GOOD OLD RAFTING BUDDIES
Gorbies are just awful. Where does all that white trash come from? How many times do you have to tell people that cotton isn’t an insulator? No, you can’t wear your high heels in the raft. What do you mean, how deep is the river? It’s as if when they bought their Styrofoam coolers they left their brains as a deposit. So where do they come from? I imagine a school bus outside Wal-Mart with a sign, “Rollback Rafting—$9.99.”
E-PADDLER NETIQUETTE
Paddling message boards are riddled with idiots. The guy answering the post is often as ignorant as the one asking the question. Remember that you are asking people who post under names like Yakinman, Phittybones and Mothra. Are you really going to buy a boat recommended by a guy named Rattso_del_Flatulato?
THE LOCAL PADDLERS
Beware of big fat liars! You ask a local paddler, “So what’s this run like?” His reply: “Oh my God, it’s this full-on colon-purging run that never ends. What boat are you paddling? Oh, that’s not good.” You have to ask yourself, can this inbred even paddle? I mean look at him in his coveralls playing his banjo. He wants you to believe his river is tougher than yours.
Hey Billy Bob, things are tough all over. SLALOM
I’ve never really bothered writing about slalom; they are all jacked-up, whey-protein-enhanced egomaniacs. Then there’s kayak polo… Don’t get me started.
KAYAK RODEO
Cowboy rodeo brings animal abuse to your local fairgrounds. They set up a corral and fill grandstands. Nobody watches kayak rodeo because to get to the event site you’ve got to have a master’s degree in orienteering and be sleeping with one of the organizers (I use the term “organizer” loosely). Take the freestyle team trials, the biggest event in the country. They’re usually held on the Ottawa River, an hour-and-a-half drive from anyone with teeth. You have to know the river, paddle to the site, and then hope the judges show up.
“Dude, like why isn’t your mom here to watch?” “Dunno.”
BIG ATTITUDE
I’m talking about little freestyle rats who believe that because they can air-blunt, they are super-fly Mac Daddies. The truth is Mr. Pimpleface, real Mac Daddies are driving tricked-out Mercs with lots of dough. You’re barely making it to the put-in in your mom’s shit-box Mazda, flat broke, with only your left hand to love you.
RIVER DOGS
It might paint a nice picture—rugged-looking, forty- something man wearing a plaid shirt, his vintage cedar strip by the placid lake, hearty fire casting warm light onto the obedient hound at his feet. What a load of crap! There is no peace or tranquility whilst your mutt rummages through my dinner scraps, howls at the moon and pisses on my tent. What do you mean, “What did I expect leaving my plate on the chair?” Oh, that’s right, it’s my fault he ate my plate of beef stroganoff.
EXTREME ATHLETES?
We’re not young, hip or extreme. We’re 30 pushing 40, with desk jobs and sensible cars with baby seats. With white knuckles and nails dug-in we cling to the idea of being young. But we're a far cry from the skateboaders and surfers of the world. It’s almost embarrassing. But to start telling the truth would mean we’d have to notice that the nachos we're scarfing are pointing right at our shapely love handles sagging over our boardies.
DRIVING IN QUEBEC
Ten years of public school French classes amount to no help whatsoever. You’re in the woods, lost, confused and hungry and you’re dancing in tight black fuzzy rubber trying to show, with body language, the words you cannot say in French. Try acting out W-A-T-E-R-F-A-L-L, P-U- T–I-N and B-O-O-F to a grizzly lumberjack wielding a chainsaw in one hand and a cigarette, a can of 50 and a family-sized poutine in the other. You might be surprised to find out how much it looks like you’re saying, “I want to sleep with your wife.”
A LIFE ON THE RIVER
At the end of a life on the water there is no job, no recognized education, and few prospects. Only aching bones and outdated boats will remind you of all you have given to what we love. Like supermodels, pro boaters, raft guides and instructors are only as good as their last ride. The true cost of paddling is more than the price of a new boat and gear. It can cost you your soul. Spend it wisely.
— S.M.
2005 Fall // 15
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