Posts Tagged yukon river quest
No one was happier to see the blinking red beacon than I was, it signified the end of the mind numbing long journey along the shores of Lake Lebarge through waves and high winds. I was well behind my self-imposed schedule and turned into the checkpoint at Lower Lebarge around midnight, twelve full hours of sitting in my kayak without a breather or a chance to stand up erect. The mood at the rest stop was quiet, almost somber as those paddlers gathered there either sitting on the worn rounded stones or staggering about the beach carried the same exhausted expression. It was not over yet. Not by a long shot. I saw my new friend Glen sitting after standing for the same amount of time and distance on his paddle board as I had in my wooden kayak. We smiled at each other in that knowing way. We had braved the storms and the seemingly endless unchanging vista of the lake view together, though he had dashed ahead of me in the final kilometers.
I changed into my overnight paddling clothing. It was no easy feat to get undressed and redressed on that sloping shore with its cold round stones to add to my unsteady atrophied legs. I resorted to sit and wiggle my legs into my tights and waterproof pants. Nothing, and any long time paddler will tell you the same that there is nothing better after a long paddle than changing into fresh dry warm clothing. Usually, it is when the tent is up, the kayaks are put away for the night and dinner is simmering on the camp stove. Changing this time was in preparation of the next section of the over 300 kms to the first lengthy sleep break at a campground at a place between here and there called Carmacks named for the famous prospector who found gold sparking the gold rush.
I left before Glen and some of the others that had arrived before me. Call it a second wind, or just the stoic realization that the only way to get home was to just keep paddling. If I had any notion to pack it in, feeling the sharp twinges in my shoulder and under the weight of knowledge that I was venturing on in the way back of the race pack it would have been then and there. I got back in my seat, tugged my spray skirt back on around the cockpit, swung my paddle blade into the water and got a good push backwards off the stones by a very cheerful volunteer.
I set my GPS for the next waypoint, always this unit was my carrot on a stick. Planning my waypoints to set nice small bites of the river at a time because the mental drain of thinking about the daunting distances would have done me in. Instead it was smaller 20 – 50 km chunks that allowed my to not think about the next stop or checkpoint for hours. Just paddle. I did that, into the dusky overnight hours and in the winding faster moving narrow slot of the 30 Mile River section as the width of the lake closes into at times barely 50 feet from shore to shore. I could tell what was ahead and make out features along the shoreline as it was light enough even at 1:30 in the morning to paddle comfortably. My mandatory headlamp shining but was more an indicator to on lookers that I was there than means to illuminate any hazards. I was starting to be gifted with the midnight sun.
This part of the river was like a gift as well after the slog on the lake. The flow was swift and at times curled into riffles and small rapids. Gravel bars were something to be watchful for as was the pinpoints of other headlamps coming from behind me. I felt comforted to see them and as the wee hours of dusky night grew into early morning I could make out the spires of tree tops and aimed for those places far ahead now and then glowing brighter than the surroundings. That sun glimpse would be short lived as rain would greet me by mid-morning, but for now it was a pleasant paddle with the current on my side. I glided with my paddle up to have a snack after about an hour from Lower Lebarge of gummy bears and a full can of Red Bull that I slugged back rapidly. I looked around. I was very much the only one in sight as the bends in the river blocked my views forward and back. It was a strange mingle of daylight and dark that played tricks on the eyes. Small whirl pools spun at my bow and swirled as I paddled by them. Things on shore were not what they seemed. I was on the constant look out for wildlife, bears, wolves, moose and the beavers that frequently came to swim with me.
I had heard rumours of the racers in the past who in fits of tired paddle-weary moments fell into various stages of hallucinating. I pushed those thoughts aside when preparing for the Quest. Stories of paddlers seeing burning trees, wildlife that was more tree stump than bear and one story of seeing a Voyageur in full vintage regalia standing on the shore holding his canoe paddle. Nonsense! And with my last fistful of gummy bears I saw a white deer walking on the steep sandy river bank. I slowed my paddling to watch it and cursed the low light from letting me get a photo. A white deer! It pranced at my approach and scrambled up the bank kicking a spray of dark sand from its hooves. Then, it disappeared. I thought my eyes were playing tricks in the dusk then it reappeared but then with one more leap it evaporated completely. I looked at the time, it was only 14 hours into the race and I was already seeing things? It must have been the combination of gelatinous bruins and whatever evil resides in a tall can of Red Bull.
Of the two major cruxes of the Yukon River Quest, omitting the obvious physical and mental endurance aspects of course, I asked myself for years which would be worse, the lake or the rapids? I would have said the rapids if those worried thoughts during sleepless moments at 4am in the week leading up to the race were any indication. I have never shot a set of waves bounding over submerged boulders let alone paddled in moving water so I was anticipating a knee-shaking-adrenaline-pumping-capsizing-red-hot-mess of floating debris and my lost wits by the ending of my attempt at the rapids. But, it was the lake that should have garnered more of my fear and anticipatory loathing. Rapids are somewhat predictable depending on the year and volume of water flowing through them. A lake is an animal, wild, at times ill-tempered and prone to fits of trickery lulling the weary paddler into a false sense of tranquil security. This is where the Yukon showed me hers and I did my best to show her mine. This is where I began coining the phrase ‘I Got Yukoned’ to my fellow paddlers. I really should have spent that time laying awake in bed dreading the unknowns of Lake Laberge not the ‘over in a second’ Five Finger Rapids.
I came to realize the enormity of the lake shore distances during a boat ride on my first day in the Yukon. Our host and River Quest Volunteer, Ray took my team out for a short run on the lake in his jet boat and as we motored out around Richtofen Island I looked out to the opposite shore where in just a few days I would be paddling. It looked long and what was visible to the eye was only a potion of the long 50 km lake. It was pointed out to me by Ray and Gus who had paddled it many times before that the length of the lake is a, pardon my language, a mind fuck! The geography and slight bending of the lake causes this. You never see the end. We will be paddling to one point, rounding it only to see nothing but the next outcropping point of land.
As I calmed down after my bumper car beginnings of the race I rediscovered the now familiar portion of the river beyond the limits of Whitehorse. High white sandy cliffs skirted the edges of the river. The water a glacial greenish blue and the course ahead was narrow. I was not accustomed to navigating with so many other craft surrounding me and this made me hyper aware of everything around me. I watch as an eagle flies across my bow a few feet above the water and attempts to land on the sandy cliff. With no secure purchase it fumbles the landing and with wings flapping and feathers flying and dust clouds rising with each awkward motion it slides to a stop folding its wings to its body and acts natural while the small san avalanches tumble down the rivers edge.
The river widens and shrinks allowing the flotilla to squeeze through with care until the intersection with the Takhini River where I had pulled out during my training paddle two days before the race. There I heard my crew. “Good job Paddleboy, We Love You!”. I could barely make out the shapes of my friends that were making this mission possible from so far below as the current whipped me around the next bend. I love them and hearing the cheers lifted me up and added power to my paddle. A couple of hours later I would hear them again far in the distance at Policemans Point, and that would be the last time until I landed at the dock at Carmacks. I took them with me during the night and coming day.
Policeman’s Point was the last twisting section of river before this flat bug infested and shallow estuary opens up into becoming a lake. I had mixed feelings about leaving the river for several hours of lake paddling. On the one hand, getting away from the bugs would be a blessing but when I stretched out for my paddle onto the lake it was obvious that the winds were not blowing the right way.
From the mouth of the river the organizers allowed the racers to cross a long diagonal course to the opposite shore on the right side of the lake. This was a bumpy crossing but nothing I was not used too from ocean kayaking on a breezy day. A small rolling chop and a persistent slightly annoying headwind that I knew would dissipate once we all arrived in the lee created by large exposed rock faces such as Graveyard Hill. I can only imagine the reasons behind the naming origins of that mount. It did have a tombstone feel to it and I hoped that first glimpse of the topography that would be my view for the next few hours was not to be too ominous a theme. I had been paddling with or close too a big voyageur canoe paddled by breast cancer survivors named, Paddlers Abreast. We had chatted prior to entering the serpentine leading into Policeman’s but now they moved ahead of me pulling on the paddles hard against the wind. I looked around and up the long expanse of the lake to see white caps forming and far along the shore beyond the island was what I knew was calm water. Smooth and inviting and I worked hard to reach shore guided by support boats edging us along a line of buoys.
It didn’t take long to reach the calm waters that looked closer to where the lake narrows but were in fact closer and that initially had me excited as I had hopes of a windless journey on this section of the marathon, or at least a decent tail-wind. The blessing of flat water soon proved to be a sour challenge. With the calm lake came intense heat not detoured by the winds cooling. My pace slowed dramatically and I plodded on drinking often and cursing the clouds forming over the hills ahead of me. I looked behind and saw the skyscape altering as well. It was made of dirty grey clouds. I moved onwards only concerning myself on what I saw ahead of my kayak. Thunder rumbled and I had thought for a moment that it was about to get very wet but instead the angry air slammed downwards hard and created ripples on the water that in what seemed seconds not minutes aroused into wind waves.
I was paddling close to an SUP paddler. We had met at Takhini Bridge that first day and I liked Glen immediately. Now he was about fifty meters ahead of me, and on his knees paddling hard to reach shore. The dreamy conditions earlier had moved us farther away from shore than we should have been so the fight for safe shore line forced us to come inside of the buoy marking a mid-lake monitoring point. By then the winds eased slightly but the damage was done. There wasn’t much to discuss about what had just transpired but he and I were both happy to be paddling normally again. I settled in for the next leg of the lake as I finally began to gain every closer to that first outcropping. Point number one done, how many more? In the effort to keep any forward momentum in the storm I pushed too hard and had strained my shoulder badly. I knew this was a possibility that at some point during the marathon it would become an issue, but I had assumed it would not be so close to the start. A veritable flood of worry entered my head and that too was something I concerned myself. I do spend a lot of time in my own head. River Quest would allow so much more solitude and I was fine being in my own company and moving through thoughts that I would not have normally had time for back home but now I was becoming consumed with the problem of paddling in pain. There was no way I was going to scratch from this! It ached and with each paddle stroke when I pulled my arm back to begin the next stroke there was an uncomfortable twinge. Nothing to do but paddle on and again the water softened and the skies reloaded for the next attack.
Stumbling in the dusk of a Yukon midnight on rounded river stones at the Lower Laberge checkpoint I battle my legs that have become unforgiving and wobbling after the 87 kilometer slog from the running start at Whitehorse. I give up the struggle and opt to sit on the ground and wrestle into new dry layers for the cooler nighttime temperatures until the sun rises ever so slowly above the tree line. The next section, the 30 Mile Canyon’s swift currents would provide a respite from the intense paddling required to cross Lake Laberge’s unpredictable winds and waves of which I experienced both.
A running theme to my journey on the YRQ (Yukon River Quest) would be the phrase ‘nothing can prepare you for…’ and this would begin with the legendary Lake Laberge. A 50 kilometer long shoreline that provides no mental relief as the contour of the land does not allow the paddler to see the end of the lake until the final few paddle strokes. I entered the lake thinking that the forecasts were a dirty trick and completely useless to me as was the headwind coming from the Northeast. The support boats lined up with buoys to direct the long line of competitors diagonally from the entry point at the Policeman’s Point delta to the shore.
When I hit that shore the winds were not just blocked by the hillside, but stopped completely and the water became a glass tabletop accompanied by a draining heat that was previously hidden by the winds. My speed dwindled but I was still paddling. In the distance, a thunderhead builds and a single clap of thunder erupts, warning me of two things. One my carbon fibre paddle is a terrific conductor and two, the weather could within a heart beat become daunting on the lake. I would not be struck by lightening but did have to contend with the winds that began sending a slight ripple on the surface of the lake and then with alarming speed whipped the inland sea into a bright green white capped frothing mess and what seemed endless head down paddling. I over exerted myself and felt the twinges in my left shoulder. The winds died and the water softened but would never return to a full calm.
The length of the lake was always in the back of my mind even as far back as my training paddles after work. It was not until I was on the lake that its full potential to work your nerves and your mental state became reality. The simple fact that you cannot see the end of it as the geography only allows a view of one point for hours. Then, rounding that point the only view again is the next point some distance away. This mind destroying routine repeats. The GPS reads out my distance, speed and ETA to the next checkpoint which never seems to get closer, my speed never rising fast enough and my ETA a lingering dream of some future event not to come.
I watched the sun set and paddled the last 10km in the dusky midnight sun happy to see the blinking red light denoting the entrance to the river proper and a welcome return to going with the flow after eight hours of paddling in dead water.
My river map depicts a serpentine section of near overlapping bends and I imagine how much distance I would make up if the gods would just grab both ends of that stream and pull it straight. I stop paddling, drifting at 8km/hr to take in some calories. I don’t think of what I carry in my bag as actual food, rather just calories. I needed at least 340 calories per hour to maintain my pace and it became a struggle to even ingest half that amount. Power bars, gummy bears, fig bars, 5 hour power shots as chasers to Redbull, and then there were the oh-so delectable energy gels that kept me going during the over night hours when my stomach could not bear anything solid.
The landscape. Yes, I am also here to compete in the toughest paddling marathon on the planet but aside to that is this amazing wilderness. High cliffs, low delta, bog, river fog, swift currents, a minor rapid, and at times almost fiord-like v-shaped notches between mountains that appeared to be drawn by children. At times the river narrowed creating lovely strong currents to push me along my way. At other times the river opened up wide to a maze of islands, sweeper currents and log jams. I start seeing things. The sleeplessness was on the list of things that I could not be prepared and the resulting mental depletion leading to hallucinations on varying levels from seeing things in the rocks and trees such as faces and animals, to full-on visual and audio ghosts of the mind. I had never experienced hallucinations before in my life so these came as a surprise to me and an immediate frustration. The so-called sleep monsters causing my head to bob as though I was falling asleep on a city bus, making my eyes heavy and causing me to fully realize that all this was happening while I was in a kayak. A capsize in the icy waters would definitely wake me up but was something I wanted to avoid. It was not until I found other racers to chat with as we paddled that these symptoms of ultimate fatigue alleviated I only briefly.
From the moment my team and I arrived in Whitehorse to the ending of the race in Dawson it is the people I met along the way that made this challenging and at times emotional experience all it could be. Our hosts welcomed us with food, drink, laughter and soft beds. My fellow racers, though truly competitors also gave way to giving and helping each other. Offering encouragement, aid on the river, and even hotel rooms at the 7 hour rest break at Carmacks. I was turning down offers! The camaraderie within this moving community of racers, organizers, a host of joyful and simply amazing volunteers to which I am forever grateful and my dream team support crew is what I take away from this. Not the exhausting hours of paddling, nor the sore aches pains and flattened backside. Even the incredible scenery falls short of what the Yukon people, new paddling friends and my close team brought to the YRQ.
At the end of the race as I was guided to the hotel by my partner Anik who braced against my constant paddle-drink veering to the right I said that I felt as though I had been Yukoned. The great north had hit me with just about everything she had. Rain, winds, and constant head winds. Heat that was nearly debilitating at times, and the non-stop daylight, though dampened slightly by rain clouds was never truly dark.
For five years I had fretted about the Five Fingers Rapids. After running them and it should be noted that this was my first ever rapids I can see that I really should have been more concerned with the lake section. Five Fingers was the highlight of the entire paddle. I passed a small island where a spotter stood vigil and shouted a warning that I was nearing the rapids and to keep right. I did so, hugging the right side of the river and could hear the rush of water but could not see it. The sun had began to rise and up in the Yukon that rise is shallow and slow. It also caused a blinding glare preventing me from seeing the notch that I had to aim for. I was not until I was about 50 feet away that the sun was trapped behind a tree, or a rock and the notch opened up to my view. Waves and boils of water were backlit. Every water droplet suspended in light and draped with river fog steaming up from the water’s surface. In dreamlike quality I paddled hard into what I hoped to be the sweet spot.
A slot of water that would take me through safely. Like a pinball I bounced from broadsiding waves to the line of rapids to my right that I dearly wanted to avoid. ricocheting out the other side I found myself wanting to do it again! I whooped loudly to the safety boat who cheered me on. I felt elated and refreshed and regained a strength I had lost on the lake. I sat enjoying the current and fiddled with my GPS to set it for the next waypoint. I looked up and was being pulled to the left side of the island after the rapids and worked hard up against the current to follow the right side, the softer safer route around the island. All the while berating myself for being cocky! I would find myself using more energy in similar fashion at least four more times that day to avoid being drawn down channels.
Reaching the last checkpoint at a place called 60 Mile after hours of paddling in milky cream coloured waters caused by the silt pushed into the Yukon River by the intersection with the White River, under heat that had taken the place of the early morning rains. I was tired, but happy. I was paddling with two of the stand up paddle boarders that were allowed into this edition of the YRQ as an experimental class. I am in awe of these athletes and shared my last hours on the river with them. We took a break at the check point to stretch before the last leg to Dawson that was an expected 5-6 hours of paddling. I left that checkpoint feeling the bubble I had stayed within since the start begin to loose air. I was emotional, in a certain amount of pain from my sore shoulder and tendonitis raging in my left wrist. I could see the end, it was near. I let the emotions take over for a few moments, with watering eyes and a lump in my throat. I was going to make it. I would be dead last, but I did not care about my time, my placing or position. I was set to be a finisher in the Yukon River Quest, if the last hours did not finish me.
The real adventure of this race for me was those last hours. Fading in and out of my sleep deprived stupor. Just keep paddling embroidered on the flat of my deck bag my constant mantra. I was on auto-paddle following the center right of the endless but easy to navigate channel that would inevitably, even if I only drifted take me to Dawson City. The optical illusion of going downhill was exenterated at this point. I was in fact paddling downhill with the flow if the river to the Bering Sea but in my sleepy state I felt as though I was paddling down endless steep shuts of grey water. If the current slowed it was as though I was going up and over bowls. My visuals were becoming a greater part of the problem. There was a long period of time where I felt as I was paddling under an series of overpasses. Concrete columns appearing in my peripheral vision and the spotter plane that kept track of us flying far too close to collision with my imagined structures.
The last part was a mixture of foggy mind and tired body and everything that could go wrong did. I could see the famous scar, that white exposed rock demarking Dawson and it was still at least an hour of paddling away. My over-packed and now messy cockpit cause the first problem when the looped handle of a dry bag jammed my left rudder pedal making maneuvering increasingly difficult. The Yukon had one more head wind in store for me as well. At one point I gave into it all. Depleted and drained and unable to fully grip my paddle or steer out of the wind I let my kayak drift sideways in fast current. I can only imagine the drama and speculation taking place at the finish line as everyone wondered what the hell I was up to out there.
From behind, a familiar set of voices. Not imagined, not hallucinatory but real, my support team. My loves and my dearest friends had been gathered my our host who was volunteering as a sweeper boat and came up from behind. Gus, who had paddling the marathon several times shouted and coached me to the last few paddle strokes. Cutting through my fog and the adrenaline took over me and I sprinted as best I could to the end. The horn sounds and I am done. I am home and greeted by fellow paddlers, onlookers and my team. The next few minutes were overwhelming as I struggled to my feet from the kayak cockpit that had been my home for so long. Nearly drowned as my partner helps me drink from a water bottle and leaning terribly to the right from a sore hip I managed to give a coherent interview on shore before staggering to a hot shower and a reward of a cold beer in the hotel room. I slept for 10 hours.
The Yukon River Quest attempt was a bucket list item that I had thought, completed or not would be checked off that list and I would move on. Nothing surprises me anymore about myself. At Carmacks, after 30-some hours of paddling my kayak I arrived announcing I was done. My crew mate Gus noted that I did not say I was scratching, just that I was done. After giving myself a good talking to in the hotel room I realized done only done for now. I was back in my boat. At the second rest break, a small 3 hour stop where I found no time to sleep I lay in my sleeping bag making plans for next year’s race and all the things I would do differently based on some hard lessons learned. I must be out of my mind and thought that once I got some sleep that I would come to my senses. Alas, no. I have secured a kayak for the 2017 edition of the YRQ and going back to the river with a new plan and a year to prepare.
I can’t end this post without thanking a few people. My partner Anik who took such sweet care of me before during and after the race. My kayak support team of Gus Oliveira and Pia Cove who made this experience all that it could be and more, and I have never laughed so much in a long time. The volunteer hordes of the YRQ made everything easy and again added to the amounts of laughter and good spirits. A special and from the heart grateful thank you goes to the crew at the Coffee Creek rest break who were kind, gentle , thoughtful and amazing to us messed up paddlers.
I was indeed Yukoned. She tossed it all at my but in the end I and my little wooden kayak endured, and that is what this marathon is all about.
“Hey Dave, I put a beer in the creek at Hudson Point for you, but you can only have it if you beat the time that Blake and I set in the double.” shouts Gus across the Trincomali Channel as I plough my way up feeling the back lash of each stroke through the paddle shaft.
There was a beer in the creek, chilled and wet and lovely and mine, if only I could find the energy after over 10 hours of non-stop paddling around Salt Spring Island on a warm Easter weekend. If only I could muster the power to paddle the last 4 kilometers to the spot that I launched from at just before 6:30 am that day. He was fresh, after only an hour of paddling leisurely and I was bonking. At the distraction in meeting up with him on the last leg I realized one big mistake I was making. I forgot to keep eating and drinking. I was running low and should not have let my eagerness to keep up with my friend who was a finisher of the Yukon River Quest foil what was to be still a brilliant and successful day on the water. A lesson learned that I will always keep with me. Ego, and apparently the promise of cold refreshing beer at the end of a long day nearly took me out altogether.
I did make it and somehow during that last stretch found the inner something to pick up my pace just enough to beat his best time in a tandem by a whopping 3 minutes. Not much, as slim margin at best but it did tell me that I was paddling fast enough to keep up with a duo in a kayak. Eleven hours, seventeen minutes and another five searching aimlessly for the beer carefully hidden behind a streambed stone, I was home. Oddly enough, ten minutes later I was feeling like I could do the day all over again. Was it the beer, or the adrenaline or both? Either way I was ready to get in the kayak. I felt immediately encouraged by this sudden full-bodied enthusiasm to continue. The River Quest dream started that night and the following day as I hiked up Mt. Erskine to a favorite spot overlooking the beginning of the narrows I had paddled less than 24 hours earlier. The weather had changed. The calm slot towards Burgoyne Bay where I so easily glided was now frothing and white-capped. I picked my circumnavigation day well it seemed, but then I thought again and wondered if I could have managed a second rotation around the island in tougher conditions. Nearly the same distance would be what I faced on the Yukon’s famed Lake Leberge notorious for squalls and wavy conditions.
Today, I sit sipping a cold beer after work and the anticipation of the weekend approaches as does that River Quest dream. On Sunday the registration for the 2016 edition of the paddling marathon on the Yukon River opens and I hope to be one of the first to enter. I will be at a family event so it will be done among supporters and well wishers. Upon completion of the registration I will be allowed to do something I am told by Gus who yet again placed a carrot on the stick for me. If I register, I can wear that damn hat! I hope that he will be holding it for me when I arrive at Dawson City, tired, sweaty, accomplished.
I had not realized to what extent that sound meant to me, what depth and part of my being it reflected, and how familiar the sensation even after a long absence from floating in my kayak. That first full paddle stroke to the chilly March waters. That splosh, and that spatter of sea water droplets falling from the blade’s edge as the opposite blade bathes as well for the first time in over six months.
Life and other things managed to divide me from the seat of my kayak for months now but that thread is broken, and the return to my prior self is in progress. I had big plans for this coming year. I was going to challenge myself, my body, my mind and my imagination in such ways by attempting things in my kayak that are far bigger than myself. Scary, but wonderful things such as entering the Yukon River Quest. Maybe next year…yes!
With such distances to travel to get ready for that race of over 700 kilometers from Whitehorse to the gold mining town of old, Dawson City attempting this feat this year would be foolish. I am turning 50, a flabby mess with a head full of flooble from a rather stressful year before. Time to get fit, time to remember who I am, and get my head back into the game of paddling.
Sitting in my kayak waiting for some friends to catch up on this lovely late winter, or early spring day, feeling her drift with the sun warming my left cheek and springtime brought to the island by a small almost warm breeze at my back I felt it all coming back to me. Out of the long sleep, and awakened to the idea of doing something new. One paddle stroke at a time…
It is the 15th of January, 2015 and sitting at my laptop in my cabin on Salt Spring Island listening to a light rain tapping on my roof. I look at my blog dashboard and see that the last post was back in September of last year. Nearly five months and not one single word typed on the blank screen. What could have happened in those long months of the fall. A time when kayaking in the Gulf Islands where I make my home is so lovely, and plentiful once the motor boat traffic of the summer tourist season abates and the local camping spots empty out. My backyard paradise once again becomes a tranquil home to this humble paddler. But, this past fall found me in a different mindset away from my beloved kayak, and a new Greenland paddle I was beginning to make friends with.
Much has changed since the 15th of January 2014 and the biggest of those events was suddenly finding myself paddling solo once more. The turmoil of all of that and the ongoing aftermath of picking up the pieces and restarting took me away from my love of writing, and paddling and most everything else. A complete shut down seemed to occur and maybe that was what was needed to find new energy and a fresh perspective, lessons learned and heart slowly mending (with the help of a new and wonderful soul injecting some love back into my life). I begin this year with that old cliché adage, “a new year and a new me!” Never! No silly New Years Resolutions for this paddlingboy. What you see is what you get, kids. Perhaps somewhat rattled, shaken but not stirred, albeit disappointed in many ways, and dented, but virtually the same guy as this time last year.
A fresh start. Yes, that is the ticket but first keeping my head down through the fragile winter months until the first warm rays of Springtime reach my face out on the water. I turn 50 this year. A fact that with all else that has landed on me lately had been pushed to the back of the bus but now it walking forward clasping the top of each seat carefully awaiting that sudden jerk when the bus stops at that milestone. A fact that is reminding me that I begin a fresh start at a time of my life when, yikes I am turning 50. I had better get going on this new project.
Plans for big paddles shelved for the time being. Other things, many other things must happen first. But they will happen in their time. Yukon River Quests under the midnight sun for my 50th, the original plan for 2015, now seem to be a good idea for my 51st year. Just let me get this first year under my belt and then it will be all downhill smooth sailing.
So to all of you reading this first tender offering of a fresh new, and rather wet coasty evening at the start of 2015, good luck out there. Keep your special people close. Offer kindness to those who stepped over the line with you in the past. Put your paddle to the water, or whatever metaphor to a tranquil meditative way of being you choose. Go forth and be you, as you are.