adventures of a canoelover

Rocky Island is aptly named.  So is Little Sand Bay.  Such is the honesty of the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore near Bayfield, Wisconsin.  The only thing that isn’t truthful is the count.  Despite the fact that there were 12 apostles, there are 22 islands, mostly because their “discoverer” Charlevoix couldn’t count.  Piety and math skills are not necessarily correlated.

I’m in the middle of planning a trip up to the Apostles in a few weeks.  We’re taking a handful of novices who have never done any cold water paddling (Superior rarely surpasses 42-44 degrees F).  It’s requiring a bit of forethought, and since we’re responsible for the safety of half a dozen newbies, it’s occupying much of my mindshare right now.  Good think I have Jon, a former Superior guide and expert organizer.  Who is burning the candle at both ends.  Familiar, that.

The best thing about the trip will be that the air and water temps will be fairly close, making dressing for immersion easy without turning a dry suit into a sweat lodge.  So in many ways, that’s my favorite time to paddle up there.  It can also get ugly fast, so we’ll be taking extra precautions, using stable tandems to pair stronger and weaker paddlers.

Now my mind is occupied with food.

We’re not backpacking, but nonetheless space is an issue, so I’m starting with lighter stuff and adding the luxuries later.  Right now, I just sorta want it done.

Still, this is what I have to look forward to.  Sweet.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

A.k.a. Blue-eyed grass.

That’s it.

Beautiful day.  I love this time of year.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Tell me, someone…please…

How did this girl…

…turn into…

…which turned into…

….which turned into…

…which, of course…became….

…which (after a few years) became…

…and then…

…then this…

…and finally this.

Someone tell me.  I’m at a loss for explanations.

I can accept the fact that I’m almost half a century old.  I have a hard time accepting the fact that Daughter 1.1 (she graduated) is over twenty.

I wonder what it’s like to have a child who doesn’t grab life by the cojones and squeezes until it submits to her will.

I wonder what it’s like to have a child who finds nothing interesting and isn’t curious about everything.

I wonder what it’s like to have a child who doesn’t  likes being around me and won’t hold my hand in public.

I wonder what it’s like not to be so blessed.

Now Daughter 1.1 is off for Milano in November (the city, not the over-rated cookie) for 18 months, thirty years after her old man left for Palermo and other parts nel mezzogiorno.  She’s leaving us.  Maybe not for good, but she is indeed leaving.  Her Italian will no doubt improve, her taste for cheeses become more refined, and her intolerance for bad food (already low) will be even more pronounced.  She will return as lovely as when she left, only with better clothing.

In the meantime, I have about 10 weeks to get Daddy/Daughter stuff locked in.  We already have a few dates for cheese tastings around the southern part of the state, but that seems hardly enough.  However, I console myself with the facts that we spent a lot of great time together over the past 23 years.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Wife 1.3 and I spent the weekend in Door County, Wisconsin. Had a great time paddling, but the last morning the wind came up and we chose to visit The Ridges Sanctuary.  It’s a unique sort of place with pretty amazing flora and fauna due to its position relative to Lake Michigan.  It’s cooler than the surrounding area so it looks like the boreal forests of southern Ontario.  Plants like wintergreen, bunchberry and caribou moss abound in that 1500 acre area and nowhere else, even a half-mile north of the ridges and swales.

Three hours to walk three miles with a very pleasant and indulgent 1.3. No big camera, just the little point-and-shoot, but even with that I still took too many pictures.  1.3 waited way longer than she should.  Yes, there were odonates, this lovely little White-faced Meadowhawk (Sympetrum obtrusum).  And a little Satyridae that looked ridden hard and put up wet.

The quiet of that place is infectious.  Sitting on the little boardwalk into Solitude Swale, we watched skimmers and darners swoop over the puddles and a few plovers poked their beaks into the muck.  The only sound was the wind through the white and red pines and the occasional twitter from a songbird.

As I sit here the refrigerator hums and a fire engine just screamed by. Decidedly not quiet.

The sandy ridge had antlion (genus Myrmeleontidae) acne. Antlions are the larval stage of lacewings, a delicate flying insect that looks as vicious as My Little Pony.  The larval stage, however, looks like this.

So yeah.  Not cuddly.

Still, things that dig a little pit and shoot grains of sand up to knock ants into their vicious jaws are cool, even if they’re sorta creepy.  And George Lucas totally ripped off the Sarlacc thing from Myrmeleontidae.

But I digress.

Here’s something pretty to counteract the nastiness, a Polygonia interrogationis.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

You know, the word manufactured comes from the Latin manus, meaning hands, and factum, meaning made.  So contrary to common understanding, the word manufactured means hand made.

Making a paddle from a single piece of wood is not necessarily difficult, if you go slow, pay attention, and remove everything from the board that isn’t paddle.   The outcome might be better if I used a band saw, power planer, belt and drum sander, and maybe a Dremel.  That is, if the outcome is a perfect paddle.

My paddle is decidedly not perfect.  It has imperfections, asymmetry and subtle flaws.

So does the guy who made it.

This project started a while ago, and it has been leaning against the corner of the garage for quite a while.  When I was invited to write an article on hand-making paddles for The Art of Manliness, it kicked me in the butt.  I got another piece of red cedar and to facilitate the pictures needed for the article, I made two paddles in parallel.

The tool works at both ends.  So says my colleague Don Fogg, who is arguably one of the top blacksmiths in the country, possible the world.  He understands the interaction between the materials and the manu-facturer, connected by a tool appropriate for the material and the work that needs to be done.  I know a lot of folks who use butter knives to do all sorts of household repairs, and most of them are not what I would call workmanlike.  It’s not tool snobbery, it’s an indicator that in our society, people don’t use their hands, so the tools become unimportant because they’re not connecting anything.

The nice thing about hand-building is that you can make changes as you interact with your work.  The layout lines I originally used turned out to be less than I wanted, so I just ignored them, worked carefully and reshaped the top grip, checking it with my hand as I worked. What better feedback than checking every ten rasp strokes?  You can’t make a perfect grip without that instant connection to your work.

The lack of manu-facturing in the United States is tragic, and ultimately can result in the death of a culture.  A friend of mine teaches industrial arts at an affluent high school.  When trying to teach a spoiled-rotten excuse of a young man how to do a fairly simple manual task, the excuse of a young man scoffed, saying “I’ll just pay someone to do that.”  What a stunningly ignorant little shit.  I am embarrassed for his parents.

Well, S-REOAYM, what happens when there aren’t people you can pay to do that?  A wheelbarrow full of Krugerrands won’t fix your plumbing if there aren’t any plumbers.  Plumbers are manu-facturers.  They observe…they think…they do.  The result is something useful.

The tool certainly worked at both ends this time.  I’m glad for the kick in the butt.  It made me appreciate even more the people in this country and indeed, all over the world, who make useful things every day.   Whether it’s a meal at a restaurant or an oil change at the gas station, these people do the stuff.  Think great thoughts all you like, S-REOAYM, but don’t call me when you can’t get your toilet to stop overflowing.

It took me about a day to build this paddle.   If you count the time, it’s the most expensive paddle I’ve ever made, but I don’t count the time.  It’s good for my soul to do this, to let the tools work on both ends.  My hands tired, dusty and oily from the finish, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.  Hands that are soft, clean and free of scars are boring, and boring is no way to go through life.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Things happen in strange and wonderful ways.

Meet Zak.  I met Zak a few hours before this.  But I am getting ahead of myself.

My brother has a business.  He sells stuff to a nice woman from Dallas.  The nice woman from Dallas has a son named Zak.  Zak has never been on a river before.  Dallas is not known for its waterways.

When my brother heard that his friend was coming to Madison to see a friend, she was told “You must meet my brother.”  I’m glad she decided it was worth her time. Zak was interested in getting some time paddling, and we were in a position to take this young man out on the Upper Sugar River.

So we went.  Zak learned fairly quickly and seemed to enjoy the river.  He took direction well and tolerated my detours to cut out branches with a bow saw.  He liked the odonates (that’s my boy) and other flora and fauna, and asked a lot of questions.  We paddled under low branches (I call them car washes) which dropped spiders in the boat, which he handled quite well.

Zak figured out quickly what is meant by River Time.

At the end of the day, we all signed the paddle and sent it home with him.  He seemed pleased.

His Mom texted me a few hours later.  To quote Zak:  “Mom, he’s a real adventure guy!”  I don’t know about that, but I do know the joy of introducing kids to the wonders of nature 20 minutes from our city.  There’s nothing better, as you can see.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

I’m in the middle of making a traditional paddle to document the process for an article I’m writing for the Art of Manliness.  Since it’s gorgeous out, there’s no reason to spend any more time inside than necessary.  I set up my Schnitzelbank on the lawn and starting making a big pile of shavings.

While hogging out a bunch of wood and starting to shape the throat of the paddle, my two little friends from next door came over to say hi.  Since I don’t have young kids and I’m too young to be a Grampa, it’s a delightful thing to have two little ones come running across the lawn to see me.  Actually, they’re probably wanting to see Dog 3.0, but they settle for me.

They are interested in everything, the little sponges.  If I’m washing a boat, they want to wash the boat.  If I’m oiling some gunwales, they want to too.  If I’m carving a paddle, they want in.  They wanted in.

Catherine wanted to try the patternmaker’s rasp, so up on my lap she went.  She actually handled the rasp quite well, using proper technique, concentrating, following direction; she’s a sharp cookie.  I mean, check out that angle…a light touch on the front of the file to guide it…not a lot of pressure, letting the file do the work.  Margaret didn’t want to climb up as it was a tight squeeze, but she did take a few tentative strokes with the crooked knife.  She seemed pleased to see a little curl of cedar come off the top of the blade.

I had the camera taking a shot every 30 seconds in hopes of getting some good pictures for the article, and I got really lucky here…my little friend saying goodbye.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

It  has been 25 years since I tossed my body to the wolves on a rugby pitch.  Not that I’m not a little lycanthropic myself, but there are also another 29 wolves on the pitch; 15 percent want to put the hurt on you.

I wonder why I find myself smiling three hours after I walked off the pitch, arms around my mates, both Team Black and Team Red.  Despite the desire to pound the opposition into the ground, the whistle blows and everyone is happy and friendly again.

It reminds me of these guys.

During the game…

After the game.

Still riding the high.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Meet the Kulow family.

I know David through mutual participation on an outdoor industry board of directors.  He has always been a man I greatly admire, having built a business from scratch and made it a quite successful venture, creating a line of natural outdoor products, like bug dope that doesn’t contain DEET, sunscreen that won’t give you cancer, and ingredients that don’t trash the environment or your body.  This is my favorite sunscreen ever.  Seriously good stuff.

David and family were to be in town for a wedding, but had a spare day, so I created a spare day ex nihilo so I could take them paddling.

I’m glad I did.

We needed a short-ish paddle for the sake of time and family obligations, which means the Upper Sugar River just south of town about ten minutes.  It has the benefit of both being close and having easy parking and a great little ice cream store at the takeout.   David took Marianne and followed me in his car for the shuttle, and I took the mini-Kulows with me.  They liked Van Halen better than Jethro Tull.

Everybody helped.  That is a rare thing these days, when kids are content to sit in the car and play PSP or SPS or whatever one calls those little boxes soul-sucking brain-damaging pieces of brain crack.  Parents do the work, kids sit.  Shame on the parents, really.  Toss the LBOS-SB-DPOBC in the river and get the kids to work.

The mini-Kulows are great people.  Not great kids…great people.  Sure, they’re kids, but they’re polite, respectful (they called me Mr. Canoelover until I gave them permission to drop the Mr.), and best of all,they take correction in the spirit in which it is offered.  For example:

CL: “[—-], will you please hand me your paddle?”

M-K2.0: [hands me his paddle]

[time passes]

M-K2.0: “Can I have my paddle back?”

CL: “Are you going to use it like I asked you to use it?”

M-K2.0: “Yes.”

CL: “Here ya go.”

Problem solved.

Later that afternoon…

Canoelover:  “Hey, you really really don’t want to get in a splashing contest with me…”

Mini-Kulow 1.0:  [impish grin] [half-hearted attempt at splashing]

CL:  “No, really…”  [deluge of Biblical proportions]

Mini-Kulow 2.0:  “Hey!  You splashed me too!”

CL: “Yes, I did.  You should keep better company.”

Mini-Kulow 2.0: [giggles, turns around with paddle poised, then thinks better of it.]

Meanwhile, David and Marianne paddled the little 15′ Curtis Companion, one of my favorite boats. They had a rough start (there are a few trees at first) and they had to work things out, but it didn’t take long because they communicated.  Seriously.  You can tell a lot about a couple when they paddle together.  This is a marriage with staying power.  They know how to talk to each other.  I’ve been on trips when a couple fought the whole way down the river. Total buzzkill.  Harshes my mellow, dude.

Related to and possibly because of this, they didn’t jump down my throat for me giving feedback/discipline /correction/love to their progeny.  I haven’t a mean bone in my body, but I do insist on listening, especially in a river environment.  It’s just a creek, but it’s still water and I still want their attention.

Kids want consistency and need consistency.  Interestingly, being well-bred kids, they responded with a combination of respect and teasing, which is perfect, which means they know their limits but aren’t broken.  A horse that is broken is suitable only for stable rides.  You want a horse that’s tamed, maybe channeled, but not broken.  Always hated that term.

I really enjoyed paddling with them.  They learned the draw stroke quickly and used it well, and after a few tests, I’d just warn them before an obstacle and say, “Okay, what are you going to do?”

At first, the brain gears would grind a bit, but Mini-Kulow 1.0 would snap into action first.  “You need to draw!  Again…AGAIN…”  Mini-Kulow 2.0 would execute without question because he knew if he didn’t he’d get a face-full of willow branches and a few spiders. I just sat back and enjoyed it.

Thanks for a great day to all the Kulows, regular and minis alike.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

P.S.  Don’t use kid names in my posts unless I get permission from parents.  I didn’t ask so I’m not using them.

Getting a shot of a Prince Baskettail in flight is lucky.

Getting two is unheard of.  I’m off to buy a lottery ticket.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover