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Virginia Solo Life: An Apology
All,
Greetings from Central Virginia's Piedmont. Trust I won’t wear out my welcome with more information than you ever wanted to know about me (and then some), but then...
I hail from a small city just east of the Blue Ridge Mountains established along the James River circa 1757 called Lynchburg (named after a man, not a verb). We rest along the 37th parallel and feature, among our rich history, mild seasons, and semi-famous Christian College with its late and semi-famous Television Evangelist, year-round enjoyment of some historic and good-natured east coast waterways. Our classic Virginia rivers include, among many others: the James River, which stretches 366 miles across the state from west to east and empties into the Chesapeake Bay; the Shenandoah River, snaking its wandering way up a pastoral valley to empty into the Potomac (yet another classic) at Harper's Ferry; and the New River, which cuts through the southwest portion of our state in a northwesterly direction before carving its verdant way through West Virginia to join the Gauley River at the Kanawha. Some of you older folks—say, any pre-glacial mountain folk still lurking amongst us—may remember this drainage system as the Teays River. And but so while the Commonwealth may not have the wilderness rivers of the North, or the remote and symphonic desert rivers of the West, we nonetheless have our share of wild and scenic places, raucous bolder gardens, jazzy streams tangling with mountain laurel, and the rolling hills and weathered stones of an ancient mountain range. There is also, come autumn, a glorious explosion of color.
So there I live, surveying land and writing apologies and learning to canoe.
I consider myself primarily a practitioner of the art of Canoe Tripping (with a capital T), despite that I as of yet cannot escape for months at a time, that I forego flannel for fleece and linseed oil for Gore-Tex, that I am partial to Watershed drybags and carbon fiber paddles, that I use float bags and nearly always have a helmet in my boat, if not on my head, that my longest canoe trip of 13 days is probably a warm up lap for most of you folks, and that I have yet to explore the wild rivers of the Great North. Perhaps I’m a Canoe Tripper in Training.
—I will here admit that, in order to wangle for myself a more complete understanding of flowing water, I spent ten years paddling a kayak. Try not to hold that against me. I would have injured a lot of canoes learning how to miss (and hit) rocks on our Appalachian Mountain Streams. Plastic kayaks are (sort of) cheap and unbreakable (which may in the end be rather telling and metaphoric). And but so I learned a good deal about moving water from the cockpit of a kayak before returning to the elegance of the canoe, with its triple combination of kneeling power, carry capacity, and nimble dexterity—
My current boat of choice is the as of yet deposed Esquif's rather bland and functional Vertige X (a 14' tandem boat), which I've outfitted solo with the various accoutrements necessary for rocky, east coast brown water, but left open enough to hold the eighty pounds of gear necessary for those longer exploits into the deeper woods and canyons. Her lines are bland but she performs well under reasonable load. The modern hammock—believe it or not—has also in the past few years revolutionized my camp life, as many of our water passages here in the east are narrow, rocky, and wooded with occasional patches of development, and I prefer to keep the camp low down over the water and therefore low down in profile for east coast metropolis trespassing. Many of my favorite local multi-day brown water trips consist of rivers barely over 30 miles long.
I should probably point out that I paddle almost exclusively by myself, partly for the small size of some of our streams, partly to get away from kids and spouse, partly because it is difficult to find paddlers of my persuasion and sensibility, and partly, I suppose, because I prefer to admire people from a distance. As Colin Fletcher likes to say, I must first apologize for my solitudinarianism.
In spite of such childish prejudice and presumption (or maybe because of it), I'm beginning to cast my eyes toward the Great North, in what small ways I can, and the classic rivers and trackless (if not tract-less) acres of solitude it promises. Which has also helped lead me to this forum. I’ve enjoyed, even in the past few days, peering into the experience herein contained. And I’m eager to learn from you all, even if I never wrap my sleeping bag up in linseed oiled canvas, even if I would most likely hurt myself if I carried an ax, even if attempting a roll with a boatful of Duluth packs sounds like suffocating in a pile of wet towels. I’m always, just like the rest of you, on my way out there to where I’d rather be, falling down some fine ribbon of water, between a few hills, under a couple clouds, for as long as possible.
Thanks ahead of time and whatever you do, don’t take me too seriously.
Joe.
All,
Greetings from Central Virginia's Piedmont. Trust I won’t wear out my welcome with more information than you ever wanted to know about me (and then some), but then...
I hail from a small city just east of the Blue Ridge Mountains established along the James River circa 1757 called Lynchburg (named after a man, not a verb). We rest along the 37th parallel and feature, among our rich history, mild seasons, and semi-famous Christian College with its late and semi-famous Television Evangelist, year-round enjoyment of some historic and good-natured east coast waterways. Our classic Virginia rivers include, among many others: the James River, which stretches 366 miles across the state from west to east and empties into the Chesapeake Bay; the Shenandoah River, snaking its wandering way up a pastoral valley to empty into the Potomac (yet another classic) at Harper's Ferry; and the New River, which cuts through the southwest portion of our state in a northwesterly direction before carving its verdant way through West Virginia to join the Gauley River at the Kanawha. Some of you older folks—say, any pre-glacial mountain folk still lurking amongst us—may remember this drainage system as the Teays River. And but so while the Commonwealth may not have the wilderness rivers of the North, or the remote and symphonic desert rivers of the West, we nonetheless have our share of wild and scenic places, raucous bolder gardens, jazzy streams tangling with mountain laurel, and the rolling hills and weathered stones of an ancient mountain range. There is also, come autumn, a glorious explosion of color.
So there I live, surveying land and writing apologies and learning to canoe.
I consider myself primarily a practitioner of the art of Canoe Tripping (with a capital T), despite that I as of yet cannot escape for months at a time, that I forego flannel for fleece and linseed oil for Gore-Tex, that I am partial to Watershed drybags and carbon fiber paddles, that I use float bags and nearly always have a helmet in my boat, if not on my head, that my longest canoe trip of 13 days is probably a warm up lap for most of you folks, and that I have yet to explore the wild rivers of the Great North. Perhaps I’m a Canoe Tripper in Training.
—I will here admit that, in order to wangle for myself a more complete understanding of flowing water, I spent ten years paddling a kayak. Try not to hold that against me. I would have injured a lot of canoes learning how to miss (and hit) rocks on our Appalachian Mountain Streams. Plastic kayaks are (sort of) cheap and unbreakable (which may in the end be rather telling and metaphoric). And but so I learned a good deal about moving water from the cockpit of a kayak before returning to the elegance of the canoe, with its triple combination of kneeling power, carry capacity, and nimble dexterity—
My current boat of choice is the as of yet deposed Esquif's rather bland and functional Vertige X (a 14' tandem boat), which I've outfitted solo with the various accoutrements necessary for rocky, east coast brown water, but left open enough to hold the eighty pounds of gear necessary for those longer exploits into the deeper woods and canyons. Her lines are bland but she performs well under reasonable load. The modern hammock—believe it or not—has also in the past few years revolutionized my camp life, as many of our water passages here in the east are narrow, rocky, and wooded with occasional patches of development, and I prefer to keep the camp low down over the water and therefore low down in profile for east coast metropolis trespassing. Many of my favorite local multi-day brown water trips consist of rivers barely over 30 miles long.
I should probably point out that I paddle almost exclusively by myself, partly for the small size of some of our streams, partly to get away from kids and spouse, partly because it is difficult to find paddlers of my persuasion and sensibility, and partly, I suppose, because I prefer to admire people from a distance. As Colin Fletcher likes to say, I must first apologize for my solitudinarianism.
In spite of such childish prejudice and presumption (or maybe because of it), I'm beginning to cast my eyes toward the Great North, in what small ways I can, and the classic rivers and trackless (if not tract-less) acres of solitude it promises. Which has also helped lead me to this forum. I’ve enjoyed, even in the past few days, peering into the experience herein contained. And I’m eager to learn from you all, even if I never wrap my sleeping bag up in linseed oiled canvas, even if I would most likely hurt myself if I carried an ax, even if attempting a roll with a boatful of Duluth packs sounds like suffocating in a pile of wet towels. I’m always, just like the rest of you, on my way out there to where I’d rather be, falling down some fine ribbon of water, between a few hills, under a couple clouds, for as long as possible.
Thanks ahead of time and whatever you do, don’t take me too seriously.
Joe.
