Photo by Steve Cormack
I was always deeply drawn to
water, despite my parents’ efforts to instill a deep fear of water in me after
a cousin had drowned. I was that
blue-lipped, shivering kid at the local pool or lake who insisted, “I wasn’t
cold.” You couldn’t get me out of the
water. I spent countless idle afternoons
playing with toy boats high in the creeks and ponds below our house—out of my
parents’ view. It felt like a secret,
magical, and yes—forbidden—world to me, where I often found solace and healing.
I discovered whitewater rafting
in college in southern Oregon in the mid 1980s. I really knew just enough to be dangerous. The rafts were fun, but I kept watching the
little whitewater kayaks, nimbly darting in and out of small river features,
playing, rolling, and just having a great time. I thought, “THAT’S what I WANT
to do!” Pretty quickly, I switched from
rafting to whitewater kayaking and continued to run rivers big and small for
decades. I ran a class V river once,
just to say I did it. Never again.
I was first introduced to sea
kayaking in landlocked Montana in 1991, and that was a huge game-changer for
me. I immediately recognized its
potential for solitude and reflection. Transitioning
from barely being able to cram a small lunch in my whitewater kayak to packing
everything I needed to survive (and thrive) into the sea kayak’s watertight
hatches led me to taking off for days, weeks, and eventually months at a time
on wilderness kayak adventures. I
realized I had a penchant for long-distance paddling when I coerced a couple of
girlfriends to paddle the entire length of Flathead Lake with me in one day. We put in at the south end of the lake near
Polson, MT, and ended, nearly 30 miles later, at the small community of Somers
on the lake’s north end. I was
exhausted, but exhilarated.
Flathead Lake, MT
From 1991-1999, I was a kayak
guide on the big lakes and rivers in Montana. I learned a lot through that experience, as
the company’s owner taught her newbie guides a fair bit about boat control,
self and assisted rescues, and the like. I had a “somewhat solid” whitewater kayak
roll, and that skill transferred to the longer, more lissome kayaks fairly
easily.
But it wasn’t until I started
my own kayak company that I sought out more professional instruction. In 2000, I became an ACA Open Water Coastal
(Level IV) certified instructor. It was
one of the best things I’ve ever done to increase my safety—and the safety of
others—on the water. In addition to
refining all the fancy strokes, maneuvers, rolls, rescues, etc., I also learned
a lot about applying those skills to REAL conditions, as well as group dynamics
and learning styles. Participating in
several Swiftwater Rescue trainings put on by our local S&R as well as
Wilderness First Responder courses that offered a water-rescue component,
rounded out my skill set.
Over the course of the last 40+
years, I’ve paddled the glacier-carved lakes of Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming. I’ve
paddled with friends in Mexico, Belize, on the Atlantic and the Pacific. I’ve
explored the Great Lakes and big rivers, from the muddy Missouri to the
class-five whitewater rivers in Montana and Idaho. I paddled lagoons,
estuaries, lakes, mill ponds, creeks, rivers, bays, and pools.
I have a love affair with the
Great Bear Rainforest along BC’s central coast and have completed several
two-week trips in that area. But it’s
the point-to-point, long-distance hauls that intrigue me the most. In 2010, I paddled the Inside Passage solo
from Anacortes to Juneau. At 49 years
young, I was simply a woman on a mission: to see if I could do it. I did, and it was life-changing. Years later, after rereading Audrey Sutherland’s
book “Paddling North,” I was so taken by this woman’s accomplishments. A petite, grey-haired woman, paddling tens of
thousands of solo miles—in an inflatable kayak—in her 60s, 70s, and early 80s! I felt strongly that the world needed to know
more about this unsung hero, and decided I would recreate her route to Sitka,
and write about my experience of recreating her experience. So, in 2022, I set off from San Juan Island
and paddled solo, approximately 1,200 miles to Sitka, largely using the route
she detailed in “Paddling North,” visiting many of the same campsites, hot
springs, cabins, and communities along the way that she did, as well as
interviewing people who remembered her coming through many years earlier. It was a profound experience. I hope to have the book wrapped up in a few
months. Finding a publisher will be the next challenge. Stay tuned!
What I've Learned from
Adventure Kayaking and Associated Thoughts
I’ve learned to be comfortable
with the uncomfortable. Adventure
paddling is going to have unknowns; that’s what makes it an adventure! Embracing discomfort, not knowing exactly
where your next campsite might be, screaming at the wind, etc., are all part of
this nautical chess game. In today’s
complex world, the simplicity of facing the next challenge, of finding shelter,
staying hydrated, fed, and safe, feels like a relief. And I truly enjoy what I refer to as “wilderness
nesting.” Making a camp a cozy home for
the night, and leaving no trace that I was there when I paddle away.
I’ve also learned a lot about
dealing with my fears. When things get
dicey on a trip, I’ve learned to categorize my fears, which puts them in
perspective. I ask myself if the fear I’m
experiencing is a real, valid threat, or simply my assumption
that something or someone might harm me. For example, while camping in bear country my
mind can go bonkers, so I have to ask myself if a bear really, truly is in the
campsite. Usually not, so I
compartmentalize that fear, practice proper bear protocol, and carry on. An on-water example could be dealing with
building seas. Fear can be paralyzing in
this scenario. But I’m not in the water;
I’m still upright. Keep paddling. Lean
forward. Stash that fear and envision
myself safely landing in the lee of the wind and waves.
