Expedition Planning: Romancing the Thin Blue Line

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By

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.

Lock 19: Fast, Powerful….Sketchy

Stories

By

Joleen Thomas

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.

Skills: Winter Ramp Trick

Skills

By

Tyler Curtis

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.

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.

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Photos: Ruth Gordon

The Well-Read Alchemist

By

Jeff Jackson

“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.

Re-Actionary: Airing Out Whitewater’s Dirty Secrets

Stories

By

Ben Aylsworth

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.

Editorial: Conquering Wilderness Rivers, Not Super Big Gulps

Stories

By

Scott MacGregor

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

Stories

By

Tony Moats

Photo: Dave Erley — 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.

Skills: Photographing Sunsets and Using Backlighting

Skills

By

Rick Matthews

Two of the most rewarding but challenging shots to control are sunsets and backlit subjects. True, anybody can point a camera and capture an orange sky, but understanding how to use the existing light and control your exposure will make the difference between just another sunset and a stunning photograph. Although sunsets and backlit photos look dramatically different, the exposure techniques are quite similar. By taking control of the camera’s exposure meter, you can make some choices, like whether to have rich dark shadows, or shadows that are more open, showing some detail.

The Golden Hour: Controlling Your Sunsets

Before sunset you have this huge burning highlight in the scene—the sun—that you have to eliminate from the exposure equation. Eliminating the sun from the exposure negates its overwhelming effect on the meter and gives a true reading of the surrounding sky and clouds.

Set your camera meter on manual so you are able to fully control the exposure. Point your camera at a portion of the sky to the right or left of the sun. Do not include any part of the sun in the frame. Using that exposure setting, re-compose your shot, including the sun. By exposing for the sky and allowing the sun to “blow out” you will gain rich blacks in your shadows and greater detail in your clouds.

After sunset, don’t put the camera away. There are still some great shots to be made. Now that there is less light, put the camera on a tripod. Point your camera at the spot where the sun just went down, eliminating the dark areas so that they don’t have too strong an influence on the exposure. Take the exposure reading, again using manual metering mode. Once again, you are choosing the part of the sky that you want exposed correctly. Re-compose your shot and keep shooting.

Try bracketing your exposures around the basic meter setting. Bracketing your exposures (adding or subtracting one or two stops of exposure) gives you a margin of error, helps you learn more about your camera’s metering, and provides a choice of images.

There is no “perfect” exposure for sunsets and sunrises. It is a matter of personal taste. As a rule of thumb, if you underexpose from the target areas we’ve discussed (let in less light than your meter reading) the clouds and foreground will be darker and more dramatic and the highlights will hold more detail and richer colours. Conversely, if you overexpose, the sky and clouds will look lighter, brighter and less foreboding. You will also have more detail in the foreground shadow areas.

Shooting the Dark Side: Backlighting

The late afternoon, when you are planning your sunset shots, is also a great time to experiment with dramatic backlighting. At this time of day, the light streaming in at a very low angle creates great rim lighting on everything in its path. Rim lighting occurs when that very strong light seems to almost shine through and around the delicate edges of subjects, illuminating areas like cobwebs, hair and pine needles and creating a halo effect.

As with sunsets, it is easiest to break exposure techniques for backlighting into two categories: Backlit scenes where you limit light, producing black shadows and no detail, and backlit scenes where you allow enough light to include some detail in the shadows.

In the first situation—black shadows with no details—set your camera on manual exposure. Point your camera at the sky or a light area behind the subject, exposing for the light areas in the image. Now using that exposure, re-compose and take your shots. The edges of your subject will now be rimmed with beautiful golden light and your shadows will be a rich black.

When you want to include some detail in the shadows, use the same exposure technique except this time open up your exposure by one to two stops. You can either decrease shutter speed or enlarge the aperture. By opening up the exposure you will show more detail in the shadow areas, such as faces, but still retain some of that great rim light effect.

The secret to sunset and backlighting exposures is deciding what areas of the image you want exposed properly and then making the camera meter work for you to obtain that exposure. Once you have mastered these simple exposure techniques you will find yourself creating not just another sunset snapshot but rich and colour-filled images of the golden hour, just the way you remembered it.

Featured Photo: Rick Matthews

Transforming the Daily Commute

Stories

By

Sue Handel

Photo: Jeff Croft — Transforming the Daily Commute

Commuting to work by kayak is both ideal and illogical. It poses challenges at inopportune moments and makes me crazy sometimes, but it’s also one of the best things about living on Protection Island. Since moving to this eclectic community of 300 near Nanaimo on Vancouver Island’s east coast, I’ve traded my car for a kayak and learned a new set of rules of the road.

I begin my commute at first light, carrying my kayak down the gravel road to the beach. I step carefully over the slippery rocks to the shoreline littered with driftwood. I find a spot clear of debris, set my kayak down in the shallow water and begin the 15-minute voyage across the harbour from Protection Island to the downtown Nanaimo dock.

In the cold morning air, dew drips off my eyelashes and my bare fingers are slightly numb on my wooden kayak paddle. As I work my way around the bay, following the shoreline of Protection Island and then crossing the narrow channel over to Newcastle Island Provincial Marine Park, I spot a great blue heron shopping for breakfast near shore. With every stroke, my hands warm up and soon I’m feeling quite cozy in my kayak.

The traffic is light early in the day, with just a handful of Protection Islanders paddling or motoring across for work when I do, around 7 a.m. About half of my neighbours have their own boats while the others opt for the small foot-ferry, the Protection Connection, to travel back and forth.

The commute is mostly stress-free, but there are hazards. Paddling along the Garry oak–studded shoreline of Newcastle Island toward the city, I strain my eyes watching for the flashing strobe on the far shore. As soon as I see it begin to pulse, I hear the grumble of a floatplane coming in to land on its first scheduled trip from Vancouver and I know it’s up to me to make sure I’m well out of its path.

I also keep my eyes peeled for deadheads that, like icebergs with the majority of their mass unseen, can leave a nasty dent in a kayak. I once slid right overtop of one without seeing it and had to brace as it popped up and hit my hull.

There are occasions when the kayak commute is less than ideal. Take for example grocery shopping island-style: a bag of flour, some canned goods, laundry detergent, a 40-pack of toilet paper…it’s bulk shopping at its best. I’ve spent over 25 minutes with shopping bags spread all over the downtown Nanaimo dock trying to stuff groceries in the hatches of my kayak. Someone once asked me what kind of expedition I was packing for.

I learned early on that kayak commuting requires dressing for adventure. Soon after I moved into my cedar-sided house on Protection Island, I put away my long wool jacket and bought the thickest plastic rain jacket and pants I could find. The washroom at the marina in Nanaimo is now an extension of my home. Like Superman in a phone booth, I regularly duck in to peel off wet raingear and change into the city clothes I’ve stuffed into my black dry bag.

It’s completely senseless to spend time doing my hair or putting on makeup prior to my kayak commute. I try my best to conceal my true identity as a kayak commuter, but I’ve arrived at work more than once on a rainy day with salt crusted on my cheeks and wet hair matted down on my forehead.

My friends at work, a two-storey office build- ing filled with hard drives, servers and RAM, call me “Wilderness Girl” and think my kayak commute is utterly insane. Sometimes I stoke the fire by telling them outrageous stories of 20-foot breaking waves and winds strong enough to bend light posts.

When I return to my kayak in the evening, tired from work, I often wish I could teleport myself home rather than paddling. On goes my raingear and lifejacket—still a little damp from the morning—and a headlamp to let other boaters know I’m there.

I push off the dock and my stomach grumbles as I lengthen out my paddle stroke into an even cadence toward home. The city lights behind me sparkle on the water but quickly trail off as I pad- dle into the dark harbour and head for the red flashing buoy signalling the safe passage.

With each stroke, the noises of the city fade. The hum of traffic is replaced by the sound of water lapping at my kayak and dripping off the rhythmic whirl of my paddle. I drop my shoulders and relax my grip.

The truth is, the paddle home is exactly what I need after a day in the office. Each paddle stroke is part of the transformation back to Wilderness Girl.

Much kayaking at rush hour prompted Wilderness Girl, known during office hours as Sue Handel, to investigate the phenomenon of kayak racing in another article in our Winter 2003 issue. No wonder she’s never late for work.

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.

Joe Kayaker And His Not-So-Amazing Technicolor Dreamboat

By

Alex Matthews

illustration of a kayaker decked out in multicolored gear and various accessories — “What? I can’t hear you above your outfit!” | Feature illustration: Scott Van de Sande

There’s no doubt that sea kayakers are clean, quiet, politically sensitive, over-educated environmentalists with 2.4 perfect kids and a golden retriever. But there is at least one way in which they are also the most god-awful polluters around.

a group of kayakers with colorful boats and apparel gather near shore

The Pros & Cons Of Different Kayak Materials

Joe Kayaker and his not-so-amazing Technicolor dreamboat

Yes, kayakers are unlikely to litter a beach with their granola bar wrappers, tofu containers or Tilley-hat price tags. Kayak campsites are never strewn with cigarette butts, empty beer cans, or even organic yogurt containers. Leftist NDP pamphlets or slim tomes expounding the virtues of yogic veganism are conspicuous by their absence. There is the occasional propensity to leave behind some unbleached, hypoallergenic, Environmental Choice-certified, post- consumer-fibre bum-wad (bought in bulk and transported home in paper bags, thank you very much, not plastic). But on the whole, sea kayakers are a tidy and respectful bunch who will go to just about any length to tread inconspicuously upon the land.

Kayakers are also quiet. They are in search of a balance with nature. Besides a sip or two of specialty coffee—grande mocha frappuccino with extra foam and a whisper of cinnamon—kayakers want nothing more than to drink in the healing qualities of the bush, the ocean, and especially the silence. Walkmans are okay for listening to Enya or new age refrains of ebbing tides and bird songs. (Kayakers are an earnest bunch, and a CD of indigenous bird calls is a great educational tool on a wilderness trip.) A live guitar session around the campfire is fine too—it’s like Eric Clapton unplugged—as long as the singer stays away from any politically incorrect, racially insensitive, or overtly right-wing songs. “Running Bear Loved Little White Dove” by The Guess Who, for instance, would be out, despite marks for Canadian content. Better stick to kum ba yah.

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

When it comes to visual pollution, however, kayakers are the worst. A 17-foot fuchsia-decked kayak with yellow trim and hatches over an international-orange hull (for safety!) doesn’t exactly disappear into the bush. And why not slip into a pair of red quick-dry pants and a turquoise paddling jacket? Be sure to wear your flare-orange PFD with the hornet-yellow towline and reflective patches. Royal blue pogies and an eggplant-and-mango-colored nylon hat set the whole outfit off. Just leave the rest of the kaleidoscopic mess in your gold-and-bright-blue tent. Now picture eight people on an otherwise beautiful beach all committing this fashion suicide!

A riot of color run amuck

Let’s hope that most of the animals that actually live in these areas are color blind. If in fact the unfortunate critters have the ability to see the full color spectrum, it must seem to them as if these kayaking interlopers have come to their homes for the express purpose of metaphorically pissing in their eyes.

If you ever hang out with hunters or fishers, you will find that their wardrobe is distinctly different. Sure it may be a stealth thing—after all, they want to kill, kill, kill—but it also makes a surprisingly big difference in terms of visual peace and quiet. With kayakers, I am sometimes tempted to say, “What? I can’t hear you above your outfit!”

Isn’t it hypocritical that kayakers strive to stand out so obtrusively, like some petroleum-based peacock, from the very landscape they profess to embrace?

For folks who are so earnest about every other aspect of pollution, why are kayakers so visually loud and obnoxious? There’s no excuse for this fashion faux pas. Visibility on the water often directly relates to safety, but we don’t need to be so visible in camp. In nature, highly venomous critters sport wild, vibrant colors to warn predators, but I doubt if this works against bears.

Best Kayak Brands For Fishing, Sea Kayaking, Touring & More

Are we dressing up in mating plumage, trying to get lucky on our trips? Maybe, but I for one think that there’s no color sexier than a modest forest green. Flesh tones are better still—flesh is our most natural color. Tans are what the fashionable Parisians are all wearing on beaches this year. Earth tones are in! Grey is nice too. Navy blue is handy in case a business meeting breaks out.

Isn’t it hypocritical that kayakers strive to stand out so obtrusively, like some petroleum-based peacock, from the very landscape they profess to embrace? It’s time to try subdued colors for a change. Otherwise, change the CD and crank up the volume, ‘cause kum ba yah doesn’t go with the outfit.

Cover of the Winter 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine This article was first published in the Winter 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.

“What? I can’t hear you above your outfit!” | Feature illustration: Scott Van de Sande