Québec is burning. And even though I live well to the south of the border, in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains, I can smell the smoke on my doorstep. “Smell” is far too mild a word, in fact. The acrid haze now drifting down on a fitful breeze is strong enough to make my eyes water and my lungs burn. But this is nothing compared to the burning farther north, as flames consume tens of thousands of acres of boreal forest and doom many of the wild creatures who call those woodlands home, condemning them to horrific deaths.

Most—but not all—of the Qébec fires are attributed to lightning strikes, record heat, and high winds. Call these acts of God, if you will. But the fact remains that acts of man cause many wildfires. Fortunately, observing a few simple rules can prevent such tragedies. I’ve outlined those rules elsewhere, and I won’t repeat them here, but I’d urge caution on all backcountry travelers, at all times. Why bother, you ask? “If you doubt the necessity of following such irritating rules to the letter,” Colin Fletcher once wrote, “make yourself go and see the corpse of a recently burned forest.” Exactly.

That’s not the whole story, though. Perhaps the most important rule is this: Often it’s best to forego a campfire altogether. Just say no, in other words. It’s a small sacrifice, and the rewards are great. Today, only Québec is burning. But what of tomorrow?

 
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I like kayaks, and I’ve paddled them in most kinds of water, from rowdy Class IV–V drops to quiet beaver ponds to the margins of the ocean. But as much as I appreciate kayaks’ sleek lines and inherent seaworthiness, I was a canoeist before I was a kayaker, and canoes still stand high in my affections. My first boat was a fire‑engine‑red fiberglass 16‑foot tandem canoe. It tempted me down from the mountains and got me out on the water, giving me a mobile platform for birding and photography into the bargain. I’ve owned a lot of canoes since then, of course, including 20‑foot freighters and 12‑foot pack canoes. As much as I’ve loved these boats, though, they all shared one drawback, a shortcoming not seen in kayaks: there’s a big hole at the top that lets in water — sometimes a great deal of water. It doesn’t take a novice canoeist long to discover the problem with this arrangement. One misstep on boarding, one ill‑considered lunge to grab at a hat caught up in a gust of wind, one big breaker taken over the bow and…well, I don’t have to spell it out, do I? It’s swim time. Still, canoes aren’t quite as vulnerable as this would suggest. Folks have been traveling up and down wild rivers in heavily loaded canoes for centuries and living to tell the tale. They’ve even fitted canoes with sails to cross big lakes and ocean bays.

OK. Canoes leak at the top. But canoeists often take their boats where swamping is more than a theoretical possibility. That being the case, just how do you keep water out of a canoe?… Read more…

 
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Ponchos aren’t elegant, and they’re a nuisance (or worse) in high winds and big waves. But for day in, day out utility, versatility, and economy they’re mighty hard to beat. Having said that, I’ve a confession to make: I didn’t always appreciate them. When I first took to the woods and waters, I wanted only high-tech, high fashion raingear. If it was endorsed by a Himalayan climber, that was ideal. I wasn’t impressed by the fact that ponchos worked. They were too everyday, too down-home, too utilitarian, too simple. I wanted flash.

Then—you guessed it—my feelings did a 180. My epiphany came when I was working as a geologist. I tramped for miles cross-country in whatever weather the gods decided to throw my way. I also hauled a rucksack full of sample bags and field gear. My job required a lot of note-taking, not to mention photography and sketching. Moreover, the work had to be completed on schedule, and each day brought a new challenge. Swamps with standing water deeper than my wellies were high. Scree slopes that threatened to avalanche with every step I took. Hawthorn thickets that tore clothes and lacerated skin. Not to mention rain. Always rain. Yet though I carried a surplus German military poncho in my rucksack, I never used it — until the day an icy November deluge caught me halfway across a seemingly endless plowed field. This was no drizzle. The rain pelted down with tropical intensity, but no tree or shrub offered shelter. That’s when I remembered the poncho in my pack. I had the rucksack off in seconds. Out came the poncho. Then I shouldered the rucksack again and pulled the poncho over my head. From that moment on I was a convert. The rain continued to bucket down, but I stayed dry from the top of my head to the top of my wellies. My pack and log book stayed dry, too. And that was just the beginning of my enlightenment. In time, I came to understand that ponchos are the Swiss army knives of clothing Read more…

 
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