(Forgive me: I'm sitting at work on a snow day on a rather boring project, so this is likely to get long-winded.) But this is a great discussion that I've thoroughly enjoyed and of course I've found myself considering my paddle with a much more refined, focused and conscious effort in the last week. I even WARILY borrowed a friend's wooden stick for an overnighter last weekend, but it was far too heavy and cumbersome for me to care much for it and I don't put a borrowed paddle through its paces. I'm probably hard on paddles.
Being brought up on VA creeks as a kayaker, my philosophical relationship with the paddle has always been one of benign neglect. For one thing, I'm probably going to lose it, leave it at the take out, break it, or shove it into my neck. (Come to think of it, these may be personal problems.) For another thing, the ultimate goal of the relationship with my boat--which is by far a more important relationship--is to dispense of the paddle altogether. My boat and I are always sort of conspiring to leave the paddle behind. (If we lean on the stick in the water we might call it a crutch, which, metaphorically, is that temporary tool used by people with broken legs.) And but so not to get nutty spiritual or BobFoot-ish here, but if I were in perfect harmonious marriage with my boat and the currents I would not need a paddle. I would be married to the water and with every lean, hands sweeping the water where necessary, I would swim with my boat in a sort of gravitational symbiosis without the interference of some third-wheel paddle that often, in heavy rapids anyway, seems to get in the way.
Alas! I sit too high in my canoe for much enjoyable hand paddling. Much more likely to achieve this symbiosis in a form-fitting glass kayak.
Nonetheless I have dutifully brought this attitude and philosophy to the canoe.
So that after I graduated from the classic aluminum Mohawk--the "off the shelf extrusions chosen for economies of production," as John Winters writes in the excellent essay shared by Peach (I can't help but think of the Complete Wilderness Paddler here, with the "Peach" reference)--which I could pick up for $30 and, like any good American, immediately break or lose just as easily, I found myself, after breaking and replacing a BORROWED Bending Branches paddle, with the equally classic carbon fiber Werner scooped 8x19.5" blade (probably developed after John Winters performed his series of tank tests [see above essay]). This paddle, I thought, will not break. (As an aside, I never much cared for Werner kayak paddles, preferring instead Adventure Technology's AT2 & 4 carbon series--incredible sort of transparent-lighter-than-air kayak paddles--the cost of which I have vowed never to incur again. Fortunately for me, AT does NOT make canoe paddles.) So that in the end, I keep a fairly cheap Aqua Bound carbon fiber Bungee-Dealy-Bobbed to my bow bag for when I inevitably lose my 54" LOA (34.5 shaft length, 125 sq. in. surface area) Werner Carbon Bandit that I'm currently holding in my hands. And frankly, I don’t have much of a relationship with them. Like my wonderful marriage of 25 years: they are adequate. Not perfect. Not ecstatic. But adequate.
Unfortunately, I paid a visit last week to our local boat shop here in Farmville (
www.paddleva.com) and decided, against my better judgment, to pick up and investigate a Bending Branches Sunburst (some sort of Alder blade and contoured palm grip with a carbon shaft and by far the lightest paddle I have ever held, Brian sort of stood there smiling with these wide eyes thinking: gotcha) and I could begin to see why so many tend to prefer the feel of wood. After a few years of handling the off-the-shelf T-grip, that was a perfectly contoured grip. And warm. And almost supple like Play-dough. And I began to imagine my boat sort of liking this paddle.
I hung it back up quickly before it jumped into my Jeep.
I have also found that, despite a fairly close measurement between shoulder and water, there are times when I imagine my paddle shaft is too long. Much longer and I could probably reach out and haul myself up the canyon walls! In heavy rapids I sort of find myself hyper-instinctively pulling my paddle inside, closer to the hull, afraid of what it might do to my delicate balancing act stuck out there like a crutch in the screaming maelstrom, with all sorts of hands pulling at it from every which way and me leaning more and more heavily and my balancing act coming off-balance and before you know it I'm unglued and probably tumbling downhill out of control. Such that I can understand whitewater paddlers using shorter LOA's. I can sort of imagine that. But I'm gathering that 125 sq. inches worth of surface area isn't really that much (I always thought it was billowy like a sail and that Bending Branches Sunburst thing I held in my hands comes in at 99 sq. in.), and I'm starting to wonder if maybe I might experiment with a different blade for the "deeper, more thoughtful water," as Robin writes. Deeper, more thoughtful water could probably use a longer, narrower blade. Maybe. According to what I’ve read here. And then I sort of imagine paddling with all sorts of sticks and blades for all sorts of water and I imagine that's probably why some of you's have walls full of paddles.
Of course I envy those who can craft their own paddles from their wood of choice, and can only imagine the satisfaction of finding that perfect harmony of water behavior and blade shape. That sort of eureka moment. And I envy the wisdom found in these folks who have such walls full of such paddles (or perhaps such paddles full of such walls). I suspect that is the only way to really feel which paddles do what and where. Though I should warn you: I have crafted a few pairs of hand paddles out of five gallon buckets, and despite that they for obvious reasons lack the aesthetic pleasure of the works of art that can be seen in these virtual pages, I imagine that form mostly follows along obediently behind function, such that there must at first be function, and that maybe here in the next thirty or so years I’ll begin to develop some Form. Then, in a moment of philosophical weakness, I imagine that we probably bring to the water one of two types of attitudes: either music must conform to truth, or truth must conform to music.
But I'll go ahead and save that rant for another snow day, before I begin considering my cat Jeoffry.
Unc. S.