My dad was fresh off the boat from Germany, arriving in a Canada that was famous back in his birth country for hunting, fishing, logging and most importantly, canoeing. He yearned to seek out the wilderness and carve a little niche for himself and his family in “wild, rugged” Canada. Manfred Wolf intended to carry on his proud Teutonic heritage by blindly throwing himself into nature’s unforgiving clenches with little experience but plenty of determination, efficiency, and an eternally stoic poker face.
Every journey begins with a single crucial step. Dad’s first step took him through the doors of a Canadian Tire in search of a canoe. Browsing the aisles wearing his rainbow-striped polyester pants with flared bottoms and white stitching, Manfred spot- ted it hanging seemingly in midair, suspended by fishing line above a Coleman stove display. It was love at first sight.
The sheet-aluminum hull was painted to look like birch bark and accented with black foam lining held in place by aluminum ribs. A burly outrigger of exterior black foam flotation ran from bow to stern just below the gunwales; the foam seats were removable. It measured a stout 10 feet long and a generous 39 inches at the beam. The clincher was the profile of a proud Indian chief painted in black at the side of the bow. He looks forever unflinchingly ahead with the word ‘Sportspal’ emblazoned behind the flowing feathers of his headdress.
To a 29-year-old father looking for adventure, the Sportspal embodied his romantic ideal of the great Canadian outdoors. After a couple of thoughtful strokes of his muttonchop sideburns, the decision was made. On July 14, 1970, exactly one week before I was born, Sportspal became a member of our family. My sister Christina was the first born but Sportspal was Manfred’s first son. I straggled in as the third child of the clan and spent years trying to measure up to my older brother.
RELIABLE, STABLE, AND LOYAL
My brother Sportspal was an important part of our family’s camping trips in Northern Ontario throughout the ‘70s. Faded airbrushed pictures show me on a day trip with Sportspal in Georgian Bay when I was six weeks old. The Pal may have been slow, but he was stable enough to transport the whole family and was as reliable as coffee in the morning. He didn’t argue, was always ready to play, and taught me to love the lakes and rivers he floated over whenever called upon.
At the cottage, I spent my formative early teen summers with my older brother. Sportspal and I gunwale-bobbed on hot August afternoons and fished for lunker largemouth bass in the calm pink of dusk. I often fell asleep in the cavern of his plush hull as crystal clear water lapped against his faux birch bark and the afternoon sun beat down on my face.
As the years passed, Sportspal established himself as the loyal son, heir to the estate, staying home to watch over the cottage and our parents while I could never quite settle. I ran off here and there to explore and experience the world, while he lounged contentedly in his little piece of freshwater and Canadian Shield granite. I was disciplined for missing curfew or slacking off on my studies—a natural rite of passage for any young person…unless your name happened to be Sportspal. He was always perfect; he was born an adult.
Inevitably, time wore on and we went our separate ways. University, canoe tripping, travelling, and a move out West took me away from Sportspal for several years. Despite my absence, reminders of him were everywhere. On one canoe trip down the Rideau Canal I counted 14 other Sportspals sitting under the decks of cottages along the waterway. Often, I would see Sportspals cruising comfortably on the tops of Winnebagos and loosely tied to wood-paneled station wagons travelling across the country. I missed my family.
On my first visit to the cottage in quite some time, I spot him in his usual spot under the deck. Like me, he’s a little worse for wear. Some of the birch bark on his hull has peeled off, revealing specks of shiny alloy beneath. A couple of the aluminum ribs are missing, allowing the foam lining to bulge out.The Indian chief on the bow has faded slightly from years in the sunshine, though his gaze remains steady.
I’ve spent the better part of a decade travelling the world trying to fulfil my wanderlust and quell youthful angst while he’s remained content in his cottage paradise. During the summer, Sportspal takes my father—in his sixties now—for a paddle every morning. After 32 years, the diminutive canoe still spends more time with my dad than I do. Sportspal is as reliable and stable as ever.
Frank Wolf is an adventurer, freelance writer and retail sales slave based in North Vancouver, B.C. In 1995 he canoed 8,000 km from the Bay of Fundy to Vancouver with his partner to become the first to paddle across Canada in a single season.
This article first appeared in the Summer 2003 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.
Hiding behind my truck’s lowered tailgate and pretending to be tying my shoes, I watched in utter amazement as Rich slowly reached into the Thule box above his ’84 Volvo wagon and lifted out a 58-inch, multi-coloured wool stocking. He undid the red ribbon tied neatly in a bow around the woolly sheath and reached inside to draw his cherry ottertail sword. Sir Lancelot ran his finger- tips down the blade, gingerly like he was touching the face of a lover before engaging her in a romantic kiss. He held it above his head looking up his arm and along the shaft. Sun glistened off the tip. What the hell was this guy doing with his paddle?
While he folded his specially knit paddle cozy I thought about my paddle’s trip to the river. Tossed in the back of my pickup like a carpenter’s hammer, it rattled and shook off the last of its varnish. It lay next to the spare gas can covered in 67 kilometres of late-summer logging-road dust. Once they were on the water our paddles would be equal, but Rich clearly held his Excalibur in a higher place.
Paddles are hung above mantels in cottages, rested against desks in university dorm rooms and displayed in homes in prominent places once reserved for straight-faced portraits of ancestors. Miniature canoe paddles are crafted into coat racks and I’m sure paddles are the most popular canvas for aspiring wood carvers and painters of snowy chickadee scenes. Putting together the new Paddle Buyer’s Guide for the Summer 2003 of Canoeroots, I wondered how the paddle became a symbol worthy of a spot on the livingroom wall or a knitted carrying case.
NOT JUST TOOLS TO GET DOWN THE RIVER
I called Jeremy Ward at the Canadian Canoe Museum and asked him whether the voyageurs lovingly cherished their paddles. Jeremy said nobody’s entirely sure, but he suspects that the men who opened the country didn’t knit themselves paddle socks. In official documents and journals, references to paddles are conspicuously missing. When a new voyageur signed on with the Northwest Company he was issued blankets, tumpline, sometimes clothing and often an advance on his wages.The equipment inventories contain no mention of paddles. It seems that François, Amable, Joseph and the boys had to supply their own paddles and in those days that meant making their own. Likely, paddles were chopped from a nearby tree, another chore in the daily 15-hour grind of moving furs. Jeremy and I agreed that tracing the origin of paddle nostalgia was worthy of a larger study, a doctoral thesis perhaps.
Canoe paddles are not only tools to propel us across lakes and down rivers. Hanging on walls they float us on memories—summer camp, grandmother’s cottage or a campsite shared with a close friend.
In university a friend of mine designed a simple tattoo with two paddles crossed, like the bats on a little league baseball cap, and under the crossed paddles were three words. I don’t know if he ever got the tattoo, but the words are burned into the hearts of every canoeist who hangs her paddle on the wall or carries his paddle in a sheath:
Swords of Freedom.
This article first appeared in the Summer 2003 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.
There are magical places in this world where nature’s balance continues to unfold in stubborn defiance of the efforts of humans to tame the Earth. These places, like the sacred hidden Buddhist valleys near Mount Kailas in Tibet, can only be discovered and entered with the right attitude: an open mind and a reverence for wildlife in its natural condition. One such place is Peninsula Valdes—a provincial reserve on the Atlantic Coast of Argentina. This is the essence of coastal Patagonia.
Pure Patagonia: Touring Argentina’s seldom-paddled coast
Photo: Dave Quinn
Valdes is a T-shaped peninsula 140 kilometres deep, remarkably similar in geography to North America’s Cape Cod. A narrow strip of land, the four-kilometre-wide Isthmus of Ameghino, funnels travellers into the arid interior of the Peninsula and is the only link to the Argentine mainland. Gulfo Nuevo faces south toward Antarctic waters, while the smaller Gulfo San José opens its mouth in the direction of Brazil. The cold Antarctic currents meet the warmer Brazilian flow from the north. And thanks to government protection by the Argentine province of Chubut, paddlers are blessed with intact Patagonian land and marine-scapes in all their intriguing harshness. Paddling in Valdes’ waters, however, is not for the timid—the area boasts a 35-foot tidal range and notorious Patagonian gales, as well as marine wildlife populations with a density and diversity that stagger the imagination.
The Patagonian experience
I first visited mysterious Patagonia nearly ten years ago. Running away from a university degree of questionable value, I traded in my life savings for a camera, a backpack, and a plane ticket to Santiago, Chile. At that time, both Chile and Argentina were expensive for folks with thin wallets, and my experience in these countries was limited to a “get in, get out quick” sojourn to southern Chile’s Torres del Paine National Park. After a month in these countries, I beat a hasty retreat, my dineros severely depleted. But my curiosity about the land called Patagonia was even more intense than before.
A seed of burgeoning wonder was planted in my psyche by this land of soaring Andean condors and needle-like granite spires, all on a backdrop of endless blue-white icecap. Popularized by the logo of a certain outdoor clothing company, this jagged skyline is, however, but a tiny fraction of Patagonia. Patagonia proper is a vaguely defined geographical entity that encompasses all lands from roughly 40° south to the southern tip of Cape Horn, from the height of the Andean Cordillera to both the Pacific and Atlantic coasts.
Last fall, my partner Kelly Comishin and I had the opportunity to return to Patagonia to search for its true essence. Just married in September, we were on a working honeymoon, guiding sea kayak and hiking expeditions for Canmore, Alberta-based Whitney & Smith Legendary Expeditions. We were to discover a vastly different face of this rugged and intriguing area.
In the early 1990s, Steve Smith and Jane Whitney, then guides for another adventure travel company, came to Peninsula Valdes to look for new areas to explore. Armed with a road map, two single collapsible Klepper kayaks and ample food, the couple spent six weeks circumnavigating the Peninsula.
Photo: Dave Quinn
“I’m not sure what we were thinking,” claimed Steve with a trademark grin. “The outer coast is as wild as it gets—huge tide rips, reefs, and the coast is mostly cliff. What beaches there are are literally covered with sea lions and elephant seals—most nights we literally had to elbow our way through the wall of elephant seals on the beach and pitch our tents on a tiny platform.”
After six weeks of wind, cliffs, and 4,000-kilo elephant seals actually coming into their tent, Jane and Steve made it back to Puerto Madryn, the nearest city, and hunted down a nautical chart of the Peninsula. The incredulous proprietor of the marine supply store thought, as most would, that this was a backward way of doing things and, after hearing what the couple had done, respectfully handed them the chart, free of charge.
“In a way, we’re lucky we got the chart after the trip,” Steve said while looking at the jumble of reef, cliff, and tide rip symbols crowding the outer coast on the chart, “or we probably wouldn’t have even done it!”
After several years of working closely with the assistant director of the Ministry of Environment and Tourism for the province of Chubut, the couple were granted permission to run a limited number of kayak trips on the Peninsula—with a few strict limitations. Steve and Jane, both trained wildlife biologists, would lead expeditions with a small number of “field assistants” whose job it would be to do wildlife counts and note any different or interesting behaviours or occurrences. An official report, in Spanish, would be produced every year to provide a baseline count of wildlife populations in the Gulf. Officials would check in on the group every few days, watching the group from a boat offshore or hiking in to meet them at some of the more accessible beaches to ensure that no wildlife populations were being disturbed and that no-trace tourism was, in fact, the practice.
The assistant director loved what he saw. And so, ten years later, here we were. Steve and I were the project’s official biologists, and eight field assistants from all over Canada and the States were there for the Patagonian experience and to help with the counts.
Into the script of a wildlife special
After a brief whirl through the Argentine capital, Buenos Aires, we flew two hours South to Trelew—a town known for its Welsh history. This was our first introduction to the many similarities between Argentina and Canada. Both are immense, mostly empty countries—entire Argentine provinces have less than one person per square kilometre. In both countries one also finds folks who are intensely proud of their country, but who are from somewhere else. A visit to any Argentine supermercado will reveal the mostly European background of the people who immigrated to the country to settle its empty quarters. Fresh pastas and other Italian delights, Welsh cakes, French baguettes, and entire aisles of incredible wine fill the groceries.
From Trelew we drove a hired vehicle through Puerto Madryn out to our put-in near the tip of Punto Buenos Aires—the eastern claw of the crab pincher shape of Gulfo San José. From our camp that night, we watched in awe as a steady 20-knot wind blew against the outgoing tide, whipping up towering standing waves in the mouth of the channel.
If you want to see Patagonia, “sit still, and it will all blow past you.” –George Gaylord Simpson. There is only one rule that shapes the winds that brush Patagonian shores—they can come at any force from any direction at any time, and most likely form the direction you intend to travel.
We spread all our gear out on the pebble beach and proceeded to stuff 10 days of food into our boats—an ominous first-day task that all sea kayak guides dread, but that always ends up being easier than it first appears. What little agua dulce (fresh water) there is on Peninsula Valdes’ xeriscape is extremely alkaline, which means that we had to carry enough water for 12 people for ten days—over 200 litres in total.
Finally, 20 litres of water wedged between legs in every cockpit, we launched our laden boats and paddled east into a stiff Gulfo San José headwind.
Author George Gaylord Simpson states in his classic Attending Marvels—a Patagonian Journal that if you want to see all of Patagonia, simply “sit still, and it will all blow past you.”
There is only one rule that shapes the winds that brush Patagonian shores—they can come at any force from any direction at any time, and most likely from the direction you intend to travel. Thus, a pleasant onshore breeze can, in the space of 15 minutes, turn into a full offshore storm-force blast. Thus, we hugged the shore of every deep bay and cranny in the desert coastline, not daring to risk any crossings in the face of such unpredictable winds.
The deeper into the Gulf we paddled, the farther into the script of a National Geographic wildlife special we seemed to get. Giant storm petrels and black-browed albatross cruised above our boats without so much as a shiver of their great two-metre wingspans, and out in the Gulf, giant spouts of white revealed the breaching of the southern right whales that come here every spring to have their young.
On the breeze, which we both cursed for the extra work it entailed and thanked for its cooling effect on this 30-plus-degree day, we scented unmistakable barnyard odor that surrounds any large congregation of marine wildlife. This is something that is rarely mentioned in wildlife films—the olfactory unpleasantness that goes along with having hundreds of large mammals in a concentrated area. As we neared a boulder-covered beach ahead of us, the boulders began to move, and we heard the unmistakable cacophony of a southern sea lion colony. We later returned on foot and counted over 600 animals on less than 500 metres of beach. What happened when we paddled by this colony was unforgettable.
Feature photo: Dave Quinn
Sea lions are divided into small groups—harems of sleek brown females defended by an immense black bull. The daily routine seems to be filled with males bellowing—at their females, at other males, and apparently just for the fun of it. As we paddled near, many of the animals that had been sleeping woke with a start, even though we were a hundred metres off shore. Suddenly the air was filled with the sounds of hundreds of sea lions bellowing and charging down the beach toward us. Gravel sprayed in all directions as belligerent males attempted to maintain order, followed by a roar like a raging river as hundreds of curious animals plowed headlong into the sea, racing to check out the strange shapes just offshore.
Concern for our immediate safety mixed with a sinking feeling that our presence had disturbed these animals to the point of panic—an absolute no-no in the world of ecotourism. These misgivings quickly evaporated, however, as it became apparent that these animals weren’t disturbed—they wanted to play! Soon we had hundreds of sea lions nibbling our rudders, playing with our paddles and spy-hopping all around us to get a better view. A fun game developed as Kelly and her partner began to sprint with all their might. Although a sprint in a double Klepper is not much to be awed by, the following gang of hundreds of dog-like heads put a weeklong grin on us all. We regretfully pulled away and continued along the coast toward our next camp. Slowly, the following crowd thinned, but even three nautical miles along the coast we had an audience of nearly 100 sea lions laughing to themselves as we hauled our heavy boats above the high tide line and made camp.
One of the world’s last time machines
On a rare windless paddling day later in the trip, we held our breaths as a curious 17-foot infant southern right whale broke our 50-metre rule to investigate our small fleet. Mom followed—a 17-metre, 60-tonne chaperone. The whales circled us, swam under us, and nudged our boats with a gentle dexterity that belied their size. Before their curiosity got the better of us, we reluctantly paddled away toward our next camp, ending a once-in-a-lifetime encounter.
The name of these whales and their history highlights the importance of preserving areas such as this. The name “right” stems from the fact that they are huge, slow, and float when they are killed, making them the “right” whale to kill for whalers. American whalers alone took an estimated 200,000 southern right whales in the 18th century, and it was not until 1946 that the International Whaling Commission began to limit the catch of the rapidly vanishing cetaceans. Now, reserves like Peninsula Valdes provide a safe haven for these beautiful creatures to breed and raise their young. Calves are born between May and August, and the cow-calf pairs remain in these protected waters, safe from predatory orcas, until late December. Over 1,500 of the world’s remaining estimated 5,000 southern right whales use the waters of Peninsula Valdes, making the Peninsula a critical piece of habitat if this still-endangered species is ever to recover from the commercial slaughter.
Photo: Dave Quinn
Photo: Dave Quinn
Paddling Patagonia
Getting there:
A return flight from Toronto to Buenos Aires costs $1,500 to $3,000, depending on airline and travel dates. Plan several days to experience this cosmopolitan Euro-Latin city. From Buenos Aires, the Argentine airline Aerolineas offers reasonable flights to smaller centers. Prices fluctuate with the volatile Argentine economy, but at the time of writing a return flight from Buenos Aires to Trelew was around $120 US. From Trelew, a $10 bus ticket gets you to Puerto Madryn, where dozens of tour companies arrange 1–3 day excursions in the Peninsula Valdes region.
Season:
August to January. Most of the right whales have returned to their Antarctic feeding grounds by January, and the area gets scorching hot and packed with Argentine beach-goers in the summer months of January to March.
Attending Marvels—A Patagonian Journal by George Gaylord Simpson—an entertaining account of a young paleontologist’s fossil-collecting expeditions in the 1930s.
In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin—the Patagonian travel classic.
One clear night, Kelly and I opted to sleep on the soft gravel beach, under the Southern Cross and the rest of the unfamiliar constellations shining in the cloudless sky. For protection from the ubiquitous winds, we wisely pulled one of our boats broadside and slept head-to-head in its lee. At first light I awoke to a low, blubbery snore. Having heard all sorts of ominous tales of what a newly married fellow could expect from his wife the second the marriage papers were signed, I assumed the worst. But raising my head from my warm sleeping bag and peering over the kayak deck, I discovered that the cacophony came not from my lovely wife, but from the relaxed proboscis of an immense bull elephant seal sleeping not three feet away. It is difficult to imagine a four-metre-long, 3500-kilogram mound of snoring, gassy flab “sneaking up” on anything, especially on a gravel beach, but there he was. His Blubberness had somehow covered the 50 feet between the sea and our kayaks without waking a soul.
I woke to a low, blubbery snore. Having heard all sorts of tales of what a fellow could expect the second the marriage papers were signed, I assumed the worst.
Thankful for the kayak between us, I quietly roused Kelly, and we lay wide-eyed in our sleeping bags, zippers open, ready to beat a hasty retreat at a moment’s notice. Finally, my bladder called an end to this incredible encounter, and I slowly eased out of my sleeping bag. The bull reared up bellowing a warning, his elephantine nose drooping over a gaping pink mouth. Fortunately, he decided that the beach was all of a sudden too crowded for his liking, and he half rolled, half oozed his huge bulk back down to the water and swam away.
“I’m really glad he didn’t mistake us for female elephant seals,” breathed Kelly when we finally had calmed down enough to speak.
Peninsula Valdes is one of the world’s last time machines—an area whose original splendour seems to persist despite all the changes the last few centuries have etched on the face of the Earth. In crossing the threshold of the Isthmus of Ameghino and entering the Peninsula, one does more than step away from mainland South America— one steps back in time. Here, in the waters and on the arid campo of Peninsula Valdes, wildlife views us as bipedal curiosities—to them we are something really worth investigating. In a world of forests that have yielded to tree farms, grasslands swallowed by modern agriculture, and landscapes from desert to arctic peppered with the scars of resource extraction, Patagonia seems to endure in more or less its natural state. In this harsh yet rich and diverse land, we felt an awestruck humility, and were rewarded with a glimpse of the true Patagonia.
Dave Quinn is an expedition guide, wildlife biologist and outdoor educator. He lives in Kimberley, B.C., with his lovely wife, Kelly, and their loyal hound, Lucy.
This article was first published in the Early Summer 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
An overhead shot of a pile of foam pieces and other tools to outfit the cockpit of a sea kayak. | Feature photo: Adventure Kayak staff
Learning to properly outfit your kayak cockpit before you decide to spend hours in it can provide you much-needed comfort once you set out. I decided in my last year of university that it would be an adventure to paddle home. When my new boat finally arrived, just days before I was to leave, packing three and half months’ worth of gear inside seemed more important than installing custom outfitting. Twenty-four hundred kilometres that summer and dozens of trips since and my Current Designs Expedition still didn’t have outfitting. Like many paddlers I hadn’t invested a few evenings or one rainy afternoon to improve both comfort and performance.
Kayak companies are making huge advances with ergonomically designed cockpits, adjustable seats and thigh braces, but it is impossible to match every paddler’s shape and size. You can achieve a custom fit in a few hours at home with some chunks of foam, a can of contact cement and a couple of hand tools.
The key to outfitting a kayak is simple: put your body in the most natural position and support it there so you can comfortably paddle for hours and move the boat without sliding around inside it. It is easiest to break kayak outfitting into five areas; seat, thighs, hips, lower back and feet.
An overhead shot of a pile of foam pieces and other tools to outfit the cockpit of a sea kayak.
1 Seat
Your seat is the anchor point that connects you to the kayak. It is the first place to begin your outfitting makeover because how you outfit your seat determines how you fit into the rest of the boat.
If you are paddling a deep boat and it feels like the cockpit rim is up to your chest and your thigh braces are floating far above your knees, you could raise your seating position by gluing a layer of foam to the seat. Raising your seat will raise your centre of gravity slightly but what you lose in stability you will gain in a greater sense of control. It’s like raising the seat in your car and finally being able to see over the dash.
Even a thin layer of foam adds welcome cushion, warmth and grip to a fibreglass or plastic seat. You can cleverly channel your seat pad to sit above, rather than in, any water that pools below your butt.
When you are seated in your kayak properly with your feet on your pegs, your legs should be comfortably bent with your thighs resting flat against the bottom of the cockpit rim or the thigh braces. If your legs don’t reach the thigh braces, you’ll either need to raise your seat so your legs don’t have to bend up as much to reach the thigh braces, pad the thigh braces down to meet your thighs, or raise the angle of the seat to bring your legs up to the thigh braces.
Make sure the seat comfortably supports your butt and the backs of your legs. Sometimes the front edge of a short kayak seat or even a long seat at the wrong angle will apply pressure to your hamstrings. Even minimal constant pressure can reduce circulation and pinch nerves causing anything from cold feet to tingling, numbness, pain and, in the case of airline “economy class syndrome,” even death. The solution is a seat of the correct length and angle to provide support with no pressure points. A short seat can be extended using blocks of foam glued to the front of the seat and the floor.
2 Thighs
You have already planned out your thigh braces when deciding how much foam to add to your seat. Proper-fitting thigh braces provide points of contact so that you feel like a part of your kayak rather than just sitting in it. Being in contact with the boat adds more control for tilting manoeuvres.
Thigh braces can be as simple as a flat piece of foam glued to the underside of the cockpit or elaborately shaped works of art that wrap around and hook the inner thigh to keep it in place. Strive for as much contact as possible which might mean some getting in and out and more carving and shaping to find the correct angle that meets your leg.
Hip pads are the simplest performance improvement you can make to your kayak. Kayak seats are often made quite wide to accommodate all sizes of paddlers. Hip pads fill the gap between your hips and the edge of the seat so that you feel the kayak beside you. Tilting is now easier, and holding an edge is more comfortable. Like thigh braces, hip pads can be simply a thin layer of foam glued to the seat pillar to prevent you from sliding side-to-side or they can wrap overtop of your thighs to help hold you into the boat once you’ve mastered the roll.
4 Lower Back
Few paddlers are disciplined enough to sit erect in their seats for hours on end to maintain the natural position of the spine. So kayak companies have come to the rescue with backrests. Kayakers don’t need backrests like park benches, however. They need back support. When you lean back even slightly onto a backrest, your pelvis rolls forward as the spine bends outward, stretching the ligaments in your back. It’s the stretching of the ligaments that leads to fatigue, pain and even muscle spasm after a long day on the water. The best sitting position for the lower back emulates its curvature when standing, using stomach muscles to hold that upright position. This upright position is the best position for maximizing torso rotation and making powerful, effective strokes.
Backrests typically bolt to the back of the kayak seat and don’t provide the adjustable lumbar support of a custom-installed backband. A backband works independently of the seat and can be adjusted up or down to fit your lumbar position and then tightened to hold you upright taking the pressure off your stomach muscles.
5 Feet
Our poor feet get stuffed up inside the kayak and forgotten about. Big paddlers must ensure that their feet fit in the cockpit with every seasonal combination of paddling footwear. Smaller paddlers have a different problem: sometimes they can only reach foot pedals with their toes. To solve this problem, glue a piece of foam to the pedal and/or pad the bottom of the kayak with a layer of foam to raise the heels until the balls of the feet contact the pedals. Anyone can benefit from a thin layer of foam under the heels for barefoot comfort, and/or a layer of rubber under the heels to prevent sandy footwear from rubbing holes in the boat.
This article was first published in the Early Summer 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
An overhead shot of a pile of foam pieces and other tools to outfit the cockpit of a sea kayak. | Feature photo: Adventure Kayak staff
Saint John, New Brunswick, is Canada’s oldest incorporated city. With a designation like that, you can be sure there’s history around every corner or, for the kayaker, around every point.
This is particularly true of Partridge Island. This rocky outcrop of approximately 25 acres is located in Saint John Harbour just over a kilometre offshore of the city’s his- toric uptown at Fort Dufferin. Now a National and Provincial Historic Site, Partridge Island was once a major immigration processing centre. It has been attached to the mainland by a breakwater since 1963 but today is off-limits to the public. But you can get a good view of this important piece of Canadian and North American history from a kayak.
Partridge Island’s story begins, according to local aboriginal folklore, when the god Glooscap broke the dam built by the Great Beaver on the St. John River. The ensuing flood deposited part of the dam right in the harbour, just west of the present-day river mouth, creating the island Qual-m’kay-gam-ik. When Samuel de Champlain entered the harbour in 1604, he renamed the island after its population of partridges.
Guarding the entrance to the busy seaport of Saint John, Partridge Island has caused many shipwrecks since Champlain’s day. The lighthouse, installed in 1791, was the first in New Brunswick and only the third in Canada. But it took the installation of a foghorn in 1859 to make shipping much safer in this frequently foggy harbour. This was the world’s first steam-operated foghorn, a tech- nology invented by Saint John resident Robert Foulis and subsequently used worldwide. Today, Partridge Island is owned by the federal government and still operated as a working light station. The blinking light stands on the island’s highest point and is clearly visible from every direction.
You can see this light from McLaren’s Beach. On the Saint John mainland west of Partridge Island, McLaren’s Beach is probably the most popular put-in spot for local paddlers and the best place to begin your trip. It’s only 15 minutes by car from the city centre and is relatively sheltered from the winds and waves of the Bay of Fundy.
From here, the island is a picturesque paddle of about four kilometres eastward. With harbour seals for company, you pass small, rocky beaches alternating with 40-foot cliffs. Perched on the cliffs are houses with Bay of Fundy views that most people can only dream about.
BOAT TRAFFIC AND COLD WATERS ON THE BAY OF FUNDY
Before you set off, make sure you check the weather and be prepared for open-ocean conditions. The Bay of Fundy’s waters are notoriously cold—about four to six degrees Celcius all year long. And away from the shelter of McLaren’s Beach, you’re exposed to the winds that prevail from the southwest, blowing up from the mouth of the Bay from spring through fall.
Approaching the island from the west, you’ll stay clear of the major shipping lanes, but you should still watch out for boat traffic. Also be prepared to encounter fog, which can roll in very quickly, often with the rising tide.
The tides of the Bay of Fundy are the largest in the world, with a range of up to 40 feet in some places. In Saint John the tide can vary 25 feet and rises amazingly fast, so if you leave your kayak on a beach make sure it is above the high-water mark.
This trip can be completed anytime, but at low tide you’ll encounter more rocks. About halfway between McLaren’s Beach and the island you pass Shag Rocks, completely covered at high tide but exposed to the breaking swell at lower levels. You can avoid the rocks by paddling closer to shore.
As you approach Partridge Island, imagine yourself as a hopeful immigrant seeing North America for the first time. The island served as a quarantine station between 1832 and 1942. Fifteen thousand immigrants came ashore here in the year 1847 alone. Most of them were starving Irish escaping the Potato Famine. In that infamous year, 2,000 immigrants died of typhus. Six hundred were buried in unmarked graves in the three small, fenced graveyards on the island’s southern edge. It is sad to think of these people whose hopes of a better life in the New World ended so soon.
Visible high above the wild shrubs is a 40-foot Celtic cross erected in 1927 in memory of the unfortunate immigrants and the doctor, Patrick Collins, who also died of typhus while trying to cure them. In all, including some of the residents and soldiers who came to the island later, 1,200 people have been buried on this unimposing scrap of land.
Directly west and about 20 meters from the Celtic cross is a tall lookout. This is one of several military emplacements that attest to the island’s long military history. Partridge Island was first fortified during the war of 1812 and was continuously manned from then until the Fenian raids in 1866. It was manned again to protect the harbour during both the First and Second World Wars, although no shots were ever fired.
MAKING HISTORY ACCESSIBLE ONCE AGAIN
Now the island has been closed to the public for several years. The wooden buildings have all been either demolished or burnt by vandals who have sneaked across the breakwater. There is also concern that the residual ash from the coal that was used as fuel while the island was populat- ed may be an environmental and health hazard. Saint John is embarking on a waterfront development project and part of that is an attempt to open Partridge Island to the public. It would be wonderful if this important part of our history becomes accessible once again.
Once you’ve explored the shoreline of Partridge Island and soaked up enough history, head back toward your put-in at McLaren’s Beach. It’s not recommended that you paddle east beyond Partridge Island across the harbour mouth or down the east side of the breakwater toward the city. The tides and currents at the mouth of the St. John River cause rough conditions in these areas.
If you want to keep paddling, continue west past McLaren’s Beach for two kilometres, around Sheldon Point and past an old fishing weir to Saint’s Rest Beach. Less than two kilometres offshore from Saint’s Rest is Manawagonish Island, a nature preserve with cliffs and inlets for the kayaker to investigate. At the west end of Saint’s Rest is the Irving Nature Park. This area is a popular destination for beachcombers, kite flyers and hikers—a great place to stop for lunch, stretch your legs, and talk to the locals about your historical discoveries.
Doug Scott is a full-time instructor at the New Brunswick Community College and a part-time wooden kayak builder and paddling enthusiast.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
“They’re too heavy, too bulky and too slow to use for tripping.” That was my mindset about tripods until I attended a weekend workshop on field photography with Galen Rowell.
The renowned climbing and adventure photographer, who died in a plane crash last year, published over 10 books and hundreds of photography articles including a regular monthly column in Outdoor Photographer magazine. One of his last books, My Tibet, was endorsed by the Dalai Lama. And Rowell used a tripod for approximately 95 percent of his shots.
At the workshop, I watched in awe as Rowell set up and took five different location shots using his tripod as I was just finishing my first hand-held composition. I came to realize that what I thought was magic actually came from years of experimentation with equipment in rough locations around the world. By the end of that weekend I was convinced that Galen’s ideas could work for kayaking photographers.
After several years of trial and error, I developed a system that would work for the unique conditions of kayaking. I no longer missed out on the advantages of a tripod—sharper, better- exposed and better-composed images—just because I was travelling light in the wilderness. All it took were some simple modifications of equipment and adaptations of technique, which I’ve outlined below.
HOW TO MAKE YOUR TRIPOD TRIP-FRIENDLY
Tape foam water-pipe insulation around the upper part of the legs. This protects the legs from dings and scratches and insulates your hands from the metal in cold weather.
Tape any sharp corners on the pod to avoid poking a hole in drybags or boats.
Loop a length of webbing around the legs and attach it to the head of the pod to use as a shoulder strap when hiking.
Get a long, narrow drybag for your tripod. This keeps grit out of the telescoping leg joints, saves a tremendous amount of wear on the legs, makes the tripod more likely to float if it goes overboard, and gives you more packing options.
You can bungee the drybag to the stern deck over the rear hatch. This keeps the tripod relatively handy.
If conditions are choppy, you can stow the tripod in the cockpit for more stability.
After paddling, rinse off the fully extended legs with clean, fresh water and let them dry completely.
TRIPOD TECHNIQUES FOR THE FIELD
On uneven ground make the tripod as level and stable as possible. Scrunch the feet down solidly into soft surfaces such as sand or snow before you attach the camera.
In high wind conditions hang your camera bag or a daypack from the centre post or over the legs to add stability.
If you forget your cable release, use the self-timer for scenics. Set the timer at two seconds or as short a delay as possible.
When panning the camera to shoot a moving subject at a slow shutter speed, unlock the ball head, jam your face against the camera, hold onto the lens, pivot smoothly and squeeze off the shot. Don’t stop panning until after you have fired.
If your face is not behind the camera, blocking the light entering the eyepiece, there is a good chance you will get some badly overexposed shots from stray light bouncing around in the camera. Put your hat or bandana over the camera eyepiece.
Get in the habit of not extending the centre post, which effectively turns your tripod into a monopod and reduces stability.
If your camera has a mirror lock-up feature, use it to eliminate vibration from the mirror dropping down on shutter release. More vibration occurs in the 1/15 to 1/30 shutter speed range than in longer shutter speeds.
Try the Galen Rowell method of shooting. Spread the tripod legs but don’t extend them. Snap the camera onto the tripod. Focus, compose and shoot. With a little practice you will be shooting almost as quickly as with handheld shooting.
On the open Atlantic Ocean just north of Reykjavik, Iceland, the world’s most northern capital city, the shriek of a blow horn launches a dozen kayaks into a paddling frenzy. I’m by far the slowest paddler. My kayak bounces feverishly like a floating cork on monster waves. Huge cresting walls of water roll toward me and I plunge into deep troughs. I watch the landmarks on my right and barely creep forward against a frigid North Atlantic wind.
In July, 2002, I visited Iceland for the first time and had the unexpected honour of breaking into the male-dominated paddling scene in the small fishing town of Isafjordur. There, I met the singular Halldor Sveinbjornsson, Iceland’s de facto ambassador of kayaking. He encouraged me to return to Iceland later in the year to compete in the prestigious Hvammsvik marathon. He even offered to loan me a sleek Italian “Sardinia Qajaq” and began calling me the “First Lady”—because, he explained, I’d be the first woman to race the 42 kilometres from Reykjavik to Hvammsvik.
Usually I paddle only because I love to be immersed in nature. I paddle to escape my daily city life, to keep my body and mind healthy and for the excitement of exploring and travelling. I’m creatively inspired by the places I visit and by the beauty of my surroundings. Whether paddling for an hour, a day, or a week, I feel renewed, revitalized. To paddle for speed and recognition, racing 42 kilometres almost nonstop, is something com- pletely different, and suddenly I wonder what I’m doing here, and if I’ll make it.
Sea kayaking became popular in Iceland about a decade later than in North America. Only in the last five or six years has Iceland seen a dramatic increase in the number of paddlers. Halldor Sveinbjornsson has made a significant contribution to this growth. Halldor and Hvammsvik marathon race organizer Petur Gislason helped import the first mass-produced sea kayaks to Iceland by the container load from England and Italy. Now there are likely over a thousand sea kayakers with their own boats in Iceland. Not bad for an island with a total population of 287,000.
Halldor’s list of paddling achievements is almost as long as the coast of the Westfjords where he lives and paddles. This charismatic, middle-aged family man is a printer and photogra- pher, half-owner of the local print shop and newspaper in Isafjordur. When he’s not working, the level-four BCU paddler is busy promoting paddling, introducing it into the local high school curriculum, teaching rolling clinics in the local pool, and training up-and-coming marathoners like Sveinbjorn Kristjansson, a lanky 19-year-old who won the Hvammsvik race in 2001 and 2002.
THE OPPORTUNITY TO BECOME FIRST LADY
In March, 2002, I replied to an Internet invitation to join a local Icelandic paddling group on a trip to the Westfjords’ Hornstrandir coast, a wild and intricate network of fjords that comprises 10 percent of Iceland’s landmass but 50 percent of its shoreline.
Halldor, who posted the invitation, probably assumed that an American male would respond, not a determined Canadian female. The news that a woman would join their trip sent quite a buzz through the local paddling group.
Halldor, himself the 2000 Hvammsvik winner, had assembled the equivalent of Iceland’s Olympic sea kayaking team for the trip in Hornstrandir. The boys included Halldor’s racing protege Sveinbjorn Kristjansson, who became the Icelandic marathon champion in his first year of paddling; marathon contender Baldur Petursson, who instructs for “Kayakklubburinn,” the Icelandic kayak club in Reykjavik; the formidable Gummi (Gudmundar) Breiddal, a natural athlete who mountain biked across the vast interior Icelandic desert; and Sig. Petur Hilmarsson, a four-star BCU paddler who is truly as strong as a Viking. None of these men had paddled any extensive distance with a woman.
“My friends are a little bit afraid to have a woman in the group, but I’m not,” said Halldor, trying to allay my concerns about being the only woman. Halldor remarked that the group would eventually have to let women join.
It took much strong, energetic paddling to prove myself and be accepted into the group. My reward was the invitation to the Hvammsvik marathon. This was testament to Halldor’s openness to making the sport less gender-biased. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to become “First Lady.”
About 14 kilometres into the race, we round Kjalarnes, a cliff of basalt at the mouth of a fjord called Hvalfjordur. Ahead, the fjord’s outgo- ing tide meets the incoming seas over a shallow, rocky reef, creating a taunting barricade of two-metre standing waves. Out of twelve kayakers competing, including myself, the token female, seven paddlers are ahead of me, two have quit and two have already capsized in the rough water and are flagging down the rescue Zodiac.
“I’m not going through that! No way!” I wave my paddle to the Zodiac for assistance. I flop into the boat like a hooked fish and my kayak is pulled in.
Back on the beach, I meet Halldor, who has also stopped racing. A herniated disk—a furniture-moving injury from earlier in the season—has made paddling in the rough conditions too painful for him. A sense of failure presses heavily on me. I decide I can’t drop out after coming this far, and I ask organizer Petur Gislason for permission to continue. He agrees and Halldor offers to finish the race with me.
We are in the sheltered fjord now. With the rough conditions of the open ocean behind me, my confidence soars. Halldor’s kayak slices effortlessly through the water beside me and I focus on keeping up with a steady, rhythmical cadence.
The outcome of the marathon seems less important now as it feels like a day paddle with a good friend. The afternoon sun highlights the verdant mountains and the shore’s tidy farms. Kittiwakes and gulls fly overhead within a couple of metres. An elegant male Harlequin duck swims within a metre of Halldor’s boat and, at one point, two groups of puffins fly across my bow.
When the end in Hvammsvik comes into view, a satin-smooth sheet of water spreads before us for the first time today, framed by the towering basalt columns of the shore.
Sveinbjorn, Baldur, Gummi and Petur have finished number one, two, three and four respectively, and they wait on the shore to cheer our arrival. The race officials have already removed the finish markers. We are last to drag our boats ashore, a couple of hours behind the winners with a time of 6:42. Halldor’s 2000 race record of 4:32 stands firm, and now he jokes that he can boast the fastest and the slowest record times.
AN ALMOST MARATHON
In a barn at the race’s finish in Hvammsvik, the dozen racers and their families feast on grilled lamb. Petur Gislason recognizes my “almost marathon” and presents me with a lovely gold medal bearing the image a sea kayaker.
Following the banquet, I soak away my fatigue in one of Iceland’s natural hotsprings. I’m disappointed with my lack of courage to paddle through the race’s roughest section, but satisfied with what I did accomplish.
After I return to Canada, I hear that the water conditions were worse than anything in the race’s four-year history. Considering this, Porsteinn Gudmundsson, president of Kayakklubburinn, has ruled that anyone who skipped the rough-water section will still be credited with a valid finish.
First Lady of Hvammsvik: Maybe Halldor’s nickname for me was correct after all.
Wendy Killoran is an educator and avid paddler from London, Ontario. She plans to return to Iceland this summer to further explore the Westfjords under the midnight sun.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
Guides earn about $150 a day, or $100 a day less than the equivalent in the backcountry skiing or fly fishing industries. | Feature illustration: Scott Van de Sande
Sea kayak guiding and instruction are currently controlled by the Sea Kayak Guides Association of British Columbia, the Canadian Association of Sea Kayak Guides and the Canadian Recreational Canoeing Association. These organizations, while claiming to represent guides and instructors, tend to serve the interests of outfitters and kayak schools, or worse, their own bureaucratic ends. No organization serves the guides’ and instructors’ interests, and as a result, the industry is now subsidized by the low fees paid to its employees. Until this is corrected, the sea kayak guiding/instructional industry will remain in its present adolescent phase, with employers fishing from a pool of cheap, enthusiastic beginners at the cost of experience. It is time that guides and instructors got together to establish a guild, like a union, to ensure fair pay and grassroots control.
Why the time is right for a sea kayaking guides’ guild
As I see it, there are three parties with legitimate interests: the guides and instructors, the clients, and the outfitters and schools. All three of these principal players stand to benefit from having properly paid and equipped professionals and all will benefit from having a truly effective guild for guides and instructors.
Guides will clearly benefit by an increase in pay, enabling them to live at the same standard as their peers. Guides earn about $150 a day, or $100 a day for an assistant—$100 a day less than the equivalent in the backcountry skiing or fly fishing industries. Sea kayak guides frequently work 16-hour days and are on call for 24 hours, responsible for safety, medical emergencies, and even cooking. They must undergo costly sea kayak training and upgrading (approved or supplied by one of the controlling organizations) and maintain current advanced wilderness first aid certification. They are also required to provide and maintain their own personal equipment, including VHF radio and a medical kit. Paid adequately, guides won’t need to leave sea kayaking and get a “real job” in order to save money for their own business or to support a family.
Guides earn about $150 a day, or $100 a day less than the equivalent in the backcountry skiing or fly fishing industries. | Feature illustration: Scott Van de Sande
Clients will then have a better chance of getting a professional and experienced guide or instructor. The client will pay more for the service, but that is fair so long as they get good value and can see that they are getting good value. If the guides’ guild works closely with owners, prices can be raised gradually and openly in a way that does not throw the market into shock. Once clients understand the issues, few will begrudge the extra cost associated with a superior service.
Relationships between a guides’ guild and employers need not disintegrate into a classical them and us confrontation. The outfitting and instruction companies will benefit from a guild because they will have a satisfied, professional team of long-term employees. They will eventually find they are making more money since profit is usually figured as a percentage of gross income. It is in everyone’s interest to have an experienced, reliable workforce. By extending the industry vision beyond the tooth and claw scramble for clients where the cheapest equates with most desirable, confrontation between the guild and the employers can be avoided.
New guild would give guides a fresh start
You might argue that guides should take control of one of the existing organizations, but each has its own baggage and is doing a reasonable job of serving the interests of the outfitters and schools. The CRCA, many say, has no business being involved with the sea kayak industry at all. Better to leave the existing organizations in the corner sniping at each other.
The new guild will only offer full voting rights to guides and instructors who are not regular employers—reducing the risk of conflict of interest. Its mission should be to serve the interests of sea kayak guides and instructors, not outfitters or schools, while specifying that all three parties at the table have to come out winners. As well as dealing with wages, the guild will become involved with the technical and business education of its members. In this respect it will act like a trade association promoting both professionalism of guides and instructors as well as the growth of the sea kayaking industry.
Sea kayaking jobs provide seasonal work that appeals to youth and, as we know, there is an endless supply of youth. They’re born every day, and the community colleges are pumping out hopeful, idealistic ecotourism graduates who will work for peanuts just to go sea kayaking. But once the blush of youthful enthusiasm has passed, our professional guides leave the industry for real jobs and take their experience with them. By ensuring that guiding provides a proper living to a mature individual, a guides’ guild will help the sea kayaking industry grow up.
John Dowd, author of the book Sea Kayaking, is one of the founders of the sea kayaking industry and has been recognized as one of the 12 most influential people in North American paddlesports.
This article was first published in the Early Summer 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Guides earn about $150 a day, or $100 a day less than the equivalent in the backcountry skiing or fly fishing industries. | Feature illustration: Scott Van de Sande
He’d walked up to the right crowd with the wrong question: “What kayak should I buy?”
He might as well have wandered into a Turkish rug shop and asked what broadloom should he buy; or stood at the entrance to a county fall fair midway and screamed, “What game should I play?” Standing with me was a kayak company sales representative, a kayak instructor and a well-travelled wilderness guide.
He had a pair of black Vuarnets hanging on a string, was wearing an alligator golf shirt, and carried a plastic bag stretching at the handles with travel brochures, catalogues, beef jerky and a pound of maple fudge stuffed inside. I knew this was going to be good, so I pulled up a piece of trade show carpet and sat down to enjoy the show.
The blue one looks nice. | Feature photo: Jamie McCaffrey/Flickr
“Well,” started the sales rep while the others waited their turn, “you’ll want a quality-built kayak. Buying a kayak is like buying family jewellery…you want Kevlar…and you’d be looking at $4,600….”
“Yes, but what about these…,” he tried before the instructor took over.
“You’ll want a boat that will perform all 45 fundamental strokes and 34 essential self rescues. You are familiar with the stirrup re-entry aren’t you?”
With a blank stare he looked my way. I shrugged. The instructor went on about outside tilt reducing the effective footprint and semi-hard chines versus more traditional “V” hulls.
By now his bag of shwag was on the floor at his ankles and he was leaning against a rack of paddles. Between nodding in uncomprehending agreement, he’d glance at his watch and catch glimpses of the hang gliding video playing in the next booth.
“Oh yes,” said the wilderness guide (it was his turn). “We used those boats exclusively when we headed up Belcher Channel on our circumnavigation of Devon Island six years ago. Talk about a well-behaved bow in confused seas—will you be coming to my slide show at four?” Not waiting for the answer, the three of them burst into debating the reintroduction of traditional kayak building to the Inuit peoples.
I was amazed this guy listened for so long. Despite the industry’s best attempts to baffle him with design jargon, exotic strokes and epic tales of misadventure, the appeal of kayaking was too strong. Winter gives us time to read enough to be experts and embellish our paddling stories, but guys like this are examples of what kayaking is really about, putting your butt in a seat and a paddle in your hand and getting on the water.
Finally he turned to me and asked again, “What kayak should I buy?” He was pointing to two recreational kayaks resting on the carpet beside us. I told him I thought the blue was nice.
“You’re right.” He pulled a gold card from the front right pocket of his khakis, grabbed a paddle from the rack he was leaning against and handed them to the sales rep, “Excuse me. I’ll take the blue one and this here paddle.”
This article was first published in the Early Summer 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
The blue one looks nice. | Feature photo: Jamie McCaffrey/Flickr
With Dagger scaling back their whitewater canoe division, there’s a gap in the market for smaller start-up companies like Raven Works, which began building boats in 2000 and makes the 17’ Nemesis (16’11”) tandem whitewater tripping boat.
Design
Most whitewater tripping boats are a compromise between efficiency on the flats and manoeuvrabity and dryness in the rapids. Lakewater tripping canoes have sharp lines that offer efficiency but the resulting low volume usually leaves whitewater paddlers crashing through waves rather than riding over them. Whitewater boats sacrifice speed with blunt, voluminous ends for buoyancy. Nemesis designer Skip Izon set out to combine the best of both.
The bottom section of the Nemesis’ bow and stern has the sharp lines of a touring canoe. Above that the hull flares radically. The idea is to give the boat a waterline profile that’s sharp for speed in lakewater, while the flare sheds water from the bow and stern. Izon also gave the Nemesis an asymmetrical hull, which adds straight-ahead speed but means it’s not intended to be spun around and paddled solo from the bow seat.
The hull
We took a prototype of the Nemesis on a four-day trip down the Petawawa River and found that not only was it great on the lake sections, but the rocker—four inches at the bow and two inches at the stern—was enough to let it snap in and out of eddies. With plenty of tumblehome at the paddling positions, the boat felt narrow and it was easy to plant quality strokes.
But we weren’t convinced that our Nemesis- in-progress fit its billing as a big water tripping boat. Other paddlers could see the water shedding off the bow flare as designed to but there just wasn’t enough boat above the water to keep us dry.
A quick phone call after our trip saw us set up with a much deeper and drier production model. Izon had added almost five inches to the depth for a full 21 inches in the bow, 15.5 in the centre and 20 in the stern, ensuring a dry ride.
The interior
One result of the Nemesis’ chisel-sharp entry lines is the notable lack of interior volume in the bottom of the bow and stern. If you’re packing flotation this isn’t an issue, but if you need the space for gear, your drybags better be long and narrow. Bow paddlers used to ample legroom have to get used to the tapered bow.
The webbing seats are bolted to aluminum hanger brackets rather than ash spindles, a durable system unlikely to break or rot. The aluminum flexes, allowing the seat to shift side-to- side. The seats are set quite low and can easily be raised for tall and big-footed paddlers by inserting wood spacers between the seat and the bracket. There is plenty of room mid-ship for tripping gear although you’ll have to re-drill the vinyl-covered aluminum gunwales and move the thwarts to accommodate four blue barrels, if that’s your system.
No compromise
Unless you’re fortunate enough to paddle exclusively continuous mountain rivers, choosing a whitewater expedition boat has always meant choosing between flatwater efficiency and whitewater performance. What sets the Nemesis apart is its hull shape designed to eliminate the compromise.
Specs
Length: 16’11”
Width: max 38”, waterline 33.75”
Depth: bow 21”, centre 15.5”, stern 20”
Rocker: bow 4”, stern 2.5”
Shape: asymmetrical, buoyancy 53% aft
Recommended capacity: designed 400-700 lbs, max 1,200 lbs
Weight: 75 lbs in Royalex
MSRP: $1,095 USD / $1,725 CAD
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great boat reviews, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.
This article first appeared in the Summer 2003 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.
This article was first published in the Early Summer 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. 
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great boat reviews, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions 