Up a River without a Paddle...A very big river.

Camp at "Roller Coaster" under the Aurora Borealis

We were enjoying the Great Slave River in NW Territories, it was fall.  The September coolness was beginning to hint of winter. One could almost smell the breath of Polar Bears as rain turned to snow and dry leaves, picked up by icy winds, gathered in the eddies.

The Slave was running around 200,000 cfs, and we had made a camp on an Island next to a classic surf wave, named Roller Coaster.  Nearly any kayak trick you could think of was possible on this wave, and with class 2 consequences below, a sauna and hundreds of pounds of food- we did not feel particularly vulnerable.  We were having the surf sessions of our life under the green and pink aurora borealis and star filled skies...Yes, we were surfing at night.

The thing about the Slave, unlike any river I have ever paddled on, is that it's character is multifaceted.    It is huge beyond comprehension, and with many many channels that drain it north through the  Fort Fitz- Fort Smith portages of days gone by.

The Slave is so large it takes nearly 45min. Just to paddle it's width!  Then you have to figure out which channel or channels you need to take.

As I added a few more sauna rocks to our fire, these two paddlers appeared in the calm bits above our camp.  They looked scared and tired and cautious... Only one of them had a paddle.

As we soon found out, these two paddlers from Germany had good reason for their exhaustion.  They had ran into a fellow paddler in the Bar in Fort Smith looking for Beta on how to get to our “Camp” on the island at Roller Coaster.  Getting Beta in the Bar for the Slave River is like getting someone to draw you a map on a bubble gum wrapper of where to go on the Grand Canyon! 

The two adventurers were bound for trouble...they got to the put-in, and started the paddle trek across the width of the river, with many bends falling away and channels snaking into pits of steam with no visible means of scouting.  “Where do we go left?” and “What direction are we heading?” are two of the most common questions in this area...and also challenging to answer...”we will go this way and then bend right and then bend left, left and back right then stay straight, then work left and back right.”

They ended up heading straight into an area referred to as “Land of a thousand Holes”, where one can see islands choked with log jams, like boats pushing logs against their bows, holes the size of apartment buildings, and shore seems like a faint idea gone by.  

These two were instantly separated from each other, in a mad dash to avoid what was unavoidable at this point.  The two had their hands full, on what I call Soloing with friends, which simply means; your friends are nearby, but all of you are too busy saving your own butt, that you cannot do much for anyone else.  Survival paddling, where once you have gotten it together, you can begin the process of trying to “find” your friends and see how they faired.

They both dropped into holes that were far bigger than anything they ever had intentionally surfed, and one swam out, loosing most of his food, his paddle and any idea of dry cloths.  These two had to paddle several rapids, having never seen or scouted any of it,  and not a spare or hand paddle to use, once the paddle was gone.

So, it was understandable that once these two reached our Indian Bazaar of an island, complete with curry, rice, soup, beer and meat...a hot sauna, and no bugs...They didn't want to leave unless we showed them the way back to the take out.  I could feel their humility...nothing humbles a person faster than dropping into house size holes without a paddle during a fall snow.

by John Fullbright

Sketchy Times on the Witte River

At the start of last season we had some good water in the Western Cape province of South Africa. After drying out for a few months during our hot and dry summer I hadn’t been in a boat for 7 month and 2 days, but our finest creek was running nicely so without further ado I jumped into one of my Fluid kayaks and headed down.

The day was chilly but lovely, with the sun peeking out – a rarity on this river. With just a few mates we cruised down the Witte River which drops almost 400 metres in the 7.5km section that is most commonly paddled. For the American readers used to imperial units this translates into continuous rapids in the class 3+ to 5 range. The rapids are all boulder gardens and there are a few mean undercuts and loads of siphons. But you can drink the water, the rapids are all good to go and the shuttle simple enough to do. A firm favourite for most experienced paddlers in the area. The level that day was fairly average, tending to low.

Being out of the water for a while I was a fraction rusty. I had kept fit bodyboarding and windsurfing during the summer months but perhaps paddling wise I was a bit out, having not surf kayaked too much. Generally things were going quite well, until we reached Pilkington Falls, a clean drop of about four metres with a tricky lead in. My mate messed up the entry and ended up going backwards down the left side, which is not good. He landed on the rock which hides in the base (it’s a must boof drop) and crushed the stern of his kayaking, breaking some outfitting. Luckily he wasn't injured. I went down the right side and completed the drop, almost getting caught in the small hole at the base.

Then the very next rapid is a rather unpleasant one, with two siphons to be aware of, and avoid and multiple drops. This short section is sometimes portaged by the more skittish paddlers. As I dropped down the first set of boulders my kayak got too much speed and the bow slotted to the left of a boulder, with all the water going right. The boulder to the left is undercut and while it not a problem it does tend to take one more left than is ideal. For a moment I was contemplating my next move and then the boat twisted around and I went backwards, the stern of the kayak getting pinned under another rock at the base of the small hole. I went half upside down and while holding my head above water in a roll position my paddle was knocking against a protruding boulder. This was bad, very bad. Swimming was not an option as there was a siphon directly behind me, followed by another one shortly after that. I could probably swim away from the first siphon but had no intention of swimming through the drops that followed. Luckily I got out rather quickly from my precarious position, but at the time it felt like an age. As I righted myself and stroked for the plume of water river left of the first siphon (the only route) I felt a knock into my boat as a mate of mine clattered into me, swinging my boat perpendicular to my chosen route – crap! Through a little luck I managed to stay upright, compose myself and then head through the rest of the rapid. My heart was beaten, my eyes wide. Jeesh that wasn’t fun I remember thinking. That rapid has always scared me, and I’ll always have a great deal of respect for it! This episode leaves no doubt in my mind that no matter how good you are, and no matter how many times you paddle that river, it will always be the boss.

Stuck under a boulder...

About 500 metres downstream another member of our group was pulled right through a siphon, boat and all. Luck really was on our side that day, and he came through unharmed. It was just one of those days where you’re very thankful that everything turned out ok... Be safe!

Video link to this moment:
http://vimeo.com/24266298

-          Adrian Tregoning
http://adrian.playak.com/

Tom

River Guide Mark

Forward

This is a river story about my friend Mark. He and I had been friends since 1983. Mark died March of 2010. We ran rivers, camped, mountain biked and spent a lot of time together over the years. I wrote this story for his family. Mark had this subtle, submissive, sneaky sense of humor. Sometimes you wanted to clomp him over the head with an oar, but instead would end up just cracking up.

For my dear friend Mark who I think about every oar stroke on the river.

Mark and I were on the Upper Salt River in Arizona with some friends rafting and camping for the weekend.  Commercial river trip buses were pulling up and unloading people who had come for a big day of white water rafting. A guide from Desert Voyagers came over to our campsite in a panic. He knew I had previous river guiding experience. “Heather, we are short a guide and our guests are here! Can you be a guest guide for us?”  I must say I felt quite proud as I took great pride in my previous river guiding experiences. It was okay with Mark and our group of friends for me to abandoned ship and work a commercial trip.

After all the guests were loaded into the boats, the Desert Voyager’s lead guide realized they were still down one more boatman. He came over to me as I was gathering up my life jacket and getting ready to head over to my boat of paddlers.  He asked me if I knew of anyone else who could guide a commercial trip. I said that Mark had paddle-captioning experience. I neglected to add the fact that his experience was from running rivers privately, not working as an actual “river guide” as I had.

Without even giving it any thought, Mark comfortably agreed to paddle captain a boat for them. He passed by me now sitting in my boat on the shore with my customers and smiled at me without any concerns or anticipation of his “inexperienced” predicament. Mark’s raft, full of waiting people, was next to mine. He climbed in and all of his guests immediately looked to him for leadership and guidance. I began my safety and paddle talk with my crew. I could see Mark watching my every word out of the corner of my eye. I introduced myself and got everyone’s name. Mark immediately did the same thing with his crew. Then Mark looked over at me and was clearly waiting for me to say my next set of paddle instructions. I began, “The first thing you want to do is to remember to keep your hand on the top of the paddle so if we hit something, your paddle won’t hit a person.” Suddenly, I hear the echo of my words, “Now friends, it is important to put your hand on the paddle so that…” Other than the, “now friends” part, he repeated my words, verbatim. Copycat Mark continued.  He did not even try to be subtle about it. He turned his body all the way around to watch me speak and then quickly turned back to his crew and repeated my words. His crew watched Mark’s copycat behavior and had a look of worry on their faces. I think someone even asked, “Can I go in her boat.”

The paddle talk came to an end and boaters began to paddle out into the big eddy to practice what we had discussed with our customers. I was practicing paddle strokes with my crew for about 30 seconds and looked back to see how Mark was doing but he was GONE! He was no longer in his boat! I keep staring at the raft he was once in and thinking maybe I got the boats mixed up.  Suddenly, Mark’s big sombrero-type hat, floated out from behind his raft like a little sailboat. “Mark, where are you?” I hollered. I was wondering how he could have fallen out of the boat, it was total flat water; a slow moving big swirl of an eddy. Next thing I know, his crew is pulling soaking wet Mark, their boat captain, back into the raft. I even remember someone saying, “I’ve got his hat!”

This started a chain of laughter with all of the people also floating around in the eddy that Mark and I had come to camp and raft with. Since Mark and I were now acting as “official” river guides, our friends were going to just follow us down the river. They sat in my boat waiting for us to go, all the while watching Mark’s “guiding” antics. They watched the whole episode of Mark completely copying my paddle talk and then falling off the back of his raft before even reaching moving water. Our friends were laughing so hard that they were falling inside the boat and on top of each other. They were pointing at Mark and howling. This got me to laughing and heckling Mark as well. Mark’s helpless crew was watching their captain get laughed at. They looked terrified about their predicament with their questionable “leader.” Mark just started barking out paddle commands as though nothing had happened. He totally ignored our heckling and immersed himself with his guests.  Eventually, Mark and I followed the other ten or so Desert Voyagers boats out of the eddy and into the down stream channel.

All boats had clean runs through the rapids which were the Upper Salt day stretch classics: Maytag, Mother Rock, Grumin and Overboard. We pulled over for lunch that had been prepared by the shuttle bus drivers out on a big sandy beach. Mark got in line before the guests and was inappropriately nibbling on ham, turkey and tomato slices with his hands as he went through the food line. (He referred to this free-for-all nibbling as “Yogie-ing around.” As in Yogie the Bear gobbling his way through picnic baskets.) He made a plate and wandered of to eat while the rest of us “professional” river guides, respectfully waited at the end of the line for our customers to get their food first.

Mark was out on some rock finishing lunch while “we” guides were still in line waiting to eat. “He’s a piece of work,” said one of the Desert Voyager guides looking at Mark who was laying in the sun with his hat over his head, wearing his wet mid-thigh cut off jeans and beat up flip flops; not even Tevas!

After lunch, the guests and guides were all drying out on the warm rocks and visiting.  I ended up sitting with some of the paddlers who were in Mark’s boat and they were talking about the different rapids they had run before lunch. “Oh, did you see that huge hole we missed in Bubbles Rapid?” said one,

“Yeah, and how about how big that wave that was in, Dishwasher Rapid!”

“There are no ‘Bubbles’ and ‘Dishwasher” rapids?’” I thought. Then I realized the fact that Mark had no idea what the names of the different rapids were. He never had a reason to know them before when running private trips, so he just made them up when his passengers asked. “Bubbles… Dishwasher…?” Those don’t even sound like rapids!” I giggled.

On the second part of the day, all the guides, including Mark, glided smoothly through Exhibition, which was the last big rapid. I felt a sigh of relief we made it through the day without Mark having anymore boating incidents. Down on the lower stretch before Cibecue Creek, the river widened a bit and there were several rocks that were easy to avoid but could flip a boat. I have no idea how he managed it, but Mark hit one of those rocks. The next thing I saw was the bottom of his raft popping up in the air like a ping-pong ball and eight people haphazardly flapping about in the water. The boat righted itself with the loss of its passengers and everyone, one at time, managed to clamber back on. By the time I caught up and floated past Mark’s recovered situation, he had them all laughing and slapping high fives with their paddles; a guide trick he learned from me earlier in the day. There was not an angry or upset soaked passenger aboard; just bursts of laughter and merriment. I was bewildered.

The day came to a close and our customers were all preparing to get back on the bus. Mark’s crew all shook his hand, talked of their great day and bid him farewell as though they had all been long lost friends. “How does he pull off a day, with all of his screw ups, and still sends away seven thrilled passengers who knew he was no ‘professional’ river guide?” I thought. My paddle crew drifted off to the bus without even saying a “goodbye.”

That night, we were all back in camp carrying on about Mark’s first river guiding experience and how he repeated my words during the paddle talk, how he fell out of his own raft in flat water, how he made up “Bubbles” and “Dishwasher” rapid names, and then how he managed to dump his whole crew out of the boat on a rock that one would have to TRY to hit. We were all just laughing away at Mark. “Ha ha, Mark is so funny. Ha ha! Let’s all laugh at Mark!”

“So Heather,” says Mark, interrupting our laughter. “Did you get a tip from your padding crew today?”


“Noooo?” I said sheepishly.

Mark then pulls a wad of wet random bills from his front pocket. He begins to count. “I got two $20’s, two 10’s and two 5’s. I got $70 bucks,” he said. “Is that about the average tip for a river guide?”

My mouth dropped, I looked at Mark and our friends sitting around on the picnic table. Mark just smiled at me and stuffed the money back in his pocket. We stopped laughing at Mark.

About a week later, I was paying for some food in a drive through and came up a few cents short. I started feeling around in the side pocket of my car for some spare change. I felt some folded up paper. I pulled it out and there was a previously river-soaked $20, a $10 and a $5, exactly half of Mark’s tip money that he had stashed in there for me to find. Just as Mark’s paddle crew that day, I was not planning on such a delightful surprise. Mark, river guide extraordinaire!

By Heather Glass

Sea Feather Believer

Back in 1994 I met Richard at OR. He asked me what I paddled with. I said Werner since 1985. He bet me if i would put down my Werner & try a Sawyer, I would be very amazed. I tried a Sea Feather for a year. It still looked brand new! I have been amazed, happy and PROUD to be a Sawyer dealer and user ever since! Thank you, Richard!

Patti Carothers

Swimmin' with the Fish

As all, true river stories start:

No shit there we were…

Tatiana and Donna

Floating down the Hog Creek run of the Rogue River on a hot, late-summer day.  Ruby and Cecil were, as always, introducing new friends to the river.  They had introduced us to Steve and Donna and the Rogue when we arrived.  This time it was Bob and Shirley.  Bob was a big, brawny guy, impressing his new girlfriend with a special day.

Bob and Shirley were a picture out of an early Sawyer catalog: The beautiful, smiling couple in a two-person yellow Tahiti, both wearing the requisite lifejackets.  They were still called lifejackets then, even though they had little floatation and the PDF sides were laced to the back with a crossed stitched line, just like sneaker lacings.  Soggy sneakers was a common phrase.  That’s what we wore on our feet to be safe in the water and on the rocks.  Bob showed up in his flip-flops and with only one borrowed paddle for their boat.  They were first-timers but it was a slow, easy stretch of river so it was no big deal.   Of course if they had really been in a Sawyer catalog they both would have had paddles instead of just the macho man. 

We unloaded at the Hog Creek put in, negotiated the shuttle cars and drivers, and began pumping the various inflatable kayaks.  The water was low and the float was slow, but it was summer time and living was easy.  We were “on the Rogue again,“ for perhaps the last time that season.  Even the Salmon were finished.  More salmon than I had ever seen, before or since that summer, were floating belly up after their tiring run up the river.

Bob and Shirley were riding low and slow in the water, the yellow caboose of our Tahiti train.  The rest of the couples knew better than to share a boat.  It was a recipe for an argument, if not worse.

As the shadows grew long we paddled through the only bit of interest on the river, an unremarkable hole right above the canyon.  After going through we turned around floating backwards in the quiet water to watch the others.  Big Bob was paddling in the back of the inflatable kayak, which at this point in the day was losing air.  He followed the others through the hole.  And there he sat.  Shirley high and dry up front and Bob low in the hole, paddling like a Mississippi paddlewheel, and going nowhere.  He was sinking lower and lower in the hole as the water spilled in.  We’ve all seen it:  the back end fills with water, gets sucked in, twists and dumps every thing out.  Shirley popped up quickly and floated down to us. 

We were in the canyon and there was no shore access, only steep cliff walls.  We pulled Shirley into another boat and all watched, waiting for Bob to pop out of the hole.  But he didn’t … still he didn’t.  His boat floated down.  The Sawyer paddle Ruby had lent him was picked up.  The waterlogged “dry” bag arrived, and still there was no sign of Bob.   We waited, six inflatables in a large rock-surrounded eddy, river left.  As we waited the latté colored foam and a huge dead salmon with a glassy eyeball circled with us.  We made several attempts to push the smelly thing back into the river current, but the eddy won out each time. 

There was nothing to do but wait.   With the high rock walls we couldn’t get out to walk up the bank, and the current was too strong to paddle back up river.  Finally Bob’s head surfaced.  As he floated down, I paddled out to meet him.  He held on to my boat as we joined the others in the eddy.  He was exhausted and frightened, but all right.  The water was deep and he was too tired to hoist himself into a boat.  He floated there, resting, hanging between my boat and the next one.  His feet floated up and he laughed.  There was the flip-flop with the thong ripped out of the bottom; he was so tense his toes still gripped the little bit of rubber!

Then, out from under another boat, moving slowly but deliberately right up Bob’s very loosely fitting life jacket, ‘swam’ the stinking, bloated, dead salmon.  With a howl Bob yanked that thing out by the tail and ejected from the water into the nearest kayak!

Tatiana Bredikin

Canoe Bonding

About 13 years ago my wife and I were divorced parents who had been dating for a while. she had full custody of her young son and daughter, while I had full custody of my young daughter. We decided it was time for our children to meet and attempt to bond our families together. We planned a "chance" meeting at Walden Pond in Concord,Massachusetts were I brought my canoe and solid ash Northwood paddles. It was success from the first stroke as I taught each of them how to paddle. We knew it was the beginning of a beautiful thing as nobody wanted to go home that day. We were married about a year later and our family is still as closely knit together today as we were that fatefull day when we all jammed into that canoe.

Trev Coccimiglio

Ralph Sawyer’s Oscoda, MI Canoe Factory, ca1964-65

My name is Mike Brandt, and I live in Charleston, SC.  I was originally from Oscoda, Michigan, and my father built a cabin on Cedar Lake in Oscoda, MI in 1960, back when it was a choice weekend retreat back in the heyday for all the factory workers in southern Michigan.  At that time, Detroit, Flint, and Saginaw, MI were the hub of automotive manufacturing, and much has changed in the state since then.

We loved the quaint little town of Oscoda back then, and came into town each summer to see the finale of the arduous 240 mile AuSable River canoe marathon, and a few years went up to Grayling to see the start, and follow the leaders from Dam to Dam as the excitement built.  What Ralph and the other racers endured paddling through the backwaters of each dam still impresses me some 50 years later.  The skinny little cedar strip canoes propelled by the strong-chested racers would almost lift the canoes out of the water with each stroke with their strange-looking wide cedar paddles up at Grayling as they sprinted to get out front and establish the pace of the race.

One day, my father decided we needed a canoe, and became aware of the little canoe factory right downtown next to the bridge over the AuSable River at E. Mill Street, not much bigger than a very large garage, as I recall.  I remember well visiting this original plant with my father, and meeting Ralph, and seeing for the first time how a fiberglass canoe was actually made in a mold: it seemed like rocket science to us, as all we ever knew was a traditional wood/canvas canoe.  The big sellers as I recall were the 16 foot Cruiser and the 18 foot Guide (a very stable, wide model with a flat bottom).  I remember Ralph mentioning that he was producing about 7 canoes per day.  Construction back then was all hand-laid, starting with gel coat, followed by a few layers of rolled-on matte, then cloth, and finally about 2 layers of heavy roving on the floor, air tanks aluminum trim, and the signature bright white slick contoured fiberglass seats.  Back then, there was no EPA yet, so the polyester and MEK fumes were vented to the atmosphere. (Note: After Ralph Sawyer sold the company and left Oscoda, Bob Gramprie took over the operation, and built a new larger plant right on the river a few miles away, which lasted for a number of years, and my best friend in high school worked there for some years). Back then, Ralph was a local hero in Oscoda.  And as I recall, Ralph was also making the wider paddles and had them for sale as well, again, so much wider and lighter than the traditional wood paddles of the day.

My dad ending up buying a yellow 18’ Sawyer Guide that day, and we had that canoe for many years until my father passed in the mid 1980s.  We did not buy one of Ralph’s paddles that day, but my dad, being a do-it- your-selfer who even made his own fishing poles, mentally copied Ralph’s basic concept, and built his own from a pine closet pole and cedar shingles as I recall, and then fiberglassed the living daylights out of the whole affair: it was probably a foot wide at the bottom, and weighed a lot, but my dad loved it, and used it for many years.  We moved to Oscoda in 1966, and I lived there until the mid seventies when I left for college and moved away.  We knew the Grampries well, and I knew his kids in school.

I think it is wonderful to know that Ralph and his heritage of leading edge designs of canoes and paddles lives on with a new canoe company in the Midwest, and your paddles out on the Pacific coast.  And congratulations to Ralph, for his recent induction to the Hall of Fame.

My son just graduated from college a couple of years ago, so I dug out his stitch and glue kayak, cleaned it up and put a few coats of paint, and he just picked it up the other day, to take it back out onto the tidal creeks down here in Charleston, SC.  So maybe I need to get to closure, order a new Sawyer Kayak paddle for him for Christmas….

Sincerely,

Mike Brandt

River Adventures

When I was attending Lake City Community College, Lake City, Florida in 1981, my dorm buddies and I went on a wild and adventurous trip down the Suwannee River. I drove a 1953 Chevy pickup at the time and my job was to haul my buddies camp stuff, tents, food, coolers, beer and canoes. My old picture here says a thousand words! Our trip was no more than 40 miles, but what a paddle it was! Facing the dangers of the wilds of Florida near White Springs; alligators, poisonous snakes falling into our canoes, downed trees, private property owners, bad weather and Florida river rapids (after which we had to learn how to roll over a canoe)! Well the time we had! Mind you we had been young guys, from all walks of life and in our early twenties. Most of us were not too far out of High School and away from home. This trip’s entertainment wasn’t limited to the river and wildlife. Our favorite drunk buddy came and would do some great late night fire walking, our jock who would hide peoples things and our practical joker (me) who would play tricks on everyone! Our trip was only 4 days in wild Florida, but is still the most memorable of all my canoe trips! It has made me to this day look forward to my next outdoor adventure. Even though I'm now 50 years old, I still hunger to paddle and enjoy life! Thank you for letting me share my story.

Christopher Angel

Matt Canyon

Mary and Matt - Lava Rapid hole.

We launched October 1 on the Colorado River almost 17 years to the day after our first Grand Canyon trip. My boat was a 16 foot Avon Pro equipped with 10’ Sawyer Ash oars.

Need I say that Lava is always at the back of your mind when you are on the canyon? Sure, you don’t think of it a lot, but as the miles go by and you get closer, you think about it more.

So you are probably thinking that I must have really had an ugly run the first time through. Not so. I rowed an 18 foot bucket boat, also with Sawyer oars, and had an ok run down the right side with a little bit of contact with the rock at the bottom. All was well...

Before you know it, it is the night before Lava. Everyone seems to be looking at their boats and making adjustments to the load. I can’t even think about that – I have butterflies in my stomach two years later just remembering how it felt that night.

Everyone was subdued at breakfast. We set up a sandwich bar and packed lunches since no one wanted to stop and eat before Lava. We were a pretty quiet bunch during the 20 miles it took to get to the scout. We were planning a layover so camp was just below Lower Lava.

First you see Vulcan’s Anvil. Ok, you can almost hear the rapid from there. I am pretty sure I did. We stopped for the scout and it must have been close to 100 degrees. The scout took forever. Once we were done looking at our route, my husband, Chris, walked my youngest, Connor, to a vantage point where he could take pictures and video of our runs.

We all put on wetsuits – just in case. My brother, Matt, was the passenger in my boat. You want Matt in the front of your boat since he weighs 200 lbs. and is willing to take one for the team if you need him to. I had talked to him about punching the bow if it looks like we are going in the hole and he was ready. Did I mention that Matt was the only one who did not put on a wetsuit?

We were the last boat to run the rapid and my entry into the V wave was fine except for the fact that I should have been pulling going into it to work my way right. Oh no, I punched right through and once we came out of the V my momentum was taking me left straight for the hole.  There was no way I could start pulling without disastrous results. I figured I was going to find out what it felt like to flip in Lava real quick.

Nine seconds. That’s how much time I had to push far enough to the left, turn the boat and hit the side of the hole with momentum. You are probably wondering how I know that. Connor took video of everyone’s run. Of course he was trying to take still pictures at the same time (Connor was 11) so for the first three runs he caught the top of heads, tails of boats and the opposite shore. For some reason, when mom came through, he videoed my entire run – for the history books.

Anyway, nine seconds. Did I say I was freaking? Freaking pushing! My boat had a downstream ferry angle that was not going to work well if I didn’t straighten it out before the hole. Three pushes, that’s all I had before I had to turn the boat. One more push straight into the wave as I screamed, “punch it Matt!” He did. Did I mention he is my favorite brother? We crested, the boat turned slightly but Matt was on the front. Then he wasn’t. He was in the water but still holding on to the bowline and keeping us upright.

I climbed out of the cockpit and scrambled to the front of the boat. We had rigged the boat with an extra boat box in the front so there was not much room up there. I looked at Lower Lava and over at Tequila Beach where the rest of our group had eddied out and knew I better get Matt in the boat. Did I mention he weighs 200 lbs and I was trying to pull him up over the bow? Somehow, between the two of us he was in the boat, I was on the oars and we eddied out. We had reason to celebrate. Matt will forever be ‘Matt Canyon’ after Lava.

I firmly believe that my Sawyer oars made the difference. Every stroke mattered and they delivered when I needed it the most. I love my Sawyer oars and so does Matt Canyon…

Mary Wright

Use Only as Directed

Use only as directed. It’s such a sensible admonition, usually founded in a long, sad history of tragic outcomes among those who didn’t. Ignore it at your peril. The rationale is typically self-evident: water-wings should not be used as a lifesaving device; blow-dryers should not be used in the bathtub; firecrackers should not be held after being lit. Not surprisingly, the same holds true for paddles and oars; prudent boaters should use them only for their stated purpose.

Author's son using paddle "as directed."

Yeah, right. Who among us hasn’t used an oar as a pole for a tarp shelter? Show me the paddler who’s above using their ash-and-cherry-laminate bent-shaft canoe paddle to anchor a campsite clothesline? In truth – and I know this will horrify the folks who so lovingly craft these refined whitewater tools, the ones whose highly evolved brains spend countless hours calculating arcane minutiae like tensile strength and turbulent hydrodymanic flow – in truth, I’ve seen oars used as pry bars and paddles pressed into service as shovels. Because after all, improvising is half the fun of river running, right?

But I admit, sometimes improvisation can go too far. Sometimes your own stupidity catches up with you. The following story is about just that, a cautionary tale about what can happen when whitewater nitwits armed with expensive Sawyer paddles and oars ignore that hard-won wisdom, use only as directed.

We begin and end with this lesson learned: Don’t use a paddle as a snake stick. Sounds obvious enough, but I’ve seen it done. In fact, I’m the idiot who did it.

There we were alongside the Klamath River, a couple of families on a lazy overnight raft trip, enjoying a warm evening around the campfire in a sandy nook nestled among the rocks at the head of a challenging rapid. Suddenly one of our group shouted a warning to my teenage son: “There’s a rattlesnake behind you!” Sure enough, just behind his chair was a five-foot diamondback, slithering under a dry bag. We sprang into action. I grabbed my trusty Sawyer Cruiser canoe paddle, then told the kids to dump the ice and drinks out of the beer cooler and bring me the empty cooler and a six-foot cam strap. Delicately I eased the paddle’s T-grip under the rattler’s belly. The paddle was 54 inches, but right now it felt a whole lot shorter.

Adrenalin flooded my system and my mind raced. Try as I might, I couldn’t help recalling the dire warnings of Jane, my snake-phobic friend who had announced on a Grand Canyon trip that rattlesnakes can jump three times their length. At the time I knew she had her math completely wrong, and I had mocked her mercilessly -- what kind of moron, after all, would imagine a six-foot snake leaping 18 feet? But that was then. Just now, as I was plucking this royally pissed-off snake from the sand, I wasn’t quite so confident. True, this snake wasn’t a full six feet … but that might not matter. I couldn’t stop the irrational part of my brain from working Jane’s ludicrous equation to its terrifying conclusion: 3 x 5 = 15 feet. Canoe paddle = 4 feet 6 inches. Crap, what if Jane was right?

Thankfully, the instant I lifted the snake it went limp. I dropped it in the cooler, slammed the lid, wound the cam strap around and cinched it down tight. Instantly the snake was active again – and positively livid, rattling away inside the cooler like a handful of BB’s tossed into a blender. Holy crap, that sucker was seriously ticked off! Better not take any chances: I had the kids get a second cam strap and wrapped that one around too, for good measure. Any creature that could leap three times its length was not to be trifled with.

Now what? Clearly we didn’t want this enraged reptile anywhere near our camp. Across the river seemed like the minimum safe distance. It was a tough ferry, but it was probably doable. So four of us jumped in the oar boat, along with the cooler and its buzzing occupant. Don’t ask me why we needed four people to wrangle one rattler -- I have no idea. As I took the oars (Sawyers, naturally, but in this case being used for their proper purpose!) I shouted to my son to be sure to bring a paddle. We’d need a snake stick again on the far bank. I rowed across the river in utter darkness, keeping my sense of direction by the sound of the rapid just downriver. I fought the current, wondering whether we’d make it across before being swept over the lip. Where was the point of no return? Impossible to tell in the gloom, but the roar was definitely getting louder. No way I wanted to run this rapid in the dark, especially not with a venomous snake seething in a cooler – never mind the double cam straps.

We grated to a halt on the far bank just above the rapid, piled out, then gingerly brought the cooler ashore like an unexploded bomb. We set it on the cobble bar and stood back, glancing nervously at one other, our eyes silently asking the obvious question: which of us was the chump with the short straw who got to open the cooler? Nobody volunteered. The cooler, full of rattler sound and fury just minutes ago, stood eerily silent. But that only magnified the menace. We could all imagine the crafty rattler in there playing dead, lying in wait, ready to leap 15 feet and sink its fangs into the neck of whatever poor sod opened the lid.

There was no escaping it. My kids and their buddies were watching. What kind of father would I be if I refused this Mission Impossible? Sure, we could leave the cooler unopened and simply retreat to camp … but that would doom the snake, and my kids were animal lovers to the core. I was trapped like a rat -- or more precisely, like a field mouse about to receive a lethal dose of venom.

Unable to escape my manly duty, I mustered all available testosterone, undid the cam strap, tipped the cooler onto its side with my foot, then skittered back like a kid who’d just lit the fuse on a cherry bomb. The lid fell open and … nothing. No sound, no movement. We exchanged wary looks, then circled around to the front of the cooler, keeping several paces back but (I was acutely aware) still well within the 15-foot kill zone. We peered inside. Our headlamps illuminated a rattler that could only be described as … chillin’. Surely this was not the same snake? And then it dawned on me: the beer cooler had been full of crushed ice right up to the moment before we dropped the snake in, and now the hapless reptile had cooled to the point that it could barely flick its forked tongue at us. This was one seriously sedated snake.

But now how in the heck were we going to get it out of the cooler? The snake looked pretty woozy, but you never knew, that might just be a clever rattler ruse. None of us wanted to approach to the cooler, but there was nothing else for it: this impasse would clearly require a frontal assault. Keeping my eyes glued to the snake I said to my son: “Give me the paddle.” He handed it to me. It felt strange. I hazarded a quick look and … what the ____? Egads, this wasn’t my canoe paddle! It was my kayak paddle – a Sawyer Diamondback (oh, the irony!) which, although it was a precisely engineered and astoundingly beautiful whitewater tool shaped by the loving hands of third-generation Oregon craftsmen from cherry, Western red cedar and diagonally overlapping layers of carbon fiber fabric … was utterly useless as a snake stick! No freaking T-grip! Just blades! My son, in helpfully choosing the longest implement he could find, had provided me not with a snake stick, but a snake spoon!

Now I don’t suppose you’ve ever tried to coax an infuriated but hypothermic rattlesnake onto the blade of a kayak paddle, in the dark, with trembling hands and your heart racing like a hamster on meth. I have. It took forever. It was like trying to pick up an overcooked five-foot linguini with a Teflon-coated shovel. The sagging snake kept slipping and sliding like a pathetic drunk -- or some elongated deboned chicken -- oozing off first one side of the blade, then the other.

Gradually, the warm night air began reviving the comatose diamondback, which made it easier to handle but also raised the possibility that it might be alert enough to strike. Not three times its length, to be sure, not in its present state. But maybe half that? So let’s see, that would be 1.5 x 5 = 7.5 feet ... and my kayak paddle was, hmmm, just over 6 feet long … aw crap.

In the end, I sort of scooped and flicked the snake out of the cooler. It landed right in front of us, somebody screamed (probably me), and suddenly we were all running and shrieking. In an instant, our nervous little team of snake charmers was a frenzied mob, elbowing and shoving in blind panic, screaming and laughing hysterically, piling into the raft like bank robbers trying to squeeze into a getaway car all at once. There was no thought of grabbing the cooler – we’d get that tomorrow … if ever. Right now we just wanted to burn rubber outa there!

The current was strong, and I barely managed to pull back across the flow. Slowly we clawed our way up an eddy, then across the broad back of the Klamath, eventually regaining the beach at our campsite. It was only then, as we landed, that we realized the real peril of our situation. In our panic to transport the fearsome reptile to the far bank we had completely forgotten to put on our life jackets. In our overweaning fear of this poor half-frozen snake, we had just rowed to the very brink of a serious rapid, in the pitch dark, and could easily have been swept to a watery – and very embarrassing -- end.

Which brings us to the moral of our story: Never use a paddle as a snake stick -- not even a Sawyer (but if you must, make bloody well sure it has a T-grip!). Let’s all show a little respect to these beautiful hand-crafted tools of the whitewater trade, and the diligent men and women who so lovingly design them. Take it from me: to avoid unwanted side effects, use only as directed.

By Bill Cross

Bruce being ‘Bruce’

Gearing up for 4th of July

My Sawyer story is as much about the previous owner of Sawyer as the product itself. I met Bruce Bergstrom in the maternity ward of Rogue Valley Hospital in Medford, Oregon as our brides were giving birth to our children, Bruce’s first born (Eric) and our second (Amy). That was 40 years ago. Bruce was working temporarily for a boat manufacturer in nearby White City. Shortly thereafter, Bruce got a job with my employer, Harry & David Co., the world famous purveyor of Comice pears and specialty mail order foods. We ended up working in the same department and became close friends.

Since we both lived in Ashland about 10 miles from the office, we began car pooling together. I use the term ‘car’ loosely however. Bruce had built a dune buggy with an old VW engine and roll bars covered with sheet metal. No heat, no windows and colder than the shady side on those Oregon winter mornings. I remember one morning the buggy lost power and we discovered the throttle cable had broken. Not a problem, I leaned back and ran the throttle with a short piece of cable while Bruce drove as we mastered shifting the 4speed tranny with hand throttle control and made it to work on time. Back in those days the VP would stand at the window looking into the parking lot and take notes on the tardy youngsters. We had made the list too many times previously and were somewhat proud of ourselves, albeit accomplished by a somewhat foolish endeavor, that we were not tardy on this particular day.

Bruce and I decided we wanted to start kayaking the Rouge and the local rivers. Bruce had some experience and a kayak. I had neither. We found an old kayak somewhere for sale, pretty cheap as I recall. The only problems were that it was an ugly, faded, burned chili orange and in two pieces as the deck had never been bonded to the hull. We hauled it to Bruce’s garage and made a scavenger call to Bruce’s old boat builder employer in White City. They let us salvage resin from the bottom of some 50 gallon drums and gave us some catalyst and scraps of fiberglass cloth. Shortly thereafter, I had my ‘new’ kayak. Next problem however, was no paddle. While I had heard of Sawyer paddles, my budget wouldn’t allow buying one. Bruce, being Bruce, said, ”let’s make our own”. He built a mould for the fiberglass blade and we bought a wooden clothes hanger rod and made a paddle. Not pretty mind you, but a functional paddle.

We had several enjoyable outings on the upper Rogue with the burnt chili kayak. I used to chuckle when I picked Bruce up for the early Sunday morning runs and he would tell Mary, “we will be back by noon”, when we were lucky to take out of the water by 1:00 with an hours drive home. Those were great day trips where we learned to read the water and hone our skills. We eventually decided it was time for a lower Rogue trip. Bruce’s skill sets were up to the task, in hindsight, mine were not. It was a great trip until Blossom Bar (Class IV-V) when my kayak, with me in it, got pinned vertically on a large boulder next to an aluminum riverboat also vertically pinned on the same boulder. I left burnt chili against that boulder in the river that day and now had no kayak. The USFS had to come in and remove both boats.

Bruce and I then purchased an ugly, used World Famous raft with large 24” tubes and an aluminum frame. It was a great raft, but again, no oars. So Bruce, being Bruce, said, “let’s make our own”. So he set about making the mould for the blades. For the shafts we drove a large wooden dowel through a PVC pipe and fiber glassed it to the blade. For the oar handles, Bruce had built a lathe using an old electric motor and a throw-out bearing from a VW and turned out the wooden handles. Again, not pretty, but functional. We used that raft and those oars for several years.

I was transferred to N. Carolina in the early 80’s and was excited, but by no means surprised; to hear in 1987 that Bruce had become the owner of Sawyer Paddles and Oars. Bruce was on a corporate management track and opted out to follow his calling. I now own a fleet of small wooden boats sprinkled with a few glass boats, powered mostly by sailcloth or Sawyer paddles and oars. If you paddle and get that little ‘flutter’ in your heart when you look at your boats and paddles, then you understand the passion of a man who went from building paddles in his garage to growing Sawyer Paddles into the nation’s premier manufacturer of paddles and oars.

That is Bruce, being Bruce.

John Buck

Dogs Love Boats Too

Larry and Maggie enjoying some time on the water.

We loved taking our old Golden Retriever (Mollie) out kayaking with us and she swam alongside our boats. Mollie passed away and we were ‘dogless’ for about 8 months until we saw Maggie’s picture in the local Humane Society’s weekly newspaper ad. My wife and I decided it wouldn’t hurt to at least to check her out. We discovered that we matched very well and she was ours! (More accurately, we were hers!)

Maggie was 3 years old at the time (she’s nearly 6 now) and has been a terrific companion – except she doesn’t much care for swimming! She is fine in the water except that she and paddles directly for the nearest shoreline!

We thought we’d try to get her on the water by taking her out in an inflatable 2 – person kayak and she really liked that. I already acquired a wonderful Sawyer Orca V-Lam (crank shaft) paddle at Canoecopia a couple years ago but that was too short for the inflatable kayak. I picked up a Sawyer Orca V-Lam straight shaft paddle which worked just fine.

The next step was to get Maggie her own boat! We bought a child size sit-on-top and glued down a rubber mat so she would have good footing. She loved it! Even better – I could take her with us in our touring Kayaks. Here are a couple photos of our recent outing on the lake!

LarryJjankowski

Gator Surfing

It all began as a quiet summer evening paddle with a group of close friends in the Mobile Tensaw Delta. Launched from Busbies Fish Camp with food and a good time to be had. As we headed up towards Blakeley we fanned out quietly paddling with our own thoughts. Suddenly the front of my kayak lifts up about two feet out of the water, water boiling and roiling, me bracing and screaming with everyone yelling "that is soooo cool" to coming down with a great splash. Not thinking it was so cool, I shot out of there to find out what in world had happened. "Gator Surfing" was the response... I had surprised a gator quietly taking a nap… I often wonder who was most surprised. Great story that I never want to relive.

Juli Day

Hey Buddy, Can You Lend Me a Hand?

Decades in the waiting, and I finally had my Grand Canyon private boater’s permit in hand, one of the last to receive a permit under the infamous Wait List (pre-lottery). I had worked my way up to #2 on a list of 8,000 names over my 20+ years of waiting. It wasn’t all bad, though, since in those years my kids had grown up and to a size that rather than being just tender cargo, they could lift all the heavy coolers and rocket boxes and row their own rafts, easing the burden for we who had grown old and rickety ‘waiting for Godot’ – the golden ticket down the Colorado – to come into our hands.

Months of planning, plotting and packing finally paid off when we found ourselves on the shores of Lee’s Ferry next to our fully locked and loaded raft flotilla; melting in the languid July swelter, we awaited the required pre-launch lecture from Ranger Muriel, the burly, no-nonsense warden of the starting gate. Muriel prominently packed both pistol and taser, and swaggered around in such a way as to highlight the heat on her hip, as if to say, ‘make my day, just make it,’ 

She barked at the other private group launching that day to come over and join so she could do her sermon on the mound to us both at once. We were the ‘large group’ launch of the date, 16 of us, nearly all very experienced boaters, including some current and past commercial guides. The ‘small group’ launch joining us for the ‘Talk’ were eight middle-aged guys, buddies from college years, with a range of experience from broad (the leader) to middling and none. Their boats included a few rafts and several kayaks. We introduced ourselves, strangers sharing the excitement of the imminent adventure of a lifetime.

Since we would be hopscotching down the river with them, we eyed them a bit dubiously given their general vibe; it was quite clear their self-appointed ‘Leader’ was a ‘Large-and-in-Charge’ type, and at least two of the group were passing worried looks between Ranger Muriel’s pistol and their Fearless Leader’s buck knife, doubtless the banjo chords from Deliverance twanging in the deep recesses of their minds. But soon Ranger Muriel’s strident harangue and finger scolding were just distant memories and she dispatched our two groups to our separate fates at the river’s hands.

Our buddies launched ahead of us, their uncoiled lines floating behind them. Bickering and bitching as their boats rammed into each other in Pariah Riffle, their adventure did not get off to an auspicious beginning. Indeed, when we saw them the next day, below House Rock Rapid, things had gone ‘to shit.’ One of their rafts was swirling upside down in an eddy in a murk of sludgy brown goo along with various dry bags and gear that hadn’t exactly been tied down in fighting trim. The flip had revealed that their porta-potty seal was less than perfect. They declined our assistance, and went back to their internal backbiting and recriminating. One of the group’s river running virgins, who had been riding in the poo boat, sat on the shore stunned and anxious, a look of abject horror on his face as his glance went from the sludge in the river to that on his arm and leg.

We didn’t run into them for days, but had wicked fun wondering what they might be up to. At Phantom Ranch, they finally reappeared, still alive and kicking, although it was clear that not all members were on speaking terms. One of them talked my ear off on the path from river up to the Ranch. Laughing off his odd appearance, a very swollen and inflamed neck and hand, he recounted how he had gotten bitten twice in quick succession by a scorpion one night as he slept on the sand by the river – once as it bit him on the neck, then quickly again on his hand as he swatted it. Turns out we did not need to ask how their trip was going, since it was all very blatantly scribbled (in permanent fat tip marker) across the bow of one of their bright yellow (rented!) rafts – the lengthy tally of their losses (paddle, porta-potty lid, paddling jacket, life-vest, harmonica, combs, books, etc.), flips (8), swims (10), venomous bites (2) and other disasters. I overheard the poo boat rider of that first flip asking everyone he passed for information on the hike out of the canyon from Phantom.

Every time we encountered them on the river – which luckily was not as often as I had initially feared -- there was a new story, a new misadventure. Most memorable was their attempt to catch the Havasu eddy. Fearless Leader’s boat arrived in a great crash and he bullied other boats aside so he could tie up, but none of his remaining group members could manage the eddy, much to his wrath. As they each missed the eddy and bumbled on down through the rapid, he ran along the shore swearing and cursing them out. The poo boat rider managed to tightly wrap the bowline around his neck as he attempted to throw the line ashore to Fearless Leader, and nearly decapitated himself.

Bizarre and yet oddly intriguing, this group persisted in their own fashion getting ‘down river’ even in the face of multiple losses, abject humiliation, full-blown strife and outright warfare within the ranks, a real life Monty Python skit. But like all good skits, it must come to an end, have a distinct coda that marks the completion of the tale. That ‘exclamation point’ to the tale of this group came on our final night in the canyon, when one of their group casually strolled into our camp. It was Frank, one of their kayakers, and he explained that they were camped just upriver.

As surprised as we were to see Frank stroll in that evening, the bigger surprise was noticing that he was missing his right arm. However, since his arm was neither bandaged nor spouting blood, we recognized there was no emergency, or at least not a traumatic one. Then in a totally matter-of-fact tone, as if asking us to be on the lookout for another missing harmonica, he wondered whether we might have seen his kayak paddle, a state of the art Sawyer, brand-new to this trip, which he had lost in a flip in Little Bastard Rapid.

“Oh, by the way, it has my arm attached.”

For a moment, there was utter silence, and a fair number of jaws dropped and eyes boinged out, particularly among our teenage crowd.

“Ah, no, actually we haven’t found your paddle (…or arm), sorry.”

“Thanks anyway,” replied Frank, with a smile. “No big deal! See ya!”

And with a casual flip to his Tevas and a jaunty wave of his (remaining) arm, he disappeared over the rise and back to his camp.

One my favorite memories from that most enchanting canyon was this small moment with Frank, appearing as a mirage that night; asking such an unexpected question, with an almost saucy flippancy. Perhaps he was used to losing his Sawyers, specially adapted with prosthetic arms. Maybe he has a whole closetful at home? In any case, he seemed to not think it was a problem it went missing.

Meanwhile, a beautiful Sawyer double-bladed, finely crafted paddle was floating happily down the muddy Colorado, on its own journey. Imagine the moment of discovery when some innocent boater spots the Sawyer tip, recognizes the booty – and paddles over to retrieve it. Most deliciously, fantasize the horror of having that arm emerge from the river along with the paddle; imagine now, the twangs of that Deliverance banjo.

By Polly Greist

Turtle Rescue

On a Portage River canoe trip last spring I noticed a big snappin' turtle stuck in the bottom of a farmers woven wire fence trying to get to the river.He'd been there awhile, wedged tight, trench dug, dehydrated, and not happy. No way was he letting me extricate him without a fight, so I used my trusty Sawyer 52" Venture straight shaft and 50" Venture  bent shaft paddles to; one, hold the bottom of the fence with the T-handle grip and then use the other T-handle to push the turtle back out of the fence. The instant he was freed he tumbled down the bank into the water and swam away. And my trip the rest of the day felt better because I saved an animal's life and couldn't have done it without my Sawyers.

Jeff Knowles

Magic Sawyer Paddle

My Sawyer Sea Feather wooden kayak paddle was my favorite personal paddle and the one I always chose as a kayak tour operator on the island of Hawaii.  I especially loved the clear, musical “plunk” it made when the blade plunged into the clear azure waters of the Pacific Ocean on the leeward side of Hawaii island.

Betsy wiht her Sea Feather Touring Paddle

I had used this paddle for many years and it had taken more than a few knocks surfing in on rocky volcanic shores, banging around in the back of trucks, and prying off overeager tourist boats.   It was strong and tough, but like its middle-aged owner, it was getting a little spongy in the middle. I knew it needed some repair, but I kept using it because I hated to give it up even for a day or two.  Compared to the fiberglass paddles I used for the guests that had no real life to them, my wooden Sawyer paddle had flexibility and give.  It was made from trees and it still had spring and bend. It felt good in my hands, it paddled like an extension of my arms, and it had given me many good years of paddling up and down the island.

One afternoon in my business office I got a call from my guide who was leading a camping trip.  He wanted some more water and ice, so I stuck some coolers in the hatch and paddled down to the campsite, about three miles south of the Hawaiian fishing village of Miloli`i, and delivered the water and ice.  I stayed for his delightful cooked dinner -- fresh caught Hawaii ahi (tuna) grilled over kiawe wood coals.  Then I received a cellphone call from my daughter in college who was eager for me to hurry back to help her with her term paper, due the next day of course.

I would have camped with the group on the black sand beach, but instead I headed off into the setting sun to paddle the three miles back to my truck.  The wind had picked up quite a bit and was shooting and whistling off the left-hand blade of my Sawyer paddle.  I was pushing very hard against the wind in very choppy water and making extremely slow progress.  The sun was setting into the Pacific Ocean with yet another glorious sunset in paradise, and then it was black.  There is very little twilight in the tropics, so I was alone at night with the wind still whipping in my face and fizzing off the paddle.

The lights of the village of Miloli`i were twinkling in the distance and gradually drawing closer.   I had about two miles to go on this warm but windy April night on the water in Hawaii.  As the wind increased I had to push harder and harder on my blade to stay upright and move ahead.  With all this pressure on it, the paddle cracked and snapped off with most of the blade on the left side breaking off near the spongy ferrule connection. Then it blew off into the dark sea.

I made the next two miles paddling with the broken but still sturdy right hand paddle blade with a lot more effort, doing about 15 strokes on each side then switching. In about another mile the wind died down, and I was finally able to relax and appreciate the beautiful evening sky, the smell of the sea in the darkness, and the lights of the village as I approached closer.

Within a mile from the Hawaiian fishing village of Miloli`i I started picking up bioluminescence on my one-bladed paddle.  Bioluminescence is not common in Hawaii, but that night the ocean blessed me.  With every flick of the paddle, radiant beads of light sparkled up at me, like water fireflies.  They danced away in a sea spray of lit up pearls. I couldn’t get enough of it. I didn’t want to land. As I neared the small cement pier and tiny landing bay in Miloli`i, there were a few families out at night enjoying the rare ocean light show as much as I was  “Who’s there?” they called out. “It’s me, Betsy.”  “Ah, da crazy kayak lady!  Why you so late?”  “High wind, paddle broke, still got half.”

I wiggled the paddle in the water to churn up some more glowing dinoflagellates and everybody ooh’d and aah’d,  “Magic paddle, eh!”

Thank you, Sawyer paddle, for giving me so many years of good paddling, for bringing me safe through rough waters, and at the end, for lighting up my life.

Betsy Morrigan

Baby Sawyer on the Way

Summer - June 2012

My daughter Summer, and my son in law JR are finally having the baby they have been working on so very hard for over two years. I know that doesn't sound to amazing but Sawyer, that's his name, is a miracle. You see Summer and JR have been through six miscarriages to get to this wondrous time. Both of them have always been successful in life and refused to give up on a natural child since the doctors could find no real reason Summer could not carry a baby. As she has always told me, Mama I'll figure it out. So after the second specialist, who has her take two shots of heparin every day and she deciding herself to go gluten free, Sawyer is expected to be here around September 29, 2012. I'm so proud of them for being such a strong couple.
Summer's nursery theme is nautical, but not sailboats. She likes knots, motor boats, canoes, buoys, etc. She wants to hang oars on the wall. I saw your oars while surfing the net and thought how neat it would be if they were hanging on his wall.

Linda Knotts