“A few springs ago, the idea came to me that my life would have been totally different had it not been for my association with this river.” – Hugh MacLennan, Seven Rivers of Canada
While not yet recognized as a separate scientific discipline, River Alchemy does have its fair share of ardent practitioners, and with that its own culture, words, and ideas. It has been practiced for centuries by those who use paddles, fishing rods, watercolours, or those who just like to get their feet wet. Accumulated knowledge has been passed on via apprenticeship and folk tales, only rarely making it into anything as formal as a published book. Yet some River Alchemy texts do appear—books of words that identify the greater powers manifesting themselves in moving water, and books about what it is we “get” from being around rivers.
I picked up a 1994 edition of Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn before a fall river trip. Two weeks to run the Green River’s Desolation Canyon, a section that normally takes five days, leaves lots of time for hiking side canyons, eating extrava- gant one-pot meals, and reading. Each evening we would bundle-up in down and fleece, pull out the book, stare up at the stars, and read to each other by the fire.
Twain’s 1885 granddaddy of all river books has created more river quotes than any other: “…by-and-by it got sort of lonesome, and so I went and set on the bank and listened to the currents washing along, and counted the stars and drift-logs and rafts that come down, and then went to bed; there ain’t no better way to put in time when you are lonesome.”
And the favourite of raft guides: “We said there warn’t no home like on a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don’t. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.”
A coming-of-age novel dealing with slavery and the stultifying effects of “civi- lized” society, Huckleberry Finn has another message, one about rivers, paths, free- dom and choice. Cloaked in descriptions of the Mississippi and Huck’s log raft, the analogy is clear to those who spend time near water: growing up, traveling the stream of one’s life, learning, seeing the world for what it is, and seeking one’s own path.
Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha doesn’t sound like a good book. Judging it by the cover I managed to leave this book unread even though we “studied” it in high school. Years later, I discovered that Siddhartha is a River Alchemist’s text through and through, a story of one man’s search for happiness. The search leads to the river and a ferryman who offers to be a guide. After wandering around aimlessly for many years, Siddhartha accepts the help, but is told to look into the river to find what he is looking for: “‘It is a beautiful river,’ he said to his companion. ‘Yes’ said the ferry- man, ‘It is a very beautiful river. I love it above everything. I have often listened to it, gazed at it and I have always learned something from it. One can learn much from a river.’”
Hugh MacLennan’s Seven Rivers of Canada is now long out of print and can only be found in libraries or used book stores. Seven Rivers is based on a series of articles that appeared in Maclean’s magazine in the late 1950s and represents a time when society was just about to launch into the technology revolution. While not as heavy as Twain or Hesse, MacLennan uses rivers to identify who we are and the things we feel as Canadians. MacLennan paints our past on a screen, captures the elusive idea of Canada’s vast spaces, and anchors the streams that run through our lives. While a journalist by trade, MacLennan writes beyond the facts and hints at some greater ideas:
“I wanted to think like a river even though a river doesn’t think. Because every river on this earth, some of them against incredible obstacles, ultimately finds its way through the labyrinth to the universal sea.”
MacLennan identified in 1961 that Canadians were moving away from our rivers. Time has proven him correct, I fear.
Of all River Alchemists, Barry Lopez is the poet, and his River Notes is so profound and descriptive it drips with water in the reading. His swirling eddies draw the reader in, move them downstream, and delicately and surprisingly drop them with his famous single-sentence endings: “It is to the thought of the river’s bank that I most frequently return…and their disappearance here on the beach as the river enters the ocean. It occurs to me that at the very end the river is suddenly abandoned, that just before it’s finished the edges disappear completely, that in this moment a whole life is revealed.”
Lopez’s short stories are an exploration of the fine details of rivers and an exploration of the human soul.
There are some books that can be read over and over, and The River Why by David James Duncan is one I’ve been through a dozen times. While there are thou- sands of cheesy books attempting to address the “big question” in life, this book speaks to River People: “I couldn’t trade the trail…for a straight and narrow way—not when water’s ways, meandering and free flowing, had always been my love.” This is a story about a goofy fly fisherman who goes on a quest to fish every day of his life. He becomes a hermit, goes a little insane, gets it back together and falls in love. Proving, however, that River Alchemists find important things in unlikely places (such as fly fishing love novels), Duncan clearly writes the answer to the aforementioned big question. I’m not going to tell you what it is.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine.
While at my local pool, I stumbled across one of paddling’s dirtiest little secrets. As the public swim closed down, these punters came in carrying paddles, caged helmets and what looked like kayaks. My first thought was cool, pool sessions: Real whitewater paddlers keeping their skills sharp, or maybe a group of newbies learning in a controlled environment before graduating to the river. But why the helmets? I stuck around to take a deeper look.
What the hell? Slim narrow boats with foam bumpers on the ends? Grown men chasing a ball around like dogs? They look really stupid! MAKE THEM STOP!
“What is this nutty game?” I asked one of the helmeted fools. “Kayak polo,” he proclaimed, as if proud of it. When I asked him “How does this help you in whitewater?” he replied with the clincher: “I don’t paddle whitewater.”
I got the hell out of there.
This is not kayaking my friends. No, it is not. Polo is just one of the secrets that we keep. There’s more. Take the image of our sport. It’s an outdoor sport, a “healthy pursuit.” We have everyone fooled. Just look at the TV ads. Watch those lean, hard bodies driving around in their cars with boats on the top. Or the shapely women bounding down steep drops for a sporty fragrance.
Watching TV, you’d think that whitewater paddlers train at the gym three times a week and eat a balanced diet of birdseed and vitamin supplements. But take a look around. We eat like crap. We eat potato chips, soda pop and deep-fried food. And don’t forget our beer tubbies!
Look at your belly, you could do to lose a few pounds. Some of you may even spark up a big fatty before putting on. Healthy pursuit, my ass.
Now how many of you are in some form of pain because of paddling? Maybe your shoulder hurts when you raise it above your head. Or that ear infection really never stops bleeding. Most of us keep a bottle of ibuprofen in our glove com- partments for lower backs, elbows, wrists—all our joints.
How healthy is a sport where the best paddler in the world is partially deaf? Have you ever spoken to EJ? You practically have to yell.
Another lie we project upon the masses is that we’re young, we’re hip, we’re extreme. We’re thirty pushing forty, with desk jobs and sensible cars with baby seats. With white knuck- les and nails dug-in we cling to the idea of being young. But we’re a far cry from the skateboaders and surfers of the world. It’s almost embarassing. Calling us extreme is like calling curlers athletes.
Just like a US president, we don’t talk about our dirty little secrets, we don’t even acknowl- edge they exist. Because to admit to being a kayak polo player would wreck our hip image. To start telling the truth would mean you’d have to notice that the nachos you’re scarfing are point- ing right at those shapely love handles sagging over your boardies.
Ben Aylsworth—paddler and kayaking filmmaker—just turned 30. His shoulder, elbow and lower back hurt. And if you ever mention you saw him playing kayak polo, he will kill you!
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine.
Not long ago most whitewater kayakers evolved from whitewater tripping canoeists. This is not a Darwinian rant about kayakers being a more evolved species. My point is that if early kayakers wanted to explore a river that didn’t have roadside day-trip access they would, or at least could, have jumped back into a whitewater tripping canoe. In fact many were canoeists for their vacation and kayakers on the weekends to just go out and play.
I’m not so sure the new-school paddlers of kayaking’s boom era will ever bother to learn to tandem canoe. They could of course,not much is different. The moving water principles are the same and kayakers more or less know the strokes. But they are kayakers. They own kayaks and kayaking equipment. In some psychological way, two blades fit better with their collective self-image than one.
It is unfortunate however that this new type of paddler may never know adventure, may never see a remote river or pore over topographic maps, tracing and one day paddling a thin blue line miles from SUV access.They may never know their physical and mental limits, work as a team or the grander notion of river travel and exploration. Park-and-play whitewater is many things. Accessible. Exciting. Competitive. Social. It is leading the snowboarding crowd to whitewater paddling. But in all its glory no one can say it is adventurous.
At our family Christmas dinner I found a book that must have been my grandfather’s— Blackflies and White Water by A.Tony Sloan, an accomplished canoe tripper of the late ‘70s. I have paddled many of the rivers Sloan writes about. Except I drove in and played only at the good sections, out in time for a greasy spoon dinner on the way home. My stories about the rivers would include dusty gravel roads, cartwheels and fried cheeseburgers. Sloan’s were about wilderness adventure, campfire camaraderie and the unparalleled thrill of negotiating and conquering treacherous rapids.The last thing a park-and-play paddler negotiated was an eddy line-up, and the last thing conquered was a Super Big Gulp at 7-11.
Expedition kayaking—packing all your gear into your whitewater kayak and going for more than a day—is whitewater kayaking with an adventurous spirit. It doesn’t have to be on a crazy-ass river, in a deep canyon or a far-away country, although it can be. Expedition kayaking is whitewater’s answer to ducking the boundary tape and escaping the lift lines into the back- country. It is whitewater canoe tripping without the cappuccino maker. I hope this issue’s feature “Romancing the Thin Blue Line” inspires some of you to dig out your old boats, the big boats that you haven’t been able to sell, stuff them full of gear, and explore. Buy some topo maps and paddle new rivers. I hope you sleep under the stars and put the spirit of adventure back into whitewater paddling.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine.
Raja Empat Islands and the Importance of Kayak Ecotourism
“Penyu! Penyu!” James points excitedly to something at the edge of the coconut grove. I see distinctive bulldozer-like tracks trace a path from the water’s edge to the place where he is pointing. He has found four sea turtle nests. The turtles must have come ashore to lay their eggs during last night’s full moon.
James (pronounced Jah mis) jabs a sharp stick into each of the roundly excavated holes and describes how yolk on the tip of the probe indicates freshly laid eggs. Soon, he holds what appears to be a rubbery white ping pong ball, dented on one side as if someone has applied just a little too much pressure to test its firmness.The rest of the eggs are probably already on a village dinner table—there won’t be any baby turtles emerging from these nests in the coming months.
I struggle to express my opposition to his taste for turtle with my feeble Indonesian vocabulary.“There’re not many left” is my awkward attempt to explain the complex conservation issue. He doesn’t seem to understand. It doesn’t help that on almost every dive and certainly every day, we see turtles.“Not many turtles” doesn’t make much sense to this local Papuan whose life experience doesn’t extend beyond the borders of one of the most biologically rich marine habitats in the world.
It’s my desire to “make a difference” that has landed me and two friends, Dave and Bo, firmly in the midst of this tropical wonder with James. I have explored a variety of exotic locales during the past 10 years searching for pristine destinations to dive and kayak, only to find each beautiful area spoiled by coral bleaching, illegal fishing or other negative human impacts. Last year, however, the Raja Empat islands put a sudden halt to my search.
These remote islands have somehow managed to escape the destruction that is commonplace elsewhere. But it’s only a matter of time before they’re “discovered.” Whether the discoverers will be illegal fishermen with their bombs, cyanide and gill nets, or sensitive ecotourists with kayaks and dive gear, depends in part on decisions that locals like James will make in the next few years.
That’s why I have returned to the Raja Empat: to assist in a shift to community-based conservation.A Papuan-run kayak operation would be a great start.That means turning local dugout-canoe fishermen like James into western-style sea kayak guides. But as I watch our prospective “ecoguide” attempt to harvest the eggs of an endangered sea turtle, I recognize that this may be harder than I thought.
Positioned just off the “Bird’s Head” of northwestern Papua (formerly Irian Jaya), the Raja Empat (Four Sultans) island group comprises several hundred emerald-green islands scattered over an area the size of Connecticut. Uplifted descendants of an ancient sea, some are sculpted mushroom-shaped creations draped with lush tropical growth and intersected by secret channels that hide burial caves and rock art. Others invite exploration with soaring ridgelines and towering forests that plummet to sugary white-sand beaches lined with coconut palms.Very few are inhabited save for the occasional pearl farm or tiny Papuan village.
The place is a biological gold mine. Awash in currents from three distinct seas, they contain perhaps the most important tropical marine ecosystem on the planet and are being heralded as the world epicenter of coral reef diversity by conservation groups and scientists. Renowned ichthyologist Gerald Allen established the world-record fish count here—283 species on a 200-metre stretch of reef. The sea is full of wild and whimsical creatures like the archerfish, which uses a well-aimed stream of “spit” to gun down unsuspecting insects from jungle branches. On land, there are varieties of monitor lizards, birds of para- dise, and cassowaries (an ostrich-like bird) that occur nowhere else on earth. Alfred Wallace, a contemporary of Charles Darwin and co-founder of evolutionary theory, spent years tromping around the Raja Empat.
Our adventure begins in Denver, Colorado. After three tedious days of airplanes and hotels. Travelling via Taipei, Singapore, Jakarta, Ujung Pandang, and finally the oil boomtown of Sorong, we step into a 13-metre dive boat for the ride to the base camp of Irian Diving, the area’s only tour operator. Max Ammer, once the owner of a Harley Davidson shop in the Netherlands, is the outfit’s garrulous owner and our resident Papua expert.
Max brims with entrepreneurial ideas for local people to jump-start grassroots conservation projects. One of his ideas is locally guided kayaking trips, and when I raved on my first visit about the area’s kayaking potential, he asked us to introduce a local islander to sea kayaking.
James is a new employee of Irian Diving. A shy 20-year- old Papuan from the nearby island of Batanta, he’s typical of the local youth whose alternative career might be the business of bomb fishing. Max thinks James’ youth is an asset, especially his resiliency and willingness to learn. But we are starting from scratch. James speaks no English and, at present, guided sea kayak trips are more of a dream than reality.
We begin our journey on the island of Fam. Some local fishermen come ashore wondering what a local Papuan like James is doing with us orang putih (white men). As the fishermen begin to curiously inspect our fold-up sea kayaks and assorted gadgetry, James points to one of our nautical charts and confidently traces our route to our final destination, the remote island of Wayag, 35 nautical miles to the north.There is obviously something about our plan that inspires a sense of pride for him. He grew up on the water and paddled a dugout canoe around the waters of Batanta Island from an early age, but few locals venture onto the open sea and none go as far as Wayag. It’s as much an adventure for him as it is for us.
The plan is to head north, hoping island to island, first to the massive island of Waigeo, then across much more exposed water to Kawe. From there, we will launch into the wide-open Philippine Sea, directly toward the uninhabited Wayag group, where we’ll rendezvous with Max and the Irian Diving crew.
At Fam lagoon we demonstrate rescue techniques, throwing in some comical sign language and facial expressions for added effect. I have James practice rotating his upper body, arms outstretched in exaggerated motion while he grins and nods his head to show that he under- stands how to use his torso rather than his arms to pad- dle. Once back on the water, he returns to arm paddling and I wonder if he was just pretending to understand.
Over the next several days, we face unusually rough conditions. In the evenings, I use a combination of arrows and crude pictures in the sand to describe the conditions that can occur when large seas run against a strong current or encounter a shallow reef. I emphasize the need for proper spacing of our kayaks. James gives a nod and grin, which eventually proves to be more of a nervous response than real acknowledgment. He seems blissfully ignorant about what may lie ahead.
Things with James are better in camp than on the water. One day, James trades two of our lures and line with some local fishermen for five good-sized fish.After he uses his machete to create a barbecue, Papuan style, he guts the fish, and soon we have a delicious meal from the sea. In his element, he is proud to show us his ingenuity and abili- ty to contribute something to the group.
We pass the time in camp snorkeling and beachcombing, often finding rare and exotic shells whose ornate and intricate patterns seem at odds with the slimy creatures that once resided inside. In the evening we keep watch for the“green flash”as the tropical sun seems to literally plunge from the sky.
James shows interest in some of my coral reef ID books, and we try to spot what we’ve seen during our underwater forays.We often venture into the darkness of the nighttime reef and are privy to bizarre nighttime crea- tures like a rare foot-long epaulette shark or 3-cm-long pygmy cuttlefish (a type of squid), which pulse with wild colour patterns as they hover, mating above the eel grass. Daytime snorkeling is just as good and I am always eager to take a peek underwater.
Each time we venture below the surface, there seems to be a new discovery awaiting us—a dugong (Pacific manatee), giant clams more than a metre across, and many wobeggone sharks, all extremely rare finds on any reef. On numerous occasions we swim with “herds” of burly bump- head parrotfish as they graze on the sprawling reefs, noisi- ly chomping away on coral polyps. I can’t help but laugh that the constant stream of crushed coral they are excret- ing is the same stuff I enjoy wiggling my toes in on the sandy beach. James has a good eye for spotting creatures in the wild, like the well-camouflaged and dangerous scor- pion fish, as well as in the books—a good sign for a poten- tial guide.
He even begins to open up.We have a brief male-bonding moment when he points to the Javanese woman on the front of my phrasebook and with a sheepish grin remarks, “Indah” (beautiful).We begin to describe our families and I discover he has three brothers and a sister as we take turns writing each family member’s name in my journal. He surprises me when he asks to write some- thing inside.After retreating to the shade of a coconut tree he returns with a somewhat bashful look, I am touched to see he has sketched a sunset and written a short poem.
We finally reach a sheltered beach on the north coast of Kawe, with only the long crossing remaining to Wayag. I survey the whitecapped Philippine Sea for over an hour. Faint outlines of the steep-walled Wayag group punctuate the northern horizon and I imagine the distant three- metre swells racing across miles of open sea, and then slamming into the narrow and rocky reef-guarded passages of the lagoon.
Paddling with James has not gone smoothly. On one occasion we needed to round an exposed point, which thrust us directly into the face of three-metre swells that were ricocheting wildly off cliffs to our left. At the worst possible moment, when we were all struggling to commu- nicate amidst the confusion, James stopped paddling, pulled out his sponge, and casually began wiping off his spray skirt. Bo and Dave had to stop quickly to avoid hit- ting him, losing precious momentum. Neither was pleased with the threat of capsize and being slammed into the rocks.Amazingly, James’ face and body language indicated he was thoroughly at ease. I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking, and I was frustrated by my inability to ask him for a detailed explanation, or to explain to him the sub- tleties of group kayak travel.
Thinking about my family back in Colorado, I realize the only way I’m getting from Kawe to Wayag is by motorized boat.
Two days later, we arrive at Wayag in the dark, after hitching a ride with the folks from Irian Diving. In the morning, I wake to an unfamiliar world. Lying on the beach, I strain to focus my sleepy eyes in the early morning light. I am more impressed by my first sight of Wayag than I ever could have imagined. Complex, multi-coloured vertical walls soar out of the lagoon. Everywhere I turn, there is lush verdant growth draping and clinging to every surface.
The days fly by as we dive unexplored reefs with James, Max, and Irian Diving’s “number-one” guide, Otto. Every day,Wayag reveals more of its treasures.There are hidden channels and entrances to secret bays, only naviga- ble by kayak. On the northern side, obscured from the usual southern approach, 100-metre limestone walls plum- met to a sea that stretches uninterrupted for more than 3,000 kilometres to the southern shoreline of Japan. The entire coast is punctuated with steep cliffs, deep caves, spectacular arches and secluded turtle-nesting beaches.
Evenings, the talk turns to conservation, and Max enthusiastically describes his ideas to empower the Papuan people to protect their islands against the influx of illegal fishing boats and other environmental threats— projects like the sustainable collection of live fish for aquariums and English classes for guides. He also proposes a series of ranger stations to deter bomb and cyanide fish- ing, which could double as eco-camps for guided kayak trips.We identify protected areas that would be suitable for beginning kayakers on our charts, figuring it would take less than a thousand dollars to build a fleet of fibre- glass kayaks on-site at Camp Kri.
All this talk makes me wonder, where does someone like James fit in? I ask him if he still would like to be a guide. He nods his head yes and agrees that it is important that he learn English to communicate with tourists and to share his knowledge of the natural world. Beyond that, I doubt he’s aware of the greater challenge of bridging the divide between a Papuan islander and western tourists. How can we help him understand the connection between paying eco-tourists and nature—that fish, turtles, and other life can be more valuable alive than dead, especially in the long run? He is strong, resilient, and curious—important qualities—but it will take time to build better judgment. I think back to our awkward introduction. We shook hands and our eyes met, then he modestly turned his face downward, though I did notice a friendly grin on his face. I couldn’t tell if he was shy, embarrassed, or just not used to dealing with westerners, but now I think it might have been a little of all three.
Otto, I hope, will be his mentor. Several years ago, Max immediately saw Otto’s potential, taught him to dive, and now would like him to take over Irian Diving. He is Papuan through and through—his family has strong ties to the Free Papua Movement—has successfully taught himself English, and seems to garner respect in every situation. He knows how to deal with the wide-ranging demands of tourists, be they Germans, French, Japanese, or Americans, and yet he seems firmly anchored in his Papuan world. He is smart and hard working.To me, Otto represents the future and James the potential of Papuan conservation.
Before dawn one morning at Wayag, I wake to see Otto paddling a kayak to a small island in the middle of the lagoon, one that is barely big enough to stand on. Strapped to the back of the kayak is a recently sprouted coconut tree. I am perplexed, so when he returns, I ask him what he was doing. He tells me it is a Papuan tradition. If you are the first to plant a coconut tree on an island and it survives, the island belongs to you for as long as you live. I am struck by the sym- bolism of this simple act. Patience, perseverance, tradition—if Papuans can bring these qualities to the conservation table, then maybe the Raja Empat have a future.
Tony Moats is a Boulder, Colorado-based freelance writer and educator. His kayak travels have taken him to the Carribean, Baja Mexico and various locales in Indonesia.
This article first appeared in the Winter 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
Skills: Photographing Sunsets and Using Backlighting. | Photo: Rick Matthews
Two of the most rewarding but challenging shots to control are sunsets and backlit subjects. True, anybody can point a camera and capture an orange sky, but understanding how to use the existing light and control your exposure will make the difference between just another sunset and a stunning photograph. Although sunsets and backlit photos look dramatically different, the exposure techniques are quite similar. By taking control of the camera’s exposure meter, you can make some choices, like whether to have rich dark shadows, or shadows that are more open, showing some detail.
The Golden Hour: Controlling Your Sunsets
Before sunset you have this huge burning highlight in the scene—the sun—that you have to eliminate from the exposure equation. Eliminating the sun from the exposure negates its overwhelming effect on the meter and gives a true reading of the surrounding sky and clouds.
Set your camera meter on manual so you are able to fully control the exposure. Point your camera at a portion of the sky to the right or left of the sun. Do not include any part of the sun in the frame. Using that exposure setting, re-compose your shot, including the sun. By exposing for the sky and allowing the sun to “blow out” you will gain rich blacks in your shadows and greater detail in your clouds.
After sunset, don’t put the camera away. There are still some great shots to be made. Now that there is less light, put the camera on a tripod. Point your camera at the spot where the sun just went down, eliminating the dark areas so that they don’t have too strong an influence on the exposure. Take the exposure reading, again using manual metering mode. Once again, you are choosing the part of the sky that you want exposed correctly. Re-compose your shot and keep shooting.
Try bracketing your exposures around the basic meter setting. Bracketing your exposures (adding or subtracting one or two stops of exposure) gives you a margin of error, helps you learn more about your camera’s metering, and provides a choice of images.
There is no “perfect” exposure for sunsets and sunrises. It is a matter of personal taste. As a rule of thumb, if you underexpose from the target areas we’ve discussed (let in less light than your meter reading) the clouds and foreground will be darker and more dramatic and the highlights will hold more detail and richer colours. Conversely, if you overexpose, the sky and clouds will look lighter, brighter and less foreboding. You will also have more detail in the foreground shadow areas.
Shooting the Dark Side: Backlighting
The late afternoon, when you are planning your sunset shots, is also a great time to experiment with dramatic backlighting. At this time of day, the light streaming in at a very low angle creates great rim lighting on everything in its path. Rim lighting occurs when that very strong light seems to almost shine through and around the delicate edges of subjects, illuminating areas like cobwebs, hair and pine needles and creating a halo effect.
As with sunsets, it is easiest to break exposure techniques for backlighting into two categories: Backlit scenes where you limit light, producing black shadows and no detail, and backlit scenes where you allow enough light to include some detail in the shadows.
In the first situation—black shadows with no details—set your camera on manual exposure. Point your camera at the sky or a light area behind the subject, exposing for the light areas in the image. Now using that exposure, re-compose and take your shots. The edges of your subject will now be rimmed with beautiful golden light and your shadows will be a rich black.
When you want to include some detail in the shadows, use the same exposure technique except this time open up your exposure by one to two stops. You can either decrease shutter speed or enlarge the aperture. By opening up the exposure you will show more detail in the shadow areas, such as faces, but still retain some of that great rim light effect.
The secret to sunset and backlighting exposures is deciding what areas of the image you want exposed properly and then making the camera meter work for you to obtain that exposure. Once you have mastered these simple exposure techniques you will find yourself creating not just another sunset snapshot but rich and colour-filled images of the golden hour, just the way you remembered it.
Commuting to work by kayak is both ideal and illogical. It poses challenges at inopportune moments and makes me crazy sometimes, but it’s also one of the best things about living on Protection Island. Since moving to this eclectic community of 300 near Nanaimo on Vancouver Island’s east coast, I’ve traded my car for a kayak and learned a new set of rules of the road.
I begin my commute at first light, carrying my kayak down the gravel road to the beach. I step carefully over the slippery rocks to the shoreline littered with driftwood. I find a spot clear of debris, set my kayak down in the shallow water and begin the 15-minute voyage across the harbour from Protection Island to the downtown Nanaimo dock.
In the cold morning air, dew drips off my eyelashes and my bare fingers are slightly numb on my wooden kayak paddle. As I work my way around the bay, following the shoreline of Protection Island and then crossing the narrow channel over to Newcastle Island Provincial Marine Park, I spot a great blue heron shopping for breakfast near shore. With every stroke, my hands warm up and soon I’m feeling quite cozy in my kayak.
The traffic is light early in the day, with just a handful of Protection Islanders paddling or motoring across for work when I do, around 7 a.m. About half of my neighbours have their own boats while the others opt for the small foot-ferry, the Protection Connection, to travel back and forth.
The commute is mostly stress-free, but there are hazards. Paddling along the Garry oak–studded shoreline of Newcastle Island toward the city, I strain my eyes watching for the flashing strobe on the far shore. As soon as I see it begin to pulse, I hear the grumble of a floatplane coming in to land on its first scheduled trip from Vancouver and I know it’s up to me to make sure I’m well out of its path.
I also keep my eyes peeled for deadheads that, like icebergs with the majority of their mass unseen, can leave a nasty dent in a kayak. I once slid right overtop of one without seeing it and had to brace as it popped up and hit my hull.
There are occasions when the kayak commute is less than ideal. Take for example grocery shopping island-style: a bag of flour, some canned goods, laundry detergent, a 40-pack of toilet paper…it’s bulk shopping at its best. I’ve spent over 25 minutes with shopping bags spread all over the downtown Nanaimo dock trying to stuff groceries in the hatches of my kayak. Someone once asked me what kind of expedition I was packing for.
I learned early on that kayak commuting requires dressing for adventure. Soon after I moved into my cedar-sided house on Protection Island, I put away my long wool jacket and bought the thickest plastic rain jacket and pants I could find. The washroom at the marina in Nanaimo is now an extension of my home. Like Superman in a phone booth, I regularly duck in to peel off wet raingear and change into the city clothes I’ve stuffed into my black dry bag.
It’s completely senseless to spend time doing my hair or putting on makeup prior to my kayak commute. I try my best to conceal my true identity as a kayak commuter, but I’ve arrived at work more than once on a rainy day with salt crusted on my cheeks and wet hair matted down on my forehead.
My friends at work, a two-storey office build- ing filled with hard drives, servers and RAM, call me “Wilderness Girl” and think my kayak commute is utterly insane. Sometimes I stoke the fire by telling them outrageous stories of 20-foot breaking waves and winds strong enough to bend light posts.
When I return to my kayak in the evening, tired from work, I often wish I could teleport myself home rather than paddling. On goes my raingear and lifejacket—still a little damp from the morning—and a headlamp to let other boaters know I’m there.
I push off the dock and my stomach grumbles as I lengthen out my paddle stroke into an even cadence toward home. The city lights behind me sparkle on the water but quickly trail off as I pad- dle into the dark harbour and head for the red flashing buoy signalling the safe passage.
With each stroke, the noises of the city fade. The hum of traffic is replaced by the sound of water lapping at my kayak and dripping off the rhythmic whirl of my paddle. I drop my shoulders and relax my grip.
The truth is, the paddle home is exactly what I need after a day in the office. Each paddle stroke is part of the transformation back to Wilderness Girl.
Much kayaking at rush hour prompted Wilderness Girl, known during office hours as Sue Handel, to investigate the phenomenon of kayak racing in another article in our Winter 2003 issue. No wonder she’s never late for work.
This article first appeared in the Winter 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
“What? I can’t hear you above your outfit!” | Feature illustration: Scott Van de Sande
There’s no doubt that sea kayakers are clean, quiet, politically sensitive, over-educated environmentalists with 2.4 perfect kids and a golden retriever. But there is at least one way in which they are also the most god-awful polluters around.
Joe Kayaker and his not-so-amazing Technicolor dreamboat
Yes, kayakers are unlikely to litter a beach with their granola bar wrappers, tofu containers or Tilley-hat price tags. Kayak campsites are never strewn with cigarette butts, empty beer cans, or even organic yogurt containers. Leftist NDP pamphlets or slim tomes expounding the virtues of yogic veganism are conspicuous by their absence. There is the occasional propensity to leave behind some unbleached, hypoallergenic, Environmental Choice-certified, post- consumer-fibre bum-wad (bought in bulk and transported home in paper bags, thank you very much, not plastic). But on the whole, sea kayakers are a tidy and respectful bunch who will go to just about any length to tread inconspicuously upon the land.
“What? I can’t hear you above your outfit!” | Feature illustration: Scott Van de Sande
Kayakers are also quiet. They are in search of a balance with nature. Besides a sip or two of specialty coffee—grande mocha frappuccino with extra foam and a whisper of cinnamon—kayakers want nothing more than to drink in the healing qualities of the bush, the ocean, and especially the silence. Walkmans are okay for listening to Enya or new age refrains of ebbing tides and bird songs. (Kayakers are an earnest bunch, and a CD of indigenous bird calls is a great educational tool on a wilderness trip.) A live guitar session around the campfire is fine too—it’s like Eric Clapton unplugged—as long as the singer stays away from any politically incorrect, racially insensitive, or overtly right-wing songs. “Running Bear Loved Little White Dove” by The Guess Who, for instance, would be out, despite marks for Canadian content. Better stick to kum ba yah.
When it comes to visual pollution, however, kayakers are the worst. A 17-foot fuchsia-decked kayak with yellow trim and hatches over an international-orange hull (for safety!) doesn’t exactly disappear into the bush. And why not slip into a pair of red quick-dry pants and a turquoise paddling jacket? Be sure to wear your flare-orange PFD with the hornet-yellow towline and reflective patches. Royal blue pogies and an eggplant-and-mango-colored nylon hat set the whole outfit off. Just leave the rest of the kaleidoscopic mess in your gold-and-bright-blue tent. Now picture eight people on an otherwise beautiful beach all committing this fashion suicide!
A riot of color run amuck
Let’s hope that most of the animals that actually live in these areas are color blind. If in fact the unfortunate critters have the ability to see the full color spectrum, it must seem to them as if these kayaking interlopers have come to their homes for the express purpose of metaphorically pissing in their eyes.
If you ever hang out with hunters or fishers, you will find that their wardrobe is distinctly different. Sure it may be a stealth thing—after all, they want to kill, kill, kill—but it also makes a surprisingly big difference in terms of visual peace and quiet. With kayakers, I am sometimes tempted to say, “What? I can’t hear you above your outfit!”
Isn’t it hypocritical that kayakers strive to stand out so obtrusively, like some petroleum-based peacock, from the very landscape they profess to embrace?
For folks who are so earnest about every other aspect of pollution, why are kayakers so visually loud and obnoxious? There’s no excuse for this fashion faux pas. Visibility on the water often directly relates to safety, but we don’t need to be so visible in camp. In nature, highly venomous critters sport wild, vibrant colors to warn predators, but I doubt if this works against bears.
Are we dressing up in mating plumage, trying to get lucky on our trips? Maybe, but I for one think that there’s no color sexier than a modest forest green. Flesh tones are better still—flesh is our most natural color. Tans are what the fashionable Parisians are all wearing on beaches this year. Earth tones are in! Grey is nice too. Navy blue is handy in case a business meeting breaks out.
Isn’t it hypocritical that kayakers strive to stand out so obtrusively, like some petroleum-based peacock, from the very landscape they profess to embrace? It’s time to try subdued colors for a change. Otherwise, change the CD and crank up the volume, ‘cause kum ba yah doesn’t go with the outfit.
This article was first published in the Winter 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
“What? I can’t hear you above your outfit!” | Feature illustration: Scott Van de Sande
Ten Colorado Rivers plus a 300-meter-wide channel equals boxcar-sized waves and 30-foot-deep whirlpools at Pelican Rapid. | Feature photo: Ryan Creary
In Canada’s Northwest Territories, arctic winds blow in temperatures below –40°C much of the year. But as the seasons change, the sun’s heat awakens a sleeping giant. The Slave River roars to life and flows with ten times the volume of the Colorado and four times that of the Fraser. Three thousand five hundred cubic metres of water per second travel from the prairies to the Arctic Ocean.
As the river crosses the Alberta-NWT border, it plummets off the Canadian Shield’s red granite shelf, some of the oldest and hardest rock on the planet. It passes through a sieve of islands sculpted by water and time to produce hundreds of good, bad and ugly river features. The result is one of the world’s most awe-inspiring labyrinths of whitewater—a series of rapids 30 kilometres long—a 60-square-kilometre big-water playground lit 24 hours a day by the arctic summer sun.
Extended hot days on the river are combined with never-ending golden sunsets, no McDonald’s for hundreds of miles, no cell phone towers, no distractions of globalization, and, until recently, no other kayakers in the eddy waiting for their turn on the wave.
Every summer or two for nearly a decade, I have made the 16-hour drive from Edmonton to the “end of the road” town of Fort Smith to kayak the Slave. When I first started coming here, you could paddle for two weeks and not see another paddler. Now, there are a few locals and maybe 50 to 75 visiting paddlers a year. This may not seem like much, but it’s a major increase for a river north of 60, a testament to the growing attention the Slave is getting in the whitewater kayaking world in the past couple of years. A few years ago, kayakers described huge waves and crashing holes as “Zambezi-sized.” Today, many big-water play-boaters refer to the best waves as “Slave-like.” Whitewater kayakers from around the world have heard stories about the Slave’s enormous features and have started to make their way north.
Ten Colorado Rivers plus a 300-meter-wide channel equals boxcar-sized waves and 30-foot-deep whirlpools at Pelican Rapid. | Feature photo: Ryan Creary
Descriptions of “holes that would cartwheel a Greyhound bus” and “waves 30 feet high” are actually quite true. But these stories definitely do not speak for all of the features on this river. There are many smaller holes and waves dispersed throughout these rapids that can be safely paddled providing you have respect for the size of the river.
The river is channeled through a 300-meter-wide chute into a real wave train—waves the size of boxcars.
Bays filling up and then overflowing downriver create surging and cycling water levels. Pulsating like a river in flood, the water expands, folds, and erupts because of the enormous volume trying to squeeze into the path of least resistance. “Elevators” (huge eddies that provide a way to paddle upstream and work your way across the river) can be the size of football fields and have two-foot standing waves in the opposite direction to the main flow. The volume creates pressure waves and whirlpools of dramatic proportions.
Float bags are essential. Volume is the name of the game and losing your boat is more than an expensive experience. Mostly, floatbags are helpful when you’re hanging onto your boat as you get sucked into the darkness of a giant whirlpool, which can reach 30 feet deep and are as dangerous as their tornado counterparts.
Paddling with a group is another must. This river is three kilometres wide in places. If you lose track of someone, they’re basically on their own. It’s very difficult to see swimmers in the silty brown water amid the numerous channels and holes.
Visiting paddlers should be armed with good knowledge of the features and lines. The only way to do this is to find a local guide or someone with previous Slave experience.
A final word of advice: Be prepared with a bug jacket in your boat or end up possibly overdosing on bug repellent.
Paddling the Slave River
The Hudson’s Bay Company and Northwest Company set up fur trading posts at either end of the Slave’s rapids. Fort Fitzgerald, at the top of the rapids, is all but abandoned today. Fort Smith, overlooking the last set of rapids, marks the site where river boats once reloaded after the long portage. Now, Fort Smith is the NWT’s government, education, and whitewater center.
The local population is very friendly, the mood is relaxed, and you can find all the necessary amenities—a pool with hot showers, a movie theater, and a couple of watering holes to quench your thirst. Each of the Slave’s four main rapids—Cassette, Pelican, Mountain and Rapids of the Drowned—has its own put-in and take-out along the road from Fort Smith to Fort Fitzgerald. Since the rapids are a few kilometres long followed by lengthy portions of flatwater, each one is a separate day trip out of Fort Smith.
1 Cassette Rapids: Land of a thousand holes
At the put-in for Cassette, the first rapid, you’ll recognize the dock where old paddle-boats used to end their long journey down the river’s lake-like upper reaches. Named after a trading company’s money cassette lost on a misguided run through the rapids, this set is the most difficult to navigate. Here, the river is three kilometres wide with many islands breaking up its course. Ferrying across to the opposite side can take up to 45 minutes.
Cassette is special for its amazing surf. Waves named Outrageous and Rollercoaster offer big, fast, bouncy rides if it’s ideal water level and you know where to look. Along with the big waves goes an expansive area known as Land of a Thousand Holes that you must cross on your way to the take-out. This run is a full day affair.
The second set of rapids is notably larger and more dangerous than Cassette. Most of the river is channeled through a 300-metre-wide chute into a real wave train—that is, the waves are actually the size of boxcars. On either side of the main flow are enormous holes with eddylines and whirlpools to match. The power of the virtual lake raging through the main channel creates a gut-wrenching roar that will awaken any sub-conscious fears. On calm days, a rising mist makes the hairs on your neck stand at attention.
Although Pelican doesn’t require significant paddling skills to line up, this is definitely an advanced section, requiring comfort with house-sized waves dumping on your head and an ability to remain calm as the river ragdolls you without warning.
In 1998 my partners and I finally worked up enough nerve to tackle the main flow and I ended up with the first surf of Pelican. We each took turns pulling out of the pulsating eddy, across a smaller wave train and down the highway-like ramp. At the bottom of the long, sloping, runway, we met the first wave; a 30-foot cycling monster followed the gigantic wave train. With the surging water levels, the Pelican wave changes shape every 30 seconds or so from a crashing wave to a rolling hump.
My first surf was made possible by lucky timing. I floated toward the awaiting ramp, turned my boat around to face upstream, and, with my stomach in my throat, climbed the face just as it broke behind me like a perfect storm.
Now, we run Pelican in pairs to aid rescue situations. The time it takes to break into the main flow from the eddies below makes it impossible to get to a swimmer in time, if you can even find them. A swimmer with a wingman can get to one of the closest islands—two kilometres downriver—that much sooner.
One of our group members tested this theory inadvertently. His spray deck imploded when a wave crashed down on him. He swam out of the notorious river left hole, down the boiling and folding eddy line, and into a giant whirlpool, only able to look up to the unreachable cone of air. Resurfacing was followed by repetitive breathless periods of underwater, unsynchronized swimming. After finally being towed by his rescuer to one of the small islands, he violently ejected river water from his stomach and lungs, along with any illusions he’d had about the mercy of the river.
Left… or was it right? Too late… may the force be with me. David Manning on Molly’s Nipple. | Photo: Ryan Creary
3 Mountain Rapids: Butterscotch Nipple
With Pelican being the most intimidating rapid, the next, Mountain, is one of the most welcoming. It has many surf waves and holes for paddlers of all abilities. The Slave bends around a peninsula and over a series of ledges and shelves. The rapids are named after Mountain Portage, an arduous trek up and over the 150-foot-high trail to the other side of the peninsula. The portage was once used to transport supplies around the rapids, but today kayakers use it as an easy way to paddle this section without a shuttle.
These are the rapids that should have been named Pelican. A large colony of the birds breed on the islands in the middle of the rapid. These islands are a wildlife sanctuary and must be avoided. The area is even a no-fly zone because helicopters were disturbing the pelicans.
These monsters are Slave-sized servings of pounding recirculating holes.
One of the possible routes through Mountain takes us to Molly’s Nipple, a mesmerizing drop that, at the ideal water level, forms a rounded, gently curved ramp into a large, horseshoe-shaped recirculation. The silty water rippling over the underlying sculpted rock takes on the texture of hot butterscotch toffee.
For the wild at heart, Fury and the Edge are super-sized servings of pounding recirculating holes. These monsters will consent to the biggest of aerial maneuvers and dole out the largest of thrashings. Various big-name American kayakers have swum out of the Edge.
The intermediate run on this section usually begins with Turnpike, followed by Avalanche, and finishes with Playground, a really exciting and challenging day for a first big-water run. Playground, which can be accessed directly by the takeout, is as good as it gets for beginner rodeo stars. Next to a sandy-beached bay lies an outcropping of rocks, creating a fabulous BBQ site and a great rodeo hole conspicuously named Spanky.
Last before Fort Smith are Rapids of the Drowned. Here, the Fort Smith paddling club hosted the 1994 Canadian Whitewater Slalom Championships. The racecourse was erected around a channel between three or four connected islands. Spectators were shuttled by motorboat to the islands where kayakers raced through gates between the large granite outcroppings.
The rapids are seldom visited by kayakers due to the lengthy paddle out to the playing features. But it’s worth driving to the take-out, to spend an afternoon on the rocks, watching the pelicans feed and looking for black bears foraging on berry bushes along the bank. Or, to truly appreciate these rapids, take a walk at sunset to the lookout directly across from the graveyard. Here, the sepulchral mood is often enhanced by the dark blackened eyes and curiously tilted heads of the ravens perched upon the wooden crosses of the buried rivermen who came before.
Shawn Grono has kayaked rivers in New Zealand, Chile, Ecuador, the U.S. and Canada and made the first descent of Molly’s Nipple on the Slave. He is an Alberta Whitewater Association Kayaking and River Rescue Instructor and maker of whitewater adventure films including the documentary Slave to the River.
This article was first published in the Winter 2002 issue of Rapid Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Ten Colorado Rivers plus a 300-meter-wide channel equals boxcar-sized waves and 30-foot-deep whirlpools at Pelican Rapid. | Feature photo: Ryan Creary
I bolted upright in my hammock at 3 a.m. with the feeling that someone was hammering a nail into my elbow. The pain was from a one-centimetre-long scrape I had acquired a week earlier amidst the jungle of Malaysia’s Selangor River. I didn’t notice the scrape until it flared up into an unsightly and painful “Popeye” arm. I had cellulitis, a bacterial inflammation of the inner skin.
For boaters in Canada and the U.S., fall and winter often mean taking off to places like Southeast Asia or Latin America. Names like Ecuador, Thailand and Costa Rica elicit images of drinks topped with mini-umbrellas and bathtub-warm rivers. The problem is that warm waters and humid climates are the perfect breeding grounds for nasty systemic bacterial infections. On a tropical river, a small cut or scratch that could usually be ignored with no consequences in North America can admit foreign bacteria that our bodies are not equipped to handle.
BEFORE YOU GO
A first-aid kit is essential, particularly in developing countries where your kit may be better-stocked than the nearest hospital. Be sure to include the following: moisture-retentive, transparent film dressings and tincture of benzoin (friar’s balsam) to make them stick; sterile gauze; topical antibiotic such as Polysporin; and a water-based iodine solution for disinfecting water to flush the wound.
Talk to your family doctor or travel doctor about getting the required vaccinations for your destination and prescriptions for a broad- spectrum oral antibiotic and a strong painkiller. Doing some advance research about the environmental risks and the drugs will likely further your case.
Buy travel medical insurance before you leave your home country. It’s often available through a travel agent. The insurance should pay for your hospital stay and, if necessary, an evacuation back home or to the nearest reputable medical facility (if you’re afflicted in Laos, for example, you’d be evacuated to upscale Thailand). Understand your provider’s restrictions before you commit to a policy. Many insurers will not cover evacuations from countries the Canadian government considers politically unstable.
MANAGEMENT OF THE WOUND
Prevention of course is the key. If it’s tolerable, wearing even a thin, long-sleeve paddling jacket will help protect your body from cuts and scrapes. Make sure you do a cut check every day; even the smallest opening will admit bacteria.
Clean any new wound with disinfected water before applying a dressing. The rule of thumb is to irrigate wounds with water that is suitable to drink, either boiled for 3 minutes or chemically treated. Avoid cleaning the wound with any alcohol-based solutions such as hydrogen peroxide as they can actually kill skin cells. The wound may require scrubbing to get any ground-in debris; a little pain now is better than a lot of pain later when the wound has to be re-opened and scrubbed.
Band Aids or typical gauze-and-tape dressings will immediately be soaked in the river and become a breeding ground for opportunistic bacteria. Transparent film dressings, also called occlusive dressings, provide a clear, waterproof and breathable Saran Wrap–like barrier between the wound and the river environment. Film dressings such as OpSite, Tegaderm and Biopore can be found in larger pharmacies and medical supply stores. Applying a thin layer of topical antibiotic over the wound will reduce the chance of bacterial growth. Minor abrasions and lacerations aren’t reason enough for you to take your oral antibiotic unless there are signs of infection.
WHEN AND WHY TO GET OUT
Continue your trip but monitor the wound for signs of a local infection. Watch for redness around the edges and local pain, tenderness and throbbing. The surrounding skin may also become abnormally firm and hot to touch. Now would be the time to begin a cycle of antibiotics, ensuring you follow the prescription, to try and reduce the spread of an infection.
Red streaking under the skin away from the wound, swollen and painful lymph nodes, fever, shock and general flu-like signs and symptoms indicate the infection has spread from the wound into your circulatory system. If this occurs, mentally prepare yourself to be rolled over onto a bed by nurses instead of rolling your kayak on the river. You have exhausted the resources in your first aid kit and need to get to a good medical facility as soon as possible. Depending on your medical insurance and which country you are in, this could mean a day or two of travel.
Frank Wolf has completed sea kayaking and whitewater kayaking explorations in Malaysia, Indonesia, Alaska and in his home province of British Columbia.
This article first appeared in the Winter 2002 issue of Rapid Magazine.
I need to ask the women out there a stupid question: do you like the way your feet feel in high heels? I know, you never want to take them off. You just pretend you’re in pain at the end of the day only so you can merit a foot rub once in a while, right? Wrong. We women are in pain because heels were designed by men, for men, and somehow the market for these shoes has been successful regardless of how women feel. Since the emergence of play- boating, boats have also been designed by men, for men. Mark Lyle from Dagger has been around since the beginning of freestyle, but he weighs about two hundred pounds and is as wide as a refrigerator. Wave Sport’s designer Eric Jackson may not be the tallest paddler out there, but his biceps are also the size of my head! Corran Addison once said that he’d design a Riot women’s boat when women started cartwheeling. I recall kicking his butt at a rodeo that same year, but still no boat! I think all of these men have designed great boats, but how could they possibly think small? And furthermore, how could they possibly think female?
Until now there’s been little need for smaller boats. Eighty to ninety percent of paddlers were men. But over the last couple of years, women and smaller, younger paddlers have been emerging onto the scene. They can’t wait to learn the moves being pulled off by the men, but can’t understand why it’s so much more of a struggle than it looks. A few boats have been designed for women, but if you’ve ever seen an average-sized guy cram into one, it’s obvious they aren’t really suitable for women at all. They’re ego boosters for guys who couldn’t throw down their own boy boats.
Here’s the skinny: men and women have different power-to-weight ratios. For the most part, men weigh more and carry more muscle than women. Since this can be rather deceiving, I tested my theory by asking a few relatively small guys to try out some bigger boats. These men looked smaller but in fact weighed more and were inherently stronger than I, and were able to handle the bigger boats. So it’s not just about weight ranges. Women need even smaller and lighter boats because of smaller upper body muscle mass. And that doesn’t even begin to address the issue of fit. Thigh-hooks, displacement, width and length, you name it—they all need to be built differently to fit women.
Damn, it would be great to change places with my ape-shaped boyfriend for a day. His argument that I’m not trying hard enough would no longer hold ground after experiencing the many boat handling struggles I have ventured to explain in the past! And when he finally saw the light, I’d go throw a hundred flatwater cartwheels and then stuff my face with chocolate cake!
High-heeled shoes were designed because men thought women looked sexier wearing them. They’re still around because women think they feel sexier and keep buying them. When it comes to boats, guys think it’s sexy to see a woman throw down in a hole. But boys, where are the boats? Perhaps you’d rather we gain 40 pounds so we can flatwater cartwheel for you? Then how’d we look in those heels?
This article first appeared in the Winter 2002 issue of Rapid Magazine.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of Rapid Magazine.
This article first appeared in the Winter 2003 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions 
This article was first published in the Winter 2002 issue of Rapid Magazine. 
