Time Warp on Thomsen

By

Photo: Dave Quinn — Time Warp on Thomsen

The guttural throb of two powerful engines rattles the cramped cabin of our chartered Twin Otter aircraft, piled high with paddling gear. Nine eager passengers crane their necks to scan the arctic waters for beluga and right whales.

We have flown from Edmonton, Alberta,to Inuvik, NWT, where the stunted northern treeline meets the historic Mackenzie River. From Inuvik we chartered the Twin Otter to take us north, two hours and 750 kilometres across the Beaufort Sea to Banks Island, the westernmost of Canada’s High Arctic islands. A two-week paddle will take us down the country’s northernmost navigable river, located in one of the nation’s newest and least-visited national parks—Aulavik.

We are an eclectic mix of arctic buffs, sea kayaking enthusiasts and birders drawn together by a shared urge to explore Canada’s mystical High Arctic regions. Our ages are as diverse as our interests, ranging from the cherubic seven-year-old Navarana Smith and her stuffed animal entourage, to the ageless Nipper Guest. Nipper’s tales of his far-reaching global adventures—everything from the horror and glory of WWII to riding his bike across Canada at the age of 70—will fill our windbound days with smiles and respect. Falling somewhere in-between on the age scale, the rest of us try our darndest to match the boundless energy of these two exuberant arctiphiles.

Our final brush with civilization is a brief stop to refuel and pick up supplies in Sachs Harbour, a community of 150 on the southern tip of Banks Island. Fully supplied, we zoom north across endlessly rolling tundra, flying low enough to see small groups of Peary caribou, flocks of snow geese, packs of wolves and herds of muskox panicking from the roar of the aircraft.

Dominating a broad, fertile valley on the northeastern tip of Banks Island is the azure meander of our destination, the Thomsen River, snaking its way through ancient glacial till toward the Arctic Ocean.

The plane leaves us and our mountain of gear on a small gravel bar near the river, in the middle of what the Parks Canada website calls “one of the most remote places in North America.” A charter

flight from Inuvik costs over $20,000, and the park gets an average of 25to 30 visitors a year.The only signs of modernity in the park are two tiny shacks of wind-free comfort in 12,000 square kilometres of untouched arctic landscape.With more than one muskox per square kilometre, the land is an arctic Serengeti, one of the world’s great remaining intact wilderness areas.

At midnight, the sun is still high in the northern sky, casting the warm light that photographers live for. We eat a 2 a.m. dinner in a persistent north wind and begin to set up our folding Klepper kayaks as two yellow-billed loons eye us suspiciously from the river. These boats give us the freedom to paddle in remote airdrop-only regions. Folded, they occupy two large suitcase-sized bags that will fly anywhere. Set up, they weigh in at 70 pounds and will hold enough gear for months of well-planned exploring. Their wood frames and canvas/hyperlon skins mimic the designs that originated in the arctic regions a thousand years ago.The kayak provides a per- fect conduit for historical exploration of these regions.There is no more effective time machine than a historically relevant means of travel and an active imagination.

On Banks Island, wind seems to constantly stimulate the senses, keeping the notorious arctic insect hordes grounded at the same time. The clouds of mosquitoes do not seem as intent on biting as on simply irritating all living things.

For two weeks, the current of the Thomsen carries us steadily northward and we are boggled by the abundance of life on Banks Island. It brazenly contradicts our mental image of “the barrens.”

A snowy owl twists its tail and wheels from its arcing glide, its sharp eyes drawn by a ripple of movement across the tundra below. The owl feeds on the abundant lemmings, ptarmigan, and small birds. Each brief arctic summer, snowy owls fly 3,000 kilometres north to breed in the Thomsen River valley, where they are joined by over 50 other species of migratory birds.A short stroll among the endless tundra ponds dotting the landscape would fulfil any North American birder’s wildest dreams.

The treeless landscape leaves wildlife almost naked—a wolf cruising along a ridge a kilometre away will catch the eye like a lightning bolt in a cloudy sky.The dark shapes of muskox grazing in a sedge meadow stand out like boulders on a snowfield.

Biologists trace only one living relative to the muskox—the takin of the Tibetan high plains—and these two isolants rest somewhere on the evolutionary line between goats and antelope. Seventy thousand muskox roam the valleys and swails of Banks Island. These staggering numbers are testament to the astonishing capability of the Western Arctic’s vegetation to support life and provide locals with a valuable source of revenue and food.

As we float down the river,mysterious white forms,out of place in the low sea of brown-green tundra vegetation, catch our eyes. We rudder hard and cross the steady current to land our kayaks on the far shore below the strangely white-speckled hill. We stumble like drunks over the endless tundra hummocks, trying in vain not to disturb the fragile blanket of flowers. A pair of croaking sandhill cranes soars noisily overhead, and a small flock of Lapland longspurs flits nervously from our path as we reach the first of the weather-bleached objects.

The objects turn out to be ancient bones, some bleached, others painted with the brilliant orange of xanthoria lichen. Small bits of caribou antler, ribs, vertebrae, and scapulae are spread over many hectares of this lonely, wind-blasted hillside. But the muskox skulls are what really trigger our primordial imaginations. Someone bends down to inspect a bone—the teeth of a primitive saw have scarred it. With no reminders of modernity to anchor us in the present, no sign of today’s culture anywhere to be seen, our thoughts travel 500 years back in time.We imagine the peaceful serenity shattered by the baying of the dogs that walked with the Inuit.We can almost see the dogs as they drive the muskox to the top of the rise, where the herd predictably forms a defensive ring, young near the center. Their shedding winter underfur, called qiviut, waves in the arctic wind like ragged flags flying from the animals’ humped forms.

This instinctual defence works well against the muskox’s main predator, the arctic wolf, but is suicidal when the attackers are armed with arrows and spears. Soon the animals are killed and butchered. Extra meat is buried under heavy stones to keep the foxes, weasels and wolves away until it can be used. What we see today are these grave-like meat caches along with the stone tent rings of the hunters’ families.

The gradual evolution of cultures in this region took a sudden leap in 1851 with the arrival of the first Europeans.The great age of arctic exploration was in full swing, and dozens of European ships cruised the ice-choked waters in search of the grail of that age—the fabled Northwest Passage to the rich lands of the Orient. Ships and men were marooned and starving all over the Arctic. It was only a matter of time before one of the poorly prepared European expeditions came ashore on Banks Island.

Captain Robert McClure led one of a wave of voyages sent by the British Navy to determine the fate of the now-infamous Franklin expedition. McClure sailed the HMS Investigator from Hawaii around Alaska to the northern tip of Banks Island, inching his way eastward until he encountered heavy ice in September, 1851. McClure sought a safe haven from the impending arctic winter in a small harbour near the Thomsen River delta, christening it, with pre- mature optimism, the Bay of God’s Mercy. It was the last harbour Investigator would ever enter.

The following summer came and went with no sign of the Investigator’s icy trap melting. The expedition was forced to spend a second winter in total darkness. Supplies and crew morale disap- peared along with the sun.

Finally, a rescue party from the Investigator’s sister ship, HMS Resolute, spotted two members of McClure’s crew who had been sent in search of help.The two lonely figures, blackened from head to foot with coal smoke, were wandering the ice near Banks Island. McClure and his crew abandoned the Investigator and returned to England, becoming the first Europeans to complete the Northwest Passage.

The precise fate of the 450-tonne, copper-sheathed ship is not known. All that remains of the ship are some old piles of coal and a few barrel staves.The more enduring stone and bone signatures of the Copper Inuit tell the rest of the Investigator’s tale. Archeologists know that sometime in the mid–late 19th century, the Copper Inuit abruptly changed their migration routes to use the Thomsen drainage as a main travel corridor.

The Investigator’s wreckage may have prompted the shift. One can only think of a wrecked spacecraft, full of unimaginable technologies, to get a hint of the significance of this discovery to a people whose only sources of wood were the occasional piece of driftwood and tiny bits of arctic willow. Early translations of Inuit encounters with similar ships indicate they believed them to be carved from a single block of wood! In addition, the ship’s copper, iron, and woven fabrics would have been a lottery-sized bounty. In Mercy Bay, the visible remains of over 150 campsites and 3,000 muskox skeletons are the legacy of annual trips to gather goods for everyday use and for trade.

The ponderous tale of Banks’ 4,000-year human history culminates in Sachs Harbour where the formerly transient Copper Inuit that once came off the ice in the warm arctic summers to follow the muskox and caribou are now permanently anchored. Here, the centuries-old practice of muskox hunting continues, but in a highly modernized form.

The Inuit use ATVs and Skidoos to round up the 3,000 muskox to fill their quota. The animals are herded from holding pen to holding pen, bringing them eventually to a large pen near the village. Here the animals are processed—the meat shipped out in 30 DC-3 loads to Edmonton for packing, and the qiviut shipped to Peru to be carded and spun.

This mystical fibre is purported to be 10 times warmer than wool by weight, and has the silky texture of cashmere. Stores like the Qiviuk Boutique in Banff sell qiviut sweaters to high-end tourists for as much as $5,000. Back in Sachs harbour, a dark stain of entrails on the ice in front of the village, waiting for the spring melt, is all that remains of the yearly muskox hunt.

An estimated 18,000 muskox reside in the Thomsen River valley, and we continually paddle past small herds of these Paleolithic beasts. Typically, our five boats drift toward a resting group of muskox until one exceptionally vigilant animal slowly rises to inspect us.

One by one, each animal in the herd stands, looks at us, and glances at the others as if to say,“are we really seeing what I think we’re seeing, and should we be worried?” Finally, one animal decides that, yes, they should be worried, and its break from the riverside sends the entire herd stampeding wildly across the tundra.

But we did not arrive by dogteam like the hunters in the animals’ ancient memories. Nor are we clad in the furs of the Old Ones, but in colourful modern jackets and pants, with toques permanently affixed to our crowns to ward off the seeking north wind.

And it’s not the sound of barking dogs that spooks the herd, but the drone of an approaching plane. It circles the gravel bar once, twice, then puts down with a dusty roar on the makeshift airstrip. We pile into the belly of the plane, take off with a roar and speed steadily southward, forward to the 21st century.

Dave Quinn of Canmore, Alberta, teaches high school outdoor education and guides kayak trips in the Canadian Arctic, the Queen Charlotte Islands and Patagonia.

This article first appeared in the Winter 2002 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

Editorial: Wave Hello to the People

Stories

By

Scott MacGregor

Photo: flickr.com/rusty_clark — Editorial: Wave Hello to the People

It might not be a rule necessarily; perhaps you’d consider it a guideline or maybe a mantra. No matter what you want to call it, these are words to paddle by: Wave to everyone you see. A friendly wave hello is the best way to enrich your trip, build friendships and sometimes get some help along the way.

At the government docks in Silver Islet, a tiny community of 140 dwellings on the north shore of Lake Superior, I pumped my stove to life after a morning of steadily building seas. Between pumps I waved a foggy good morning to a middle-aged couple out for their morning walk.

“That’s not a stove,” Frank yelled over. “Put that thing away and come and have tea with Susan and me.”

The black and white Findlay cook stove was Frank and Susan’s only source of heat in their 19th century log home. Over tea, looking out to where a few cribbings remained, I heard the history of the richest silver mine in the world. Between 1868- and 1884, the Montreal Mining Company extracted $3,250,000 worth of silver from Silver Islet, but it wasn’t easy. At one time the cribbing was 70 feet wide and 20 feet above the water level, expanding the small rock islet to 10 times its original size. Twice, Superior’s storms destroyed the cribbing surrounding the mine and flooded the shaft. Eight hundred feet below the mighty lake’s surface, pumps ran constantly to keep the mine from flooding.The return on investment at this depth was slim and finally, in March of 1884, a fuel supply ship didn’t arrive, the fuel tanks ran dry and the mine flooded for the last time.

As Susan warmed my tea and put the pot back on the hundred-year-old stove, I thanked her for the history lesson and asked why they invited me in.

“You gave us such a friendly wave, we were afraid you’d invite us over,” Susan said, smiling. “It was too cold to stand out there waiting for you to get that little stove going.”

Waving hello is the golden rule if you do happen to need something along the way. Maybe its fresh water or a telephone to update your float plan. Or maybe you just need a small piece of shoreline along Lake Ontario to call home for the night. Paddling the Toronto waterfront is a mixture of breakwaters, marinas and ritzy waterfront homes offering few places to land a kayak and even fewer to pitch a tent.

George McGillicutty was cutting his grass when my kayak surfed to shore in his backyard. I dragged my boat up to a rusty snow-fence post holding a weathered “private beach—KEEP OFF” sign. George saw me walking up his pebbly beach and steered his Toro mower toward me.

George is a semi-retired stockbroker. He still commutes three days a week to Bay Street. He’d like to make it four, but his family thinks he should quit altogether.Too much stress on his heart they say.

“Hi, my name’s Scott,” I hollered and waved over the screaming lawn mower. “I left Thunder Bay three months ago and I’m headed home to Hamilton.” I offered a handshake.

“I’ll be God-damned, that’s a long way,” said George. “Pull your boat up a bit further. You’d better spend the night. This whole stretch of water is private. Nobody will let you camp along here.”

Nobody, that is, until I gave George a friendly wave.

This article first appeared in the Winter 2002 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak‘s print and digital editions here.

Boat Review: WaveSport’s Transformer

By

Paddling Magazine Staff

Photo: Rapid Staff — Boat Review: WaveSport's Transformer

While other boat companies are racing to develop slicy, hole boats and big air, wave boats, Wave Sport has released only one new model for 2003: The Transformer. In its raw state the Transformer comes in four sizes and is a mean-looking aerial spud boat. But just like the original Transformers, there is more than meets the eye. The Transformer mutates in length with the three interchangeable tip options—the stock bumper, and five-inch and eight-inch wings. A little high school math and you realize you have 15 possible performance combinations, which Wave Sport says allow you to adapt to different environments. If it works, the Transformer is without a doubt the biggest step toward offering one boat to do it all.

The Means to the ends

Our 6’4″ T3 caught attention on the river because it was so big. At 60 gallons, the T3 is the same size as a Super EZ. The T2 holds 55 gallons and even the smallest version, the T1, has more volume than the EZ. The pudgy stern looks huge compared to the scooped out bow. We asked designer Eric Jackson why the stern has so much more volume than the bow and he was quick to point out our mistake.

“The bow has more volume than the stern,” he said. “This boat is balanced so that with the seat neutral there is 52.5% of the volume in front of the center of gravity and 47.5% of the volume behind your center of gravity. The stern looks big because you have to account for huge amounts of volume in the knee area.”

The Transformer T3 is extremely wide at 26.75 inches. According to Jackson, the width provides lots of support on the water when bouncing. “When you start the bounce it doesn’t sink in as far, starting you off higher up. You’ll also notice that the planing surface is huge and the rocker is set back to offer an ideal pivot point for the ollie—the bow comes up high so when you push it down your entire boat leaves the water easily.”

Tiggers will like it

If the Transformer did nothing else it’s worth buying just for the bounce. Carve to the top of a wave, point downhill and this boat is air- borne. No fancy heel push/knee pull action required. It just bounces. The trick isn’t to get the boat off the water, it’s keeping it down. Your first few surfs on a fast wave will have you giggling and just trying to hang on. It is a very new and very addictive feeling.

Getting air in the T3 doesn’t require a huge feature. This is where we think the large volume stern is helpful. Here’s our theory: Like pulling a cork under water and letting it pop to the surface, when you carve to the top of a wave the buoyant volume in the stern gets trapped in the foam pile and then squirts you forward into the trough. This little push pro- vides the momentum you need to get the Transformer aerial on small breaking waves.

Good-bye wave carving, hello spins

The Transformer is extremely loose on a wave and is as happy grinding as it is front or back surfing. The edges are far enough out of the water that snagging in the current is not an issue. Front surfing the stock Transformer is twitchy. Besides the fact it is hopping all over the place, the huge planing surface wants to spin if you’re not aggressively carving. Add the tips to the stern and it settles down, stops bouncing, tracks better and falls into a more useable category of boat for most people—at least at first.

The Transformer is very slow edge to edge, simply due to the extreme width. You have to concentrate on getting the boat way up on its side and carving off the front edges to perform vertical blunts and backs stabs. Add the tips and like longer boats, the Transformer will let you carve off the stern or blast down and settle in the trough.

It’s in the hole

The Transformer is very smooth and stable spinning or cartwheeling. We thought it would be difficult to stay ahead of the rotation, yet it seemed to cartwheel slowly and predictably. It’s like cartwheeling an inner tube with some ends to let you know there is a front and a back. The tube keeps you rotating smoothly and the bow and stern get you started.

Without the tips on the Transformer, it was difficult to perform rotational moves such as the tricky-whu or pirouette. When you begin to rotate on a vertical plane around the boat, it tends to fall back into the hole. We asked Eric Jackson about this and he agreed. “Tricky whus are super difficult without the long tip on the stern,” he said. “The long tip provides the length reaching the green water and provides the extra balance you need to do the pirouette.”

Bolt on the eight-inch tips and you have a completely different boat. It’s 100 times easier to bow stall and they make stern squirts possible. The vertical stability of the tips turns tum- bling into traditional controlled cartwheeling.

The Transformer loops with ease. Once the nose is down, the boat is headed up. The high volume central area makes the T3 super retentive, and the short length makes it easy to throw over your head. On a good foam pile, aerial loops are easier than three point cart- wheels.

The ends

Don’t jump in the Transformer for five minutes in flatwater and think you’re going to like it. You’ll feel right at home in the posh F.A.T. 3.0 outfitting but you’ll feel lost in the volume. Get this boat to a play spot however and the Transformer is wonderfully retentive, cart- wheels smoothly, hops like water on a hot skillet, and loops like a drunken circus clown.

Does it change from bouncy to slicy? Not exactly. There is too much volume to make it truly slicy. But the tips do work and make a huge difference to the performance. The tips tame the Transformer down and add vertical stability. They make a full-on bounce boat perform more like a boat most people are used to paddling. Switching the ends allows you to tune the Transformer to your skill level and the move of the day. If the fun of transforming your boat isn’t reason enough to buy one, you might be happy to know that Wave Sport offers the Transformer for $200 less than last year’s models.

Specs

Transformer 1

Length: 70 inches
Width: 25.25 inches
Depth: 12.25 inches
Weight: 30 lbs
Volume: 49 gallons
MSRP CAD/USD: $1495 / $999

Transformer 2

Length: 72 inches
Width: 26 inches
Depth: 12.75 inches
Weight: 32.5 lbs
Volume: 55 gallons
MSRP CAD/USD: $1495 / $999

Transformer 3

Length: 76 inches
Width: 26.75 inches
Depth: 13.25 inches
Weight: 35 lbs
Volume: 60 gallons
MSRP CAD/USD: $1495 / $999

Transformer 4

Length: 80 inches
Width: 27.5 inches
Depth: 13.75 inches
Weight: 37.5 lbs
Volume: 67 gallons
MSRP CAD/USD: $1495 / $999

This article first appeared in the Winter 2002 issue of Rapid magazine. For more great boat reviews, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.

Trips: Sturgeon Falls in Winnipeg, MB

Trips

By

Nick Bidwell

For some time rumors have been spreading of a mysterious and fantastic playspot in the province of Manitoba.

As unlikely as that may sound in a province better known for its wheat farms than its whitewater, the rumors happen to be true. Sturgeon Falls on the Winnipeg River is a playspot to rival the best in the country offering safe plays for paddlers of all skill and confidence levels. It’s located only ninety minutes east of Winnipeg, and about an hour north of the Trans-Canada highway, just a slight detour on a cross-country tour.

The characteristics and features of Sturgeon Falls parallel those of Lachine Rapids in Montreal. Both are wide rivers with many good playspots and the odd powerboat pass- ing by. The waves at Sturgeon Falls are formed by a rocky shoal situated at a narrow point in the river up-stream from Nutimik Lake. Although Sturgeon Falls has only ten feet of gradient, it has fifteen waves and holes for paddlers to select their own kind of ride. There is an eddy on the river right side providing access to most of the waves making for a difficult decision every time you paddle back to the top. There are six to ten foot glassy waves, big trashy holes and friendly front surfs. Sturgeon has it all.

The size of the waves depends on the water level but even at low flows there are still some nice spots to play. If you are looking for higher flow rates, your best bet is sometime in the middle of June when the snow feeding the Winnipeg River from the north has melted and is on its way south. The water tends to be pretty cold until the end of June and even early July, so dry tops and skullcaps are recommended.

Keep an eye on the water levels online at www.lwcb.ca/waterflowdata.html. Click on the link for Winnipeg River in Manitoba under Water Levels & Flows Primary Sites. This will bring up three graphs providing information on the outflow at the Slave Falls Dam, the lake level at Nutimik Lake and the outflow at the Seven Sisters Dam. The blue line represents the actual water level and ends at the most recent reading. The green and red lines represent where the river is predicted to be with red representing the extreme edge of those predictions. While Sturgeon Falls is worth going no matter the water level, high water starts when Nutimik Lake is at 275.2 metres (903 feet) and flowing at 1200 cubic metres per second (40000 cubic feet per second).

To get to Sturgeon Falls, travel on the Trans-Canada Highway to West Hawk Lake and turn north on Highway 44. Turn north again at Highway 307 toward Seven Sisters Falls. Travel on Highway 307 until you get to Nutimik Lake Campground and follow the signs for the boat launch and campsite. From the boat launch, Sturgeon Falls is a one kilometre paddle to the right.

There are many other users of the area as it is part of Whiteshell Provincial Park, so keep an eye out for fishing boats and day users. During the summer season, a small day use fee is payable at the front gate of the park. Camping is abundant in the campground but food is lim- ited in the area, it is best to come ready to cook for yourself for the duration of your stay. A full breakdown of camping prices is available on the park’s website. There are showers and washroom facilities in the campground though some are locked during the off season.

Whether you are a pro paddler looking for a secret Jedi training ground with big trashy holes and grinding steep waves or a beginner looking for a nice friendly surf break you will find Sturgeon Falls has a little something for everyone. Next time you’re driving across the country stop and surf Manitoba!

This article first appeared in the Fall 2002 issue of Rapid Magazine.

If Noah Had Been a Playboater…

By

Paul Mason

Forty days and forty nights without having to shuttle would have been swweeet. Instead, Noah pretty much set the design standard for displacement hull boats. Good or Bad? It all depends on your perspective.

I’ve spent the last few years convinced and trying to convince everyone else that short, planing hull whitewater canoes are best. Period. Well, maybe I’m getting soft but there may actually indeed be merit to those honking big, twelve foot solo boats.

The objective of a planing hull is to surf on top of the water rather than in it. The faster the wave the less displacement there will be and therefore the looser the boat will feel. Small planing hull canoes such as the Dagger Aftershock or Pyrahna Spanish Fly have very flat bottoms.There is no rocker in this flat section. Instead, near the ends of the boat, the hull breaks away abruptly, slanting up to meet the deck at the end of the canoe. This allows the boat to slide to a sideways position on a wave rather than carve across it. The bottom of the hull is actually concave at the sides making a very sharp chine. This is referred to as a release edge. It makes the hull feel loose when sideways on a wave.

The goal of a displacement hull canoe like the Dagger Phantom, Ocoee and every other open canoe out there is completely different. Some canoes such as the Esquif Detonator have flat bottoms but also have rocker, so are still displacement hulls. A displacement hull tracks well, meaning it is resistant to turning.These boats cut through the water making them fast but they must carve their turns to some degree.This ten- dency to travel in a straight line will be affected by rocker, length and chine. Rocker increases a boat’s turning ability as does a shorter length and harder chines.

Since the big flood, canoes have been fairly multipurpose. Sure, some are better at one facet of canoeing than another, but at least each canoe design had the possibility to perform all the manoeuvres that were known as canoeing. As canoe designs changed it was reasonable to expect that they were generally improving, becoming more manouvreable and lighter. Eventually, planing hull technology was incorporated into an open canoe. This would have happened a lot sooner if Noah had built a flat bottom scow instead of a displacement boat. Suddenly, a whole host of new techniques and manoeuvres were achievable in a canoe. Unless you had to move a whole lot of animals, why would anyone want to paddle something that resembled the ark?

Well there are a couple of reasons. Big boats track well, have good hull speed and are really good at punching holes. If you watch one plowing through a hole you can see the stern of the boat sinking into the green water of the downstream current as the bow pierces the hole. This downstream current pushes the canoe through the foampile. Compare that to a short boat that has to climb up the face of the hole. If the stern is still in the green water, the boat will be at such an angle that the current is actu- ally pushing the stern down. Backender!

Big canoes make rapids and waves seem smaller. I’m guessing the Ark was really big. Their large size, buoyancy and speed allows them to plow through many obstacles that a shorter, more manouvreable boat would have to dance around. Some of the highest boofs I’ve heard of an open canoe attempting were done in big 14 foot solo boats. Kind of the same rational that makes a big car safer in a crash.

WE NEED MORE THAN ONE WHITEWATER PLAYBOAT

So now there are two distinct kinds of whitewater canoes vying for a paddlers attention, roofspace and bankbook— planing hull and displacement hull canoes. Typically what happens is a canoeist wears out or outgrows their old displacement boat. They start thinking about a new boat. Which one is best? They try a few and using experience as criteria determine that the new plastic planing hulls are ugly, slow and wet. No argument from me on those points. It is true that short, flat planing hulls are slow on flatwater. But if I wanted to enjoy the flatwater, I’d paddle a flatwater boat! Now I must admit that if there is flatwater involved and you’re the only one in a freestyle playboat, then a faster displacement boat might be okay.

Most freestyle canoes are wet to paddle, meaning water splashes in more easily than in those massive 13 foot super-tankers. When freeboating, taking onwater is fairly irrelevant since each ride in a hole or on a big wave leads to emptying the boat anyway. Who cares whether you’re emptying a little water or a lot. The only difference is that the small boats are light and easy to empty quickly. If your goal is to stay dry as you descend the rapid, go and buy a short displacement canoe with a bulbous nose that will ride over every wave. It will be great for all those front surfs and eddy turns.

So why are canoeists satisfied with displacement hulls? Kayakers moved on to new and exciting possibilities years ago. First time kayakers who just got their new boat and haven’t even taken the price tag off yet, are working towards doing moves with killer names like blunt, donkey flip, tricky whu and pan am.Your average experienced canoeist is still trying to nail a back surf. Maybe canoeists don’t want to do flat spins on a wave because their displacement hull boats aren’t designed to do that. Or are the canoes not designed to do spins because canoeists don’t know they can?

The answer just might be to admit that we need more than one whitewater playboat. A displacement boat for those occasions when you don’t want to play the river, you just want to run it. And a planing hull canoe to open up new learning opportunities and add fresh excitement to your favourite local rapids.

Paul is a Team-Dagger paddler, freelance cartoonist and wishes to sincerely apologize to his father, the late Bill Mason, for not mentioning the prospector canoe in a previous article.

This article first appeared in the Fall 2002 issue of Rapid Magazine.

Smart Turns: Water Reading for Eddy Exits

Skills

By

Andrew Westwood

Discuss eddy turns with paddlers and you may hear suggestions like: To exit an eddy pool, angle your canoe ten degrees to the eddy line. Others may tell you: Point upstream for fast current, and open your angle for slow water. These conventional methods of choosing boat angle may work for some eddies, but mysteriously let you down for others. So, is there a way to determine the exact angle to exit an eddy? One guaranteed to work whether you paddle a canoe or kayak in class I or V whitewater? You bet there is, and you won’t need a degree in geometry or one of those protractor thing-a-ma-gigs to figure it out. The secret for eddy turns is to read the water and find wave troughs that meet the eddyline. Then, set your boat angle crossways to the trough and surf it out into the downstream current. Water reading is all about finding helpful river features to make a manoeuvre easy every time.

Water Reading

Reading water is the ability to see the different currents and waves that make a rapid. Use this skill to place your boat onto the most helpful currents and waves to assist a manoeuvre. For the eddy exit, look for a wave trough that meets the eddyline and angles downstream away from the eddy pool. Larger and stronger waves are usually at the top of the eddy where the eddyline is narrow and easier to cross. Smaller, more forgiving waves may be downstream of the top of the eddy but to get on them you will be forced into crossing a wider boil line.

Surfing the Trough

Think of waves as waterslides to move your boat. All waves have a high point and a low point. By sliding or surfing your boat downhill from higher to lower water you can move with less effort. Surfs can also move you side to side much like a ferry. Surfing is the key to exiting an eddy. By literally falling off the eddyline and into a wave trough, you can surf away from an eddy pool. The surf lasts for just a moment, but it has the ability to launch the canoe out into the downstream current saving you the effort of accelerating your boat.

Choose the Right Angle

Choosing the best angle to exit an eddy depends on the trough you have chosen to surf out to the downstream current. Imagine a line drawn down the middle of the wave trough beginning at the eddy line and stretching out into the current. Study the water carefully; seeing the trough line will determine the boat angle needed to leave the eddyline. To peel out into the current, paddle your boat into the trough at a perpendicular or ninety degree angle to the trough line. No matter how strong the current, always set your angle crossways to the trough. Now hang on as your boat surfs off the eddyline and into the downstream current.

Reading Trouble?

Having trouble with eddy turns is rarely the fault of strokes, and more likely a difficulty with reading water. Ask yourself: is the boat….

Angled too much? If so, this will cause the boat to turn too suddenly preventing it from surfing out to the downstream current. Flips are common when the canoe is angled so much it is sideways to the wave trough. Try again pointing your boat across the trough line.
Angled too little? If the angle is too small, the canoe will surf back to the eddyline. On your next attempt, look again for the trough line and increase your angle to ninety degrees to the wave trough.
Paddling into the wave crest? Basically, this hump of water will push the canoe backward into the eddy. Better to aim for the wave trough and drop out of the eddy and into the depression of the trough and surf out to the main current.

Reading water allows you to tap into the power of the river and use it to move your canoe. Surfing wave troughs can make peel outs easier and faster while making your turns look smooth and effortless. Choosing an exit angle of ninety degrees to the trough line is an easy and fun way to surf out of an eddy pool. Give it a try, it works every time.

Andrew Westwood is a frequent contributor to Rapid Mag, OC slalom competitor and an instructor at the Madawaska Kanu Centre.

This article first appeared in the Fall 2002 issue of Rapid Magazine.

Re-Actionary of Fear

Stories

By

Ben Aylsworth

Fear. Whitewater paddling is full of it and we all feel it sooner or later. You can die paddling, people do. But there is fear you should have and fear you can live without. Fear you should feel is along the lines of; oh my god this is class V and I can’t roll, or this large sieve seems to be sucking me under. In cases like this you should actually feel; CLASS V, CAN’T ROLL, ROPE, ROPE FEAR or LARGE SIEVE, BACK PADDLE, BACK PADDLE FEAR!

However, it has been my experience that many paddlers psych themselves out before they even hit the river. Some factors influencing how one feels before putting on are: insecurity; lack of skill or experience; and trash-talking boaters.

Insecurity is something perhaps you should see a shrink about.

Lack of skill and experience requires instruction, practice and time on the river.

Trash-talking boaters like to sit around and talk about this run and that. Stories of so-n-so getting trashed so badly or how this run is so steep are quickly exaggerated. There is enough natural fear without certain loud mouths amplifying it unnecessarily. You’re picturing things like holes the size of Texas. You don’t want to paddle into a Texan hole. Hell no! After a sweaty night of dreaming about a Jalapeno hell you wake up to your buddies offering you a breakfast burrito. “No way man, this ain’t Texas!” you scream. “I’m not going to die!”

Then you’re putting on the river, the river of salsa. Your hands are shaking, your bloodless fingers are cold and stiff. The rand on your skirt seems tighter and for the first time since that glorious day you learned to roll you wonder if you can get out of your boat. Funny, you think, you are both scared and wearing a skirt.

WHAT YOU’RE AFRAID OF ISN’T PADDLING, IT’S FEAR ITSELF

Beware of the big fat liars. People who think that what they do isn’t for everyone; people who think that because they’ve run it you shouldn’t. You ask a local “So what’s this run like?” His reply “Oh my god, it’s this full-on colon purging run that never ends. What boat are you paddling?… Oh that’s no good….”

You have to ask yourself can this jackass even paddle? I mean look at him in his cover-alls playing his banjo. Locals tell you tall tales because they want to believe they are special. Their rivers are tougher than yours. But hey Billy Bob, things are tough all over.

Fear is a great motivator but it is a slippery slope. Many a river isn’t paddled due to pre-river anxiety and that’s a shame. I am not saying don’t be afraid, I’m saying don’t listen to terrifying tall tales, trash-talking fools and lying locals. Save your energy for the actual run. Play safe. If you get scared, you can almost always walk. If you still manage to get trashed, who hasn’t been trashed? So you get worked, so you swim, so you smash your face. Is that what you’re really worried about? Some stitches?

No, what you’re really afraid of isn’t paddling, its fear itself. Like when I paddled into Iron Ring at 14…

This article first appeared in the Fall 2002 issue of Rapid Magazine.

Skills: Shifty Movies

Skills

By

Andrew Westwood

Photo: Scott MacGregor — Skills: Shifty Movies

In bad movies, shifty characters move from side to side, eyes scanning for opportunities to gain any advantage and get ahead—just like a good canoeist! Quick and deceptively subtle shifts left and right allow canoeists to maintain their forward momentum and orientation while dodging rocks, holes and breaking waves.

Shifts are not the same as turns. In a turn, you point the bow of your canoe where you want to go and then move your canoe in that direction. During a shift, your hull slides sideways to move around obstacles, so your bow remains pointing downstream.

For quickly sneaking around rocks and skirting holes, shifts are much easier than turns for two reasons: One, they are faster and require fewer strokes. Two, they keep your canoe parallel to the current. moving with the current avoids the danger of broaching on rocks or bridging your hull over two different currents which could result in your canoe spinning out of control.

Shifts are performed by holding your paddle vertically in a stationary draw, pry or cross-draw. Feather the blade so that the leading edge points in the direction you’d like to travel. Water striking the angled blade will provide the force necessary to deflect the canoe to the side. In a solo boat, position the blade ahead of your knees. This forward paddle placement will cause the canoe to drift on an angle, instead of pivoting, as it continues its forward glide.

For the water to exert force on the static paddle blade, your canoe needs to be moving faster than the current. If you hold a shift too long, your canoe will lose momentum and the shift will lose effectiveness. Throw in some forward strokes to keep your speed up.

To help your boat move laterally across the current, throw in a little boat tilt opposite to your shift. This can be very subtle. Just tilt the boat off level, releasing the chine so water can move freely underneath.

Shifts can be used by all canoeists, whether paddling solo or tandem. Tandem paddlers can execute shifts individually for minor course corrections or together as a team for really spectacular shifts.

Next time you are out paddling with your friends, be on the lookout for any paddlers exhibiting shifty behaviour. Not only will they get out of driving shuttle and buying beer, they’ll also be slipping side to side as they stay in line with the current through rock-studded rapids.

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

This article first appeared in the Fall 2006 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.

Trailering Your Boats

Stories

By

Scott MacGregor

There is something about hauling a trailer that changes how people drive. They start to turn a little wider and feel like they deserve a little more than their fair share of the road. It’s perfectly acceptable to grind the odd gear and wear large belt buckles even if you’re only pulling a small trailer loaded with touring kayaks.

Towing your boats to the water offers plenty of advantages over the traditional roof rack method. However, many potential kayak-towing paddlers shy away from trailers. With a better understanding of the advantages, how to hitch and a few driving tips the only thing left holding them back will be the installation of a CB radio, 10-4?

Towing Your Boat

You could re-mortgage your house to invest in a KevlarTM sea kayak but it’s often not the weight of the boat that makes it difficult to transport, it is the height of your roof racks and the fact that the boat extends six feet past your wingspan. Kayak trailers are lower to the ground requiring you to lift the boat only to your waist. You can also easily do one end at a time. Some trailers are designed so you can even back down into the water and float your boat off and on the trailer.

Depending on the size of your parking area around home, trailers add the convenience of being able to leave the boats ready to go at any moment. No more loading boats early in the morning or unloading late on Sunday night. Simply unhook the trailer and go to bed. This convenience could come at a severe cost if you’re not careful. Insurance claims indicate that thieves also enjoy the added convenience of stealing boats pre-loaded twice as much as plucking them from your yard or roof.

To prevent your pride and joy from being a fond memory, store your trailer in the safety of your backyard, in the garage or as out of sight as possible. Run a pad lock through the hitch closure and if possible back this up by chaining the trailer to a large tree. There are various kayak locking devices, none are fool proof but they are more work than cutting a rope.

Now that you don’t have to strongarm your boat onto your roof, your hatches become 250 litre suitcases. You can even pack for a trip in the convenience of your own backyard. Keep an eye on your gear when stopping at the grocery store for last minute items. Plastic automotive zip-ties zipped around the closure buckles work well to deter hatch snoopers from helping themselves. Keep a pair of wire cutters handy, so you can get them off.

Hitching Your Ride

There are few sicker feelings than seeing your trailer full of boats pass you on the highway. Ask around at kayak outfitters, it happens. Where I grew up, ensuring the trailer is properly hitched is the responsibility and pride (or humiliation) of the driver. Get out and check it yourself.

Ensure the tow ball and the coupler share the same size and the ball is secured to the vehicle. Ensure the coupler is fully around the ball, secure the latch and as a back up lock with a cotter pin or pad lock. Safety chains act as a backup in case your hitch lets go. The chains should be crossed to pre- vent the tongue from falling onto the road and so the trailer follows in a straight line. Be sure the safety chains are long enough so they do not come tight when cornering. Other things that will ruin your day are flat tires, bad wheel bearings or a ticket for a blown taillight bulb. Most kayaks extend well past the trailer, check your provincial or state laws to determine when a red flag or rear light is necessary.

When you are loading your boats ensure they are securely tied down and balanced on the trailer. After a change in weather (wet to dry or dry to wet) and at gas and food stops, check your tie-downs to ensure everything is snug before you head back on the road.

Get Your Motor Run’n, Head Out on the Highway

Towing a light utility or kayak trailer doesn’t require a Yosemite Sam tattoo or a Billy Ray Cyrus T-shirt, it’s just a matter of modifying a few driving habits to compensate for the extra load. Although kayaks, even loaded ones, don’t weight all that much, your vehicle’s stopping distance will be less. If you are not careful, you can be pushed into intersections or stuffed into someone’s bumper. The solution is easy, slow down sooner and leave yourself more following distance in traffic.

When you pull out to pass, consider that it will take longer to generate rocket speed and you will have to go further to fit your trailer back in ahead of Grandad. Swerving in and out of traffic Montreal style is contraindicated and could result in trailer swayage (new word) or fishtailing (real word). If swayage occurs, slow down. If it wasn’t aggressive driving that caused it, stop and get out to find the problem. Look for blown tires, hitching problems or an uneven load.

Drivers who tow powerboats and RVs typically add mirror extensions so they can see around their wide load. When towing smaller kayak or utility trailers we often have a different problem. The trailers are so small and narrow we can’t see them at all. Try taping a note to the inside of your sunglasses to remind yourself that you are pulling a trailer.

The cart always has a tighter turning radius than the horse, so you need to lead the turn wider to compensate. There is nothing more humiliating for a truck driver than scrubbing the trailer wheels on the curb—and where there is a curb there are pedestrians. Making wider than normal turns is one of the joys of hauling a trailer and a snap to master. Hog the road not the sidewalk! I’ve saved backing up to the end. The driving experts suggest placing your hand at the bottom of the wheel, then if you want the trailer to go left, move your hand to the left, if you want it to go right move your hand right. This technique works of course but takes some practice, ideally in an area where you can’t damage anything. If all else fails and you can’t possibly back up a trailer don’t let that stop you from trailering your kayaks to the water. A kayak trailer is so light you can simply unhook it and roll it away or as a wise truck driver once told me, don’t drive into any situations you can’t drive out of.

Our editor Scott MacGregor has miles of trailer hauling experience under his belt from the years he worked driving tanker trucks for his folks at their company Scotholme Liquid Transfer.

This article first appeared in the Fall 2002 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.

The Edge of the Pacific

Stories

By

Rick Hudson

The trouble with Canada’s well-known West Coast Trail is not simply that it’s being trampled to death, which it is. The problem goes deeper than that. It’s an eight day thrash through damp West Coast flora, squelching in and out of mud swamps, skinning knees and elbows on wet roots, suffering days of dripping fog, trudging hours across soft sand with a thirty kilogram pack, competing for moist tide line camp sites and avoiding copious amounts of unburied human waste, all in the name of wilderness recreation.

Folks, there has to be a better way to enjoy the highlights of this justifiably famous coastline, with its beach vistas, rolling Pacific swells and moss-draped forest edges but without all that rainforest hassle. Better yet, wouldn’t you like to experience the wild shore and get back to a hot tub in the evening?

It may take over a week to hike, slither, slide and climb those mud-encrusted ladders but, as the grey whale glides, it’s a mere two fair-weather days of paddling down the coast. Not only that, but the very reason you’re on the West Coast Trail (to see the beaches, headlands and inter-tidal zones) are all better seen from a kayak, than from the inside of a damp forest trail.

Starting this year, the luxurious Tyee Lodge in Bamfield is offering a fully supported sea kayaking package. It includes a twenty-six foot launch to whisk you rapidly along the shore to your chosen starting point and a certified paddling guide to help those who might otherwise be intimidated by the ubiquitous ocean swells.You then play all day among the cliffs and reefs and arches.Watch the surf burst and fly. Approach the sea lion colonies on their foamringed pull-out rocks. See whales spout and bald eagles hunt. And then in the evening that same launch brings you back to the lodge, with its hot tub, elaborate dinner and clean sheets. Can life get any better?

When is the wilderness not the wilderness?

In recent years the dramatic growth in outdoor and adventure sports has meant that more and more people are looking for wilderness. Individual definitions and expectations of wilderness vary, but any time the government declares a new park, the ink is barely dry in the Gazette before squads of wilderness groupies and adventure companies are swarming the place.

Just fifteen years ago, after a long struggle between environmentalists and logging companies, the Pacific Rim National Park on Vancouver Island’s extreme West Coast was created to preserve a string of spectacular sand beaches.At the time, amidst the euphoria about land saved and history preserved, there was little consideration of where the park was heading. In 1993 the land covering the West Coast Trail to the south was added to the park’s boundaries.

Less than a decade later the West Coast Trail hosts over 8,000 hikers during the official season between April 1st and September 30th. At any one time in the summer, there can be up to 400 people on the route, spread out over 77 kilometres. That means 5.3 hikers per kilometre. It’s a trail that draws trekkers from Europe and elsewhere in droves, and has been described in travel literature as one of the finest hikes in the world. That may be true, but the word wilderness should be used with caution.

Nor is this wilderness cheap. Why, I have to ask myself, would anyone want to line up to apply for a hiking quota ($25/person), then pay good money to the Parks to use the Trail ($70/person), to the ferry operators for the two water crossings ($25/person), and finally to the bus company to get back where you started ($55/person)?

Paddling outside the box

By contrast, a competent sea kayaker can start at Bamfield Village, take in Cape Beale as a bonus and finish at Port Renfrew in a long day, or two at the most, a distance of seventy-five kilometres. No long waits at the ferry crossings. No hassles at the cable car creek crossings and no mud.

Of course, there are always purists who say that part of the WCT’s pleasure is skinning your knees on logs, or falling off boardwalks into shrubbery. Camping in the rain is fun, they insist and watching the fog roll in is all part of the charm of the Trail. Sure, and removing devil’s club thorns builds character.

If it’s character you’re looking for, the Tyee Lodge sits atop the headland at the mouth of Bamfield Inlet. From the rhododendron-splashed hot tub, perched on the cliff’s edge, there’s a panoramic view that’s hard to equal. On the right, the village boat traffic is a constant source of interest. In front of you, ocean-going ships throb down the Alberni Channel, bound for foreign ports.

On the other side of the Channel, the Deer Group and the famous Broken Chain are archipelagos sprinkled in a tranquil sea, backed by late spring, snow-capped peaks. Both are popular destinations for those wishing to experience a sea kayak adventure in calm waters. Paddling those channels brings you to white beaches, rocky coves and islets crowded with tall trees.

To the left of the hot tub, a series of sand beaches and rocky headlands lead towards Cape Beale Lighthouse. Can there be a bet- ter place to call home, when paddling the rugged West Coast Trail?

Each morning after a civilized breakfast we descend to the Lodge docks, where skipper John Johnston loads a 26-foot launch with kayaks and gear, and we’re off into the wilderness (complete with all the creature comforts). The shoreline spins past at a magical speed. Two hours in the launch is the equivalent of eight days on foot. Hikers, believe it and weep.

One of the great blessings of being this mobile is we can choose our daily destination based on the weather. If it’s blowing a westerly, the swells off the WCT are large, the breaks awesome and it’s suitable only for experienced paddlers. Even climbing down into a bobbing kayak from the deck of the rocking launch can be tense.

Instead, we can tuck into the Deer Group or run out to the Broken Chain. But if it’s calm we can paddle some, or all, of the WCT coastline. How much is enough? Perhaps the morning is great but the afternoon gets up a blow. No problem. This is the age of communication; our guide calls up the launch and we move to a different area.

Is this the wilderness in its truest sense? Of course not. But then neither are cable cars, ladders and designated campsites. Remember, the Trail itself is there because the wilderness was too rugged. Shipwrecked sailors needed a route south to 19th century civilization in Victoria. And when paddling, we don’t encounter 5.3 people per kilometer. Plus the flexibility of the guide and launch allow us to experience the best of the West Coast Trail al fresco, while dining each evening a la carte.

All the literature on hiking the West Coast Trail stresses it’s not for the novice.The trail is long and hard, and wet at times.You need to be experienced.The same is true of paddling the coastline. It’s a rugged shore, where rocky capes and sea cliffs offer few landing points, even on calm days. There’s 10,000 km of fetch between Japan and BC’s West Coast and the swells are endless.Watching the surf curl and break on the shoreline gives you just a glimmer of an appreciation why this coast was known as the graveyard of the Pacific—the resting place of over 80 ships between 1850 and 1980.

Today, there are still numerous wrecks visible. The rusting iron boiler of the Michigan, which ran aground in 1893, lies exposed at low tide near Pachena Point. Parts of the 1943 wreck Uzbekistan can be seen at Darling Creek. Elsewhere, modern fishing vessels, obvious from their aluminum and fibreglass fragments, are wedged at impossible heights above the tide line, thrown there by an unforgiving sea.

But what makes the coast so dangerous in winter, also makes it come alive for the paddler in summer. One moment you’re in a valley of green water; the next you’re on a crest so high you can see for miles along the shoreline. Offshore breaks swirl as a wave top passes, then the level drops, exposing huge mussels, starfish, giant barnacles and bull kelp, clamped to an anchoring reef. Water pours off exposed rocks until the trough passes. Then the basalt disappears beneath another green surge. In a kayak you can stand off a few metres in perfect safety. As a mariner, it would send the fear of Beelzebub up your spine to watch those teeth appear and vanish in the restless swells.

And then there’s Plan B

As any back packer will tell you, the West Coast weather, even in summer, can be variable. If you’re out for a week and it turns wet, you don’t have a lot of options, apart from just keeping on going. Not so, if you have launch support and a home base.

If it dawns foggy or windy, a good way to spend the day is to slip across Alberni Channel (25 minutes in a kayak, 5 in the launch), and play in the Deer Group of islands. Several of these forest-capped out- crops are limestone, with arches, sea tunnels and deep sea caves.

There are surge channels so narrow you have to deck your paddles and push yourself through using your hands.

Inside these dark places it’s cool and quiet, even on hot summer days. The Pacific swells barely reach the twilight zones. The kayaks lift and fall gently, as though the ocean itself is breathing in some deep, dark rhythm. Brilliant sea anemones and purple starfish cling to the sheltering walls. At the back of the caves, gentle swells curl and break in diminutive surf, submerging polished marble boulders. Water drips from high ceilings, making loud plopping sounds. It’s a magical world, where visitors tend to whisper, as though they’re somehow intruding on a sacred place. Perhaps they are.

On a more urbane level, we’ll pass through the aptly named Robber’s Channel, where the burned out hulk of Greenpeace’s famous Rainbow Warrior lies at anchor. Still blackened from the bombing and subsequent fire that sent her to the bottom of a New Zealand harbour (courtesy of the French Secret Service), her rusting bow shows the marks of her trade.And on the bridge, smoke-grimed but still visible are the flags of ships rammed and sunk, during an age when environmental militarism was still in its infancy.

Getting the balance right

While the days are filled with the salt water and damp air of the West Coast Trail, the evenings don’t have to be more of the same. After a long hard soak in the hot tub at Tyee Lodge, we emerge to greet the sous-chef, who is bringing appetizers—nachos smothered in melted cheese and black olives, oysters baked in Cinzano and herbs and filo pastry rolls stuffed with BBQ chicken. To retain balance, it’s best to wash them down with Canadian beer and Australian shiraz. Hey, it’s a global village.

Later, a three-course dinner is served at the long table, while the sun sets into a blazing sea, sprinkled with island silhouettes. Between the steak and the dessert, a log-carrier passes slowly down- channel, carrying douglas fir, sitka spruce and jobs to foreign ports. Someone promises to write to Ottawa about the whole sad softwood mess here on the West Coast.Then the cheesecake takes our minds off such matters and an after-dinner liqueur at the bar puts the whole thing into better perspective.

We are indeed a global village. Out on the Trail, hikers from around the world are snuggling down into damp sleeping bags and saying good night in a dozen languages. Now more than ever before, the wilderness, the country, the whole planet itself belongs to everyone. Are those our jobs going out to sea? Is the WCT reserved for eco-purists only? Can we truly appreciate the beauty of this wild coast without experiencing the discomfort?

There are no easy answers, only compromises. Right now, it’s time for a last nightcap, a final coffee, and bed between clean crisp linen.

Rick Hudson started paddling whitewater in 1976. Age, injuries and common sense have turned him into a sea kayaker where accidents happen more slowly. He now lives next to the ocean on Vancouver Island, BC.

This article first appeared in the Fall 2002 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.