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Playing off PaddlingPitt’s “Ever been rescued or evacuated?” thread, who here has abandoned a canoe?
I’ve come close a couple times, one I didn’t think was getting unpinned, but (knock wood) never yet walked away. Thought about it a few times.
I know a number of folks on Canoe Tripping have left canoes; irretrievably pinned, damaged beyond repair or, not exactly “abandoned”, but washed away in a flood (or left poorly secured for the night). Including one alluded-to story (Ben?) I have yet to hear. It might be educational in a cautionary way to hear those tales.
That near abandonment was reprised, once again on Assateague; the closest I have come to leaving the canoe and walking away. Freaking, freaky Assateague; out of 1000 canoe trips I have probably paddled Assateague 50 times, yet somehow have more memories of travails and tribulations there than anywhere else in the country. It is a weird place.
Assateague is a 37 mile long spit of sand barrier island, often less than a mile wide, but that mile includes something like 8 different zones; surf zone, beach zone, primary dunes, secondary dunes, scrub, woodland, marsh, Chincoteague Bay. Interesting place for a mile long biological transect.
Standing against the Atlantic Ocean the weather is, uh, peculiar. A strong wind from the west will push bay water into the marsh, resulting in a high tide and a really high tide. Reverse that and a wind from the east will drain the marshes to low and “Where did the water go?”.
The oddest weather phenomenon encountered on Assateague was a fog wall. We awoke one dense foggy morning at our bayside campsite, and decided to hike the mile east to the Atlantic shore. Half way across the island, in the scrubby open middle, we stepped out of the fog. It was like stepping out from behind a curtain. A couple steps east it was sunny and clear, and behind us was a well defined vertical wall of fog. Of course we had to dash back and forth; sun, dense fog, sun. Freekeeey.
I digress, but that island weather weirdness came into play in almost abandoning our canoes. We were on a group canoe review trip, swapping off boats and test paddling five different Prospectors. Early one morning Tom, Topher and I elected to take a couple of the canoes and do a day paddle to the next site further south.
Gentle breeze and beautiful weather, so beautiful I hadn’t checked the forecast. After an easy paddle down to the next site we landed and hiked the mile across the island to the beach side. Equally beautiful, and we lingered for half the day. That afternoon, hiking back west to our canoes on the bayside, it became windy. Increasingly windy the further west we hiked. Protected by the dunes and stands of Virginia pine near the bayshore we had not realized just how windy it had become.
We did not appreciate how windy ‘til we walked out past the pines; the 5 mile wide open bay was a storm tossed, white capped tempest. Not where you want to paddle unburdened Prospectors; we had a couple long peninsulas to paddle out and around on the open bay route back, and couldn’t have made headway in that maelstrom if we had unwisely tried.
Fortunately, I’ll call him “McCrea”, knows a sneak route back through the more wind and wave protected marsh. Gotta hand it to that McCrea fellow, he’s a sharp cookie.
Unfortunately McCrea began to exclaim that the sneak route did not resemble his previous experiences; the wind had piled so much water into the marsh that nothing looked familiar. We (he. . . .McCrea) made a few wrong turn route errors.
Even more unfortunate that effing moron McCrea had not taken into consideration that his sneak route necessitated crossing a number of wide guts and channels, fully open to the howling bayside.
Crossing the shortest distance, broadside to the focused and funneled wind and waves in an empty Prospector was not possible. We had to cross diagonally with the wind, and each time we did were pushed still further inland. Think repeatedly swimming “across” a fast moving river.
Topher was paddling a 15’ 6” SP3 Prospector, and managed OK, but Tom and I were in some 17+ footer and that sucker desperately wanted to get sideways and broach. And nearly did a few scary times.
I have had more fun in a canoe; it didn’t help that Tom kept wanting to stop for a bite to eat, and I kept yelling “F#$% FOOD, PADDLE DAMMIT!” But we got to see parts of the inner island never before explored by boat.
Night fell. Tom insisted we stop for a bite to eat. By then we were so far inland that we ran out of water as the wind finally diminished the marsh slowly drained. Dragging heavy RX Prospectors through the marsh in the dark, unsure of exactly where you are is not a recommended activity. I might have simply abandoned the canoes at that point, but they were loaner boats from the different manufacturers.
Well into the night, mud covered and stumbling in exhaustion, we glimpsed a campfire. A campfire oddly a half mile west of our struggles deep in the marsh. It was the rest of the guys back at camp, by now anxious as to our whereabouts. Eventually they heard our plaintive cries and slogged out to help us drag the canoes the last half mile into camp.
It was undoubtedly the most tiring “day paddle” ever, made so by a compounding series of mistakes and bad decisions. Most of them mine.
I’ve come close a couple times, one I didn’t think was getting unpinned, but (knock wood) never yet walked away. Thought about it a few times.
I know a number of folks on Canoe Tripping have left canoes; irretrievably pinned, damaged beyond repair or, not exactly “abandoned”, but washed away in a flood (or left poorly secured for the night). Including one alluded-to story (Ben?) I have yet to hear. It might be educational in a cautionary way to hear those tales.
That near abandonment was reprised, once again on Assateague; the closest I have come to leaving the canoe and walking away. Freaking, freaky Assateague; out of 1000 canoe trips I have probably paddled Assateague 50 times, yet somehow have more memories of travails and tribulations there than anywhere else in the country. It is a weird place.
Assateague is a 37 mile long spit of sand barrier island, often less than a mile wide, but that mile includes something like 8 different zones; surf zone, beach zone, primary dunes, secondary dunes, scrub, woodland, marsh, Chincoteague Bay. Interesting place for a mile long biological transect.
Standing against the Atlantic Ocean the weather is, uh, peculiar. A strong wind from the west will push bay water into the marsh, resulting in a high tide and a really high tide. Reverse that and a wind from the east will drain the marshes to low and “Where did the water go?”.
The oddest weather phenomenon encountered on Assateague was a fog wall. We awoke one dense foggy morning at our bayside campsite, and decided to hike the mile east to the Atlantic shore. Half way across the island, in the scrubby open middle, we stepped out of the fog. It was like stepping out from behind a curtain. A couple steps east it was sunny and clear, and behind us was a well defined vertical wall of fog. Of course we had to dash back and forth; sun, dense fog, sun. Freekeeey.
I digress, but that island weather weirdness came into play in almost abandoning our canoes. We were on a group canoe review trip, swapping off boats and test paddling five different Prospectors. Early one morning Tom, Topher and I elected to take a couple of the canoes and do a day paddle to the next site further south.
Gentle breeze and beautiful weather, so beautiful I hadn’t checked the forecast. After an easy paddle down to the next site we landed and hiked the mile across the island to the beach side. Equally beautiful, and we lingered for half the day. That afternoon, hiking back west to our canoes on the bayside, it became windy. Increasingly windy the further west we hiked. Protected by the dunes and stands of Virginia pine near the bayshore we had not realized just how windy it had become.
We did not appreciate how windy ‘til we walked out past the pines; the 5 mile wide open bay was a storm tossed, white capped tempest. Not where you want to paddle unburdened Prospectors; we had a couple long peninsulas to paddle out and around on the open bay route back, and couldn’t have made headway in that maelstrom if we had unwisely tried.
Fortunately, I’ll call him “McCrea”, knows a sneak route back through the more wind and wave protected marsh. Gotta hand it to that McCrea fellow, he’s a sharp cookie.
Unfortunately McCrea began to exclaim that the sneak route did not resemble his previous experiences; the wind had piled so much water into the marsh that nothing looked familiar. We (he. . . .McCrea) made a few wrong turn route errors.
Even more unfortunate that effing moron McCrea had not taken into consideration that his sneak route necessitated crossing a number of wide guts and channels, fully open to the howling bayside.
Crossing the shortest distance, broadside to the focused and funneled wind and waves in an empty Prospector was not possible. We had to cross diagonally with the wind, and each time we did were pushed still further inland. Think repeatedly swimming “across” a fast moving river.
Topher was paddling a 15’ 6” SP3 Prospector, and managed OK, but Tom and I were in some 17+ footer and that sucker desperately wanted to get sideways and broach. And nearly did a few scary times.
I have had more fun in a canoe; it didn’t help that Tom kept wanting to stop for a bite to eat, and I kept yelling “F#$% FOOD, PADDLE DAMMIT!” But we got to see parts of the inner island never before explored by boat.
Night fell. Tom insisted we stop for a bite to eat. By then we were so far inland that we ran out of water as the wind finally diminished the marsh slowly drained. Dragging heavy RX Prospectors through the marsh in the dark, unsure of exactly where you are is not a recommended activity. I might have simply abandoned the canoes at that point, but they were loaner boats from the different manufacturers.
Well into the night, mud covered and stumbling in exhaustion, we glimpsed a campfire. A campfire oddly a half mile west of our struggles deep in the marsh. It was the rest of the guys back at camp, by now anxious as to our whereabouts. Eventually they heard our plaintive cries and slogged out to help us drag the canoes the last half mile into camp.
It was undoubtedly the most tiring “day paddle” ever, made so by a compounding series of mistakes and bad decisions. Most of them mine.
