Back in the day, before the Age of the Internet, personal ads filled many pages in local papers, including the classified-ad freesheets that could be had for the taking at any HyperMart or ser-sta-gro. These ads always made enlightening reading, even if you weren’t in the market for a new life-partner, and I was surprised to learn just how many folks enjoyed taking long walks in the rain. Moreover, they all sought soul-mates who shared their enthusiasm. And why was I surprised? Well, Farwell and I actually spent quite a few days each year walking (and paddling) in all weathers, both in the course of our work and in our free time. And while we could usually count on meeting plenty of couples on balmy summer days when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, whenever it rained we often had the woods and the waters to ourselves, particularly if the rain was more than a passing shower. ’Twas indeed a puzzlement, and I couldn’t help but wonder where all the romantics who advertised their pluvial passions in the local freesheets had got to. Now, some years on, I’m still wondering. I still go out in the rain—if I didn’t, I’d have stayed indoors all this past summer!—but I don’t meet many other folks when I do. What’s going on here?

The answer is obvious to anyone who spends much time in the wet, of course. Rain, especially cold, wind-driven, insistent rain, is not an aid to romance. At best, it’s uncomfortable, in much the same way as a toothache is uncomfortable: a constant, unpleasant distraction. And at worst? Pretty bad, indeed. In fact, cold rain can kill you, damping all your essential internal fires until, little by little, they die down and then go out. That said, most backcountry travelers manage to cope with rain. A few lucky souls even learn to enjoy it. I’m happy to say I’m one of these lucky ones, and so is In the Same Boat reader Len Cowan, who writes, “I actually love to paddle in the rain.” He cites the pleasure to be had from intimate observation of “the sound and pattern of raindrops.” So far, so good. However, he immediately adds a very important proviso: “but only if I’m comfortable.” Good point, Len. Comfort is king in most things in life, and nowhere is this more true than when you find yourself paddling through a soaking drizzle.

The upshot? If you hanker after long walks in the rain, or if you just want to paddle whenever you can—and enjoy it, whatever the weather throws your way—then Job One is obviously finding your comfort zone… Read more…

 
Send a Comment

It was Sunday morning. The day was cool, with an impatient breeze that hinted at rain to come. Traffic was light, and I was on the home stretch of a 20-mile circuit when I glanced at my rearview mirror and noticed a roadie behind me. He was the first cyclist I’d seen that day, and he was closing the distance between us fast. When he drew alongside he slowed briefly to exchange greetings and then moved off, giving me just enough time to take in the details of his classic Bianchi. Soon he was lost to sight round the next bend in the road.

A few minutes later, I was on the brink of the shallow dip that precedes “Everest,” a mile-long climb marking the location of an ancient outwash delta. The road rose ahead of me like a wall, but when I looked down into the dip I was surprised to see the Bianchi in a parking lot just off the road on the right. The roadie who’d passed me only minutes before was now bent over his machine, studying the rear mech intently (“Mech” is Brit for “derailleur,” and it’s a lot easier to say.) He didn’t look happy, so I pulled into the parking lot to see if I could help. The problem turned out to be a familiar one: The roadie had thrown his chain while shifting, not once, but twice. A quick tweak of the limit screw would fix things, but… He didn’t have screwdriver. I rummaged around in my seat pack and handed him mine. As I did so, I noticed that he didn’t have a pump, either. That was really traveling light, I thought.

Tweaking the limit screw only took a minute or so. The roadie handed back my screwdriver and thanked me, as the first lazy drops of rain smacked against our helmets. I got back on my bike. The roadie looked down the road. Then he looked up at the sky. Then he shook his head. “Guess I’ll head back to town,” he said. And he did. I started climbing. Fifteen minutes later I’d reached the final rung in the ladder—the 18 percent grade on my doorstep. I was home. And the roadie? I hoped he’d made it without getting a flat. The rain was now bucketing down. He wouldn’t have much fun pushing a disabled bike along the highway shoulder in a downpour.

As I cleaned up, I thought about our brief encounter. If I hadn’t had a few tools in my seat pack, what would the roadie have done? Walk home, presumably. And if he’d had trouble farther down the road, what then? There’s a lot of empty in the Adirondack foothills, and there’s not much traffic on the roads on Sunday mornings. Moreover, cell-phone coverage is spotty, at best. You can’t count on calling home to get a ride. He could have had a very long walk, indeed. In the cold rain.

 
But I did have tools in my seat pack. I always do. And I carry even more in my handlebar bag, along with a selection of spare parts. Here’s the complete rundown, beginning with the contents of my seat pack:

• • Spare tire tube
• • Self-adhesive patches
• • Tire levers
• • Hex wrenches (Allen keys)
• • Spoke wrench
• • Chain tool
• • Multi-tool (Leatherman knock-off)
• • Vinyl gloves
• • Cotton rags

And here’s what’s in my ‘bar bag:

• • Tire patch kit
• • Spare brake and derailleur cables
• • Combo Phillips & slotted screwdriver
• • 8mm Allen key
• • 8mm and 10mm combo open-ended wrench
• • Cone wrenchs (13-15mm and 17-18mm)
• • Combo wrench (31mm & 36mm headset spanner & 13-15mm cone/pedal wrench)
• • Lifu mini crank extractor
• • Bottom bracket tool
• • Stein cassette remover
• • Spare brake and derailleur cables
• • Inner tube sections (mostly for padding)
• • Vinyl gloves

And that’s not all. I bring other things as well:

• • Frame pump
• • Mini-pump (as a spare on long trips)
• • Tire boot
• • Spare spokes
• • Kickstand support
• • Cable and U-locks (trips to town, mostly)
• • Removable headlight (does double duty as flashlight)
• • Cyclometer
• • Straps and bungee cords

 

• • HALT! repellent spray (2-3 cans)
• • Two to three full water bottles
• • More water in a collapsable bladder (long trips)
• • Water purification tablets (long trips)
• • First aid kit
• • Foul-weather gear
• • Bandanna(s)
• • Reflective ankle straps
• • Whistle

 

• • Cell phone
• • Maps
• • Reading glasses
• • Keys
• • Wallet
• • Lip balm and sunscreen
• • Spare protective eyewear
• • Notebook, sketchbook, pen, and pencils
• • Butane lighter
• • Food in snacker bag and handlebar bag
• • Rack trunk with camera and lenses (and sometimes a tripod)

Not exactly traveling light, eh? And I pay for each item in my kit afresh every time I climb a hill. I don’t set many records on the flats, either. But as a famous man once said, “There’s more to life than increasing its speed.” Freedom isn’t free. If I want to be able to pass gas pumps without stopping and to ride far off the beaten track without having to walk back, I can’t begrudge the weight of a few tools and a couple of water bottles. So I don’t. It’s a small price to pay for freedom, and freedom is what riding a bike is all about. ‘Nuff said? I think so.

 
Send a Comment

Trout season opens on April 1st here in New York, perhaps taking a cue from “Dictionary” Johnson—who, whatever his literary achievements, was assuredly no fisherman. Come the day, there’ll be standing room only along many a stream, whatever the weather. And since many anglers are also paddlers it’s a double cause for celebration.

But there’s a downside—at day’s end, the same streambanks that played host to scores of eager anglers will be festooned with snagged hooks and tangled wads of monofilament. I’m not without sin in this matter myself. We’ve all done it. There probably isn’t an angler living who hasn’t left a hook or lure snagged high in a tree at some time or other, along with its accessory pendant of mono. Sometimes, of course, it’s not accidental. The same jolly souls who leave smoldering, half-extinguished fires and piles of beer cans behind often discard a mare’s nest of backlashed mono in the bushes, too.

We all pay the price. To you and me, the primary insult is aesthetic, but to wildlife, it’s often a matter of life and death. Mono wraps around limbs and beaks, causing agonizing pain at first, than gangrene, and finally, mercifully, death. Discarded hooks are no better. Ducks and gulls, herons and geese, beavers and otters—all are impaled by the deadly trash we discard so casually and carelessly.

Don’t get me wrong. The art of angling requires deception, and monofilament is a valued ally. It’s strong, elastic, and almost invisible. It disguises the connection between lure and angler, tricking fish into thinking they’ve found a free lunch. But discarded mono is a blight. Oh! what a tangled web we weave/When first we practise to deceive! And nothing tangles like monofilament. Worse yet, monofilament is forever, or near enough—unless we take the time to remove its deadly web wherever and whenever we find it.

I’ve banged on about this at some length already, in a column for Paddling.net entitled “A Tangled Web: Monofilament, Deadly Deceiver.” And while I’m probably preaching to the converted here, I’ll still give it my best shot. It’s not as if mono is heavy or bulky. It’s as easy to pack out as it was to pack in. And there are alternatives to chucking it in the bushes. See, for example, “Disentangling the Deadly Web.” Then, when you head out on opening day, keep your eyes peeled. Who knows? You just might save a life.

 
Send a Comment