The End of Summer

Summer has pretty much wrapped up at this point, I think that realization hit me right about the same time I took an ice-cold wave to the face kayaking this afternoon, but it also could have been the 35-degree gust that dried me off shortly after. The consequence of that realization set in on the drive home from the river, when I stopped thinking about the lines I wanted to run and the feel of the boat underneath me.

We made it through the summer of the COVID. I was fortunate; the only things I lost were my travel plans and some work. I know many dealt with much more challenging circumstances, but the end of this crazy summer is making me realize how much good came mixed into the overwhelming bad around the country and world over the last eight months.

I had to cancel an expedition I had been planning for over a year, but as a result, I spent the summer exploring the Pacific Northwest, one of the coolest places there is! I couldn't work in the Northwest Passage, which allowed me time to play with my niece. My plans to spend time in Costa Rica got axed, and I am sure I avoided some horrible sunburns.

My grand plans would have led to wild stories, and I am disappointed I have lost those opportunities. Alternatively, my lack of projects allowed me the flexibility to form special memories. Which I think are more important than cool stories in the long run. I think people feel a nagging sense that we have to be doing radical things all day, every day. Social media perpetuates that sensation, but I can tell you it is exhausting to be on the road exploring all of the time. After a long trip, I regularly crash for a whole week before feeling physically or mentally prepared to do much of anything. It is probably a better use of our energy to enjoy the simple moments.

One and a half-year-old humans are just about as coordinated as a dizzy sloth. Although, for my niece, a single dirt-covered rock out of a drainage ditch is more thrilling than almost anything. I'm jealous. It's easy to fall victim to the HD screen with speakers and an unlimited amount of content that sits in my pocket most days. Still, when I think about it, I would rather sit on the sidewalk with the cold, slightly damp concrete soaking into my pants, the sound of the wind in the trees, and some dirt under my fingernails from digging for the smoothest stone.

I thought this before.  For some reason, I feel like I am not allowed to just play outside for the sake of playing outside. I need to be kayaking, hiking, shooting photos, or biking. These activities are socially acceptable reasons to be outdoors. I don't know what age it stopped being ok to go outside for no reason. Maybe it was more of a cultural shift, but I suspect I am not the only one who wants some old fashion play. This summer gave me a chance to try that a bit.

The other day, I woke up earlier than I wanted and started spiraling down an outrageous series of news stories about elections, protests, pandemics, and the consequences of our fossil fuel consumption. Though each is very important, not even Atlas could carry the weight of everything happening right now. I decided to give in to the urge to move I get when I am stressed out, excited, or just a bit antsy. At this point, it was about 5:45 in the morning, so tied on my favorite Altra running shoes and went out the door. After the first mile or so of pounding out my frustration, I started to feel lighter. There were still no cars on the roads or people on the trails, and I slowly transitioned from running to a combination of skipping, spins, and slides while singing all the words to "Smooth Criminal" I could remember. I only stopped to watch some deer bipedally stagger around a fenced apple tree to reach the goods. It was way more fun than just running for exercise, but I am sure the few people that saw me thought I was straight-up nuts.

Early in the summer, I was concerned I would not be able to get out kayaking as much as I wanted to while trying to maintain any semblance of social distancing. Kayaking is much more of a team sport than most people imagine. When things are going well, everyone paddles their boat. If not, it's all hands on deck. Consequently, paddling in a group is much safer, and I rarely paddle any noteworthy whitewater by myself.

Unwilling to go full lunatic and play outside without an activity to normalize it, I bought a mountain bike. Biking is not particularly new for me, and I feel safer riding alone than paddling alone. I like how biking challenges me physically and gives me a new set of biomechanics to nerd out about, but my favorite thing is the contrast going up and down. Climbing, I slowly progress with my lungs burning. I feel like time is standing still, and I can think clearly about anything. Mountain bike trails are often built off of logging roads in the northwest, so I regularly think about land management. I am conflicted when I think about lumber. I know it is a vital resource for sheltering people and maintaining our infrastructure. Still, If you have ever walked through the type of old-growth forests that once covered this part of the country, you can only feel sad comparing it to the mess of rotting stumps left behind after the trees reach their economic maturity. That feeling is probably part of what pushed me to live in a tiny home.

Downhill is the exact opposite. Everything is so accelerated; I don't feel the burning in my legs or have time to think. On the good days, it just feels like my body is moving all on its own. This flow state is the most relaxing thing in the world. I don't know the real reason, but I like to think I have shut down my cerebrum, and I am instinctively moving through the forest like a wolf. Sometimes I even howl.

This summer, I lost the chance to learn about myself and explore new parts of the world; however, I am starting to think I learned the same lessons I would have while exploring new trails in my home state.

In a world views class I took during my Master's degree, I learned, among other things, life changes can be the catalyst for new lines of thinking. I had hoped a 90-day expedition would be that catalyst, but as it turned out, COVID-19 came to be one of the most significant changes in my life over the past decade. It has certainly changed how I think and what I value.

On a more global scale, I hope this summer of hardship allows our country and world to reevaluate our culture, policies, and priorities moving forward. As an instructor, I find natural consequences are a far better teacher than me. I can tell a student to put on a rain jacket, but three days of wet clothes will make sure they stay dry in the next storm. Likewise, I think the coronavirus might be a kick in the butt we all needed to see just how flawed our healthcare system is and just how broken our politics are. To see just how much fresh air can benefit our physical and mental health and how human actions can negatively affect the global system. I hope we are all able to find some good that came out of this summer. We have undoubtedly all sacrificed this summer. However, we are left with an opportunity to pivot in a direction for a better future.

Let's start by getting that creepy pumpkin out of office. Then we can reach out to the thousands of people unemployed to develop new sustainable jobs that value social and environmental justice over power and greed. Then, maybe we can all go play outside.

From Qajaq to Kayak

A J.E.C. Rasmussen painting Displayed at the Nuuk Art Museum

Lately, race relations have been front stage in the United States. For the most part, I try to listen and reflect on my role. As part of that reflection, I wrote this a while back, and I thought I would share

Racism comes with all kinds of baggage, and I think addressing it is crucial in our path toward a new, better world. In my experience, culture and race are often connected, if only in the form or heritage. With that, cultural appropriation can be used to demean a group of people. I also think celebrating culture is a powerful way to raise up groups of people. I hope writing this article can help to briefly highlight the evolution of kayaking, and the cultures kayaking came from.

I definitely agree that many examples of cultural appropriation are offensive. I also acknowledge that humans have different cultures because culture continually evolves. I do not come from an underprivileged demographic. Still, I believe respectfully embracing traditions and culture can be a technique to bring people together.

Kayaking is not often considered cultural appropriation, but it is a tradition adopted from another culture, so by definition, it is. With that in mind, I want to acknowledge I have adopted kayaking into who I am, and pay respects to the culture it was taken from.

Kayak is a word from indigenous arctic people, primarily in the North American arctic. These communities are widely known as Inuit, though, different regions referred to themselves differently. Some of these names include Kalaallit, Tunumiit, and Inughuit. Kalaallisut, of the Kalaallit, is still commonly spoken by the small population of Greenland (around 58,000). The languages originally did not have a written form, so it can be spelled in many ways. Before "kayak" became the standard spelling, "kyak," "kayack," "caiack," or "kaiak" were all options. In Greenland kayak is still spelled qajaq.

A J.E.C. Rasmussen painting Displayed at the Nuuk Art Museum

Traditionally qajaq would be a single kayak, while qaannat would be plural. However, the differentiation did not bridge the gap into English. Today, qajaq is only used to describe a true Greenlandic kayak. Qajariaq, meaning "like a kayak," would describe the plastic and composite boats commonly paddled. The word kayak directly translates to “hunter's boat.” Interestingly, in Greenland, I learned kayaks were not thought of as boats but more a prosthetic extension of self. A kayak would be built to fit a hunter based on ratios between their body and the boat. Each community developed unique designs for their kayaks based on the conditions where they paddled.

Skin-on-frame Kayaks Outfitted for a Hunt at the Nuuk Art Museum

Resources in the Arctic are limited even now, but the main materials available came from the sea as driftwood originating in Siberia and the creatures. Greenlandic people moved with the seasons, following food sources. In the summer, they traveled to hunting villages with the entire community in kayaks and uminaks. An uminak is a large open top boat that directly translates to "family boat." Like kayaks, they were constructed with skin, wood, and bone.

Uminak Frame Displayed in the Nuuk Art Museum

Young men had to earn the right to paddle a kayak—part of the process involved learning to roll on ropes. Kayakers were stitched into their kayak, so if they could not roll, they would be forced to cut themselves out of the kayak, and risk hypothermia and drowning. The rolls in the boats were developed to respond to different positions one might be flipped into while hunting. These skills are primarily used for rolling competition now, but the rolls are all transferred from skills that could save a hunter's life.

Kayak Rolling Demonstration in Sisimiut, Greenland

During the seal hunt, the kayakers would position themselves down wind of the seal and paddle toward the seal in a straight line so the animal could not smell them coming. A weathercocking kayak was actually beneficial in these hunts, as it allowed them to paddle harder while steering less. (There was no rudder.) A norsaq was then used to hurl a harpoon into the prey. Depending on the animal, different tips were used.

Harpoon Throw Drawing from Harvey Golden's Kayaks of Greenland

As Europeans began trading with these arctic communities, much of their culture was lost and intentionally erased. Some hunters still used kayaks, but many used rifles rather than harpoons. In this time, kayaking became much less common.

 The decline in seal and whale hunting as major resources pushed kayaking to be more recreational. Somewhere along the way, kayaks continued to evolve from seal skin to canvas in Greenland. Other places in the world kayak were being noticed for their elegance and functionality.

 Like the arctic communities' kayaks, the new generations of kayakers adapted the designs for the conditions they would be paddled in. Like the original kayaks, designs were limited by the construction materials available and technology. Wood boats were easier to make and more durable than the skin on frame. When fiberglass became more available to designers, that became more common. Fiberglass can be molded into complex shapes and are light weight and strong. Kayaks were being paddled in different bodies of water, but it wasn't until plastics became more common that river boating took off. Rotomolding allows a boat to be significantly more durable when bouncing around on rocks.

Eddy Turn in Deception Pass on an Eight Knot Flood

As human technology has evolved, so have the designs of the kayak. We now have incredibly advanced materials that allow us to paddle waters in places that would have been historically unthinkable.

I will always love how my plastic kayaks bounce off of boulders unphased, the speed and rigidity of my fiberglass boats, and how each construction thrives in different environments. However, the day I had the chance to paddle a handmade skin on frame kayak in Greenland will always be a special memory. That is where it all started.

Harvey Golden wrote fantastic books about the history of kayaking and the designs of the boats. I encourage everyone interested to learn more from him.

I believe the paddlesports industry generally takes pride in the history of human-powered crafts. For example, the original Anas Acuta, a classic fiberglass kayak, was a nearly identical replica of a skin on frame kayak built in Greenland in the late 50s. Likewise, Gearlab reimagined the Greenland style paddle into a modern carbon fiber construction but kept many of Greenland paddles' design features. Most notably mirroring their length recommendations to those of a traditional green stick.

Other companies like Kokatat make drastically different products than the historical equivalent. Goretex and latex make far more reliable immersion wear than skins with blubber. However, every product is proudly stamped with Kokatat, a word coming from the language of the Klamath Tribe, meaning "into the water." The Klamath people used dugout canoes as transportation, collecting supplies, fishing, and gathering food around the lakes and rivers around northern California and southern Oregon. The Klamath were, and still are a people dedicated to nature and water, a trait shared by many Kokatat employees and customers.

I will probably never use any of my kayaks to harpoon anything. Still, I think it is ok for relics of the past to continue to evolve while still respecting the cultural history. Apply these thoughts to life, politics, or social justice any way you choose, however, I am hopeful readers will be inspired to bring together a more diverse paddling community while respecting the past. At the end of the day, I paddle kayaks, but I hope to honor the legacy of the qajaq and the culture it came from every time I do.

Earth Day 2020

Today is Earth day! It is not one of the more popular holidays. We do not get the day off or send specialty gift cards, but It has become a meaningful day for me. I use it as a chance to reflect back on some of the striking moments I spent outside in the last year and my relationship with nature. This year I am in Sammamish, it is raining, and there is a global pandemic. My plans, like everyone’s, have changed as a result. I have already canceled my plans for trips, courses, a wedding, work, and, most recently, my three-month expedition in Iceland. I am disappointed. However, looking back on the previous year, some of my favorite moments did not take 2 years to plan, or even 2 minutes.

For this reason, I am optimistic about the coming year. I don’t know when I will be able to work again or what I will be doing. Still, I also know at this point, everything is so unpredictable, planning anything is senseless. I can take this time to live in the moment and take advantage of the new free time. Unfortunately, so far, the most productive thing I have done is rebuilding a burned-out Xbox 360 and beating Assassin’s Creed 4, leaving me with dreams of piracy and parkour. I am working on avoiding instant gratification and focus on more of my long term goals.

My first goal is to spend more time on my writing and photography, so here we go…

Some significant events happened in the last 12 months, primarily being my completion of a Master’s degree, where I looked into the effects of Antarctic tourism on the visitors. To write my 83-page thesis about human connection to Antarctica, I had to think about my own connection almost nonstop. I am thrilled by the research showing time outside helps with tons of health concerns while also instilling a motivation to protect the environment. I am also frustrated to tears that so many people exploit nature, and the places I love pursuing a materialistic definition of success at the expense of the generations to come. What’s worse, the United States, specifically the politicians lobbying for extractive industries to have lower environmental standards, are holding back the rest of the world from making a better future. I am proud to come from a country that was founded on innovation. First, with the belief, we could govern ourselves, then technologically. I wish we could collectively go back to the mindset of pushing forward and innovating to meet future challenges.

The weight of global climate issues can only be held by working together. Still, we are all divided because we are too busy telling each other how to live to see it doesn’t matter. I like to hope people are trying to make their world a better place. I also recognize some people are willing to step on anyone they need to to get what they want. This is evident in the current pandemic. Thousands of people are working hard despite their low wages and chances of becoming ill to help those around them. At the same time, some try to capitalize on medical needs by price-gouging essential goods. Like the health care workers fighting COVID-19, we need to trust climate scientists have our best interests at heart and embrace the changes they are advocating. Or accept the rest of the world is going to move on, and the U.S. will just be the next Empire to crumble.

The sense of doom that often accompanies environmental science is not my favorite. So now that that is out of the way, some more exciting things.

Over the years, being outside started to feel like work, so this year I worked hard to go on personal trips and spend time doing things outside that I love. I made an effort to get out in my sea kayaks and my whitewater kayaks. I coached at some super fun events. I lead elementary and middle school kids on the water and took a handful of people camping for the first time ever. I showed people why I love Antarctica. I made new friends, and I strengthened old friendships. Over the summer, I helped launch the first-ever hybrid expedition cruise ship, with Hurtigruten, which will hopefully lead the way into a more sustainable future for tourism. I wrestled blackberry bushes. I paddled the hardest whitewater I have ever been in. I planned an expedition rad enough to be sponsored, and so well, it took a global pandemic to stop me. Most importantly, I rekindled my passion for, and relationship with nature.

Being outside continually teaches me to be a better, stronger, and more caring person. I have learned from the hardship of the weather to endure when I need to and find shelter when I can’t. I learned to slow down and enjoy the moment when it is nice. I have learned to help the people I can because it is more fun when everyone is safe and cheerful. And I was reminded once again, Earth is a beautiful place to live when we don’t fuck it up.

So, this Earth Day, I hope you take the time to think about this fantastic blue planet we live on, all the things it has taught you, and how you plan to get out this year and connect with the only home we have.

MS Roald Amundsen’s trial landing in Norway