their lives. I stood there and said ‘I think I can make a statement. I think I can make this fall.’ The message was to overcome fear,” he said.

Although he too swam from his boat, the bar was reset four-and-a-half feet higher.

Lucero said he won’t look for a higher drop, but suspects waterfall running will spur on its own industry and technology, pushing the vertical limits even higher. His own experiences led to the introduction of a specially armoured PFD, Stohlquist WaterWare’s Mark 1, which he designed for the impact of waterfall drops.

“The response I got at the bottom of the falls was incredible and I think a lot of people and manufacturers are going to want to get in on that. It’s prob- ably going to take on an industry all of its own and who knows how high people will be able to go.”

As of presstime, three and a half years later, Lucero’s run on Alexandra Falls remains the highest waterfall paddled and survived.

GRAND CANYON OF THE STIKINE RIVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA

by Neil Etienne

The Stikine River carves a 700-kilometre path toward the ocean through B.C.’s rugged north country and the dangling leg of Alaska, about 240 kilometres south of the Yukon border. The tail end of a transcontinental highway for the Hudson’s Bay Company’s canoes, she fed the fur trade and the Klondike gold rush.

Her crowning glory, the Grand Canyon of the Stikine, towers sentinel over a narrow 80-kilometre stretch of vicious class V+ that even after a handful of descents, the surrounding provincial park advertises as strictly unrunnable.

When the first bridge crossed the river’s banks in the early 1970s, paddlers began to imagine the possibilities. British paddlers scouted a portion of the river in the mid-’70s and even ran the river below the canyon (mostly class III), but were unsure of the upper reaches.

Around the same time, Rob Lesser was frequently planning and running expeditions in remote rivers throughout B.C. and Alaska. The famed whitewater expedition paddler and 2005 inductee to the International Whitewater Hall of Fame was running the highway back and forth during several years in the late ‘70s from his home state of Idaho, to his park ranger job in Alaska, keeping his eyes open for prime spots. He shared a few notes with the British paddlers and started plotting in earnest.

River information was scarce; this was not the enlightened Internet age. There was some information through B.C.’s hydro company and it appeared to Lesser the gradient was reasonable, even if flows for most of the year were not.

Finally, in August 1981, an all-star cast including Lesser, Lars Holbeck, John Wasson, Rick Fernald, Don Ban- ducci and an ABC Sports television crew, complete with helicopter, slipped into the Stikine.

The levels were so intense the television crew quickly had all the glorious and jaw-dropping footage they needed, cutting the trip short and flying the paddlers to the mouth for final shots. It left a good portion of the canyon unrun.

In 1985, Lesser and Holbeck, along with Bob McDougall, did what had been building for nearly a decade and returned to make a full descent.

MEKONG RIVER, TIBET TO VIETNAM

by Kyle Dickman

Iron age farmers, Marco Polo and Maoist revolutionaries all had to accept the unbridled power that kept southeast Asia’s Mekong River un-run for millennia. It wasn’t until the eve of the 21st century the mekong’s unfettered tradition was to be challenged by well-equipped expeditionaries and the demands of a changing civilization.

en route through its seething 4,600-kilometre, source-to-sea run, the mekong pounds down 3,000- metre-deep gorges, across six national borders and between some of the world’s most biologically diverse temperate forest. It is a source of food, water, transportation, energy and frequent fear of flooding for some 60 million southeast Asians living along its banks.

Western interest in paddling the Mekong began as early as the 1600s but the first serious expedition, led by french explorer and diplomat ernest Doudart de Lagrée, wasn’t attempted until 1866. After two years of barefoot portaging (apparently portaging wooden dories is a bit rough on 19th century footwear), struggles with violent rapids and a tenacious case of amoebic dysentery, Lagrée discovered what the Chinese already suspected, the river was unnavigable.

For 130 years the frenchman’s assessment stood. In the mid-1990s, interest in the Mekong’s whitewater rekindled. Teams from China, Australia, Japan and the U.S. began probing the nether gorges of its Himalayan high-country.

After seven years of wading through Chinese bureaucracy, American rafter Peter Winn secured permits and logged a handful of first descents before Australian kayaker Michael O’Shea connected the dots to complete the first source-to-sea expedition in 2004. After seven months of enduring chilly Tibetan temperatures and swarms of multi-national mosquitoes, o’shea conquered the whitewater responsible for centuries of defeats.

Conquered, perhaps sadly, seems to be the Mekong’s destiny. In reaction to a multiplying population and a ballooning economy, China has entered a dam-building era unseen since U.S. engineers trowelled off the concrete of the Grand-Coulee and Hoover dams in the 1930s and ’40s. Already three dams have been completed on the mekong with plans for as many as 100 more.

Fortunately, in 2006 American Travis Winn, son of Peter Winn, and a handful of rafters caught one last ride—a famous final descent if you will—down a river that may not be run for another millennium.

NARROWS OF THE GREEN, ASHEVILLE AREA, NORTH CAROLINA

by Neil Etienne

A little less than 20 years ago, North Carolina’s Narrows of the Green River was nothing more than a portage route that joined the more gentle stretches upstream and down.

Long touted as unrunnable, it wasn’t until 1988 when creekers Tom Visnius and John Kennedy finally executed a full-on descent that the Green Narrows began its torrid ascent to popularity. In a few short years it became one of the most popular class IV–V+ stretches in the U.S.

Earning a first descent on the Narrows was difficult enough in a kayak, certainly no one would have any business running them in a canoe, right? Particularly when the river—controlled by dam release—could be pumping out a savage 8.5–11.33 cms, unlike modern flows, which seldom top 5.66 cms.

Dave “Psycho” Simpson stepped up to the Green’s banks with his Dagger Encore about a year after Kennedy and Vis- nius, but before word had really spread about the 11 gnarly class IV–V+ rapids in quick succession.

“It was overwhelming,” Simpson described his first meet- ing with the Narrows. “At the time I thought it was completely unfeasible to run. I thought it would be suicide.”

So, Psycho set out, bringing along trusted partners Bob McDonough and Forrest “Woody” Callaway. Over a couple of days they picked away at the rapids, only a couple of which had been named. The most beastly would earn its name on that trip—Gorilla.

“At the time it was completely uncalled for,” Simpson said. “It was unrunnable. The guidebooks said it was unrunnable, ev- eryone said it was unrunnable. Then I thought ‘Oh, the guide- books are wrong; what else could they be wrong about’.”

The Narrows would remain a favourite for Simpson as he would run it every chance he got, sometimes twice a day. It inspired him to tackle the Gauley, Tellico, Watauga and Russell Fork when its releases were far more substantial.

Simpson was not the only one inspired by his runs of the Green Narrows, they marked the beginning of OC creeking. Many single-blade paddlers began to think of the possibilities; an open boater had not only survived a steep class V, he had done so with grace.

Wayne Gentry’s Green Summer, the 1992 National Paddling Film Festival’s “Amateur Best of Show” showcased the Nar- rows and Psycho’s skills at that year’s Gauley Fest, where a young Eli Helbert, now at the forefront of open canoe creeking and the only open boater to enter the Narrows of the Green River Race, watched in awe.

“I remember thinking that guy’s crazy, I could never do that. But because Psycho did it first, a lot of us were willing to do it too when the time came,” Helbert says. “When I saw the movie I knew I had to try.”

OTTAWA RIVER, BEACHBURG ONTARIO

by Neil Etienne

There are few rivers in Canada that compare historically with the Ottawa. It’s a river that built a country, yet it was forgotten or at the very least overlooked, as a paddling industry raged on without it. How does a river that now rivals all others as the ultimate playboating, training and testing ground remain only a logging and trade route until the mid-1970s?

Simple. Lumberjacks don’t paddle and farmers don’t swim.

The Ottawa borders the TransCanada highway but the rapids lay hidden at the back of privately owned farmland where whitewater is more of a burden than boon. Local landowners saw no jewel and the whitewater remained a well-kept secret.

In June of 1974 Hermann Kerckhoff, founder of the Madawaska Kanu Centre, took his daughter Claudia to the Ottawa. he was there to disprove rumours that there was whitewater on the river.

Putting in on the Quebec side at what is now known as McCoy’s, the duo was pleased by what they saw, if only briefly.

“It was a total surprise to my dad and I to see any whitewater at all. After McCoy’s Chute it gets flat, so we still didn’t expect anything much downriver,” Claudia explains. “Then we came to a split and the river got our respect immediately.” Choosing the right path, they discovered what is now known as the Main Channel.

“It was total euphoria. we’d never seen such big or friendly whitewater,” Claudia recalls of the river that would someday be the host of two world freestyle championships. “This was the find of a lifetime.”

That summer expert paddlers from MKC began running the remaining branches and by 1975 others began to take note of the Ottawa’s potential.

Ed Coleman, an American rafting company owner and a mentor of sorts to Wilderness Tours owner Joe Kowalski, flew over the rapids that year and several weeks of trial rafting runs ensued.

“It just never occurred to us that there may be rapids on the Ottawa but it’s got world-wide attention now,” Kowalski says. “There’s no place better for rafting and for kayaking. The Ottawa is prob- ably the best playboating river in the world.”

Thirty-three summers later the Ottawa River will be the stage for the world’s best freestyle paddlers. International athletes will be pulling off moves created on the Ottawa and paddling boats designed and tested on it.

Not bad for a river that wasn’t supposed have rapids.

UPPER JOHNSTON FALLS, BANFF ALBERTA

by Neil Etienne

From the moment a 19-year-old Tao Berman and crew began testing Upper Johnston Falls in Alberta’s Banff National Park more than seven years ago, it has been kayaking’s greatest focal point for the general public.

Before what would become a world-record event even happened, its appeal was obvious. More than 100 dumbstruck onlookers, some even wailing in fear, lined the park’s pathways and lookout spots just to catch a glimpse of what was going on. Almost instantly, video circulated worldwide in easy-to-digest, jaw-dropping simplicity.

On August 23, 1999 Tao Berman’s run of Johnston Falls broke the waterfall record for height at the time by about 20 feet but he also broke another barrier—whitewater kayaking became mainstream extreme.

“I didn’t realize just how much exposure that drop was going to get. With that one I wasn’t looking for exposure, just a 100-foot fall to run. People started to recognize me who had never paddled before. That’s when I noticed things were starting to get different.” Berman explains.

The plunge made headlines on NBC, Sports Illus- trated, Extra, and even Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. Since then, it has been a whirlwind of attention for Tao, and in turn, kayaking. NBC’s Jeep World of Adventure Sports approached him in 2004, asking what he was up to next. “Lacy Falls, British Columbia,” was Berman’s reply.

More rock quarry than waterfall, it is difficult to fathom the remote coastal stairway sluice of Lacy Falls as one of the more pivotal locations in recent whitewater history. But it too dropped extreme kayaking into a mainstream audience. This time with 20 different camera crews on hand, footage hit CNN, Fox News, the Discovery Channel, Real TV, the Outdoor Life Network and far, far beyond.

Careening down the slick, snaking conduit of inches-deep water, hitting more than 65 kilometres per hour, Berman’s 280-foot toboggan ride to the Pacific Ocean was so enthralling, terrifying and immediate, it was ex- actly what mass media and the TV viewing public con- sume and respect.

“Tao’s descent of Lacy Falls was watched by roughly a million viewers on NBC’s Jeep World of Adventure Sports in its premier airing,” explains the show’s Executive Di- rector Rufus Frost. “Not surprisingly, we were drawn to cover Tao and his attempt at this descent because it was a dramatic feat that would resonate with viewers who did not follow the sport of kayaking.”

This article first appeared in the Spring 2007 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.

Modern MITH-ology: Carving Eddylines

Skills

Photo: Carole Westwood — Andrew Westwood smoothly exits an eddy in his Esquif Zepher.

Entering and exiting eddies can trick even the seasoned paddler into complacency if they are not paying attention or rust has coated their skills over time spent away from the river. MITH is a simple way to remember the breakdown of skills needed to execute eddy turns regardless whether you are in a kayak, OC1 or tandem. Much of what we teach in introductory canoe courses is a product of stories passed down from generation to generation, spread by oral tradition. Sometimes these skills are eventually written down in manuals, but sadly some of the greater meaning can be lost in the process. Take P.A.T. for example; the process of using power, angle and tilt to get into eddy pools. PAT is an oversimplification of the turning skill needed to get beginner paddlers across eddylines.

The concept of carving the canoe is missing from PAT. Modern MITHology introduces momentum, initiation, tilt and hold as the tools needed to unlock the secret behind carving supernatural eddy turns. MITH addresses the shortcomings of PAT and better describes the technique used by advanced paddlers to carve their canoes smoothly into eddy turns, s-turns and peel outs.

MOMENTUM combines an object’s mass and velocity. The amount of momentum required to carve an eddy turn depends on the friction you need to overcome to cross the eddyline and how far up the eddy pool you need to travel.

It’s better to think about eddy turns in terms of momentum rather than power because, for example, a tandem boat with very little speed, or power, can still carry plenty of momentum into a carve be- cause of its mass. PAT implies you must be powering or paddling forward, but really it’s not about you paddling, it’s about the canoe having enough momentum, either by you moving it forward or by the current doing it for you, or simply by the sheer mass of an ABs canoe moving toward the eddyline. In many cases you don’t need to be powering at all, because the canoe will have enough momentum just from the speed of the current and its own mass. So to carve a great eddy turn your canoe will need just enough momentum to cross the friction of the eddyline and carry you through the carving turn and up the eddy pool.

Every turn you perform has to begin with a carve. INITIATING a carving turn can be as straightforward as performing a stern pry or stern draw stroke, or as subtle as crossing the eddyline paddling an inside circle either on your on or off side and allowing it to tighten into a carving arc as you cross an eddyline. The critical product of this step is that you need to initiate a carve and set the canoe travelling an arcing path toward the eddy pool.

Only canoes that are TILTED on edge will carve turns. Canoes that are paddled into turns flat will spin out, or worse, flip over. A tilted hull presents the bottom of the hull partially slanted on its side, or edge, so that the water pushes the hull around the arc. This pushing effect on the hull is what causes the boat to carve. Different amounts of tilt

will change the shape of the arc as will different hull lengths and shapes. Regardless, your goal in a carving eddy turn is to paddle along an arcing path from out in the river, across the eddyline, and into an eddy pool. Tilting your canoe will help to maintain the carve.

Travelling from any point A to point B takes time. During a carving eddy turn you must HOLD your tilt throughout the duration of the manoeuvre. The moment the hull is allowed to flatten out, your carve will be lost and your canoe will begin to spin—your carving momentum changes into spin momentum and your crisp eddy turn will stall. holding the tilt is the key to success. Practice gripping your canoe’s outfit- ting with your legs, not just for a moment, but for long periods of time. In whitewater, holding your boat is as vital as holding your paddle. Only when your canoe slows and the turn is complete should you relax your tilt and allow the canoe to completely level out.

If you are already familiar with PAT then moving up to MITH will come easily. Momentum, initiation, tilt and hold are the next steps to getting your canoe carving smoothly into eddy pools. With a little practice, carving supernatural eddy turns will become less fiction and more modern MIThology.

Andrew Westwood is a frequent contributor to Rapid. He’s an open canoe instructor at the Madawaska Kanu Centre and a member of Team Esquif.