The title of Frozentripper’s “abandonment” news story got me thinking about the worst paddling partners I have tripped with.
Not the worst, but a woman who “was once a raft guide” (there must be a million people who were “once raft guides”) decided that she was the trip leader. Thankfully I was paddling a solo canoe, so she wasn’t actually my partner on the river, but at every campsite she would take charge, “deciding” whose tent was going where. Suffice it to say that she and her partner never had a poor tent site, but if you got on her wrong side you would be exiled to Siberia.
I didn’t really mind Siberia; I could distance while on the river, and far away in camp was good by me. One trip with her was enough.
My actual worst paddling partner ever was one of my prime backpacking companions. Big, tall, strong fellow, and great company on the trail. For anonymity sake I’ll call him Jay.
40 years ago, when we were still in our twenties, I took Jay on a canoe trip, seated in the bow of our Grumman for couple of days of flatwater paddling. We had a few mildly breezy headwind days, and I needed him to paddle. Like, how hard can it be, actually paddle, simply push blade against the water?
He had the ability to provide no propulsion with his paddle. It “looked” like he was paddling. I gave him some pointers about using a paddle, and his strokes looked OK, but they were providing zero help.
I tested that a few times by essentially ceasing to paddle in the stern, just doing an occasional draw or pry to keep us going straight, and we would instantly glide to a stop. Even on near windless days. How he managed that is still a magical mystery to me.
One trip with him was not enough. 30 years later I took Jay out paddling a second time. Flatwater again, but a simple up and back day trip. I put him in a fast solo decked canoe with a rudder and gave him an appropriate length double blade, so at worst he could splish-splash propulsive on either side. Not a long trip either, 4.8 miles out to a sandy point with great views, 4.8 miles back.
I had another novice paddling friend along on that trip, Scott, also an old B-packing buddy. We took our time; we had all day and it was a scenic stop-and-smell the roses (er, marsh mud) kind of trip. Even so we had to stop and wait for Jay several times, and he somehow (that magic again) managed to snarl the rudder retraction line so badly at one point that I had to drag his boat up on shore and repair it.
4.8 miles later we stopped for a long lunch break on that sandy peninsula with great views before heading back. Jay mostly kept up after I fixed his rudder and showed him how to use the sail. Although, even then, with all three of use using the same sails in nearly identical decked/ruddered hulsl, he managed to lag behind. That magical Jay slowness strikes again.
The day was a seeming success; 9.6 miles round trip, and we got to effortlessly downwind sail half the way back. When we arrived back at the launch we put the paddles, PFD’s and day gear into the van and readied to put the decked canoes on the roof racks. Big tall full-sized van roof racks. Scott is short, and I could use a big tall helper. We couldn’t find Jay.
We found him, conked out asleep on the back seat.
“Hey Jay, give me a hand loading the boats” I asked, opening the door.
In response “Mumffff fooo fffaad, uhnff fnnntt mvvvvff” without opening his eyes.
“What? Come on, gimme a hand loading the boats”
“I too tired, I can’t move” he mumbled more clearly.
Shortie Scott and I racked all three boats, and Jay slept soundly in the back seat all the way home.
In another 30 years I’ll think about taking Jay out paddling again. In his defense, both now in our sixties, I am sure he could still hike my ass off.
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