Author: SeaKayaker User Archive

I already carry a PLB, a VHF and a GPS aboard my kayak—and I put a lot of faith in my three-letter electronic gadgets—so when I was asked to try a SPOT Satellite Personal Tracker, I eyed it and its gratuitous vowel with suspicion. When I added a cell phone in a waterproof bag to my kit of electronics, I figured I had all of my bases covered—so why would I want to carry a SPOT?

There’ve been many times when I’ve wanted to spend a couple of extra hours out on the water but couldn’t reach home on my cell phone. I just had to turn around to meet my float-plan deadlines. I’m not going to be packing an expensive satellite phone anytime soon, and I certainly won’t be calling up the coast guard on my VHF radio to ask them to call home and explain to my other half that the surf’s too good to come home just yet. There are also times when minor emergencies are best taken care of by friends and family. If I were to lose both my paddles or punch a big hole in my kayak playing in the surf, setting off my personal locator beacon (PLB) to call in the cavalry would be overkill if I could have a friend retrieve me.

This is where SPOT, the “world’s first satellite messenger” can come in very handy. SPOT tracks your global positioning service (GPS) coordinates and can transmit your position and simple “I’m OK” message to your float-plan holder via a satellite network. Those satellites relay the information to specific land-based satellite antennas around the world. The antennas can relay your message, as required, to the Internet, a cell phone network, an emergency call center or all three, depending on the signal you choose to send. SPOT Inc., based in Milpitas, California, is a subsidiary of Globalstar, a corporation that maintains a network of communications satellites.

The SPOT unit sells for $149.99 at most marine or outdoor stores (and some stores are now discounting the units). The annual charge for the required basic satellite service subscription is $99. That level of service gets you the Alert 9-1-1 emergency response to call for search and rescue (SAR) services; a “SPOTchecking” function, which lets you send a notice to your contacts to tell them where you are and that you’re OK; and the ability to indicate your position and signal for help from friends and family rather than from SAR.

For an additional $49.99 a year, you can purchase the tracking upgrade option, which is when all the fun really starts. With the tracking option, or “SPOTcasting,” SPOT will automatically send your location to your online SPOT account every 10 minutes. Folks at home can then follow your progress via Google Maps. To extend battery life, SPOT is programmed to run the tracking for 24 hours. To reactivate, you push SPOT’s OK button.

After purchasing SPOT, you have to register the unit online with the company and set up a personal Internet account. You list the cell phone numbers and email addresses of those you wish to be on your “SPOT team” and indicate which messages you wish them to receive. Each time you activate your Alert 9-1-1, ask for help from your team or check-in, your entire team, or specific individuals on your team, will receive an Internet message and/or a preprogrammed Short Message Service (SMS) cell phone text message. And depending on the nature of your trip or wherever in the world you are, you can log on to the SPOT website and change your SPOT team members to keep current with your needs and location. You can also add supplementary information—medical condition or boat color, for example—which will be passed on to the appropriate emergency services. I added a description of my kayak.

Setting up your personal account information on SPOT’s website can be challenging. I called SPOT’s customer service a couple of times to get help with what information was needed for the account. For example, on your “personal account” page, you are asked for primary and secondary personal contact numbers—for this page, use your own personal numbers (e.g., your cell and home or work numbers). Your “default” page is where you list your friends’ and family’s email addresses and phone numbers to receive your OK or Help messages. These numbers cannot be the same as those on your personal account page, so if you’re having someone in your household act as an emergency contact, you cannot list your home phone with your personal information. The emergency numbers on your default page are the ones the Emergency Response Center (ERC) will call. Overall, SPOT Inc. could improve the intuitiveness of its web interface.

Like any GPS-enabled device, the front of the unit needs to be facing skyward for it to work. SPOT uses GPS satellites to determine a user’s location and a separate commercial communications satellite network to send its messages. The second satellite network is the same one that Globalstar satellite phones use, but SPOT transmits in the more reliable Globalstar Simplex mode. This one-way communication system has a 99 percent completion rate and is widely used to track the movement of shipping containers, ships, trucks and freight.

SPOT can be used around the world, including all the continental United States, most of Canada, Mexico, Europe, Australia, New Zealand, northern Africa, northeastern Asia, portions of South America and thousands of offshore miles around those continents. (Arctic and Antarctic regions, central and southern Africa, India, Southeast Asia and China are not covered. See www.-findmespot.com for a coverage-area map.) A Canadian paddling around Tasmania in February 2008 issued a distress signal with his Canada-registered SPOT. Canadian authorities advised Australian emergency services of his SPOT 9-1-1 signal, and rescuers reached the paddler five hours after the SPOT signal was transmitted. Local boaters pulled the kayaker from the water just as a SAR rescue helicopter arrived. The helicopter crew treated the kayaker and transported him to a hospital.

The SPOT device is bright orange and has a black rubber material along its perimeter for a nonslip grip. Measuring 4.38 x 2.75 x 1.5 inches (111 mm x 70 mm x 38 mm) and weighing 7.37 ounces (209 grams), SPOT is small enough and light enough to be unobtrusive when clipped to you or your boat. The battery compartment is secured by two screws fitted with wire bails, with a third screw for a belt clip. The belt clip screw had a tendency to loosen, and you may lose the unit if you rely on the clip rather than a pocket to secure the SPOT unit. A cord tied around the clip and through the bail would keep the screw from backing out. You can clip the unit to the deck of your kayak, but the best practice is to keep emergency equipment securely attached to yourself. You’ll still have it if you happen to get separated from your boat.

The SPOT unit floats and is waterproof to a depth of one meter for up to 30 minutes. It’s also temperature tolerant and shockproof. Power is supplied by AA lithium batteries (included), which should last stored for several years; under normal usage, with just the power on, they’re good for about one year. Activation of the tracking mode will drop battery life down to about 14 days, and the 9-1-1 mode will drop it to around seven consecutive days. A set of batteries should allow 1,900 messages sent by the OK button.

SPOT’s manual states: “With a perfect view of the entire sky, the SPOT network is designed to successfully send virtually any message.” Only if you can achieve this “perfect view of the entire sky”—which may not be easy for a kayaker meandering through Florida’s Everglades—can you be assured that the majority of your messages will go through. I confirmed this with my own testing. Over a couple of months of using SPOT, I found that it did not work sitting on the passenger seat of my car. OK messages I sent did not result in emails being sent to my account. SPOT did work sitting atop the car’s dashboard when I was driving in open areas. In an urban setting, OK messages sent while I was driving or walking city streets surrounded by lots of tall buildings did not always get through. Heavily wooded areas may yield similar results. SPOT worked sitting in my tent with a few palms overhead, but it didn’t from the pocket of my PFD. To increase reliability in areas where the view of the sky is partially obscured, SPOT is programmed to make multiple transmissions for each message mode used. SPOT will transmit a 9-1-1 distress signal every five minutes until cancelled or the battery runs out of power—again, about seven days. (By comparison, PLBs typically send out a distress signal for only 24 hours.)

The only place I found to clip the SPOT unit to my PDF that still afforded a clear signal was on my upper shoulder device holder where I normally attach my strobe light. Because I can’t see the unit in that position, I needed to be very familiar with SPOT’s layout to avoid confusing the OK button for the Help or Alert 9-1-1 buttons. The buttons are placed intuitively enough—Help and 9-1-1 are outer left and right, and the On/Off and OK buttons you regularly use are centrally lower and close together. To guard against unintentional activation of the 9-1-1 button, it has a raised ring around it so it feels different from the other buttons. It also needs to be depressed for three seconds to activate it. While some users have taped small bits of stiff plastic over the 9-1-1 button to reduce the risk of triggering a false alarm, SPOT reports that they’ve had no 9-1-1 signals transmitted by anything other than someone intentionally pushing the button. The 9-1-1 transmission can be cancelled by pushing the button again. A solid red light will shine indicating the cancellation message has been sent. Following up with a few OK transmissions will help confirm the cancellation of the emergency call.

When the unit is turned on, a green light above the On/Off button will flash every three seconds. When you push the OK button, a green light above it will also flash. The light will be on continuously as transmissions are sent. When the OK signal is received, your SPOT team receives an email similar to this:

SPOT Check OK.

Unit Number: [the serial number of your SPOT]

Latitude: 27.623

Longitude: -82.7098

Nearest Town from unit location: Fort De Soto, United States

Distance to the nearest town: 3 km(s)

Time in GMT the message was sent: 02/08/2008 23:14:07

[and a URL link to a Google Map, showing exactly where you are]

The corresponding message received as an SMS on your SPOT team members’ cell phones will look like:

SPOT Check OK.

Latitude: 27.623

Longitude: -82.7098

Fri, Feb 8, 11.14 pm [EST]

Originally, those who wished to track you using the Google Maps technology needed password access to your SPOT Internet account. Now SPOT is beta testing a “share page.” So if you’re leading a kayaking trip for a week or so, you can now set up a temporary account with up to 10 email addresses or cell-phone numbers of the family and friends paddling with you. By providing them with your account’s URL, they can track your group, password free.

I have to admit, at first I found the patterns of flashing lights on the front of the unit a bit confusing and needed to refer to the manual for what each pattern of blinks meant. SPOT indicates when it’s sending a message and will stop blinking when the transmission is complete. Because the SPOT is a Simplex device (one way—transmit only), it doesn’t let you know whether the transmission has been received or not. Just as it is with a PLB or emergency position-indicating radio beacon (EPIRB) distress signal, you have no indication whether or not help is indeed on its way. If you press the Alert 9-1-1 button in an emergency, SPOT will acquire your GPS coordinates and send them along with a distress message to the GEOS International ERC in Houston, Texas, every five minutes until cancelled. The ERC notifies the appropriate emergency responders based on your location (e.g., contacting 9-1-1 responders in North America and 1-1-2 responders in European Union nations) and personal information, as well as notifying your emergency contact person(s) about the receipt of a distress signal. Even if SPOT cannot acquire its location from the GPS network, it will still transmit a distress signal—without exact location—to the ERC. The ERC will notify your contacts of the signal, and continue to monitor the network for further transmissions that may include the GPS data. Like a PLB, SPOT’s 9-1-1 distress signal is a feature that cannot be tested.

I put SPOT to the test during this year’s Watertribe Everglades Challenge (www.watertribe.com), a 300-plus-mile kayak and small-boat race from Florida’s Tampa Bay to Key Largo. A week prior to the race, I discovered that my SPOT was malfunctioning—every time I pressed the OK button, instead of green confirmation flashes I got red flashes. SPOT Inc. tells me that they have only a 1 percent malfunction rate overall. They mailed me a replacement unit overnight to ensure that I would have one in time and updated my personal SPOT account.

I had my SPOT turned on for the entire five days of the race. For two days, I tested the unit using the tracking mode, then I switched from the automatic tracking mode and used the manual OK mode for the remainder of the race. The usefulness of the unit really became clear to me and my SPOT team while navigating Everglades National Park, where cell phone coverage is nonexistent. Because of the challenging weather conditions, I had to make a couple of course changes from my pre-race plan. I pressed the OK button at every new heading I took so my family and a race reporter could see on Google Earth exactly where I was. I finished the race a day earlier than I had planned and did not have a place to stay that night. My partner had watched my progress through the received SPOT emails and, knowing I was ahead of schedule, phoned the hotel to rebook my room for early arrival. I have SPOT to thank for the hot shower and comfortable bed I had waiting for me after a very tiring, wet race!

SPOT is truly a step forward in personal electronics and safety. As with any emergency device, you need to be wary of relying on it (or any other single device) to help save you in a difficult situation. Training and other essential safety equipment should remain as priorities. Using good judgment to keep you out of an emergency situation is probably more important than packing the technology that might help you after you get into one.

If you do much kayaking, there’s no question you should have some kind of emergency alert system carried on you. The only thing I’m still mulling over is whether I can bet my life on SPOT or on my 406 MHz PLB as a fail-safe form of distress signal. PLBs have been tried and tested for many years in rescue situations all around the world. SPOT is new, but rescues are already being credited to it. For now, I’m still packing my PLB for an extra margin of safety, but SPOT has earned its place in my must-have equipment as the best way of letting my family and friends track my progress. For the comfort that provides my family and me, SPOT is without equal.

Kristen Greenaway is a Kiwi now living and paddling in North Carolina. In July of 2009, she plans to enter the inaugural Yukon 1000 Canoe & Kayak Race, which requires each contestant to carry a SPOT—for emergency use and to allow race officials to track progress and enforce mandatory layovers.

SPOT Satellite Personal Tracker

$149.99 plus $99 annual basic service charge; optional $49.99 for annual tracking upgrade

SPOT Inc.

866-651-7768 or 408-933-4518

There’s gotta be a better way to lug a kayak.” Who hasn’t had that thought during a particularly long carry? Wheels can be great, but they tend to be expensive and bulky, and they don’t work well on uneven ground. Voyageurs North Productions came up with the clever idea of a carrying yoke for kayaks, called a “Kayoke,” designed to clamp across the inside of your cockpit so that you can balance your kayak comfortably upside-down over your head, a la canoe-portaging style, giving new meaning to the term “gear head.” Its inventors and manufacturers are paddlers who thought to use stainless springs and plated bolts, and to finish its laminated oak with marine-grade epoxy. Sleek and lightweight, the Kayoke is a padded wooden yoke that weighs less than two pounds and tucks easily into a hatch when not in use.

The standard-size Kayoke, at about 18 inches wide, is designed for kayaks with narrower cockpits. We experimented with kayaks, and discovered that they balanced comfortably for carrying once you struggled the heavy combination up onto your shoulders. (This was definitely easier with some help from a partner.) We found the shoulder pads well placed and nicely padded for both an average-sized woman and a large man, but, depending on the boat, we noticed that the unpadded yoke itself tended to press uncomfortably across the back of the neck to varying degrees. If the manufacturer were to add some more bend in the yoke itself or some additional padding in the neck area, it might alleviate this problem.

To fit rotomolded kayaks and most large cockpits, try the Kayoke XL, at 22 inches wide. If you try to use the standard size in these bigger cockpits and just set it in a narrower position, the balance is thrown off and, in some cases, the thigh braces interfere with the setting of the clamps. On the other hand, the XL may be too wide to fit into some of the narrow cockpits. Since it is important to get a good fit for your kayak, if neither of the two sizes is suitable, Voyageurs North Productions will “custom” build the Kayoke to fit any cockpit dimension for the same suggested retail price.

With its sleek, solid black profile and sturdy brass shaft, the new bilge pump distributed by Wildwasser looks like a gear collector’s dream. According to Wildwasser, the brass shaft is intended to provide “extra security and durability, allowing the best possible expedition service.” The pump also has a large “ergonomic” handle designed to give “quick service” with “little effort.” It even bears an attractive suggested retail price, $29.95, running just a few bucks more than the standard red-and-gray plastic-shafted pumps commonly found in kayak stores.

We did not have the luxury of using the pump for an expedition, but we did take it onto the water for some field testing. Due to the large handle, the brass-shafted pump’s overall length is similar to plastic-shafted models, but the distance between the intake port and the out port is only 13 inches-three-and-one-half inches shorter than the typical plastic pump. On high-decked boats we found that the out port barely cleared the edge of the cockpit, so that some of the pumped water dribbled back into the kayak. The shorter tube also slightly reduces the pump’s overall volume, translating to more time and strokes needed to drain our kayaks. Depending on the amount of water, the Wildwasser pump averaged over two minutes to remove the amount of water that the larger volume plastic pump handled in about a minute and a half. However, we did note a subtle advantage during the trials: The smaller opening on the Wildwasser pump supplies a longer trajectory for water fights.

If you have trouble with the durability of the plastic shafts on your bilge pumps (or want the peace of mind that your pump shaft won’t fail you on your next expedition), check out Wildwasser’s new brass-shafted bilge pump. Its handsome appearance and its ability to shoot water farther will impress your paddling buddies. Just make sure the outgoing water will clear the rim of your expedition-sized cockpit before you launch into the wilderness.

he twin-engine Navaho left the runway loaded to capacity: Louise in the co-piot’s seat, myself, Dick and Doug seated hehind her. Eight bags of gear, each weighing between 50 and 75 pounds–four of them containing the two folding expedition doubles–filled the remaining available space on the other side of the plane. Within seconds, we were over the Bering Strait. Still clibing, our pilot ran down the safety checklist: “If we should land in the water, your seat cushion cab be used as a floatation device.” I thought, “If we had to land in the Bering Sea in a small plane, we can probably kiss our butts goodbye.”

 

head, steep dark maountains streaked from top to bottom with narrow patches of snow ran down to the sea. Their barren, cratered tops made the landscape seem moon-like. Thinking about the paddling expedition ahead of us, I realized that if the seas kicked up, trying to land by kayak would be impossible for miles at a time.

he flight, across the Strait to Proavideniya on the Chukotskiy Peninsula, is only made when clouds unveil the top of the mountain at the end of Provideniya Bay. The American pilot radios over and the Russionas say, “Not now!” or “Yes, now–quick!” They must have said “Now–quick!” The plane cleared the mountain, and we dropped toward a shor runway on a narrow spit of land jammed between a large brackish lake and Provideniya Harbor. As we taxied down the gravel runway, we passed broken military jets scattered about the runway’s edge. We coasted past a rudder and a tail section, its big red star still prominent. The plane halted before a low cement building, and we were greeted by a Russian soldier dressed in a calf-length brown woolen coat, black leather boots and a round, brimmed learther cap that sported a Star and Sickle medal.

wo more young soldiers appeared, rifles slung over their shoulders. They escorted us to a small, tidy waiting room, where a man dressed in jeans and a worn brown leather jacket stepped forward and introduced himself. He was Oleg, our English-speaking Russian contact from the Siberian expedition company Dick had been working with to gain the necessary permits and permission for the expedition. Oleg had helped us arrange for hotels and transportation. We waited for over an hour while the uniformed men sorted through our passports and visas. e were disappointed when then did not hand them back to us; they told us that they would hold onto them, returning them once we had finalized our travel plans. Passing our baggage through the x-ray machine, our VHF radios and GPS showed up. They asked us to open the bags slowly and remove the devices. A rapid-fire discussion between Oleg and the soldiers. Oleg finally convinced the tall soldier in charge that we were not spies, and would not send vital information back to the U.S. for our planned invasion of Siberia.

he official welcome over, we hoisted our duffels onto a dented blue and white school bus Oleg had arranged to take us into town, and we all clambered in. The driver pulled at an old green curain strung on a string to separate us from him, and took off at a high speed for Provideniya on the other side of the harbor. Before the breakup of the Soviet Union, Provideniya had been the major distribution center for that military that was stationed up and down the Siberian coast. The city once had a population of over 4000; it was now home to perhaps 600. In the long shadows of the late afternoon, most of the cement apartment buildings were abandoned, the windows vacant. Everthing was a shade of gray, covered in coal dust. The streets were quitet, empty of people or vehicles. The driver dropped us at the only hotel in town, and Oleg went inside to confirm our reservations.

he trip was Dick’s idea. A skilled paddler and an excellent sailor–he raced both sailboats and ice boats, Dick has a deep love of new experiences. At 72, he had more energy than do most men half his age.

Our plan was to leave from Provideniya and paddle north 250 nautical miles with the prevailing winds and current to Uelen, located just below the Arctic Circle, where the Bering Sea meets the Chukchi Sea, at the easternmost point of the Asian Continent. At Uelen, we’d cross the Strait to land at Cape Prince of Wales, Alaska–a distance of some 44 nautical miles.

e decided it would be best to go with two doubles. We asked Louise Masailo to join the team. Louise is a strong paddler who has a knack for logistics, but we still needed a fourth member, and two boats. About a month before the trip, Doug Simpson of Feathercraft kayaks joined the team. What luck! Not only did Doug bring his extensive expedition experience to the team, he also brought two expedition doubles.

n late July, as we were waiting at the Anchorage airport to board the flight to Nome, we received some disappointing news. In a phone call to the Anchorage office of the Siberian expedition company that was assisting us in planning our trip, we learned that the Russians had closed access to the Bering Strait. Permission to cross in our kayaks had been rescinded. This far into the trip, turning back wasn’t an option. We decided to continue on to Provideniya to make alternative plans for our expedition. Once in Provideniya, we learned from the expedition company that Dan Guravitch, a noted polar bear photographer from the U.S., had commissioned a 280-foot Russian ice breaker to take him and 12 other photographers to Wrangel Island above the Arctic Circle. The ship was leaving Provideniya in a few days’ time. Quickly considering our options, we decided to have the ship drop us off in Uelen. From Uelen, instead of crossing the Bering Strait, we would paddle south, exploring the Chukotskiy (Chukchi) coastline and returning to Provideniya. It meant we’d be paddling 250 nautical miles against the prevailing southwest wind and currents, but we’d still be able to do much of the route we’d spent so many months in planning. We were all eager to get this expedition underway so, rather than wait any longer in Provideniya, we decided to get onto the water. We would paddle to Mys Chaplina, about three days to the north, and have the ship pick us up there.

t dawn two days later, we assembled our expedition doubles at the harbor’s edge, next to rusting ship hulls that were stuck forever in the mud. Then we waited for Gennady, our “Russian guide.” The Russian authorities had said we had to take a Russian with us on the trip. Oleg promised he’d provide us with an “Olympic caliber” paddler. I was totally unaware the Russians sent their Olympic sprinters to the Bering Sea to train. One could develop great balance and confidence in a K2 in those conditions. Great concept!

e waited. Gennady never showed. Doug radioed to Oleg to check on what was going on, and got the reply: “No passports today.” Evidently, the Russian intelligence was still debating if we were intelligent enough to be a threat. Next morning we were back with our boats, this time with passports in hand. Across the harbor, a single kayaker with a long paddle and a high stroke approached us. Was this the way the Russians trained their paddlers? Yes, it was Gennady, in a skinny English sea kayak left from an earlier Bering Strait crossing.

ll he carried besides a few articles of clothing were a sleeping bag, a large pair of binoculars, a handsaw, a knife, a coil of large copper wire to repair his rudder regularly, and plenty of matches. These were to guarantee a fire at the end of each day to dry his gear. When we saw him wringing out his sleeping bag days later, we were humbled and gave him dry bags. He never complained; I’m sure he had lived with far worse conditions. As we were to learn later, Gennady grew up in inland Siberia near Lake Baikal. He was a land person, and had few opportunities to paddle kayaks.

e left Provideniya under a low cloud cover, straight into a 10-knot headwind. The heavily laden doubles handled well. Outside the harbor, the seas were confused and choppy, a combination of the wind and reflecting waves off the steep coastline. We didn’t care; at last we were on the water! We paddled all day alongside towering, dark gray cliffs before reaching a suitable landing site: a steep, round stone beach reached through short breaking surf. We were to find later that these conditions were typical of most of the dings on this trip. Over the next days found campsites near rivers, where the cliffs gave way to tundra. We established a routine for landing: Doug and Louise first, Gennady next, then me and Dick. Timing was critical. We’d surf a wave in, the bow would reach the steep beach, then the stern would rise, and we’d quickly jump out of the boat and drag it up with the next wave.

hree days out we rounded Mys Chaplina, a military base with an impressive amount of radar. The base was located at the apex of a triangular spit of land that in places was no more than 150 yards wide, and that stretched seven miles in each direction. We landed a quarter mile beyond the base, on the north side of the triangle. The beach was formed of fist-sized flat oval stones, and the interior held a foggy, brackish lake.

Dick and Gennady hiked along the beach to the command quarters in hopes of radioing back to Provideniya to tell Oleg we’d arrived. They caught the military by surprise. They hadn’t seen us on their radar screen, and they certainly weren’t expecting a knock on the door. Hours later, we saw Dick and Gennady striding back to the boats escorted by a thin blond commander and his young communications sergeant, who carried a radio telecommunications pack on his back. They had come to examine our “stealth boats.” Although the young sergeant tried to appear stern-faced and serious, we could see the light in his eyes as he looked at our gear and listened to Gennady’s explanation of who we were and what we were doing.

e set up camp on the second tier of the gravel spit. It was fairly well protected from the water and sheltered from the wind. We reached Oleg by radio, and he reported that the ship would arrive within a few days. We spent a couple of days repairing gear. On the third day, Doug and I paddled through thick fog to the lake’s far shore to get water from an incoming river. Navigating by compass, we found the river, then hiked up to a sun-drenched tundra. Breaking through the fog into bright sunlight was like going from night into day. We radioed back to camp. No answer. Concerned that the ship could come while we were hiking, we quickly descended and paddled back to camp.

ure enough, Oleg and three other men were waiting on the beach, having taken a launch from the ship. We broke down camp in about twelve minutes. While one man kept the launch motor running, Oleg and his companions slogged through the water in high rubber boots and helped load all our gear and kayaks. We got in last, and motored a mile out to the waiting ship, barely discernable in the heavy fog. The ship set off for Uelen, where the Bering Sea meets the Chukchi Sea. We arrived the next morning. The wind was blowing and the water was all whitecaps and ice floes. Military radar towers dotted the shore and surrounding mountains. At a coal-fired power plant nearby, a couple of rusted 40-foot stacks anchored down by numerous wires were belching smoke. Mountains of coal surrounded the plant.

Disembarking, we took a couple of hours to acquire supplies and assemble the boats. There was ice on the puddles in town. With the aid of Gennady, we located a family with some goods to sell: salted fish, bread and fresh, ball-shaped donuts. Gennady explained that the residents of this town are mostly native Chukchis who subsist on what they catch from the sea. For most of the year, this town and the entire coastline is locked in ice.

e were all eager to resume paddling. After loading the kayaks, we launched and headed south, paddling through fast-moving ice floes and small bergs. We were forced to plan each move to avoid getting trapped or crushed by the ice. Once we rounded the easternmost point of the Chukchi Peninsula and entered the Bering Strait, the southwest headwind grew to 25 knots and five-foot seas rebounded off the cliffs. I was glad to have Dick in front of me to break the waves, though I could have done without the spray of his paddle. Doug and Louise were a couple of boat-lengths ahead of US. I turned to check on Gennady. He was over, clinging to the hull of his boat, already 100 feet away. He hadn’t said a word, but his eyes were desperate. I yelled to Doug and Louise: “Gennady’s over!” As he and his kayak drifted dangerously close to the overhang of a small iceberg, Dick and I powered to him. We reached him with only seconds to spare. With no time to empty his kayak, I held it alongside ours and we got Gennady back into his boat. He paddled hard on the right and Dick paddled powerfully on the left, while I steered us away from the iceberg. Gennady’s face was the color of the ice. There had been no time to be scared–only to act. As we grinned reassuringly at Gennady, he affected nonchalance.

Doug spotted a landing site just a quarter mile away. It was a small, cup-shaped cove surrounded by sheer cliffs. We had an easy landing in the sheltered cove. Gennady dumped all of the water out of his boat. He was cold, but not dangerously so–he had been protected from the extreme cold by the early model dry suit he was wearing, loaned to him by the expedition company. Outside the cove, the seas grew as the wind reached gale force. Only six miles out of Uelen, we were landbound.

o stretch our legs, we decided to do some exploring. We looked for a route up through the cliffs to reach the mountaintops. The 3000-foot mountains rising up from the sea made distance deceiving. Everything was big. I found that land that looked three miles away, once checked on the chart, was often closer to ten.

he only scalable route to the top was up an unstable rock slide at the southern edge of the cove. Doug and Gennady were in the lead as we scrambled up the slide. Climbing up the slide was loosening the rocks, and we quickly saw that it was dangerous to be climbing below anyone else. Dick, Louise and I decided to descend; it was too dangerous. Doug and Gennady would get the view this time.

ack at camp, I curled up on a sun-warmed rock and dozed. Clattering rocks awakened me. What started as a clatter became a rumble. I looked up to ee stones, rocks and armchair-sized boulders bouncing and crashing down the same slide we’d gone up earlier. There, on top of the biggest rock in the slide was Doug–and he was picking up speed. The five-foot boulder started to roll with Doug on it, and as it did, Doug jumped quick as a cat, up and over it. From my vantage point it looked as though it could have rolled right over his legs. I sent him a questioning thumbs up sign, and he returned it. I breathed a sigh of relief.

here was enough space to construct two tent platforms using the round rocks we found on the shore. We had almost finished assembling one tent when a big gust of wind launched it 50 feet up the sheer cliff, like an oversized box kite cut loose from its string. We stood with our necks craned back as the wind, howling up the cliff, kept the tent hovering in empty space. Then the tent floated straight down, scraping along the cliff a bit, but still intact.

t four the next morning, the sun was up, the seas had calmed, and the wind was light. We took advantage of the conditions and did an 11-mile crossing across a bay at the southern end of Mys Dezhneva. Fifteen or 20 gray whales steamrollered by, churning the water. A pair of orca appeared just off our port; we kept a comfortable distance.

everal miles out to sea, the band of fog lifted. Big Diomede Island, rising 1,700 feet, was just 20 nautical miles off to our left. The international date line runs between Russia’s Big Diomede Island and the U.S.’s Little Diomede Island, just two miles from the big island. The rising fog and the low light sparkling on the water made the horizontal gray rock appear to float. It looked so close! We rafted together and discussed making an unauthorized crossing to Alaska. Then we heard a hum in the distance that grew louder until a Russian chopper pounded over They appeared to be aware of our deliberation. We turned our bows toward the Siberian coastline. That big red star on the side of the airship sent a clear message: “On your or else!” They kept an eye on us, hovering between us and Big Diomede Island until we were well down the Strait.

he paddling conditions were easy, rolling seas and a 10-knot wind–so we pushed long and hard. After 32 nautical miles, we had to land next to a river visible on the chart. Approaching the mouth river, we noticed a dead whale beach with what appeared to be mound of seaweed on its back. We paddled within 15 yards. It wasn’t seaweed–it was fur. A Kodiak grizzly sleep inside the whale where he had been feeding. We tried to drift silently past in the knee-deep water, but he smelled us and awoke. Bolting out of the whale, he rose to his full 8-foot height. He raised his arms straight up in the air and, with claws bared gave an ear-splitting roar. We paddled out as fast as we could. The bear dropped, turned and ran. We paddled about five miles farther before making camp at an abandoned military outpost.

During the next few days, we paddled in fog, hugging the coast. We had to strike a balance between being able to see the shoreline and being far enough out to avoid the waves reflecting off the steep cliffs. Thousands of puffins, auklets, and kittiwakes flew in circling clouds, their raucous calls echoing off the face of the cliff. The rocky granite cliffs sparkled in places, with striations of quartz. Around every bend were dark entrances of caves and tunnels. We paddled under some of the arches, enjoying the surge of the waves through the cool, briny passageways.

t the town of Lavrentiya, we were greeted by young uniformed soldiers. Gennady assured them that we were not there to steal military secrets and they returned to their post. A group of boys and girls, faces and jackets dirty from play and coal soot, flocked over to see our kayaks and meet us. They giggled and talked animatedly to each other, touching the boats, examining the paddles. It was sad to see their rotting teeth, but we gave them candy anyway. Next time we’ll take toothbrushes.

he local bakery was shut down by a bug infestation, but somehow Gennady managed to obtain two loaves of dark, heavy bread from the small local hospital. Wanting to make Akkani by nightfall, we headed off in the late afternoon, with statues of Stalin gazing at us from the shore.

he sun was nearly down as we neared Akkani–which means “cold place”–about 200 miles south of Uelen. Three figures appeared in silhouette on the hill overlooking the water. They waved us around the point to a safer landing in a cove. An older man wearing a well-worn sealskin jacket walked slowly down a path toward us. His face was weathered but kind. He introduced himself as Alexander, and invited us up for tea. We could spend the night in a large tin shed next to their house. C)ver mugs of hot tea, we learned that Alexander and his wife Nina lived on Akkani year round, in the only house left in a whaling village that once numbered 50 homes. The other houses had all been abandoned since the Cold War, and all that was left were imprints in the tundra of where they had once been. His children, Tatiana and Rosland, were home for the summer from college in Leningrad. Alexander supported his family by hunting and fishing.

n the early hours of the morning, after a full night of chatting, I left the coziness of their small house and walked wearily toward the shed. A band of thick dark clouds was rolling in from the northeast, blanketing the land. It rose up over the house and compound, then resumed its ground-hugging crawl. Around 5 a.m. we heard pounding on our shed door. Three belligerent soldiers, reeking of vodka, had come from Lavrentiya. They claimed we hadn’t paid a duty in town. The duty was one dollar in rubles per person, and they insisted that we would have to go back to Lavrentiya to pay it. Lavrentiya was a twelve-mile hike across the tundra, in horizontal rain and fog. As we discussed our dilemma, Gennady said thathe felt responsible and he wouldn’t let anyone else go withhim. We watchedas he trudged away, disappearing intothe driving rain with probably just a knife and matches. Oh yeah–and abuck for each of us.

hile we waited for Gennady’s return, Alexander showed us his Umiaks and drying polar bear hides. In turn, Doug showed him our kayaks.That evening we traded stories while d@g on Nina’s homemade bread and mushroom soup. At around eight that night, we heard a knock at the door. Gennady had made it back. He’d had a tough hike through the storm and, once he got there, he had to wait for the sol-diers to awaken and sober up before he could take care of the transaction. He was tired and his down clothing was soaked through but, after putting on dry clothes and having a few sips of vodka, he soon revived.

he storm howled over Akkani for three days. Gale-force winds drove sheets of cold rain through the cracks of the shed and the door. It was hard to keep any gear dry, even with the old coal stove blazing away, filled to capacity. We rested and repaired gear. Gennady worked with Alexander to repair an old generator that looked like it hadn’t been used for months, maybe even years; electricity was a rarity here. They ran a wire to our shed and anoth-er to the house. At 5 p.m. on our last day there, after serious pulling on the generator’s pull start, light bulbs glowed in the house and the shed. We had electricity! Alexander pulled out an old Russian-made electric razor, plugged it into an outlet at the end of the line, and shaved while grinning broadly. Throughout the rest of the evening, he kept running his hands over his chin and smiling to himself. Rosland lifted an old reel-to-reel tape player from a chest and we listened to American and Russian tunes. Seated around the low table on whale vertebra stools, under a single yellow lightbulb in the small house on the tundra, we all fell silent as we listened to Louis Armstrong singing “What a Wonderful World.”

Early the next moniing, in the fog, we gathered around Doug’s chart and voted on a 33-nautical-mile crossing across the bay from Akkani, to make up for lost paddling days. Soon after we left shore, the fog began to lift. We turned and got a last look at Alexander’s home. Soon this place would be frozen solid and once again he and his family would have to watch for polar bear as they stepped out the door.

he weather cleared and we could see a mountaintop poking out of the water. That was our heading. Ten miles into the crossing, the winds increased on our port. The beam seas grew to five feet, then six, and began breaking. I noticed that Gennady was paddling nervously, tentatively. We decided to make a 90-degree change and head for the nearest land. However, the following sea proved to be even more difficult for Gennady, so we resumed our original course across the bay. We paddled beside him, trying to break the seas with our boat. I kept telling him, “It’s just a few more miles, Gennady, we’re almost there.” I did this for about six more hours. I’m not sure he believed it, but I’m sure he hoped it was true. He kept at it. Our zig-zag course across the bay added extra miles, each wave requiring a balancing act for Gennady. He was getting worn out, but land was finally within striking distance. We headed toward a fairly smooth, pebbled beach at about mid-tide. Doug and Louise surfed in first, hauling their boat above the waterline. Dick and I followed. We caught Gennady’s boat as he rode the next wave in.

efore setting up the tents for the evening, we had a few sips of vodka and congratulated Gennady on his accomplishment. He was proud of having performed so well in such tough conditions, yet very happy to be on land again. He was becoming an “experienced” paddler. We camped farther up the shore, using large driftwood logs and rusted 55-gallon oil drums (plentiful along the Siberian coast) as a wind-break for our fire.

he next day we punched through choppy seas and high winds up to 25 knots for 13 hard-fought miles. By mid-afternoon we hauled the boats out of the water to make an early camp. En the morning, the seas had settled. We paddled 26 miles down the coast to Yanrakynnot, a small village of single-story log houses. As we beached our boats, we were greeted at the shore by the local constable, a young man who looked as if he had just thrown on his official uniform to greet us; his fly was down. He said that all the men in town were drunk. My guess was that he meant to say that they were drinking vodka. An intoxicated native on a motorcycle with a sidecar stopped and motioned to us to get in. Doug hopped in. They took off down the dirt street, past the helicopter pad, and out along the brackish lagoon. A few minutes later, Doug came back alive, without a hat, and with hair like Lyle Lovett. I hopped in for the extended ride, bouncing and hurtling over the tundra. When I yelled, “Slow Down!” he thought I wanted him to go faster. After my back-jarring ride, the constable invited us to drink with him, but we declined. We decided instead to paddle out to Arakamchechen Island and make camp there.

small native boy, perhaps 4 or 5, the son of a reindeer herder, greeted us on the island. He had a slingshot in his hand and wore two left rubber boots, one two sizes larger than the other. He didn’t speak, but led us to his family’s yerangi (similar to a yurt), next to the beach. We exchanged greetings through Gennady, and his father presented us with a fish. The father explained to Gennady that he’d lost his reindeer herd. We suggested that maybe Santa Claus had kidnapped them, and they’d be home for Christmas. Gennady failed to translate.

he boy spent the rest of the afternoon with us, watching everything, never saying a word. Dick sat him down in one of the kayaks and showed him how to paddle. He stayed for dinner and couldn’t get enough of the macaroni and cheese. We stopped serving him after three bowls and sent him home at dusk with a full belly and a loaf of bread.

e set off at first light into light chop, heading down the coast of Arakamchechen Island. At the end of the island we made the crossing to Yttygran Island. As we approached the shore, the twisted shapes of whale vertebrae, some four feet across, came into view. This island had served as a Chukchi whaling base for centuries. We found a beach to land on, and got out to inspect the bones. The place had a feeling of mystery about it. There were odd stone foundations, one- or two-foot-high walls placed around the lichen-covered vertebrae. I walked around white jawbones, 20 feet tall, stuck vertically in the tundra. Some were placed individually, others in groups of two or three. Two were placed opposite each other, the curves of the jawbone fomiing an arch. Since the next day was our rendezvous date, we wanted to make the mainland before nightfall. We launched into a 20-knot headwind. Back on the mainland, we found a comfortable campsite on a tundra plateau. That night, we sat around a roaring fire and indulged ourselves with the extra rations we wouldn’t be needing, and the last few sips of vodka.

t was only a few more miles of pad-dling on fairly protected waters the next mon-iing to reach our final take-out point. Just after we landed, we heard the low sound of a truck engine winding down the mountain: An all-terrain military vehicle had arrived to pick us up. Our driver, a burly Russian with a full beard, pulled up and jumped down from the cab, a big grin on his face. After loading our kayaks and gear aboard, Dick and Doug climbed into the cab, while Gennady, Louise and I climbed atop our gear on the truck bed for a long, cold ride over the mountain pass to Provideniya.

s we bounced along the dirt track through the barren landscape, I looked over at Gennady. His arm was cradled protectively around his kayak, and he had a wide smile on his face. Gennady’s tenacity and ability to survive were tremendous. He’d been out in seas that most people wouldn’t have ventured out in, and refused to give up. Gennady had won our respect–he’d be my friend for life.

Equipment used:
K-2 Expedition kayaks by Feathercraft
Gore-tex Dry suits by Kokatat

Kayak spray decks make lousy chart tables. They are small, wet and flexible. Let go of a tool or chart and it’s overboard; roll and everything is soaked. Most tools, like parallel rulers and dividers, are designed for warm, dry navigation stations. Fortunately, there are tools that work well with a spray-deck navigation station, but you won’t find them mentioned in the average navigation book or at your local navigation course.

Tools that work aboard a kayak have to be small, durable, and at least water resistant, if not waterproof. You may want to make some yourself, and even those available commercially may need or benefit from modification. These tools are the ones that we show students in courses on the Maine coast, where fog, big tides and rocks make navigation especially interesting. Trips start with charts. Government charts are printed on paper and, when they get wet-which they will-they have to be dried carefully or they become costly mush. Waterproofing them goes a long way toward helping them survive immersion and mildew. The old waterproofing mixes were pretty volatile, and they needed ventilation or you lost brain cells, but the new waterproofing mixes are water-based and easy to use. All you need is sponge brushes and a piece of clean plywood to spread the charts out on. Charts need to be folded to be usable on deck. When you fold them, the section that you are using may lack important things like the compass rose and the scale. So, before you waterproof your chart, it’s a good idea to look at it carefully and see where you might want to add another compass rose.

You can get a bunch of self-adhesive compass roses in a package. Some care is needed to make sure that you line up the rose so that north is in line with magnetic north, and so you don’t obscure key navigational information. I usually trim the roses to get rid of extraneous printing that would obscure things on the chart that I need to see. The numbers are pretty small for aging eyes, so I mark the cardinal points with a green waterproof fine-tipped marker. I favor green, as it will show up if I’m using a red light at night to preserve my night vision. Before waterproofing, you may want to consider whether you would like to write any useful notes on the chart. And you might want to add a scale or two. While all this can be done after the chart has been treated, items you affix to the map will stick better before the application of waterproofing. Let the waterproof marker dry well before treating the chart, and don’t rub any of the marks before the waterproofing dries. You could also, of course, use a pencil or a ballpoint pen, but they may not be as legible as a waterproof marker against the chart’s printing.

Charts need to stay attached to the boat, and they are best secured by putting them in a transparent case.
Several companies produce waterproof chart cases. They work pretty well if you are careful when closing the seal. However, it’s a good idea to waterproof your charts even if you use cases, since water creeps in, even if only as condensation. If the chart case doesn’t have clips, you will need some; don’t depend on your deck bungies to hold the case securely on deck. Your local marine hardware dealer will have a selection of small stainless-steel carabiners or snap hooks. The smallest has a waist at one end so that it can go on a D-ring, then be lashed into place. I like the sailing carabiners so well that I have them on all deck and cockpit gear. Their extra cost is worth it. The smaller the chart case, the more times you need to fold the chart, so I usually go for the biggest chart case that will fit on deck without hanging over the side. The cases that are about 16″ by 22″ allow a NOAA chart to be folded into quarters if you trim the vertical margin off to just the latitude line.

The new plastic charts keep you from having to waterproof paper. They are a bit more expensive than NOAA charts, but they cover more area and have a second chart on the back. Compass roses will stick to these plastic charts and waterproof markers will work if you let the ink dry carefully. These charts are very durable; one that I use all the time finally died after two seasons of being unceremoniously stuffed under the bungies on my foredeck. While they sort-of stick themselves to the deck when they get wet, it’s still best to put them in a chart case to keep them from getting damaged or lost. For special navigation situations, I often carry topographic maps for the area, in addition to the navigational chart. The advantage is that they have a scale of 1:25,000, which provides better shoreline detail. While they indicate depths, their disadvantage is that there is no navigational information printed on them. Of course, you can write them on the chart, but it is a lot of work.

Be sure to waterproof any topographic maps as well. Recently, I have taken to using charts and maps on CD-ROM. The water-proof, integrated kayak computer nav station is still in the future, so I print charts at home. It is convenient, as they are single sheets, and one is usually all you need for a short paddle.Or you can make up a set of custom 8 x 10 charts that you can use as a trip book. Ink-jet ink will smear when treated with waterproofing solution, but there is a waterproof ink-jet paper that works well. The nice thing about printing your own charts is that you can make one for each person in the group, and you can scale it to the level of detail you want. Make sure that you include a scale of miles on the print-out. If you use a GPS, you can print tracks and data from a GPS receiver on these, and you can use the computer to make it easy to load the GPS with waypoints. A computer with the appropriate navigation software makes it much easier to determine waypoints for the logbook and GPS while you are planning your trip. Even if you don’t invest in the full CD-ROM charts, most GPS manufacturers provide simple data-entry software that comes with a GPS-to-PC cord. Tide-and-current tables should be kept at hand in your chart case. Rather than keep the whole tide book in the chart case, I make photocopies of the appropriate tide table and the page of corrections for the region. Fortunately, photocopies can be waterproofed. In some areas, you may find the year’s tide tables printed in small, waterproof booklets. They are ideal for carrying on deck if you have young eyes. For my old eyes, the type is too small to read, so I find it useful to keep a simple plastic magnifier in my chart case. It’s nothing more than Fresnel lines inscribed on a piece of plastic. The one I use is designed for navigation and has a scale on one side. You can find one of these in a marine supply store. I keep a compact backpacker’s compass in my PFD pocket. For taking bearings, it is easier to use a backpacker’s compass than to maneuver the boat to use a deck-mounted compass. This hand-held compass is also handy for checking the deck-mounted compass, in case I’ve put the radio or a propane cylinder too close to it, making it inaccurate. It is also there as a backup and for use on land, whether you take a hike or want to take bearings from the beach. Besides charts, you need tools to measure bearing and distance. People talk about kayak navigation as an art, not a science so, to be artful, try using your hands as tools. Try various finger joints, finger extensions, finger widths and hand spans against the scale of your charts. You will likely find something that is close to a mile, and something that’s close to five miles. For example, on a 1:40,000 chart, my hand span is about five miles; the distance from the tip of my thumb to the first knuckle is a mile; and the distance between my index finger and little finger when held out straight is two miles. With practice, you can use the side of your forefinger or the back of your hand to transfer bearings between the compass rose and a particular spot on the chart. Keep your wrist locked straight and use your shoulder muscles to move your hand. Move your hand from the compass rose to the bearing that you want, or from the bearing line to the compass rose. You will be surprised how easy it is to hold the angle you need, within five degrees or so.
It might not be up to Coast Guard or Power Squadron standards, but you’ll always have the tools. Most of the standard devices for figuring distance/direction on a chart are too complex for use on the deck of a kayak. The exception is the Small Craft Nav-Aid developed by Chuck Sutherland specifically for kayaking. It is a 4″ x 5″ piece of clear plastic with a compass rose and reciprocal rose on it. A piece of monofilament is fastened to a hole in the center. The user marks the plastic, using a waterproof marker, with lines that show true north-south and east-west directions, according to the variation of their local region. When these lines are lined up with latitude or longitude lines, the rose points to magnetic north, and the monofilament can be stretched out along a course, or bearing line. Bearings and back bearings can be read directly. The monofilament can be marked according to the chart’s scale, so that distance can be read directly along the mono-filament. If you attach a light string lanyard that you mark with miles, the string is easy to place along a convoluted route to estimate paddling distance. I usually carry a spare Nav-Aid, since mine, over time, have faded, been broken or had the monofilaments pulled out. If the monofilament pulls out, the center hole can be enlarged slightly and another light string substituted. You can make a device similar to the Nav-Aid from a one-armed protractor commonly found in a marine supply store.
The small C-Thru (# 255A) is especially handy for this do-it-yourself project. These come in two sizes: 7″ in diameter and 3.5″. First, cut the movable protractor arm off. (Save the cut-off arms, as these are usually marked with scales, and are useful additions to your chart bag.) I leave a small tab on the remaining part of the protractor so I can punch a hole in it for a lanyard. Thread a thin, colorful piece of braided cord through the hole in the center of the protractor and knot the end. I like to knot it on both sides of the hole. Mark the protractor with true north for the chart you’ll be using. 

For paddlers who are on long trips, or who paddle in different parts of the country, marking a rose with true north may be impractical. The Nav-Aid can be marked with two or three north-south, east-west lines using different colors, but the multiple lines can get confusing. There is a double rose on the market by Weems and Plath called the “Compute-a-Course.” The bottom part has a grid with a true north rose on it, and the top rose is magnetic. You line up the magnetic rose with the appropriate variation on the true north rose, and you are ready to go. The Compute-a-Course also has a pivoting arrow, but it is easier to use a mile-marked string through the center hole. You don’t really need the rose on the lower plastic card; all you need is the grid to align the device on the chart. For any of these protractors, a fast way of getting and reading reciprocals for back bearings is to turn the rose 180 degrees so that it is upside down. For trip planning at a campsite, you may want more accurate tools, or at least ones that let you draw lines. Again, parallel rules and other such devices don’t work well in small spaces, and are hard to carry. I favor two 90-degree triangles that are small and flat enough to go into your chart case. A few minutes of practice with them and you’ll see how easy it is to move bearing lines between a compass rose and a course. Just align one of the short sides of the triangle on the course and slide the two triangles along their hypotenuses. The triangles don’t slide as easily as parallel rulers do, but they are just as accurate. These will work on the bottom of a turned-over kayak or on a cutting board-any small, flat surface. I even used them to take the test for my Coast Guard license. These simple navigation tools can be used in combination with a GPS receiver. Waterproof GPS units are becoming more affordable. Get a waterproof bag for your GPS for additional security, and for flotation if you drop it. Most GPS units will drain batteries in about twelve hours, so you will need to turn it on, acquire the needed information, then turn it off. Be sure to carry spare batteries.

When you first get a GPS, take the time to learn its various functions. After you read the manual, get a book on using a GPS, or take a course. Don’t depend on a GPS alone; you still need a boat compass to steer, as the screen is small and hard to read unless you hold it very close. The biggest challenge in GPS use is translating the position indicated in the unit to the chart. You don’t want to be plotting latitudes and longitudes while you’re sitting in the cockpit. Instead, if you pre-load the centers of the various compass roses on your chart as waypoints, the GPS can give you your bearing and distance from the compass-rose waypoint, so all you need is the scaled piece of string to find your position. Alternatively, call up a waypoint that you have loaded in the GPS and marked on your chart, and use your Nav-Aid or string-equipped protractor to measure bearing and distance from the waypoint. You may find pre-printed waypoints on commercially printed charts. Since the navigators of many larger boats use these waypoints to set their autopilots, the traffic around these points can be high. These waypoints are good things to use to establish your position, but they are bad places to be near at night or in fog. GPS units require that you name your waypoints. Since the GPS can use only a limited number of letters for a name, I often have trouble remembering what name I’ve assigned to a waypoint. I use a 3″ x 5″ waterproof notebook to record the names of all of my waypoints, and for other useful navigational data that I might want to have with me in the field. I write down things that are hard to remember, like line-of-sight distances for various eye heights, rules of thumb, formulae and the like. If you aren’t using these navigational numbers all of the time, they’re easy to forget. In addition to the waterproof notebook, you can use a soft pencil or a grease pencil to write things down on the deck of your boat or on something similar to the white plastic note boards made for sea kayakers or scuba divers. You probably have your own pet tools for kayak navigation-these are some of mine. My criteria: small size-nothing that can’t fit into a chart case; low cost-you will probably break or lose things; and, above all, that they work in the small, wet space of the kayak foredeck.

Wilderness ethics and minimum-impact camping practices have made great headway since the 1970s, and the Leave No Trace (LNT) organization and its message of wilderness stewardship have gained widespread popularity. Many concepts promoted by LNT are now de rigueur, like using camp stoves instead of campfires, staying on the trail and refraining from digging drainage ditches around your tent. Changes in the way we deal with human waste in the wilderness have been progressing at a slower rate. It’s a topic that not everyone wants to talk about it, which could be part of the difficulty when trying to address the problem.

Pack It In, Pack It Out

As more of us discover the joys of kayak camping, the more responsibility we have to protect wilderness areas that are not as easily accessible, and thus more pristine. According to LNT, the use of National Forest System primitive areas and wilderness tripled during the 1960s, and public land visitation continues to increase. Recreation visits to U.S. Forest Service lands have jumped from 4.6 million in 1924 to 205 million in 2006. Similarly, recreation visits to National Park Service areas went from 33 million in 1950 to more than 275 million visits in 2007.

That’s a lot of people relieving themselves in the wild! Because few wilderness visitors voluntarily take on the task of “doing the right thing” by packing out their own waste, many national parks and water trails have had to address the problem by imposing rules about waste disposal. If you’re river-canyon rafting in the U.S., packing out waste has long been compulsory. The pack-it-out policy kicked off in Denali National Park in the late 1970s with a highly successful program that cleaned up campsites along climbing routes. Use of the Clean Mountain Can, a portable and durable toilet system, has been mandatory for climbers using Mt. McKinley’s high camp since 2003. In New Zealand’s Aoraki Mt. Cook National Park, a similar device is now recommended for use in snowfields above 2,000 meters (6,500 feet). Campers at Glen Canyon National Recreation Area are required to have a self-contained “commercial waste bag containment system,” which you can either take with you or buy at the visitors center. The fact that Glen Canyon’s Lake Powell is a reservoir, and the lakeshore moves dramatically in elevation depending on the season, means that when digging a hole and burying your waste on land at one time of the year, you run the risk of having it in a source of drinking water not too long afterward.

To avoid pollution of water sources while keeping the wilderness a desirable place to visit and minimizing the possibility of spreading disease, just what should we do with our human waste?

If you’re near the ocean and weather permits, the best advice in regard to urinating is to do so in the sea to help dilute and disperse your impact. If inland, pour water over your urine to dilute it, or urinate on the sunny side of a rock or in the middle of a trail. And, really, you don’t need to use toilet paper if you’re just urinating.
For solid human waste, a few methods used to be standards: digging a cathole, the most widely accepted method of disposal; smearing your waste over a rock, where the sunlight will aid decomposition; and going directly in the sea or exposed tidelands. All of these methods are now under question, including from LNT and the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS). Catholes slow the rate of decomposition, the rock-smear accelerates decomposition but spoils the landscape for subsequent visitors, and solid waste in the ocean may be washed up on shore.

If you really want to adopt a stewardship ethic and help retain a pristine environment, then packing it out is the only way to go. The waste-removal systems on the market today are not like those used a few years ago, which were invariably bulky and heavy. Back in the early river-running days, most folks were aware of the old “groover,” a military surplus ammunition box that left grooves on your rear end after you’d sat on it.

A good number of today’s waste-removal systems were developed as a result of the climbing community’s effort to address the problem of waste that had accumulated at popular rock climbing sites and alpine routes. Designed by climbers to keep weight and bulk to a minimum, they will work well for cruising kayakers on paddling trips, whether for a day, a weekend or longer.

WAG BAG “Toilet in a Bag” Waste Kits
by Phillips Environmental Products 

WAG stands for “Waste Alleviation and Gelling.” WAG BAG waste kits include one large waste bag, a resealable disposal bag, a small fold of toilet paper, a hand sanitizer and a proprietary waste-treatment powder mixture. The powder is made up of an organic decay catalyst, a perfume-free odor neutralizer and a non-toxic polymer-based absorbent (similar to what’s in baby diapers) that gels liquid waste and encapsulates solid waste.

WAG BAGs are designed to work with Phillips’ folding toilet (too bulky to fit in most kayaks), and a variety of other outdoor waste systems (including some reviewed here). They are very easy to use on their own—you just spread the waste bag out and squat. The puncture-resistant bags are large enough to wrap around your rear end, ensuring full privacy and a no-splash zone. Once you have done your business, twist the bag up, pop it inside the smaller disposal bag and stash it away in whatever container you have. WAG BAGs are biodegradable and approved for landfill disposal.

I found the WAG BAG so reliable and simple, I could use it inside my tent. Each bag can take 32 ounces (960 ml) of liquid and solid waste, so there’s plenty of room for multiple use.

WAG BAGs are available online and from most outdoor stores. They are permitted by the U.S. Bureau of Land Management for use on rivers and in wilderness areas where toilets are required.

WAG BAG Waste Kits $2.75 each; 12-pack, $38.95 (Pricing at retail outlets may vary, but is often less)
Phillips Environmental Products
877-520-0999 or 406-388-5999
[email protected]
www.thepett.com

Waste Case Disposal System 
by Metolius Climbing 

The Waste Case Disposal System from Metolius Climbing, a manufacturer of rock climbing gear, utilizes the WAG BAG waste kits. The case is made from durathane material, which makes it light (10.6 ounces, 300 g), flexible and durable. The top of the case rolls down and clips like a dry bag. The roll-down top is made of coated fabric, but the seams are not sealed to make the bag fully waterproof. An application of seam sealer would do the trick. Two loops of webbing provide a means of hanging the bag up in camp or clipping it into kayak deck lines. The case is small enough to fit through almost any hatch for storage below decks. I had a full Metolius case stored inside my boat for over a week, and you never would have known it—and its precious cargo—was there. In warm climates, I suggest emptying the case earlier to prevent odors from accumulating.

The Metolius cases are a useful size, at 500 cubic inches (8.2 l), with dimensions of 15 inches tall by 6.5 inches in diameter (380 mm–165 mm) and can hold just over a week’s worth of used WAG BAGs.

Metolius Waste Case Disposal System $59.50 (includes six WAG BAG waste kits)

Waste Case Disposal System by Metolius Climbing

Metolius Climbing
541-382-7585
[email protected]
www.metoliusclimbing.com

The Jinker 
by Eric Bell

You may recognize the Jinker’s plastic pipe construction, as DIYers have been creating these types of portable waste systems for years; although, unlike the Jinker, homemade versions aren’t always airtight. Its construction allows for two methods of waste disposal. You can use the WAG BAG waste kits (or newspaper) and stash them down the tube. If you’re bolder than I am, you can use the Jinker directly as a toilet. With its 3-inch (7.5 cm) inner diameter, you’ll need to be a pretty good shot—and upon your return home afterward, you’ll have to hose it out carefully and sanitize it.

The Jinker’s dimensions are generous: Its overall length is 23 inches (58 cm) with an internal dimension of 3 inches (7.5 cm). It weighs in at 1 pound, 11 ounces (766 g). If you don’t have room to store it inside your boat, it could easily fit under your deck bungees. You certainly don’t have to worry about the Jinker’s airtightness—twist caps on both ends ensure a secure, odor-free lock.

An important part of sea kayaking is having the equipment necessary to allow one to signal for help in an emergency. There are many ways to call for help: radios, strobes, cell phones, flares, distress flags, night sticks, and dye marker are just a few. These can all be effective, but most are subject to battery or chemical exhaustion, may fail in marine environments, or have a limited range. A good signal mirror is a worthwhile addition to your kayaking equipment. It is inexpensive, weighs little, occupies less space than a wallet, and will work any time the sun is visible. A signal mirror can grab the attention of a potential rescuer at long range, and the sun is an inexhaustible resource.

Typically, the reflection of a 3 by 5 mirror is visible 20 miles, ground to air, in any direction with the sun high in the sky, and sometimes much farther – the record is 105 miles. As an emergency signaling device, the U.S. Coast Guard rates them second only to radios. U.S. and foreign military services have used signal mirrors for 60 years or so, and they have played a part in many rescues.

As with any safety device, signal mirrors have limitations. For instance, sunlight is necessary to operate the device (although signaling is possible on brightly moonlit nights, or by reflecting a rescuer’s searchlight). A general rule of thumb is that a highly reflective signal mirror can only be useful when the light striking it is strong enough to cast a shadow. On bright but overcast days a signal mirror will not be useful.

The effectiveness of the signal mirror is also dependent upon the kayakerís ability to use it. Aiming the device may be difficult if the paddler is injured or in heavy seas, especially if maintaining balance in the kayak is a concern. Aiming a signal mirror is more challenging, and the intensity of a signal decreases, if the sun is low in the sky and the potential rescuer is on the opposite horizon. Finally, signal mirrors are ”line of sight” instruments – they are only effective when your signal targets are not obscured by land, fog or the horizon.

Signal mirrors are most effective when flashed at a potential rescuer. A flashing light is more likely to capture the attention of a passerby, especially if the signal is weakened by distance, quality of the mirror, or low light levels. Flash the mirror by tilting it up and down across the target. Continuous flashing toward a moving object such as a boat or airplane would not be dismissed as a reflection from a naturally occurring source. Donít bother trying to flash a code message like an SOS. Not all of your flashes will hit the target, so any code is likely to be incomplete. Just concentrate on taking good aim.

On clear days, good signal mirrors can reflect light to targets that are too far away for you to see. If you see no potential rescuers, flash the entire breadth of the horizon; there may be someone out there who will see the signal.

Simple mirrors
Any flat reflective surface, such as a compact disc, a makeup mirror, aluminum foil, or even a shiny credit card, can be used as a signal mirror. Cases are on record in which items such as these have been used successfully. CDs as reflective devices reflect only about 20 to 25% as much light as a high-quality 3″ by 5″ plastic signal mirror. The reflective surface needs to be as flat as possible to increase the reflective surface area that is aimed at the potential rescuer. Otherwise, the projected signal may be too weak to be effective. For instance, if using a credit card, use the flattest one you have. Or if using aluminum foil, use the least ‘crumpled’ piece available and smooth it on a board or other flat surface. Convex- or concave-shaped materials will be less effective than a flat surface.

It takes two hands to use a simple reflective surface as a signal mirror. Hold the mirror close to your eye with one hand, with the reflective side facing away. Stretch out the other hand, and form a V with two fingers. Sighting over the mirror, (or, as in the case of a CD, through the hole), adjust the mirror to aim the sunís reflection through the V of your outstretched fingers and onto the plane, boat, shoreline, or other target. Flash the signal by moving the reflection up and down between the base of the V and the target centered between your fingers.

Better signal mirrors have features to aid in aiming the reflection. Some have sighting holes in the middle, others have aimers that make it possible to use the mirror with one handóessential if you need your other hand on your paddle to steady the kayak. Signal mirrors are available in several sizes and materials. Common sizes are 2″ x 3″, 3″ x 5″, and 4″ x 5″. The larger the mirrorís surface area, the more light it can reflect. For example, a 2″ x 3″ mirror has a surface area of 6 square inches, versus the 20-square-inch area of a 4″ x 5″ mirror. The drawback of a 4″ x 5″ signal mirror is that it is harder to hold and aim with one hand, storage is more difficult, and it may be more fragile. Materials include metal, glass, and plastic. Glass mirrors are the most reflective, followed by plastic, and metal as a distant third. An easy test to perform when comparing signal mirrors at the store is to look at your reflection in the mirror. If your image appears dim, distorted or diffused, look for another mirror.

Metal
Metal signal mirrors are the least desirable, and I donít recommend them. They can require two hands to aim, give a relatively weak reflection, will sink if dropped overboard, and some may corrode quickly. Metal mirrors can reflect as little as 14% of the light received, less if corroded. Even stainless steel models corrode, and lose a substantial degree of reflectivity.

Glass
Glass signal mirrors give the strongest signal for a given size, and are available with one-hand aimers. They reflect nearly 100% of the light received. They also have the best scratch resistance. They do, however, have some disadvantages. They are heavy, and will sink unless attached to a source of buoyancy, which increases bulk. Unprotected, they will break upon impact with a hard surface, and protective shock-resistant packaging also increases bulk. Most glass signal mirrors have an aimer laminated between two pieces of glass. If the edges of the lamination aren’t well sealed, the mirror is unsuitable for use in marine environments. If water penetrates the lamination, especially likely if the glass is held together with strips of double-sided adhesive tape, the aimer will be inoperable.
The better glass signal mirrors have nearly full-face adhesive sheet lamination, and edges sealed against water entry. To check a glass mirror for type of lamination, look at its corners for gaps or flaws in the seal.

Plastic
The reflectivity of plastic mirrors is not as good as that of glass mirrors, but they are lighter and are resistant to breakage. The best seagoing plastic signal mirror designs actually float. They produce a strong degree of reflectivity, although not as strong as that of the same size glass mirror (up to 70% of the light received, depending upon the quality of the device). These higher-quality plastic signal mirrors have one-hand aimers, allowing the other hand to balance a kayak in waves. Plastic is more easily scratched than glass and apt to lose reflectivity if mishandled. Good plastic signal mirrors reduce scratches through the use of either a clear abrasion-resistant coating, an adhesive-backed reusable shield, or a protective case. While plastic signal mirrors have a number of advantages, not all of them perform well. There are a number of rather poor plastic signal mirrors that have poor or nonexistent aimers or excessive warping, which spreads the reflection and weakens the signal.

Aimers
Signal mirrors with aimers project a bright spot through the center hole when the reflector is on the target. This is accomplished from redirected reflection of the light source via small glass spheres partially coated with metal and adhered to a metal grid or cloth disk in the center hole. The aimer is sandwiched between the two pieces of glass or plastic that make up the mirror. The reflection of light within the glass spheres diverts some light in the direction opposite that reflected by the mirror. With a little practice, you’ll soon become adept at finding the target and quickly putting the light spot into the center hole and on the target without the use of a second hand. If this proves to be difficult, first reflect the sun onto your outstretched hand, then slowly bring the back of the mirror to your eye, while maintaining the reflection on your outstretched hand. Look through the center hole, find the reflection on your hand. You’ll see the bright spot created by the aimer. Lower your hand and put the light spot on your target.

When shopping for a mirror, look for one with a mesh aimer around the center hole. Lower quality mirrors may have a center hole, but exclude the aiming technology. This is true of metal signal mirrors. Using metal mirrors requires two hands, and a lot more practice. Some of these designs create a bright ring of a reflection around the center hole when the target is acquired, but it is sometimes necessary to use a second hand to shade the back of the mirror to see the ring. If you are in waves of any significance, using metal mirrors may be too difficult.

Prices for high quality glass or plastic signal mirrors range from $12 to $32. For some of the glass mirrors, shock-resistant and buoyant packaging is included. For a plastic mirror, make sure you have an envelope or case to keep the mirror clean and protect it against scratches.

How to use signal mirrors
After you’ve purchased a signal mirror, don’t just pack it into a survival kit and forget about it. Go outdoors on a sunny day and practice using it. This is far better than trying to learn the technique under actual emergency conditions. In about 15 minutes you can become proficient in finding the aiming spot and reflecting the mirror onto a distant object. Don’t practice while you are out on the water unless you are quite sure the targets you are aiming at will not read the flashes as a distress signal.
Never reflect sunlight toward a vehicle, plane, or person at short range.
This can cause momentary blindness and result in an accident.
As part of your overall safety strategy, you should acquire a good signal mirror, learn how to use it, and bring it when venturing out on the water. When the conditions are right, a signal mirror is an effective distress signal with a very wide range.

The test mirrors, from left to right: The Mark III glass mirror with aimer, the Star Flash plastic mirror with aimer, a simple metal signal mirror with center hole, the plastic Rescue Reflector with aimer. The top half of each mirror is reflecting a wire grid placed about 18 inches from the mirrors. The glass mirror (left), and the Rescue Reflector show the grid clearly and undistorted. The reflection in the Star Flash mirror is somewhat distorted. The reflection in the metal mirror is only slightly distorted, but very indistinct. Photo by Sea Kayaker Magazine

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Reviews of Four Signal Mirrors
We evaluated the performance of several signal mirrors for reflectivity, durability, compactness, ease of use, and price.

Metal mirror
Metal mirrors without aimers are offered by several manufacturers, and are produced in a variety of sizes. In our study, we used a 3 x 4 chrome-plated stainless steel model. It reflected light was significantly less than that of any of the other products evaluated, and the reflection was very diffused. In terms of durability, this mirror resisted scratches and was virtually unbreakable. Stainless steel mirrors can resist corrosion far more effectively than carbon-steel models, which can begin to rust within a few days in a marine environment. This mirror did not come with protective packaging, however, lending itself to the possibility of scratching and collection of marine grime on the deck or in the cockpit of a kayak, further reducing its reflective properties. It came with a nylon lanyard, its only safeguard against sinking. In terms of compactness, this mirror is thin but heavy relative to other mirrors.

This mirror does not have a refraction aimer, so it requires the use of two hands to aim it at a target. The instructions are on waterproof paper glued to the back of the mirror. You aim this mirror by holding it with one hand at eye-level, and facing it to a point halfway between the sun and the rescuer. You hold your other hand 6-8 inches behind the mirror’s center hole and orient the mirror to reflect the spot of sunlight on your and. You then look through the center hole toward your target and angling the mirror until the reflection of the spot of light on your hand creates bright ring around the sighting hole. In practice, the bright round ring is not a ring around the center hole. Rather, it is the brightest spot anywhere on the side of the center ring. Since the bright spot is not visually superimposed on top of the target, you’ll won’t be certain that the signal is hitting your target. The complexity of aiming this mirror makes it impractical if you are on a moving platform such as a kayak.

Star Flash Signal Mirror (Plastic)
Offered by Survival, Inc, this mirror is standard issue for the U.S. Air Force. This mirror may also be sold under the ‘Ultimate Survival’ or (formerly) the ‘Gerber’ brands. It offers many advantages over other mirrors because it is lightweight, very compact, and inexpensive. However, the reflective power of the 2 x 3 model was only marginally better than that of the metal mirror. A permanently sealed plastic cover protects the mirror from the elements, but is itself very susceptible to scratching (more so than the other plastic mirror). Remember to store this device with its protective plastic adhesive sheet covering the mirror face. On the other hand, this mirror is very resistant to breakage. The mirror floats and has a hole for a lanyard. This product was submerged in salt water with no ill effects.

The aiming device is adequate, and works by refracting incoming light through retroreflective bead fabric; a bright spot forms in the center of the aimer when the signal reflection is on target. The aimer is not as effective as the other plastic and glass mirrors, however, because the bright aiming spot is more diffused and the bead fabric is thick, so I had difficulty looking past the bright spot to visually confirm that the mirror’s reflection is on target. The instructions are clear and concise, and are on the back of the mirror. The Star Flash mirror comes in a 2 x 3 model (0.7 oz, $8) and the 3 x 5 version (1.8 oz, $9)

Coghlan’s Survival Signal Mirror (Glass)
Imported from Japan by Vector 1, Inc, or sold under Coghlan’s brand name, these mirrors can be found in many sports retail outlets. They are constructed of two pieces of glass, one mirrored, glued together, with the aimer sandwiched in the center. In reflection tests, the 2 x 3 model was much brighter than the larger metal reflectors. It survived saltwater immersion, although there was evidence of some minor seepage around the lanyard grommet. The glass is more scratch resistant than the plastic products and metal products, but may break into sharp pieces when dropped, creating a potential safety hazard.

Coughlan’s mirror comes in a reusable foam pouch that provides some protection, but cannot be sealed from the elements. The pouch is too slight to prevent mirror breakage from a significant external shock. It is possible for the mirror to fall out of its pouch, and marine grime is not prevented from entering the pouch. A grommet is provided on the mirror as a lanyard hole. The mirror is very compact, but is much heavier than the Star Flash plastic model above.

The aimer is more effective than the Star Flash, however. Like the Star Flash, a bright spot forms through the center hole when aimed on the target. However, I could look past the reflected ‘ fireball ‘of light to get my bearings on the target. Also, the fireball seems less diffused than with the Star Flash, making aiming more accurate. Instructions are printed on the back of the mirror, but are in such small print on the 2 x 3 model and are written in red on a black background, making them hard to read. These mirrors are offered in the 2 x 3 model (1.5 oz, $9), the 3 x 5 model (3.6 oz, $11), and the 4 x 5 version (4.8 oz, $12).

Rescue Reflector Model 2 (Plastic)
Offered by Rescue Reflectors, Inc, the 3 x 5 model is our choice for the best signal mirror for sea kayakers. Its reflection was brighter than that of the glass mirror, although this may be an unfair comparison, due to its larger size. Part of the key to its reflective ability, however, may lie in the quality of its mirror – the reflected spot size from 85 feet was significantly smaller than that of any other mirror in our survey. As a result, more light was focused directly toward the target. Distortion and warpage of the mirror is minimized through aluminum reinforcement that is laminated between two layers of plastic. Each mirror is handmade, and is adjusted before final assembly to provide optimal performance.

A lanyard is permanently attached by epoxy. The back of the mirror has a red retroreflective back, to reflect a red signal under a searchlight at night. The mirror survived saltwater immersion; the device is sealed with synthetic rubber to prevent corrosion. Protective coatings applied to the plastic surface make the mirror fairly scratch resistant from (though less so than glass), and is unlikely to break if dropped because of the synthetic rubber coating on the edges and the foam added to its back. This foam also gives the mirror enough buoyancy to float. If the added bulk from the foam is a problem, Rescue Reflectors offers both plastic and glass models that do not float, but we recommend the floating plastic version.

A clear, resealable vinyl envelope protects the mirror from scratches and debris. The envelope contains an external eyelet that can be used to attach the mirror to a kayak deck or bag. The packaging includes two packages of antistatic cleaner, to clean the mirror in the field for improved reflectivity. The mirror is more bulky than the other mirrors tested, and it is also heavier than the Star Flash and the glass mirror. The aimer is very effective, making it easy to sight the target through the center of the mirror and direct the spot of light over the target. The instructions are concisely printed on the back of the mirror in white print that is easy to read on the red reflective background. More detailed instructions are added separately, on water-resistant paper. Pricing for the buoyant plastic models is higher than the other models tested for the 2 x 3 product (2 oz, $14), the 3 x 5 model (4.5 oz, $19), and the 4 x 5 version (6.8 oz, $25). The 4 x 5 model is U.S. Coast Guard approved.

Using a light-metered camera to gauge the brightness of the reflected spot at a distance of 85 feet. The metal mirror is used as a base line, and the others are on a line showing the number of times brighter than the metal mirror.

North of Vancouver Island, the British Columbia coast takes a turn to the north and gives up the protection offered by the island for the open coastal waters of Queen Charlotte Sound. The coast, including the often treacherous Cape Caution, becomes an exposed stretch of low-lying granite coastal hummocks capped by wind-worn dwarf pine.

Most boaters pass through here as quickly as possible. They dart from protected cove to protected cove, only when the conditions are ideal, glad to enter into the shelter of the northern section of the Inside Passage, where they’re protected by an almost unbroken line of islands. Only a handful of kayakers ever venture to the numerous beaches that lie along Queen Charlotte Sound. Some beaches, like the one at Burnett Bay, are sprawling stretches of sand; others are hidden between weather-battered rock headlands and vicious offshore rocks. On a good day, kayakers will find relatively sheltered landing spots; on a bad day, the surf will roar down the beaches cutting off access to shore and making landing impossible.

My first venture into the waters here was on one of the bad days. On my third day of a three-month trip up and down British Columbia’s coast, a southerly was whipping up sharp wind waves that pounded my kayak’s stern. Rebound waves from the shore slapped at my flank, and a huge swell rolled in from the northwest. I battled through the tumult and into the relative shelter of Smith Sound to look for a place to land.

I examined various potential camping beaches looking for a clearing above the high tide line-places where I expected to find campsites but found nothing. Each beach ended at an unbroken line of salal and thick scrub. I eventually pulled ashore at a gravel beach and made a tent area next to the tree line by stomping the rocks level over a drift log above where I calculated the night’s high tide would reach.

At about 2 A.M., a wave slammed into the drift log and sent me scrambling from the tent. I cast a flashlight through the blackness out onto crashing waves. The breakers had built up through the night, just in time for high tide. I spent the next hour watching the waves pound against the log under my tent, hoping the ground I was camped on would survive the night. The water eventually began to recede, and although the rain fly of my tent was soaked with the spray, the ground had held. Over the next three months, the struggle to find a suitable campsite became the norm. Beaches are rare on many stretches of the BC coast; and of the scant few, most are not well suited for camping. Every afternoon the question was the same: Where can I safely place my tent for the night?

I passed remarkably few other paddlers that summer, but for nearly 10,000 years, canoes were the main form of transit. Today’s kayakers traveling the area share one basic need with their aboriginal predecessors: access to safe, sheltered, all-weather beaches; fresh water and-preferably-a level shore on which to camp.

Waterways with History 
It’s no small coincidence that most of the best beaches I found for kayak camping on the BC coast were once camps and villages for indigenous peoples. At some of these sites, middens and the half-hidden depressions where houses once stood are still visible. In most cases, though, the history is almost invisible. Where a village once stood, you may find nothing more than a copse of alders.

The native peoples, or First Nations, may make their presence known again, as the BC government prepares to finalize treaties with 42 native groups, resolving an issue that has sat dormant for over a century. The first coastal treaty, ratified by the Maa-nulth First Nations (“Maa-nulth” means “villages along the coast”) of west Vancouver Island in October 2007, came as a shock to many kayakers, as the agreement handed over 245 square kilometers of coast, much of it reclaimed heritage lands, with portions much-loved and much-used by kayakers. While recreational users of the land may grumble, it does correct a long-standing historic error. The Maa-nulth are being handed the tools for self-government, self-sufficiency and control of their cultural identity-elements that were missing because of the province’s neglect in finalizing treaties over the last 125 years.

One of the Maa-nulth bands, the Kyuquot-Checleset (or Ka:’yu:’k’t’h’/Che:k’tles7et’h’ as it is written in the local orthography) gained title to all the Mission Group Islands, one of the most popular kayaking destinations on northwest Vancouver Island. Other islands like Amos Island, peculiar for its fossil-bearing sedimentary rock, and the Thornton Islands, a remote cluster used as a breeding colony for cormorant, storm petrels and tufted puffins, are also part of the deal. More Maa-nulth parcels are scattered around Kyuquot Sound, including at Fair Harbour, the most popular launch location into the region. Only a small portion of the main island, Spring Island, remained out of First Nations control.

The Maa-nulth treaty gives the First Nations additional rights beyond traditional reserve lands, most notably fee-simple status, meaning it can be bought, sold and developed with the Maa-nulth given municipal-like control.

While this might seem like an impediment to free and open travel on the BC coast, especially for kayakers,

the Kyuquot-Checleset see it differently. Tess Smith, the elected chief councilor for the band, is viewing the treaty as an opportunity for them to provide new services, particularly cultural tourism. In the meantime, she said, visitors are still welcome. Smith simply asks that visitors don’t disturb the land, take no artifacts and have the courtesy to inform the band of their activities: “It’s nice to know when people are coming,” she said.

In the more congested Barkley Sound to the south, the Toquaht First Nation has gained title to many of the islands scattered to the north and west of the famous Broken Group Islands of Pacific Rim National Park. The band has also gained recreation tenures on the larger Stopper Islands for future cultural tourism opportunities. Again, their gains won’t necessarily restrict kayakers and other visitors. “We definitely don’t want to keep anybody out. We don’t want to make private those lands that used to be public,” said Anne Morgan, the cultural education coordinator with the Toquaht First Nation.

In fact, the treaty stipulates ensuring public access to the Stopper Islands. The band had originally sought the islands as part of the treaty package, as they are significant to the band’s heritage, Morgan said. But the large islands were too expensive: They were told if they wanted the Stoppers, it would be the only land that they’d get.

“We told them we were only going to sign off if we could see the islands protected through a park. We never want to see them logged. It’s our burial site. We’re working diligently to get them protected as heritage sites.”

The band also gets most of the shoreline around Toquart Bay, the main kayaking launch site for the Broken Group, but as part of the treaty agreement, the launch and campsite are protected for public use. Visitors may even see benefits from the treaty, as the bands plan to develop new tourism services in addition to opening cultural centers.

Morgan also doesn’t envision the coast being parceled off to private interests: “We’re working on some type of system so the land can never be sold to the outside beyond the band,” she said.

One change visitors can expect is a return to the traditional names in Barkley Sound. For instance, Maggie Lake near Barkley Sound, once incorrectly interpreted by Europeans, will go back to the proper native name, either Maikee or Maikii depending on how the phonetics are finally decided. The lake is named after Morgan’s grandfather; there never was a Maggie.

“History will be coming out with the names,” Morgan said. “The story of what’s there will be told just by the place names.”

Expect Toquart Bay to also revert to its correct name of Toquaht.

A Marine Trail
Kayakers have been fortunate in the past that the bulk of the BC coast has either been Crown land or parkland, not private-meaning the ability to camp almost anywhere. But it’s a freedom that has been taken for granted, as kayaking campsites outside parks have no formal standing, meaning they can be usurped by other interests such as fish farms, resorts, log booms and shellfish tenures.

A drive to protect the coast for kayakers began in about 1993 when Peter McGee took a kayaking trip down the BC coast. That year and again in 1996 he made a rough inventory of sites and initiated a process that ultimately led to the creation of the British Columbia Marine Trail Association. The vision for the marine trail involved a string of campsites every 10 to 12 miles from Washington State to British Columbia’s Alaskan border. At one time the association had 500 members. And then the association died and remained dormant for most of the next 10 years. The political will to see it through had evaporated. The BC Ministry of Forests, at the time in charge of recreation sites along the coast, went through cutbacks that curtailed their support of new sites, closed existing ones and divested operation and maintenance of most of those remaining to interested volunteer groups. The lack of government support left the BC Marine Trail Association in limbo.

The demise of the association came when McGee moved to Toronto in 1998. As the founder, executive director and the general driving force, the momentum floundered. Chris Ladner, a Vancouver-based outfitter, held the reins as best he could. “I held three annual general meetings, and I was the only one who showed, so I gave up,” he said. Paperwork lapsed and the association became dormant, even as competing demands for coastal areas rose.

When forestry company McMillan Bloedel threatened to log Blackberry Point on Valdes Island in the Gulf Islands, it became a pilot project for the BC Marine Trail Association. It was an early but sobering success. They struck an agreement with the forestry company, created a campsite and built a $20,000 composting toilet. Volunteers even helped maintain it-for the first few weeks, Ladner said. Then that too lapsed. “We realized how much work managing one site was, as opposed to 500,” he said. Ladner cites a lack of a sense of urgency among kayakers for the ultimate disintegration of the BC Marine Trail Association. “There were no real threats, so people were saying ‘why bother? I can camp here like I always have.’ I kept saying, ‘It’s not always going to be like this.'”

He’s being proven right. There is a short but undramatic history of conflict among kayakers and other users. The outcome always tends to be the same: The kayakers get squeezed out. The examples are usually small and minor, but together add up to a pattern. For instance, in Desolation Sound, shellfish farmers concerned with human waste in Okeover Inlet pressured BC Parks to follow a management path to quietly draw kayakers away from the inlet instead to the outer waters; camping is off-limits in some portions of the inlet. And in the congested killer-whale watching and kayaking area around Telegraph Cove, Hanson Island, a key camping island, was handed over to First Nations’ management, allowing the bands to sell commercial tenures that effectively close some areas to public access on what is otherwise public land.

Farther south, in the Gulf Islands, the creation of a new national park (aptly named Gulf Islands National Park Reserve) has made numerous islets off limits to the public, thereby removing about a half-dozen campsites from use in an area where access is already restricted by private property. In fairness to the motives of the park planners, the islets are being closed for the right reason-they support some of the best remaining examples of the rare coastal bluff ecology, best exemplified by springtime blooms of tiny plants that cling to life on the thin dirt cover. Finally, in late 2007, a new campsite was approved on Saturna Island at Narvaez Bay-the first added since the park’s inception in 2003.

The most popular commercial kayaking destination on the BC coast, Johnstone Strait, has become the focal point of concerns over conflicting use. Commercial tour operators want to guarantee clients a place to stay, while casual kayakers are finding public beaches commandeered by commercial operators. The conflict has made Johnstone Strait the subject of a pilot project called Limits of Acceptable Change. The purpose of the project is to determine how much an area can be changed for recreational use before the area’s attractiveness as a recreational destination is destroyed.

Renewed Interest Among Kayakers
Issues with parks, private land and the Maa-nulth treaty have spurred kayakers into renewed action to rejuvenate the marine trail concept. One group working behind the scenes is the Outdoor Recreation Council of British Columbia, which is carrying on the mandate from BC Marine Trail Association for a linear trail from border to border.

A consortium of kayak groups in BC is hoping to widen that scope by protecting kayaking campsites along the entire BC coast. In particular, the Nanaimo Paddlers Club has begun a drive to create a so-called West Coast Marine Trail from Port Hardy to Tofino by adding about 15 new campsites to the string of sites already protected within provincial parks along the north and west Vancouver Island coast. And with the mandate for recreation sites now in the hands of the Ministry of Tourism, political interest in the concept is also returning.

If BC does have one success story for kayakers, it is Sechelt Inlets Provincial Marine Park, a collection of about a half-dozen pocket parks along Sechelt Inlet and its two arms. The park protects a network of campsites used as one of BC’s most popular kayaking routes. It may serve as a model for how the entire coast might look for kayakers in the future.

Peter McLaren, the president of the Pacific International Kayak Association and one of the key players in the new marine trail initiative, sees spurring kayakers to action as the main hurdle. “Paddlers are by our nature independent, and we enjoy the recreation because it’s private and allows us to be by ourselves with the surrounding nature,” he said. “This need to be solo may be our downfall if we don’t heed the wake-up call to act.”

 

Tired from lack of sleep, my friend, Sarah Ohmann, and I rose with the first bird calls. We had arrived at the Buffalo Bay Campground on Wisconsin’s Bayfield Peninsula well past midnight, and stayed up until 2:00 a.m., watching a spectacular display of northern lights. The slowly undulating luminous threads wove a web of light high overhead. A pale, gossamer green veil hanging on the horizon suddenly billowed out over the dark forms of the Apostle Islands, silhouetting the nearest island against the barely lighter surface of the lake, stopping our conversation and enticing us to stay up into the small hours of the morning.

 

For a half hour, we were celebrities. Cameras clicked. Dignitaries spoke. Crowds cheered. Television cameras pointed to the seven of us in matching shirts posing in front of our flotilla of kayaks. We got aboard and paddled around the first bend of the creek. The send-off crowd at the creekside resort disappeared behind us, and we were enveloped by cypress trees that lined the narrow waterway. Great blue herons, snowy egrets and little blue herons poked along mats of waterweeds. Alligators slid quietly beneath the glassy surface. Ospreys cried overhead. We were surprised at how quickly Florida can flip-flop from a busy resort to a quiet wilderness. Just south of Orlando—home of Disney World—this band of red-brown swamp water that is Shingle Creek would carry us to the world’s most famous wetlands—the Everglades.

I became involved with Expedition Headwaters as part of my job with the Florida Department of Environmental Protection’s Office of Greenways and Trails. My duties focused on establishing the Florida Circumnavigational Saltwater Paddling Trail—a sea kayak trail around the entire state. When word got out in January of 2007 that a coalition of public, private and nonprofit organizations were organizing a 12-day paddling/hiking expedition from Orlando to Lake Okeechobee to publicize the plight of the upper Everglades, I was asked to participate. It didn’t take much arm twisting. The idea of paddling 140 miles through the Kissimmee Chain of Lakes and Kissimmee River without the customary sting of salt water in my eyes was appealing. After two months of coordinating gear, food, overnight stops and maps for our planned route, our team of seven was ready to begin.

Our paddling route was not a new one. For the Seminoles of the early 1800s, it was a well-traveled waterway—but to our knowledge, we would be the first in more than a century to paddle the entire length in one shot. Much of it would be through a surprisingly remote region, and we hoped for good weather. Late March can be a windy time of year in south-central Florida, and there’s always a chance of severe storms and days of continuous rain. On the plus side, temperatures are normally moderate and the hurricane season has not yet begun.

I was to take GPS readings at important locations so our route could be used as a future paddling trail, complementing the existing Florida Trail footpath along the Kissimmee River. Other team members would fulfill different roles. Dale Allen and Doug Hattaway of the Trust for Public Land would split time on the trip, gauging the need for more public land purchases along the route that could be used for campsites and land trail corridors. Beth Kelso and Ian Brown of the Florida Trail Association would evaluate hiking potentials. Bob Mindick and Julia Recker of the Osceola County Parks and Recreation Department, along with several folks from the South Florida Water Management District, would provide local expertise and support. Mike Jones, a retired navy man, would come along as a private citizen who loved the outdoors.

Starting Down the Chain
A strong headwind blasted us by the time we had followed Shingle Creek to its terminus at Lake Tohopekaliga that afternoon. At nearly 19,000 acres, the lake has an oceanlike feel. We struggled against wind and choppy waves to reach the 132-acre Makinson Island, one of many large islands that dot the Kissimmee Chain of Lakes. We landed on a sandy beach area near a dock and pitched tents in a grassy meadow behind old-growth live oaks that ringed much of the island. The sun shone brightly, warming the air enough for us to be comfortable in short pants, and the constant breeze kept the mosquitoes at bay.

Once slated for a resort hotel and time-share development and now publicly owned, Makinson Island, we quickly discovered, was a place with nesting bald eagles, swooping snail kites and numerous wading birds and sandhill cranes. The island was once home to Seminole Indians. Some suggest the Seminole name for the island was the same as the lake—Tohopekaliga or “fort site.” During the Second Seminole War (1835–1842), thick trees provided the Seminoles with cover, and canoes were kept on both ends of the island, so escape from federal soldiers was always possible.

We fell asleep under the stars to the sound of screech owls, grunting wild pigs, scrounging raccoons and the didgeridoo croaking of pig frogs. At the first light of dawn, we woke to the motorized scream of dozens of tournament bass-fishing boats, racing to their secret spots. Lake Tohopekaliga is a bass-fishing mecca as evidenced by the numerous tracks cut through the weeds by boat propellers. Songbirds, ducks and sandhill cranes took to the air as the high-powered boats raced by. It was time to break camp and continue.

We paddled from Makinson across Tohopekaliga continuing down the chain to Cypress Lake and lakes Hatchineha and Kissimmee. Long ago, winding creeks and cypress swamps connected the lakes, with passage suitable for dugout canoes. But 19th-century steamships were a different matter, so beginning in the early 1880s, canals were dredged between the lakes and, eventually locks were built for flood control. The canals had a dual purpose: they also drained adjacent swamps and floodplains so more land could be used for ranching.

In the past few years, the South Florida Water Management District has purchased vast tracts of former floodplain along the entire watershed—more than 100,000 acres in all at an average cost of $3,000 per acre—so the Chain of Lakes and Kissimmee River can once again pulse with the ebb and flow of wet and dry seasons, thus enhancing the health of wetlands along the lakes and river. The state of Florida and local governments have been buying additional tracts for recreation and wildlife protection. However, complete restoration of the Chain of Lakes basin would not be possible unless entire communities were moved. The canals connecting the lakes and associated locks and dams will remain in operation to maintain enough water for boat traffic and to prevent severe flooding of nearby towns and cities, such as Kissimmee. The locks will be used to create a controlled degree of flooding that will prevent property damage yet mimic natural cycles that are essential to the ecology of the wilderness areas.

While the locks will play an important role in restoring the wetlands, the canals are the least interesting stretches of paddling. Unlike a winding tree-canopied stream, the straight canals take away the mystery of wondering what’s around the bend—you can see a mile or more downstream. The undulating of natural lake and stream shorelines, with their waterweeds and abundant birdlife, was a welcome relief from the alleyways of the canals. If nothing else, the canals were reliably navigable. On one occasion, we paddled the Dead River—natural connector between Cypress Lake and Lake Hatchineha—but we ended up dragging our boats in several sections due to low -water.

We camped at several fish camps along the route. These generally consisted of docks and a ramp, numerous boats, lots of pickup trucks and camper trailers, a small store and rustic outbuildings nestled under arching live oak trees. At Camp Mack, perched on the edge of a side canal in between lakes Hatchineha and Kissimmee, fishermen and hunters sat around a smoldering fire in front of the camp store day and night. The campers there had never seen kayakers along the Chain of Lakes. Airboats and other motorized crafts were the more common modes of water travel. “You gotta be careful with that blue canoe,” said one old-timer to team-member Beth Kelso, nodding to her kayak. “It’s gator mating season, and they’ll think that’s a female gator!”

Jerry Renney serenaded us with song at Camp Mack. Jerry was an early activist with the Kissimmee River Valley Sportsman’s Association, fighting for public access to area waters and trying to clean up and restore the river system. His songs were passionate, nostalgic and heartwarming, sometimes about “when Florida could make you feel small.” It can still make visitors feel small, especially in parts of the Kissimmee valley. Many of the sovereign rights conflicts of the 1980s—mostly with ranchers who were blocking access to some of the lakes—were resolved when the South Florida Water Management District simply bought the land or acquired easements instead of fighting in lengthy and expensive court battles. Jerry concluded, “What’s happened here in my home, the Kissimmee River valley, has made it a whole lot better than it used to be.”

Camp Mack marked the spot where half the group began hiking to Lake Okeechobee—scouting a potential footpath that would link up to the Florida Trail—while the other half of us continued kayaking. We were to meet the hikers each night at a prearranged campsite.

Lake Kissimmee by Kayak
Crossing the massive 35,000-acre Lake Kissimmee, we hit open stretches where two- to three-foot waves crashed over our bows. In most of the lakes, ocean kayaking skills are required. Where possible, we hugged the shore behind a line of marsh, pickerel weed, duck potato and lily pads that buffered the waves. Midges, small mosquito-like insects that swarm but don�t bite, were prevalent, too. Locals call them �chizzy winks.� I had to be careful when opening my mouth, or I�d inhale them. Swallows swooped and dived to feed on the midges. Also in the marshes were fishermen in boats who had gathered in clusters to fish for bream. Their bent poles made it apparent the fish were biting.

Lake Kissimmee is almost completely undeveloped and rich with birdlife. I paused near the shore at one point and observed a crested caracara strolling among cattle. This threatened bird of prey with its unmistakable black hood has strong legs that enable it to easily walk or run on the ground and hunt small mammals, reptiles and amphibians. A flock of glossy ibis flew past�black silhouettes against the sky. I spotted wild turkeys walking across the pasture. They came to the water�s edge and poked up their heads for a look at me in a mutual expression of curiosity. They were all hens, I determined, since their brown bodies lacked the crimson markings of tom turkeys.

Continuing south past mats of lily pads, we heard the cries of wading birds and watched them poke around the shallows. Brown and blue-black snail kites, an endangered species, swooped through tall marsh grass from hidden nests while raptors filled the skies�eagle, osprey and swallowtail kite.

We paddled into a strong headwind to cross over to the privately owned Brahma Island. The island�s 4,000 acres provide habitat for large wild boars and about 100 eagles, the largest concentration of nonmigratory bald eagles in the Lower 48 states. We saw eagles everywhere�in trees, circling in the sky and swooping over the lake and the island prairies.

Cary Lightsey, co-owner of Brahma Island, led us on a driving tour down sugar-sand roads beneath canopies of arching live oaks. Many of the massive oaks were bent and twisted from past hurricanes. Some were nearly 400 years old�mature even when a force led by General Zachary Taylor drove Seminole Indians off the island in 1837 during the Second Seminole War.

A sixth-generation Florida cattle rancher, Cary sold much of his development rights to the state so future generations of Lightseys can carry on the family business and not have to sell the land to developers. His family had always maintained a philosophy of leaving at least 40 percent of their land native. �Florida has a very sensitive ecosystem,� he said, �We�re really just landlords of this land, if you really think about it. I feel like it�s our job to protect it for the people of Florida.�

We stayed in a hunting cabin that the Lightseys normally rent out to hunters. Carl supported the expedition�s goals and was open to the possibility of future kayakers camping near their boat landing. Public land along Lake Kissimmee may provide other possibilities.

Lake Kissimmee was a glassy calm as we left it to enter a flood control lock that marks the beginning of a long canal that is a channelized section of the Kissimmee River.

The Kissimmee River was once a winding 103-mile natural waterway. From 1962 through 1971, the Army Corps of Engineers cut a straight ditch through the river, hoping to better control flooding in the upper system by speeding the flow of water to Lake Okeechobee. As a result, fish, waterfowl and other wildlife drastically declined, and water was no longer being filtered by a slow meandering river channel through thousands of acres of marshlands. Lake Okeechobee received too much water too quickly during the rainy season, and water quality was severely degraded.

Shallow, weed-choked oxbows�the remains of the old river channel�loop out from the sides of the arrow-straight canal. Stopping for a rest break, we climbed tall angular spoil berms of sand created by the canal dredging. Vast areas of wetlands have been filled in by these artificial mounds.

In 1999, restoration of the middle portion of the Kissimmee River began. Thus far, a key dam on the river has been blown up, and more than 15 miles of the original Kissimmee River was restored. Roughly 28 more miles are set to be restored by 2011, and another dam will meet its end. At a cost of more than half a billion dollars, it�s considered the largest true ecosystem restoration project in the world.

After more than a day of paddling canals, we entered a construction zone of the current restoration project. Huge yellow dump trucks rumbled past. They carried dirt from former spoil berms to an area of canal being filled, moving the river back into its old meander. Floating yellow turbidity barriers kept the soil from drifting into the river, but often presented an obstacle for us. The best method to move over them, we learned, was to paddle into them at full speed and shoot over their tops.

As we made a detour around the construction site through an oxbow, several baby alligators as long as my forearm scurried along the bank before the eight-foot-long mother shot off an embankment, belly-flopping into the river. We entered the restored river channel. Serpentine twists and bends through lush marshlands, occasionally bordered by sandy banks and cypress and live oak trees, added mystery and beauty. Meandering. Unpredictable. With no canal to divert flow, we finally felt we were on the Kissimmee River as it had been for eons. The return of seasonal flood waters has helped heal the ecosystem by filtering impurities in the vast marshlands, increasing dissolved oxygen levels in the river and drawing nutrients from the floodplain to help feed the food chain. We counted more than 150 alligators, many of them over 10 feet long. Since becoming scarce in the 1960s as a result of poaching, Florida�s restrictions on the commercial trade of alligator skins have helped the alligator population to rebound.

We noticed more birdlife along the restored river than we�d seen along the canals�limpkins, green herons, yellowlegs, stilts, cormorants and many others. Since the restoration, biologists have observed eight species of shorebirds that had not been seen along the river in 40 years, plus they have documented the return of migratory fowl and an increased fishery. At one spot, the winding Kissimmee resembled a river through a prairie, its marshy floodplain at least two miles wide. Vast, windswept and looking more like the plains of Kansas, the restored Kissimmee River will be a great paddling trail and a boon for bird-watching and sportfishing enthusiasts. Several primitive campsites have already been set up by the South Florida Water Management District.

The Kissimmee led us to Lake Okeechobee, an oceanlike expanse of fresh water that is second in size only to Lake Michigan in the continental United States. Blue water stretched across the horizon. Okeechobee is often referred to as Florida�s liquid heart. Even though its perimeter has been diked and the level and flow of water through it is carefully controlled, it is still a magnificent body of water. Across the vast blue lake are agricultural lands and then the famed �river of grass,� a shallow 50-mile wide swath of sawgrass marsh, tree islands and slow-moving water that creeps south toward the mangrove fringe of Florida�s southern coast.

We rounded a point and landed in black muck at the Okee-Tantie Recreation Area. With our exploration of the route finished, the work of creating a top-notch recreational paddling and hiking trail through the Kissimmee Chain of Lakes and Kissimmee River will continue. In the near future, more people will be able to enjoy the northern Everglades as we have, hiking and paddling through a part of Florida that has reclaimed its past.

Trail Progress
Building on momentum created by the Expedition Headwaters journey, the Everglades Headwaters Working Group is seeking to further recreational resources for paddling, hiking and bicycling along the Shingle Creek/Kissimmee Lakes/Kissimmee River corridor. A primary feature is the establishment of a 140-mile paddling trail, largely following the route of Expedition Headwaters. The coalition includes the Trust for Public Land, the Florida Department of Environmental Protection, the South Florida Water Management District, several city and county governments, and various private sector entities.

A major focus is on buying land in the upper reaches along Shingle Creek and Lake Tohopekaliga, an area in the throes of rapid urbanization. Both Orange and Osceola counties have already begun purchasing land for passive recreation along the trail corridor and the Trust for Public Land is seeking help from the private sector to fill in gaps.

Another goal is to create public campsites below Lake Tohopekaliga as an alternative to the sometimes noisy fish camps. Much of the shoreline in this stretch is prone to flooding, so options have ranged from finding suitable land on higher ground to building camping platforms above the flood zone. Paddlers can currently follow the expedition�s path, but future campsites will provide more appealing stops. Most campsites will be within reasonable paddling or walking distance of each other, about 10 to 15 miles apart.

It is estimated that it will take three to five years for additional campsites, maps and guide texts, and several more miles of wild, free-flowing Kissimmee River to become a reality. Information about the trail is available on the Florida Department of Environmental Protection�s website: www.dep.state.fl.us/evergladesforever/eh/default.htm