Paddlers tend to specialize. Even 40 years ago, we were divided between whitewater boaters and flatwater boaters. (Sea kayakers were just beginning to make their presence felt.) Nowadays this trend has accelerated, with subcategories emerging in every camp. To give just one example, whitewater kayakers now include creekers and freestylists and squirt boaters. And as is always the case, increasing specialization is accompanied by an ever‑narrower focus. You could even call it tunnel vision. Whitewater enthusiasts and flatwater paddlers have never really understood each other’s passions, of course, but today the estrangement is nearly total. River rats tend to see flatwater boaters as amiable duffers — nice enough folks, but not really up to it — while the Golden Pond crowd regard the hard‑chargers who run challenging rapids with the sort of bemused incomprehension that many people reserve for BASE jumpers and fire‑eaters.

I’m oversimplifying, obviously, but the disconnect is real enough. And it reflects real differences. The world of the whitewater boater is dominated by the power of moving water. You can’t run rapids successfully without understanding something about currents and the many ways that topography influences hydrology. Flatwater boaters, on the other hand, inhabit a world in which wind is the dominant force. In fact, the term “flatwater” is something of a misnomer. Even Golden Pond can get pretty lively when the wind blows half a gale. Wind makes waves, after all, and if you hope to travel safely across open water, you have to learn how to maintain control of your boat in strong headwinds and breaking seas. I suppose sea kayakers have the best (worst?) of both worlds. They confront wind and wind‑driven waves, to be sure, but they must also contend with powerful tidal currents and such whitewater‑like phenomena as overfalls and whirlpools.

Having said all this, I’m now going to admit that there may be a grain of truth in whitewater boaters’ genial dismissal of their flatwater cousins as duffers. In particular, flatwater paddlers who venture out from the sheltered confines of Golden Pond for the first time are often taken aback by the power of wind and wave. While it’s certainly true that you can drown in a farm pond, death can seem much closer when you find yourself among big rollers for the first time. As I discovered when I made my initial foray beyond the comfortable world of intimate creeks and small beaver ponds where I served my paddling apprenticeship. It was, in fact, a baptism by wind and water… Read more…

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I suppose that tying shoelaces will soon be numbered among the lost arts, like determining latitude by noon sight and driving while looking at the road. Once upon a time, learning to tie your own shoes was a watershed event in children’s lives, almost on a par with learning to walk. But no longer. Now Velcro rules. Soon, only a tiny minority of quirky enthusiasts — the sort of people the Brits call “anoraks” — will bother to learn how to join two cords together with a slip‑knot bow. Of course, that day hasn’t arrived. Yet.

It’s getting closer, though. As I realized not long ago when a new tarp came with a package of fishhook‑like plastic gadgets bearing the impressive name “Nite Ize Figure 9″ — the latest in a long line of clever devices intended to do away with the need to tie a tautline hitch. Unlike many of their predecessors, however, these Nite Ize work. So another relic of ancient woodcraft bites the dust. Before long, only gorillas will bother to master even the most rudimentary knots. (Yes, our muscular cousins apparently do tie knots, though they have an unfortunate predilection for grannies.)

Anyway, here’s what Nite Ize Figure 9s look like:

As you can see, they’re not without a certain Bauhaus elegance. But I wasn’t about to be swayed by subtle aesthetic considerations. Instead, I consigned the Nite Ize to a dark corner of the storage bin reserved for interesting‑but‑useless items, the same bin that formerly held the jar of Marmite I somehow talked myself into buying. As it happened, I later relented and gave the Marmite a second chance. The Nite Ize, however, looked certain to remain in the bin forever, ignored and ultimately forgotten. Then, about a month ago, I saw them advertised in a flier from a dealer in military surplus and survival gear. The copywriters had pulled out all the stops, too. “Never tie a knot again,” proclaimed the ad. And just to make sure you’d got the point, they reiterated, “Eliminates the hassle of tying, adjusting and untying knots.” The Mad Men were determined to leave nothing to the reader’s imagination.

I was suitably impressed. Not with the product, you understand. While it was obvious that the Nite Ize were a workable substitute for the tautline hitch, they certainly didn’t eliminate the need for campers to know other knots. In fact, the picture that accompanied the fulsome ad copy made this clear, since it showed a tent guyline secured to a pull‑out with — you guessed it — a couple of half hitches. (It’s not the best knot for the job, perhaps, but the half hitch is definitely a knot.) No, what did impress me was the copywriter’s choice of words. Was “tying, adjusting and untying knots” really a “hassle”? I’d never found that to be the case.

Still, it hasn’t escaped my attention that quite a lot of folks find paddling a canoe to be a hassle, too. (This isn’t true of anyone reading this, I know, but…) So maybe I’m just behind the times. Then again, the explanation for my intransigence may lie elsewhere. I know I enjoy the feeling of independence that comes from mastering a simple physical skill, especially when that skill has practical applications. Like paddling a canoe, for instance. Or tying a knot. And I don’t think I’m alone in this, a hopeful notion that was confirmed recently when a regular reader suggested I write a column about my favorite knots… Read more…

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Somebody (I think it was the late Colin Fletcher) once lamented that one of the few downsides to backcountry travel was the scarcity of upholstered seats. And if a former Royal Marine like Fletcher, inured to wartime hardships and privation, thought this lack of home comforts worthy of note, what about the rest of us, who are accustomed to a much softer life? Well, speaking for myself, I spend too much time sitting as it is. But when I have to sit — and it’s hard to paddle a canoe or ride a bike while standing — I miss having a comfortable seat. Of course, one person’s idea of comfort is likely to differ from another’s. When my uncle saw the impossibly narrow (and implacably adamantine) saddle on Farwell’s “amphibious” bike, he prodded it gingerly, then observed that if he were ever forced to sit on “that thing” he’d have to have it surgically removed. So it’s obvious that notions of comfort vary wildly.

Still, there’s no denying that wood‑framed cane seats and granite rocks aren’t conducive to comfort. Not over the long haul, at any rate. And as I’ve just said, I spend a lot of time sitting down, both at work and at play. Moreover, I don’t share Farwell’s taste for the hard life, at least not in fundamental matters. I like my seats to be well upholstered. In short, I find myself keeping company with the spirits of Nessmuk and Colin Fletcher. I go to the woods to smooth it, not to rough it.

This mindset is reflected in my choice of bedding, among other things. And for quite some time I’d followed Fletcher’s lead in using my sleeping pad, suitably folded and trussed, as a lounge chair while in camp. But this was hard on the pad, and it didn’t lend itself to short lunch stops, let alone brief breathers along the portage trail. I needed something handier. And after a little looking around, I found it… Read more…

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