canoelover's blog

The last blog post (here anyway)

2010-01-13T21:36:00.002-06:00

So I've done it...

http://www.canoelover.com

This will allow me more flexibility in posting stuff, and eventually it will be nicer looking.

To quote Johnny Cash, "Look for me no more..."

Or was it Jacob Marley. Or Hamlet's father's ghost.

Anyway, check out my other blog now. Nothing to see here. Move along now...

Respectfully submitted, as usual,

Canoelover

The Ice Chisel

2010-01-01T14:50:00.007-06:00

I have a friend named Bear. Actually, I have two friends named Bear. I imagine I am in a small population, having two outdoor-loving brothers with an ursine appellation.

One of my Bear friends lives up in Minneapolis, the other in the Ozarks. Both are paddlers. The Minneapolis Bear (M.B) likes winter trips to places like the Boundary Waters, where getting water in the winter is a matter of some work. You can take an auger but ice chisels are faster and unlikely to break. When given a choice, always take the simpler tool.

A few months ago M.B. asked me to make him an ice chisel. He didn't want a wimpy sort of store-bought ice chisel. The ice is thick in the BWCA, and a wimpy chisel just makes you tired and grumpy. He wanted a chisel with some heft. I agreed to make one, it was an experiment of sorts, but would be relatively easy. The trick was to find a cutting edge that would hold up.

I needed a piece of spring steel, so I stopped in at Madison Spring, a heavy-duty user of spring steel. They're the ones who put leaf springs in cement trucks. I was going to buy a piece of steel but I just asked them for a little piece so I could put an edge on an ice chisel. He didn't say anything, he just sauntered to the back of the office and went out into the shop. A few minutes later he returned with a piece of spring, tossed it onto the metal topped counter and said "Here ya go. Merry Christmas." Despite his holiday greeting, he never cracked a smile. Not even a slight lift of one corner of his mouth.

After cutting the spring steel to the proper width, I got out a big chunk of the mild stuff and started forging it into the proper dimensions (it was a little too wide and I wanted it to be a little bit thicker). It's fun to work with big stuff because it stays hot a long time, so your arm doesn't have a chance to rest. My hammer arm has weakened significantly, since I don't work big stuff as often these days. A 1000g hammer can give you a workout.

I had to grind two bevels in both the spring and the mild steel so the weld would sit down in the notch and really tie things together. The mild steel makes long sparks...the spring looks like sparklers...it's really pretty.

"Luke, I am your father."

I am not a skilled welder. I don't suck, and my welds hold things together, but I am not one of those people who make bike frames, their perfect little semi-circles mocking my ham-fisted attempts. This would be a fun one to weld--big things. I turned the welder up to 11.

I should have turned it up to 10.5. It was a little too hot, as you can see by the dishing at the end of the weld. No matter, another weld covers it. Then the grinding and forging begins. I really wanted a seamless transition between spring and mild steels, and I got pretty dang close.

Here's the semi-final product, before tempering, buffing, and rubbing down with paste wax.

The only problem is that M.B. has already left on his trip, and I am a dope for not finishing this last week. Then again, I work in retail. This is not our slowest time of year, so I have that excuse. I look forward to a report on how well it worked.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Paddles and Hammers

2009-12-27T17:30:00.017-06:00

My garage has a certain ungarageness to it. We haven't parked a car in it for over seven years. Half of the garage is a boathouse, the other half is a blacksmith's smithy.

I've been blacksmithing for about a decade now, and it is now as much a part of my life as paddling. I certainly can't be faulted for not getting my recommended daily allowance of iron. I've thought a lot about why I am drawn to elemental activities; combinations of air, fire, water, and earth. Water is easy to explain. Fire, air and earth all combine to create a rich experience when I light up the forge.

Needless to say, plastic never did that much for me.

Blacksmithing and canoeing have a lot of similarities. They are inherently simple activities with subtleties that can take years to master. With all the jigs and tools I use in forging, my hammers are my most valuable tools, with personalities and quirks all their own. The hammer is the most important tool in working with iron.

I own approximately two dozen canoe paddles. I just counted sixteen in the garage, physically verified by touching the top grip of each one as I moved down my rack. There are two hanging on the wall in my living room: functional paddles I choose not to use because of their historical or sentimental value. I'm sure that there are another half-dozen in my office, stashed behind the comfy chair in my office. Then there are few floating around out there...loaned to friends or temporarily forgotten in the back of the car.

The paddle, I believe, is as important to one's paddling experience as the canoe. Like a hammer to a blacksmith or a fly rod to an angler, it's your primary tool to connect. It doesn't matter how nice the canoe might be; if the paddle is garbage, your experience will reflect your choice. A bad hammer is worthless, except if you want to beat it into a really bad tomahawk for a neighbor kid. For the record, the kid told his mom and she was cool with it.

So when non-paddlers see my rack of paddles, they always ask the same question: "Why do you need so many paddles?" My response is always the same: "Why do you need so many shoes?" You wouldn't go hiking in ballet slippers, and you probably wouldn't run in hiking boots or dance in Bean boots. They all have their function, and so do my paddles.

I love my traditional paddles. They're mostly cherry, a Canadian bias: they use cherry up north, we Yankees lean towards ash. Not that I don't have ash traditionals, I have a few, plus a quilted maple, a birdseye maple, and a sassafras. They all are frequently used, and the ones I use the most are on their third of fourth coat of spar varnish. Their handles are polished smooth, not varnished but oiled, and my hand did the polishing over countless miles. When the water is deep, I lean toward traditionals.

I love my bent-shaft carbon paddles. At 13 ounces, they're almost too light (as if anything could be) and their stiffness transmits power to the water like a Porsche transmission. Their blades slice quietly into the water and emerge with barely a sound. My cadence is high and the canoe accelerates quickly. It's wonderful to race with a couple of light bent-shaft paddles.

I love my whitewater paddles. They're beefy, almost clumsy-looking, and when hung on the rack with the other paddles, they look like a bulldogs in a kennel of greyhounds. But like a bulldog, they're built for strength, not speed. Layers of fiberglass over thick wood blades inspire confidence, and you need not fear breaking one as you race down (or in this case, up) a Class II or III rapid. They sometimes seem to enjoy the carnage.

There's my Black Widow, which was the fruit of a collaboration between Rutabaga and Bending Branches. It's my favorite straight-shaft paddle you can buy off the shelf. It's perfect for an all-around paddle, even if I do say so myself (I designed the grip).

The list could go on, but there's no need.

Then there's the collection of paddles I've rescued from the edge of death, paddles that were destined for the dumpster. What a spokeshave, sandpaper, varnish and epoxy can do is almost miraculous. My kids' first paddles were such rescues. Starting with a big paddle with a split blade and work it down to the good wood will guarantee a fine kid's paddle that'll outlast two or three kids. I've passed along dozens of these rescues to friends and family, and it's fun to make something from what could have rotted in a landfill.

I'm sure some of you have your special paddles and feel a special connection to them. It might seem strange to folks who don't paddle, but if you have one (or twenty) special paddles, allow me to most emphatically validate your feelings of affection. It's a canoe thing. If you get it, there's no need to explain. If you don't, no amount of explanation is sufficient.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Still alive...

2009-12-26T14:54:00.001-06:00

....just nothing new to say.

So I ain't saying it.

More when I have more to say,

Canoelover

The All-Seeing Eye

2009-12-13T16:06:00.008-06:00

The U.W. Arboretum is a real treat for those of us living here. It's specially wonderful when we get a ton of snow. Or 18 inches. That's fine too.

Walking through the woods tends to slow me down, especially on 'shoes. Skis tend to keep me moving to0 fast to really notice things like the All-Seeing Eye on a beech tree.

The Masons have infiltrated even the trees. Coincidence? I think not.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Sally

2009-12-09T22:47:00.002-06:00

This happened fifteen years ago. I wanted to capture it before I forgot. As I wrote it I remembered a lot of the detail that I had lost. - DB

"Excuse me, are you open?"

A woman looked up from her black and white TV, looked at us with a mixture of surprise and bewilderment. She didn't speak. I spoke again.

"You're open, right?"

She stood and smoothed her apron and managed to produce what could be considered a smile. "Yes, we're open." She indicated a table, and four of us sat down. The restaurant was empty.

She turned the TV down and walked over with four menus.

"Slow night tonight?"

"This is my last night here," she said without any hint of emotion, as if she were telling me my shoe was untied.

I was slow. "Where are you moving?"

"I'm not. I'm closing my restaurant."

I was slower still. "Why?"

"The rent is high...prices are...not too many customers..." Her voice trailed off, and I understood. I felt embarrassed, and should have kept my mouth shut.

"I give you a few minutes to look at the menu, okay?" She didn't wait for an answer and walked to the kitchen to busy herself with something so she wouldn't be around us.

I stared at my companions. They stared at me. No one said anything as we skimmed the menus, all of us distracted and a little stunned by the cold fact that we were going to be her last customers.

After a few minutes she came back. "Do you know what you want?"

"Give us a few more minutes, please."

I fidgeted for a minute. "I'm sorry, I can't just sit here. Be right back."

I didn't go to the rest room, I stuck my head in the kitchen. "I know what we want. We want you to cook for us. Whatever you want to cook. Whatever you have in the refrigerator. We want that."

She stared at me. "But what do you want?" The concept was a strange one to her, but I insisted. "Whatever you want to cook, you cook. Your favorite things."

"Okay," she said. "You like seafood?"

"Ma'am, I'll eat almost anything."

She smiled. "Okay."

I sat down with my friends. "She's cooking whatever she wants to, and we're going to eat it."

We sat there for a few more minutes. Small talk failed. You can't chat about trivial things at a funeral, and we were unintentional mourners.

I got up again. "Sorry, I can't sit here." Again.

I stuck my head in the kitchen. "Ma'am?"

She turned and looked at me, not exactly surprised, but certainly curious, her eyebrows arched and eyes fixed on me. I believe she thought I was crazy.

The words came out. "Can I cook with you?"

"What?"

"Can I cook with you? I'm bored." What I didn't add was that I didn't want her to be alone in the kitchen while she cooked her last meal. This was to be a wake, not a funeral.

She sized me up. "You want to cook."

"Yes, please."

"You know how to cook? Thai men they don't cook."

"I know a little, but I'd like to learn how you cook."

She stared again. Then she decided and started ordering me around like a drill sergeant.

"Okay, you wash your hands. There's an apron behind the door."

I did as I was told.

"Hi, my name is Darren."

"My name is Sally."

"Thank you, Sally."

She shrugged. She was chopping cabbage and heating up a large, non-stick skillet. No wok. The kitchen was small and clean and cozy with two cooks, especially when one is twice the size of the other. Sally was short and the counters were low.

"You like seafood, right?"

"Yes, I do."

"Good, there is a bag of scallops in the fridge. Do you know what scallops look like?

"Yes."

"They are in a clear container. Bring them here."

She was already putting some curry paste of some sort in the big skillet. "Watch this. When a ring shows up around the outside of the paste, you add the scallops. Don't let it get too hot." She kept her steady chopping of vegetables: cabbage, eggplant, peppers, onions.

Sally warmed up as we cooked together. I learned her husband was from Ogden, Utah, and she had five children, most of them out of the house, that her husband was a machinist who worked the graveyard shift.

"Does your husband cook?"

Sally laughed for the first time. "Men do not cook in my family. In Thailand no men cook at all. Cooking is for women."

"No men cook?"

She smiled again. "Not in my family."

Sally tossed some garlic and onion into another skillet, added some vegetables and after a few seconds, asked me to pour the scallop mixture into that pan. She stirred the scallops and poured it onto a platter. "Take it out. You should eat some."

I took it out and dropped it at the table. My companions looked at me in my apron, and there were several lame jokes about being promoted, missing my true calling, getting in touch with my inner Thai. Sally yelled at me from the kitchen "Don't forget rice! In the cooker!" I dished up a big bowl of rice. It wasn't going to waste.

I popped a rice ball in my mouth, grabbed a spoonful of scallops and trotted back to the kitchen. "What's next?"

Sally smiled and almost laughed. "You go sit down and eat! They leave you nothing."

"It's okay, I'm having fun. What now?"

"Noodles." Sally was already working on the next dish I recognized as Pad Thai. I said so.

She laughed, and it was a beautiful laugh, almost a cackle. We were having fun now.

I don't remember what else we cooked, or what we talked about, but I do remember Sally becoming comfortable enough to tease me about my height, my cooking, my stupid jokes, my curiosity. I teased her about her height, her knife that was as big as she was, her inability to see over the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room.

As I brought dish after dish, my companions craned their necks to see what was going on in the kitchen. We were laughing and chatting; they were eating, graciously saving me a little bit of each dish.

As we wound up the cooking lesson, Sally shooed me out of the kitchen. Apparently cleaning up was a one-person job. I ate my meal as Sally washed dishes. "How is the food?"

"Really good, Sally."

"If it taste bad it's your fault," she teased in a sing-song voice from behind the counter. I could see the top of her head and her eyes. They were smiling.

She finally came out and wiped her hands on her apron and sat in front of the TV again, watching some inane show, maintaining her distance as we finished our meal. Then she brought us the bill, and silently walked back to the kitchen.

The bill was for $48.00. For four people, including drinks and at least five large dishes that would have been double that had we been downtown. No one spoke as the twenties were slipped quietly out of wallets. $100 on the table, next to the bill. No one wanted change, least of all me.

As we shuffled in our seats to slide out and put on coats, she rose to take the bill and stopped at the sight of the little pile of twenties. "I get you change."

"No, that's your tip."

"No, that too much!"

"No, it's not. $50 for food, $10 for tip, and $40 for the cooking lesson."

Sally took the bill and quickly turned away toward the cash register. We fussed with our jackets and she went back to the TV, her distraction from the pain that in an hour, she would close and lock the doors forever.

I walked over to Sally, reached down and took one of her hands, and she looked up at me. Her face was beautiful.

"Thank you, Sally. I had a lot of fun tonight, and I think I learned something."

She smiled at me, patted my hand with her other and I suppressed the urge to pull her to her feet and embrace her, my new friend. Instead, I dropped her hand and walked back toward the door to join my companions. She called out to me as I stepped over the threshhold.

"You be sure to try Thai cooking at home, okay?"

The grand opening of a restaurant is a noisy affair, accompanied by fanfare, advertising, and snooty food critics noticing something bad about at least one thing so as to maintain their status as critics. The tablecloths are white and the décor is fresh, the menus crisp in their folders. It’s festive, like a baby shower.

The closing of a restaurant is nothing like that. It just…closes. No fanfare, no “going out of business” signs. Who would want to eat at a restaurant that is advertising its failure to feed people? A closing restaurant is like a geriatric patient dying alone in a nursing home. No fanfare, just an ending.

Still, I wouldn't trade my experience with Sally for a hundred grand openings.

I never saw Sally again.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Snowy Shack

2009-12-08T22:06:00.004-06:00

I love my Shack.

But I love my Shack even more when it is covered with snow, the stovepipe belching smoke, the heat of the wood stove penetrating my spine as I sit with my back to the fire, the webbing in my snowshoe rocker letting heat pass through without so much as a by your leave.

I also love run-on sentences.

My old Coleman lamp hisses and gives off a faint tangy odor that, while evocative of youthful camping trips, still says "Don't get too used to this smell." With a window cracked and a door left slightly ajar, I'm more concerned about falling asleep from the peaceful meditative state exacerbated by the smell of pine car siding than I am from carbon monoxide.

Hanging Christmas lights on my Shack (and the Japanese Maple in front of it) started a few years ago, when I realized that I can actually look out my kitchen picture window and see my Shack in all her holiday glory. My house is decorated too, but that is for the neighbors across the street...I can't see them, except for the colors reflected onto the thick quilt of snow tucking the grass in for the winter.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Errata

2009-12-07T19:03:00.003-06:00

I spoke too soon...Spring Valley Lodges is not out of business.

They changed ownership, and some nasty domain squatter grabbed their URL. Squatters. And if we kill them we go to jail. And they call this justice?

Anyway, the tipi looks pretty with snow on it, all buttoned down.

Respectfully submitted,*

Canoelover

*If you're a domain squatter, omit the respectfully. You're a parasite on virtual society, making money on someone else's misfortune. Piss off, lampreys.

Putting Up The Tipi

2009-12-03T19:20:00.004-06:00

So a few years ago Ken, then our Events Director, approached me about purchasing a tipi. He explained that it would be cool to use at events.

"Okay," said I. "How exactly would we use it?"

"Well, it would be a good attraction..."

Yeah, it's a good attraction. Tipis are lovely pieces of architecture. I love tipis. I had, many years ago, a little 12' tipi that lived in my backyard as an office of sorts. I loved the tipi. I loved building fires in it. I loved sleeping in it. We humans like round things.

After a few years thought about this, I think Ken just wanted a really cool tipi. Irrespective of the validity of that sentiment, I'm glad we bought it. We put it up at the Door County Sea Kayak Symposium. We have put it up at Canoecopia. But frankly, it has spent more time in a Rubbermaid bin than is proper.

So we decided to put it up on the back lot. Now the door is on, the liner is in (my battery died), and it looks beautiful.

For reference, an 18' tipi is a pretty big tipi. Remember the whole area of a circle thing? Given a radius of 9', we're talking about 250 square feet. Our first apartment wasn't that big, I don't think. It's a cozy, organic structure and I miss my little one.

Sadly, Spring Valley Lodges appears to be out of business. I may have to go elsewhere for my tipi needs.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Alchemy

2009-11-29T20:32:00.003-06:00

"That's not a knife...this is a knife." - Crocodile Dundee

Today was a Baja Mermaids reunion at the homestead...Stephanie had her friends from the great Baja Mermaids trip of October over for food, drink, and knitting. The house being awash in estrogen, I retired to the Man Cave, the garage. Don't get me wrong, I love these women -- they're amazing -- I just didn't want to rain on their parade.

I made something for Lissa (Chief Mermaid) to hold her collection of opercula, a talisman particularly meaningful to her. Between heats for her little bowl, I torch cut a piece of spring steel, liberated from a dumpster behind a truck stop years ago. I made a little knife blank, and started the heating, pounding, grinding and filing process. I was astounded at the rapidity with which this one came together. Something clicked and the blade was rough-shaped and filed down within an hour.

I had tempered the blade so it was ready for sharpening. I optimistically took a few passes over the edge with a ceramic sharpener. Ten strokes later, it shaved my forearm as neatly as a Bic razor.

There's a certain magic to taking something from a dumpster and making it into something useful. Scientists from the Dark Ages would call it alchemy, the transformation of one element to another. It's all spring steel; now it's just useful, or at least it will be once it has a handle on it.

Now to find a home for it. I need another knife like I need another...another...er, sharp cutting implement.*

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

*I was going to say canoe, but I want to keep my options open, y'know.

The Wisdom of Youth

2009-11-27T12:40:00.001-06:00

It's the day after the day of giving thanks, and I slept in, went to the gym with my daughter and burned a few hundred calories, thereby reducing my deficit but not eliminating it. But it was good, since the bikes have TV so I got to watch Bully Beatdown on MTV2. Since I don't have TV at home, it's a guilty pleasure.

But it's cold and bright and sunny, and we're going to cut a tree today. I highly recommend Cedar Creek Farm, an organic (!) tree farm. No herbicides, and Bruce and Lisa are sweet people.

Once that's done, I am going to migrate to the garage for some metal work.

A few weeks ago I had visitors. Misa and John-Pio, offspring of my friend / brotha from anotha motha Brad. The kids are both a very nice combination of smart and sweet-natured, and Misa nailed it from the second she saw a glowing red chunk of A36 steel heated up to 1500 degrees F.

"It looks like a Lava Glo-Stick."

And so it does, Misa.

Today I think I'll make some more lava glow sticks. I have an idea I want to try -- braiding six strands of 1/4" round stock. If it works I'll be a genius. If it doesn't work, I'll have a few pounds of scrap.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Bingo has left the building...

2009-11-19T18:01:00.002-06:00

Bingo and Gussie, as pups.

After two weeks of rat hospice, Bingo, a.k.a. Rat 3.0, has passed on to the Great Exercise Wheel in the Sky. Ian hand-fed him for two weeks, and I'm sure that had something to do with Bingo refusing to give in...he just kept on living. We were all stunned.

We dug a very nice grave in the backyard, right next to a Silver Maple Tree. We didn't so much dig as chop through roots the size of my forearm. Anyway, Bingo was laid to rest wrapped in a Rutabaga t-shirt with a nice bricked up tomb to keep the critters away.

We all wish Bingo unlimited sunflower seeds, apple pieces, and chocolate chips.

Rest in peace, my little friend.

Canoelover

Whitney comes home Sunday

2009-11-18T19:29:00.005-06:00

I am a fortunate man.

Just sayin'.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

My friend, Cordelia

2009-11-15T20:43:00.009-06:00

"Cat" by Cordelia

Sitting through a challenging sermon can be excruciating. Note I prefer to use the word challenging rather than boring. It's just that sometimes you aren't in the mood to hear someone talk about what someone else wrote about some other person's experiences. For me, the good part about worship is hearing other people talk about how a specific topic affected their lives.

Bad Example: "Here's what some guy who has been dead for 300 years said about forgiveness." Blah blah blah, etc.

Good Example: "I really struggled with forgiving my friend who betrayed my trust, but here's how I did it, and here are some things that might help you."

That doesn't always happen. The good news is that I had my church bag, which contains a set of the scriptures (natch), but also has a note pad, pencils, and a few Dr. Seuss books. You see, if I'm bored, imagine how the three year-old sharing my pew feels about it.

Fortunately, I was sharing a pew with Cordelia and family. Cordelia is one of my favorite people, despite our age differences. She was in the nursery when I was in the nursery as a teacher, and we both like to read and draw. So as the talk progressed, we caught each other's eye. I was already drawing, so she sneaked around her mom and plopped down next to me.

Her brother suggested I draw a cow. Cordelia nodded. So I produced this Cow/Dachshund cross with a three-teated mutant udder all jacked up on espresso.

"Dachshundmilchkine mit Espresso" by Canoelover

Cordelia was impressed, which is why I love little kids. They're easily impressed. Her brother, of course, noticed that the three-teater wasn't going to fly, but I told him that one was hiding behind one of the others. He didn't believe me, but I was the better entertainment option.

Cordelia mimed for me to give her the notepad (she is a quiet, respectful and reverent child). She worked on the creature below for quite some time, wanting to get the hair just right. Which is ironic. Since it's supposed to be me. And a cow.

Inside she wrote a cryptic message. Her brother translated it for me. "It says 'I love you.'" Cordelia looked at me and smiled.

Okay, so the neck is too long and she gave me a toupée worthy of Robert Goulet. But in my Spongebob Squarepants body Cordelia left me a sweet message.

"I lof u" by Cordelia.

I lof Cordelia too.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Happy Friday the Thirteenth

2009-11-13T09:04:00.005-06:00

Canoelover, April 13, 1963. Note the drool.

Once every 212.35 days, we have a Friday the Thirteenth.

This means I have lived through and survived approximately 75 or so Friday the Thirteenths.

The most important one, however, was the first one. I was born on April 13, 1962. Problem is I was supposed to be born sometime in June. As a result of arriving on stage before my cue, I weighed a whopping three pounds, six ounces. This was well over 40 years ago, when anything under five was considered a fairly hopeless cause.

The odds the doctor gave my parents were as follows:

1) He has about a 25% chance of living 24 hours.

2) If he lives 24 hours, he has about a 50% chance of living a week.

3) If he lives a week, he'll probably keep living.

4) He'll have lung problems his whole life and might be blind.

I beat the odds. Never had a lung problem, and had 20/10 vision until my middle-aged eyes started their obstinate, quiet march toward reader glasses. I now weigh over 200 pounds (probably could stand to lose ten).

I've had my share of challenges in the past 47 years, 7 months. Apparently none of them have registered as anything but pale in comparison to the first one...just surviving a week. If I can survive that one, chances are I can survive this one too.

As Hans Solo said to C-3PO in the first Star Wars, "Never tell me the odds."

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Missing

2009-11-11T21:36:00.007-06:00

Missing from canoelover's possession:

One (1) iPod. No Red Hot Chili Peppers.

One (1) Olympus digital camera. More scratched up than this one.

One (1) brain. Responds to...well...not sure about what it responds to.

These items are not lost, per se. I just don't know where they are.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover, sans cerveau

Rails to Trails

2009-11-10T22:09:00.005-06:00

Wife 1.1 celebrated her 45th birthday last Saturday. I gotta say she looks pretty dang good for 35. As a gift to her, Wisconsin gave her a 67 degree day, sunny with a few puffy clouds just for accent.

May I offer you a reminder, gentle reader, than just a few weeks ago, we froze our collective heinies off. Snow and wind. Hoarfrost on every conceivable surface.

Weather vagaries such as this are what make Wisconsin, for me anyway, a special place. Just as you can know no bitter without tasting the sweet, one cannot really appreciate a perfect day without experience a fair number of imperfect ones. Enough of the sermon already.

Wife 1.1 wanted to be outside on her birthday. This is because:

She's SuperWife 1.1, outdoor goddess and companion.
Normally her birthday is celebrated watching it rain, the outside temperature hovering around 34 to 35 degrees, with the full knowledge that if it were just a few degrees colder, we've have a really good snow pack to get things going. Instead, it all goes down the storm drain.

But this year...this year the weather was perfect. If I were a pretentious English major who believed the world revolved around Robert Browning, I'd write about the gentle zephyrs that caressed the trees and carried the song of the lark through the wooded glade, where it mingled with the melodious song of the brooklet. Thankfully for both of us, I'm not.

We decided to try a new Rails to Trails bike path, the Glacial Drumlin Trail. I will not explain what a drumlin is, that's what Wikipedia is for. But it is a lovely trail starting just east of Madison and going almost all the way to Milwaukee. For no discernible reason we usually head south or west, but Wife 1.1 wanted something new. The Glacial Drumlin it was.

It's really nice. More open and sunny than some of the other paths we frequent, it was the perfect path for one of the last days of the year where biking could happen in shorts and a light wool jersey. Soon the studded tires come out. I hate that part.

Happy Birthday, Wife 1.1. May we have another 45 together. Actuarially the odds are against that, but stranger things have and will continue to happen.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Bungling along...

2009-11-09T07:47:00.005-06:00

"Ignorance and bungling with love are better
than wisdom and skill without." -Thoreau

Thoreau has always intrigued me, and at the same time I often feel H.D. is a tremendous buzzkill. He always finds the beauty in nature and the foolishness in humanity.

I think this rather idealistic. I have found both beauty in nature and foolishness in humanity, but at the same time, I have found nature to be somewhat harsh and unforgiving at times, and I have found the best of all possible in human beings.

On the other hand (can you sense ambiguity here?), I am often comforted by nature and disappointed by humanity.

I am wrestling with a problem. I am an avowed and chronic bungler. I am a mistake waiting to happen. I do dumb things and find myself thinking, "What were you thinking?" The answer usually is that I was thinking about doing what's best, but with a limited set of data.

Yes, I am an astute bungler, and I dabble in ignorance on the side.

My Saving Grace is that I love. Sometimes like Othello, who loved not wisely but too well. But most of the time, I try to do the best I can with what tools were given me and the few I picked up on the way to the game.

I struggle. I fail. I pick myself up again, fail, and pick myself up again. I am getting very strong from picking myself up. I am also learning how better to fall. I am a Black Belt in psychological Aikido.

This is a tough time of year for me. I have a pretty severe case of Seasonal Affective Disorder, which has a stupid acronym. I use lots of giant lights and do all that stuff what is supposed to help, but I really need is to live in Patagonia half the year and in Alaska the other half. That's not my style, nor is it in my budget. I am firmly rooted in 43°4′N 89°24′W.

I usually don't write much when my energy is low or when the darkness kicks my butt, because I don't think anyone needs to read about how difficult life is with seasonal depression. But I also don't want my words to be misrepresenting the Canoelover Life. It ain't all dragonflies and paddling gear.

There are times like this when I sit and ponder the wondrous life I have; fantastic Wife 1.1, great Kids 1.0 and 2.0, Dog 2.0, etc. I have House 2.0, and have now lived in this home longer than any place I have ever lived. My home is my taproot, and we share it a lot with others. Friends enrich my life beyond my wildest expectations.

So welcome, friends, to the Canoelover of November. Five more weeks to Solstice and then, once the corner is turned, on we go to light and love. I'm looking forward to it.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

The Sunshine of the Night

2009-11-02T08:46:00.003-06:00

There are few things that are more aggravating than writing a detailed blog post about the Coleman lantern and having it get sucked into the black hole that is cyberspace. It was a pretty good post. Trust me, it was excruciatingly detailed and had a lot of history about the evolution of the Coleman lantern.

The good news is that now I have done my first edit, and it'll be a lot shorter and probably more interesting. Buh-bye, unnecessary details.

The facts of the matter are these:

We own three Coleman lanterns that we know of: a 5155 (propane), a 288 (white gas), and a 220F (see #4) .
There may be a fourth. We're not sure.
Some of them are newer and without personality, which means they start quickly, don't flare up and make sooty black smoke, and are utterly boring. But good.
One of them is a 1969 220F, a common enough lantern to be noncollectable unless they are in the original box with the original documentation. Then the Japanese buy them for $250.00. The Japanese are weird about vintage gear.

Which brings me to the meat of the former post...what to do about the 220F. It is temperamental, flaring up when you start it unless you futz with it, like a second violin who likes to be the last person playing the tuning A during warm-ups.*

Once the 220F is fired up and settles down, it works okay. A little bit dimmer than its newer cousin, our 288, but there's nothing inherently wrong with it. It just isn't quite right.

The 220F in question

A few blocks from the shop is an old-school Coleman camper dealer with all the parts necessary to rebuild the 220F. It might cost me ten bucks to buy a new generator and get her all overhauled and rebuilt. Which would be fun for me because I like futzing with old gear.

At the same time, it's probably a waste of ten bucks because it's still running fine, just a little rough. If it were a V8 it would be missing on one cylinder occasionally when down-shifting. You might get to it, you might not.

While contemplating this small dilemma, I got all profound and stuff. It happens to me at the weirdest times, like while polishing the glass of the 220F when a flare-up blackened the top of it with nasty greasy soot.

My realization is that I am a lot like this 220F. I am not temperamental and I don't flare up, but I am sure I am not running at 100%, physically or spiritually.

For years, maybe a century, the Coleman by-line has been The Sunshine of the Night. The average user won't see it since they put it on the bottom of the lanterns, and I bet 99.44% of the users never turn the lantern over other than to check the model number should you need a replacement part. But there it is, along with the old Coleman logo. To quote Bruce Hornsby, "That's just the way it is...some thing should never change."

So while I am not exactly running a peak efficiency, I still put out a decent amount of light. I might have a small hole in one of my mantles, but otherwise I am quite sound. I feel accepted by the Larger Light, doing my small part to bring some Sunshine to the night that is the world today. We need more lights, and if they sputter and smoke a little bit, that's just the way it is.

At the same time, for ten bucks I can fix this old lantern, 40 years old and still kicking. In some ways I am sorry it is not a 1962 model like me, but then the metaphor would be too much, even for a guy who never met a phor he didn't like.

So what would it take to make my light a little brighter? Should I invest the time and resources to gain that extra few candlepower that might illuminate a dark corner in someone's life, or do I content myself with pretty bright?

I have never been one for stasis. I like moving forward. I like growing and refining myself, not necessarily because Larger Light won't accept me as I am, but because it's what makes life interesting and enjoyable and challenging. It's the same reason my friend Steph jumps off cliffs wearing a wing suit. She is interested in pushing herself to accomplish new things, even though she could easily rest on her pile of Base Gear and have accomplished more than most of us will in a lifetime.

I am in the continual process of rebuilding myself. So it stands to reason might want to stop in at Jerry's Camping and grab a rebuild kit for the 220F. I think it would be good for both of us.

Some things should never change...that's just the way it is...but don't you believe it.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

*It doesn't matter, second violin. We won't hear you anyway.

Happy Samhain!

2009-10-31T07:38:00.003-06:00

It is a wonderful thing to wake up next to your best friend, even if her hair looks like Medusa. Half a can of hairspray can make big hair very scary, especially if you go to bed late. When Wife 1.1 lay down on the bed, her hair crinkled. It sounded like cellophane, which made us laugh, since there are people who actually do this on purpose.

But last night...I was married to Supergirl. Actually, Wife 1.1 prefers Superwoman, as Supergirl, to quote Wife 1.1, "implies a certain lack of experience." I did not ask.

I am not really a Halloween guy. I also think people who spell Halloween Hallowe'en are halloweenies.

Digging my Celtic roots,

Canoelover

Araneus diadematus a.k.a. "Agatha"

2009-10-27T20:26:00.006-06:00

It was an eagle-eyed Canoelover Jr. who first spotted her. She had built a lovely web between our downspout and a juniper a full six feet away. The strands of silk that connected the downspout to the juniper were thick and cable-like, and the web was lovely, symmetrical and a work of art, despite the repairs needed after an evening of collecting moths.

In Autumn I often put my little camper trailer in our driveway, pop it up, plug it in, and get busy writing orders I wouldn't be able to write in the office. The Shack is awesome but sometimes I want to be on my portable screen porch and have power too. So I set up the trailer and in twenty minutes I'm working away via remote link to the office.

I put the dog blanket on the smaller of the two beds and Gracie will spend some time sleeping while I work, but one can never have too many pets. Agatha was hiding under a leaf, maybe four feet from where I was sitting. In my peripheral vision I could see her, front legs resting lightly on a couple of key threads that would allow her to pick up the smallest vibration. Once in a while out of the corner of my eye I'd see a little jump, and Agatha would be on that juicy little fly like a pro wrestler dropping off a corner post onto another pro wrestler. Except with Agatha, it was real.

Agatha is (they winter over so she's probably still alive) an Araneus diadematus, a lovely name for a lovely arachnid. Commonly named a Cross Spider (easy to see why), I prefer my own name for her: Bejeweled Orbweaver. Agatha looks like she's covered in diadems, and to be honest these pictures don't do her justice. Her coloring was much more vibrant but the light was flat.

I think they're beautiful. I am supported by David Hume, who stated that "beauty in things exists merely in the mind which contemplates them." Or to quote Benjamin Franklin (a.k.a. Poor Richard), "Beauty, like supreme dominion, is but supported by opinion."

You don't have to think Arachnids are beautiful, but if you can suspend whatever cultural biases that were inflicted upon your psyche at an early age, I promise you're going to enjoy a great many more beautiful things.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

A Kindred Spirit

2009-10-26T19:39:00.003-06:00

I don't know who this is. But I like him/her already.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

The Shack

2009-10-24T15:54:00.007-06:00

This is my office.

It's not the office I work in the most, but I am working in it right now. Okay, not right now, but I am writing, and this is, without a doubt, my favorite place to move ideas from brain waves to

words.

The wood stove is creaking, its first fire of the year burning out the cobwebs and the little bit of creosote that has accumulated in the stovepipe. I threw some chunks of hickory into it, a mistake because hickory burns so hot that I usually only use it in the winter. It's only in the 40s outside and the door is open so I don't roast.

I did fall cleaning today, washing the windows (three times on the outside, twice on the inside) until they are almost invisible. The screens have been vacuumed and safely stowed behind the dry sink, and there's more light in here than there has been in months. The sun is lower and clears the eaves. The pine carsiding glows like burnished gold.

I sucked up a few hundred fly husks, sucked dry by the house spiders who often live in the windows during the summer. I let 'em stay, they eat the stray mosquitoes that blunder in and then go to the light. I guess going to the light is a bad idea for skeeters too.

My little oak table is now clean and ready for the laptop, a connection provided by Verizon's wireless. Amazing that I can sit here in the gas light, heated by wood, the ticking of my alarm clock, and the only modern noise is the fan on my laptop.

I just adjusted the damper on the stovepipe to allow a single puff of smoke into the room. The pine was never varnished, so when it gets some heat from the stove it starts to smell a little like a sawmill in here, and the only thing to do is to add a puff of hickory smoke. The Shack is a censor, releasing perfume to the faithful Shack Dwellers. In this case, me.

This is my first time using The Shack since last winter. The summer occupants are usually road reps who need a place to crash as they pass through. A lot of friends have been out here these past six or seven months, but not me. Now, as the seasons change, it becomes mine again.

Outside you'd find half a dozen large elm logs, felled by the power company because a) they were dead and b) they were leaning the wrong way, i.e., toward the power lines. Through an act of intervention, the arborists were more than happy to leave everything exactly where it fell. This means firing up the chainsaw, a lovely beast given to me by my brother-in-law when he no longer needed it. It also means I can cut it to 15" lengths, perfect for my little stove.

The alarm clock is ticking 120 bpm. One loud click, one soft click, as the escape mechanism ticks, then tocks. I like the sound, it reminds me of laying on a pew in church, my grandfather's arm around me, my head laying on his arm, my ear against his watch, trying to hear the soft tick. Then quartz watches came out and ruined it for everyone.

I don't even own a watch, I own a wrist computer. Barometer. Compass. Altimeter. Stopwatch. It doesn't tick. It doesn't tock. It makes no sound at all, unless I tell it to beep sometimes. On the hour, when the barometric pressure drops too fast, etc.

The temperature at the ridgepole is 103 degrees. This is good, as one of the cedar shingles was damaged by a limb a few years ago, and a small leak has developed. Once I get the area dried out (probably tonight), I can climb up and re-shingle that area. Working with cedar beats working with asphalt shingles any day ending in y.

I have to turn the gas light up another notch. It's getting darker.

Better get back to my real work.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

How Cute is Your Baby?

2009-10-20T12:29:00.005-06:00

The Row.

Added a few more boats to Canoelover's Row in the warehouse this morning. Time to keep the winter boats around and shuffle everything else off to hibernate.

So yes, I own a fair number (okay, obscene number) of canoes and kayaks. Then again, a plumber has a dozen pipe wrenches, a conductor more than one baton. My guess is that most elite runners have more than one pair of shoes and running shorts, more than one pair of socks. It's my business, it's my life.

Methinks my Canoelover doth protest too much.

Yeah, well, I'm just sayin'.

Obviously, the boats that live in my row are excellent boats. Not a stinker in the bunch of them. Just ask me, I'll tell you. The problem is that I may be somewhat biased. After all, I chose them.

I really don't have much ego invested in having "good boats." I just like what I like, but after a few decades paddling I think I'm pretty good at evaluating which hulls are well-designed (most of them, honestly) and which ones were cranked out by someone who knew that canoes and kayaks need two pointy ends.

Which brings me to the topic of on-line reviews.

Let me just say I hate them. Not because the people who review the boats are not qualified to do so...some of them are, most are not because they lack a frame of reference. I'd venture a guess that I've paddled between 200 and 300 different hulls in my lifetime. A person who has only driven a 1984 Chevrolet Chevette is hardly qualified to talk about how well their car compares to other cars. For the record, we had a red 1984 Chevette. We called it the Shove It. Worst car I've ever owned, ever ever ever. The good news: it cost $5K new. Without A/C.

Canoelover's Internet Maxim Number 4 states that if you provide a forum for people to provide feedback, they will, and CIM #4a states that the more frequent the feedback, the less the person leaving the feedback actually knows about anything, period.

Internet bulletin boards tend to attract people who want to be important, or worse, want to be helpful. I recently sold a boat of a friend to a friend, acting as intermediary as Friend A was out of the country for a year and Friend B wanted a boat for her granddaughter. Friend B was stoked to get a sweet little solo canoe for her grandkids (they all paddle).

She made the tactical error of telling everyone on a canoe bulletin board that she had purchased this boat for her granddaughter. Immediately a fellow board member (let's call him Troll A) jumped on her, telling her that her boat was inappropriate for his granddaughter and would possibly endanger her life. She responded that she had purchased this little canoe via yours truly and she trusted my judgement.

His response: "I stand by my statement."

Excellent.

Turns out I was right, Troll A was wrong, and Friend B's granddaughter is loving her little boat. Troll A didn't apologize, really. He just made some reference to the fact that sometimes people are lucky that things work out.

The problem is that Trolls B through Z(10)²³ will all have opinions, and most all of them will be based on limited experience. How are you as a reader to know who's credible and who is a pompous ass? Credentials don't work because anyone can claim to be a canoe designer. There's no degree for canoe or kayak design. The best designers I know probably didn't go to college.

With so much ego invested in their choices of boats, they tend to be very, very biased toward what they own. Worse yet, a pair of them will engage in a sort of asinus asinum fricat sort of behavior that drives me insane (when I allow myself to be attached to that sort of thing, which is less and less common as I stay off these boards).

These are the people who usually give a Coleman Ram-X canoe 9/10 in a review. Because they have one, and these reviews are like asking a person "Please rate the attractiveness of your baby." You can't say 10/10 because people will think you're unbiased or have never seen another baby so there's no point of reference.

If you challenge them, remember you're saying "Dude, your baby is double-bag ugly." You have to expect them to justify how the fiberglass canoe their scout troop built in 1974 is the best canoe ever. The best answer is (and please practice saying this with me):

"Of course it is, you're spot on as usual."

For the record, a Coleman canoe floats. There ends its virtues.

Note this phenomenon is by no means limited to paddlesports. Substitute climbing harness, backpack, digital camera, camp stove or PDA and you'll find the same dogmatic chumps. Please shun them like the life-sucking vampires they are. They will draw you in. Just repeat the mantra listed above. It's like throwing salt on a slug.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Playing Around

2009-10-11T23:30:00.004-06:00

Playtime, Wisconsin River.

“The master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his information and his recreation, his love and his religion. He hardly knows which is which.

"He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he's always doing both.”

- James Mitchner

Amen, Mr. Mitchner.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Tenth Annual Order of the Wisconsin River Lover's (OWL) Solo Canoe Trip

2009-10-10T15:23:00.018-06:00

The Order gathered once again this year, and it was an interesting session. With 13 we had quorum so we talked about OWL 2.0. More on that later.

If you're not familiar with the way the OWL works, there are a few simple rules.

No kayaks.
Solo canoes only.
No booze.
No women (sorry).

The OWL started out as small overnight trip with four people, Canoelover Jr. included, who was six at the time (see above -- from the first OWL). It was a delight, and over the years, it has grown. People move in and out as their schedule commands, but I always feel like there's someone who can't come who should be there. I don't like that feeling.

We do a section of the Lower Wisconsin from Mazomanie to Spring Green. Normally. Again, I'm getting ahead of myself. We ran the shuttle and found that lo and behold, it was beautiful as you can see. Tamaracks still verdant and deciduous trees attempting to turn a little, but nowhere peak, but always there are the sandstone cliffs, a few brave swallows still hunting for insects a few inches above the surface of the river.

The launch is less than optimal, but we manage just fine. It's more suitable for power boats but they're nice if we get in and out quickly. It does take a fair amount of time to load 13 boats into the river. It took a little longer because we were trying to help each other, trying not to step in the water though we were wearing rubber boots. It's a bad way to start the night getting a schloop of water over your boot tops.

I was close to last on the water so I stood on the dock and shot some pictures of the milling canoes. No one was trying to take off (except Canoelover Jr., who takes off as soon as he hits the water), and they formed small clusters while they waited for the last few boats.

Soon enough all thirteen boats plus two dogs were on the water. Canoelover Jr. is visible in the far left hand side of the picture, just a little dot in the reflection. That's how he rolls.

The OWL was two weeks later this year so despite meeting at 3:00 at Chez Canoelover, we barely made it on the water in time for it to go pretty dark. Gracie, being a sweet yet shortsighted Black Lab, went wading in the water like a hippopotamus while I was running the shuttle with four other drivers. So of course once it got dark, she started to get cold. When her shivering became noticeable I put my Mountain Hardware Monkey Fur fleece around her and tied the sleeves together in the front like a frat boy. She seemed to tolerate it. However, I gotta say it looks very weird.

We usually paddle a couple of hours, and so we did, arriving at the usual OWL campsite. There was no competition, which surprised no one. It was approaching freezing, and we started adding layers as time passed. In the end I had two long sleeve merino tops, a canvas shirt, and fleece vest and a fleece jacket (reclaimed from Gracie). And two stocking caps. I am a little light on the top there in terms of insulation. The good news is that a really short hair cut (like shaved plus 5 days) is like having Velcro on your head in terms of holding hats in place.

The wood situation on the River is pretty grim this far up as it is overused and downed wood is rare and hard to come by. We hauled in a giant Rubbermaid container of hickory (hot stuff), and Bill and Dave brought two big bags of firewood, which were perfect too. We we had no shortage of fires.

The companion ship of a group of friends around the campfire is one of the sweetest things about camping out. Even without the schnapps we conversed easily and shared stories and jokes. Ask Jim about the man who stuffed a cow udder in his pants. Or don't. Your call. All you need is the punch line: "Ma'am, don't worry, there's three more where that came from."

[Badump-ching.]

That was about as risqué as it got. It's also nice to share companionship without the need for profanity. These are not all religious people, but they're all good, moral people who love and respect each other. And with a group of 13, that ain't bad.

Well, we knew it would be cold, but personally I was thinking 35-40. It was not. Our water bottles froze. The new batteries in my GPS died before it could acquire satellites. People were piling on the layers and jumping around, trying to get some blood in their feet. It was not just cold, it was colder than a cast-iron witch's teat.*

The fog was beautiful and coated everything that was horizontal with jewelry-like hoarfrost.

And as the saying goes:

Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.
Red sky at night, sailor's delight.

Or as I said, "Guys, we're doing a stuff and run." What that means is everything we own is unceremoniously stuffed into our packs and canoes and we get on the water as quickly as possible. Of course, Horseman had to make coffee or we'd be forced to drag his caffeine-addicted sorry arse behind me with a towline. But he get his fix and we were on the water, just as the wind got a little frisky. Frisky is a technical term for 15 knots gusting to 25.

Of course, we all had to line up for the annual group photo. Don't worry, we put the fire out.

Respectfully and frigidly submitted,

Canoelover

*This is a real saying in Southwestern Wisconsin. I've heard the more common variant but the cast iron part sorta brings it all home for me. If you're offended by the term witch because you're a Wiccan, better leave town for Hallowe'en.

Apples

2009-10-05T07:51:00.003-06:00

"Calville Blanc d'Hiver (1598) Antique variety from France, where it was grown in the king's gardens at Orleans; one of the premier gourmet apples still served for dessert in the finer Parisian restaurants; tart, strong, distinctive flavor."

I'm back. I was in San Diego for a sort 0f executive retreat/seminar thingy, the Outdoor Industry Rendezvous. An annual event, some 350 industry folks get together and network (a word I hate -- can't someone please come up with something better?) and participate in discussions and board meetings and hear some amazing speakers, like Kevin Carroll and Erik Weihenmayer.

It is a brain-stretching event, and I now have to go back to my office and comb through a giant pile of bills and checks, and delete 500 emails. Hardly high-order thinking. But it was great, and it was, after all, in San Diego.

Having been born and raised in So Cal, several of the conference attendees were curious how I, having been born a few miles from where we were staying, ended up in Madison, Wisconsin.

"Chenango Strawberry, 1800s, Chenango county, New York.
Delicate, beautiful variety with fragrance resembling roses."

Simple, really. I came for the apples. Not the apples per se, but what they represent.

You need to understand that California has two seasons; Green and Brown. The Green Season is pretty much November and December, sometimes stretching into January. The rest of the year is Brown season.

There is very little to mark the passage of time on a grander scale than the circadian rhythm. Weeks flow into each other and the idea of a cool fall fades from memory. My buddy Chris moved to California last year in October. "It just sorta stayed October," he said over dinner last Sunday night.

"Zaubergau Reinette (1880, Wurtenberg, Germany)

Largest of the russet apples with crisp white flesh and nutty flavor."

So yeah, California is weird. Not to say it wasn't pleasant to visit; I got out every day, usually twice) to get in some longboarding with the Big Stick. Won't be able to do that in Wisconsin for a bit. After a few days, however, I was ready to come home.

As I write this there is a large bowl of apples to my left. Occasionally one of the apples will embolden itself and throw off a little apple scent. There are five varieties of apples in the bowl; none of them are found in a grocery store, and while they're all apples, they range from sweet to tart, crisp to tender. They have subtleties the Red Delicious (well, they're half-right) and other long-distance apples lack.

At some point in the past 50 or 75 years, someone decided that we needed to breed durability into apple flavors so we could reach a world-wide market. They did so, and in so doing they bred out most of the taste. The problem my little apples have is that they can't travel very well, either drying out or bruising. 80 miles from Weston's is fine.

"Tolman Sweet (1750, New York) Light yellow,
faintly russetted, fall apple. The sweetest apple grown."

I don't mean to criticize Californians, really. They can't help it. They are, in some respects, a weaker strain of the human race. They don't know what they're missing. There is very little that is subtle about California, from its Governor to its produce. Quantity, not quality, seems to be the rule of the day in So Cal, and you can keep your quantity. Quality is what works for me.

Pink Pearl (1944, California). Named for the pink flesh which is hidden just beneath its yellow exterior. Crisp, tart, and aromatic, with a hint of grapefruit in the taste. Late summer variety, ripening in August and September

Next week's apples will be a different variety altogether. Cornish Gilleflowers, one of my favorites, is due out this week. I can't wait.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

A Walk In the Woods

2009-09-22T01:56:00.002-06:00

This afternoon, we enter Autumn. Unless you're from south of the Equator, but I'm going to assume no one from Down Under reads this.

The Equinox will occur at 4:21 P.M. We then begin the long slide into darkness, which at our latitude is not insignificant. Soon it will be dark when I go to work and dark when I leave it, which is somewhat depressing but easily alleviated with some Happy Lights and copious amounts of snowshoeing. It's Karma for the Days Without End in June, when you can ride your bike at 5:00 without a light, and you can still read outside at 21:00 on your porch without a flashlight.

I've put 6 or 7 of my canoes and such into Canoelover's Row in the warehouse. One of the benefits of owning a paddlesports shop is your own row in the warehouse. It holds twelve boats and allows me to clean out the garage in the winter. Now I know that Canoelover's Row sounds like a bad English novel about the sexual repression of Victorian England. Or maybe I've seen too much Masterpiece Theater. Yeah...that's it.

But I digress. The main point is that it's going to be Autumn, and I love Autumn. A lot, but probably not as much as my daughter. Her beautiful essay can be found here.

We went for a walk in the woods (and prairie) on Saturday with Kelly Blades, our P&H/Pyranha/FeelFree sales rep. Our industry is socially incestuous, and the differentiation between friends and sales reps is often a blurry one. I can only think of a handful of reps with whom I don't like to spend time, and I'm usually not alone in that regard.

I've known Kelly for a good decade or longer, can't really remember, but when he visited for some business reasons, which took an hour or so, we had a whole afternoon to kill. We decided to walk it to death.

Band-winged Meadowhawk (Sympetrum semicinctum)

There were a few late darners swooping around, some of them getting in their last mating hurrah, but mostly they were moving lethargically. The Meadowhawks were another matter.

The genus Sympetrum is composed of smaller than average dragonflies with the wonderful name Meadowhawks. Meadowhawks are so named because they a) fly around meadows and b) are the Cooper's Hawk of the odonates. They're good hunters and they can wreak havoc on the local fly population.

They're also lovely creatures. But then I'm biased.

I like the Band-winged dudes. Especially back lit.

White-faced Meadowhawks (Sympetrum obtrusum).
Sometimes you gots to get your freak on.

While the whole genus Sympetrum can be bloody difficult to field ID, a few of the species are considerate, like the White-faced 'Hawk, with a big white face (!). They're not exactly rare but they are uncommon, so to get a shot of a pair copulating was pretty cool, especially since I had the wrong lens with me so I was shooting a 200mm zoom free-handed without one of those expensive VR lenses that cost more than some small cars. Not complaining. Actually, I am.*

The taxonomy of an odonate is fairly complex, with lots of little subtleties that identify species that are to the naked eye almost identical. Wings are often used as a way to identify species in the field. Besides the lovely amber saddles on the Band-winged 'Hawks is an equally lovely red stigmata on the leading edge of each wing. Saint Francis would laugh heartily if he knew that a few centuries after his death, insect taxonomists would name that spot on the wing in honor of a famous recipient. I think that highly appropriate.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

*If some benefactor wants to improve my photography, please do me extremely generous favor of sending me this lens. Or this one. Just send me the Hubble and I'll be happy. Just make sure it has the Nikon bayonet mount.

It's Steel Season!

2009-09-17T06:36:00.006-06:00

Da forge. Propane, not coal. Faster, more controllable, and it reduces Black Booger Syndrome.

As the summer winds down into cooler fall (I know someday it will), it's time to switch over to blacksmith mode. I have two 40 pounders of propane and a full set of hammers (including a new Peddinghaus I custom shaped), but the steel rack is somewhat sparse. Time to hit the steelyard.

Flat stock? Tubing? Hot rolled rounds? Cold rolled square? 1/2" plate? They got it.

A steelyard, for those who are uninformed, is like a lumber yard, except:

There is no lumber.
There is, instead, steel.
You can get two or three times as many shapes of steel than you can of lumber.
The people there (apologies to lumber yard employees) are a lot smarter.
That's probably because they've been there a long time and are paid more than minimum wage.

Beautiful 5/8" rounds, 20 feet long. Some 1"x1/4" angle on the right.

There's something wonderful about Wiedenbeck. Probably because it's a third generation family business, there is a pride about the place, and it is, despite the challenges, spotless. You can eat off the floor of that place. And despite the signs, you can walk around all you want if they recognize you as a regular customer. I guess I am semi-regular, I get there 4 or so times a year. Not many blacksmiths around I suppose.

One of the best things about blacksmithing is the quality time I get to spend with Son 1.0. He's developing into quite the artist, and is actually a pretty decent welder. Maybe better than me. He'll be making more crustaceans I am sure this fall.

"I peench."

Respectfully submitted,

Canoe(and steel)lover

Let's do the time warp agaaaaainnn...

2009-09-16T06:42:00.006-06:00

ca. 1991, Curtis Companion on Lake Wingra. Still have that boat. Always will.

Opening photo albums from 15 years ago is a pretty jarring experience. Things you remember as happening yesterday actually happened back when you not only had hair, you had lots of hair. So much hair you had to use a bandanna to keep it out of your eyes.

As forensic evidence will show, that is no longer an issue. Wife 1.1 has enough (beautiful red) hair for both of us.

Fall 2008. Typical Sunday afternoon scene.

What is obvious, to me anyway, is how much paddling has been part of my life for the past two decades or so. Even before I worked full-time in the industry, before I managed and eventually owned my own shop, I was smitten.

The one thing that makes me happy is that I still love it. For the past decade quite a few of my friends have asked me if I would love paddling when it becomes a job?

The answer is that I may love it more than ever. Ironically, when I go on vacation, sometimes I don't paddle. I take pictures and insects. I cycle. I walk. But I still love paddling.

ca. 1995, Check out the 90s hair.

I have hundreds of pictures of me and my family paddling all over the place...Wisconsin, the boreal forest, the Mediterranean, Puget Sound, etc. Interestingly, I never have to think "Where did I take that picture?" They're all seared into the DVD of my visual cortex, and often they're linked to other memories as well. I can smell and taste the salt on my lips when I see a picture of me paddling a sea kayak off Monterrey, salt stains on my face and PFD.

ca. 1999, Wisconsin River OWL Trip

Then there's the other jarring event...seeing your son, now almost 6'2", sitting on your knee, holding Lightning II, his second paddle he ever had besides the small ones used as teething aids. Yes, when my son cut his teeth he was already a paddler.

All good memories, made fresh by a $100 scanner and three dusty photo albums. Clearly I have some more work to do.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Tying down a canoe without carrying thwarts.

2009-09-14T06:52:00.009-06:00

As I have said before, I consider myself something of an archivist when it it comes to solo canoes. There are too many wonderful solos that are unappreciated for what they are, and I consider it a duty to preserve them. I am the Jay Leno of solo canoes.

The trouble comes when I find one of Pat Moore's canoes. Pat was and is a genius, and although he left the industry long ago, his boats live on. Pat had a pretty narrow view of what a canoe should be, which excluded many people who, quite frankly, aren't very good paddlers. They are paddler's canoes, not floater's canoes. You gotta know what you're doing or you are gonna swim.

Pat's boats are what I would call minimalist designs, but his attention to detail within that minimalism was superb. Every line and curve was intentional, and I think he was more of a artist/sculptor than a canoe designer. Think a floating Robert Holmes.

Pat's minimalism lead him to design boats without carrying thwarts. You know, the place you normally tie down boats.

The culprit in the foreground. Note the lack of screws too. Gunwales are laminated to the hull with no fasteners. Genius.

I had to come up with a way to tie them down securely in the bow when traveling longer distances. Short distances don't matter too much; Moore's canoes are generally shorter than most, around 12 feet. But they are built as ultralights, and I didn't want the wind forces of Interstate speeds flexing the hulls and beating the stuffing out of them.

For some reason I thought about a running martingale, a device that keeps a horse (in my experience, a stallion) from throwing his head around. It was the perfect engineering solution.

I decided that I needed to fasten something to the only place on the boat I could...the thwarts. Back 4-5 feet from the bow, it was something to start with.

Next step was to run the martingale over the hull and fasten it with a figure-8 knot.

In order to draw the martingale tight, I clipped in a stainless mini-biner and drew the martingale back toward itself. So far, so good.

You finish the process by tying the loop you created to a bowline. In this case, to a look of flat webbing I fastened to a bolt under my hood, secured with a fender washer. Much easier than crawling around under a car looking for some sort of hook or piece of metal to tie off your bow line. I used too much rope and didn't want to cut it, which accounts for the unsightly hank of rope. Deal, people. I don't cut rope unless necessary.

The results? Works great. There is still some lateral movement but the downforces on the bow more than compensate for the pressures that highway speeds can but on a 25-pound boat.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Amateur Engineer

Why Work Wednesdays?

2009-09-13T15:49:00.003-06:00

One of the benefits of my work is that I sometime don't.

"Why Work Wednesdays" should have been my idea, but happily someone on my staff decided it would be good to have various trips, led by different folks from the shop. We each were allowed to pick one of our favorite rivers and lead a trip. I chose the Grant River, one of my favorites.

The Grant River watershed is contained in Grant County, Wisconsin, and runs into the Mississippi River near Potosi, which is famous for its lead mines in the 19th century and microbreweries in the 21st.

The Grant has a remarkably small (269 square mile) drainage area, which means some rapidly fluctuating water levels in the case of heavy rains. Springs feed it as well, so the water is clear and cool despite running through numerous farm fields. The banks have been well-maintained by private land owners and it looks like Trout Unlimited has been busy in some areas.

Just past Chaffee Hollow Road is a sweet outcropping with what can only be called a "waterfall" if you've never seen a waterfall before. We took turns paddling through the sprinkles and it definitely slowed down the group a little. Which was a good thing.

The Grant is a river made from scratch for solo canoes. We did have some kayaks on the trip. Actually, we had mostly kayaks on the trip. This is not unexpected. It is, however, somewhat sad. A solo canoe is generally a better tool for this sort of steep and muddy-banked driftless area streams. Try climbing up a fifteen-foot muddy bank holding on to the bow of a kayak. I was first out, which was good, as the kayakers need help.

Lunch time.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

A Rolling Cliché

2009-09-10T06:50:00.002-06:00

While I consider myself left-of-center, I draw the line somewhere. I propose the National Leftist Cliché Elimination Act, which states:

I. No person shall affix more than one bumper sticker to their aut0mobile except:

in cases where the automobile is more than twenty (20) years old, in which case they are used to hold said automobile together.
in cases where the automobile is a motorcoach, in which case up to fifty-one (51) stickers of each of the United States and the District of Columbia may be affixed to the rear of the vehicle in celebration of the burning of tens of thousands of gallons of petroleum. N.B.: U.S. Possessions such as Puerto Rico and the U.S Virgin Islands are not permitted.
in cases where the vehicle is a hybrid, which is allowed two (2) bumper stickers or decals, so long as one of them is an Obama sticker.

II. The following bumper stickers are to be determined illegal except in the Southern States:

Confederate flags.
Calvin urinating on anything.
"If this van's rockin', don't come knockin'."
Any bumper sticker that says "My other car is a _______."

So there ya go. So to all the well-meaning lefties who plaster their hybrids with stickers showing their loathing for all things Fox Newsy, let me just state that:

We know you hate Bush/Cheney/Rumsfeld/etc. We're not to crazy about them ourselves.
We know you're against the war. We think it sucks too. No normal person likes war.
No one will ever mistake you a for a Republican. Take a step off the soapbox, please.

We'll get back to paddling soon.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Meadowhawk Season

2009-09-05T10:48:00.007-06:00

Seems fitting my 500th blog posting is about an odonate, one that I've never seen before even though they're fairly common. S. vicinum, or a Yellow-Legged Meadowhawk.

This particular Sympetrum likes to perch on the ground, and I just about stepped on him getting the bike out of the garage to ride to the Farmer's Market on the Capitol Square. Luckily for both of us I didn't. He was still a little cold but he readily jumped on my finger so I could get a decent shot of him (it's a him). My son calls me the Dragonfly Whisperer, they like to perch on me for some reason.

September and October is Meadowhawk season. They're latecomers and extend the odonating season for me, so I was happy to see the first one. The Libellulidae are fading fast, it's Sympetrumland from now to Spring.

Happy Labor Day!

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Late Summer

2009-09-03T06:24:00.004-06:00

I love late summer days, especially sunrises. The light quality this time of year is begging for photographers to get up early and stay up until sundown. The reds of the sunsets are most memorable, but as you might recall from grade eight science class, Roy G. Biv. Red on one side of the spectrum, violet on the other. Sunrises are more violet, and honestly, I prefer it.

The nice thing about September in Wisconsin is that the sun doesn't rise so bloody early in the morning. This was taken at 6:15 AM. In June I would have been 5:15 AM. Sorry, there are

limits, and 6:00 is one of them.

As much as I love autumn, I'm also starting to mourn summer a little. Yep, I'm a rotten Buddhist when it comes to living in the moment this time of year. I try, really I do, but work is starting to ramp up and there's no way I can possibly get all this done. People think my busy season is the summer, and that's true for the more tactical elements of owning a specialty retailer. Strategically, we're 9 months out for a lot of things, and 3 years out for some of the major projects. Most folks don't realize that forecasting is a huge part of retail, especially when you deal with smaller vendors who are not equipped nor financed to do just-in-time delivery.

Then there's the bank. Small businesses have love-hate relationships with their banks. Ours is pretty much the best out there. Still, it's the very nature of banks to be willing to lend you money when you don't need it, and less likely when you do. This is especially true in the current business environment, when the business world is full of pie-crust promises ("easily made, easily broken" - Mary Poppins).

It sickens me to hear of businesses cheating vendors, customers, and their banks. One local business closed their doors, dropped the keys off with my banker and said, "It's yours." What is a bank supposed to do with a sub shop? After they sent a few thousand pounds of cold cuts to the food pantry, the liquidation began. Again, sick.

It's also gunwale-oiling season. It's warm enough for the oil to penetrate the wood, and with a little help from a second-hand hair dryer, it's perfect out. I have (let me count here...) eight canoes with wood gunwales, so it's a bit of a ritual. Got my own special gunwale mix I use to saturate the gunwales twice a year, once in June, and once in September before I put most of them to bed for the winter.

This year I have three more wood gunwaled boats to treat. I take it as part of my calling to keep older solo canoes from the golden era of solo boating (early 80s to mid 90s) like an archivist keeps Papal bulls in the Vatican library. Lotus, Sawyer, Curtis, Moore, Blackhawk...the list of canoe companies that are no longer around is a long one. They are gone because of aging or deceased owners, bad management, market forces, or a combination of all three.

When I say bad management, I need to clarify. It wasn't incompetence of the deceptive Kenny Lay variety; it was in many cases a lack of attention to costing because they were so focused on building really, really nice boats. Some of these guys wouldn't let a boat out of the shop until it was perfect. 99% wasn't good enough, and although most people wouldn't notice, they did.

Mike Galt is a great example. A rough character, brash and opinionated, he was nonetheness ahead of his time both in his designs and in his views of canoeing. He viewed canoes as small yachts, and they should be fit and finished with the care that goes into an 180' Palmer Johnson. He was right. Those who think a Coleman Ram-X as a canoe are not thinking clearly. Sure, they float, hold stuff, but they're awful to paddle. Galt made the Lexus, Coleman the Yugo. His canoes show remarkable attention to detail, down to tapered gunwales and hand-fitted seats. No short cuts, ever. I own two, a Dandy (the first and best design of the two Dandies) and a Caper, serial number 001. Pretty special.

Hey, it must be free-association morning. I started off writing about sunrises and ended up talking about canoes. Who woulda thunk.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

This is why I always keep a camera in the car...

2009-08-31T16:52:00.003-06:00

Because you never, ever know what will show up on the truck in front of you.

Show chickens? I think not.

Jokes.com

Brian Regan - Show Horses

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Paddling The Northern Forest Canoe Trail

2009-08-31T07:26:00.005-06:00

When I was invited to paddle the Northern Forest Canoe Trail with a group of writers, photographers and retailers (they considered me a triple threat), I had no idea what I was in for. I had seen pictures of the trail, the lakes and rivers that take a paddler from Old Forge, New York to Fort Kent, Maine, over 700 miles. What I hadn't seen was The Balsams.

The first sign of trouble...

The Balsams is one of those grand hotels that dot the White Mountains in New Hampshire. A century ago they were the playgrounds of the upper-middle class, civilized places where a guy can bleed dollar bills, tipping anything with a pulse and a palm. It's also a place that has a dress code.

Seeing a bunch of paddlers sitting down for dinner in a swanky dining room that has 100 year old stained glass is a unique experience. We all were wearing borrowed blazers (I got the last 46 long, other suffered with 40 shorts) and we all looked stupid. Well, mostly stupid. At least I wasn't wearing Keen sandals.

At any rate, we skirted the dress code as well as we could and got on the river the next morning.

We started on the Magalloway River, near a picturesque covered bridge (Bennett Bridge). This is of course, redundant, as the raison d'etre for covered bridges is to be picturesque. Some are both picturesque and quaint. New England oozes quaint.

Note the floatilla of Wenonah Kevlar. Minnesota IIs and Champlains, light, quick and lots of fun to paddle. The Champlain was faster than I had imagined, and I hadn't spent a lot of time in one, but it was fine and dandy. It also made the Minnesota II feel like a rocket ship when I climbed into it the next day. More on that later.

The Magalloway River is part of Section 8, Rangeley Lake to Umbagog. The NFCT has 15 sectional maps, and each is unique due to the local stewardship of both the trail and the map. Because the trail flows through four states plus Quebec, creating a sense of local ownership is critical. Each map has an historical primer on the back side, so it's not just a map, it's a mini tour guide.

Of course, there were odonates.

I hear groaning from some of you Nodonates. Please redirect yourself to this odonate-free zone.

For the second time in as many weeks, I found myself rescuing a dragonfly from a watery tomb. This lovely Canadian Darner (Aeshna canadensis) sat on my finger for a while and washed himself off. He tried to fly away but was too weak and landed in my lap, so I gave him a lift to Lake Umbagog.

The Magalloway ends at Lake Umbagog, a lovely lake with a very interesting habitat - a floating bog island. Yep, an island made of spaghnum and other mosses which is large enough to support live trees. You can walk on it, but it's like walking on thin ice; you might drop into it if you hit a thin spot. Still, it's unique enough to be listed as a National Natural Landmark. It is one of the largest floating island in the U.S.

When we got to our campsite on Umbagog, I scurried to the most remote location I could go without accusations of being antisocial. It was a few hundred feet from a nice Class III rapid so I had the ultimate white noise machine. Big Agnes supplied bags and tents, and I drew the solo tent (yay!), although I've seen sarcophagii with more room. Still, it kept out (most of) the no-see-ums.

After an amazing dinner of moose and bear (both excellent), I bedded down with nothing to read but my own thoughts. Being my thoughts, they put me to sleep quickly.

The next day we switched up boats and partners. I grabbed Dana Henry and said "Let's motor." We were in a loaded Wenonah Minnesota II, a 41-pound rocket ship that has a hull speed of 7 miles per hour. We kept it there for quite a while, doing s-turns to allow the rest of the group to catch up.

I was stoked because I love paddling with people who are better than me and because I got to paddle bow. I never get to paddle bow. The view was great, and the ability to practice one thing only (forward stroke efficiency) was a zen-like experience. For once I was the motor and not the steering wheel, and I think I'm a pretty decent motor.

At lunch we switched to Royalex canoes for the river portion of the journey. The Androscoggin River is a series of riffles and flat stretches punctuated by some really nice Class II-III rapids. We switched up again and I paddled with David, a free-lance writer and a gem of a guy...thoughtful and smart, a radical in that he believes in Democracy and not a contrived oligarchy. Awesome dude.

After the big rapid I swapped the tandem for a solo Wenonah Rendezvous. I have gone on record stating that this is one ugly canoe from the waterline up, but from the waterline down, it is a sweet, sweet boat. Amazingly good at handling some big water, and dry as you would expect after a big wave. As the weather cooled and the water became glassy, I went for a paddle up a small unnamed creek. No moose, but a lot of beaver chew and the start of some nice little dams.

As the sky darkened I headed back to camp, and the colors (poorly captured by my stinky little point-and-shoot) were amazing. Jupiter popped into view first (Venus was hiding somewhere) and I stood away from the campfire for a good long time taking in the post-sunset.

Then we went surfing. More pictures to come when I can nail down the photographer (Brian) and beg and plead for a picture.

So much for a non-prosaic description of our trip. I'm saving the good stuff for Sierra Magazine, column to be published in the May-June issue 2010.

One thing I relearned; it's all about the people. The folks who share your common experience are the main course, and the location of the trip is only the spice that flavors it. So thanks to David, Jim, Scot, Heather, Mike, Rob, Kay, Brian, Emily, Bill, Dana, Nemjo, Tammy and Keith. You were the trip, the river was just a medium to share a wonderful experience.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

P.S. Here's proof that there was a dress code. It's a little dark but I couldn't use the flash. Save this and blackmail me someday. Jeepers, I look like a Jesuit.

I can highly recommend The Balsams. No WiFi, no TVs in the rooms. Windows that open. Really, I slept like a baby.

Just got a message...

2009-08-29T17:51:00.007-06:00

...from someone who wants to help me "monetize my blog." Apparently I have enough readers (thanks!) to warrant it.

I replied that I was earning everything I expected from my blog already.

I love to blacksmith. I tried a few years ago to make it a business. It made it a lot less fun, and I dissolved the business and now I just do it for fun again, making presents for my friends and fixtures for my remodeling projects. I don't sell anything I make. You gotta be a Friend of Canoelover.

Besides not really needing the few dollars that monetizing my blog would bring, I fear that commercializing Canoelover would make it a burden, a think that would force me to come up with relevant content and please my readership. I write this to please myself, and if some of you want to come along for the ride once in a while, that's peachy.

Respectfully and non-commercially submitted,

Canoelover

P.S. Please don't think I'm being a sanctimonius socialist here. I like money as much as the next guy, so long as the next guy isn't Bernie Madoff.

The Next Generation of Canoelovers

2009-08-23T01:54:00.008-06:00

My flight is in a few hours, but I can't sleep because a) I'm stoked to be going paddling and b) the place where a hornet stung me on my head itches like a sonofab-tch. Oh...didn't I mention that I was attacked by a hornet as I walked under its nest? Nailed me four times across the top of my head - bam bam bam bam. Just like that. Next day I walk by the nest again, being very careful to give it a wide berth...and a single hornet comes after me again.

Hornet bait. The knife did not deter them.

Maybe that particular hornet was in charge of bald guys. Maybe the target was just too good to pass up. Whatever it was, I'm still itching and it has not increased by love for vespids. That said, I do appreciate them eating biting flies and emerald tree borers. And tent caterpillars. Just leave my scalp alone, por favor.

Anyway...

The last day of our trip I wanted to take a morning paddle with Canoelover Jr. He is indeed a Canoelover, which is not really surprising since he has grown up in canoes. We ended up taking his canoe, a Nova Craft Prospector 15, which is an awesome little boat for exploring twisty and turny rivers. The story how Canoelover Jr. is a great one and bears retelling.

Disclaimer: 99.99% of our customers are golden. That leaves .01% who are not. This is a story about the .01%.

The canoe in question

Back Story: Customer special orders a red Prospector 15. Customer changes mind a week later and switches to burgundy. We forward order change to Nova Craft. Change gets lost in the shuffle, and red canoe is delivered, and honest mistake. Customer arrives to get red boat and goes ballistic. "I ordered burgundy, and I expect burgundy." There is drama, yelling, and tantrums. Customer is leaving on vacation the next day. We call Nova Craft, talk to Roch, their sales manager. Roch says give him the boat to use and we'll get a burgundy to you ASAP.

Fast forward a month. Burgundy canoe is delivered by Roch. Roch is at the store for the swap out. The red canoe is well-used, certainly, after a month, but Roch says nothing.

One more item of note: Roch Prevost is a great sales manager. He is French Canadian without the Quebecois attitude, laughs easily and has a mellow disposition that is unflappable. He is, in short, a great guy.

So here's the scene.

Customer: "Thanks for getting us the right boat, we really enjoyed our trip."

Roch: "I am so glad you had a good time, that's what it's all about, n'est pas?"

Customer: "That's right." [chuckles] "So, I was wondering...what are you going to do with the red canoe?"

[Wrong thing to say. Customer wants to buy the red canoe at a discount...and Roch's ears start to turn a little red.]

Customer: "So can we make a deal on the red one too? I mean, what else would you do with it?"

[Silence. Ears get redder. Then Roch smiles.]

Roch: "Hey Ian, come 'ere a minute..."

Ian [Canoelover Jr., age 11]: "Hi Roch."

Roch: "So Ian, I tink maybe you like to 'ave this canoe, eh?"

[Customer looks stunned.]

Ian: "Really? Free?"

Roch: "Yes, Ian. This canoe is for you to learn to be a good paddler like your dad, okay?"

Ian: [runs over and hugs Roch] "Thank you, Roch!"

Roch: "You're welcome, my friend."

Another item of note: Ian and Roch have been friends since the first time Roch came to stay at our house. At that time he was not a sales manager, but worked in the factory and drove truck. Ian and Roch played chess while then-sales manager Bill and I discussed things.

Customer: "Wait a second...you're going to give that kid that boat?"

Roch: [indignantly] "Why, maybe you tink I give it to you?"

So that was that. Customer went away, learned a lesson about the importance of not trying to take advantage of a situation, and how to make a kid happy.

And happy he is. It is his boat, and when we use it for family trips, we ask his permission. Jim often borrows the boat for Brule River trips, and he always calls and asks Ian, not me, if he can take the red Prospector up north. Ian, being who he is, always says yes. He is a generous soul, probably because of the example of people like Roch who get it.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Home for a day...then off to Maine.

2009-08-21T21:42:00.007-06:00

Great trip. Lovely family. I'll write more when I get back from the Northeast. Two weeks of paddling!

Respectfully and somewhat exhaustedly submitted,

Canoelover

P.S. Of course I saw odes. Here's a fairly rare Gomphus graslinellus, a Pronghorn Clubtail. The D200 needs service, it's making things too blue.

Outta here for a week...

2009-08-14T19:22:00.004-06:00

...unless we get a good connection somewhere, which is unlikely. We'll be off the grid until next Saturday, then I'm gone another five days on the Northern Forest Canoe Trail.

The picture above has nothing to do with this. But I did have some fun last weekend in the Minneapolis airport while we waited an eon for our delayed plane. Two and a half year old Mesame is Ethiopian, adopted a year ago. Signs well, English is coming along, and a sweeter kid never lived. Her Mom was going a bit stir-crazy so I offered my services. Her comment: "Are you a Grampa?" Nope, not yet, but I am enjoying grandparenthood by proxy as often as I can.

Activities included tracing hands and feet, wearing my Birkenstocks, signing various animals, and drawing animals, and trying to write her name. Over and over again.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

I had to wait a week to post this...

2009-08-14T15:01:00.002-06:00

...so I hope you understand the anguish that tormented my soul while my computer sat at Computer Medics getting a new motherboard and processor.

Here he is, a lovely Libellula saturata, a Flame Skimmer.

What I learned last week:

1) Utah has odonates. Given that it's pretty much a desert, this was a surprise to me.

2) The largest gathering of odonates I saw in Utah was in the parking lot in the middle of Salt Lake City. We were entering the Village Inn Restaurant, and at least a dozen Common Green Darners (Anax junius) were circling a cloud of gnats, picking them off at a leisurely place. It almost looked like cooperative feeding.

2) My family in Utah thinks I'm a bit nuts because of my interest. Not obsession, interest.

More to come later,

Canoelover

The laptop lives! Huzzah!

2009-08-13T16:12:00.002-06:00

...and here's proof.

More to come as I have time. It's not like time stopped when the laptop went into a coma. I still did stuff. Took pictures of stuff. Lived life to its fullest.

The bad news: $500.00 poorer. Sucks.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

My laptop is dead...long live my laptop.

2009-08-11T09:37:00.003-06:00

Sorry, no blogs for a while. Dead laptop. $500 dead. And the injury added to the insult are as follows:

1) My particular laptop has a hard drive that only fits in that kind of laptop, so I can't even take the data off and buy a new laptop.

2) My laptop is 1.3 years old. Which means actuarially I am better off buying a new one rather than hope this one lasts. But I can't (see No. 1). Bugger.

3) I don't think there is a third thing, but I'm annoyed and two things really don't make much of a list.

The good news...when my laptop is no longer dead, I have some glorious pictures. Including some nice Utah odonata. Yes, my love for dragonflies crosses state lines, which makes it a Federal obsession.

Until the day of the resurrection of the Hewlett Packard,

Canoelover

A funny thing happened today at the corn stand...

2009-08-01T15:58:00.002-06:00

Scene: A corn stand. I am buying Wisconsin's bounty. Corn, tomatos, melon, cukes, etc.

[Car drives up, window down]

Amazingly attractive young man: "Mah-dee-zon!"

Cute farm girl selling corn: "What?"

AAYM: "Mah-dee-zon! We needing to go..."

CFGSC: "You're in Madison."

AAYM: [shows map, points at dot on Google Map] "I need...here."

[Dawns on CFGSC that AAYM doesn't speak very much English]

CFGSC: "Oh...well, you need to turn left at the light and then go..."

[AAYM shakes head confusedly]

[Enter Canoelover]

Canoelover: "Scusa, ragazzo, ma hai bisogno d'aiuto?"

AAYM: "Dio mio...non ci credo..."

CL: "E' semplice...aldila' il semaforo troverai un'autostrada 90-94..."

[CL explains directions to hotel in Italian. AAYM listens, occasionally mumbling "meraviglio"]

CL: "Tutto al posto?"

AAYM: "Si, amico, grazie mille...auguri...non ci credo..."

[AAYM drives off to his hotel destination]

Exeunt, all players except CFGSC who says to CL

CFGSC: "Uh, what just happened?"

----

This young man was amazingly attractive in a way that could only have happened in Italy. His accent wasn't Spanish so I thought I'd see if I could help. Worst case scenario -- he would be Portuguese.

It's an amazing, random, wonderful world we live in. The odds of a couple of lost Italians driving up to a fruit stand within a fifteen second window as I was about to leave is pretty small, no?

Don't ever let anyone tell you your liberal arts degree is a waste of time and money. I'd like to see an electrical engineer make someone smile like that.

Presentato con rispetto,

Canoelover

P.S. Translation as follows:

"Excuse me, but do you need some help?"

"Oh my God...I don't believe it..."

"It's easy...just past that light you'll turn onto the 90-94 freeway..."

"Everything okay?

"Yes, my friend, a thousand thanks...good luck...I don't believe it..."

What excites a Canoelover?

2009-08-01T11:50:00.011-06:00

I get my monthly SGB (Sporting Goods Business) magazine and in the back near the cheap seats is a section on Twitters and Bloggers to watch. I quote:

"The writer of Canoe Lover (sic) owns a canoe and kayak shop in Wisconsin and is a lifelong member of the outdoor industry. His blog offers everything from insights on the latest paddling and camping equipment to personal recommendations on the best recipe for on-the-go cocoa."

Not one mention of odonates. Not a single one. Not even a Saffron Meadowhawk (Sympetrum costiferum).

Okay, editors of Sporting Goods Business. I want you to clarify that I rarely write about gear. I'll write about weird stuff that strikes me as interesting. I will write about gear, but only if the gear is more exciting that the actual experience. Believe me, that happens sometimes (I got an MSR Reactor Stove and my other dozen camp stoves quaked in fear of obsolescence). But what is more exciting that this?

Yep. Canoelover (r.) explains the basics of kayak fit to a woman (l.) who has never sat in a kayak before, ever. Fifty-something women came to the shop a few weeks ago as part of a local radio station's "Girl's Night Out" program they put on regularly. About half of them had been in canoes before, but only a handful of them had sat in a kayak.

Notice no one is going over a waterfall. No one is drinking Red Bull. There is no deathmetal soundtrack. Just me and a nice young woman discussing kayaking. That, gentle readers, is so much more exciting that another death-defying stunt by overly-caffeinated dude-speakers with fifty-three piercings and tattoos of Chinese characters across their shoulders.

It's more exciting because this young woman got pretty juiced about kayaking, and eventually will become part of our paddling family. The people who see the kayak-over-waterfall stunt are as likely to buy a kayak as they would a motorcycle after seeing Evel Kneivel jump over 20 school buses.

Gear's cool and everything...I'm a bit of a gear junkie myself. I might even be considered a pusher given my position as a specialty retailer. Don't misunderstand; I love to sell the right equipment to the proper person.

That said, I'd rather have someone else do gear reviews. I'd rather talk about the actual paddling part. Getting a new paddle is cool...but helping to create a new paddler...way cooler.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

The ego and its natural enemy.

2009-07-29T17:22:00.010-06:00

"The ego is not master in its own house."
-- Sigmund Freud

Once in a while I wax philosophical. It's usually when I need to process something by writing it, which is how I work best. The fun part is that I don't know where I'm going to end up. The scary part is that I don't know where I'm going to end up.

A week ago I was at the Outdoor Retailer Summer Market show. Good fun was had by all. Great people, great manufacturers, and all in all, a good time was had by most. It would have been had by all if a few people hadn't felt the need to be important.

Our industry (the canoe and kayak manufacturers and retailers) are, as a rule, really nice people, but are also prone to drama, hyperbole, and ED (emotional dysfunction). Some of them take everything personally. Others like to cause drama and chaos because instability makes them more powerful. Keeping someone off balance by ad hominen attacks has a long, long history of being fairly effective in the short term. In the long term, once you're discovered, you're isolated by all and you might as well pick up a volleyball named Wilson and head for the nearest island.

Before I spring on you a Socratic dialectic or something equally obnoxious, here are a few quotes to digest:

"It's amazing what you can accomplish when you don't care who gets the credit."
-- Harry Truman.

"Make a decision to relinquish the need to control, the need to be approved, and the need to judge. Those are the three things the ego is doing all the time."
-- Deepak Chopra

"Egotism is the anesthetic that dulls the pain of stupidity."
-- Frank Leahy

"Leggo my Eggo^©."
-- Kellogg's

It is one of the saddest traits of human nature that people with poorly developed self-images tend to flock to places where they can become "important." Since paddlesports is a relatively small industry, there are quite a few of these people who want to be looked up to as important. Relative effectiveness is not a criteria; competence is not required. Because we're small, there is a leadership vacuum that has developed, and fragile self-esteem and big egos have stepped in to fill the void.

In other words, being a board member of a small industry group with a membership of 50 is sorta like being kissed by your sister. But if you can throw that around to people who don't know, you gain status, at least in the eyes of people who don't know you well. So there ya go.

I've tried for most of my life (the part that I remember) to be effective rather than important. I have plenty of examples in my world of people who want to be important (and in a way, worshipped) for their exceptional contributions to the microworld in which they live. In the end, it's fruitless, and you end up doing a lot of damage along the way.

Ironically teenagers are seen as narcissistic and self-obsessed. That is not my experience. My experience is that they see through the bullshit better than most adults, and do not suffer fools and egomaniacs lightly. My kids see through these superficial people as if they were made of cellophane.

"Daddy, what is that guy's problem?"

"He's lonely and he makes up for it by trying to be important."

"That's so totally lame."

"Yep."

"He should just get over himself."

"Yep."

"Then he would be happy."

"Yep."

And so it goes. And goes and goes.

So how do we work in a world where narcissism and egomania abound? I think the best solution is to love people who are narcissistic and egomaniacal.

How? Aye, there's the rub...

I'm still searching for the answer to that question. Trying to treat them as if they are not narcissistic. Trying to look for that Child of God / Inner Buddha being. I think, however, that the natural enemy of the self-important ego is love.

I am having varying degrees of success. It is most difficult to love someone when they're arrogant and belligerent at the same time, especially when they're not really contributing to the dialogue. So I'm just meditating and praying for patience. And for love.

Don't have any answers, but I at least know a few of the questions...

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

P.S. If patience fails me, I'm opening up a can of Socratic Dialectic whoop-ass.

Odes and Ends

2009-07-27T19:56:00.004-06:00

After a week out of town, and having spotted one odonate in Utah (it looked thirsty), it was nice to come home to a decent little crowd of odes. The vegetation mats offer a nice perching place for the Eastern Amberwings (Perithemis tenera). They're one of the smallest dragonflies, shorter than a damsel but more stocky. And pretty.

This one I had to chase around until I got a decent shot. A female Widow Skimmer (Libellula luctuosa) has none of the bright whiteness of a male, but her abdomen is stylish and she has nice racing stripes.

This one I misidentified at first as a Baskettail, but a second look at the eyes made me think Emerald, and I was right. Emeralds rarely perch so it's hard to get a good ID on them, but I'm pretty sure this is a Somatachlora cingatum, a Lake Emerald. They usually live a bit farther north but it has been a cool Spring. Any better eyes can give me a better ID if I'm wrong.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Dostoevsky, Super Genius

2009-07-26T07:03:00.004-06:00

“We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.”

Some people, indeed, many people create for themselves an on-line persona that is markedly different from their own. This may be because they think their personality is too mundane so they spice it up a little.

This is always a bad idea for a few reasons. First, it keeps you from developing as a person, as the on-line personality takes over. Second, when you finally meet someone, you are disappointed. My guess is the vast majority of e-harmony users understate their weight, overstate their intelligence, and don't mention that they still live with their mothers. Norman Bates' on-line profile would probably look pretty normal.

Then again, a few select people are exactly the same way in person as they are on-line. Those people are a gift. Above is a picture of a group of gifts. Especially the redhead in the middle.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Where the Wild Things Aren't.

2009-07-23T23:53:00.002-06:00

Walking down the street in Salt Lake, I saw this old store closed down. In the window were strange cutouts. Nothing else.

Canoelover

Things that happened today at Outdoor Retailer.

2009-07-23T00:31:00.008-06:00

1. Saw some cool new boats. In case you missed it, they are new, as indicated by the sign.

2. Hung out with an incredibly classy woman (and wonderful sales rep) MK.

3. Hung out with Team Stonewear. Tonya (far right) is a gem. Glad I got to see her.

4. Had a really good dinner with the Team Yakima (l. to r.) Ross, Pat, John, Megan, Sasha, Bill, Emily, (me), and Ron.

Today was fun. But lest you think all I do is hang out with really nice people, I also had nine appointments with vendors, participated in a paddlesports roundtable/brawl about trade show timing, worked with a judging panel to select some paddlesports award winners, and had a meeting with another OIA board member. Who were all really nice people.

Canoelover

Are you in the Outdoor Industry? A wee test...

2009-07-21T00:04:00.003-06:00

Walk outside the big revolving door outside the Marriott on West Temple in Salt Lake City. Identify the car belonging to a member of the Outdoor Industry. Is it...

1) A blue Ferrari

2) Truck with welded steel racks and boats on top.

Startled by the juxtaposition,

Canoelover

On the way to the Outdoor Retailer Show in SLC

2009-07-20T23:45:00.002-06:00

This is funny.

And we trust our lives to these people?

-----------------

On another note, had my first Outdoor Industry Association board meetings today. I tell ya, it's pretty invigorating to be the second dumbest guy in a room full of really, really smart people. It's a rush to work with a group of very, very smart people. I am going to enjoy this.

Off to bed,

Canoelover

Breakfast Rorschach

2009-07-18T16:03:00.004-06:00

Sometimes things just happen with my breakfast.

Does anyone else think my eggs look like Stewie Griffin's head?

Coincidence? Evidence of Chaos Theory?

Bemused,

Canoelover

Tired, but simultaneously refreshed...

2009-07-13T20:05:00.007-06:00

A great weekend in Door County, Wisconsin. Lots of kayaking, lots of new friends. It was great to meet dozens of novice paddlers. I love the energy of novices -- they're like sponges. The best way to be a great teacher is to have motivated, humble, and engaged learners. Then all you need is a pulse and you look like a rock star.

I did, of course, take a few shots of a few odonates. To quote Popeye, "I yam what I yam."

Libellula quadrimaculata

There were a few species zooming around, mostly male 12-Spotted Skimmers fighting over female 12-Spotted Skimmers, plus an abundance of bluets of different varieties (so confusing and hard to identify in the field...).

Enallagma cyathigerum

Best of all were the Four Spotted Skimmers (Libellula quadrimaculata). Lovely, in a subtle way, as their hindwings have a lovely brownish saddlebag (very small, not at all like a genuine saddlebag skimmer).

Tired. Going to bed.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Beauty is where you find it...

2009-07-07T15:54:00.011-06:00

Central Illinois is not normally noted for its flashy geography or diverse flora and fauna. What isn't corn is usually soybeans. Roads are laid out on a grid, each grid enclosing a section of land (a square mile or 640 acres). Topography is flat with gentle undulations that make it just barely impossible to see the horizon.

In short, Central Illinois makes Oklahoma look like Nepal.

People usually write off Central Illinois as a desert of corn, a subsidiary of ADM, without any merit or reason to live there. Peoria, often used as a metric for whitebread Middle America, is actually a nice town. While characterized as dull, uninteresting and bucolic, Peoria actually has a sordid history of whiskey and prostitution. Now it has Bradley University.¹

^-----

I drew the short straw, and was tapped to drive Son 1.0 down to Normal, Illinois, to Illinois State University where he would be attending a church-related youth get-together for a week. It is 7 hours round trip, most of it on I-39, an interstate created to test just how straight and boring a highway can be.

Driving through a corn maze 150 miles square. That's why I look so happy.

We hustled it down there, driving 72.4 miles per hour, the optimum velocity for making time without attracting the Illinois Crown Victoria Flashing Light Society. Dropped off Son 1.0 (with some fear -- a kid was already playing a guitar sitting on his duffel bag) with prerequisite hugs, and high-tailed it out of there.

I did not get on the Interstate. I took a frontage road that followed I-39 for a while then veered off to the west. I drove through the grid like those guys in the movie Tron. Everyone I saw either waved or waved back to my wave. Cool.

So there I was, driving along, minding my own business when I crossed a bridge. Not a big bridge, but one that you wouldn't notice if there were not a bit more vegetation than you might see on the side of the road. So I pulled off to the side of the road, though with the two cars every 30 minutes, I hardly had to.

What I found was a tiny little farm creek. Not a temporary creek that shows up only when it rains, but a spring-fed creek that didn't flow much, maybe 4-5 CFS. But it was definitely an established rivulet.

I was pretty sure I'd find some sweet odonate pictures here, but the banks were steep and muddy, so I did what any photographer would do. Rolled up my shorts until I looked like I was wearing pantaloons and ditched the Birkenstocks by the side of the stream. I waded in to very cool, refreshing water. Definitely a spring-fed stream.

Note to self: next time carry hip boots.

It took me all of ten seconds to spot them, just upstream, a small little flock (?) of Calopteryx maculata, the Ebony Jewelwing, one of four broadwing damselflies that live in North America.

Of course, I had the wrong lens, the 80-200mm telephoto. Duh.

[Reverse process. Swap lens to 60mm macro. Better. Proceed where we left off].

The males were less shy than usual, not sure why. If I moved ever so slowly, they allowed me within a few inches of them, and allowed me to capture some detail I hadn't noticed before.

Detail like, uh, the jaws on this bad boy (it is a boy). They don't look so cute if you're a nice juicy gnat.

...and a lone female, very shy. I think she was hiding from the boys, who were sparring over the stream, being territorial as they are want to be this time of year.

Heavy-handed point is, you can find beauty everywhere, even if it takes muddy feet and dodging a patch of Wild Parsnip. It was worth every bit of the half-hour, and then some. So pull over and check out the little things...even in Central Illinois.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

¹ You have to love a University that has a Caterpillar Professor of English, who is also the Poet Laureate of Illinois. Before you scoff, consider Illinois produced Carl Sandburg and Papa Hemmingway.

Epitheca priceps in Flight

2009-07-06T01:01:00.008-06:00

If you want to attempt catching a Prince Baskettail (Epitheca princeps) in flight, do the following...

1. Put your camera on 1600 ASA.

2. Shut your F-stop down as best you can to get maximum depth of field.

3. Put your shutter to "fast as you can take them" mode. Mine is 10 frames per second.

4. Hold down the shutter release and point in the general direction of an E. princeps.

5. Pray.

Even if you do pray, you get one decent shot for every 100 you expose. That's one of the beauties of digital. That's because Prince Baskettails, as it says so succinctly in the field guide, "patrols without perching." This one patrols the pond behind the shop, and I watched him for at least 20 minutes and he did not perch once. He's a Tarahumaran, patrolling for up to six hours without stopping.

Always amazed by odonates. I've never seen an emerald behind the shop before, so it was exciting to preview the picture on the back of the D200 and see emerald eyes. I took literally 110 pictures of the Prince, manually focusing through the range while burning off 12 pics at a time. One one was even close to being in focus (the one above). The rear view is a rotten picture technically, but the angle of the E. princeps turning like an F-16 made me want to post it anyway.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

P.S. To make up for the blurry, mostly poor pictures, I dropped this Enallagma signatum here at the end to make me happy. This was a cooperative little dude.

Odes (natch)

2009-07-04T06:45:00.007-06:00

"Dude, Mr. Turtle's my father..."

No good pictures here. I had my bloody Olympus 1030SW which is great for candids and such but totally sucks for anything needing depth of field or shooting anything moving faster than a snail on a salt lick. So today, I'm taking the big guns with me.

But I did get a decent shot of a Twelve-Spotted Skimmer (Libellula puchella, male) and his female companion in a copulatory wheel (in mid air!), blurry but still cool.

And here's the proud papa, resting. I guess odonate sex is exhausting.

While he sat there, Mrs. Puchella was laying eggs. She swooped down and tapped her abdomen on the surface of the water and made a graceful circle. She must have laid 100 eggs in three minutes. Pretty cool.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

A River Runs Through It

2009-07-02T22:00:00.006-06:00

"Hi, uh, my name's Darren, and I'm, well...remodeling a bathroom. There. I've said it. Might as well get it out into the open, eh?"

"Hello, Darren."

I hate remodeling. The thing I'm best at is writing checks to the various subcontractors. I've scrupulously avoided doing anything on this project. This action is sanctioned by Wife 1.0, due to the Great Table Saw Incident of 2004.

Don't ask.

The fun part in being the General Contractor is that you can hire different friends who can do amazing things if you give them the leeway. One such friend is Brian, a carpenter/remodeler, who happens to pour concrete countertops. I happen to need such a beast.

To make things interesting, I decided to inlay some cool stones into the countertop. Since the thing is cast upsde down, I was able to stick some pieces of polished slabs onto the surface of the counter that when polished will look pretty amazing.

So I made a river of stones: agates, jaspers, bloodstone, greenstone, a little tiger eye, and a fair number of slices of geode. I was able to procure 12 pounds of such slab fragments at the local rock shop, dumped unceremoniously into a bucket, for $30.00. Enough to make four or five tops of this size.

Anyway, 'sgonna be cool. News in a week after it's done curing.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Core Dump

2009-06-28T23:24:00.006-06:00

This evening I am awake when I should be asleep. There are two possible reasons for this:

I ate a large bowl of homemade chocolate pudding that probably had more caffeine in it than a double-shot espresso sprinkled with powdered No Doz.
My brain is full of things that need to get out of my brain and on to paper (or pixels or binary strings on a hard drive sector).

In retrospect, that's a false dichotomy. I think 1. started a cascade that allowed 2. to manifest itself.

Whatever the reason, I am awake, and I am pensive.

One thing I am thinking about are different character quirks I have. I hesitate to call them flaws, only because in a past life I probably focused too much on what I was told were my flaws...among them were clumsy, disorganized, scatter-brained, etc.

Clumsy -- well, I never claimed to be Baryshnikov.

Having a hyper-creative mind that thinks pretty radially rather than linearly does tend to make it difficult to organize your life in three dimensions. Scatter-brained, deprived of the value judgement, actually describes me very well. If I want to attack a moving problem, seems like a shotgun works better than a deer rifle. Few of life's problems are sitting still, waiting for the marksman, so I'll take scatter-brained and embrace it.

The challenge is that I am an extremely visual person. That's why I have to have things hanging up, not in drawers. That's why I need piles, not files. The anal-retents who write books on organization create wonderful systems that work for other anal-retents. Me, I've bought a dozen books on how to clear your clutter, how to organize your life, how to create a system so you'll never, ever misplace anything again.

After enduring criticism from family members (okay, just a few of them) for years, and having endured another decade or two from my own internal parental voice, I am coming to the conclusion that I am, for better or for worse, never going to be able to put my life into neat little boxes. I'll never be the poster child for The Container Store, which I feel is indicative of a mild but disturbing pathology. But that's another posting altogether.

So I've come up with an approach that I think works for me. Here it is. Your mileage may vary.

First: accept the fact that I will never be neat and tidy.

This is not throwing in the towel. I'm not resigned to being a slob, I'm resigning to the fact that no matter what, a Franklin Planner will never, ever work for me. I've tried it twice, felt pretty lousy about it twice, and took my covers to Goodwill so some other person can feel bad about themselves for not being able to write an event down six different places (daily, weekly, fortnightly, monthly, annually, and in the section called "Important things that will cause the world to spin wildly off its axis if forgotten"). Sorry for the run on sentence.

My pile of gear (above) shows the problem I have. Unlike a multidimensional database, where everything can be related to everything else, gear exists in a physical space. So the problem arises when I try to find a system that works best. Do I categorize gear and put it with its messmates? All dry bags together, all cook kits together, all headlamps together? That's fine until I try to pack for a trip. Then I forget something, even with a list.

The alternative is to keep things packed as if I were leaving tomorrow. Great, but my trips are not all created equal. I sometimes need a tow belt, sometimes I don't. First aid kit, yes, but which one? The small one? The big one? The portable ER?

I'm still working out a system. I accept it will not be perfect. That's fine.

Second: Take a good inventory.

In the process of remodeling our bathroom, it became obvious that the bathtub we chose would not work in the space without moving a wall about six inches. This six inches was to come out of my closet.

I have a small closet, just 30 inches wide. But when we had to move all my clothes downstairs and laid everything out on the guest room bed and floor, I was appalled. I am by no means a clothes horse, but I surely don't need twenty button-down shirts. Or twenty pairs of shoes. Or six pair of jeans. And so on and so forth.

When you lay it all out, you see how much there is, and it's a lot. I dare you to take everything out of your closet and lay it out so you can see every garment, every shoe, every belt. Unless you're Imelda Marcos, the result will astonish you, I promise. Do it, and make sure you have a big bag ready for the thrift store.

Interestingly, I could cull 25% of it in about five minutes, without thinking about it too much. When the closet goes back together, it'll have a lot less stuff in it. Which brings me to...

Third: Get rid of stuff that you don't need.

Sounds easy, don't it? Just take every third t-shirt and pitch it. Tell that to my cousin Maude.

When Wife 1.0 was still Girlfriend .99, we helped my grandparents clean out a small house in American Fork, Utah. Maudie lived alone as a widow for better than 40 years, and in that time I don't think she threw anything away. There were stacks of newspapers and magazines and other household items everywhere, with pathways between the living room easy chair and the kitchen and bathroom. She slept in her Lazy Boy because the bedroom was inaccessible. Her basement...well...it was a Stephen King novel.

We filled two large dumpsters with magazines as far back as 1950, spices in cans that were rusted out, and patent medicines from the 1930s. It was like a giant time capsule. Among the junk were a few little patches of civilization, like a small pocketwatch that Maudie's daughter gave to me for helping, found in the bottom of an old shoe box.

Maudie was a dear soul, and I can't imagine what caused her to hoard so much stuff...there's clearly a psychological reason for it, but for me to imagine her logic in sleeping in a chair rather than cleaning magazines off her bed is impossible.

I've always thought about what prompts me to keep something that has marginal value to me. What I do know is that giving away things makes me a lot happier than keeping them. If I buy a shirt and don't wear it for a year, good chance I should recycle it via the local thrift stores. When I do this, I always feel good. I don't do Craigslist. I'd rather let the Universe find a home for stuff where it's needed, and it seems to work out best this way. Life's a potlatch, not a garage sale.

I've done this with gear for the past few years. My acquisition of gear is always something fairly steady, as I receive samples from many manufacturers, wanting my opinion (if it's favorable). These build up for a while, then I take them to work and pass them around until they're gone.

I learned from the motorcycle / sports car phase of my life that you don't own things, they own you. Once divested of the big toys, I'm working my way back down the ladder to owning very little. Two exceptions: books, and canoes. Books because I love them, and canoes because I feel a stewardship to collect and conserve canoes that will probably be lost to the world unless I keep one. It's the one thing I feel a passionate need to do for my sport.

--------

I'm working on the process. It's not an easy one, but I am finding that divesting myself of non-essentials gives me a clarity to life that would be missing were I to surround myself, life Maudie, with stuff that could squeeze the life out of me. So tomorrow's work, since I have a day off, is to get rid of another round of non-essentials and focus on enjoying the open space, physically and spiritually, that the empty boxes provide.

I'm sure I will never write a book on how to organize your life. That said, I may end up writing one on how to live it instead.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Beware of Geek

2009-06-26T19:44:00.012-06:00

Thursday was an interesting day. With Wife 1.0 out of school for the summer, things change at Canoelover Manor. After an appropriate day of rest (or two), Wife 1.0 takes on what we call projects. Projects that would have been done during the school year if we were both meth addicts. Since we're not and have a reasonable amount of energy, the summer is when the important but not critical projects get done.

So I comes home from workin' on Wednesday and I see:

a lot of empty space on the basement storage shelves,
a large pile of stuff for the garbage,
a larger pile of thrift store donations, and
A stack of empty fruit boxes for a friend who is moving soon.

This means that a project has begun.

There were several bushel boxes I had not opened in ten years. Probably longer, as I don't think I opened them in our other house either, and we lived there seven years. So as part of the purging process of this particular basement variety project, we went through boxes, almost time capsules.

As I opened one box I could see that one of the boxes was my grad school archives...data sets, articles, and analyses. Giant printouts from mainframes, a BMDP manual, and one really good article by Paul Meehl.

For the most part, everything else was severely outdated, the programming language dead due to graphical interfaces, and while interest in my small branch of social psychology (intimacy levels in childhood and development of non-invasive testing tools to predict emotionally healthy long-term relationships) is still alive, my guess is that research was moved forward not long I left the U. of Rochester.

I gotta say it was a wee bit nostalgic to put out these reports and look at the factors, residuals, significant effects and Eigenvalues of the factorial analysis.

So I tossed the data set, and A.B.D. I will remain all the days of my life.

Also in the box I found a few statistics journals. Dumb. I started reading one and had flashbacks. Then I looked at the date: 1993. I was reading these after grad school.

Sorry. Geek City. Maybe that's why it took me so long to throw it away. I occurs to me that I was reading these for fun. Scary.

Good riddance, data set.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

I swear...this isn't my fault...

2009-06-24T17:08:00.007-06:00

...it just landed on me.

There were tons of odes out on Monday. There were a few who followed us along, zipping back and forth across our bows. Tough to identify species in that case...but you can definitely tell what family they are from. The zoomers were mostly Gomphidae (Clubtails), but the identification of an individual species from their flight is problematic for even the best entomologists and

impossible for me.

Here's the case...I identified the above creature as a Cobra Clubtail (Gomphus vastus). After closer inspection, I was wrong. It's a Midland Clubtail. See that little yellow spot on the last segment?

This, ladies and gentlemen, is why entomologists get paid the big bucks.

I'm contemplating how much ego I had invested in being able to identify this off the bat without careful consideration. Since I have to contemplate it, the answer is obviously "too much." Time for me to remember, gentle readers, that I don't know jack about anything without a trusty guidebook.

Humbly submitted,

Canoelover

The Five Stages of Gracie

2009-06-22T22:19:00.011-06:00

We went for a paddle today...lovely weather. Took Gracie along, because who doesn't love having a water dog along for the ride? Besides, I have to write a story for Sierra Magazine for the May 2010 issue on dog paddling...i.e., paddling with your dog. This was, therefore, a tax deductible event.

Gracie is a nine year-old Black Lab who still, despite her "geriatric" label refuses, much like her owner, to act her age. She is the most athletic dog I've ever owned or even known. As a pup she often put Border Collies to shame when she kicked on the afterburners. Amazing. That's why her real name is Amazing Grace.

When we take her on the River there are usually Five Stages she goes through. It's as predictable as any circadian rhythm. So here they are. A picture, in this case, is worth a thousand words.

Stage One: Enthusiasm.

Stage Two: Observation.

Stage Three: Hydration.

Stage Four: Contemplation.

Stage Five: Exhaustion.

Paddling with the pup. Doesn't get any better.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

The Life of a Pelegrina proterva

2009-06-21T16:27:00.006-06:00

When an animal is called reckless, you gotta love it. When an animal is called a Reckless Jumper, you have to think Evel Knievel. This little fellow (he is a he) is a Pelegrina proterva, a spider also known as the R.J. Like Evel Knievel, he can job several times his body length. Unlike Evel Knievel, he hasn't broken every bone in his body three or four times, and he doesn't need a motorcycle.

This is a variant of the P. proterva, a P. proterva niger, a little Black R. J. They are very, very small but make up for it in attitude. They are fearless, and when I saw him on a railing around a pier I stuck my finger by him. He reared up like they do when they are trying to make themselves look big, and then jumped three inches to my finger. That's about 10 times his body length. Think about jumping 60 feet and you'll see why I like these little dudes.

Proterva means "reckless" in Latin. It is a good name. There is also a Pelegrina audax, the Bold Jumper, audax meaning bold (think about audacious - audax is the root). Salticidae (the order of jumping spiders) are all pretty curious, and I think it's their curiousity that makes them so much fun. The walk up to you, you don't have to sneak after them.

Enjoying arachnids as much as odonates,

Canoelover

P.S. Going canoeing with the family tomorrow. Promise to post pics before the blog name changes to buglover. DB

Twenty five square feet, twenty five minutes.

2009-06-18T18:47:00.007-06:00

An experiment...how many different interesting insects and arachnids can I find in less than a half an hour in an area I can reach without taking a step.

The answer is dozens. But here are a few highlights.

A tiny little wasp of the genus Ammophila. Your guess is as good as mine on the species, there are a thousand of them. Obviously a female from the ovipositor.

This little dude is about 3/8 of an inch long. A fly, not a bee, and from the subfamily Eristalinae, which are flies that imitate bees for protection from predation. Pretty cool. Again, genus and species are anyone's guess. My guess is an E. flavipes. Probably wrong.

There are a few others, of course, but there needs to remain some mystery in life.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Another ode post...

2009-06-17T19:13:00.003-06:00

Actually, it's not an odonate post. It's a Zygoptera post.

Behind the shop is about as far as I can get these days. 20 minutes after I wolf down a sandwich is my lunchtime break, and I usually take a few pictures just to keep the camera happy.

This is the time when damselflies (suborder Zygoptera) are more abundant and are happier to sit still in the wind, and generally are easier to photograph. The dragonflies (infraorder Anisoptera) are zooming all over so I can't get a decent shot until they chill out a bit.

So here's an Eastern Forktail (Ischnura verticalis). Skittish. This was pretty close.

Here's an Orange Bluet (Enallagma signatum) eating a gnat.

Sorry for the redundancies from the last post, but it was worth it to put the E. signatum eating the gnat on here.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

You knew it was coming...

2009-06-15T18:50:00.005-06:00

Did you think my interest in odonates would wane over the long, cruel, odonateless winter?

Of course not. It is a strong interest. Obsession would mean that I have ODONATE on my license plate or something like that. When the DMV sends me my new plates, then we'll call it an obsession.

So there were a few dragonflies out and about, but they were not perching much and were not in the mood to be photographed. They were in the mood for eating and for scaring away other dragonflies. They're sorta turfy this time of year, keeping rivals out of their area in elaborate mini dogfights that I would love to see in super slo-mo.

Damsels, on the other hand, were perching quite nicely as the wind was more than a puff here and there, and damselflies are poor fliers in general, so they were hiding on the lee side of the grasses and keeping still. It's easy to spot an paradoxically-named Orange Bluet (Enallagma signatum). The males are a little brighter...these are males.

A few feet away I found a Stream Bluet (Enallagma exulans). Exulans means cast out or wandering. Wonder what he did to get kicked out. My guess is that it just means they're all over the place. Like Canis domesticus goldenretrieverii. They've taken over Mad town.

Anyway...Stream Bluets and Orange Bluets made my lunch hour (20 minutes) pretty memorable. It's the sign of things to come. Common Green Darners and some Pondhawks were making their rounds but my lens and autofocus were way out-gunned. So I just enjoyed the Enallagma twins.

Until more odonates show up,

Canoelover

There are some things I do not understand...

2009-06-10T20:13:00.002-06:00

...and personal watermelons is one of them. By definition, a watermelon must be larger than a softball. That is my official utterance.

Bemusedly,

Canoelover

Time to stop thinking so much...

2009-06-08T17:04:00.003-06:00

...and post a picture of a giant Mantis religiosa. Just outside the Butterfly Pavillion in Westminster, Colorado.

Excellent use of fiberglass and resin, I must say.

Canoelover

Canoelover's "Approaching 40 Matrix of Life Change"

2009-06-06T07:26:00.011-06:00

I didn't name it. My friend Andrew Luter did. Thanks, Andrew.

The back story is this.

I used to work as a statistician, specifically in epidemiology for the Department of Health. Since a lot of epi involves 2x2 tables, I tend to think about life in terms of exposure vs. outcome. This is usually a simple model in disease surveillance. That is, did Person A get exposed to [X], and did Person A show a resulting behavior or symptom. Do that for a few hundred people and you start to see the link between exposure to [X] and the outcome.

You can see links between lots of things - eating potato salad and getting food poisoning at a church picnic. Exposure to infomercials and likelihood of massive credit card debt. Eating Pop Tarts and mental retardation. Drinking 9 PBRs and likelihood of getting arrested for public urination. In this case, it's the relationship between laryngectomy and smoking. Guess what? you're more likely to have to talk like a Cylon the rest of your life if you smoke. So unless you're a Battlestar Galactica fan, lay off the Marlboros.

But this isn't always about disease. For example, you could look at exposure to a positive thing and the outcomes of that. Example: exposure to bicycling in childhood vs. adult obesity. Don't know if this has been studied, but it makes sense that exposure to a healthy lifestyle early leads to healthy habits later in life.

Enough back story, although it is fascinating.

As I approached 40, I started thinking about my life. Actuaries would tell me I would be about half done (80's a good number), and my brain turned to the two-by-two table model. Seems like there were two variables...the timeline (past and future) and the relative value of the experience (positive or negative). So I build this table:

So basically you can divide past experiences into positive and negative ones. I'll leave out neutral experiences as they seem to be a part of life that is constant, and over which we have little control. They just happen.

You can also divide future events into positive and negative ones, based on your choices. So to fill in the table, I wrote these words:

So step by step:

Positive/Past - Remember the experiences. They are both a gift as well as the fruits of your labors.
Positive/Future - Enhance these experiences. Make up your mind to create more of them, and do the work that is necessary for this to happen.
Negative/Past - Repent of them. This may or may not have a religious connotation, depending on your world view. In this case I look at it as a literal interpretation of the process of repentance - to rethink what went wrong and change.
Negative/Future - Eliminate these things as much as you possibly can. A lot of this will be based on your ability to repent of past mistakes and decide to move as many experiences as you can into the Future/Positive cell.

Anyway...I made up this table in my mind, and started mentally filling the cells. Here's what I came up with:

Positive/Past

Amazing wife who loves me unconditionally. A huge blessing.
Wonderful children who love me and I love them.
Enough financial means to live comfortably though not extravagantly.
An understanding of what brought me to this point in life.

Positive / Future

Keep working on building a strong relationship with spouse. Make it a priority.
Invest time in relationships with kids. Enjoy their uniqueness and love of life.
Keep wants under control and live more frugally if possible. Donate so others may be comfortable and have what they need.
Remember the people who brought me to this point, including God. Be grateful for all of them.

Negative / Past

I don't want to work for a crazy person anymore.
I don't want to have to compare myself to anyone to be happy.
I don't want to be negative or critical of myself or others.
I don't want to be unhappy.

As far as Negative/Future, it's an unneccessary cell for me as the goal is to eliminate them.

This was, I must admit, an illuminating exercise. This is not the complete list, of course, as some of these things are highly personal and not for public consumption. But you can get the idea.

The Powerful Idea here is that you can direct the future of your life. The reason I feel people get stuck is that they can't get their heads wrapped around this simple fact...you are the director of the film called "My Life." Not your spouse, your boss, your pastor, bishop, or priest, or the President of the United States. No one can tell you what you must do. You may choose to take advice from some of these people, but ultimately, it's your call.

The caveat of the Powerful Idea is that whatever you choose to do will have consequences. This is the part that many middle-aged men forget when they decide they hate their lives, leave their wives and kids and move to Mexico with their 27 year-old secretary (ex-friend of mine did just so). The consequences are that you reap the Karma you sow.

What happened from this examination of my life is that I informed the person I was working for (who was indeed mentally unstable) that I was either quitting or buying him out, the ultimate Texas Put. He at first stated the business wasn't for sale, so I started job hunting. The business suddenly became available for sale. Surprising how that works.

I also realized that I needed to spend more time with my wife and kids, and to invest more in those relationships. Still working on that one, but I am getting better. My wife thinks so anyway, and it's her opinion that matters.

I am more grateful, and a lot less negative and less hard on myself, habits that come from past experience of which I have and continue to repent. Through the help of antidepressants I find it much easier to be happy. My brain works better now.

I still struggle with wants vs. needs. but so does everyone. I just need to be aware of it.

Seven years after this little exercise, I find myself in an enviable position. My life is better, and I am grateful to those who have helped me along this path.

The best part - it looks like it's only going to get better, as long as I keep the matrix in mind.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Why Canoelover?

2009-06-04T23:57:00.002-06:00

You be the judge.

Happy June!

2009-06-01T08:32:00.001-06:00

Have a wonderful, wonderful day.

Canoelover

Teaching + Learning = Leaching?

2009-05-30T20:05:00.005-06:00

Spent a good chunk of today helping Sam Crowley teach a group of perspective instructors. Sam's an ACA Instructor Trainer (IT) who certifies instructors who learn the skills to model and teach proper technique. More importantly he's a good friend and a very considerate houseguest. Sam always brings flowers to my wife when he says with us. Very smart man, Sam is.

It's not a yard sale. Really.

Sam asked me to teach one of the stroke sections. So I did, and it was fine. I asked for feedback and I got a really good piece of information. Basically, I talk too much. The analytical students were sucking it all up. The others were looking at their watches and wondering when I was going to shut up.

So the best thing I learned today was that the less you talk, the more people learn, and if you can give specifics after the students model the behavior, they'll probably solve a lot of problems on their own.

So while I taught, I was really learning. I think that most people divide the world into "learning time" and "teaching time." I got to experience the pleasure of teaching and the humility that comes from being taught by someone with a real talent for tailoring content to the type of learners. Something I need to consider in the future.

When Sam modeled techniques the students were riveted. They were all like sponges, and it was a pleasure to be around so many positive and enthusiastic people.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Canoelover's Cocoa Recipe

2009-05-29T07:42:00.006-06:00

Blantant product placement.

2 c. milk. Our family prefers Sassy Cow Creamery Skim.
3/4 c. cocoa powder. Trust me on this.
1 Tbsp. sugar
1/2 tsp. Penzey's Chili Powder 3000.

Heat milk, whisk in the cocoa. It will look more like thin pudding than hot cocoa. This is good. Add sugar and chili powder. Serve in a Rutabaga Mug.

Serves 4. Or one copywriter with a project due and an empty head.

My delicate constitution is hypersensitive to caffeine because I don't indulge often and I don't drink coffee, black tea, or Red Bull. After a full batch of this I was shaking like an old laundromat washing machine with one short foot and a full load of sheets that are unbalanced and heading into the spin cycle. Had lunch with my buddy David and he later found out I had slammed a four shots of chocolate tar and he exclaimed, "That explains a lot." I guess I was wiggly.

Enjoy in moderation,

Canoelover

P.S. Astute observers will notice the hideous wallpaper in the first photo. Circa 1962. We're the second owners of a 60 year-old house, and the kitchen is the last to be done. I'm estimating $20-30K.

Non-astute observers will now notice the hideous wallpaper because I pointed it out. Awesome.

In Praise of Flatness

2009-05-29T07:05:00.005-06:00

Sunflowers, somewhere in South Dakota.

I grew up in the West and spent a lot of time in California and Utah, where mountains are what it's all about. You climb them, look at them, and generally, everyone assumes that beauty is all

about how big or tall something is.

As much as I enjoy the mountains, I have to admit a bias for smaller vistas. I'm not sure how to explain it biologically or psychologically, but I do think that some people have a predilection for certain landscapes. Stick a !Kung on a beautiful mountain top and he's likely to scream and hug the ground.

I believe my genetics are predisposed to like flat, or at least gently rolling. Grandeur is in the mind if not the eye of the beholder. My grandeur is smaller and more intimate.

I've spent a decent amount of time driving around south-central and south-western Wisconsin these past few weeks. To be honest, it has been hard to take the highways, and despite the extra time, I've stayed on County Roads most of the time. They're usually lettered and though that's somewhat boring, it's eminently practical. Practicality is a midwestern virtue, ranked right up there with being steady, the nicest thing you can say about a man or a woman.

What I have discovered is that somewhere in my brain there is a nerve cluster, a ganglion if you will, that is activated when I spend time in the Driftless Area, the part of Wisconsin that was not glaciated. It speaks to me, and the fact that there are more cows than people in this part of the state probably doesn't hurt either.

I guess my point is that everywhere has beauty. Deserts or rain forests, coulees or canyons, it's all good. It just takes opening your eyes a bit, and more importantly, opening your mind a little bit too.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Snailing, the Sport of Kings

2009-05-26T17:27:00.003-06:00

Falconry? No way. I prefer snailing.

Why?

Snails do not have sharp talons. No glove is needed. Snails also leave a mucus behind that acts as a waterproof coating, saving me the trouble of using waterproofing restorer.
Falconry is all about show. Hoods and jesses, regal Accipters preening their lustrous feathers on the arm of some vassal. All for what...a mangled rabbit? Seems like a lot of pomp and circumstance for a piece of roadkill.
This is overlooked quite often: snails do not kill things. This saves you the trouble of gutting and skinning your roadkill and cooking it, picking pieces grass and dirt out of it because your raptor hit the rabbit so hard it went back in time.

Okay, there's one downside. You can't go snailing at an SCA convention. Snails are not really authentic for the period in question.

But all in all, snailing works for me. I go out for a snailing session, see lots of cool birds and rodents, and after attempting to launch my snail at a quarry, I remember, "Oh, that's right. Snails don't actually kill anything. How silly of me." Then I stop at the grocery store and buy a rotisserie chicken.

So let's add it up. Thanks to a handy list at Mike's Falconry, I learned that hawk food costs between a buck and three bucks a day. Hawk mews (essentially a birdhouse) can cost $250.00 to $1,500.00. Add basic falconry gear ($300-$500) plus a permit from the DNR, and you can see that falconry is going to require a lot of rabbits to make the numbers work for a decent ROI.

Conservatively, let's say it costs $2,000 to get started and feed a falcon for a year.

That's a rotisserie chicken a day for a year.

Snailing Costs: A small box to bring home your snail. Free at the drug store. Snail housing: aquarium with a crack in it that the people across the street left on the curb. Free. You can see where we're going here.

Granted, it might not be as exciting as falconry, but I think snailing is a good thing that will catch on. Before you laugh, consider what other sports started small and tapered off, like wallyball or curling or cat juggling, for example.

Excuse me, I need to go feed my snail some of the neighbor's salad mix.

Irrespectfully submitted after a long, tough day,

Canoelover

Happy Memorial Day

2009-05-25T06:02:00.003-06:00

Thanks, veterans (and active duty folks). It's a tough time to be a soldier. Hope you'll be home with your husbands and wives, parents, sisters, brothers, girlfriends and boyfriends this time next year. To the thousands of you in VA Hospitals, call Joe Morini at Team River Runner. This is for you.

Going paddling on the Wisconsin River today. Probably a traffic jam, but we'll see if we can sneak in a section with a low DPIAIT* Factor.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

* Drunk person in an inner tube.

More Product Development and Testing

2009-05-22T16:04:00.007-06:00

Took a short (2 hour) paddle this morning on the Sugar River. Bill Kueper, VP from Wenonah Canoe, was down for an overnight visit. We solved all the world's problems. But since the world won't listen to us, we settled for tweaking boat mixes for a few hours. Bill hadn't used a traditional paddle much (he's more of a carbon-fiber dude) so he was spending a lot of time experimenting with it.

You can totally tell he's a scientist (Dr. Kueper was a 3M chemist before he came to work in the outdoor industry). Bill is wicked smart, but unlike some wicked smart people he's not arrogant and extremely interested in what works. Not what is right, not what is true, but what works.

I agree with Bill. When it comes to Sporting Goods, let's reserve the ideas of Right and Truth for the theologists. When it comes to canoes, there are no Rights and Truths, just acceptable compromises.

Jon accompanied us in his Argosy. Sweet.

Today is one of those days where my entire life is a tax deduction.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Product Testing on Badfish Creek

2009-05-21T06:50:00.005-06:00

A lot of people tell me I have the perfect job.

This could be offensive to me if I felt the person saying that had a clue as to what my job really entails. Truth is, a lot of the time what I do for work is what everyone else does for work too—the basics of running a business. Opening and sorting bills (a lot of them), being creative on demand (exhausting), dealing with HR issues (luckily I have a fairly low-maintenance staff), and planning what is coming down the road to make sure we're on target to get stuff done.

I write orders for stuff we're out of. I clean off my desk and answer voicemails. I tell 5-8 people a week I'm not interested in "sponsoring" their "expedition" to raise "awareness" for "[insert a specific disease here]." N.B.: If you want to receive sponsorship, write a proposal and show you've done your homework. 99% of people do not do this. Otherwise, expect to pay for your own vacation.

What I love about my industry is that the people, irrespective of whether or not I carry their product, are really good, smart, interesting people. Example: Marty Cronin of Jackson Kayak. We are not a Jackson Kayak dealer (yet), but Marty spent a good day and a half with me, and we did some product testing. The product testing is the thing I like most, besides the people.

We took a few boats, the new Allwater series, designed for both flat and moving water. They performed quite admirably, and Marty was able to get a few pictures, the first of this boat in conditions for which it was designed.

So Marty got some good pictures (I think he did). I got a little sun. I paddled a good boat, and I strengthened a friendship. I'd call that a good day. Not a perfect day, but I like to save a degree of freedom just in case a perfect day does come along.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

P.S. No, I don't know why it's called that. Maybe the redhorse that are so prevalent are not considered goodfish. Maybe someone got skunked on a day they played hooky from work. Whatever the reason behind the name, the Badfish is a sweet little creek. If you know how to make your boat go where you want it to go in pushy water, I highly recommend it.

My brain cloud

2009-05-19T19:36:00.000-06:00

Testing the Kelly Kettle

2009-05-18T20:23:00.005-06:00

Sometimes there appears a piece of kit that is so simple and ingenius you wonder why no one else thought of it before. This is such a piece of kit.

Kelly Kettles were invented by Irish fishermen so they could have a cuppa tea, using just a few

tufts of grass and a few pieces of driftwood. It's basically small firepan (that stores in the bottom of the kettle) with a chimney up the center of a small teapot. The water is in a jacket surrounding the chimney. Once you start a little fire, you toss a few more sticks in the top of the volcano top. This is an efficient little system. I wanted to find out how efficient it really is.

I wanted to use a fuel that would be readily available in a boreal environment where this kettle might be used, so I gathered this small pile of pinecones. The test was to see how long it would take 2 cups exactly of cold tap water to come to a rolling boil.

From match to rolling boil was exactly 3 minutes, 15 seconds. Not bad. Here's proof.

So basically, this is a Jetboil that runs on sticks and pinecones. Environmental impact - minimal. Fossil fuels burned - zero. Convenience - pretty good, actually. Am I replacing my stoves? Nope, but this is a great addition if you want the convenience of hot water for a cup of tea at lunch without dragging out and setting up a stove.

Now to get a wholesale account so I can spread these far and wide in the canoeing community.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

A Windows-Down Day

2009-05-18T07:08:00.014-06:00

It wasn't a perfect day.

It wasn't a perfect day because I want to have someplace to go if something improves. I can't find a thing I'd change about this day except to make it slightly longer.

I had a church assignment to speak in a tiny little congregation in Richland Center, Wisconsin. 25 people at our services, and their warmth and love for each other was almost palpable. When I compare this to Saddleback Church (Inc.)...well, I can't, really. Most churches are dot orgs. Saddleback is a dot com. 'Nuf said.

Anyway, driving through southwestern Wisconsin is always a treat, and especially on windows-down-30 mph days when you don't pass tractors or hay wagons. Hey, why hurry? You just miss more cool stuff. Windows down means you smell the sweet scent of barnyards (I think they smell good, your mileage may vary). You miss the huge lilac bushes planted by farmers a century ago, which hit you in the face with their scent a few moments after passing them, a sort of olfactory whiplash that says "Hey, you missed me!"

The GPS is a treat tool for getting lost because you always know exactly where you are. This means taking County Road Double O instead of Highway 14. This means you see horse manure on the road, a sure sign you're in an Amish enclave. This means you might see one or two other cars but mostly, you see people standing in fields, mending fences, who actually wave to you as you pass.

So we took backroads there and backroads home, but we detoured to Governor Dodge State Park to take a hike on our favorite trail, the White Pine Trail. Huge old growth pines, not native to Southern Wisconsin were pushed here by a lobe of a glacier and they decided to stay. Add to that the riot of wildflowers erupting these days and you're bound to have a great walk.

I had misplaced my little camera and my big camera was on loan, so I borrowed my son's little point-and-shoot and it takes decent pictures. Here are some of the wildflowers we spotted, by no means a complete inventory of what we were privileged to see yesterday.

---

Wood anenomes (Anenome quinquefolia) are always lovely, but small and easy to overlook. They look like a strawberry blossom, and can grow in huge patches, but today I just saw solitary flowers.

May Apples (Podophyllum peltatum) are from the same family as some of the more poisonous plants (it's also locally called Mandrake). It's related to purple cohosh, which some indiginous folks used for female troubles. Apparently some still do. Nature's pharmacy, no?

I like Hepatica, but I always seem to miss their extremely ephemeral flowers. The good news is that like Bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis), the leaves are as interesting as the flower. This is Hepatica acutiloba. Lovely, subtle leaves, no?

Bellwort (Uvularia grandifloria). Check out that perfoliate leaf. I love that. I have no idea what the adaptive quality of having a leaf surround a stem, or to have a stem grow through a leaf (to each his own), but it makes it easy to identify.

Nodding Trillium (Trillium cernuum) are blooming and we found a few solitary plants as well as a large patch. According to my friend Megan, the north woods trillium are so thick it "looks like a Kleenex factory blew up." Trenchant metaphor, sis.

Marsh Marigolds (Caltha palustris) are also called "Cowslips." I don't know the etymology of that. Maybe cows like 'em. They're in the buttercup family (Ranunculaceae)* so they're technically not marigolds at all.

I saw lots of other cool plants and even a really lovely bird (a Scarlet Tanager, which Eagle Eye spotted sitting on a rotten log). Good catch, Ian.

It's amazing to live in a place of such beauty, such diversity, such richness. Some of you know I grew up in Southern California, which is essentially a desert if it weren't for sprinklers and irrigation. Sure, the flora and fauna of So Cal has its beauty...a whole hillside covered with California Golden Poppies is breathtaking. But the variety, for the most part, isn't there. Monocultures are unhealthy at best and ugly at worst. So coming to Wisconsin 25 years ago was a spiritual thing for me. Not only is there an embarrassment of riches in the diversity of the plant life, you multiply that diversity by a factor of four, as each season has its differences. Spring ephemerals are just that...you need to take time to look right now or else you miss it for another year.

The good news: there's always next year.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

*I spelled Ranunculaceae without looking. I am justifiably proud of my official botany geek status. :-)

The Dump

2009-05-11T09:13:00.002-06:00

So I just hauled over 1,000 pounds of bathroom remodel debris to the County Landfill ('dump' is so 1970s). It smelled like a dump. Usually does.

The one thing that made it cool ... a truck pulled in next to me with a grandfather, the bed full of old crappy furniture. In the passenger seat was a tow-headed kid, about four years old, wearing a huge grin and waving to me.

Clearly, this kid was in four year-old heaven, with two huge front end loaders driving over the garbage and scooping it up and moving it around. He seemed especially fascinated with the loader with the big spikey wheels...crunching a dresser like it was made of balsa wood and leaving nothing but splinters.

The moral of the story? Take a kid to the dump. It'll make their day.

Smelly but happy,

Canoelover

The invasion of the Canadians

2009-05-08T15:43:00.009-06:00

It's weird. A large percentage of wildflowers and plants in Wisconsin are of the species canadensis or canadense. Makes me think that Linnaeus was getting some Canadian nookie while he was churning out the names of classifications of things. Like this Asarum canadense (Wild Ginger).

Or Eastern Redbuds (Cercis canadensis).

Or Mountain Columbine (Aquilegia canadensis).

Or Bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis).

Point is, half the bloody plants in my backyard seemed to be named for Canada. Even some of the birds (Sitta canadensis) are getting in on the whole Canadian thing.

For the time being I'll allow it, but if this continues I'm going to start sending you invasive species, so watch out Canadians. I'll send you Arrogant Faux Cowboys (Homo Texasiana) or Snobby Effete East Coasters (Homo Bostoniata), and perhaps some west coast variants (Homo Orangecountius Republicanii). Worse, I could introduce the ultimate Ugly American (Homo touristica). At any rate, you Canadians will beg for mercy.

That, or I'll just have to move to Canada. Go with the flow, eh?

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

The Project

2009-05-07T07:16:00.003-06:00

So we bought an old house ten years ago. It has been uninhabited for a couple years, and before that a widow lived there alone for ten years. In realtorspeak, there had been some deferred maintenance. That's what realtors say when the roof leaks and there's an 80-gallon electric hot water heater. Some hot water heater salesman is hopefully frying in hell for selling a widow with a 30 gallon bathtub an expensive monstrosity.

We have poked away at remodeling, redoing one bathroom, adding another bathroom in the basement, refinishing wood floors, etc. And my wife has stripped several square miles of hideous wallpaper (wallpaper is evil).

The kitchen will need a remodel at some point, but it's functional, but the bathroom upstairs...pink carpeting over green linoleum, pink and white tile in the shower, and faux marble sink and vanity. Mold on the walls and really ugly lighting. In short, something that looks good in 1972 probably needs an update. That, and as the only room with carpeting in the house, it attracts Gracie, who likes to back-scratch on the carpet. So not only is it ugly, it smells like Black Lab.

Since we can't afford a contractor, we decided to contract it out ourselves, working with Adam, a great guy /neighbor / carpenter. He's helping me do the big stuff. I have a plumber and electrician retained, and we'll do the tile ourselves. The walls will be cedar and unfinished.

Surprise -- the plumber who is usually booked up for a month or two is free next week. So we got a lotta work to get done before he comes. This project just got fast-tracked.

So if I don't write much about canoes (which is, after all, what I should be writing about), forgive me. I'm sorta busy hauling buckets of drywall to the utility trailer.

Oh, for the record, I hate remodeling.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

(Fridge) Poetry

2009-05-05T17:56:00.011-06:00

I like good poetry. Actually, I love good poetry.

What I mean by that is that I like Wendell Berry. And Robert Frost. And Maya Angelou. Better yet, Baxter Black and Wally McRae. Wordsmiths, of course. They always use the right word in the right place. And to quote Mark Twain, "The difference between the right word and almost the right word is like the difference between lightning and the lightning bug."

And what I also mean by that is that I do not like bad poetry. You know, poetry by those who use The Poetry Voice when they read it. You've never heard The Poetry Voice? Here is an example.

Some of the bad stuff out there is from amateur poets who put their stuff out on the Internet or on their blogs. I feel that just as much of it comes from academia. In many ways it is worse, partly because a) they should know better and b) they're so self-referential that no one but other academic poetasters can actually understand them. If you don't get it, you're stupid. Or ill-bred. Or both. Like Duke Ellington said..."If it sounds good, it is good."

I, an MFA,
Will inquire in free verse...
Would you like the fries?

So no offense to those who actually write poetry that sounds good, enriches the soul, and leaves

you feeling like you just ate a paragraph of hot fudge sundae or a really ripe verbal mango. Not that your poetry has to be good...it's good to write it anyway. Just don't make the assumption that anyone else wants to read or hear it. Do I write poetry? Sure do. Do I publish it to the world? Hell, no. But my wife sure likes it. So there ya go. I please my audience of one, and consider it an effort well-rewarded.

The whirled wide interweb makes everyone an author. Instantaneously. That is the frightening thing.

Off the soapbox. Sorry.

My opinion is that the best place for poetry is the refrigerator. This is where democracy meets magnetic strips of words. Our fridge was overrun with three sets of poetry - the Standard, the Latin, and the Shakespeare. The combination can be volatile. But when teenage kids waiting for the frozen pizza to come out of the oven write stuff on the fridge, it's always interesting.

Claptrap? Well, when you consider where it came from and the limited vocabulary from which the poet could select, it ain't half-bad. And it was probably done by a thirteen year-old.

This one is almost assuredly my son's work.

My favorite fridge poem is no longer intact. An Amish family we know pretty well was visiting us. They were on an overnight to Ohio and we're halfway, and we are considered decent folks for English. They had half of their kids (five or six) with them, and almost immediately the teenagers crowded around the door of the fridge. These are the same kids who were so excited about a new game (Boggle) I gave them the game for Christmas. Apparently they still play it a lot.

When the Herschbergers pulled out the next day, there was a small corner of the fridge they cleared off, and there was this little "poem" in the corner:

WE LOVE YOU.
PLEASE COME SEE US SOON.
LOVE, US.

If there were such thing as an Amish Poet Laureate, my guess is they'd write simple stuff like this. My guess is that the Amish would like haiku.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

P.S. No family is immune. This is my wife's cousin's work.

What is a weed anyway?

2009-05-01T18:18:00.004-06:00

Wood Violets (Viola papilionacea) are considered weeds by some people. Those people would be ill-bred, slack-jawed, boorish, hirsute yet prigish troglodytes who need everything just a certain way. Their lawns look like golf courses and are just as toxic. They are everything I hate about suburbia: the guise of perfection. These lawns are, to quote Jesus, "like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men's bones, and of all uncleanness.*"

Okay, so maybe that's a little harsh. But I gotta say it gets my goat when I see one of the keepers of the Green Sepulchres applying broadleaf killer. I mean, this is our state flower, people. Is nothing sacred?

Apparently not. So we have decided our lawn is a safe haven for the genus Viola. We mow high so they can suck as much energy as they can while they're still leafed out. This allows small children to pick tiny little boquets for their mothers. Any mother who has not received one of these tiny boquets doesn't know what they're missing.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

*Matthew 23:27, King James Version Word. Literally.