The Ancient Greeks believed lightning was the work of the gods. We’re not saying they were wrong, but we are saying it wasn’t a good idea to build their worship temples on sites where lightning had struck. God-guided or not, lightning bolts are creatures of habit and often strike the same place twice. Understanding why lightning strikes where it does and taking some precautions can keep you from getting in the way of any of the 2.7 million flashes that occur across Canada every year.
Keep an eye on the weather:
Electrical storms most often occur onhot, humid afternoons when anvilshaped thunderhead clouds form. Currents of ascending warm air and descending cold air rub against each other and produce an electric charge within the cloud. Fork lightning occurs when a bolt of electricity closes the circuit between the negatively charged bottom of the cloud and the positively charged earth.
Take shelter before the storm hits:
You can calculate your distance in metres from a lightning strike by counting the seconds from ash to crash and multiplying by 300. But before assuming you are out of range remember that storms can be many kilometres in diameter and that lightning can travel laterally to strike the earth at a point not directly underneath the storm.
Don’t be the path of least resistance:
Decrease your chances of becoming a human lightning rod by not lingering on prominent ridges or canoeing across lakes before a storm. Set up camp away from tall trees and exposed places where you would become the highest point. Instead, take shelter in an area of small trees.
Know the lightning position:
Crouch on the balls of your feet to minimize your contact with the ground and insulate yourself with a sleeping mattress if possible. If you are in a group, spread out in a straight line at least five metres apart to reduce the likelihood of a strike jumping from one person to another.
If someone is struck:
Lighting strikes usually affect the body’s electrical system. The heart may stop, but it will often resume spontaneously. Look for vital signs and initiate CPR if necessary. And don’t worry, victims do not carry an electrical charge.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2006 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.
A few weeks ago my friend Rick and I were on our way home to put this year’s canoe buyer’s guide to bed after finishing a circuit of paddling shows. To kill a few hours of arrow-straight U.S. interstate we started playing the If-I-had-a-million-dollars-which-canoe-would-I-buy game.
Which canoe would I buy? With 155 canoes in seven different categories in our buyer’s guide I didn’t know where to start. So we stopped.
I can see the Madawaska River from my office window. Every morning I dream about going for a paddle at lunchtime. I’d portage down the road to the pubic launch, climb in and hammer for 30 minutes. For this I’d want something light and fast, like a Jensen 18. If I was going to sweat I’d want a canoe that would reward my efforts. In three years I’ve never paddled at lunchtime.
My neighbour Bobby is the local handyman. He’s a hell of guy with a shop full of tools and a well-stocked beer fridge. For two years of winter evenings I’ve sat in his shop in a tattered barber chair by the wood furnace. While I watched him work we’d make summer plans to load a canoe on his Yamaha Rhino ATV and go fish for pickerel in the lakes back in the hills. We think a wide and stable square-stern, something we could put a small trolling motor on, would be the ticket for our off- road angling adventures. Once summer comes we’re both too busy to go fishing.
I’ve also thought about buying a small tripping canoe that I could take this summer on my first father-and-son river trip. It’d be a tandem that I’d paddle solo. It would be big enough for our camping gear and stable enough so my son could climb around and play with his toys, eat his snack and curl up for naps.
I remember the day—the only day—I paddled with my own dad. I paddled us to the end of Long Lake while he fished for bass. He offered to paddle but I told him to keep fishing. It was peaceful. I paddled. He fished. And we talked.
I remember how happy I was that we were canoeing together and how proud I was to be able to paddle him around. I think of that time we spent together quite often, but I don’t remember anything about the canoe, not even the colour. It wasn’t the canoe that mattered.
I think this summer I’m going to buy myself some time. Time to paddle at lunch, fish with Bobby, go for a weekend father-and-son trip, and take another paddle with my dad. Only then will I get back to playing the game, open up the buyer’s guide and wonder what canoes I should buy.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2006 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.
Whether you are river running, creeking or hanging out at your favourite park and play spot, you’ll often come across friendly little holes that are ideal for 360s. Not only is the 360 an amusing pastime in its own right, learning this skill will also help you deal better with unplanned visits to unruly bigger holes.
1. As you cross the foam pile, initiate an onside turn by applying a braking or ruddering stroke just behind your hip. This will get you into a side surf before your bow hits the green water coming into the hole. The green water hitting the upstream edge of your boat will try to flip you so you should have a slight downstream tilt. Side surf until you feel comfortable in the hole. Keep your strokes close to your body with an upright, balanced posture.
2. Move forward to the corner of the hole with a forward stroke or an angled blade on your high brace. As the bow hits the green water going past the hole it will be pushed downstream and initiate the spin. Help turn the boat and pull yourself toward the foam pile by doing a draw just ahead of your knee. Stay close to the peak of the foam when you initiate the turn to guard against the stern catching the green water when the boat is parallel to the current. This will also lift the ends out of the water and make the boat more manoeuvrable.
3. The crux of this move occurs when the boat is parallel to the current. As your bow passes beyond downstream, your off-side edge will become the new downstream edge so change the tilt by putting weight on your offside knee. Move your paddle to the downstream side as if you were doing an offside forward stroke with the shaft against the gunwale just in front of your knee. Turn your head and look back into the hole to see where you are going and to help the turning momentum.
4. When you complete the first 180, you’ll be in an offside side surf. Keep a steady downstream tilt to your offside and move the stern back toward the green water at the corner of the hole with a back stroke.
5. When the stern catches the green water and initiates the next part of the spin, plant your paddle on the upstream side of the boat in a ruddering position just behind your hip and close to the hull. This is tricky because you need to keep a downstream tilt on your offside. An upright and balanced body position is essential. When the boat is parallel to the current, change the tilt to onside and rudder into an onside side surf to complete the 360.
You may find turning the 360 toward your offside even easier. The tilt transitions are the same and only the strokes vary.
There are times when you might lean your body forward or back to keep the stern from hitting the green water, but aim to keep your body upright and balanced throughout the turn. Also, you’ll have more efficient strokes and a better body position if you keep your strokes close to your body. And remember, don’t get stuck looking downstream as the bow swings around the back of the hole. Quickly look over your shoulder and switch your tilt.
Mark Scriver is a former open canoe freestyle world champion and co-wrote The Thrill of the Paddle.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2006 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.
I first learned of the writer, poet and filmmaker Robert Perkins when I saw his classic film Into the Great Solitude, a startling chronicle of his 1987 solo paddle down Nunavut’s Back River during which he comes unwound, seemingly losing grip with reality as he travels further and further north. It was as disturbing as it was magical. Perkins’ film made me renew my vow to paddle an Arctic river, but it also convinced me I wouldn’t try it alone.
I met Perkins a year or two later at a film festival reception where champagne bubbled in fluted glasses, waiters bustled in their tuxedoes and canoeists fidgeted in their suits and ties. he was a gracious guest of honour, introducing himself to everyone as he circulated around the room. I hoped my three minutes of small talk would revolve around writing, the Arctic and paddling. I wanted him to know we had much in common.
Instead, we talked about splitting firewood. More deserving guests threw daggers at my back as the party wound down and we continued to talk about axes, wood and swing techniques. he seemed genuinely intrigued by my winter business of selling firewood and we dissected the visceral appeal of frosty mornings and working hard. I left pleased we had made a connection, but it was years before I understood why we spoke so long about swinging axes, and not paddles.
Perkin’s 1996 book Talking to Angels is comprised of three autobiographical stories. the middle one is about his summer of self-imposed Arctic exile on the Northwest Territories’ Baillie River. He lived in a converted meat locker with a weather radio, roaming wildlife and breathlessly spacious beauty as his only distractions. His lyrical writing penetrates the sublime violence of a northern spring break-up and the life and death truths apparent in the carcass of a scavenged musk ox.
This middle section is most popular with canoeists, but the first third of the book prefaces his time in the Arctic. It documents his decline into mental illness as a young man. Written against a backdrop of the wider insanity of 1968—an escalating Vietnam war and the assassinations of Martin luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy—Perkins writes of living in an Alice in Wonderland world where nothing makes sense but the feeling that he has “lost his keys,” and can’t find them no matter how hard he looks. He portrays himself as the only sane observer in a maximum security ward and writes, in dripping metaphors, that he’s floating adrift, swimming in darkness, sinking, drowning… his escape attempt ends with him knocking on the hospital’s back door, too tired and drugged to get away.
When Perkins was released, he knew where he had to go:
“I went north, to the tundra. whenever I could, I traveled into wilderness… I preferred the straight- forward fear I felt and the physical dangers I faced to dealing with family and other people. slowly I stopped leaning on nature and began to just look, to see. she was all I could trust.”
The haze of confusion and madness of the first story is set in clear contrast to the clarity of the Arctic air and stillness of the tundra. Perkins found sanity by paddling northern rivers, by being alone and facing his fears. out there he connected different parts of his life—he found his keys—and he prepared to re-enter life at home.
It only takes a glimpse of daily headlines to see that there is as much insanity and confusion in our world today as in the one Perkins peeked out at from his hospital window in 1968. Geopolitical paranoia and manipulation, routine road rage and the vacuous Canadian Idol seem to be disparate things, but together they are enough to make us want to take our paddles to the wilderness and seek the same clarity Perkins found on the tundra.
Re-reading his book now I realize why we hit it off so well at the film festival. I found the answer in an incidental detail that most would have passed right over. Patients in the hospital were rewarded for good behaviour by being allowed to choose a special activity to pass the time. Many chose cooking or extra television time. Perkins chose to chop firewood.
Jeff Jackson gave up his firewood business to become a professor of outdoor adventure at Algonquin College in Pembroke, Ontario.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2006 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.
Do paddlers have a death wish? Take a survey of non-paddlers on any city street and you’ll hear how paddlers are thrill-seekers who have a reckless need to be on—and often over— the edge. paddling may be more death-defying than golf, but a sociologist from the University of Calgary has just completed a research study which suggests that whitewater kayaking is less about cheating death and more about the controlled pursuit of a state of mind he calls “psychological flow.”
In his book Challenging Mountain Nature, Dr. Robert Stebbins takes an academic look at the motivation people have for pursuing leisure activities widely considered to be dangerous.
He interviewed kayakers, mountain climbers and snowboarders from Alberta’s Banff and Canmore areas about their level of commitment to their sports and how important their pursuits were to their lifestyles.
Stebbins argues that, instead of getting a buzz from flirting with death, kayakers are drawn to increasingly more difficult rapids to achieve a state of fulfillment called psychological flow, a stimulated state of mind enjoyed by people who have put themselves in situations that test their skills enough to inspire feelings that are in the healthy middle ground that exists between boredom and fear.
“We know we’ve achieved psychological flow when we don’t think of other things,” says Stebbins. “The feeling kayakers are after is one of being absorbed in the action of the moment.”
It is the rush of this state of absorption that drives kayakers to push their own limits to keep from being bored. According to Stebbins, this is a controlled progression and shouldn’t be seen as daredevil behaviour.
of course, there are exceptions. Unless you’re one of a handful of competent class V+ paddlers, dropping a 50-foot waterfall for the cameras would be paddling beyond your abilities—not an attempt to achieve psychological flow. Stebbins’ name for such Kodak courage is “social high risk behaviour,” and that, he says, is dangerous.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2006 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.
By the time we got back to the highway it was dark and our drysuits were covered in dust. We’d taken out at dusk after a great run of the Opeongo River and discovered that Pablo had left his keys— the take-out keys—in the pocket of his cords on the front seat of the put-in truck. Twenty-four kilometres we hoofed it in soggy river shoes with no water and no food.
Goofy things like this happen to us all but they happen more often when you’re new to paddling. Whitewater is full of little tricks and secrets that if you stick around long enough you eventually figure out, usually the hard way.
I sit on the board of directors of the Trade Association of Paddlesports, a group that talks a lot about how to maintain growth in our sport. There is no shortage of people lining up to try whitewater. Paddling schools across the country are busy. The issue is attrition—turning students into paddlers.
As an instructor I seldom bump into my students on the river. Why not? They leave with a decent forward stroke, a roll and the skills to hit eddies. Walking out to the highway, Pablo and I had six hours to think about why there were no other paddlers around to give us a ride. We figured maybe we aren’t teaching the right things.
We need to remember that whitewater paddling is about rivers. Every student in every class should go down a river. Ideally a pretty one. For sure an easy one. Nobody dreams of learning the forward stroke. Wannabe paddlers dream of great adventures and shooting rapids, and we are squashing that spirit with stroke drills. There’s plenty of time for technique later; for now they need to learn to love the game.
You know why else it’s good to take them down a river? Because then they’ll know one. They’ll know how to scout, run safety, and shuttle. They can rent boats and gear and paddle that river all summer long, every weekend if they want.
We need to teach students to tie their own boats to a roof rack or trailer. we should go to a scrap yard with a cutting torch and lift the roof off a mini van, mount a set of Yakimas on it and have students practice loading boats and tying trucker’s hitches until they are sure they won’t be fishing boats out of a ditch. It’s pretty tough to go paddling if you can’t get your boat to the river, and nothing says newbie like asking retail staff to tie your boat on for you.
We need to give new paddlers the straight take about boats and gear. Not as salesmen, but as instructors, paddlers and friends. New paddlers need to know that they were using institutional gear and there is better gear that is more comfortable and warmer, and that nobody writes their name across the front of their helmet on duct tape.
As instructors we get two days with our students. It’s not enough time to master any stroke or move. So instead of teaching our students to paddle perfectly, we should teach them to be paddlers. Once they are hooked we’ll get them back. Then we’ll work on their strokes and bombproof their rolls. And if we can get rookie paddlers to stick with it, there will be more people to help when guys like us, who should know better, pull a rookie move.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2006 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.
It had been just another great day on the French River until I decided to take my clothes off.
I had snuck down to the water for a skinny dip out of sight of my canoeing buddy Ashley and the group of women camped across the river. As far as I’m concerned, swimming in a bathing suit on a canoe trip is like wearing underwear in the shower. It’s invigorating to swim naked, and it’s hard to argue with the nudist belief that if we were meant to be clothed, we would have been born that way. Besides, it’s more practical. I swim naked to keep my clothes dry.
Ashley doesn’t share either rationale, and I wasn’t about to ask our neighbours what they thought. With Ashley suiting up on the point, I found a nearby spot to slip in under cover. I was almost to my waist when my foot slipped off a rock and a sharp pain made me scream like a…like a naked guy with a broken foot. Ashley looked over, and so did the women. I dropped into the water and waved—so much for my secret swim. Ashley switched into rescue mode, compelled by the duties of a canoe-buddy. I would have been glad for his help, but there was a little—shall I say skimpy?—problem: He was wearing a leopard-print Speedo.
I couldn’t stop laughing when Ashley first appeared in a Speedo earlier in the trip. He defended it, telling me that an Australian company came up with the infamous banana-hammock a century ago to minimize drag on a swimmer by mimicking a naked body. I told him that was why it was funny. But now I wasn’t laughing, I was caught naked and struggling waist-deep on slippery rocks with a broken foot and no help available but a hairy, middle-aged, wannabe Olympic swimmer.
I ran through my options. Ashley might grab me and toss my nude body over his shoulder fireman-style; he might hold me by the waist so I could put my arm around him—naked hip against spandex waist- band—and shimmy me up the slippery riverbank; or I could tough it out on my own. By now our female neighbours had gathered on the opposite shore.
My foot is approaching the size and colour of a football. I think I probably hurt it more trying to get out on my own.
Skinny dipping is about the only topic not covered in Kevin Callan’s new book The Happy Camper, An Essential Guide to Life Outdoors.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2006 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.
Don’t let a fear of raging currents keep you from showing your young’uns how to go with the flow. These four trips offer all the joys of river paddling—helpful currents, intimate scenery, abundant wildlife, great campsites, gentle winds— but come without the higher stakes of intimidating whitewater.
Croche River, Quebec by Conor Mihell
At first mention, the Croche (French for tremble) sounds like your average roaring Quebec whitewater river. But unless you have a phobia of sand and smooth flowing water, there’s nothing on this section of la Rivière Croche to tremble over.
The Croche cuts a meandering path through the highlands of central Quebec’s haute-Mauricie before feeding into the St. Maurice river north of la Tuque. The best calm-water section of the Croche runs 48 kilometres from a logging road put-in to the town of la Croche. This is family float tripping at it’s best: there’s only one 250- metre portage, numerous swifts and a steady current make paddling optional, and nearly every bend in the river’s serpentine course features a sandy campsite. Paddlers with more moving water experience can add another 30 kilometres and three portages by putting in further upstream, at a bridge on the same logging road.
Hints While the Croche is runnable throughout the paddling season, sandcastle construction is best in low water when the most material and real estate is available, so plan a late-summer trip and bring a beach shovel. From la Tuque, follow the blacktop north to the town of la Croche, where you can drop a vehicle at the municipal campground take-out. Access the put-in from the same road, which becomes gravel north of la Croche. The Cartes Plein Air website provides all the details.
While You’re There If you think you might have some energy left at the end of your trip, remember your bent shaft paddle: you could continue downstream—albeit at a slightly faster pace—as part of the 193-kilometre La Classique Marathon Canoe Race. The event takes place over labour Day weekend and follows the St. Maurice River from La Tuque to Shawinigan.
Saugeen River, Ontario by Kevin Callan
Threading through the farms of Bruce County and protected by the Saugeen Valley Conservation Authority, the Saugeen River is an oasis for wildlife and paddlers alike. It’s the perfect destination for families looking for a quick weekend getaway in a setting that’s not remotely intimidating, or paddlers wanting to navigate their first bit of moving water.
The 105-kilometre, three-portage section between Hanover and Southampton can be paddled in three or four days. But the strictest float trippers will stick to the two-to three-day, 83-kilometre jaunt from Walkerton to Southampton. It’s portage free and has almost continuous gravel swifts and a few class I rapids. With numerous intermediate access points, it’s possible to devise different day trips.
Hints Walkerton is a 2.5-hour drive from Toronto on Highway 9. Drop a car downstream at Denny’s Dam, just east of Southampton, or arrange a shuttle with a local outfitter, load your canoe in Hanover and push off. Several islands downstream from Paisley offer Crown land camping among the faux-western charm of wispy willows and thick clumps of dogwood. Paisley’s Rotary Camp, Hidden Valley Camp or the Saugeen Bluffs Conservation Area are alternative options.
Lore In the early 1800s, the Saugeen River was the pioneer’s gateway to the Queen’s Bush, a fertile area that is still among Ontario’s most agriculturally productive. Prospective settlers gathered at Buck’s Crossing—today’s Hanover—to build scows and rafts for the trip downriver. After floating the Saugeen they dismantled their watercrafts to build the first shanties and farms in this section of south- western Ontario’s undeveloped hinterland.
Restigouche River by Andy Smith
New Brunswick’s Restigouche was a favourite river long before it achieved Canadian Heritage River status in 1998. It was once heavily travelled by the Mi’kmaq, and remains one of Atlantic Canada’s healthiest salmon rivers. For canoeists with solid flatwater skills and a splash of moving water experience, the Restigouche’s steady current, sweeping meanders and steep, forested banks make for exceptional multi-day tripping.
There are no portages to disrupt the three- to five-kilometre-per-hour current of the Restigouche. Swifts and riffles, punctuated by a handful of short, easy rapids, keep you alert, and numerous gravel bars provide a nearly unlimited supply of stones for your ongoing family rock-skipping championship.
Hints Access the river via Highway 17 and the village of Kedgwick. Local outfitters will provide detailed driving instructions and a shuttle to the put-in, which is about 50 kilometres north of Kedgwick. A great four-day trip splits your time on the Kedgwick and Restigouche rivers. Start at Camp 28 on the South Branch of the Kedgwick and make camps at Rapids Depot, the Kedgwick- Restigouche confluence and Cross Point Island before finishing up at the Rafting Grounds above Campbellton. To avoid crowds, skip long weekends, summer weekends, and school holidays.
Lore Million Dollar Pool is one of many famous salmon holes on the Restigouche. In the mid-1800s the governors of Quebec and New Brunswick, both avid fishermen, met at the pool at the junction of the Patapedia and Restigouche rivers to resolve a boundary dispute (though some historians have suggested they just wanted to fish). As the story goes, they were approached by Phyneas Wyers, a local, who persuaded the governors to give him $100 and title to the adjacent land for the privilege of fishing “his” pool. A century later the deed for the privately owned pool sold for $75,000.
North Saskatchewan River, Alberta by Darin Zandee
The North Saskatchewan rises in the melting Columbia Icefields and flows for 1,287 kilometres before draining into Lake Winnipeg. On its course, it falls in icy cascades through the Rockies, cruises smoothly through the boreal foothills to Edmonton and winds sedately across the Prairies. The best stretch for the float tripping family is the 160-kilometre section between Drayton Valley and Edmonton where the river loses its Rocky Mountain vigour but still maintains a steady clip. If the kids need a break from paddling, just point your canoe downstream and let the current carry you along. You can cover 40 kilometres in a day and spend your nights on expansive gravel bars that have been camped on for more than 5,000 years.
Hints Check Alberta Environment’s online water level gauge before heading out. For a more relaxing experience, look for a level of less than 225 cubic metres per second (cms)—the norm for July and August. Leave a vehicle at Fort Edmonton Park. From there, follow Highway 39 westward for 1.5 hours to the put-in at Willey West Campground, just east of Drayton Valley. Further downstream there are access points at Berrymore Bridge, Genesee Bridge and Devon Bridge—all of which make shorter trips an option. Plan on a four-day float from Drayton to Fort Edmonton.
Lore The North Saskatchewan was one of the rivers David Thompson, the Hudson Bay Company explorer, paddled while surveying for his 1814 map of the west. The 3.9 million square kilometres of wilderness he mapped informed the travels of more than a century’s worth of explorers, fur trad- ers and homesteaders.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2006 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.
With more than 20,000 river-kilometres behind his paddle, Max Finkelstein is the perfect poster boy for the Canadian Heritage Rivers System. He’s travelled most of the 34 Heritage Rivers, explored hundreds of other waterways and written a book, Canoeing a Continent, about his trip retracing Alexander Mackenzie’s famous 18th century canoe route across Canada. He even paddles to work.
Work in this case is in the Gatineau, Quebec, offices of the Canadian Heritage Rivers System (CHRS), Canada’s federal program for river conservation. A six-kilometre paddle down the Ottawa River from his home lands him at his desk where, along with manager Don Gibson and planner Brian Grimsey, he promotes the Heritage Rivers System.
Canadian Heritage Rivers System: Preserving a nation of rivers
“I was a planner for Parks Canada in 1988 when I took my first northern trip to the Thelon River,” remembers the 52-year-old Finkelstein. “The Heritage Rivers guy in the office next to mine asked if I would submit a report on the ‘heritage resources’ I saw,” he recalls with a laugh. Finkelstein wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to report on, but he figured he had done a good job when he was offered a job.
Feature photo: J. David Andrews
Now the marketing and communications officer at CHRS, Finkelstein’s job is to make sure Canadians know about the program celebrating the river heritage of their country. Finkelstein’s 10-foot by 10-foot, standard-issue cubicle—overflowing with maps, books, photographs and files—is one place all significant rivers in this country pass through. He spends most of his time in the office on the web or the phone but he’s a frequent guest at conferences where he ambles up to the podium with his tanned, craggy face and ruffled hair, looking like he’s just pulled into a campsite.
He also spends a lot of time fielding questions from canoeists looking for information on the rivers.
“Sometimes I feel like a travel agent,” Finkelstein laughs. He’s happy to steer people toward information on canoeing the rivers, but he never tells them his favourite campsites.
Finkelstein finds a pair of glasses he didn’t need in the 1980s and pulls his original report on the Thelon River off his shelf. He thumbs through the 65 pages he wrote about the river’s archaeological sights, more recent history, plentiful wildlife, recreational opportunities and pristine, unspoiled state.
The Thelon River, in what has since become Nunavut, was added to the list of Heritage Rivers in 1990, joining rivers that had also been recognized as important for some combination of their natural assets, cultural history and recreational value. Once designated, the rivers benefit from management plans designed to preserve that which makes them so special.
Origins of the CHRS
The origin of the CHRS is legendary among wilderness paddlers. It goes back to the fabled Canadian Wild River Surveys of 1971 to 1974 when the Trudeau government hired students for the summer—no doubt clad in cut-off jeans with their long hair kept back by blue bandanas—and sent them out across the country in 17-foot Grummans to survey significant rivers. Those surveys—part of a National Parks planning initiative submitted to a young cabinet minister named Jean Chrétien—were the basis for a 1978 conference in Jasper National Park. It was the first time a national river conservation program had been contemplated by the senior levels of government. Six years later the CHRS was born.
“The whole CHRS process is now driven by concerned citizens who nominate their local river,” Finkelstein explains. “They are idealists and visionaries who involve themselves when they see their river becoming threatened, whether by something obvious like a dam proposal or something incremental like pollution.”
Once a river has been nominated the CHRS Board assesses whether it will meet their criteria. If the board supports the nomination it still has to be approved by the relevant provincial ministry.
The final step toward designation is the creation of a river management plan that will “conserve the river’s outstanding natural, cultural or recreational values.” This plan can spend years wending through government office corridors given the number of different agencies, departments, citizen groups, businesses and land owners that have an interest in a river and therefore have to lend support to any plan before the board will accept it. Ontario’s Missinaibi River languished as a nominated river for 19 years before lumber companies operating in the area were brought on board, allowing the river to gain status last year.
Even when full Heritage River status is granted, it carries with it no actual legislative weight.
“Heritage status means what the communities make it mean,” Finkelstein explains. A CHRS management plan co-ordinates conservation efforts and encourages cooperation, but unless governments extend additional protected status to the river, the fate of the river ultimately rests on the community’s resolve to stay true to the plan.
After being designated in 1994, the area adopted the Grand River as the focal point of its tourism pitch. | Photo: Courtesy Destination Ontario
How heritage designation helped the Grand
Finkelstein points to southwestern Ontario’s Grand River. The Grand was so polluted in the 1970s that local communities did their best to ignore it. After being designated in 1994, the area adopted the river as the focal point of its tourism pitch. Different groups along the river cleaned the waterfront, reduced pollution, restored buildings and re-stocked fish populations, and in 2000 the Grand River won the Thiess International Riverprize for “excellence in river management.”
Finkelstein’s low, rumbling voice becomes livelier when talk turns to rivers now working their way through the nomination process.
“Some really important rivers are finally getting attention,” he explains. “The Mackenzie, the Ottawa, the St. John and the Red are all in the works—truly major river systems of national importance.”
What has Finkelstein excited is the “cross jurisdictional” nature of these rivers. Early CHRS rivers, such as the Yukon’s Alsek River or Alberta’s Athabasca River, were often located within a national or provincial park. Full government support allowed for easy management planning. It wasn’t until some more urbanized nominees—such as the Grand River and New Brunswick’s St. Croix River—were proposed that the more difficult community-driven process was tested. The newest nominees involve numerous communities, various stakeholders and multiple levels of government. That the CHRS can be successful in these confused waters indicates a real maturing of the program.
Now just two years away from retirement, Finkelstein looks back on two decades of the Heritage River System with satisfaction at seeing how general attitudes toward conservation have shifted.
“An economic impact study was done years ago on the benefits of a river receiving Heritage River status. It was based on tourism dollars. It is not of much use, really,” Finkelstein admits, shuffling through papers in a file trying to find the forgotten study. “Really, how do we value a functioning ecosystem? How do we value a good place to live?”
Just because there is no easy answer to the question doesn’t mean it is unimportant, and Finkelstein has seen more Canadians realize that every year. The study stays missing as he packs up and walks down to the river where he’ll launch his canoe and head home.
It’s an upstream paddle on the way home; in low water he has to pole his way up the shallow swifts. Some would think it’s a tough way to get through the daily commute, but Finkelstein doesn’t think there’s any better way to get around his nation of rivers.
Jeff Jackson met Max Finkelstein in 1997 on the Ottawa River during Finkelstein’s cross-Canada paddle.
This article was first published in the Spring 2006 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Buying a new tent is somewhat like buying your first house. It is a major investment that will shelter your family for a long time. To avoid costly mistakes it is important to consider your needs, do your research and check to see what’s on the local market. At the base of the pyramid-of-needs is shelter. First and foremost, your tent must protect you from elements like wind, rain, sun, snow, neighbours or bugs. Other features of modern family tents are more about lifestyle and convenience, frills you might say, but frills that will affect the happiness of everyone living inside.
Tent Size
Like a one-bedroom apartment, a low-profile two-person tent may have been adequate before the children arrived—but families need more space. Ensure that you have enough growing room and don’t forget about storage space. To live comfortably consider a tent designed for at least two more than the actual number of people sleeping inside—a family of four should look at six-person tents.
Floor plan
Just like a home, tents with the same amount of living area will feel larger or smaller depending on how the space is laid out. Young children may feel more secure sleeping near mom and dad while older ones may appreciate their own room. In- stead of having everyone under one roof, consider buying two smaller tents. This of- fers greater privacy, more set-up options at small campsites and a smaller tent for romantic weekends without the kids.
Photo by Kampus Production pexels.com
Shape and Season
If your family camping involves hiking to mountain summits, winter camping or camping in Kansas you’ll need a tent that can cope with a wide variety of temperatures and wind conditions. Low-profile dome tents and expedition-grade four-season tents can weather strong winds and snow loads and are warmer than traditional designs. For everyday summer camping look for good ventilation, higher ceilings and fine mesh coverings to keep insects on the outside looking in.
Materials
Traditional canvas tents are very robust and breathable, but also heavy and sus- ceptible to leaking in very wet weather. Most modern tents use man-made nylon fabrics that are very light and waterproof. These synthetic materials can be delicate and prone to condensation—look for plenty of vents if you’re headed for a hot climate. Inquire about what maintenance is required for the materials and if spraying, sealing seams or the use of a ground sheet are necessary.
Assembly
Some family tents are gigantic, others are complicated to set up and take down. Before you buy a castle think about how many skilled minions will be needed to erect your fortress. If you are base-camping and not breaking camp each morning you can get away with a more elaborate structure. A practice set-up at the store with experienced staff is good training for rainy arrivals and allows you to check the tent bag for all the parts.
Transport
Will you be backpacking with your tent or carrying it in your canoe? Will it fit in the trunk of your car or will you need a roof rack or trailer? How you will transport the tent to your campsite will affect the weight and size you are willing to carry. There are tents that try to be both big and light, but often you’re better off with two tents—one for the backpacking trips and one for car camping.
Storage
You will need a dry place to store your camping equipment. This may be in the van, under your canoe or in your tent. Where you store your stuff may determine the size and design of the tent you will choose. Storage options range from cute vestibules just big enough to hide a pair of boots to tents with separate rooms you can park a car inside.
Bells and Whistles
Take into account all of the extras. Tents can be very elaborate shelters with room dividers, canopies, windows, skylights, pockets and complicated zipper systems. Knowing what you really need before shopping will save you paying for and carrying things you won’t use.
Open House
Shop around and look at as many tents as you can. Check out the tents of your friends and ask them what they like or don’t like about them. Don’t rely on photos on the Internet; go to stores and ask questions. Good camping stores with trained staff will help you set up a number of models. Pile the entire family inside and listen to their opinions. If there is going to be complaining you want to hear it now. Remember, buying a tent is like buying a house. You wouldn’t buy a house without walking though it. The same should be true for your home away from home.
Putting in the Offer
All of the above considerations influence the price of a tent. Make a list of what you really need, then what you really want and then spend all the money in your purse. Camping is relatively inexpensive but there is an initial outlay and your shelter is never a place to scrimp. Remember to include in your budget essential items like ground sheets, sleeping bags and sleeping pads—all of which make sleeping in whatever tent you buy that much better.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2006 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2006 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.
1. As you cross the foam pile, initiate an onside turn by applying a braking or ruddering stroke just behind your hip. This will get you into a side surf before your bow hits the green water coming into the hole. The green water hitting the upstream edge of your boat will try to flip you so you should have a slight downstream tilt. Side surf until you feel comfortable in the hole. Keep your strokes close to your body with an upright, balanced posture.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2006 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions 
This article first appeared in the Spring 2006 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions 
