With Dagger scaling back their whitewater canoe division, there’s a gap in the market for smaller start-up companies like Raven Works, which began building boats in 2000 and makes the 17’ Nemesis (16’11”) tandem whitewater tripping boat.
Design
Most whitewater tripping boats are a compromise between efficiency on the flats and manoeuvrabity and dryness in the rapids. Lakewater tripping canoes have sharp lines that offer efficiency but the resulting low volume usually leaves whitewater paddlers crashing through waves rather than riding over them. Whitewater boats sacrifice speed with blunt, voluminous ends for buoyancy. Nemesis designer Skip Izon set out to combine the best of both.
The bottom section of the Nemesis’ bow and stern has the sharp lines of a touring canoe. Above that the hull flares radically. The idea is to give the boat a waterline profile that’s sharp for speed in lakewater, while the flare sheds water from the bow and stern. Izon also gave the Nemesis an asymmetrical hull, which adds straight-ahead speed but means it’s not intended to be spun around and paddled solo from the bow seat.
The hull
We took a prototype of the Nemesis on a four-day trip down the Petawawa River and found that not only was it great on the lake sections, but the rocker—four inches at the bow and two inches at the stern—was enough to let it snap in and out of eddies. With plenty of tumblehome at the paddling positions, the boat felt narrow and it was easy to plant quality strokes.
But we weren’t convinced that our Nemesis- in-progress fit its billing as a big water tripping boat. Other paddlers could see the water shedding off the bow flare as designed to but there just wasn’t enough boat above the water to keep us dry.
A quick phone call after our trip saw us set up with a much deeper and drier production model. Izon had added almost five inches to the depth for a full 21 inches in the bow, 15.5 in the centre and 20 in the stern, ensuring a dry ride.
The interior
One result of the Nemesis’ chisel-sharp entry lines is the notable lack of interior volume in the bottom of the bow and stern. If you’re packing flotation this isn’t an issue, but if you need the space for gear, your drybags better be long and narrow. Bow paddlers used to ample legroom have to get used to the tapered bow.
The webbing seats are bolted to aluminum hanger brackets rather than ash spindles, a durable system unlikely to break or rot. The aluminum flexes, allowing the seat to shift side-to- side. The seats are set quite low and can easily be raised for tall and big-footed paddlers by inserting wood spacers between the seat and the bracket. There is plenty of room mid-ship for tripping gear although you’ll have to re-drill the vinyl-covered aluminum gunwales and move the thwarts to accommodate four blue barrels, if that’s your system.
No compromise
Unless you’re fortunate enough to paddle exclusively continuous mountain rivers, choosing a whitewater expedition boat has always meant choosing between flatwater efficiency and whitewater performance. What sets the Nemesis apart is its hull shape designed to eliminate the compromise.
Specs
Length: 16’11”
Width: max 38”, waterline 33.75”
Depth: bow 21”, centre 15.5”, stern 20”
Rocker: bow 4”, stern 2.5”
Shape: asymmetrical, buoyancy 53% aft
Recommended capacity: designed 400-700 lbs, max 1,200 lbs
Weight: 75 lbs in Royalex
MSRP: $1,095 USD / $1,725 CAD
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great boat reviews, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.
Ten miles off the tarmac approaching Winnipeg I peered from my tiny emergency exit window at country roads, schools and farms bordering the winding Red River. It seemed we’d been gliding forever, sinking ever so slowly from the grey, overcast sky.
Close enough to the ground to recognize kids playing tag at recess, in the cockpit our pilot takes an elbow to the shoulder from a nervous copilot. Snapping out of it he rolls the yoke to the right, dipping the wing of the silver pterodactyl. Passengers’ sleeping heads jerk back on their flabby necks. Now on line, the pilot levels, flares, chirps the wheels down still slightly sideways on the cold runway and finishes his otherwise perfect flight.
In the realm of air travel and the pilot’s career this offline approach will go completely unnoticed, but some jackass two rows back couldn’t help from commenting: “What kind of pilot can’t hit Winnipeg? Christ, you can line it up from Michigan!”
First of all, there’s a place for arrogant loudmouths like this guy—First Class—but it seems his company didn’t think as much of him as he does. Secondly, I thought, this guy doesn’t paddle. If he did paddle he’d know the mesmerizing feeling of floating above your line, the stillness of flatwater and how big the world feels around you. He’d know about the lack of urgency floating in the dark, felty water before it accelerates into a glassy tongue.Like our pilot he’d know how his sense of speed is dulled by the lack of perspective. He’d also know how a winter of five months of snow-covered landscape can slow the metabolic rate, cover paddling gear in dust, and make a game of checkers last until it is almost too late.
Luckily the Earth spins on a slightly drunken axis, and around this time of year the sun pours more light and heat on the north side of the equator. Snow melts, birds chirp, rivers flood and jackasses rake the sand in their horseshoe pits.We know spring is coming.You can even see it coming from Michigan.Yet we need to roll our yokes and make some last minute seasonal adjustments before our rubber hits the tarmac and we make the pilgrimage from our snowy winter caves to our river lives.
Replace the gasket on your drytop, carve out some foam from your hip pads, revarnish the blade of your tripping paddle—where are my pogies?—and fibreglass the crack in your slalom boat. The long cold flight I call winter is over. Wake up and paddle.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine.
Marsayandi River, Nepal: Five miles and uphill both ways. | Feature photo: Dunbar Hardy
Expedition paddling is about the journey. It is immersing yourself in an untouched, inaccessible wilderness to experience some incredibly beautiful places. Once you find yourself getting fired up over topo maps, wondering what excitement lurks in a particular drainage and needing to find out, the next step is outfitting yourself for the journey. Every kayak trip you’ll come up with a few new outfitting ideas and once you have your system dialed, there will be no stopping the inquisitive explorer within you.
Big trip, small boat: Outfitting yourself for an expedition
1 Estimating time
If the river has been paddled before, try to find magazine articles, guidebook descriptions, firsthand knowledge and photographs of the expedition you plan to tackle. If little or no information is available, a lot can be determined from topographic maps.
Calculate distances and gradients, breaking the run down by the kilometre or mile and contour interval to estimate the duration of the trip. As a rough guideline, estimate travel speeds at five kilometres per hour for gradients less than 100 feet per mile (fpm), two km/h for steeper sections of 100–150 fpm and for intervals over 150 fpm, anticipate portages and add time accordingly. Be conservative. Aim to paddle four to six hours per day. This will give you time to dry camping gear by the fire in the morning and to dry paddling gear in the afternoon. If the weather dictates, you can always pick up the pace.
Knowing how many days you’ll be on the river allows you to select your kayak, sleeping system, menu and cooking system and packing strategy.
Marsayandi River, Nepal: Five miles and uphill both ways. | Feature photo: Dunbar Hardy
2 Boat selection
Kayak selection will depend on the difficulty of the run, river character, gradient and volume, length of trip and climate. Most likely, you’ll be paddling a creek boat to ensure that there’s enough room for all of your gear. For less difficult rivers, larger volume expedition boats will allow you to travel with a few more camp comforts.
Regardless of your selection, your kayak will paddle differently when it’s loaded. The boat that you love for your roadside paddling adventures may sit too low in the water once you add 40 pounds of overnight gear. Your favorite creek boat’s usually forgiving stern may start to grab, or even squirt, on eddy lines. The added weight will make boofs more effort, quick direction changes more challenging and technical paddling a half-grade more difficult.
Your kayak’s lower position in the water will exaggerate its tracking tendencies. As a result, you may be happier in a kayak with more rocker than you might normally enjoy. I typically paddle a Perception Java, but for longer, more gear-intensive multi-day expeditions, I may pull out the larger-volume Phat. For my weight of 145 pounds, I find that the Phat actually paddles better when loaded, with the extra weight and hull displacement taming its spin-on-a-dime nature and improving its hole-punching abilities. Experiment for yourself!
A high back deck, with removable backband, is crucial for allowing easy access for packing gear into the stern of your kayak. Adequate space in front of your bulkhead is also important to ensure that your loaded kayak is balanced. If necessary, shift your seat forward to help adjust the trim of your kayak.
Kayaks such as the Prijon Embudo and Eskimo Salto that don’t require structural pillars are certainly easier to pack gear into. Extra room tends to get filled with more stuff, so be careful—especially if you anticipate any long, arduous portages. Think twice about removing pillars to make additional room for your gear. For one expedition, I removed the stern pillar from a Pyranha Micro 240 only to realize that it served a major role in stabilizing the seat laterally. Five or six big drops later, my seat had split in two.
Increase the available packing space by customizing your boat. Cut out access panels in your pillar and/or bulkhead to create storage compartments. Build a shelf under your front deck. Carve a hole in your hip pad for your Leatherman or toothbrush. Use a hole-saw to lighten the weight of your outfitting components, but again, consider structural integrity. Rig up a shoulder pad or backpack harness for long portages. Be creative.
Volume is usually the critical factor when selecting sleeping gear. You’re not going to be able to bring a tent unless you are on a longer, easier trip in a big boat. You’ll have to settle for some low-volume combination of sleeping bag, mattress and tarp or bivouac sack.
The debate over down versus synthetic sleeping bags is quite simple. Down is better when cold temperatures are expected since you definitely won’t be able to fit a winter-weight synthetic bag in your kayak. But remember that a wet down bag spells trouble.
Research what type of campsites can be expected. Will you find open, sandy beaches or have to make do with a rocky ledge in a tight canyon? Hardcore expedition paddlers will use their paddling gear to sleep on. You’ll probably appreciate the extra comfort of an ultralight sleeping pad which rolls down to the size of a football and should be easy to fit in your boat. Although I’ve seen it done, a closed-cell blue foamy will take up too much space.
If mosquitoes or blackflies are anticipated, a bivy sack complete with mesh inner liner is your best bet. For rain protection, the bivy sack will also do the trick, but torrential downpours are definitely better spent under a lightweight tarp. The tarp is also indispensable for cooking or time spent hanging out in the rain. Quite likely, if it’s a solid rain, you’ll just want to keep on paddling. Better yet, check the extended weather forecast—if you can’t postpone your trip until better weather, you may want to bring a tarp and bivy sack.
Planes… | Photo: Steve Whittall
Trains… | Photo: Tyler Curtis
…And automobiles. | Photo: Dunbar Hardy
4 Food and cooking equipment
Is a stove absolutely necessary, or can you get by cooking on an open fire with a single pot? For northern trips, firewood may not even be an option. If there is a source of wood, you’ll probably want a fire simply for warmth or drying gear. Bring waterproof matches or a lighter and some type of fire starter (tea light candles work well) to dry out kindling and get even the wettest of wood going.
Plan a typical backpacking-style menu of dehydrated meals, pasta or rice, instant oatmeal for breakfast and dried fruit. On shorter trips, limiting yourself to dehydrated food isn’t really necessary. If you’re Clay Wright, just buy six or seven Big Macs, squish them into a small Tupperware container and you’re ready to go.
Organize your food into meals and/or days for longer trips. Ensure easy access to snacks and your lunch—you don’t want to pull your boat apart every time you’re hungry. Where possible, prep your food at home. And don’t forget your water filter if water quality issues are a concern. A Nalgene bottle with filter attachment is a great combination.
5 Rescue gear
Whether paddling for the day or on a multi-day self-supported expedition, a throw bag, wrap kit, whistle, river knife and first aid kit are essential tools for every kayaker. As with all rescue pre-planning efforts, you need to prepare yourself and your team for the worst-case scenario. Brainstorm the “what ifs” that pertain to your trip and come up with a plan, as a group, to deal with each of these potential situations.
The big difference between multi-day expeditions and day-trip paddling is the increased consequence of any problem. Carrying a breakdown paddle, for example, is absolutely necessary if the alternative to being able to continue paddling is a 100-kilometre hike. Note that a four-piece breakdown may be required for today’s shorter kayaks.
Consider some method for patching boats while on the river. As a minimum, wrap some duct tape around the shaft of your paddle. Willie Kern carried—and ended up using—roofing material to patch a cracked kayak on his 2001 Stikine Expedition. A Leatherman and basic tools may also be invaluable. Make sure you have a multi-head screwdriver and wrench to fit every nut and bolt on your boat. And don’t forget your headlamp.
Does the river require that you bring specialized climbing gear? A wrap kit of webbing slings, prussiks, carabiners and spectra throw-bag is an absolute minimum. Know how to build a harness out of webbing, rappel and belay and practice basic climbing skills.
Finally, consider the communication requirements of your team. Can a cell phone be of any use? If not, a satellite phone can be rented for the duration of your expedition and is worth every penny. Consider radio communications within your party and research all useful frequencies for contacting outside parties.
6 Clothing
Obviously your clothing requirements will depend on the local climate, extended forecast and typical water temperature. It’s easier to pack for a multi-day trip in California or Costa Rica than for northern or alpine rivers. In any event, consider both paddling and camp gear, trying to combine these if possible. In colder climates, a full Gore-Tex drysuit with camp clothes underneath greatly reduces the amount of clothing you need to bring. For camp, a hooded down jacket provides the most warmth for the least volume. But if you bring down, be anal about keeping it dry. And bring a toque, eh!
Don’t bother with rain gear—a tarp is much more versatile. Keep your river gear on if it’s raining. Wear sturdy river shoes that you are comfortable making basic rock-climbing moves in. If you lose your boat or gear, you may be hiking out a long way. As a treat, bring some comfortable camp shoes or sandals to give your feet a break.
7 Drybags
Make sure the drybags you intend to use fit in your boat and fit all of your gear before you head off to the river. Do a dry run of your packing strategy at home. Tapered drybags are great for taking full advantage of the potential packing space in your kayak. A cheap alternative to drybags are plastic Ziploc bags, but double them up and only include items that you can afford to get slightly wet.
For cameras or video gear, Pelican cases are great, but may be difficult to pack. You may be able to cut them into the foam of a rear pillar. Many paddlers keep cameras in cases or bags between their legs for quick, easy access. Make sure you can still get in and out of your boat.
8 Packing your boat
It’s always easier to pack the stern, so the challenge is to get enough weight forward to balance the trim of your kayak. To get gear forward of the bulkhead, it’s easier to pack in multiple small bags, rather than one larger drybag. I double-Ziploc food items and slide them past my bulkhead individually. To ensure that these smaller items can’t slide out, I glue a thin foam barricade to the bulkhead.
If you have long legs, you might have to remove all the foam from the bulkhead to create more packing space. In any event, work out some system to pack your heaviest items up front, within the pillar or bulkhead, or right behind your seat. Adjust your packing strategy as you go through food supplies to keep your boat balanced.
Expedition kayaking is all about exploring and finding magical places that would be impossible to access without paddling. It’s our big reward for a few hard knocks and a lot of persistence in becoming competent whitewater boaters. These special places are ours alone, reserved for paddlers only.
This article was first published in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Marsayandi River, Nepal: Five miles and uphill both ways. | Feature photo: Dunbar Hardy
David Lech, Ottawa ON: Planning a self-supported kayak trip you struggle to leave behind the comforts of home yet discover on the river that you possess absolutely everything you need.The minimal gear and food that you are able to take actually reinforces the vastness of the land- scape, the power of the water, the vagaries of weather and the foolishness of your ambi- tion and pride. Most of all, wherever you may explore, expedition kayaking teaches you to rely on yourself.
Derek Endress, Whitehorse YT: I look up at Ken standing at the put-in for the Alsek River, gear and food strewn around us. We are just outside of Kluane National Park in Haines Junction, Yukon. He just smiles when I tell him I can’t fit everything into his Dancer. On two days notice I bor- rowed his spare boat for a 12-day unsupported trip to look at the notorious Turnback Canyon. Ken looks at me, “Hey, you could wear the backpack you have to get your gear around the eight-mile walk on Tweedsmuir Glacier.” Great idea Ken.
Heading down the Dezadeash River into the Kaskawalsh then the Alsek, the first day, of many, goes by with our narrow displacement-hull sterns underwater.Smiling at each other paddling our plastic barges with an additional 20 pounds on our backs, I keep asking him, “Where is the first Class IV rapid?”
Scott MacGregor, Quadeville ON: Expedition kayaking is canoe tripping with two blades and no cappuccino maker.
Stuart Smith, Squamish BC: During solo kayak expeditions, the challenge is recognizing or approaching your limits, be they physical limits—portaging across a range of mountains, paddling a difficult rapid, or dealing with adverse conditions—or mental limits—maintaining the focus needed to do days of hard whitewater, dealing with the intensity of remote and isolated areas where there is no assistance, and the challenge of learning self sufficiency in unknown or changing conditions.
When paddling with a group you add group dynamics.The challenges are not only your own personal tests, but also those of the other group members. The rewards are often greater as the shared experience creates kindred bonds which last the rest of your life.
As with most truly moving experiences the rewards and satisfaction are proportional to the efforts, and oftentimes to the risks. To grow I find myself needing to explore beyond known bounds.
Steve Whittall, Whistler BC: Expedition kayaking represents the ultimate paddling experience, combining the exhilaration of whitewater with a grander notion of river travel and exploration. Running a tough drop three days into a week-long expedition feels very different than paddling roadside. The team’s combined paddling skills allow you to explore with confidence, unravelling the mysteries posed by a few winding blue lines on the topo map. And in the end, whether or not you choose to run the big line is almost irrelevant.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine.
It’s cold outside and there’s six inches of snow on the ground. I drive past Little Lake in Peterborough and see the majority of the lake covered with ice and snow—all except for a small snaking cur- rent running straight through the middle. This little current is the Otonabee River and it’s heading toward Lock 19—the fastest, the most powerful and quite possibly the most intimidating freestyle play spot I have ever been to.
The Otonabee River is part of the Trent Severn Waterway, a collection of lakes, canals and rivers all joined by locks connecting Georgian Bay and Lake Ontario. At Lock 19 in the south end of Peterborough, there is a 125-metre-wide dam with a series of six gates, each about 15 metres wide, divided by thick concrete walls. The water held back by the dam creates Little Lake, but when the early spring melt spills into Little Lake, stop logs are pulled from the dam and the Lock 19 play spot is formed.
When Lock 19 is up, it’s probably the best winter/early spring play spot you could dream of in Ontario. At its best it’s a fast, glassy, green wave with a huge foam pile on top, and two very tiny green tongues at each side against the con- crete walls. At ideal levels, this urban wave-hole is a cross between Right Side Horseshoe and the Garburator, Ottawa River’s two most dynamic features. At other levels it’s a longboater’s front surfing dream wave.
Getting to the wave is half the challenge. You put in above and paddle down the lake past the DANGER signs and under the cables that read “NO BOATING/NO SWIMMING.” As the water rapidly speeds up, you float through the gate, pass through the dam, fall into the foam pile and—wham!—your boat is spit out like a watermelon seed back upstream, onto the wave. Stable in a front surf, a few fears might loom in your icy-but-fully-conscious mind: carving across and slamming into one of the concrete dam abutments or wathunking, hitting your head on a grocery cart or other piece of urban refuse. Once your hands are sore and cold muscles exhausted, the key to getting off this ride is using the green water rush- ing downstream beside the concrete abutments.
Lock 19 is not beginner friendly. You need to scout the dam to ensure there is enough water to make it deep enough and there is a tongue to flush you through.
Even playing in a good section is sketchy with massive boils and squirrelly eddy lines. The thin eddies are formed by the three-foot-wide stone pillars between the sluices, and the sluice next door might be a dam keeper-hole instead of a world-class play spot. A swim would be long, and very cold. You have to float down the river 150 metres, past the lock walls, before you have a chance to drag yourself up on shore.
The Trent Severn is closed now for the winter. The water levels upstream are high and anytime, we hope, they should be releasing water. You won’t find Lock 19 water levels posted on the Parks Canada website—the problem is it’s illegal to paddle in the dam. But the folks in charge don’t patrol it. For the time being this seems to be a “use at your own risk and accept responsibility for your own actions” type situation.
Keep in mind this is a residential area and the neighbours do not welcome nudity. Do us a favour and bring a towel.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine.
A winter ramp is the latest and greatest park-and-huck idea to prove Crazy Carpets are old school. Building a ramp allows you to launch airtime and float your own corkscrew, barrel roll or double kicky, and numerous crash-and-burns. The possibilities for new ramp tricks are endless. The “whale tail” (shown here) takes aggressive body rotation, a backstroke for aerial rotation and spare time for hang time.
When building your ramp, the most important choice is location, location, location. This means choosing a good area with water depth for landing or crashing, area for the ramp and elevation for runway height and speed. Start by creating a pile of snow to mould your ramp (kicker) and in-run. You want a large pile of snow as it will settle and you have to shape and water it to make it solid. You don’t want your ramp to send you straight up, so build the ramp with a long transi- tion and not too steep. This will help send you out and over the water with speed and distance.
1Line your boat up at the top of the ramp
Line your boat up at the top of the ramp and buckle your helmet. Push off to start the in-run with speed. Focusing on your takeoff zone at the end of the ramp, and not the bow of your boat, will keep your boat on line (running straight) and ready your timing for the initiation stroke.
As you approach the takeoff, shift some body weight back and start edging your boat toward the side where you’ll be plant- ing your paddle.
Photos: Ruth Gordon
2
Wind up your torso
When the bow of your boat leaves the end of the ramp, wind up your torso (rotating your head and shoulders in the direction of desired rotation) and plant your paddle blade as a smash stroke.
3
As your boat begins to take air, sit your weight forward and use a backstroke off the end of the ramp to push your bow down with your stomach muscles and knees. This will allow you to unwind your torso and throw your hips over your head, like a wave wheel.
4
Slow your rotation
Once you are fully aired out (free from the snow), your torso should be finished rotating and in the neutral body position. Slow your rotation by pushing on your bulkhead to push the bow of your boat away from you. Now is the time to look over your shoulder and spot your landing.
5
Make sure your weight is forward
As you crash land, make sure your weight is forward and your boat isn’t completely flat. A slight edge to accept the landing helps absorb the impact on your back.
Tips
Hurling yourself in your kayak off a jump and into the water may not provide the soft landing you think it would.
Be prepared to take some impact. Keep your shoulders tucked in and try not to land flat hull to the water.
Use water to firm the snow on the ramp and make sure it’s level. Bumps or uneven slope in the ramp can throw you off course. Stay straight on the approach. Use rudders if needed.
Start with just a straight launch then build to aerial moves.
Use enough speed to land in the water.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine.
Subscribe to Paddling Magazine and get 25 years of digital magazine archives including our legacy titles: Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots.
“A few springs ago, the idea came to me that my life would have been totally different had it not been for my association with this river.” – Hugh MacLennan, Seven Rivers of Canada
While not yet recognized as a separate scientific discipline, River Alchemy does have its fair share of ardent practitioners, and with that its own culture, words, and ideas. It has been practiced for centuries by those who use paddles, fishing rods, watercolours, or those who just like to get their feet wet. Accumulated knowledge has been passed on via apprenticeship and folk tales, only rarely making it into anything as formal as a published book. Yet some River Alchemy texts do appear—books of words that identify the greater powers manifesting themselves in moving water, and books about what it is we “get” from being around rivers.
I picked up a 1994 edition of Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn before a fall river trip. Two weeks to run the Green River’s Desolation Canyon, a section that normally takes five days, leaves lots of time for hiking side canyons, eating extrava- gant one-pot meals, and reading. Each evening we would bundle-up in down and fleece, pull out the book, stare up at the stars, and read to each other by the fire.
Twain’s 1885 granddaddy of all river books has created more river quotes than any other: “…by-and-by it got sort of lonesome, and so I went and set on the bank and listened to the currents washing along, and counted the stars and drift-logs and rafts that come down, and then went to bed; there ain’t no better way to put in time when you are lonesome.”
And the favourite of raft guides: “We said there warn’t no home like on a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don’t. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.”
A coming-of-age novel dealing with slavery and the stultifying effects of “civi- lized” society, Huckleberry Finn has another message, one about rivers, paths, free- dom and choice. Cloaked in descriptions of the Mississippi and Huck’s log raft, the analogy is clear to those who spend time near water: growing up, traveling the stream of one’s life, learning, seeing the world for what it is, and seeking one’s own path.
Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha doesn’t sound like a good book. Judging it by the cover I managed to leave this book unread even though we “studied” it in high school. Years later, I discovered that Siddhartha is a River Alchemist’s text through and through, a story of one man’s search for happiness. The search leads to the river and a ferryman who offers to be a guide. After wandering around aimlessly for many years, Siddhartha accepts the help, but is told to look into the river to find what he is looking for: “‘It is a beautiful river,’ he said to his companion. ‘Yes’ said the ferry- man, ‘It is a very beautiful river. I love it above everything. I have often listened to it, gazed at it and I have always learned something from it. One can learn much from a river.’”
Hugh MacLennan’s Seven Rivers of Canada is now long out of print and can only be found in libraries or used book stores. Seven Rivers is based on a series of articles that appeared in Maclean’s magazine in the late 1950s and represents a time when society was just about to launch into the technology revolution. While not as heavy as Twain or Hesse, MacLennan uses rivers to identify who we are and the things we feel as Canadians. MacLennan paints our past on a screen, captures the elusive idea of Canada’s vast spaces, and anchors the streams that run through our lives. While a journalist by trade, MacLennan writes beyond the facts and hints at some greater ideas:
“I wanted to think like a river even though a river doesn’t think. Because every river on this earth, some of them against incredible obstacles, ultimately finds its way through the labyrinth to the universal sea.”
MacLennan identified in 1961 that Canadians were moving away from our rivers. Time has proven him correct, I fear.
Of all River Alchemists, Barry Lopez is the poet, and his River Notes is so profound and descriptive it drips with water in the reading. His swirling eddies draw the reader in, move them downstream, and delicately and surprisingly drop them with his famous single-sentence endings: “It is to the thought of the river’s bank that I most frequently return…and their disappearance here on the beach as the river enters the ocean. It occurs to me that at the very end the river is suddenly abandoned, that just before it’s finished the edges disappear completely, that in this moment a whole life is revealed.”
Lopez’s short stories are an exploration of the fine details of rivers and an exploration of the human soul.
There are some books that can be read over and over, and The River Why by David James Duncan is one I’ve been through a dozen times. While there are thou- sands of cheesy books attempting to address the “big question” in life, this book speaks to River People: “I couldn’t trade the trail…for a straight and narrow way—not when water’s ways, meandering and free flowing, had always been my love.” This is a story about a goofy fly fisherman who goes on a quest to fish every day of his life. He becomes a hermit, goes a little insane, gets it back together and falls in love. Proving, however, that River Alchemists find important things in unlikely places (such as fly fishing love novels), Duncan clearly writes the answer to the aforementioned big question. I’m not going to tell you what it is.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine.
While at my local pool, I stumbled across one of paddling’s dirtiest little secrets. As the public swim closed down, these punters came in carrying paddles, caged helmets and what looked like kayaks. My first thought was cool, pool sessions: Real whitewater paddlers keeping their skills sharp, or maybe a group of newbies learning in a controlled environment before graduating to the river. But why the helmets? I stuck around to take a deeper look.
What the hell? Slim narrow boats with foam bumpers on the ends? Grown men chasing a ball around like dogs? They look really stupid! MAKE THEM STOP!
“What is this nutty game?” I asked one of the helmeted fools. “Kayak polo,” he proclaimed, as if proud of it. When I asked him “How does this help you in whitewater?” he replied with the clincher: “I don’t paddle whitewater.”
I got the hell out of there.
This is not kayaking my friends. No, it is not. Polo is just one of the secrets that we keep. There’s more. Take the image of our sport. It’s an outdoor sport, a “healthy pursuit.” We have everyone fooled. Just look at the TV ads. Watch those lean, hard bodies driving around in their cars with boats on the top. Or the shapely women bounding down steep drops for a sporty fragrance.
Watching TV, you’d think that whitewater paddlers train at the gym three times a week and eat a balanced diet of birdseed and vitamin supplements. But take a look around. We eat like crap. We eat potato chips, soda pop and deep-fried food. And don’t forget our beer tubbies!
Look at your belly, you could do to lose a few pounds. Some of you may even spark up a big fatty before putting on. Healthy pursuit, my ass.
Now how many of you are in some form of pain because of paddling? Maybe your shoulder hurts when you raise it above your head. Or that ear infection really never stops bleeding. Most of us keep a bottle of ibuprofen in our glove com- partments for lower backs, elbows, wrists—all our joints.
How healthy is a sport where the best paddler in the world is partially deaf? Have you ever spoken to EJ? You practically have to yell.
Another lie we project upon the masses is that we’re young, we’re hip, we’re extreme. We’re thirty pushing forty, with desk jobs and sensible cars with baby seats. With white knuck- les and nails dug-in we cling to the idea of being young. But we’re a far cry from the skateboaders and surfers of the world. It’s almost embarassing. Calling us extreme is like calling curlers athletes.
Just like a US president, we don’t talk about our dirty little secrets, we don’t even acknowl- edge they exist. Because to admit to being a kayak polo player would wreck our hip image. To start telling the truth would mean you’d have to notice that the nachos you’re scarfing are point- ing right at those shapely love handles sagging over your boardies.
Ben Aylsworth—paddler and kayaking filmmaker—just turned 30. His shoulder, elbow and lower back hurt. And if you ever mention you saw him playing kayak polo, he will kill you!
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine.
Not long ago most whitewater kayakers evolved from whitewater tripping canoeists. This is not a Darwinian rant about kayakers being a more evolved species. My point is that if early kayakers wanted to explore a river that didn’t have roadside day-trip access they would, or at least could, have jumped back into a whitewater tripping canoe. In fact many were canoeists for their vacation and kayakers on the weekends to just go out and play.
I’m not so sure the new-school paddlers of kayaking’s boom era will ever bother to learn to tandem canoe. They could of course,not much is different. The moving water principles are the same and kayakers more or less know the strokes. But they are kayakers. They own kayaks and kayaking equipment. In some psychological way, two blades fit better with their collective self-image than one.
It is unfortunate however that this new type of paddler may never know adventure, may never see a remote river or pore over topographic maps, tracing and one day paddling a thin blue line miles from SUV access.They may never know their physical and mental limits, work as a team or the grander notion of river travel and exploration. Park-and-play whitewater is many things. Accessible. Exciting. Competitive. Social. It is leading the snowboarding crowd to whitewater paddling. But in all its glory no one can say it is adventurous.
At our family Christmas dinner I found a book that must have been my grandfather’s— Blackflies and White Water by A.Tony Sloan, an accomplished canoe tripper of the late ‘70s. I have paddled many of the rivers Sloan writes about. Except I drove in and played only at the good sections, out in time for a greasy spoon dinner on the way home. My stories about the rivers would include dusty gravel roads, cartwheels and fried cheeseburgers. Sloan’s were about wilderness adventure, campfire camaraderie and the unparalleled thrill of negotiating and conquering treacherous rapids.The last thing a park-and-play paddler negotiated was an eddy line-up, and the last thing conquered was a Super Big Gulp at 7-11.
Expedition kayaking—packing all your gear into your whitewater kayak and going for more than a day—is whitewater kayaking with an adventurous spirit. It doesn’t have to be on a crazy-ass river, in a deep canyon or a far-away country, although it can be. Expedition kayaking is whitewater’s answer to ducking the boundary tape and escaping the lift lines into the back- country. It is whitewater canoe tripping without the cappuccino maker. I hope this issue’s feature “Romancing the Thin Blue Line” inspires some of you to dig out your old boats, the big boats that you haven’t been able to sell, stuff them full of gear, and explore. Buy some topo maps and paddle new rivers. I hope you sleep under the stars and put the spirit of adventure back into whitewater paddling.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine.
Raja Empat Islands and the Importance of Kayak Ecotourism
“Penyu! Penyu!” James points excitedly to something at the edge of the coconut grove. I see distinctive bulldozer-like tracks trace a path from the water’s edge to the place where he is pointing. He has found four sea turtle nests. The turtles must have come ashore to lay their eggs during last night’s full moon.
James (pronounced Jah mis) jabs a sharp stick into each of the roundly excavated holes and describes how yolk on the tip of the probe indicates freshly laid eggs. Soon, he holds what appears to be a rubbery white ping pong ball, dented on one side as if someone has applied just a little too much pressure to test its firmness.The rest of the eggs are probably already on a village dinner table—there won’t be any baby turtles emerging from these nests in the coming months.
I struggle to express my opposition to his taste for turtle with my feeble Indonesian vocabulary.“There’re not many left” is my awkward attempt to explain the complex conservation issue. He doesn’t seem to understand. It doesn’t help that on almost every dive and certainly every day, we see turtles.“Not many turtles” doesn’t make much sense to this local Papuan whose life experience doesn’t extend beyond the borders of one of the most biologically rich marine habitats in the world.
It’s my desire to “make a difference” that has landed me and two friends, Dave and Bo, firmly in the midst of this tropical wonder with James. I have explored a variety of exotic locales during the past 10 years searching for pristine destinations to dive and kayak, only to find each beautiful area spoiled by coral bleaching, illegal fishing or other negative human impacts. Last year, however, the Raja Empat islands put a sudden halt to my search.
These remote islands have somehow managed to escape the destruction that is commonplace elsewhere. But it’s only a matter of time before they’re “discovered.” Whether the discoverers will be illegal fishermen with their bombs, cyanide and gill nets, or sensitive ecotourists with kayaks and dive gear, depends in part on decisions that locals like James will make in the next few years.
That’s why I have returned to the Raja Empat: to assist in a shift to community-based conservation.A Papuan-run kayak operation would be a great start.That means turning local dugout-canoe fishermen like James into western-style sea kayak guides. But as I watch our prospective “ecoguide” attempt to harvest the eggs of an endangered sea turtle, I recognize that this may be harder than I thought.
Positioned just off the “Bird’s Head” of northwestern Papua (formerly Irian Jaya), the Raja Empat (Four Sultans) island group comprises several hundred emerald-green islands scattered over an area the size of Connecticut. Uplifted descendants of an ancient sea, some are sculpted mushroom-shaped creations draped with lush tropical growth and intersected by secret channels that hide burial caves and rock art. Others invite exploration with soaring ridgelines and towering forests that plummet to sugary white-sand beaches lined with coconut palms.Very few are inhabited save for the occasional pearl farm or tiny Papuan village.
The place is a biological gold mine. Awash in currents from three distinct seas, they contain perhaps the most important tropical marine ecosystem on the planet and are being heralded as the world epicenter of coral reef diversity by conservation groups and scientists. Renowned ichthyologist Gerald Allen established the world-record fish count here—283 species on a 200-metre stretch of reef. The sea is full of wild and whimsical creatures like the archerfish, which uses a well-aimed stream of “spit” to gun down unsuspecting insects from jungle branches. On land, there are varieties of monitor lizards, birds of para- dise, and cassowaries (an ostrich-like bird) that occur nowhere else on earth. Alfred Wallace, a contemporary of Charles Darwin and co-founder of evolutionary theory, spent years tromping around the Raja Empat.
Our adventure begins in Denver, Colorado. After three tedious days of airplanes and hotels. Travelling via Taipei, Singapore, Jakarta, Ujung Pandang, and finally the oil boomtown of Sorong, we step into a 13-metre dive boat for the ride to the base camp of Irian Diving, the area’s only tour operator. Max Ammer, once the owner of a Harley Davidson shop in the Netherlands, is the outfit’s garrulous owner and our resident Papua expert.
Max brims with entrepreneurial ideas for local people to jump-start grassroots conservation projects. One of his ideas is locally guided kayaking trips, and when I raved on my first visit about the area’s kayaking potential, he asked us to introduce a local islander to sea kayaking.
James is a new employee of Irian Diving. A shy 20-year- old Papuan from the nearby island of Batanta, he’s typical of the local youth whose alternative career might be the business of bomb fishing. Max thinks James’ youth is an asset, especially his resiliency and willingness to learn. But we are starting from scratch. James speaks no English and, at present, guided sea kayak trips are more of a dream than reality.
We begin our journey on the island of Fam. Some local fishermen come ashore wondering what a local Papuan like James is doing with us orang putih (white men). As the fishermen begin to curiously inspect our fold-up sea kayaks and assorted gadgetry, James points to one of our nautical charts and confidently traces our route to our final destination, the remote island of Wayag, 35 nautical miles to the north.There is obviously something about our plan that inspires a sense of pride for him. He grew up on the water and paddled a dugout canoe around the waters of Batanta Island from an early age, but few locals venture onto the open sea and none go as far as Wayag. It’s as much an adventure for him as it is for us.
The plan is to head north, hoping island to island, first to the massive island of Waigeo, then across much more exposed water to Kawe. From there, we will launch into the wide-open Philippine Sea, directly toward the uninhabited Wayag group, where we’ll rendezvous with Max and the Irian Diving crew.
At Fam lagoon we demonstrate rescue techniques, throwing in some comical sign language and facial expressions for added effect. I have James practice rotating his upper body, arms outstretched in exaggerated motion while he grins and nods his head to show that he under- stands how to use his torso rather than his arms to pad- dle. Once back on the water, he returns to arm paddling and I wonder if he was just pretending to understand.
Over the next several days, we face unusually rough conditions. In the evenings, I use a combination of arrows and crude pictures in the sand to describe the conditions that can occur when large seas run against a strong current or encounter a shallow reef. I emphasize the need for proper spacing of our kayaks. James gives a nod and grin, which eventually proves to be more of a nervous response than real acknowledgment. He seems blissfully ignorant about what may lie ahead.
Things with James are better in camp than on the water. One day, James trades two of our lures and line with some local fishermen for five good-sized fish.After he uses his machete to create a barbecue, Papuan style, he guts the fish, and soon we have a delicious meal from the sea. In his element, he is proud to show us his ingenuity and abili- ty to contribute something to the group.
We pass the time in camp snorkeling and beachcombing, often finding rare and exotic shells whose ornate and intricate patterns seem at odds with the slimy creatures that once resided inside. In the evening we keep watch for the“green flash”as the tropical sun seems to literally plunge from the sky.
James shows interest in some of my coral reef ID books, and we try to spot what we’ve seen during our underwater forays.We often venture into the darkness of the nighttime reef and are privy to bizarre nighttime crea- tures like a rare foot-long epaulette shark or 3-cm-long pygmy cuttlefish (a type of squid), which pulse with wild colour patterns as they hover, mating above the eel grass. Daytime snorkeling is just as good and I am always eager to take a peek underwater.
Each time we venture below the surface, there seems to be a new discovery awaiting us—a dugong (Pacific manatee), giant clams more than a metre across, and many wobeggone sharks, all extremely rare finds on any reef. On numerous occasions we swim with “herds” of burly bump- head parrotfish as they graze on the sprawling reefs, noisi- ly chomping away on coral polyps. I can’t help but laugh that the constant stream of crushed coral they are excret- ing is the same stuff I enjoy wiggling my toes in on the sandy beach. James has a good eye for spotting creatures in the wild, like the well-camouflaged and dangerous scor- pion fish, as well as in the books—a good sign for a poten- tial guide.
He even begins to open up.We have a brief male-bonding moment when he points to the Javanese woman on the front of my phrasebook and with a sheepish grin remarks, “Indah” (beautiful).We begin to describe our families and I discover he has three brothers and a sister as we take turns writing each family member’s name in my journal. He surprises me when he asks to write some- thing inside.After retreating to the shade of a coconut tree he returns with a somewhat bashful look, I am touched to see he has sketched a sunset and written a short poem.
We finally reach a sheltered beach on the north coast of Kawe, with only the long crossing remaining to Wayag. I survey the whitecapped Philippine Sea for over an hour. Faint outlines of the steep-walled Wayag group punctuate the northern horizon and I imagine the distant three- metre swells racing across miles of open sea, and then slamming into the narrow and rocky reef-guarded passages of the lagoon.
Paddling with James has not gone smoothly. On one occasion we needed to round an exposed point, which thrust us directly into the face of three-metre swells that were ricocheting wildly off cliffs to our left. At the worst possible moment, when we were all struggling to commu- nicate amidst the confusion, James stopped paddling, pulled out his sponge, and casually began wiping off his spray skirt. Bo and Dave had to stop quickly to avoid hit- ting him, losing precious momentum. Neither was pleased with the threat of capsize and being slammed into the rocks.Amazingly, James’ face and body language indicated he was thoroughly at ease. I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking, and I was frustrated by my inability to ask him for a detailed explanation, or to explain to him the sub- tleties of group kayak travel.
Thinking about my family back in Colorado, I realize the only way I’m getting from Kawe to Wayag is by motorized boat.
Two days later, we arrive at Wayag in the dark, after hitching a ride with the folks from Irian Diving. In the morning, I wake to an unfamiliar world. Lying on the beach, I strain to focus my sleepy eyes in the early morning light. I am more impressed by my first sight of Wayag than I ever could have imagined. Complex, multi-coloured vertical walls soar out of the lagoon. Everywhere I turn, there is lush verdant growth draping and clinging to every surface.
The days fly by as we dive unexplored reefs with James, Max, and Irian Diving’s “number-one” guide, Otto. Every day,Wayag reveals more of its treasures.There are hidden channels and entrances to secret bays, only naviga- ble by kayak. On the northern side, obscured from the usual southern approach, 100-metre limestone walls plum- met to a sea that stretches uninterrupted for more than 3,000 kilometres to the southern shoreline of Japan. The entire coast is punctuated with steep cliffs, deep caves, spectacular arches and secluded turtle-nesting beaches.
Evenings, the talk turns to conservation, and Max enthusiastically describes his ideas to empower the Papuan people to protect their islands against the influx of illegal fishing boats and other environmental threats— projects like the sustainable collection of live fish for aquariums and English classes for guides. He also proposes a series of ranger stations to deter bomb and cyanide fish- ing, which could double as eco-camps for guided kayak trips.We identify protected areas that would be suitable for beginning kayakers on our charts, figuring it would take less than a thousand dollars to build a fleet of fibre- glass kayaks on-site at Camp Kri.
All this talk makes me wonder, where does someone like James fit in? I ask him if he still would like to be a guide. He nods his head yes and agrees that it is important that he learn English to communicate with tourists and to share his knowledge of the natural world. Beyond that, I doubt he’s aware of the greater challenge of bridging the divide between a Papuan islander and western tourists. How can we help him understand the connection between paying eco-tourists and nature—that fish, turtles, and other life can be more valuable alive than dead, especially in the long run? He is strong, resilient, and curious—important qualities—but it will take time to build better judgment. I think back to our awkward introduction. We shook hands and our eyes met, then he modestly turned his face downward, though I did notice a friendly grin on his face. I couldn’t tell if he was shy, embarrassed, or just not used to dealing with westerners, but now I think it might have been a little of all three.
Otto, I hope, will be his mentor. Several years ago, Max immediately saw Otto’s potential, taught him to dive, and now would like him to take over Irian Diving. He is Papuan through and through—his family has strong ties to the Free Papua Movement—has successfully taught himself English, and seems to garner respect in every situation. He knows how to deal with the wide-ranging demands of tourists, be they Germans, French, Japanese, or Americans, and yet he seems firmly anchored in his Papuan world. He is smart and hard working.To me, Otto represents the future and James the potential of Papuan conservation.
Before dawn one morning at Wayag, I wake to see Otto paddling a kayak to a small island in the middle of the lagoon, one that is barely big enough to stand on. Strapped to the back of the kayak is a recently sprouted coconut tree. I am perplexed, so when he returns, I ask him what he was doing. He tells me it is a Papuan tradition. If you are the first to plant a coconut tree on an island and it survives, the island belongs to you for as long as you live. I am struck by the sym- bolism of this simple act. Patience, perseverance, tradition—if Papuans can bring these qualities to the conservation table, then maybe the Raja Empat have a future.
Tony Moats is a Boulder, Colorado-based freelance writer and educator. His kayak travels have taken him to the Carribean, Baja Mexico and various locales in Indonesia.
This article first appeared in the Winter 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great boat reviews, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine.
This article was first published in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine. 
This article first appeared in the Winter 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions 