felicityaston
explorer . speaker . author
Lakelander
I was soaked and I hadn’t yet got anywhere near a canoe. Standing at Windermere Station, the rain fell relentlessly in sheets - as it had done for the past week. Not a great weekend to go on a watery adventure but I was about to spend three days in a forest at the heart of the Lake District National Park learning how to paddle an open deck canoe.
Half expecting the course to be full of experienced backwoodsmen in camouflage gear, I was relieved when two lively Australian women appeared on the platform with me, one carrying an umbrella and the other a pair of Caribbean themed wellies.
I met the rest of the course participants around a sheltered
campfire for breakfast. No one had any significant paddling experience but
despite our novice status and the large volume of water still falling from the
sky, we were quickly issued paddles and led to a glassy-black tarn at the foot
of some rocky hills nearby. By the waters edge sat a fleet of six beautiful Cedar strip
canoes, each one a work of art hand-crafted by Steve, the course instructor.
Constructed from over 80 narrow strips of Cedar apiece, the varnished hulls
were a patchwork of deep auburn and warm gold finished off with gunwales,
thwarts and decks of creamy Ash. With their wide middles and pleasing curves
tapering to a point at either end, the design of these canoes has changed
little since the early European settlers first adapted the traditional Birch
bark canoes of the native North Americans. Well suited for travel on the rivers
and lakes of Canada and North America they became the workhorses of the fur
trade. Originally, the Cedar strips were placed so tightly next to each other
and with such precision that nothing else was needed to keep the hull together.
Today, the strips are held in place by invisible tongue-and-groove connections
but each canoe still takes three or four months to build. Lifting the canoes
onto the tarn it was a surprise to feel how buoyant they were. The hulls seemed
to rest on, rather than in, the water; the pointed prow and stern curving high
and proud above the surface.
Our first lesson in these magnificent craft was to be in
pairs. My partner took the stern and I climbed into the front, folding my legs
into the narrow space at the bow. Dipping my paddle into the cloudy water of
the tarn the bow of the canoe barely ruffled the surface as it glided through
the watery reflections of the surrounding hills. Apart from the gentle splash
that accompanied each paddle stroke, we moved forward in silence. Within
seconds my mind had emptied of all unnecessary thoughts, leaving just peace,
relaxation and a heightened sense of the landscape around us. I could hear the
buzz of dragonflies, the singing of birds in the trees and the occasional bleat
of a far-off sheep. Glancing over my shoulder to grin at my paddling-partner,
it began to rain softly, pattering down onto our waterproofs but neither of us
cared – within three strokes, we were irrevocably hooked.
Our lessons started with the basics. We learnt the simple power stroke, which propels the canoe forward, the sweep stroke to turn, the draw to manoeuvre sideways, how to use the paddle as a rudder to steer and, most importantly, how to stop in a hurry. As we mastered each technique in turn and began to link the strokes together, it became easier to steer the canoe in a straight line. Gradually, we were able to paddle around the tarn with noticeably fewer visits to the reed beds or accidental tangles in overhanging foliage.
That night, enveloped by the comforting smell of wood smoke
from the campfire and blissfully dry at last, I gratefully slipped into my
sleeping bag - but my brain refused to stop paddling. As I slept I could feel
myself gliding across the surface of the tarn making graceful pivots and
elegant turns. If only my technique was as neat in reality. My lack of poise
was promptly demonstrated the next day during a rescue drill that involved
standing upright in the canoe to roll a second, partially submerged craft out
of the water. While my paddle-mate gripped the gunwales in an effort to steady
us, I made a shaky attempt to stand. Every wobble sent convulsions along the
length of the canoe, threatening to pitch us both into the dark waters. I
finally rescued the capsized canoe and gratefully returned to my position in
the bow but not before registering my partners look of wide-eyed panic. I think
it was a while before he could prise his whitened knuckles from their terrified
grip on the gunwales.
The more time we spent in the canoes the more we began to
get a feel for their individual temperaments and each of us began to make a
beeline for our favourites. The Red Birds had a more pronounced keel so that
they ran perfectly straight through the water but were harder to steer, while
the Peterborough had a rounded hull making it easier to turn but difficult to
keep upright. The slightly scuffed Prospector was the brute of the group,
rising high out of the water with a flat bottom that made it reassuringly
stable but frustrating to steer. However, it made little difference which canoe
Steve and his fellow instructors chose, they seemed able to make each canoe do
exactly what was required with no more than a graceful flick of the paddle.
Watching them expertly propel the canoes across the water was like watching a
leaf twirl in an eddy. With just a discreet splash of the paddle, the wooden
hull skidded sideways over the surface or pivoted delicately on its bow.
On our third and final day we left the forest for the open
water of Lake Windermere. The reluctant sunshine had finally arrived, bringing
with it pleasure boats and cruisers. As we paddled in convoy along the
shoreline, weaving in and out of the wooded islands, mariners of all varieties
gazed in envy at the sleek lines of our Cedar strip canoes. My shoulders ached,
my elbows had seized and my knees felt like they were embedded somewhere in the
bottom of the canoe but I didn’t want
the day to end. Sat in the bow, paddling beneath Wainwright’s hills, the wood
of the canoes glowing honey and almond in the sun, it was hard not to release a
sigh of contentment. The weekend had taught us more than just the technical
skills needed to paddle a canoe, it had revealed the romance of canoeing as a
means of travel. Three days ago I had been a canoe novice but now, as my paddle
sliced rhythmically through the glinting water, I felt thoroughly initiated and
ready for my very own canoe adventure.
(This article was first published in Outdoor Pursuits in September/October 2007)
‘Travel a thousand miles by train and you are a brute; pedal
five hundred miles on a bicycle and you remain basically bourgeois; paddle one
hundred miles in a canoe and you are already a child of nature.’
- Pierre Elliot
Trudeau (Former Prime Minister of Canada and Canoeist)