OKC Kayak Word Soup

As many of you are aware, I am a biologist and naturalist by training. This interest was sparked by a 17 year plus stint as a volunteer for Martin Park Nature Center. They could not get rid of me, so they reluctantly hired me, and I worked there for an additional 6 or seven years.

Yeah, I know what you are thinking. You are running the numbers in your head and probably saying to yourself. “Dave, you are only 33 years old. Who was your math teacher?” Yep, at eight years of age I joined the youth volunteer program at the nature center. Neil Garrison was not only the director of the park, but my hero and mentor. Many of you may better know him as the guy with the live owl that sat in his office and would accompany him on a multitude of speaking engagements. Neil’s reign as director ended today with his retirement after over three decades of service to the City of Oklahoma City and this urban nature park.

Neil was and still is the epitome of what someone’s hero truly should be. We far too often seem to offer up misplaced idolatry for folks who perhaps excel at athletics yet lack ethics, or for folks who are great singers yet fail to be the voice for anyone other than themselves. Let me tell you folks, it does not take superpowers, flashy stuff, or oversized egos to make gargantuan differences in this world.

Naturalists by trade are knowledgeable on all things, not just one specialized area of nature. Neil is particularly well versed on this stuff. But, a bunch of facts and figures are just that if you do not have an effective and creative way to impart this knowledge on others. Neil used his creative wit and humor to effectively do this. Combine this with a passion for nature that is absolutely contagious, and you have a true winner. I think the thing that really set Neil apart from his many peers and colleagues in the field was the fact that he never let his “job” be confined to the written job description he was handed when he signed up. He never let the time clock or a paycheck determine when he should start or stop working for the day.

I was three when Neil had his first day of work at the park, but I am guessing that nowhere in the job description did it say, “You must take a personal interest in the visitors and volunteers, take personal care of and concern for kids who cross your path that may have a less than desirable family life, and you are required to carry your concern for nature into your personal life and free time, volunteering for endless conservation organizations.” Nope, probably did not say any of this, but Neil did this nonetheless.

Who is going to be the one to step up and take that little boy whose world may be filled with far too many painful things than a kid should have to think about on a camping trip? Who will have the patience to let a lonely child explore the subterranean world of a cave? Who will get the little girl off the couch and out from in front of the television so she can catch amphibians from a farm pond under the glow of a flashlight? Did anyone notice every Fourth of July when Neil was out in the 100 degree plus temperatures at the fourth of July parade with a gargantuan snake for kids to interact with? We you aware that Neil on his own dime would rescue hawk babies and find a suitable foster nest for these orphans? Is a guy who befriends an overlooked autistic man, regularly taking him to dinner on his sparse naturalist salary hero material? I would sure like to think so. The way Neil carried his work well beyond the obligatory 9-6 was what spoke volumes to me. Nobody was paying him for these extras. He could have picked a career that was far more lucrative as well, but he let his heart follow his passions. When is the last time you thanked a man or woman for doing such?

Neil Garrison, thank you for everything you did to inspire me, care for not only me, but scores of others, thank you for being the kind of man that a kid can look up to and wish to be like. We need more people like you. My promise is to let your kindness, passion and enthusiasm be carried forward in exponential ways through myself and so many others whose lives you have touched. With tears in my eyes, a world of thanks! You changed the outcome of my life.

This blog is part of a series from my Grand Canyon trip.  Start from the beginning by reading the last three entries or so first.

Again sorry for the lengthy delay.  Word has it that several of you have your friends hooked into this like it is an episode of Days of Our Lives or some other soap opera.  I figure that if I wait a week or two between journal entries, this will cause you to visit the site seven times instead of one, which will in turn increase our website ranking.  Just kidding.  I have just been busy as always.   Here it goes…..

Visiting the canyon comes with all the biggies that folks expect like the great scenery, big waters, remoteness, etc.  It is the planning, logistics, and unglamourous details that often get overshadowed.  Fortunately, Dave Meeks, Angela, Steve, and others had done the lions share of the legwork in arranging gear, planning meals, and so much more.

One of these logistical items was poop.  Yes, that is right, I am talking about crap.  Now we are all adults here (except for that little punk kid that we were speaking of in the last blog, right Hailey?), so let it be said that this whole blog is dedicated to excrement.  Don’t like it?  Skip to the next date on the blog.

Taking a dump in the wilderness is usually a pretty straight forward task.  Find a tree, squat, pee, poop, analyze, say “when did I eat corn”, bury and you are done right?  No harm done, we fed some worms and fertilized some plants.  Skip forward to the environment of the grand canyon.   …..desert, no trees, 29,000 people a year times 14 to 21 day trips times 3 plus meals a day.  I am not great at math, but even I can tell you that this equation equals a big giant mess.  Now factor in that all of our drinking water, cooking water, bathing, swimming, etc., would be taking place in this big giant flowing cess lagoon.  Yuck right.  Thankfully, the park service won’t let you leave this stuff behind.  They go so far as to check your gear before letting you in, to see if you have the proper disposal equipment.  You know all those apples, pancakes, chili dinners, cheese snacks, desserts, appetizers and more?  You got it!  This stuff is coming back home with us reincarnate as “THE BROWN BLOB!”  Packing out your poop is commonplace in places that get a lot of traffic or are really dry (nothing breaks down fast in the desert).  Even our campfires took place in a big metal firepan, so as to not leave even a single piece of wood ash behind.  Now I know this all sounds a bit gross, but believe me, I appreciated not having to be throwing down my sleeping bag on beaches littered with crap.

I know, I know, you are all wondering how in the world does a dozen peoples’ waste get transported 21 days on a bucking raft ride without ending up all over the place.  I am expert at this, as our rafts were the designated transport for “THE GROOVER.”   Think rocket box, which is a big metal army cannister for rocket propelled grenades, complete with a sealed lid, and some overbearing latches on each end.  This thing measures about 18 inches tall by 8 inches wide and 24 inches long.  A lot of turds can fit in one of these guys.  We would fill (and I do mean full) four of these dudes before our adventure was complete.  I am pretty sure that at least two of them were filled by “Big Dave” though.   When everyone elses rafts were lightening their load as more and more food was consumed, ours just kept getting heavier.  All be damned if our raft was going to get so light that we risked flipping.

It was about a week into the trip before one of the “old hands” explained how the groover got its name.  Our rocket box was complete with not only an extended piece of metal which let you really fill the box to the max, but also a full size toilet seat.  Apparently the retro versions did not have a seat at all, so it left two red grooves on your kiester.  OUCH!

Groover duty always belonged to the group that had cooked dinner the night before.  These folks now were responsible for carting around the heavy box of waste, picking a scenic but private location, and getting everything set up, cleaned up or broken down.  I am still mad at Kevin for suggesting that we should cook chili.

I must say that the training, orientation, and preparation was top notch on this trip, but Kevin and I must have been totally absent when they covered groover etiquette.  It was the second day of the trip, and I had yet to have a movement. Suddenly it was time. I began scurrying about trying to find out which one of the maze of trails carved into the brushy area adjacent to camp led to the groover site. Suddenly I saw the raft paddle which served as a directional saying “Over here!” I was quite relieved to have found this because I literally was seconds away from crapping myself. …..but, “WHAT, YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FREAKIN’ KIDDING ME!” Here sat Lauren, britches at her ankle with a most content smile on her face to have beaten me to the pot. Embarrassed I dropped my head, apologized and turned. As soon as I was out of sight, I began running so fast that sand was kicking up over my head because now I really had to go. Extra shorts and a laundry mat were luxury items I did not have available to me on this trip. As soon as I found a tiny alcove behind a creosote bush I dropped my shorts and let loose. This was completely against the rules. I could have just buried it, yet my conscience would not allow. Begrudgingly I coated it with sand to absorb some of the moisture, then began to carry it with my hands back to the groover for deposit. As luck would have it, here was Lauren walking past me as she exited our wilderness bathroom. I did not speak a word. By the end of the trip, seeing someone or another taking a leak, changing clothes, or trying to catch a bath was just part of the nature of this trip since the small size of the available places to land a raft kept our party quite constrained.

It would be two days later before someone explained that if the paddle is across the trail the pooper is occupied, or parallel with the trail, empty. Another day passed before I overheard something about not peeing in the rocket box either. Number one goes exclusively in the river since the dilution factor with the large volume of water coming down the Colorado makes this a non issue. Even if you are doing number two, you cannot proceed right into number one. Otherwise the box fills too fast and is heavy and messy. So, fellow raft mates, “I have a confession… Sorry about that!!!!” I did not know the rules. After the trip was over, I still found myself not allowing myself to pee after finishing taking a dump.

A little powdered bleach intermittently sprinked into the groover did help to keep this nice and tidy. On one of the last days of the trip when I knew that it was Tom’s turn to tear down a quite full groover, I classed it up a bit by sticking a long stalked single yellow flower into the giant pile of brown. Rumor has it that he was caught bending his head down to see if it smelled pretty.

I know curiosity is about to kill you. The answer to your question is we paid $20 a box to have someone empty and wash our rocket boxes at the end of the trip. Money well spent.

(Steve had suggested a poetry night, and as maybe you have noticed, I like to express myself through writing. Sadly, I did not find the time to come up with anything in advance, so here is what I wrote for my contribution to open mic night on the river.)

I wanted this to be participatory, so I read the first part and they had to come up with the ending which is underlined.

The Groover

By Dave Lindo

I am forged in foundries in a big giant kettle. I’ll stick to a magnet because I am METAL.

This metal is shaped into a square with a lid and two heavy locks. I hold RPG’s because I am a ROCKET BOX.

My retirement ends early when you purchase me from the military store, I am now on your rafting trip and ready for more.

You open up my lid and hide me behind a rock. I served your country and now my tour of duty you mock.

You drop down your trousers with a look of scorn. My God woman who keeps feeding you CORN!

Ten people to go, the vegans number three. I am only for number two and not for PEE.

It is cold outside, but I am steaming hot, watch that tricky red pepper flakes lid before coming to the pot (We kept dumping a lot of red pepper in the food by accident)

Beans, ruffage, and chili dinners twice. Whose idea was it to keep feeding you spice?

When you are finished, you peer back inside. You are grinning ear to ear with a new father’s pride.

My name is garnered not from the food that you pass. But rather from the red lines that I used to leave on your ASS.

So next time nature calls and you start to feel a real mover, don’t say shitter, pooper, or crapper. Tell everyone you are going to the GROOVER!

Until next time, have a great week.

Short and sweet…. I am going to try and put some photos from the GC trip on the blog over the course of the next few days.  A few are already up.  Keep checking out the last several posts.

Have a good Memorial Day weekend!

Well, it does not happen often, but every once in a blue moon, I get a complaint or two. I happened to get one of these this morning. Luckily it was from a friend. She expressed her displeasure with my lack of posting to the blog. I hemmed and hawed and pulled many an excuse from the recesses of my mind and another deep crevice or two of my body. She was not buying this. “I have been reading my daughter to sleep with this every night, and you have not posted in something like ten days!!!” she angrily retorted. Reading your child to sleep with my blog? Seriously? What kind of sick freak would read that crap to a child? Well, I guess I have heard of it putting a person or two to sleep before.

Anyway, after calling the Department of Human Services on this gal for child abuse, I started to type some more on the “Greatest Adventure Ever” story from my Grand Canyon Trip. (Still no pics until I find the cord to my camera! ….sorry.) If you have not read the last two installments you may want to go back and read the last two blogs first.

When we last left off, our time in the raft was just beginning. After frantically inquiring about safety tips and pointers from nearly everyone in the crew, I was aboard Tom Robinson’s raft. The one piece of advice that I clearly remembered was from Angela, “Hang on with BOTH hands!). White knuckled I would be for the rest of the day as I secured my death grip on the two ropes strung from the bow. I also made it practice to search for any potential entrapment hazards such as misplaced ropes, or other items that I could get tangled up on.

The group was real good at looking after each other. All the boats in the group would watch out for the rest, lining up before the rapids in a fashion that would ensure that a strong boater was both first and last into the rapids. Oh, who am I kidding, you don’t get here unless you are a real darn strong boater.

Right off the bat, Tom queried his crew to see what they had on in terms of clothing, since a dip into the 50 degree water would mean about 15 minutes worth of survival time without wetsuits or drysuits. We made it a habit to check and recheck each other for buckled lifejackets. Everything on the raft had to be secured beyond belief with webbing straps, so that the rapids would not wash it overboard. Many a story was told about gear lost to prior capsizes as well. The daily rigging of the rafts took nearly two hours to accomplish this.

Finally, we were underway and about to try our luck in one of the bigger rapids. Most rivers are rated on a scale of 1-6 with 6 being nearly certain death. The Colorado through the Grand deserved a rating scale all its own, being classed from 1-10. We would see some class nine action twice during our adventure. This truly was the mother of great North American rivers. From a distance, the large waves were capped into standing haystacks, capped with white foam where they curled back upstream. They seemed to lash out at anything traveling downstream, like the tongue of a hungry monster. As we entered the tongue of the rapid, the raft began to lurch up and then drop forcefully off the back off the wave, only to take the elevator ride up the back of the next one. The water was loud, and the adrenalin flowed through us with an equaled strength. “Here we go,” Tom shouted as we entered the biggest drop of the rapid. The raft lurched upwards, as I gripped the ropes tighter while simultaneously body slamming the front of the raft in a somewhat feeble attempt to bring the raft back down to earth. We sailed over the set of waves into the calmer waters, as I let out a big whoop of both excitement and relief. My raft mates looked at me a bit foolishly as they informed me that this rapid is so small that it is not even rated. Whoops!

Well, once again my creative writing time has expired. More of the story is yet to come.

I have to go read another complaint email from the webmaster about my lack of updating the blog. Seems he has programmed a new message from staff into the home page of our website. Check this out to find out why I now am offering free foot massages with every purchase.

Until next time,

Dave

Grand Canyon Rafting and Kayaking (Continued)

This story is part of a series. To read from the beginning, start on the blog below dated 5/8/09.

When we last left off on the Grand Canyon story, Kevin and I had just completed the South Kaibab trail which led us from the rim to the bottom. We now were staring the chocolate milk waters of the Colorado River in the face.

Several rafting parties had passed, but our group was not around. Once you are on the river, you are cut off completely from civilization, unless you pull out the satellite phone, which is pretty much sacriligous (sp?) unless it is a dire emergency. Our hopes were that the group we were meeting up with had not been delayed by weather or other unexpected conditions. We were at their mercy, because we chose to not pack tents or other gear to save weight hiking down. Furthermore, we had no permit to camp overnight at Phantom Ranch. Enforcement of permits by the park service is pretty darn strict at the bottom of the canyon.

After crossing the giant bridge over the Colorado, Kevin and I began traversing a barely visible footpath upstream. When the trail got so steep the it was cliffed off all together, by a side canyon, we stopped. Neither of us was certain that this was the rendezvous spot., but we plopped down in the shade in view of the river, hoping that our wait would not be too long.  …hoping that they would actually show.

Our hiking boots, socks, and the bottom third of our bodies were covered in the pinkish orange dust from the trail. The feet inside those boots were sore, but not blistered. It felt good to be off them, as we recounted the amazing experiences we had in this first four hours of this two week adventure while we soaked our “dogs” in the fifty degree waters of the river.

The panorama was more than one ever gets to experience from the comfort of the rim. Vistas right out of a coffee table book were around us the entire way down. Best of all, the desert was in bloom. Less than thirty minutes into the hike, Kevin was already reprimanding me for asking him to take yet another wildflower photo, or picture of a cactus blossom. “I better not run out of batteries,” he whined. Two endangered California Condors flew overhead, catching thermals off the canyon walls. At one point they nearly seemed close enough to touch. As a birder, this was truly “one for the life list.”  Kevin clearly could not have told the difference if it had been a turkey vulture, so I proceeded to let him think that all the buzzards we would see on the trip were also condors. By mid canyon, we had seen dozens of lizards on the trail as well. Not bad for a day that started with snow! Kevin is not big on cussing, but I think I heard him say, “Isn’t this place effin’ awesome,” over one hundred times each hour. Even my threats of washing his mouth out with my Dr. Bronner’s biodegradable camp soap were no deterrent.

Not even twenty minutes into our daydreaming, a yellow raft harboring a middle age woman whose appearance screamed river rat, appeared from around the upstream bend. I knew instantly that this was the first of our rafting crew. This eighteen foot oar raft would subsequently be followed by another one, a sixteen, and a cataraft. The flotilla also included two Liquid Logic Remix 79 whitewater kayaks, and an inflatable kayak. We whistled to them and began to wave so they would notice us in the shade of the boulder we were hiding behind. We were more than a little relieved to find out that we were in the correct spot.

The rafts were upstream at a campsite on the other side of the river. No access to the site was available from the south side of the canyon. This meant that they had to raft downstream in the strong current of the river (nearly 13,000 cubic feet of water per second), pull over to get us, and try and ferry back upstream against the current a considerable distance. This would prove to be no problem for our fearless leaders and the bearers of the permit, David Meeks and Angela Huemmer.

The trip was an eclectic bunch from all walks of life. Only a couple of us were not Prescott College grads. My understanding is that Prescott is a place where hippies go to get degrees in things not really recognized by any other college as worthy of diplomas. Yes, you can get a degree in whitewater rafting! But, who am I to judge? Funny thing is that every last one of them turned out to be successful beyond belief. Kevin and I truly felt like we might have went to the wrong school ourselves. Angela and her husband Steve invest in real estate. Their children Zosha and Anna, are college students. Randal, our doctor on the trip practices dentistry and is a rancher. Will is a professor at Prescott.  The other doctor aboard, Tom, a PhD, consults with companies to improve their efficiency. Dave Meeks owns a giant construction rental firm. Bruce and his daughter Lauren own a mineral springs resort. Scott trims trees. Kevin is a developer and programmer. And, then you had me, the lowly kayak guide.

Most rafting trips on the canyon hold the common tie of the geographic region where all the participants reside. (ie, the Idaho group or the Colorado boys) Our group was from all over the place. We had San Diego, Oregon, Oklahoma, Colorado, Seattle, Sacramento, and even a German gal on the trip.

Introductions were made upon our delivery to the correct side of the river. Everyone was visibly tired, a little weathered from the sun, and obviously, “on the river for a week.” Imagine my surprise when I offered out my hand for the young German gal to shake. She spoke absolutely perfect English. Turns out she was not German after all, she just had not shaved her armpits for a week and was now sporting about an inch of fur. (One week, really Lauren??? It must get pretty cold in Oregon).

During the planning phases of the trip, Kevin and I had to come up with our own breakfasts and lunches. We were only allotted a minimal amount of space on the raft, and we darn sure weren’t packing a bunch of heavy groceries down with us, so we decided to just eat peanut butter and grape-nuts the entire trip. Needless to say, this got old pretty quick. Luckily the group was quick to share their spoils, and Kevin was quick to accept. My pride made it a little harder to do so. I just did not want to feel like the unprepared mooch who did not bring his own food. It was apparent from the first night that the group was going to be far nicer to me than I would be to them over the next couple of weeks. We ate the first of many fantastic dinners, each of which was prepared by a member or two of the group on a rotating basis. The rafts allowed for loads of fresh fruits and vegetables, coolers full of meats, and many other “luxury items.” We even had appetizers each night. We would each actually gain weight on the trip.

The temps were nice, the bugs nonexistent, and the sky clear, which was a good thing. A lot of the gear we would be using, we were borrowing from Zosha and Anna. They would not be hiking out until the morning, so tonight we were sleeping out under the stars while they slept in “our” tent.

An early raft ride ferried the two girls back to the trail where they would hike back up the hill to attend college. The rest of us headed over to Phantom Ranch to send a postcard via the mule that delivers mail from the bottom of the canyon. Several members of our group had mail and packages waiting for them here as well. This was the first and only civilization that would be seen on the three week trip, so most of us took the time to send a postcard or make one last communication with the outside world. You could tell who the tourists were that had ridden the mule down. They were quite fun to watch as they painstakingly tried to walk with their bowlegs from the rough ride down.

It was afternoon before we would actually really start the trip. I was nervous because I had heard about a giant rapid in the first several miles of the trip. Everyone else had seven days to practice, years of rafting experience, and lots of big rivers already under their belts. I had only done day long raft trips, and felt very under qualified for the massive waters of the Colorado. I had also worried about the raft flipping, as it does happen regularly on these trips. My concern was that if there was going to only be 2 or 3 people on an eighteen foot raft, we would be more susceptible because we would be running really light. When I had rafted in the past it was on paddle rafts with eight people aboard. These were oar rafts with a metal frame, and a welcome load of lots of heavy gear. Luckily, my job today would to simply be a passenger on one of the largest rafts. Tom would be our Captain today. Tom, Steve, Angela, Zosha, Anna, Randal and Big Dave (Angela dubbed me “Baby Dave, because she is old enough to be my grandmother.) all had loads of experience guiding trips, many professionally. As Tom put it, they all figured out that there are loads of upsides to being a raft guide such as fitness, seeing great places, etc., and only two downsides. He explained these to be bad pay and the fact that it is hard on relationships. (Should have chosen kayak guide, Tom. That is where all the money is.)

Well, it is once again time to sign off for the evening. What do you say we come back again tomorrow and start to tell some real adventure stories from the mother of all river trips? Giant rapids, deadly holes, standing waves, naked people??? Okay see you then.

Photos from huge demo day held Wednesday.  Pro kayakers Jordan and Skyler Stoner show off some stunts!

So you accidentally clicked on the blog link, did you?  Boy, what a mistake you just made.  This is usually the place for all sorts of nonsense, very little of which actually pertains to kayaking.  This weird guy updates it (rather sporadically lately) from time to time, usually ranting or raving about something.  Quite frankly, you probably are better off clicking the back button.  Oh, well, you decide!

Missed me, didn’t you?  Sorry for the hiatus.  It has been just a wee bit crazy around here this spring.

As some of you may have heard, I recently got to check one off the bucket list.  Yeah, bucket list!  Ya know that list of things that we are going to do before we die so that we have lived a life which is a little more fulfilled, and a little less in the regrets column.  You know, that Mark Twain quote that my friends Kev and Jodi have on their bathroom wall, “Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did, so throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor, catch the trade winds in your sails, EXPLORE, DREAM, DISCOVER.”

Thanks Mark, we will.

Twenty years!  Yep, twenty.  That is the number of years the waiting list for the Grand Canyon private boating permit exceeds!  Ever since I read an article in National Geographic which rated Rafting the Grand Canyon as the number one adventure in all of North America, I have been dreaming of this ever since.  But, because of the length of the wait, this had always remained pretty much exclusively in the dream column.  (Remember what sets apart a dream from a goal?)  It was always, “Someday I will get my name on the waiting list,” or some other lame explanation for my lack of action on this item.  Early March, all of this would abruptly change.

I had just hung up the phone, call it Karma if you will, but the news I had just been delivered was causing me to schedule a checkup with the ear doctor.  My palms were instantly sweaty.  The mother of all rafting and kayaking trips had just landed in my lap quite unexpectedly, and I was still trying to figure out what I should do with this.  “GGGGGrand CCannnyon?” I queried my San Diego caller, Angela.  I totally expected her to retort, “No, Grand Caimen,” you big dummy.  Yep, I heard right.  She and a friend had both been on the waiting list since I was a teenager.  They combined their time, got a permit, and were canyon bound.  I instantly was jealous.  How could she do this to me.  She knew my love.    ….but, but, but, Angela!!!  Whoops, she was invited me to join her.  (sound of toilet paper roll spinning faster than a wheel in a cage of a hamster.)

Now folks, kayak guides are some of the brokest dudes (and ladies) on the face of this planet, and this trip was going to cost some serious bling.  Furthurmore, their permit dates were in a handful of weeks, I was out of shape, and this was no time to be away from the busy kayak shop.  I WAS WAY IN!!!  It suddenly got even better because another favorite friend of mine, Kevin the webmaster was also planning to go.

Logistically, I could not be gone the entire twenty one days that the entire group was planning to be gone.  They would be doing the bulk majority of the canyon, rafting and kayaking from Lees Ferry to Diamond Creek.  As luck would have it, two of the gals on the trip had to return to college after the first week, opening up a spot for Kevin and I to hike down from the South Rim and meet the group already underway at Phantom Ranch.

Way too many Dr. Pepper’s and donut shop runs have graced the last 33 years of my life so, the physical training began as soon as I hung up the phone.  Time was of the essence, and not a lot of it existed before the trip was to begin.  Mercy Hospital is next door to my house, so I began a daily (sometimes a couple times a day) routine of climbing all ten flights of stairs, five times in a row.  The first few times I did this, I wished to die.  (Better to nearly die in the hospital than the canyon, right?)

My brief training would pay dividends on the 10 mile hike down from the South Rim.  There is a mile elevation change from the top of the rim to the bottom of the canyon.  It was 22 degrees with snow on the rim, yet I was hiking in nothing but my backpack and bathing suit by the time we hit the halfway mark.  (Kevin took all the photos on the way down, because I had yet to figure out that my battery was in my new camera backwards.)  Kevin will insert a photo or two here from his remote home in San Diego.  Right Kev?  After all, he is the one who bugs me about adding photos to the blog.  Keep in mind that he is likely to show you this ridiculous photo of me in a red bathing suit with goofy wool socks, and more.  This was because, everything we brought in had to be carried on our backs.  We were packing minimally, and we still had 36 pound bags on our shoulders.  Every item counted.

Alright, here is how this is going to work.  I am signing off for the moonlight paddle.  You check back again in a day or two, and I will write some more.  Otherwise you are going to get a watered down, less than funny version of the canyon that was done in a rush.  Agreed?  Good!  Now, come back tomorrow, and I will divulge all about the German girl.

Yeah, I know, spring is not even officially here yet, but boy have we had some nice weather lately?  If you were one of the three kayakers in the entire state who missed the social paddle the last couple of weekends, then you truly missed out.  We had 65 last week and 35 people last Sunday.  As always these are free with your own boat, no matter where you bought it (watch it though, or we may subject you to the same fate as that groundhog who claimed he saw his shadow).  Or, if you need to used ours, just $15 with an advance reservation.  Be on watch for the Tuesday night socials and workout paddles to return soon as well.  See you soon.  Dave L.

OKC Kayak’s first ever no commission swap meet is about ready to begin.  Here is a sneak preview of some of the many items that are starting to arrive.

Recumbant bicycles Trek R200 and Burley Canto

Lots of free stuff

Camping Gear

Mountain bike powered boat

Aluminum Canoe

Lots of kayaks

….and who knows what else.

Wanna know why I am about to change the band-aid on my face? Keep reading….

When I graduated from college I swore up and down that this was the very last time that I would ever be in a classroom. I literally hated school. Perhaps part of it was the fact that I get easily bored from just sitting around. Well, ironically, I have been purposely putting myself through more class work through my professional organization, the Paddlesports Industry Association (PIA). This organization’s purpose is to promote paddlesport recreation, access, and education. No other group does as much for the sport or for the folks who like me are frugally unemployed in the industry (a.k.a. trying to convince themselves that someday they will get paid to paddle.)

For the last four years I have been involved in many ongoing education classes. Part of this enabled me to certify as a Wilderness First Responder, another portion upped my coaching skills with ACA and BCU certifications, but the part that I have gained the most practical knowledge from was the PIA’s Paddlesport Business School. Coursework included everything from marketing, retail store design, managing effective employees, and so much more. This second year of training fulfilled the remainder of the requirements I needed to certify as Oklahoma’s first Certified Professional Paddler or CPP.

Now, lest you be fooled, being Oklahoma’s first CPP ever comes with great responsibility. Anyone who has ever been on a trip with us or has attended one of our paddles knows that I am serious as a heart attack about risk management and safety. Occasionally I may even go a little overboard, as evident by my first aid kit that is as large as a 33 gallon garbage sack. Frequently I get made fun of for my overly cautious approach. I have even been accused of making people wear lifejackets on hiking trips, although I can assure you that this has never happened. The end result though is a perfect safety record, so neither I nor my insurance man is complaining.

Following several days of PIA coursework indoors beside the Meramec River in Missouri, seventy degree temps forced us to have an impromptu outdoor classroom on a nearby Class I stream the last day of the school. Let me repeat folks, Class I. This means that at most this waterway is characterized by nothing more than a few riffles. No waterfalls, no standing waves, no giant obstacles, NADA!!!

When it came time to pair up canoe partners, I had a host of other friends and colleagues to choose from. I immediately sought out my buddy Jared Carr, owner of Osagian canoes. Now, I spend a darn lot of time in kayaks, and a decent amount of time in canoes, but this guy is something like the third generation of family members who have been making aluminum canoes forever. This guy can do a J-Stroke in his sleep and would prove to be just the man this tandem canoe team would need to make our little craft look good in front of all our peers. …or would he?

About forty of us launched our canoes on the river in about 15 inches of water. The weather and company were making for the perfect float. Our group had the entire river to ourselves. I would be willing to wager a bet that we were one of less than a couple of dozen of folks to have paddled the river since the last of the tourists staggered home after Labor Day weekend had come and gone. For this very reason, the trees and other debris that had fallen over the course of the winter had not been removed either.

Canoe after canoe managed to be drawn towards one particular “strainer,” a large tree that had lost its footing on the stream bank during the last bout of high water. (Missouri folks term these things ROOTWAHS, which roughly translates in a upturned tree with a big wad of roots on the end.) I cautioned Jared to hold back until the traffic jam of canoes worked their way beyond this mess. Otherwise, we too risked getting hung up in this collage of tree limbs and Old Town Discovery 169’s on this all too narrow stretch of the creek. “Good plan,” Jared replied. Immediately after deciding this, our buddy Robby Baker from TNT Hideaway canoe livery in Florida booked an extended stay in the ROOTWAH hotel. He got tangled up like a family of contortionists playing the game of twister. We tried our hardest to hide our laughter with an abundance of pseudo concern for the man. (To my defense, this same guy spent five full days trying to make me tip my kayak when I recently was in Florida for another conference.)

After things at the rootwah had finally cleared a bit, we began our approach. We were easily sliding our watercraft past the obstacle, when suddenly the stern spun out of control bring us into the tree as well. We had a bit of speed up, so Jared was forced to tuck his head to avoid an overhanging tree limb that was as thick as my leg. I too was faced with the choice of taking the limb in my chest, causing the quick moving canoe to come to a dead stop, or bringing some of my limbo moves out of retirement from my roller skating days. I stretched my upper torso backwards, sprawling my back across the stern of the canoe. Not a moment later, I was whacked in the face as Jared turned loose of the branch that he was trying to duck under. Instantly, I knew that this was not good. Luckily most of my peers were already ahead of me. This surely must have been karma for making by fellow school attendees play a game of memory that had all the matches removed, or for tricking my friend Cheryl into thinking the decoratively designed rosettes of butter were really white chocolate morsels.

Time was certainly of the essence in treating my wounds. This was not because it was some dire injury, but instead because we had just spent the entire day learning about how to market your business through the internet using sites like facebook, myspace, and UTube. I was envisioning all forty of my peers popping a picture of my scraped cheek onto every social networking site out there. This certainly was not the sort of highly visible marketing angle that I was looking for.

I went home with nothing seriously injured except my pride. At least I had seven hours of driving time to thing up stories about how the raspberry on my chin got there.

….. bicycle wreck, violent girlfriend, really crazy shaving incident. HMMM!!!!!

Outdoor Gear Swap and Sale