Hailey Thompson scouting Slide Rapid on the Lower Salmon at around 43,000cfs. | Feature photo: Libby Tobey
There have been few occasions where a rapid’s horizon line was so pronounced it made my stomach drop. Itunda Rapid on the White Nile always caused that feeling. I often found myself running into the bush to relieve myself while scouting, and it wasn’t because I had eaten something funky. Catching the eddy just upstream of Slide on the Salmon River, I had the same feeling.
Descending the Salmon River at never-before-paddled flows
It was day 34 of a 78-day Salmon River source to sea expedition. Our crew was paddling more than 1,000 miles, from the headwaters of the Middle and Main Forks of the Salmon in Central Idaho, all the way to the Pacific Ocean. We were doing this three-month sufferfest as a conservation project to promote the removal of the four lower Snake River dams and a moratorium on the Stibnite Gold Project and save Idaho’s rapidly dwindling salmon populations from extinction. We had just arrived at the crux of the whitewater portion of the expedition.
The Lower Salmon isn’t normally run above 20,000cfs because one rapid—Slide—is unrunnable at high water. When we reached the put-in for the Lower Salmon, the river was flowing at 60,000cfs.
Hailey Thompson scouting Slide Rapid on the Lower Salmon at around 43,000cfs. | Feature photo: Libby Tobey
We called other paddlers and asked for beta. One source told us Slide is portageable, but dangerous. Another source told us not to put on at all.
We assessed our skills, fitness and experience. Our team of three—Hailey Thompson, Elizabeth Tobey and me—put on the Lower Salmon the follow day.
Sizing up the Slide Rapid
I was anxious paddling the rapids upstream of Slide. I couldn’t help imagining a worst-case scenario where we missed the portage and were forced to run this unrunnable rapid.
Paddling into the eddy just above Slide, I realized how irrational my fear was. We could hear the rumble of the whitewater from over a mile away. The horizon line looked like the water was falling off the edge of the Earth. You couldn’t miss it.
Scouting the rapid was a new experience. Usually, when deciding whether to run a rapid or portage, you choose between a scary option and a not-scary option. Unfortunately, we only had scary options. It was clear we were going to portage, but that didn’t make the ordeal any less consequential.
We spent four hours shuttling multiple loads of drybags and kayaks over a 200-meter-long unstable talus field. We utilized technical climbing movements to get up and over boulders taller than we could reach, vertically hauling our boats with ropes and carabiners. Multiple times I placed my foot on a boulder, felt it shift under my weight, and barely caught myself from tumbling down onto the jagged rocks—or worse, into the class V+ rapid below.
Grand Salmon crew surprise even themselves
Downstream of the portage, there was no feeling of relief. The only option for reentry into the river was a 10-foot seal launch into an eddy surging up and down 10 feet, pushing straight into an undercut cliff, with wood blocking the preferred path to safety.
We didn’t see a single soul in the three days we spent on the Lower Salmon. At the confluence with the Snake River, we encountered a rafting crew who had come through Hells Canyon on the Snake.
“We couldn’t believe it when we saw you all paddling out of the Lower Salmon at these flows!” exclaimed one of the rafters. Honestly, neither could we.
The Grand Salmon Source to Sea crew is making a film about their 1,000-mile journey that followed the migration of the salmon from the rivers of Central Idaho to the Pacific Ocean.
This article was first published in the Fall 2022 issue of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Hailey Thompson scouting Slide Rapid on the Lower Salmon at around 43,000cfs. | Feature photo: Libby Tobey
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. | Feature photo: David Jackson
It’s confession time. Deep down, I’m a closet gadget junkie—a bit of a techno-weenie, if you will. When it comes to seductively cool camping gear innovations, I’m all in.
Back in the 70s, for example, at the suggestion of a pilot friend, I was part of the first wave of paddlers using small aircraft emergency locator transmitters on remote Arctic river trips. Those were part of the long nose of innovation leading to the development of today’s indispensable inReach and SPOT technologies.
Crowning the worst camping invention of the 21st century
In fact, some of the shiny wheely-whatsits, aimed at folk like me, should never have been invented in the first place. My shortlist of dubious outdoor gadgets and innovations includes some sovereignly impractical items. For example: the squat strap for tying yourself to a tree to ensure you don’t dump into your pants around your ankles; the butane-powered hair curling iron; freeze-dried beer and ice cream; the Hydro Hammock—you’ll have to look that one up to believe it; the Leatherman Tread bracelet designed to turn utilitarian function into inglorious fashion; the hand-crank campsite blender; the umbrella hat; and don’t even get me started on office technical wear.
However, the mother of all useless outdoor gadgets, in my humble opinion, is the hand espresso pump, billed as “the world’s first eco-friendly, nonelectrical portable espresso machine.” And therein lies a bit of a fable.
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. | Feature photo: David Jackson
Espresso quid pro quo
Every now and again, I make my midwinter way to the headquarters of Nova Craft Canoe to give a presentation. And, instead of a fee for these evenings of photos and blather, I trade talks for store credits. It was a proverbial win-win, particularly when adding up several years of credits and dodging relevant taxes on this exchange of goods for services.
On one occasion, I bartered for a tricked-out Aquafusion sea kayak for my wife, Gail. Then, with a couple hundred bucks left on my side of the ledger, I quizzed my buddy John, who ran the retail store, about what was new and cool.
“Have I got the thing for you,” he said with a big grin. And so, the hand espresso pump entered my life.
“What does it do?” I asked.
“It makes espresso coffee on the trail, one hot and delicious cup at a time,” he said.
To be sure, I love coffee, particularly when twirled with the smell of woodsmoke on the side of a river somewhere far away. But nearly $200 for a one-cup gadget seemed like a lot.
“It’ll impress your traveling companions,” he added.
Well, that sealed the deal. I went home with something that looked like a conjugation between a mini bicycle pump and a tennis ball made of machined aluminum that might have set Frederico Fellini’s heart aflutter.
The instruction manual stated: “Make premium quality espresso anywhere: whether on holiday or a business trip, in the countryside or on the sea, in your kitchen or the garden.” It sounded like just the thing we needed, with one word of warning: “Don’t be surprised by the small capacity of the reservoir (1.76 fluid ounces).”
“For maximum flavor and quality control,” the manual suggested sending away for a supply of Keurig-esque espresso pods and a pod adapter for another semi-exorbitant fee. But for DIY enthusiasts, the marketing material suggested you get your own coffee, boil your own water, and insert both of those into the appropriate orifices of the device, which could then be pumped to the green range on the pressure gauge.
And then, with a hiss and a sputter, you have a shot of black goo.
Only two cups of coffee were attempted with the hand espresso pump—making them about $100 each—and the device never did make it on a trip. Boiled camp coffee, windmilled at the end of the maker’s arm to get the grounds to sink, still can’t be improved upon.
I keep the hand espresso pump in our gear cupboard to remind me if somebody’s offering a fancy solution to a simple problem—or worse, a fancy solution to something that wasn’t a problem in the first place—it might be best to give it a pass. Or, at least, a second thought. Perhaps over a steaming cuppa with a friend. Unless, of course, novelty value earns pack space. Luminous toilet paper, anyone?
When he’s not lounging in his Hydro Hammock, James Raffan is an author, explorer, canoodler, and director of external relations for the Canadian Canoe Museum.
This article was first published in the Fall 2022 issue of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. | Feature photo: David Jackson
It might feel like you’re the first person to ever paddle this way, but you’re not. | Feature photo: Brendan Kowtecky
Forget wilderness. It doesn’t exist, and it never did.
That phrase popped into my head while on the phone with Tyson Atleo, hereditary chief-in-line of the Ahousaht Nation, talking about the Ahousaht Stewardship Guardian Program in what most sea kayakers call Clayoquot Sound, but has been called Ahousaht Hahoulthee for millennia. It’s one of the most popular sea kayaking destinations in North America, and one of my favorite places in the world. And it’s part of a sea of change coming to west coast sea kayaking.
I was chatting with Tyson about the Guardian Program, which collects voluntary stewardship fees from paddlers, outfitters and other users of their traditional territories. The funds are put to work in salmon restoration, trail clearing, studying kelp beds, restoring campsites and running youth programs for tribal members.
My conversation with Tyson came while I was planning a sea kayak trip to the west coast of Vancouver Island. With Flores Island closed to protect the Ahousaht from Covid-19, my friends and I started looking at other parts of Vancouver Island. We found some places we’d camped in past years had shifted to no camping, or the information was unclear. Delving into it, I found changes in land management had come to much of Vancouver Island’s coast as many First Nations have negotiated treaties and other measures with the Canadian and British Columbian governments providing for self-governance and a greater role in managing their traditional territories, including the Ahousaht Hahoulthee. In the U.S., the Land Back movement to return land to Indigenous people to own or manage has also been gathering steam.
“One of the challenges during the transition period is each Nation is approaching it differently, based on their treaty situation and the use pattern, and that can make it hard for those looking for universal information. “It’s essential there are diverse approaches,” says David Pinel, former co-owner of West Coast Expeditions, who recently sold the well-known tour company to the Ka:’yu:’k’t’h’-Che:k:tles7et’h’ First Nations (anglicized as Kyuquot—Checleset, pronounced “kie-you-kit”-“check-le-set”). There’s a new Guardian Stewardship team in their territory too, called Witwaak.
As treaties and land management evolve, kayakers can expect more stewardship efforts and more cultural awareness. And yes, some culturally significant spots will probably be closed to recreational visitors. Word to the wise: Call the First Nations whose territory you plan to visit, if you can’t find current information. Change is in real time, and what’s open to paddlers this season may be different next year.
The changes in camping, fees and a boat coming around are small potatoes. A good friend who loves the solitude of long paddling trips and doesn’t like to run into other groups mentioned the boat coming around would “break the wilderness vibe.” Time for a reality check: wilderness is nonsense. It’s time to ditch the concept entirely.
After writing that sentence, I can see the torches and pitchforks already. So, let’s be clear: I love nature. My day job is running a river conservation group. As it happened, I ended up canceling that kayak trip to work on removing a dam so a river can flow free. But wilderness, with a capital W, is bunk.
It might feel like you’re the first person to ever paddle this way, but you’re not. | Feature photo: Brendan Kowtecky
Far from a wilderness untrammeled
The Wilderness Act, a linchpin of protecting nature in the U.S., defines Wilderness as “an area where the Earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.”
In addition to forgetting 50 percent of humans are women, the Wilderness Act chose to overlook that humans had been living in the places we set aside as wilderness areas. If they weren’t, it was because they’d been killed by disease or removed by conquest or genocide. No fewer than 26 tribes were actively living in Yellowstone National Park when it was created.
“It’s the doctrine of discovery,” Atleo told me, “that white people discovered an uninhabited landscape.” Doctrine is too kind a word. A better word starts with the name for a male cow. The only one to see a “wilderness untrammeled” was the first one across the Bering Land Bridge.
If I paddled my yellow NDK Explorer into a wormhole and came out on the west coast a millennia ago, I wouldn’t see what most think of as wilderness: empty beaches with only tracks of wolves and bears. “If you saw a beach that was inviting to land on, chances are it was a seasonal or year-round location for a significant family group or more through several millennia and still of cultural significance,” Pinel told me. Far from paddling off to escape civilization, I’d be paddling into a complex, thriving one. There would have been much negotiation about whether and where I could land and pitch my tent.
Paddlers can benefit from new perspective
As First Nations and Native Americans play a larger role in land management, the rest of us have a shot at a richer and smarter way of experiencing the places we visit than the “Wilderness” nonsense.
Instead of thinking of land in black-and-white simplicity—wilderness versus civilization, outdoor recreation versus extractive industries, paddling vacation versus work—let’s see our landscapes for what they truly are: complex natural systems in which humans are a part, and where we will either repair the landscape or keep damaging it. The sale of West Coast Expeditions is one step in that direction. In addition to seeing a thriving coastal ecology, it’s a natural way for visitors to learn about the Ka:’yu:’k’t’h’-Che:k:tles7et’h’ people.
“There is an increasingly strong appetite for visitors to feel like they’re connecting with local people and culture and doing the right things—their own version of reconciliation,” Pinel says.
Another part of reconciliation is making sure money from tourism goes to improve the lives of First Nations people. Stewardship fees funding things like bear boxes, toilets, habitat restoration and beach cleanups are a common sense investment in sustainable paddling. More importantly, they’re a way to finally redirect the economic benefits of what has been euphemistically called “unceded” (read: stolen) lands. It only takes one visit to the end of Highway 4 to spot the contrast between the weathered buildings of Opitstat and Marktosis and Tofino’s upscale restaurants and luxury “wilderness resorts.” There’s that word again.
So, if it’s not wilderness we’re seeking when we paddle off the beach, what is it? Wildness? Reconnecting?
I don’t have the perfect word for a thriving ecology that includes human civilizations, offers respite from the mayhem of everyday life, acknowledges past wrongs, welcomes everyone and builds a future that sustains both humans and the natural world.
Tyson Atleo had started our conversation by explaining the first guiding principle of the Ahousaht—Hishook-ish Tsawalk: Everything is one.
That’ll work.
Neil Schulman lives in Portland, Oregon, the traditional land of the Multnomah, Kathlamet, Clackamas, Chinook, Tualatin Kalapuya and Molalla people. He still loves places with fresh air, scenery and lots of critters.
This article was first published in the Fall 2022 issue of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
It might feel like you’re the first person to ever paddle this way, but you’re not. | Feature photo: Brendan Kowtecky
In 1944, Grumman Aircraft Engineering Corporation brought canoeing to the masses with the invention of the lightweight, low-maintenance aluminum canoe. Many paddlers today have a Grumman to thank for their earliest paddling memories (good or bad). Surprisingly, the aluminum kayak never took off in the same capacity as canoes. However, the lack of a market didn’t stop Brennen Kunka from getting crafty and building one of his own.
Kunka chronicles his metalwork projects through his YouTube channel, The Facility. Kunka acquired a set of wooden kayak kit plans and set to welding up the kayak, building his instead using aluminum alloy. You can watch the entire process through his part-one and part-two videos.
Ultimately, you may have the same question we do. Does this aluminum recreational-touring kayak float? Kunka’s answer is a three-day trip on the James River in Virginia, which proves the boat works. While the kayak could use a few blocks of interior foam, hatch covers, and increased outfitting, the design looks quick on the water.
Will welding up aluminum kayaks take over rotomolded plastic kayaks? Not likely, but if the opportunity to take Kunna’s build for a test paddle presented itself, we would take the chance to relive our Grumman days with a double blade.
A river SUP enthusiast on Mountain Wave on the Kananaskis River. | Feature photo: Tyler Toohey
Dreaming of bringing a surfable wave to your local river? Neil Egsgard and Surf Anywhere have the expertise to help make it happen.
Surf Anywhere is building dream waves around the world
In 2007, Egsgard started Surf Anywhere, a Calgary-based company that builds river waves worldwide. At the time, he’d only been river surfing for two years, since seeing somebody riding the 10th Street Wave on the Bow River in downtown Calgary and borrowing a board. Upon mastering the balance required to stand and carve, Egsgard gravitated west to the Kananaskis River in the Rocky Mountains.
That’s where Surf Anywhere took on its first project, attempting to reengineer a flat stretch of the waterway to produce a wave. Although the dam controlled Kananaskis is relatively easy to work on because heavy machinery can drive onto the riverbed at low flow, things didn’t work out as planned. The rocks used to make a wave weren’t placed in the right positions.
A river SUP enthusiast on Mountain Wave on the Kananaskis River. | Feature photo: Tyler Toohey
That experience taught Egsgard a crucial lesson: you must control design and construction. Surf Anywhere returned to the Kananaskis in 2013 and, during a springtime blizzard, built a new wave modeled after one on Munich’s Eisbach in Germany, the birthplace of river surfing. Attempt two was successful. Since then, the company has completed about a dozen significant projects in Canada, the U.S. and Europe, providing a range of services, from wave R&D to managing the permitting process, and safety advocacy to community development. Making waves is the most visible part of the business but other efforts produce important grassroots swell.
Surf Anywhere consults with local surfing and paddling groups, helping them organize and understand the steps required to create manufactured water features in their own communities. It also maintains a river surfing accident and incident database, so people understand risks like leash entrapment and the need for proper gear.
On the R&D side, the company knows how to direct the heavy lifting and partners with hydrologists to create a public body of knowledge.
“Our research is open source,” says Egsgard, referencing a recent collaboration with the University of Ottawa leading to months of lab work, testing various adjustable kicker systems to see how to make desirable waves. “It can be freely used anywhere. We’ve shown that with a simple structure, with very few moving parts, you can create excellent surf and kayak waves.”
Manufactured waves bring multiple benefits
Most wave builds are tacked onto existing projects, such as the removal of low head dams or waterpark improvements. These projects must adhere to strict environmental regulations and can lead to shoreline or habitat enhancement, which is expensive to fund on its own. And, once finished, waves are almost always free to ride and bring economic benefits to an area; surfers and paddlers buy food and gas and maybe spend a few nights at a hotel.
Whereas mechanical wave parks require power to run and put money into the pockets of owners and investors, says Egsgard, river waves rely on natural flow and bring people to aquatic environments.
“It connects you to the water you care about,” Egsgard says.
This article was first published in the Fall 2022 issue of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
A river SUP enthusiast on Mountain Wave on the Kananaskis River. | Feature photo: Tyler Toohey
Paddling big rivers, whether the Ottawa, Zambezi or other classics can be a rather intimidating experience. The wave holes frothing overhead and whirlpools swirling in eddylines can make a paddler feel small. But once you unlock a few secrets to paddling big water, you’ll quickly see what playgrounds these rivers can truly be.
Frame grab from a medical extraction on the West Coast. | Feature photo: Peg Leg Films
Nobody heads out on their local lake or dream paddling trip expecting a rescue. Yet anyone who has spent enough time on the water knows how quickly a sunny day can turn stormy, an old injury can flare up, or fatigue can negatively influence decisions. Disaster can strike whether you know you’ve made a mistake or not, so here are some major backcountry blunders to avoid, according to the pros.
3 backcountry mistakes that will get you in real trouble
Depending on where you get into trouble in North America, emergency response may come from the coast guard, national park staff, military or one of hundreds of volunteer search and rescue teams. According to a study of more than 65,000 search and rescue events in U.S. national parks, the most common causes for requesting assistance were errors in judgment (22.3 percent); fatigue and physical conditioning (16.8 percent); insufficient equipment, clothing or experience (15.6 percent); falls (8.9 percent); and weather (7.4 percent).
Frame grab from a medical extraction on the West Coast. | Feature photo: Peg Leg Films
Sandra Riches, executive director of B.C. AdventureSmart recommends following the three Ts: trip planning, training and taking essentials to all outdoor activities. Those suggestions will help mitigate the three most common mistakes search and rescue professionals see in the backcountry.
Know what to expect regarding the route’s conditions and weather, and pack accordingly. Then, “My advice to people is to expect the unexpected,” says Pete Schimek, president of British Columbia’s Pemberton Search and Rescue. Items that aren’t strictly necessary for a half-day trip, like a first aid kit, food and shelter, can have an exponential impact on whether an accident turns into an inconvenience or emergency.
Simply wearing a life jacket greatly increases the chances of survival in an on-water mishap. According to 2021 U.S. Coast Guard statistics, kayaks were the vessel type with the second-highest fatalities (15 percent), behind open motorboats (44 percent). Where cause of death was known, 81 percent of fatal boating accident victims drowned. Of those victims with reported life jacket usage, 83 percent were not wearing a life jacket.
2 Inexperience and complacency
People new to paddling may not realize what risks they are taking by paddling in an offshore wind or not wearing a PFD. According to the same U.S. Coast Guard data, nearly three-quarters (74.6 percent) of people who died in paddling accidents had less than 100 hours of experience in the activity. And over one-third (38.8 percent) had less than 10 hours’ experience.
Yet, even experienced paddlers can be sloppy in their safety habits. Sometimes a familiar place lulls us into thinking we don’t need to bring an extra warm layer or share our float plan with a friend. Having well established systems, habits and checklists can reduce the chances of preventable emergencies.
It’s one thing to carry a paddle float, map and compass, or first aid kit; it’s another to know how to use them. Many emergencies can be prevented by training that empowers paddlers to make good choices with basic skills. Learn how to self-rescue and conduct assisted rescues, as well as how to do basic navigation and make decisions related to weather, currents and identifying hazards. Don’t just take a course—practicing skills regularly is paramount. And practice in unfavorable conditions like rough waves, cold temperatures and after a long paddle when tired.
As Laurence Gonzales writes in Deep Survival: Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why, “A panicked mind is a useless mind.” By training regularly and in diverse environments, we can make sound judgments and respond effectively when it counts.
Charlotte Jacklein is an outdoor educator, Paddle Canada instructor, sea kayak guide and search and rescue volunteer.
This article was first published in the Fall 2022 issue of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Frame grab from a medical extraction on the West Coast. | Feature photo: Peg Leg Films
When the lake starts to freeze over and snow blankets the access road, many paddlers call it a season and move on to winter activities. When you gaze out your frosty windows with a steaming mug of coffee, it may be discomforting to see your boat lying outside in neglect. The elements can be harsh on your craft, take care of it through the winter months and it will serve for many paddling seasons to come. The easiest way to take care of your canoe, kayak or standup paddleboard is proper winter storage.
[ Find storage options in the Paddling Buyer’s Guide ]
If your faithful touring paddle performs like a glorified egg beater, maybe it’s time to choose a new kayak paddle. The best kayak touring paddles are marvels of design and engineering, precision-crafted for paddle-powered adventures big and small. Read on for seven of the top touring blades for 2024, with our selection of slick sticks to take you every distance.
The Kiska is Nimbus Paddles’ most popular design for paddlers of every level and waters of every type. The asymmetrical dihedral powerfaces provide a smooth, flutterless stroke. This Kiska Elite model pairs fiberglass blades with an ovalized carbon fiber shaft for comfort and indexing. The ferrule is a simple three-hole snap-button design, allowing the paddler to easily switch from flat to feathered (60 degrees right or left)—there are no moving parts to clog or fuss with. Also available in a four-piece breakdown design and as a full carbon paddle.
Lightweight, strong and providing an excellent slice, it’s no surprise the agile Camano is one of Werner Paddles’ most popular designs. The fiberglass blade construction provides power and control in your stroke, and the beautiful translucent blades glow when they catch the sunlight. The Smart-View Adjustable Ferrule System allows intuitive adjustment of feathering angle from zero to 60 degrees, right or left, in 15-degree increments. The Camano is available in a standard diameter carbon blend shaft, and a version with a smaller diameter shaft for smaller hands. Also available in a straight one-piece, two-piece or four-piece design, and a bent one-piece or two-piece design.
The Swing Low Angle Touring Paddle from Stellar Kayaks offers paddlers an energetic, capable and quiet paddle. Tough and attractive fiberglass blades are available in blue or red in the Hybrid option, pictured here. The oval carbon shaft reduces stress on fingers as it contours to the shape of your hand. The Swing Low Angle Touring Paddle features an aluminum cam collar and adjustable length within 10 centimeters and feather. Also available in a fully carbon design.
The enigmatic northern lights are one of the most sought-after natural phenomena in the world—they’re also the inspiration for Aqua Bound’s newest colorway. Last fall, with its new eye-catching look, the bestselling Tango took home the coveted Best New Kayak Paddle award at the Paddling Magazine Industry Awards. This low-angle performance paddle offers a smooth stroke for maximum results with minimal effort, weighing in at just 26 ounces. Its Posi-Lok ferrule system features robust and corrosion-free construction, convenient dual-button release, and infinite feathering angles.
With its classic low-angle paddling profile, the Sea Feather V-Lam from Sawyer Paddles and Oars is a lightweight companion for all-day cruising and relaxing day tours. Carbon fiber makes up the Sea Feather’s strong and flexible oval shaft, which can extend up to 10 centimeters and offers 0 to 80 degrees of feather angle. The Sea Feather’s long blades are crafted with an eye-catching V of laminated western red cedar. They are reinforced with durable fiberglass and Dynel ToughEdge, promising to keep them beautiful and resistant to damage while maintaining the lightweight build.
The Kalleq is a working piece of art from Gearlab Outdoors designed for endurance. The Greenland-inspired carbon Kalleq’s edge measures 1.1 millimeters at its thinnest point. The smooth edge slices the water and offers comfort and efficiency on long days. Gearlab’s signature ProTek tip fortifies either end of the paddle with an easily replaceable tip made from a durable polyamide material. This gives the paddler confidence in rocky or shallow waters and allows the option to swap colored tips. The innovative, metal-free carbon spring joint on this two-piece paddle snaps securely together, ensuring a firm connection between blades.
Light, rigid and ultra-packable, the Touring Full Carbon 4-Part Paddle from Advanced Elements is a four-piece paddle breaking down to a svelte 27.5-inch-long package. Not only is a full-carbon four-piece paddle a rarity, but at just 30 ounces, Advanced Elements’ is perhaps the lightest four-piece paddle on the market. Adjust for a 60-degree right-hand or left-hand feather or flat option via three stainless steel locking snaps. This touring paddle’s carbon fiber shaft and blades offer fantastic handling on the water and excellent strength and durability.
The Penobscot Nation has lived along the banks of the river sharing their name for more than 10,000 years. The canoe is a craft intrinsically tied to their culture on the waters of Maine. Old Town shares the story of how the Penobscot continue to pass down the knowledge of canoeing to the next generation of paddlers in this video.
This article was first published in the Fall 2022 issue of Paddling Magazine. 
Nimbus Paddles
