It’s usually a mistake to play the “favorites” game, but my Old Town Pack canoe might just be my favorite boat of all time. I admit she’s starting to show her age. In fact, she’s been floating me around backcountry waters for almost a quarter of a century now. I christened her Grebe on her maiden voyage, and the name has stuck. She’s chunky, to be sure, but she’s as seaworthy as her namesake, and she has a remarkable turn of speed. She also tracks well, bobs jauntily over big waves, and weathers hard blows with confidence. Yet she’s still small enough to thread her way through the reeds and snags of secluded inlets. I think of her as a mini all‑rounder. She’s carried me down Class II‑III rapids, across choppy lakes, up alder‑choked creeks, and into the remote beaver ponds where herons and brookies both thrive. Not surprisingly, she’s my first choice for day trips — and often for longer getaways, too. Nor is she just a fair‑weather friend. By making the most of late winters and early springs, I’ve paddled her in every month of the Adirondack year. And if all this weren’t enough, she makes an excellent platform for wildlife‑watching, photography, sketching, and simply messing about.

Of course, even the busiest boats spend much of their time out of the water. Grebe’s no exception, and for most of her days ashore, she’s been stored outside on a wooden rack, protected from sun and snow only by the overhanging eaves of a shed. True, she once did a short stint as a coffee table inside a lakeside cottage, and she also spent several years suspended from the rafters of a small boathouse. But these were exceptions. Mostly, she’s watched the seasons change from a vantage point in the open air. She certainly hasn’t led a sheltered life, and she’s got the scars to prove it. Her hull has long since lost its showroom shine, and it sports more than a few white scabs of pine pitch, while her once silver‑gray bilge is now a mottled black, testimony to the incremental, grinding wear and tear of sandy boots and muddy packs. The ABS decks and vinyl rails are in good shape, though, and the hull still flexes and rebounds reassuringly when I misjudge the depth of water flowing over a rock (as I do all too often). The ash thwart and seat frame are in great shape, too. Occasional touch‑ups with marine varnish see to that.

There’s one exception to this happy state of affairs, however. The years of sun, wind, and water have not been kind to Grebe’s woven cane seat, and just this spring it gave up the ghost. Farwell was the first to discover the problem. He did it the hard way when he took Raven — that’s Grebe’s sister ship, an identical Old Town Pack canoe — out for a morning paddle, early in the season. The seat looked OK to him when he hoisted Raven onto his shoulder for the short carry to The River, and the wavelets played a delightful tune on her bow as he lowered her into the water. But then he settled his rump onto the cane seat, and the music stopped abruptly, its place taken by the sound of shredding… Read more…

 

 
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