By Gary Storr
My buddy Dan pointed me toward the Wilderness Canoe Association (WCA) in 2008 after he returned from the Outdoor Adventure Show in Toronto with an unassuming brown-bag journal called Nastawgan. It was edited by Toni Harting, a name I knew. His book, French River: Paddling the River of the Stick-Wavers, was on my bookshelf and its pages were dog-eared. I read the journal – the articles were entertaining and informative – and then I put it down and forgot about it. A couple of years later I was blindsided by the synchronous sinking of two paddling publications dear to my heart: KANAWA, a Canadian quarterly for which I’d written and, in the United States, Paddler. Both were deep-sixed respectively by the Canadian Recreational Canoe and Kayak Association and the American Canoe Association. I suddenly felt adrift. Waiting in the wings was a fledgling glossy, uniquely positioned to assume their mantles.
I submitted an article to the new kid on the block and it was accepted for publication. Then I thumbed through a copy of the mag and discovered that no story exceeded two pages in length – including photographs. Nothing went over the leaf. My article was much longer. Concerned, I contacted the editor who admitted that my piece would be trimmed to conform to their format. “Won’t that compromise the integrity of the story?” I asked. “Yes … ” the editor hesitated. “Then you can’t have it,” I said and I snatched back my baby. This edit wouldn’t be a tonsillectomy: it would be an evisceration.
I reached out to Toni at Nastawgan. He was interested. He seemed satisfied with the prose but he was a taskmaster; he demanded perfection from himself and those around him. Toni challenged me: he wanted the who, what, where, why, when and how and wasn’t happy until he got them. He taught me how to be a better journalist, something few editors make time for. I had found a new home for my outdoor adventure yarns. I joined the WCA.
Soon after, I stumbled upon an American special interest group whose mandate was to advocate for threatened rivers across the United States. I contacted Ambrose Tuscano, then editor of the American Whitewater Journal and, for his periodical, rhapsodized about paddling Canada’s wild rivers.
At this point I had no additional need for the WCA; my paddling tribe, the Canoeing Legends, provided me with the adventure I craved. I perused the outings page only out of curiosity. But things change. The Legends gradually drifted apart until only a core handful remained. Organizing outings became akin to chasing quicksilver. Finally I gave in and signed up for a WCA day trip. Then another … and another. I paddled the upper Credit River in Ontario and the lower. I paddled the Beaver River to Clarksburg – twice. I ran the Petawawa River in Algonquin Park and explored the West Montreal. I took whitewater instruction at the Madawaska Kanu Centre. There, my instructor declared me to be Dumoine River-ready. Booyah! I signed up for the Dumoine.
Age, however, began to bring with it relic-related setbacks. I fractured a metatarsal bone and wondered why it took so long to heal. My doctor sent me for a bone density scan. The verdict: borderline osteoporosis. I pounded milk and scarfed down cheese. I gobbled calcium pills. A year later, another scan, this one no better. I was hollow-boned … like a bird. If I grew feathers I could fly. But worse, if I fell out of a canoe and broke my leg I would have to be shot.
This spring the Legends gathered for a paddle on the Beaver River. Heavy rains had swelled the flow beyond its banks, the happy outcome being that there were no lift-overs. Later, at Heathcote, the gang dispersed in high spirits. My sternmate and I continued on. My wife Debby would meet us with the car at Clendenan Dam. It was an exhilarating ride but I had triumphed in the past and knew it was a candy-ass run. At Slabtown the grade steepened and the current swept us through tree branches and washed us around bends. Near the reservoir above the dam the river split into three distinct channels. We had only an instant to pick one and into it we flew. At the base of the water slide a log lay crossways in wait. We rammed it, spun a jarring ninety and tipped upriver. In we went.
My partner and I dumped the water from the canoe and paddled into the reservoir in search of my whitewater paddle. We spied it moving toward the dam and dug in for the sprint. In the distance Debby stood above the dam waving her arms and yelling at us to stop. We didn’t even come close. With a final sunlit glint my paddle saluted and slipped over the brink. But we were okay; no harm, no foul.
Two weeks later my partner called. She had driven over the Sauble River bridge at Tara and wondered if it was doable. I looked for maps: there were none. I searched for trip logs: there was one brief account in an out-of-print book called The Sweetwater Explorer. The Sauble coursed through private farmlands and couldn’t be scouted from the riverbank. I sussed the waterway from every bridge between Allenford and Hepworth. It flowed with gusto but there were no tell-tale signs of danger. It was a go.
“Can we bring the light boat?” my partner asked. The whitewater canoe was difficult for her to swing onto the roof of my car. “Sure,” I agreed. “Do we need helmets?” “Naw,” I drawled with manimal swagger. “Piece of cake.” “See you there!” she chirped.
It was a joyous day, running swifts, but my partner in the bow seat began to have difficulty drawing past obstacles with her bent-shaft paddle; it was like clawing at the sky while falling from a cliff. There was no bite. As with the Beaver, the grade fell away and we picked up speed. The current surged around a curve to the left past half a dozen cottages. As we approached, my bowmate waved to a fellow watching from the bank, mug in hand, and his jaw dropped. He didn’t wave back. He knew what the river had in store for us.
Ahead was a wide, raging straightaway with no place to eddy out. Then we saw it – a weir! A natural strand of boulders blocking our route. There was a sickening crunch as Kevlar met rock. We scraped overtop and my partner leaned back, but to no effect. We drove into the river below the dam and swamped into a maelstrom of water and rock. One hundred metres of exquisite pain ensued. My bowmate and I weathered the chaos but the canoe was destroyed.
Eight weeks later I asked my doctor why my ribs were taking so long to heal. He looked at me sternly.
I decided to hang up the whitewater paddle. It’s funny how life can be cyclical. Lily dipping is where I began and it is where I belong. But until I grow feathers and exhibit the mental acuity of, say, a chicken, I’ll continue to hunt and peck. Too late? Maybe, but show me a bird who cares.