How Cute is Your Baby?

Posted on October 20, 2009 by canoelover

The Row.
Added a few more boats to Canoelover’s Row in the warehouse this morning. Time to keep the winter boats around and shuffle everything else off to hibernate.
So yes, I own a fair number (okay, obscene number) of canoes and kayaks. Then again, a plumber has a dozen pipe wrenches, a conductor more than one baton. My guess is that most elite runners have more than one pair of shoes and running shorts, more than one pair of socks. It’s my business, it’s my life.
Methinks my Canoelover doth protest too much.
Yeah, well, I’m just sayin’.
Obviously, the boats that live in my row are excellent boats. Not a stinker in the bunch of them. Just ask me, I’ll tell you. The problem is that I may be somewhat biased. After all, I chose them.
I really don’t have much ego invested in having “good boats.” I just like what I like, but after a few decades paddling I think I’m pretty good at evaluating which hulls are well-designed (most of them, honestly) and which ones were cranked out by someone who knew that canoes and kayaks need two pointy ends.
Which brings me to the topic of on-line reviews.
Let me just say I hate them. Not because the people who review the boats are not qualified to do so…some of them are, most are not because they lack a frame of reference. I’d venture a guess that I’ve paddled between 200 and 300 different hulls in my lifetime. A person who has only driven a 1984 Chevrolet Chevette is hardly qualified to talk about how well their car compares to other cars. For the record, we had a red 1984 Chevette. We called it the Shove It. Worst car I’ve ever owned, ever ever ever. The good news: it cost $5K new. Without A/C.
Canoelover’s Internet Maxim Number 4 states that if you provide a forum for people to provide feedback, they will, and CIM #4a states that the more frequent the feedback, the less the person leaving the feedback actually knows about anything, period.
Internet bulletin boards tend to attract people who want to be important, or worse, want to be helpful. I recently sold a boat of a friend to a friend, acting as intermediary as Friend A was out of the country for a year and Friend B wanted a boat for her granddaughter. Friend B was stoked to get a sweet little solo canoe for her grandkids (they all paddle).
She made the tactical error of telling everyone on a canoe bulletin board that she had purchased this boat for her granddaughter. Immediately a fellow board member (let’s call him Troll A) jumped on her, telling her that her boat was inappropriate for his granddaughter and would possibly endanger her life. She responded that she had purchased this little canoe via yours truly and she trusted my judgement.
His response: “I stand by my statement.”
Excellent.
Turns out I was right, Troll A was wrong, and Friend B’s granddaughter is loving her little boat. Troll A didn’t apologize, really. He just made some reference to the fact that sometimes people are lucky that things work out.
The problem is that Trolls B through Z(10)23 will all have opinions, and most all of them will be based on limited experience. How are you as a reader to know who’s credible and who is a pompous ass? Credentials don’t work because anyone can claim to be a canoe designer. There’s no degree for canoe or kayak design. The best designers I know probably didn’t go to college.
With so much ego invested in their choices of boats, they tend to be very, very biased toward what they own. Worse yet, a pair of them will engage in a sort of asinus asinum fricat sort of behavior that drives me insane (when I allow myself to be attached to that sort of thing, which is less and less common as I stay off these boards).

These are the people who usually give a Coleman Ram-X canoe 9/10 in a review. Because they have one, and these reviews are like asking a person “Please rate the attractiveness of your baby.” You can’t say 10/10 because people will think you’re unbiased or have never seen another baby so there’s no point of reference.

If you challenge them, remember you’re saying “Dude, your baby is double-bag ugly.” You have to expect them to justify how the fiberglass canoe their scout troop built in 1974 is the best canoe ever. The best answer is (and please practice saying this with me):
“Of course it is, you’re spot on as usual.”
For the record, a Coleman canoe floats. There ends its virtues.
Note this phenomenon is by no means limited to paddlesports. Substitute climbing harness, backpack, digital camera, camp stove or PDA and you’ll find the same dogmatic chumps. Please shun them like the life-sucking vampires they are. They will draw you in. Just repeat the mantra listed above. It’s like throwing salt on a slug.
Respectfully submitted,
Canoelover
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Playing Around

Posted on October 11, 2009 by canoelover

Playtime, Wisconsin River.

“The master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his information and his recreation, his love and his religion. He hardly knows which is which.

“He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he’s always doing both.”

– James Mitchner

Amen, Mr. Mitchner.


Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover
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Tenth Annual Order of the Wisconsin River Lover’s (OWL) Solo Canoe Trip

Posted on October 10, 2009 by canoelover

The Order gathered once again this year, and it was an interesting session. With 13 we had quorum so we talked about OWL 2.0. More on that later.
If you’re not familiar with the way the OWL works, there are a few simple rules.
  • No kayaks.
  • Solo canoes only.
  • No booze.
  • No women (sorry).

The OWL started out as small overnight trip with four people, Canoelover Jr. included, who was six at the time (see above — from the first OWL). It was a delight, and over the years, it has grown. People move in and out as their schedule commands, but I always feel like there’s someone who can’t come who should be there. I don’t like that feeling.


We do a section of the Lower Wisconsin from Mazomanie to Spring Green. Normally. Again, I’m getting ahead of myself. We ran the shuttle and found that lo and behold, it was beautiful as you can see. Tamaracks still verdant and deciduous trees attempting to turn a little, but nowhere peak, but always there are the sandstone cliffs, a few brave swallows still hunting for insects a few inches above the surface of the river.

The launch is less than optimal, but we manage just fine. It’s more suitable for power boats but they’re nice if we get in and out quickly. It does take a fair amount of time to load 13 boats into the river. It took a little longer because we were trying to help each other, trying not to step in the water though we were wearing rubber boots. It’s a bad way to start the night getting a schloop of water over your boot tops.

I was close to last on the water so I stood on the dock and shot some pictures of the milling canoes. No one was trying to take off (except Canoelover Jr., who takes off as soon as he hits the water), and they formed small clusters while they waited for the last few boats.

Soon enough all thirteen boats plus two dogs were on the water. Canoelover Jr. is visible in the far left hand side of the picture, just a little dot in the reflection. That’s how he rolls.


The OWL was two weeks later this year so despite meeting at 3:00 at Chez Canoelover, we barely made it on the water in time for it to go pretty dark. Gracie, being a sweet yet shortsighted Black Lab, went wading in the water like a hippopotamus while I was running the shuttle with four other drivers. So of course once it got dark, she started to get cold. When her shivering became noticeable I put my Mountain Hardware Monkey Fur fleece around her and tied the sleeves together in the front like a frat boy. She seemed to tolerate it. However, I gotta say it looks very weird.

We usually paddle a couple of hours, and so we did, arriving at the usual OWL campsite. There was no competition, which surprised no one. It was approaching freezing, and we started adding layers as time passed. In the end I had two long sleeve merino tops, a canvas shirt, and fleece vest and a fleece jacket (reclaimed from Gracie). And two stocking caps. I am a little light on the top there in terms of insulation. The good news is that a really short hair cut (like shaved plus 5 days) is like having Velcro on your head in terms of holding hats in place.

The wood situation on the River is pretty grim this far up as it is overused and downed wood is rare and hard to come by. We hauled in a giant Rubbermaid container of hickory (hot stuff), and Bill and Dave brought two big bags of firewood, which were perfect too. We we had no shortage of fires.

The companion ship of a group of friends around the campfire is one of the sweetest things about camping out. Even without the schnapps we conversed easily and shared stories and jokes. Ask Jim about the man who stuffed a cow udder in his pants. Or don’t. Your call. All you need is the punch line: “Ma’am, don’t worry, there’s three more where that came from.”
[Badump-ching.]
That was about as risqué as it got. It’s also nice to share companionship without the need for profanity. These are not all religious people, but they’re all good, moral people who love and respect each other. And with a group of 13, that ain’t bad.

Well, we knew it would be cold, but personally I was thinking 35-40. It was not. Our water bottles froze. The new batteries in my GPS died before it could acquire satellites. People were piling on the layers and jumping around, trying to get some blood in their feet. It was not just cold, it was colder than a cast-iron witch’s teat.*
The fog was beautiful and coated everything that was horizontal with jewelry-like hoarfrost.

And as the saying goes:
Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.
Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Or as I said, “Guys, we’re doing a stuff and run.” What that means is everything we own is unceremoniously stuffed into our packs and canoes and we get on the water as quickly as possible. Of course, Horseman had to make coffee or we’d be forced to drag his caffeine-addicted sorry arse behind me with a towline. But he get his fix and we were on the water, just as the wind got a little frisky. Frisky is a technical term for 15 knots gusting to 25.

Of course, we all had to line up for the annual group photo. Don’t worry, we put the fire out.

Respectfully and frigidly submitted,
Canoelover
—

*This is a real saying in Southwestern Wisconsin. I’ve heard the more common variant but the cast iron part sorta brings it all home for me. If you’re offended by the term witch because you’re a Wiccan, better leave town for Hallowe’en.
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Apples

Posted on October 5, 2009 by canoelover

    “Calville Blanc d’Hiver (1598) Antique variety from France, where it was grown in the king’s gardens at Orleans; one of the premier gourmet apples still served for dessert in the finer Parisian restaurants; tart, strong, distinctive flavor.”

I’m back. I was in San Diego for a sort 0f executive retreat/seminar thingy, the Outdoor Industry Rendezvous. An annual event, some 350 industry folks get together and network (a word I hate — can’t someone please come up with something better?) and participate in discussions and board meetings and hear some amazing speakers, like Kevin Carroll and Erik Weihenmayer.
It is a brain-stretching event, and I now have to go back to my office and comb through a giant pile of bills and checks, and delete 500 emails. Hardly high-order thinking. But it was great, and it was, after all, in San Diego.
Having been born and raised in So Cal, several of the conference attendees were curious how I, having been born a few miles from where we were staying, ended up in Madison, Wisconsin.

    “Chenango Strawberry, 1800s, Chenango county, New York.
    Delicate, beautiful variety with fragrance resembling roses.”

Simple, really. I came for the apples. Not the apples per se, but what they represent.
You need to understand that California has two seasons; Green and Brown. The Green Season is pretty much November and December, sometimes stretching into January. The rest of the year is Brown season.
There is very little to mark the passage of time on a grander scale than the circadian rhythm. Weeks flow into each other and the idea of a cool fall fades from memory. My buddy Chris moved to California last year in October. “It just sorta stayed October,” he said over dinner last Sunday night.
“Zaubergau Reinette (1880, Wurtenberg, Germany)

Largest of the russet apples with crisp white flesh and nutty flavor.”

So yeah, California is weird. Not to say it wasn’t pleasant to visit; I got out every day, usually twice) to get in some longboarding with the Big Stick. Won’t be able to do that in Wisconsin for a bit. After a few days, however, I was ready to come home.

As I write this there is a large bowl of apples to my left. Occasionally one of the apples will embolden itself and throw off a little apple scent. There are five varieties of apples in the bowl; none of them are found in a grocery store, and while they’re all apples, they range from sweet to tart, crisp to tender. They have subtleties the Red Delicious (well, they’re half-right) and other long-distance apples lack.
At some point in the past 50 or 75 years, someone decided that we needed to breed durability into apple flavors so we could reach a world-wide market. They did so, and in so doing they bred out most of the taste. The problem my little apples have is that they can’t travel very well, either drying out or bruising. 80 miles from Weston’s is fine.

“Tolman Sweet (1750, New York) Light yellow,
faintly russetted, fall apple. The sweetest apple grown.”


I don’t mean to criticize Californians, really. They can’t help it. They are, in some respects, a weaker strain of the human race. They don’t know what they’re missing. There is very little that is subtle about California, from its Governor to its produce. Quantity, not quality, seems to be the rule of the day in So Cal, and you can keep your quantity. Quality is what works for me.

Pink Pearl (1944, California). Named for the pink flesh which is hidden just beneath its yellow exterior. Crisp, tart, and aromatic, with a hint of grapefruit in the taste. Late summer variety, ripening in August and September
Next week’s apples will be a different variety altogether. Cornish Gilleflowers, one of my favorites, is due out this week. I can’t wait.
Respectfully submitted,
Canoelover
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A Walk In the Woods

Posted on September 22, 2009 by canoelover

This afternoon, we enter Autumn. Unless you’re from south of the Equator, but I’m going to assume no one from Down Under reads this.
The Equinox will occur at 4:21 P.M. We then begin the long slide into darkness, which at our latitude is not insignificant. Soon it will be dark when I go to work and dark when I leave it, which is somewhat depressing but easily alleviated with some Happy Lights and copious amounts of snowshoeing. It’s Karma for the Days Without End in June, when you can ride your bike at 5:00 without a light, and you can still read outside at 21:00 on your porch without a flashlight.
I’ve put 6 or 7 of my canoes and such into Canoelover’s Row in the warehouse. One of the benefits of owning a paddlesports shop is your own row in the warehouse. It holds twelve boats and allows me to clean out the garage in the winter. Now I know that Canoelover’s Row sounds like a bad English novel about the sexual repression of Victorian England. Or maybe I’ve seen too much Masterpiece Theater. Yeah…that’s it.
But I digress. The main point is that it’s going to be Autumn, and I love Autumn. A lot, but probably not as much as my daughter. Her beautiful essay can be found here.

We went for a walk in the woods (and prairie) on Saturday with Kelly Blades, our P&H/Pyranha/FeelFree sales rep. Our industry is socially incestuous, and the differentiation between friends and sales reps is often a blurry one. I can only think of a handful of reps with whom I don’t like to spend time, and I’m usually not alone in that regard.
I’ve known Kelly for a good decade or longer, can’t really remember, but when he visited for some business reasons, which took an hour or so, we had a whole afternoon to kill. We decided to walk it to death.


Band-winged Meadowhawk (Sympetrum semicinctum)
There were a few late darners swooping around, some of them getting in their last mating hurrah, but mostly they were moving lethargically. The Meadowhawks were another matter.
The genus Sympetrum is composed of smaller than average dragonflies with the wonderful name Meadowhawks. Meadowhawks are so named because they a) fly around meadows and b) are the Cooper’s Hawk of the odonates. They’re good hunters and they can wreak havoc on the local fly population.
They’re also lovely creatures. But then I’m biased.

I like the Band-winged dudes. Especially back lit.
White-faced Meadowhawks (Sympetrum obtrusum).
Sometimes you gots to get your freak on.
While the whole genus Sympetrum can be bloody difficult to field ID, a few of the species are considerate, like the White-faced ‘Hawk, with a big white face (!). They’re not exactly rare but they are uncommon, so to get a shot of a pair copulating was pretty cool, especially since I had the wrong lens with me so I was shooting a 200mm zoom free-handed without one of those expensive VR lenses that cost more than some small cars. Not complaining. Actually, I am.*
The taxonomy of an odonate is fairly complex, with lots of little subtleties that identify species that are to the naked eye almost identical. Wings are often used as a way to identify species in the field. Besides the lovely amber saddles on the Band-winged ‘Hawks is an equally lovely red stigmata on the leading edge of each wing. Saint Francis would laugh heartily if he knew that a few centuries after his death, insect taxonomists would name that spot on the wing in honor of a famous recipient. I think that highly appropriate.
Respectfully submitted,
Canoelover
*If some benefactor wants to improve my photography, please do me extremely generous favor of sending me this lens. Or this one. Just send me the Hubble and I’ll be happy. Just make sure it has the Nikon bayonet mount.
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It’s Steel Season!

Posted on September 17, 2009 by canoelover

Da forge. Propane, not coal. Faster, more controllable, and it reduces Black Booger Syndrome.
As the summer winds down into cooler fall (I know someday it will), it’s time to switch over to blacksmith mode. I have two 40 pounders of propane and a full set of hammers (including a new Peddinghaus I custom shaped), but the steel rack is somewhat sparse. Time to hit the steelyard.

Flat stock? Tubing? Hot rolled rounds? Cold rolled square? 1/2″ plate? They got it.
A steelyard, for those who are uninformed, is like a lumber yard, except:
  • There is no lumber.
  • There is, instead, steel.
  • You can get two or three times as many shapes of steel than you can of lumber.
  • The people there (apologies to lumber yard employees) are a lot smarter.
  • That’s probably because they’ve been there a long time and are paid more than minimum wage.

Beautiful 5/8″ rounds, 20 feet long. Some 1″x1/4″ angle on the right.
There’s something wonderful about Wiedenbeck. Probably because it’s a third generation family business, there is a pride about the place, and it is, despite the challenges, spotless. You can eat off the floor of that place. And despite the signs, you can walk around all you want if they recognize you as a regular customer. I guess I am semi-regular, I get there 4 or so times a year. Not many blacksmiths around I suppose.
One of the best things about blacksmithing is the quality time I get to spend with Son 1.0. He’s developing into quite the artist, and is actually a pretty decent welder. Maybe better than me. He’ll be making more crustaceans I am sure this fall.
“I peench.”
Respectfully submitted,
Canoe(and steel)lover
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Let’s do the time warp agaaaaainnn…

Posted on September 16, 2009 by canoelover

ca. 1991, Curtis Companion on Lake Wingra. Still have that boat. Always will.
Opening photo albums from 15 years ago is a pretty jarring experience. Things you remember as happening yesterday actually happened back when you not only had hair, you had lots of hair. So much hair you had to use a bandanna to keep it out of your eyes.
As forensic evidence will show, that is no longer an issue. Wife 1.1 has enough (beautiful red) hair for both of us.

Fall 2008. Typical Sunday afternoon scene.
What is obvious, to me anyway, is how much paddling has been part of my life for the past two decades or so. Even before I worked full-time in the industry, before I managed and eventually owned my own shop, I was smitten.
The one thing that makes me happy is that I still love it. For the past decade quite a few of my friends have asked me if I would love paddling when it becomes a job?
The answer is that I may love it more than ever. Ironically, when I go on vacation, sometimes I don’t paddle. I take pictures and insects. I cycle. I walk. But I still love paddling.

ca. 1995, Check out the 90s hair.
I have hundreds of pictures of me and my family paddling all over the place…Wisconsin, the boreal forest, the Mediterranean, Puget Sound, etc. Interestingly, I never have to think “Where did I take that picture?” They’re all seared into the DVD of my visual cortex, and often they’re linked to other memories as well. I can smell and taste the salt on my lips when I see a picture of me paddling a sea kayak off Monterrey, salt stains on my face and PFD.

ca. 1999, Wisconsin River OWL Trip
Then there’s the other jarring event…seeing your son, now almost 6’2″, sitting on your knee, holding Lightning II, his second paddle he ever had besides the small ones used as teething aids. Yes, when my son cut his teeth he was already a paddler.
All good memories, made fresh by a $100 scanner and three dusty photo albums. Clearly I have some more work to do.
Respectfully submitted,
Canoelover
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Tying down a canoe without carrying thwarts.

Posted on September 14, 2009 by canoelover

As I have said before, I consider myself something of an archivist when it it comes to solo canoes. There are too many wonderful solos that are unappreciated for what they are, and I consider it a duty to preserve them. I am the Jay Leno of solo canoes.
The trouble comes when I find one of Pat Moore’s canoes. Pat was and is a genius, and although he left the industry long ago, his boats live on. Pat had a pretty narrow view of what a canoe should be, which excluded many people who, quite frankly, aren’t very good paddlers. They are paddler’s canoes, not floater’s canoes. You gotta know what you’re doing or you are gonna swim.
Pat’s boats are what I would call minimalist designs, but his attention to detail within that minimalism was superb. Every line and curve was intentional, and I think he was more of a artist/sculptor than a canoe designer. Think a floating Robert Holmes.
Pat’s minimalism lead him to design boats without carrying thwarts. You know, the place you normally tie down boats.
The culprit in the foreground. Note the lack of screws too. Gunwales are laminated to the hull with no fasteners. Genius.
I had to come up with a way to tie them down securely in the bow when traveling longer distances. Short distances don’t matter too much; Moore’s canoes are generally shorter than most, around 12 feet. But they are built as ultralights, and I didn’t want the wind forces of Interstate speeds flexing the hulls and beating the stuffing out of them.
For some reason I thought about a running martingale, a device that keeps a horse (in my experience, a stallion) from throwing his head around. It was the perfect engineering solution.
I decided that I needed to fasten something to the only place on the boat I could…the thwarts. Back 4-5 feet from the bow, it was something to start with.
Next step was to run the martingale over the hull and fasten it with a figure-8 knot.

In order to draw the martingale tight, I clipped in a stainless mini-biner and drew the martingale back toward itself. So far, so good.

You finish the process by tying the loop you created to a bowline. In this case, to a look of flat webbing I fastened to a bolt under my hood, secured with a fender washer. Much easier than crawling around under a car looking for some sort of hook or piece of metal to tie off your bow line. I used too much rope and didn’t want to cut it, which accounts for the unsightly hank of rope. Deal, people. I don’t cut rope unless necessary.

The results? Works great. There is still some lateral movement but the downforces on the bow more than compensate for the pressures that highway speeds can but on a 25-pound boat.

Respectfully submitted,
Canoelover
Amateur Engineer
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Why Work Wednesdays?

Posted on September 13, 2009 by canoelover

One of the benefits of my work is that I sometime don’t.
“Why Work Wednesdays” should have been my idea, but happily someone on my staff decided it would be good to have various trips, led by different folks from the shop. We each were allowed to pick one of our favorite rivers and lead a trip. I chose the Grant River, one of my favorites.

The Grant River watershed is contained in Grant County, Wisconsin, and runs into the Mississippi River near Potosi, which is famous for its lead mines in the 19th century and microbreweries in the 21st.
The Grant has a remarkably small (269 square mile) drainage area, which means some rapidly fluctuating water levels in the case of heavy rains. Springs feed it as well, so the water is clear and cool despite running through numerous farm fields. The banks have been well-maintained by private land owners and it looks like Trout Unlimited has been busy in some areas.

Just past Chaffee Hollow Road is a sweet outcropping with what can only be called a “waterfall” if you’ve never seen a waterfall before. We took turns paddling through the sprinkles and it definitely slowed down the group a little. Which was a good thing.

The Grant is a river made from scratch for solo canoes. We did have some kayaks on the trip. Actually, we had mostly kayaks on the trip. This is not unexpected. It is, however, somewhat sad. A solo canoe is generally a better tool for this sort of steep and muddy-banked driftless area streams. Try climbing up a fifteen-foot muddy bank holding on to the bow of a kayak. I was first out, which was good, as the kayakers need help.
Lunch time.
Respectfully submitted,
Canoelover
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A Rolling Cliché

Posted on September 10, 2009 by canoelover

While I consider myself left-of-center, I draw the line somewhere. I propose the National Leftist Cliché Elimination Act, which states:
I. No person shall affix more than one bumper sticker to their aut0mobile except:
  1. in cases where the automobile is more than twenty (20) years old, in which case they are used to hold said automobile together.
  2. in cases where the automobile is a motorcoach, in which case up to fifty-one (51) stickers of each of the United States and the District of Columbia may be affixed to the rear of the vehicle in celebration of the burning of tens of thousands of gallons of petroleum. N.B.: U.S. Possessions such as Puerto Rico and the U.S Virgin Islands are not permitted.
  3. in cases where the vehicle is a hybrid, which is allowed two (2) bumper stickers or decals, so long as one of them is an Obama sticker.
II. The following bumper stickers are to be determined illegal except in the Southern States:
  1. Confederate flags.
  2. Calvin urinating on anything.
  3. “If this van’s rockin’, don’t come knockin’.”
  4. Any bumper sticker that says “My other car is a _______.”
So there ya go. So to all the well-meaning lefties who plaster their hybrids with stickers showing their loathing for all things Fox Newsy, let me just state that:
  • We know you hate Bush/Cheney/Rumsfeld/etc. We’re not to crazy about them ourselves.
  • We know you’re against the war. We think it sucks too. No normal person likes war.
  • No one will ever mistake you a for a Republican. Take a step off the soapbox, please.
We’ll get back to paddling soon.
Respectfully submitted,
Canoelover
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