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Editorial: Motivational Speakers Foster Adventure Travel

Photo: flickr.com/ben_grey
Editorial: Motivational Speakers Foster Adventure Travel

Six months before I first sat in a sea kayak I was on the phone with harbourmasters organizing food drops along the shores of the Great Lakes. All our gear and charts had been ordered, and our new boats were scheduled to arrive in Thunder Bay the week the ice usually breaks up on Lake Superior. It didn’t seem that strange to me, but friends and family wondered what motivated me to plan a three-and-a-half month expedition without ever having paddled a sea kayak.

The inspiration for paddling home from university was surely a result of being enrolled in Lakehead’s Outdoor Recreation program and being surrounded by highly motivated, adventurous peers. Even the city of Thunder Bay is a mecca for enthusiasts: with its own chapter of the Alpine Club, a healthy ski community, and is a stop for travelling adventure road shows. The Banff Festival of Mountain Films is a sellout in the city’s largest auditorium; Waterwalker packs the first-year psychology lecture hall and Warren Miller is an annual social at the Exhibition hall. Outside after the shows, climbers are freeing 5.10a stonewalls and skiers are doing backscratchers off the roofs of cars. The motivational powers of motion pictures (and in the latter case, a dozen cans of Blue) is as strong as the commitment to outdoor adventure sports.

Also on campus are less glossy presentations, presentations announced by photocopied signs reading, “SLIDE SHOW TONIGHT… Room SN 210… Olav and Ali’s Trip”. Word spreads like water on GoreTex. It was these intimate presentations that best captured my imagination. Holding the projector clicker was a fellow adventurer, someone like me who decided that canoeing across Canada, sea kayaking around Lake Baikal, or skiing to the North Pole was something cool to try.

These humble presentations were relevant, and honest. Their high seas, minus 40-degree temperatures and 27 days of rain were real—not made for TV. More admirable than their attempted trips was that they took the time after- ward to share their experiences—to motivate hundreds of others. Adventure travel will never die so long as stories are told while photographs are projected on small screens. Many of these people write books; some just return to their daily routines of school or work.

When you open the first page of Adventure Kayak’s first ever photo annual, imagine that you are sitting down to watch a slide show. But, this slideshow is different: it has one photo from two-dozen trips, in almost as many countries. I suggest keeping a pen and paper handy, you’ll want to be jotting down notes, planning your next expedition. 

akv4i4cover.jpgThis article first appeared in the Fall 2004 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

The Quick Fix: 5 DIY Kayak Projects To Get Trip Ready

The Quick Fix: 5 Easy Projects to get Trip Ready
Feature photo: Adventure Kayak staff

This is the year my kayak turns ten. I bought her when she was three years old at a demo sale and I’ve since put on thousands of kilometres. If she were a car, it would be time to trade her in, but she’s not a car—her only moving part is a rudder—and I’m aging faster than she is. A few repairs, upgrades and routine maintenance were all it took to make her better than new.

Below are five safety-oriented upgrades and DIY projects that I chose to celebrate my kayak’s diamond anniversary and prepare for my next West Coast expedition. Read on to find out how to build a new bulkhead, install an electric pump, add storage bags to your cockpit, make your kayak shine in the dark, and keep the sun from eating away at your dream machine.

man pushes a paddleboard loaded down with backcountry paddling gear 6 Reasons Why It Pays To Buy Better Paddling Gear

The quick fix: 5 DIY kayak projects to get trip ready

1 Reduce cockpit volume with a new bulkhead

My stock front bulkhead was seven inches ahead of where I needed it, resulting in less dry storage space in my front hatch and more wasted space in my cockpit. Moving the front bulkhead as close as possible to my feet reduces the amount of water I have to pump out after a rescue. It also gives me a place to rest my feet, mount a foot-operated bilge pump or a foot switch for an electric pump. Most supplies are available at any marine supply store.

Here’s what you need:

Photo 1: Begin by getting your boat up on a set of cradles at waist level and arranging your tools. Trace a line on the hull to mark the location of the old bulkhead. Then get to work removing your old bulkhead. My plastic bulkheads are sealed in with silicone, so I made a hole to insert a hacksaw blade and cut out the centre of the bulkhead. There’s nothing like the demolition phase to commit you to seeing the job through. I used a scraper and pliers to hack the bulkhead rim off of the hull.

Photo 2: I used the location of the old bulkhead as a reference point to mark out the location of the new one. I moved my bulkhead back almost seven inches. Think about your foot peg rail placement and foot room. I will move the foot pegs to the end of the rail and re-drill and remount my rails 67 mm back from their present location. This allows me to move the bulkhead back as far as possible, but it means nobody taller than me (6’2”) will ever be able to paddle my boat!

Photo 3: Making a template for the new bulkhead is time-consuming but very important. Getting it right will give your bulkhead a strong, snug fit, and save you time when you cut and shape the plywood. Draw +/– symbols on the cardboard to show where to trim and where to cut less on the next template.

Photo 4: Trace your cardboard template onto a piece of plywood and cut out your new bulkhead with a fine-toothed jigsaw or handsaw blade. Trust your template and resist the temptation to cut outside your line. Eighth-inch-thick marine grade plywood works well; consider using quarter-inch if you’re using the bulkhead as a foot brace or a mount for a foot-controlled pump. Marine plywood is waterproof, has a nice “teaky” finish and can sometimes be purchased in smaller pieces.

Photo 5: Wash the inside of your boat with dish detergent or boat soap to remove any contaminants. Do this before sanding to avoid sanding dirt into the surface. Then use 80-grit sandpaper to rough up a strip a few inches on either side of your new bulkhead location. Then wipe the area with Acetone to remove the sanding dust and prep the surface for bonding.

Photo 6: Fit your new plywood bulkhead snugly—don’t force it in place or it may bulge out your hull and deck. Glue your bulkhead in place with a few drops of epoxy. This is a good time to practice mixing your resin and observe how quickly it cures.

You’ll want to apply two or three coats of epoxy consecutively, waiting just until the preceding coat is tacky—have a few hours to kill. Fiberglass saturates and sticks better if you place it on a pre-epoxied surface, so begin by spreading epoxy on either side of the rim of your bulkhead. Then apply the tape, working your way around the rim, working in additional epoxy to saturate the tape as you go. Use scissors to snip the overlapping pleats on the bulkhead side of the tape, and overlap the ends. With my boat up on cradles, I was able to rotate the boat so the loose tape is always at the bottom. Finally, paint your entire bulkhead with a thin layer of epoxy to seal the wood. Do the other side of the bulkhead.

Photo 7: When the first layer of epoxy is still tacky, recoat your bulkhead and seam with a second thin layer of epoxy and add a fillet to your seam on both sides of the bulkhead for extra strength. A fillet is a bead of epoxy thickened with high-density adhesive filler, applied along the seam like a strip of caulking. For a lightweight installation, it’s possible to skip the fiberglassing stage entirely and just use an epoxy fillet to glue your bulkhead in place. I opted for both for maximum strength. I used West System 404 High-Density Adhesive Filler to make my filleting compound. Mix the epoxy first; add plenty of filler powder until the epoxy is the consistency of peanut butter. Use the end of a Popsicle stick cut flat or V-shaped to spread the fillet. Optional: when tacky apply a third coat of epoxy both sides of the bulkhead.

Photo 8: Tada! Eight inches less wasted space in my cockpit and seven inches of extra dry storage space in my front hatch thanks to a shinier, newer, stronger bulkhead.

2 Get the water out with an electric bilge pump

A hands-free, built-in pump system is a must-have add-on for the serious paddler. It allows you to have your sprayskirt on and be bracing and paddling while you pump out a flooded cockpit. The state-of-the-art electric pump system from Rapid Runner Bilge Systems is one of the easiest hands-free pumping systems to install and to use. The main components are a 1,000 gallon-per-hour Johnson-Mayfair Proline bilge pump and a polymer lithium ion (LiPo) battery in a pre-wired waterproof case. The LiPo battery weighs less than 300 grams (10 ounces) and can power the pump for about 50 minutes.

Photo 1: The pump system is super-easy to install because the pump and battery both strap to a Hypalon pad that glues to the hull. Attach the battery pack and pump to the vinyl pad behind your seat so that the pump will be against the hull at the lowest point. Rough up the hull with 80-grit sandpaper and clean with solvent. Glue in place using Shore adhesive or Vinyl Bond. Alternatively, the bilge pump can be bolted separately to the seat or bulkhead.

Photo 2: Drill the hole for the through-hull fitting (where the water will come out). The long hose allows you to put it anywhere in the cockpit but somewhere behind the paddler is recommended. Make sure you won’t knock your elbow on the fitting and that it won’t interfere with a paddle-float rescue.

battery-operated kayak bilge pump in operation Build Your Own Battery-Operated Kayak Bilge Pump

Photos 3A & 3B: Leave enough clearance under the deck around bulkheads, cockpit and deck hardware to screw on the nut that holds the through-hull fitting in place. Secure the hose to the fitting with a zip tie. Aim the outlet and seal the fitting to the deck using a marine adhesive (such as 3M’s 5200 Marine Adhesive Sealant).

Photo 4: Rapid Runner provides a foot switch that either bolts to a foot pedal mounted on the rail behind your existing foot pegs, or attaches to the front bulkhead. I glued a foam pad behind the foot switch and fixed it toe height on my bulkhead to bring it within easy reach.

Photo 5: We couldn’t wait to try it. The 1000 GPH pump puts out an impressive stream of water. Tilting your boat just so, you’ll be able to hose down your buddies. No more excuses—get out there and practice your rescues.

3 Apply UV protection for decks and gaskets

Gel coat, plastic or rubber hatch covers and rubber hatch seals all take a UV beating. You wouldn’t forget it for your skin, so don’t forget sunscreen for your boat! Apply before every paddling season or long trip.

Note: It’s way easier to wash and wax your boat when you’re replacing your deck lines and bungees. Pick up some 3/16” bungee for your front deck and a 1/4” for your rear deck paddle float attachment. Use 5 mm cord for deck lines.

Photo 1: Wax on! Pre-wash the boat and then find a specialty marine wax such as 3M’s Marine Fiberglass Cleaner and Wax, which helps to remove scratches and restores and protects your boat’s finish.

Photo 2: Wax off! Remember Karate Kid? Use a soft cloth to buff your boat to a shine and you’ll have your black belt before you know it.

Photo 3: Treat rubber, plastic and vinyl with 303 Protectant. Just spray on, wipe off, and repeat every several weeks. Prolongs the life of rubber hatches and hatch seals. Also restores the colour of faded plastic hatch covers.

4 Be visible with reflective tape and deck line covers

For night paddling in areas of boating traffic, or just to be more visible in the event of rescue, adding reflective strips to your boat is an easy upgrade that you can do in minutes.

Photo 1: 3M reflective tape is like one long license plate registration sticker—super-sticky and easy to put on. Getting it off is another story, so put it where you really want it. Look for a spot that’s not likely to be covered or get scratched. If you’re feeling pessimistic, put tape on the underside of the hull.

Photo 2: Needle nose pliers are helpful for removing tight deck line knots, if you don’t want to cut and replace the lines.

Photo 3: Once you get your deck lines off, install North Water Reflective Deck Line Covers. These can go on deck bungees too. You don’t have to cut them—they scrunch to fit.

Photo 4: Behold, it works! The North Water covers are more reflective than the 3M tape, possibly because the scrunched fabric reflects lights from all angles. They are also easily removed if you want to switch boats or morph into stealth mode.

[ Paddling Buyer’s Guide: View all North Water products ]

5 Add North Water cockpit storage bags

Making use of a sea kayak’s ample cockpit space for storage keeps the deck free of paraphernalia that can wash off in the surf or get snagged during rescues. The Under-Deck Bag from North Water Paddle Sports Equipment hangs from the roof of the cockpit in the place of a traditional knee tube—it’s a kayak glove compartment.

And North Water’s Interior Mount Cockpit Bags provide convenient storage along the sides of the cockpit. They double as thigh padding for a better fit and also help displace water from the cockpit.

Photo 1: Sit in your cockpit and line up your Interior Mount Cockpit Bags in a place where you’ll be able to access them and they’ll be out of the way, or provide some desired padding beside your thighs. Don’t forget to stuff them when you’re positioning them.

An overhead shot of a pile of foam pieces and other tools to outfit the cockpit of a sea kayak. DIY Kayak Cockpit Makeover

Photo 2: The cockpit bags attach in one of two ways—clipping to glued-in vinyl patches or hanging from your rudder cable on a Velcro sleeve. My cable doesn’t extend far enough. I marked the location of the vinyl patches beyond the edges of the cockpit bags, so they’ll hang taught to the side of the hull.

Photo 3: Prepare the surface of the boat by roughing it with 80-grit sandpaper and cleaning with a mineral spirit such as Toluene. Use a vinyl adhesive such as Vinyl-Tec 2000 or Vinyl Bond to secure the patches.

Photo 4: With the Interior Mount Cockpit Bags and the Under Deck Bag installed, there’s so much storage space, you’ll never have to leave the cockpit! North Water’s Expedition Deck Bag provides even more. The bags can all be quickly unclipped for packing, cleaning, or carrying around the campsite.

Cover of the Late Summer 2004 issue of Adventure Kayak MagazineThis article was first published in the Late Summer 2004 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.

Feature Photo: Adventure Kayak staff

 

Rock the Boat: The Scourge of Certification

Illustration: Lorenzo Del Blanco
Rock the Boat: The Scourge of Certification

I recently did consulting work for a dive and kayak store. I asked the staff what they were really selling in the kayak section. The answer eventually came back that they were selling freedom. So what were they selling in the dive section? Everyone agreed they were selling belonging (to the club of divers).

What makes diving so different from kayaking is its emphasis on certification. Look around at what’s happening in the sea kayaking industry in Canada and you’ll see that formal certification is like a virus that has started to infect our sport too. The process gained momentum when Parks Canada recently demanded certification for kayak- ing guides, while in the field of kayak instruction, some companies are obliging their employees, who often earn little more than minimum wage, to pay up to $800 for in-house certification courses before they can work with clients on the water. And new schemes are cropping up everywhere to dole out certifications like boy scout badges to recreational paddlers.

Certification’s principal function, so far as I can tell, is to generate cash for rapacious bureaucracies. And the consequence for paddlers is that our favourite pastime shifts from a freedom activity to one of membership in an exclusive club administered by a hierarchy of bureaucrats with an inflated sense of their own importance and competence.

So what, you ask, is wrong with exclusive clubs? Well, a club divides us into two classes of people: those who are in and those who are not. Membership in these clubs depends upon passing a test. A layer of bureaucracy set- tles over the activity like a net, compromising freedom, which was the reason most of us took up sea kayaking.

“I’m free not to join a club if I just want to paddle,” you may say. Sure, but don’t count on it lasting.

Look at the dive industry. PADI, the Professional Association of Dive Instructors (a.k.a. Put Another Dollar In), controls every aspect of the sport by controlling retail outlets. You can’t buy or rent scuba equipment, or fill tanks, unless you have done one of their insidious modu- lar courses. Then every time you wish to advance, you have to pay for yet another module. Most dive shops won’t even sell you a drysuit unless you have done a drysuit course. By controlling and essentially taxing each step of the sport, they have virtually institutionalized personal responsibility!

Safety is usually the excuse for bringing in certification while fear, often combined with a sense of personal inade- quacy, are the base motivating emotions for going along with it. As a client to a kayak tour company, it may be reassuring to hear your guide is certified. If it could be demonstrated that the certification process produced bet- ter guides than non-coercive education through experienced-based training programs—something that NOLS and Outward Bound have proven can be done successfully—I might be more inclined to go along with it, but it doesn’t. There is no healthy reason for it.

Certification tends to emphasize what can be readily tested while neglecting less tangible yet more important issues like attitude and judgment that result from thought- ful responses to experience. Too often certification simply obscures a deficiency of real experience. Indeed because of the false sense of confidence the certificate generates and the deferral of institutional responsibility that results, it may actually make sea kayaking more dangerous.

Professional certification of guides and instructors acts as a mechanism for companies and land management bodies to avoid shouldering responsibilities that are right- ly part of their job description. For example, Parks Canada loves certification because it offloads responsibili- ty for assessing the competence of those who use the parks commercially. Insurance companies love certifica- tion because it covers their corporate asses and blurs legal responsibility. And some companies and colleges love certification because (they think) it lets them avoid taking responsibility for scrutinizing the competence of their staff—as in, “if he has a level four certificate he must be a competent guide/instructor.”

Professional certification is a golden opportunity for shrewd business operators and controlling personality types to hobble their competitors, artificially elevate their own personal status, and set up a toll bridge for guides and instructors. Good people reluctantly get dragged aboard out of their fear of being left behind or losing their jobs. Once certified, they are less likely to fight against it.

I foresee the day when, if we’re not careful, you won’t be able to rent or buy a recreational kayak unless you have your level one certificate, and if you want to buy a real sea kayak, you will need a level four certificate. No? Hey! Wake up! It happened to diving. It can happen to sea kayaking.

Resist certification while you still can.

John Dowd is one of the founders of the sea kayaking industry. The fifth edition of his book Sea Kayaking has just been published. He is currently working on a new book about freedom and responsibility in the outdoors. 

akv4i3cover.jpgThis article first appeared in the  Late Summer 2004 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Editorial: Still Paddling Away From The Rat Race

portrait of Scott MacGregor
Editorial: Paddling away from the rat race. | Feature photo: Adventure Kayak staff

By the time you read this, I’ll have eaten my 33rd birthday cake. It doesn’t seem that long ago my winters were spent prostrate to a higher mind and my summers free on the water. From final exams to frosh week my only concerns were enough sunscreen and fresh water for the day. But at 33 I find myself living the rat race I swore I’d leave for other people.

a paddler's deeply suntanned feet in black and white Still Happy To Be Here

Editorial: Still paddling away from the rat race

One evening, age 25, Tanya and I were camping at the Whitby Yacht Club on the north shore of Lake Ontario. Camping might be a bit of a stretch; we’d been invited to stay aboard a sailboat in exchange for tales of our journey. After our talk we mingled and answered questions. A fellow got to telling me with unwavering certainty and pompous righteousness that the rat race—from which I’ve been running—is just life. I should get on with it, he said. He also mentioned there was a barbershop downtown, in case I was wondering. The salted rim on the drink he bought me stung my UV-burnt lips.

portrait of Scott MacGregor
Feature photo: Adventure Kayak staff

I hope that I thanked him politely for the drink and his worldly insight, insight that tore at my free spirit still awash floating in the swells. I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember thinking of places he could park his Mercedes.

Responsibility comes calling?

Eight years later I’m living what he may have meant as just life. I’ve started a sometimes very hectic business with looming deadlines. I got married. I’m building a house and therefore signing a mortgage. I’ll admit this is a fine list of grownup things to do, by anyone’s measure.

How, you ask, am I coping with all this?

Quit Your Day Job And Paddle

I’ve followed a well-travelled path behind the forefathers of sea kayaking in Canada. There is a long tradition of making paddling part of life. The men and women who began the companies that build the boats we escape in just wanted to paddle, and when life came knocking they, like me and every other paddler over 30, built a life for themselves around the water.

Don’t let the shorter hair fool you

If that stodgy fellow is reading this, he’ll be pleased to know my hair is shorter now and my idealism very much alive but slightly more refined. I’m still paddling away from the rat race except my summer expeditions are now divided into daily lunchtime paddles and weekend trips. Which, looking at it at 33, is probably better—salted rims don’t sting my lips anymore.

[ Browse the widest selection of boats and gear in the Paddling Buyer’s Guide ]

Cover of the Late Summer 2004 issue of Adventure Kayak MagazineThis article was first published in the Late Summer 2004 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.

Feature photo: Adventure Kayak staff

 

Boat Review: The Fjord by Boreal Design

Photo: Adventure Kayak Staff
Boat Review: The Fjord by Boreal Design

Top gun performance without the yikes!

Narrow hulls, hard chines, generous rocker profiles and tight outfitting are the norm these days for high-end performance touring boats. Oh sure, the real top guns of paddling have the skill and confidence gained from logging hundreds of hours in the cockpit, they can make these designs dance. However, the true testing of a new hull design is done in the hands of weekend pilots who’ve just earned their wings. The all-new sixteen-foot, four- inch Boréal Design Fjord is specifically designed for intermediate fighter pilots.

After surely years in a wind tunnel somewhere in St-Augustin-de-Desmaures, Quebec and hundreds of test missions in the remote Saguenay Region, Boréal Design released their third model with semi- arched hull, long waterline and unique reverse hard chine.

The Fjord’s semi-arched hull offers a stable plat- form that smoothly rolls from one side to the other and banks from edge to edge for quick adjustments in direction and confident carving on surf waves. One of the overall smoothest handling boats we’ve reviewed.

The long waterline keeps you tracking straight and, teamed with the reverse hard chine, the Fjord is a quick turner. Boréal Design, explains their reverse hard chine: “On conventional hard chine kayaks the chine runs parallel with the seam. On the Fjord the chine tapers downward towards the bow and the stern. This design feature makes the kayak more manoeuvrable when compared to convention- al chine kayaks because the reverse chine forms a curved keel line at the bow (or stern) thus the kayak only needs a lean [approximately] 15 degrees to immerse the chine and begin to turn.”

With the Fjord you get more turn for less tilt. You get hard chine performance without hanging it out there.

The Fjord bridges the gap between the smaller light touring (women’s kayak) Pakesso [reviewed Adventure Kayak online V2I2] and their expedition boat, the Ellesmere. You also have the option of fibreglass, Kevlar or carbon lay ups. You can upgrade to include a day hatch. And, Boréal specs out the Fjord with either a Brit skeg and rubber hatch trimming or the less traditional North American rudder and recessed hatches and covers.

With every exciting performance sea kayak sent to Adventure Kayak mission control we wait with incredible anticipation as our intermediate and novice test paddlers splash down. With clipboards in hand, like NASA engineers, we typically log feedback like “tippy” or “it doesn’t go straight” and “I can’t turn it”. But not the 2004 Boréal Design Fjord; this crew of testers were all smiles. Houston, we are a go.

Screen_Shot_2015-07-07_at_12.23.45_PM.png1 View from the cockpit

In case you were wondering, the view from the cockpit of the Fjord looks like this. Ahead of the cockpit rim is a moulded-in paddle rest. Handy! The innovative skeg dial is recessed flush to the deck and easily reached by all sizes of paddler. However, anything but the first deck bungee is beyond the grasps of the all but lanky Neanderthals. Seldom did water crash over the bow; if it did it whooshed away smoothly; no splash, no mess. The skeg version of the Fjord comes equipped bow and stern with watertight Kajak Sport hatches over ABS rims.

2 Onboard altimeter… for the skeg

The Fjord’s skeg is connected to the deck-mounted dial with a spectra cord. The numeric scale surrounding the dial corresponds to the depth of the skeg. Three or so drops the skeg to about a “normal” running height: cranking the dial to maximum power (“but the ship, she’s breaking up Captain”) lowers the skeg further into the water; according to Boréal, deeper than most of their competition’s kayaks. We found two-and-half or three about the best position; any lower and the Fjord was so stable it lost its smooth sporty handling.

3 Cargo hatches

Our skeg version test model came equipped with the 8-inch round day hatch option ($255) and 9.5-inch round bow and 15 X 10.75 oval stern Kayak Sport hatches—not a drop of water got through them. The Boréal Design moulded seat fit everyone and offers a great base to glue custom foam out- fitting. With such a deep boat, the thigh braces were miles higher than the tops of our legs requiring raising the seat or, more likely, foaming down and shaping them to fit the tops of your thighs [see “The Perfect Fit”, Adventure Kayak online V3I2]. The Fjord is such a nice handling boat you’ll want to be outfitted to carve turns. We’re also a big fan of real back bands in sea kayaks. The Beluga back band is simple, fits in your lumbar region, and sup- ports your body without riding up or falling down.

Specs

length: 16 ft 4 in

width: 22.5 in

depth: 13.875 in

cockpit: 30 x 16 in
weight: 53 lbs fibreglass  /47 lbs Kevlar  /43 lbs carbon

rear hatch: 16.5 x 11.75 in, 128 litres
front hatch: 19.5 in, 75 litres

day hatch: 8 in, 34 litres

MSRP: $3315 Cdn, $2650 US (as shown: fibreglass, skeg model, w/ day hatch) 

akv4i4cover.jpgThis article first appeared in the Fall 2004 issue of Adventure Kayak magazine. For more boat reviews, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

What Every Hobbit Should Know About Paddles

Photo: flickr.com/usfwsnortheast
What Every Hobbit Should Know About Paddles

Canoe paddles propel us across the lakes and down the rivers of Middle Earth but they also hang in university dorm rooms and are proudly displayed above mantles, reminding us of adventures past. Canoe paddles are woodsmen’s tools and scholars’ art, they are swords of freedom and portals into memories of the past.

Where do you buy such a mythical thing? Our paddle buyer’s directory introduces you to the makers—from large companies with magical worldwide distribution to the garage-based wizards in your shire. Before you delve into our directory or speak with your local peddler, your first step in buying a paddle is to determine the size you require and type of magic you wish it to perform. 

Sizing Your Sword

Choosing the correct paddle size can be as simple as walking up to a rack and finding the one that stands to between your chin and your nose. This old camp standby is a good rule of thumb for sizing your first paddle.

Other paddlers spend their lifetimes working out complex equations, calculating such variables as torso and arm length, shaft diameter and shape, curve of the blade, activity type, seat style and height above the water. Granted these are all valid considerations, but the ultimate deciding factor is usually personal preference developed after a few adventures.

Types of Paddle Magic

Recreational

Recreational canoe paddles are general-purpose tools made of inexpensive materials such as aluminum, plastic and cheaper woods. Wood recreational paddles often come in the same blade shapes as lakewater tripping paddles. Aluminum and plastic paddles come in a variety of shapes and are inexpensive and very durable. In either case, what you save in cost you give up in performance and aesthetic appeal. When was the last time you saw a plastic paddle hanging over a fireplace?

Lakewater Tripping

Traditional designs such as ottertail, beavertail and voyageur have long, narrow blades for smooth, repetitive strokes on deep, flat water. They are most often made of wood, for tradition and aesthetics more than any other reason. One-piece or laminated paddles made of woods such as ash, cherry, mahogany, maple, walnut and poplar offer lightness and beauty finely crafted into wonderful shapes. Wood paddles require a bit of care. Dents and scrapes at the end of the blade should be sanded and varnished or oiled to prevent splitting.

Whitewater

Whitewater paddles generally have short, square blades for quick and powerful strokes in aerated, shallow water. Whitewater blades are most commonly flat or spooned to “catch” more water and built tough to withstand abuse. They can be made of wood, fibreglass, carbon or Kevlar with metal or resin-reinforced tips. While other paddle types have a variety of contoured grip shapes such as pear grips, whitewater paddles usually have T-shaped grips for leverage and a precise, secure feel.

Performance

Performance canoe paddles are built for speed and often used in racing or fitness paddling. Weight and efficiency are more important than price, allowing manufacturers to use more expensive materials, such as carbon and Kevlar, and experiment with a variety of blade shapes. Bent-shaft designs set the blade at a slight forward angle to help keep it vertical through the most powerful portion of the stroke. When the clock is ticking, every little bit helps. 

Screen_Shot_2015-12-23_at_10.17.01_AM.pngThis article first appeared in the Summer 2004 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here. 

Why Do We Paddle the River?

Photo: Brian Shields
Why Do We Paddle the River?

Why do we do it? Why do we paddle remote rivers every summer, year after year? Why in February, when the snowdrifts still sit hard-edged in the backyard and the light comes charging back, do we river runners feel the unspoken dread of a summer without a river? The new light mixes memory and desire, tumbling old friends and rivers of the past in winter reveries. Paddling partners reach out to each other, questioning, proposing, easing each other’s fears of being left behind to tend some scorched and mundane bit of a garden in the oppressive summer heat.

Perhaps travelling rivers is an excuse to dream. The river I am thinking of this time is the Mouchalagane, last year’s antidote to urban boredom. By spring, after months of planning, we nickname it the “Mouchie”, a name well-suited to some pet that is always there to lift your spirit in the pewter-coloured days of late winter.

The Mouchalagane is a tiny blue line on the map. Beginning on the high, sparse plateau west of Labrador City, it falls southward only 130 kilometres, tumbling, rocky and narrow through most of its length. For a two-week trip the pace is languorous. Our only deadline is making a float- plane rendezvous on Manicouagan Reservoir—the flooded meteor crater at the end of the river. 

The time available transforms the trip. It means that we rarely pass a breath-catching campsite without pitching the tents. And we only look at our watches to confirm why we’re hungry. A great deal of time is spent staring at the river, and this is seen as a perfectly normal pastime. We talk to each other and reveal the little secret things that we often keep hidden even from ourselves. Books are passed around through many hands and are mostly read as close to the river as possible, often well into the night. And the inconceivable happens: the ever-early risers often sleep late.

Maybe we escape to the wilds to play hunter-gatherer. With all our extra time, the fishermen in our small group pretend to be predators, endlessly wearing out the speck- led trout in a laughable game of catch and release. They often leave at first light, and working up or down through the limitless eddies, come back late for breakfast wearing satisfied cat-grins and carrying only their fish stories. Fishing lessons take place and soon everyone is playing the game. It seems only the fish are not having a good time.

Or it may be that we simply need to feel something different, to escape a life lived on claustrophobic acres of windless office carpeting in some highrise centre of power and influence. We enjoy marking the passing of the grey days with rain-fires, sheltered under a spark-ravaged wisp of a tarp, creating a rough comfort in the dampness and wind.

It is, we think sometimes, for the water that we drive for days and push the confines of credit limits to pay for floatplane charters. We are whitewater paddlers, and we travel in the company of fellow zealots, each infatuated with making the move, sacrificing the boats on the “Mouchie’s” rocky altar and scouting every wave of every set so that it can be played like a piece of music.

The Mouchie has numerous stretches of water rated beyond the limits of most open canoes. We run all the scary stuff for the camera and bounce out at the ends pumped with adrenaline. Spontaneous war cries leap out, euphoria finding a voice over the sound of moving water. Yes, this high could be the reason we do this.

Finally, there is a stretch of river that drives the boats to shore. The land falls away and the water begins to scream and consume itself. Like giddy children, we skip along the wide granite edge of its spring floodplain, picking flat rock campsites, and then again and again finding better places, as we laugh into the deep rock rooms hid- ing under immense overhanging slabs. The river noise fills us and the water tears past so fiercely that the mind will not allow the eyes to look even for fantasy lines out among the madness. The hypnotic river draws us to its edge, sits us down gently and sucks our minds dry. At a time like this, we don’t ask why we’re here. We know we’re about to camp in Heaven.

And it is for this reason that I am tempted to say it is the campsites. For when our bruised canoes are back on their racks, stored for another winter, and our memories of the Mouchie are aged and mellowed, it is the campsites that we seem to most remember. It is the rolling Amazon forest of caribou moss that we sleep on again in our reveries and it is our dramatic camp in front of the dark and comforting rock rooms on the river’s floodplain that is always the first retreat for the mind.

But isn’t it all these things and then some? The winter dreams, the languor of river time, the adrenaline of whitewater, the campsites—all of this makes the river something we turn to each year. We paddle because we have come to know that a remote river always asks us who we are, and given a canoe, always answers by trans- porting us so far beyond the bonds and the shackles of the ordinary. Our time spent together on the Mouchie is enough to sustain us for another year, until our hemi- sphere tilts back toward the sun, igniting the fire within us for another wild river.

Brian Shields is a retired sport-fishing guide who presently fritters away his life in his solo boat, trying to perfect his cross-forward stroke. 

Screen Shot 2015 12 23 at 10.17.01 AMThis article first appeared in the Summer 2004 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here. 

Sleep Tandem, Paddle Solo

Photo: James Smedley
Sleep Tandem, Paddle Solo

This year, our annual tripping group was paired down to five. This allowed us to get all our gear and people into one plane, which cut down considerably on flight costs. The somewhat controversial side effect was that we now had one solo canoe, as well as two tandems. Someone would have to paddle alone.

During our trip planning meetings, there was some concern that the solo boat would be a problem, and how it might be difficult for the solo paddler to keep up with the tandem boats. I, for one, was determined to keep this myth alive. I was looking forward to spending as many days as possible in the solo boat. And I realized that if I could make the solo boat look like more work, then maybe no one else would want to paddle it.

On the first morning, I strategically chose two small packs to load into the hull of the solo canoe—the “over- flow pack” (a drybag loaded with extra bits and pieces that would not fit anywhere else) and my personal pack, both lightweight. I pushed away from shore and floated, while my companions wrangled with burdensome barrels and dry bags, seeking perfect trim. Already I was remind- ed how great it could be to be the odd one out.

“Hey Fi,” Andy called out from shore as he lugged another 80-pound food barrel into his canoe, “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure and wait for you today.” They were playing right into my hands. As the rest of the group finished loading and paddled toward me, I dug my paddle into the water, feigning intense effort.

I soon discovered other misconceptions I could foster among my fellow paddlers. It was clear from the outset that people were making a special effort to include the “socially isolated” solo boater in inter-boat conversations. But far from feeling lonely, I was the social butterfly. When I felt like joining a conversation, all I had to do was dart across the water in the lighter, under-loaded solo boat and interrupt.

“Hey what are you guys talking about?” I would say. That’s all it would take to get in on an interesting chat, and generate a little sympathy for the lonely solo boater. It was the best of both worlds. No longer stuck with one partner all day to deal with their shifting weight, ineffec- tive paddle strokes, annoying personal habits, and long awkward silences, I was able to engage only in the fun parts of being with other people, and flit away when things became boring, or tense.

At lunchtime, it was even more obvious that the solo boat was where I wanted to stay. As we approached the chosen lunch spot, I made sure I lagged a little bit behind the others. I watched one pair as they fumbled around trying to identify the wanigan to extract the condiments and utensils, and the other as they searched for the barrel with the lunch. If I had timed it right, I would just be rolling in as everything had been found and unloaded.

That afternoon brought our first portage. Again I found myself hanging back, this time to observe the age-old struggle with other people’s “froo.” The lake echoed with calls of “Is this yours?” and “Where do you want me to put this?” as my friends waved water bottles, bits of discarded clothing and other loose items at each other. As I drifted into shore, I quickly tucked my loose items away, unloaded my two wee packs, shouldered one and was off. As I lifted the solo canoe onto my shoulders I had another revelation—it was a feather compared to the tandem beasts we had brought along. Could this get any better?

While things remained amicable for the first couple of days of the trip, I knew from experience that as the days wore on, the tensions and petty irritations inherent to paddling in a tandem boat would become more pro- nounced. Therefore I made it a point to extend my tenure in the solo canoe for as long as I could. I kept up to the group just enough to make it look like more work, deflecting all offers to trade with a heroic grin and an “Oh no, I’m fine” (ask your mother for a demo next time you’re home) while making a good show of straining into my strokes. 

Despite my efforts it became more and more difficult to fend off the requests of others to “give it a try.” Paddling partners were increasingly irritable with each other, especially the one couple in the group.

While there are some things best done with a companion or two, perhaps paddling is not one of them. What better way to bring all your lurking relationship issues bubbling to the surface than to jump into an overloaded canoe and set off down an isolated wilderness river for two or three weeks? Arguing about boat angle, trim, and the location of underwater rocks can be a strain on any relationship.

By day four I had lost my grip on the solo boat, and eventually everyone had caught on to my little secret. In the end, the solo boat ceased to be seen as a problem. The problem was that we only had one.

Solo paddler Fiona Hough has occasionally been spotted doing various things in the company of others. She is a freelance writer, teacher, corporate trainer and outdoor instructor in Ottawa. 

Screen Shot 2015 12 23 at 10.17.01 AMThis article first appeared in the Summer 2004 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here. 

Luring Paddlers to Fish

Photo: James Smedley
Luring Paddlers to Fish

Canoeists can solo arrow-straight into a headwind, eddy out of class IV rapids, execute quick and efficient portages, and pull cheese soufflés from reflector ovens. But ask us to catch a fish and we’re most often skunked.

Our wilderness wanderings take us where brook trout, walleye, char and grayling fin hungrily beneath the Kevlar. But clad in Gore-Tex and wielding bent shafts, canoeists see paddling as primary. Some flirt with fishing but their efforts are frivolous at best. It’s too often a case of fishing in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with inappropriate equipment.

Adding fishing to the canoe tripping agenda is not difficult. On remote rivers or lakes, the right moves will provide instant gratification. A first step is determining the type of fish to expect. Studying route descriptions and talking to outfitters or natural resources personnel help us to fine-tune our gear and ensure that the season is open and we’re properly licensed.

Proven tackle will depend on the species holding in our destination waters. Throughout Canada the most common choices oscillate between warm-water species like bass, pike, perch and walleye, and those who prefer colder water, like trout and char.

Live bait is effective for both sets of species. Worms are the lowest-maintenance, needing only to be kept cool in a small container of moss. Worms can be fished on their own, with a single hook weighted with split shot, or used to sweeten artificial lures. 

A canoeist’s tackle box should include variety and still slide easily into an outside pocket of a pack. Include a few diving minnow-shaped crank baits. Adjust the size to the fish you expect to catch—three to six inches in length will do for most situations.

Include eigth-ounce to half-ounce jig heads and a fist full of soft plastic twister tails. Scented tails in white, black, and chartreuse are effective with or without live bait.

Throw in a selection of mid-sized spinners and a couple silver and gold spoons. If pike are prevalent, a few steel leaders will prevent the loss of lures to these toothy predators.

Remote systems often provide more fish than we could possibly eat. Bending the barbs down on our hooks allows for gentle handling and quick release of most of what we catch.

Organize the gear in a small plastic box, saving enough room for essentials like needle-nose pliers for unhooking fish, a fillet knife and Zip-loc bags for the fillets.

A medium-action five- or six-footer is a good all-purpose rod for canoe tripping. Teamed with a mid-sized spinning reel holding about 100 metres of eight- to twelve-pound monofilament line, the unit should be able to handle most game fish encountered on inland lakes and rivers. Two-piece rods can be broken down and easily stowed. A few short lengths of small-diameter shock cord attach rods securely to thwarts and seats during portages or when running whitewater.

Even in the most prolific waters, fish are not everywhere and we must learn to recognize where to concentrate our efforts. In rivers, the base of falls and rapids point to the most obvious haunts. Oxygen-rich waters churn in deep holes and most species will hold somewhere within the pool. Bends in the river can also mean deep-water eddies and increased current. The same is true where narrowing shorelines funnel the flow through deep channels.

In lakes, hot spots are not so obvious. Look for features that stand out from the rest of the lake. Shoals, rock piles, extended points, steep drop-offs or weed edges will all hold fish.

Wind and current tend to make anchoring a canoe the most effective way to fish the hot spots of lakes and rivers. A strong mesh bag filled with rocks makes a great anchor that can be emptied for the portage trail. From an anchored position we can slowly work jigs along bottom, still fish with hook and worm, or cast spoons, spinners and crank baits over the shoals and weed edges of lakes or across a river’s current.

In rivers we can avoid the uncertainty of anchoring in strong flows by fishing from shore. In lakes we can opt for trolling when the wind and waves conspire against dropping the hook. In fact, tossing a line out and trolling while paddling is an effective search technique that unwittingly draws our lure over mid-lake features that hold fish.

Beware: Angling can insidiously become the prime focus of a wilderness outing, adding a new and time-consuming dimension to a canoe trip. Satiating the desire to angle means taking the time to fish during peak periods of morning and evening, as well as trying that irresistible spot we may pass during the day.

Of course not all paddlers will be enchanted by the fusion of paddling and angling. Those less stricken should avoid conflict by sharing a canoe with a like-minded partner. While the anglers work the wilderness waters, the paddlers can forge ahead to set up camp. When the cheese soufflé emerges from the reflector oven, it will be the perfect complement to a meal of fresh fillets.

James Smedley is the recipient of several national writing awards. He lives, writes, photographs and canoe-angles in northern Ontario. 

Screen Shot 2015 12 23 at 10.17.01 AMThis article first appeared in the Summer 2004 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here. 

662 Miles To Skunk Creek

Man whitewater kayaking on Skunk Creek
Jean Lecours, bumping elbows with another unnamed drop on The Skunk. | Feature photo: Scott MacGregor

Along the lonely stretch of asphalt joining the northern Ontario towns of North Bay and Thunder Bay there are 19 Tim Hortons coffee shops and 11 larger-than-life roadside mascots erected to remind travellers that there is nothing more memorable about these towns than a large double-double and a honey cruller donut to go.

two people paddle through rapids on the Missinaibi River Bringing A River To Life: A Storyteller Saves The Missinaibi

New Liskeard with its Holstein cow (built by local canoe builder Scott Canoe) is the first town. Chimo the polar bear in Cochrane, home of the Polar Bear Express train to James Bay, and a space ship in the hamlet of Moonbeam are a couple of the other quirky landmarks on this route.

[ For top picks and expert reviews, check out Paddling Magazine’s guide to the best whitewater kayaks here. ]

The often-unnoticed landmarks are the little green signs on the 42 bridges you cross telling you there is moving water far below. On these little green signs in white capital letters are the names of some of Canada’s most pristine, challenging and seldom-paddled whitewater rivers. Names like the Nagagami, Shekak and Skunk Creek that had meant nothing to me, until now.

With our whitewater canoes in their holders on the roof and our third coffees securely anchored in the console we point the Rapid Avalanche back out onto Highway 11. A quick check with our OnStar nav system confirms we’re headed north, only 129 miles to go to the town of Hearst and our confirmed reservations at the Companion Hotel. We’ve arranged to meet up with the crew of local kayakers who’ve promised some great runs.

creek boater paddles down a narrow whitewater river surrounded by vibrant green trees Best Creek Boats For 2024

662 miles to Skunk Creek

In 1998, Paul Beauchesne, now the proprietor of the paddling and outdoor shop Paddle Buddies in Kapuskasing, was shopping around on the Internet for used boats and fortuitously surfed his way to then Toronto-based canoe and kayak instructor Mark Long. They agreed that Mark would deliver his used boat to northern Ontario, and to make his trip worthwhile Paul would round up enough outdoorsmen to fill a kayak course—the region’s first.

Paul not only filled his end of the bargain. Word of mouth and the coverage in the local media filled three more courses. Like a peddler selling magic beans, Mark and his trailer full of canoes and kayaks rolled north again and again, planting whitewater seeds that are sure to grow to the sky.

Man whitewater kayaking on Skunk Creek
Jean Lecours, bumping elbows with another unnamed drop on The Skunk. | Feature photo: Scott MacGregor

Heading out from Hearst

After a good night’s sleep we drive west out of Hearst to a little green sign fastened to a bridge. There we find three locals, pouring over a topographic map spread on the hood of a pickup: Jean Lecours, Gilles Levesque and Jean-Guy Brunet, the town’s aquatics director. In Hearst, taking magazine editors and friends down local rivers falls under the aquatics director’s job description. When I joked with Jean-Guy about skipping work with the mayor’s blessing, we were sliding into the current of Skunk Creek, downstream to where the water dropped over a misty horizon line and the rush of moving water echoed in the alders. Jean-Guy just smiled and asked if I could swim. “It might be nice,” I thought as I strapped into my tiny open canoe (locals were in Pyranha H3 creekboats), “to have Jean-Guy the lifeguard along for the ride.”

Jean-Guy was a student in one of those early whitewater classes. “I fell in love with the sport and decided that this will be a nice program to start at the pool,” he told me as matter-of-factly as if he was starting a book club at the local library.

“It will be good for the region because we have lots of rivers with rapids nearby.”

Kayaks lined up in the Hearst pool ready for lessons
Jean-Guy explains how the Town of Hearst got its boats. | Photo: Scott MacGregor

Two kilometres from the downtown Tim Hortons there is a class II–III whitewater stretch of the Hearst River. We all agreed if this section were anywhere else, there’d be slalom gates and manmade play features, but here in Hearst there is nothing. Just a beautiful river flowing beside a country road on the edge of town. Nobody had thought about kayaking it.

“It will be good for the region because we have lots of rivers with rapids nearby.”

After his first paddling course, Jean-Guy set to work immediately to acquire a grant from the Ministry of Culture, Tourism and Recreation, with which he brought in instructor trainer Lee Chantrel and, once again, Mark Long, to run a whitewater rescue program. Jean-Guy turned to local businesses and fundraisers to raise the money to purchase 12 kayaks for the pool so the Town of Hearst could offer its own courses. Standing on the pool deck surrounded by the town’s fleet racked on the wall, Jean-Guy tells us proudly that each year 20 to 30 high school students, 24 kids in the summer programs and dozens of adults learn to paddle on the rivers surrounding Hearst.

Man and woman whitewater canoeing on the Shekak River
Beth Kennedy and Mark Long in Chaos, on the Shekak River.

Sizing up the Skunk’s whitewater

Most of northern Ontario’s whitewater runs begin high on the Precambrian Shield and pour down off the rocks working their way north to the James Bay Lowlands and eventually the Arctic Ocean. Highway 11 runs along the Clay Belt region straight across this prime whitewater playground, slicing the runs nicely into upper and lower sections with ideal road access.

From the highway, Skunk Creek, like all the rivers, looks flat. With hardly enough time to get warmed up, the Skunk narrows and pours off the Clay Belt over the first drop—the drop we could hear from the highway. Unlike rivers closer to the cities these northern runs are paddled so little the rapids don’t have names and the trails along the river’s edge border only the deep pools, tramped by trout fishermen, not paddlers.

[ For top picks and expert reviews, check out Paddling Magazine’s guide to the best whitewater kayaks here. ]

Over this five-mile section, the Skunk falls 120 feet. You could think of it as having a six-foot waterfall every couple of end zones for 80 football fields. But the sidelines are not flat and open, but rather treed to the edges and choked with logs.

The Skunk is a combination of clean waterfall drops and cascading waterslides with only a few inches of water between our boats and the rocks below. At times the creek is pinched so tightly between canyon walls we scrape our paddles and knuckles off the rocks as we launch off the lips.

As far as anyone knows, the Skunk, like many of the local rivers, was first kayaked by Remi LeClair, a legend on any paddling gauge. Remi, as the story goes, bought his first kayak in ’97, a used River Runner R5, and was the lone kayaker for a while. No one else had any equipment or seemed interested. Finally his best friend, Guylain Baril, found a boat and the two taught themselves to roll on the rivers surrounding Kapuskasing and then decided to go exploring the bigger rivers on the west side of Hearst.

male kayaker stands on river shore wearing rescue PFD and holding paddle and throw bag River Safety & Rescue Gear: Your Head-To-Toe Guide

They’d fished some sections and seen the gradient and etches of the Shekak River on the topographic maps and decided that it would be good whitewater. “Looking back on it now, we should not have survived that first descent [of the Shekak]. Just imagine the early spring-flooded Shekak with no wetsuits, no drytops, no neoprene gloves, no helmets and worst of all no idea what was downstream. I will admit we went too far too fast…. A little bit of scouting and no plans to portage anything, we never asked ourselves, ‘Are we doing this one?’ It was always, ‘Which line do we take?’”

Together they pioneered many of these rivers, rivers on par with the best of the plastic-filled rivers of eastern Ontario and Quebec. And two years later during those first whitewater instructional courses, Remi heard the group was looking for a potential teaching river. He humbly offered to guide the group down the Shekak.

man in whitewater canoe runs the Big Rock Rapids on the Shekak River
Alan Greve, Big Rock Rapids, Shekak River. | Photos: Scott MacGregor

Onto the Upper Shekak

The green sign for the Upper Shekak is just above another sign for a roadside picnic area half an hour west of Hearst, just before Highway 631 heads south to Hornepayne. The put-in is a perfect place to park a family camper for sandwiches, oblivious to the class III–IV whitewater hiding downstream. Mark Long describes the day run on the Upper Shekak as “amazing”:

“It’s pristine, technical, lots of rapids and a variety of lines ranging from easy to very challenging…. Something for every type of boater.”

Mark felt so strongly about the area, he and his family packed their bags in Toronto and headed north. “We’ve fallen in love with the region and we’ve made this place our home. We love the rivers and the people. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.” In 1999 they started Momentum Outdoors, a small outdoor company teaching paddling, running rescue and safety training and offering rafting on the Shekak as an alternative to egg salad at the put-in.

a group of whitewater paddlers run Skunk Creek
The Skunk falls 120 feet in five miles. | Photo: Scott MacGregor

Gilles Levesque snuck out of work today to join us on the Skunk. He’s the controller at one of Hearst’s two mills and an integral part of the local kayaking scene. Gilles escaped small-town Northern Ontario to attend Ottawa University for a business degree and a law degree, becoming a CGA and a member of the Bar of Upper Canada. After a couple years of big business law life, he’s travelled the world, married in the Southern Alps, and moved to Hearst and now has three kids, two whitewater kayaks and a small Cessna floatplane.

“It’s pristine, technical, lots of rapids and a variety of lines ranging from easy to very challenging…. Something for every type of boater.”

Gilles is the local eye in the sky, turning best guesses at the size of unknown rapids into visuals from the air. Even more important, from the air he can scout the best access points in an otherwise virtually uncharted maze of logging roads. Apparently, he’s just confirmed another run only minutes from our run on the Skunk—a run they’ve noticed on the topo but haven’t got around to trying.

Skunk Creek guards its secrets well

Two kilometres before the Skunk meanders into the mighty Nagagami River, we take out beneath an abandoned railway bridge and scramble 115 feet of scree slope out of the canyon. We run shuttles on abandoned logging and mining roads and over trackless train bridges still spanning the gorges below until we are back out to the highway.

Tired, sunburnt, knuckles bloodied, we replay the day rapid by rapid. We all agree that this little creek and the nearby rivers are Hearst’s best-kept secrets. And we figure it’s likely to stay that way. Even with Cochrane’s polar bear and New Liskeard’s Holstein cow paving the way, it seems unlikely that this northern mill town will erect a larger-than-life 50-foot skunk as their mascot.

a group of whitewater rafters go over some rapids on a paddling dream trip Dream Trip: How To Turn Your Paddling Fantasies Into Reality

Scott MacGregor is the editor of Rapid.

Cover of the Summer 2004 issue of Rapid MagazineThis article was first published in the Summer 2004 issue of Rapid Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.

Jean Lecours, bumping elbows with another unnamed drop on The Skunk. | Feature photo: Scott MacGregor

 

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