Mondays that feel like Sundays

My generous employer gave us both Friday and Monday off for the Fourth O’ July weekend, so yesterday morning found me following an extra-relaxed weekend regimen. As my internal alarm clock stridently announces that it’s 0530 and TIME TO GET UP without any respect to weekends or holidays, I quite often find myself sitting out on the front porch enjoying a cuppa java, a book, and the companionship of Brave (yet groggy) Sir Hogarth. Hogarth’s a bit odd when it comes to these early morning sabbaticals on the porch.

On one hand, he’s mortally offended if I don’t invite him out with me; he will sit at the storm door and pout. But if I do bring him out, he goes to pains to demonstrate that he thinks we’re getting an entirely too early start on the day. This can take the form of ostentatious stretching, sprawled out power-napping, or a wide, wide yawn:

Once the rest of the house begins to stir, we head inside and begin the next phase of the day. That phase mostly entails the finding of a means of escape. That often takes the form of flying somewhere, but yesterday it worked out such that I was able to get out of the house for some nature communing by inviting Brandon to fly down from Lima and do a little kayaking. The weather was great for both as it turns out. Brandon wouldn’t arrive until a little after 11:30, but that was fine with me. Not only was the porch still comfortable and appealing, but there was also the rumor going around that a B-17 would be landing sometime around 11am. Bolton was using runway 4, so if the B-17 actually showed up it would be flying right past the front of my house on final approach to the runway. And that’s exactly what happened:

I got some close-ups after Brandon arrived:

After a few minutes of poking around the Flying Fortress, we loaded up the boats and headed for the lake. Brandon had never been in a kayak and I’ve found that it’s much easier to learn how to do it on a calm lake than it is to learn the way I did. My first time was going down a river and there are memories of struggling to avoid hitting trees, rocks, and other immovable objects that convince me that it’s not friendly to either the boat or the person to try that again.

The lake was nice and quiet, probably because just about everybody else was back at work. I briefly explained to Brandon that the kayak would feel a lot “tippier” than a canoe, but to not worry too much about it as it takes a deliberate effort to get one to flip over.

As explained to me at the kayak clinic I attended, there’s a thing called “secondary stability.” As the boat tips to one side, more of the hull comes into contact with the surface of the water and stabilizes the boat. I remember the clinic instructor describing it as if it was a universally applicable fact. I now believe otherwise. Brandon climbed into the boat, I gave him a push away from the ramp, and I turned around to get into my boat. That’s when I heard:

“Hey, you’re right. These are pretty stab…..” Kersplash!

I turned around to see what had happened and saw no sign of Brandon, although there was an upside-down kayak where I had last seen him. I was just getting ready to run into the lake to see if he was stuck under the boat when he popped to the surface. It’s a good thing I had told him to wear shoes that he didn’t mind getting wet, but I suppose one could argue that perhaps that advice could have been expanded to include outerwear as well, should one choose to that uncharitable to your host.

Still, once you’re wet there’s not mush else to lose so we loaded up for another try. The second attempt went swimmingly, so to speak. We paddled up to the top of the lake and back. The wildlife was out in abundance, and I even ran across some Blue Herons that weren’t nearly as skittish as those I see on the Big Darby. I was able to paddle up to within just a couple of feet without them flying away. Figures. I didn’t have my camera with me. I know, right? I can’t believe I did that again!

After boating, it was back to Bolton for a lunch at JP’s BBQ. Having the luxury of not having to fly home, I was able to treat myself to two items I would never consider consuming before flying. I had the King Bull sandwich, which is deep fried polish sausage, chili, and onions on a bun. And a beer. Yummy!

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Early starts

My personal list of things that are improved by getting an early start continues to grow. Consider:

– Flying. The air is cooler and smoother, there are fewer airplanes to deal with in the battle for limited-capacity shared resources (runways, parking spots, pie), and the greenhouse cockpit of an RV has not yet gotten hot enough to cook a pizza.
– Driving to work. Every five minutes late out the door is another 10,000 cars on the road being driven by women doing their makeup and men pretending they’re racing the last lap at Talladega.
– Running/jogging/biking: see ‘Flying’ re: temperatures.

To that list I have now added kayaking. But we’ll get to that.

I’m just back from an early breakfast at Urbana for the second week in a row. Co-pilot Rick, who is now a necessary component of the airplane to the degree that I rarely fly alone anymore, has had afternoon commitments for the last couple of weekends and the weather forecasts for the late afternoon have also been somewhat cruddy.

There’s nothing wrong with the idea of flying out to breakfast per se, but it does come with the slight additional baggage of feeling like some of the utility of the airplane is going to waste. It is a pretty expensive and ostentatious (bordering on debauchery, to be perfectly candid) way to go out for a meal after all. To salve my conscience, I’ve been practicing the throttle-to-idle-on-downwind landings that I first attempted during my BFR last month. It’s better to do that when the landing pattern is more or less empty and the only way to ensure that when flying to Urbana on a Sunday morning is to get there early. See ‘Flying’ re: limited-capacity shared resources.

The first attempt was the arrival at Urbana last week. Remembering that I had landed long both times I had tried it during the BFR, I extended my downwind a little bit before turning onto the base leg. Once turned onto the final approach and with enough altitude in the potential energy column of the how-goes-it spreadsheet (as evidenced by a solid row of white lights on the PAPI lights), I would start easing the flaps down. On the first try I put Papa right on the numbers with an almost-a-greaser-but-not-quite landing. Later, when returning to Bolton, I did even better: I scored one of those landings where the only indication of having converted Papa from a flying machine to a rolling machine is the scuff of the tires as they are forced into rotation by the friction of the runway surface.

On the way out to Urbana, I also got a chance to take a better picture of the round barn:

Today was a bit windier at 7-ish knots and thus afforded me with the additional benefit of a crosswind to practice against, but the results were similar. Well, the second and third results were similar; the arrival at Urbana was something more akin to what you’d see in a circus act. I carried a bit too much speed into the flare and got into a cycle of bouncing down the runway on the left wheel. Or as I said at the time, “That was atrocious, and it’s still not over.” Fortunately Papa needed gas and at an unsustainable price of $3.45 per over at MadCo, it was pecuniarily efficacious to make a stop there on the way back to Bolton. That would give me a chance for a redemption landing, albeit landing to the east which is something I routinely do poorly when landing at MadCo. It worked out well enough today, as did the final landing back at Bolton. It wasn’t a strong crosswind, but it was sufficient for getting some good practice.

So, back to why kayaking is improved with an early start. Getting out to the river before it starts to get hot and/or sunny is a big benefit, but beating the crowd of drunken canoers is also beneficial. That’s primarily a problem further down river where Trapper Johns Drunken Canoer Livery feeds sloshed boaters into the river like the detritus from a pork rendering plant splashing out of a sluice pipe, but you still get your fair share up river too. As we all know, it’s never too early in the day to be drunk in a boat but most of the heavy drinkers get smashed on Saturday night and sleep in on Sundays. There are exceptions, of course, but for the most part you can get there ahead of them.

You may remember that the last time I had been kayaking, I had gone sans seat cushion when we took the boats up to Alum Creek. As you might expect, that caused a notable discomfort in the posterior regions. To address that pain point, I ordered a seat cushion to provide some buffer between my bones and the hard bottom of the boat. It turns out that seating cushions for kayaks are unconscionably expensive. The cheapest I could find was a product called the Happy Bottom Kayak Seat. It was surprisingly costly for something that’s really nothing more than a piece of injection molded foam, but what are ya gonna do? If the bottom isn’t happy, the kayaker isn’t happy. I used the seat for the first time yesterday when Rick and I took a short ride down the Big Darby.

We got the aforementioned early start so had the river to ourselves for the most part, although we did come upon a group of three fishing from a canoe. Either the fish were biting like mad or these folks were going to go unfed for the week if they didn’t bring something home, but for whatever reason they apparently couldn’t spare the 30 seconds it would have taken for us to pass by them. Now I don’t know if there is conventional wisdom or a river custom of courtesy to back this statement up, but it seems rude to me to cast your fishing line right across the path of a passing kayak. Which is exactly what two of the three did. Perhaps they think there are brake pedals on kayaks. Hint: there are not.

Once past them, though, it was just the two of us and the chirping of the birds. The water was a touch low and there were some spots where the banging of river water against the bottom of my boat made me wonder when I could expect to spring a leak, and there were a couple of places where I actually got stuck on the rocks, but other than that it was a very nice ride. Except for one thing. I hurt like hell.

While my bottom was perfectly happy, it so transpires that with regards to kayaking, happiness is a zero-sum game. In other words, it seems that something has to hurt. By removing the pain from my bottom, it was mathematically required to find a new place to reside. What it found was my backbone. The new seat shifted my seating position such that I found myself leaning back against the cockpit sill. After about a half hour of rubbing my spine against that hard, sharp edge, I was to the point where something had to be done to put some padding between the two surfaces. I folded up the little towel that I carry with me and that provided a modicum of relief, but it was one of those situations of too little, too late. I was burdened with that ache until we finally got out of the boats. It was the first time since I’ve been kayaking that I couldn’t wait to get out of the boat. So the search begins today for a piece of foam that I can glue to the sill to provide a softer place to lean back against.

Even with the personal discomfort, though, it was a beautiful ride. I took along the video camera and put together a short, six minute movie. Be sure to watch it all the way through since there’s some neat wildlife to see at the end. And it you have the bandwidth to view it in HD, it’s well worth doing so:

Warning: don’t turn your speakers up too loud – it gets very noisy when the boat starts hitting and scraping across rocks!

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Even when you’re not flying, you’re still a pilot

I spent my weekend with pilots, but didn’t fly at all. One of the most compelling things about becoming a pilot is that it is a lot like joining a fraternity (or sorority, of course), albeit without the hazing and, for the most part, the drunken debauchery. Because of the relative scarcity of pilots in the general population, it is one of those avocations that instantly defines you to the non-flying masses, and makes you easily and readily approachable by others in the club.

How often have you been introduced to someone thusly: “Harry, this is Sally. She’s a pilot.” I’ve seldom been introduced to someone whom the introducer felt compelled to mention as being “a bowler” or “a philatelic.” It’s not that there is anything wrong with those interests, you see, it’s just that they don’t seem to have the same conversational ice-breaking strength of flying. It is rare indeed to find the person that doesn’t either share any and all experiences that they’ve had in small airplanes, mention some relative that is a pilot (although they never know what kind of plane he/she flies, or have any number of questions they’d like to ask about flying. And, on the even rarer occasion that you are meeting a fellow pilot, well, you’re assured of good conversation for hours.

My weekend spent with pilots started early. Just before beer-thirty on Thursday afternoon, the phone rang and presented me with a CallerID number that was completely unfamiliar to me. That nearly always means that it is someone calling to sell me something, or a call for the co-owner. Note, if you will, that those are not necessarily mutually exclusive. In any event, I’m loath to answer knowing full well that the call isn’t for me, and even more reluctant to do so when the co-owner isn’t home. You can’t just let thing ring, though, can you? Just.Gotta.Know. So I picked it up and issued forth with my patented gruff “I ain’t buying nothing” version of hello. Hey, why encourage them, right?

“Hi, is this Dave Gamble?”

[switch to “Who’s asking” tone] “Yes, yes it is.”

“Is this the Dave Gamble that writes The PapaGolf Chronicles?”

[Run through the normal litany of thoughts: Who did I piss off? How did this guy get my number? I wonder how much I’m going to get paid for my autobiography.] “Yes, that’s me.”

“Hi! My name is [Minnesota Paul] and I’m here in town on business. I’ve been reading your blog for quite awhile, and I wondered if you’re not busy tonight if you’d like to get together for dinner.” (Note: paraphrased from memory)

[Hmm. I’m actually not doing anything tonight, and it would be a nice night to go over to JP’s BBQ and watch the planes fly. And really, wouldn’t this be an overly elaborate ruse just to serve me with a subpoena?] “Ok, how about JP’s?”

Minnesota Paul arrived at the airport with a business compatriot that we’ll call Pennsylvania Rick. Both pilots. One always wants to know what the other guys are flying, much in the same way that dogs like to know what each other had for lunch, although we have an easier way of determining what we want to know, if you catch my drift. In any event, Pennsylvania Rick somewhat grudgingly admitted to flying lowly Cessna 172s, as if there were some shame in that.

I asked him about that and he said it always seems like other people are flying bigger, faster, or cooler airplanes. Well, that’s true. With relation to a 172, Papa satisfies two out of three of those. But even with an RV-6 in the hangar, there are still plenty of other types for me to be jealous of myself. That never ends. Even Harrison Ford has to look at someone else’s plane now and then and sigh, “I wish.”

I find that with airplanes, it’s not a matter of having what you want, it’s a matter of wanting what you have. Flying is flying, and flying any airplane at all is better than not flying at all. Just ask any of the 99.9999% of people that can’t! And besides, there are times when I would be jealous of a 172. Sometimes I want to carry four people. Sometimes I want to fly IFR. Sometimes I just want a nose wheel!

So, assured that we’d have plenty to talk about, we proceeded to do exactly that. I gave them the dollar tour of Papa and did my RVer duty of trying to sell them on the idea of getting one themselves. Well, two. One each. It’s an easy sale: they fly great, they’re fast, they’re commonly available, and you can do as much of the maintenance yourself as you’re comfortable with.

Then, to dinner. JP’s is one of the very few places that I can find a good sausage meal. I’m not sure why sausage seems to only be available at breakfast, and even then it’s hard to find a good polish sausage. JP’s is the exception: they have a thing called a King Bull. It’s 1/4 pound of polish sausage deep fried, put on a bun, and covered with chili and onions. I like it with the Au Graten potatoes. That and a cold Blue Moon. Oh yeah!

I was busy yammering about one thing or another, and completely forgot to thank Minnesota Paul for picking up the tab. Careless, that. So, thanks Paul!

On Friday I learned (well, was reminded) that Co-pilot Egg was going to be gone for the night, off to a sleepover. This provided the rare opportunity for a night on the town for myself and the Co-owner, but I was bereft of ideas as to where to go or what to do. I was poking around on the computer Googling various options available in the Columbus Arena District when I impulsively checked my Facebook page to see what was going on in that little world. And what did I find? Wingman Ted (RV-9A) was coming to town with his wife to spend the night before a 5K run in the morning. I sent him a message telling him that we were planning on being downtown and could meet up with them, if there was any interest in doing so. He answered in the affirmative so I started getting ready to go.

Unfortunately, my planning was woefully inadequate. I failed to determine that not only were the Columbus Clippers hosting a game in the new baseball stadium in The District, but that the Ringling Brothers Circus was in the Nationwide Arena. Had I bothered to check on that, I would have known that we would want to give that area a wide berth. Because I didn’t, we had to deal with the traffic, the climb to the 9th floor of the nearly full parking garage, and the fact that we weren’t going to be able to get into any of the jam-packed restaurants that I had so carefully researched. We dealt with all of that by walking the five blocks to Ted’s hotel, and then walked a few blocks more to find a good place to eat. In that, we succeeded. We had a nice dinner (crab manicotti and a good heffe-weizen for me) and a nice conversation.

Here’s a description of the beer:

Heifer-wiezen
This traditional unfiltered German-style weizen has banana and clove flavors not typically found in American versions of the beer. The yeast is the sole producer of the spicy character as no spices or fruit is added to the beer. Served with a lemon wedge.

I’m taking their word for the banana thing. I swear I could taste it, but that may have simply been the power of suggestion.

We finished up dinner and headed back to the parking garage. We got there to find that the circus had just finished. Ninth floor of the garage to the exit in a solid line of slowly moving cars.

Sigh. Could have been worse, though. I’m betting the kids in many of those cars were tired, wound up, and cranky. We were just tired.

Sunday provided me with a dilemma: a Weather-out-the-Window™ forecast that was good for either flying or kayaking. The registration for the guest kayak had arrived in the Saturday mail and Papa really needs a tank of gas, so I opted for the kayaking. A change of pace being in order, in my opinion. Co-pilot Rick agreed, so we planned on getting an early-ish start. It’s been my experience that it’s nice to get out on the water before the beer-fueled crowd can crawl out of bed. All we needed to know was where to go.

We had flown over Alum Creek, a big reservoir north of Columbus, on our way back from Cleveland last week. From our vantage point a few thousand feet above I was able to pick out a spot where it looked like we would be able to park and get the boats into the lake. We drove up there and found that the area that I had seen from the plane was in fact suitable to that purpose, so off we went for a three hour tour. Yes, a three hour tour. And truth be told, the weather did start getting rough.

Actually, I think we went one inlet further north than depicted, but I got tired of drawing red lines.

Ok, the “rough” weather was only 10 or 12 knots of wind, but amongst the many things that I learned about kayaking today, one of them is that it can be added to the lengthy list of Things That Are Not Improved by Wind. See, there’s this thing called weathervaning… something I was already aware of from things like, say, taxiing a taildragger or taking off with a crosswind. It turns out that weathervaning also is a factor in kayaking, and can be referred to as “the thing that makes it hard to steer a kayak in the direction you want to go.” Just as with an airplane, the boat wants to turn into the wind. You can correct for that with a rudder if you have one, but if you don’t you have to try to manage it with paddling. That can be tiring. As is heading into the wind – that’s no picnic either.

Other notable lessons learned:

• it is easier to drift down a river for three hours than it is to provide your own motive force.
• it is even harder to provide your own motive force when faced with a headwind.
• it’s a bad idea to lose your seat cushion, particularly if that is not an area in which you are physically well endowed yourself.
• power boats are a pain in the ass, but only metaphorically. For a literal pain in the ass, see previous item. Power boats are loud, smelly, and make uncomfortable waves for tiny little boats riding only a few inches above the water. That said, Alum Creek is a no-horsepower-limit lake and I knew that. It’s up to me to find a more kayak-friendly body of water – it’s not hard to do.
• if it is comfortable to kayak when it’s 59 degrees, it’s likely to be miserable at 89. Something to remember…
• it’s easier to take pictures while flying an airplane than it is to take pictures from a kayak. Still, I managed:

Rick took a few too. I think this was his most common view of me:

My boat is lighter and faster than the guest boat. It’s not that the guest boat doesn’t have an advantage of it’s own, though. It has a rudder. That turned out to be quite useful. See ‘weathervaning’ above. Plus, Rick got to pretend he was flying!

Do you see the tire on the bank in this one?

It was a really old white wall. It probably came off of a Packard or something of that era. It looked like it had been there for awhile. It was anything but uncommon to see floating bottles and other crap littering the lake. Sad.

Still, when we could get out of the chop and wind and wakes from rambunctious power boats, it was very quiet and relaxing. We could hear birds chirping and woodpeckers pecking, all accompanied by the periodic honking of Canada geese. We’re already planning our next trip to a smaller, quieter lake. We may even make a river run. It turns out that I’m kind of partial to the idea of letting the water do the work of moving the boat.

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The Guest Kayak

Building my own kayak was a process consisting of numerous learning moments and as it turns out, using it has also proven more complicated than I had originally assumed it to be. For example, I didn’t realize that the boat needed to be registered with the State of Ohio, who required a Hull Identification Number. Where in the heck do you get that?? I eventually solved that little riddle through the CLC Boats Support Forum. Another thing that I didn’t realize was that one kayak is not enough; I actually need two.

The reason for that is weight. My 17′ Shearwater is relatively light for its length, weighing in at 48 pounds. It’s bulky and hard to carry, though, and carrying it up from the basement, lifting it up on the top of the car, and carrying it down to the river is doable alone, but not pleasant. While help is available at home, it is not there when I need it at the river/lake, unless I can find someone willing to sit around for a couple of hours while I paddle. I don’t like the odds of that on a routine basis.

I decided that the solution to that problem is a 2nd kayak. Having a guest kayak ensures that there will be two people to carry the boats, and there’s also the benefit of having company while boating. I’ve been keeping an eye on CraigsList.com for almost a year, watching various boats come and go and just getting a feeling for the market. It seemed that the most affordable boats were in the 10′ range, and were typically the types carried by Gander Mountain and Dick’s Sporting Goods. More often than not, they listed a price nearly equal to (or in some cases exceeding) the price for a brand new one.

I wasn’t sure I wanted a 10′ boat anyway. I don’t think they work as well as the longer boats for the type of kayaking that I like to do. The shorter boats turn much more easily (in some case, to a fault) than my long boat, but they take more work to get moving. They also don’t coast as well. The problem was that the longer boats were far more expensive, often at asking prices above $600. I was also very specific in the maximum length that I wanted due to space constraints for storage at home and because I didn’t want my guest’s boat to be longer than mine. Trust me, that’s a guy thing.

I finally found what I was looking for:

That’s my new 16′ Dagger Seeker (if you Google images by searching on Dagger Seeker, make sure your Safe Search is on! Oh, my!! I would never have guessed…) that I bought Friday. I found it listed on Craigs List Thursday evening about a half hour after it had been posted. You have to move quick with Craigs List, so I called right away. The asking price was very reasonable for a Dagger, so I made arrangements to pick it up after work on Friday. I figured that about the only thing that would keep me from buying it would be a big gaping hole in the bottom, so I was reasonably sure that I’d be bringing it home. I packed the carriers into the red Subie, gathered up appropriate funds, printed out the registration paperwork so I’d have it ready, and made sure the GPS knew how to find the seller’s house. So, what could go wrong?

Rain. Lot’s of it. I had no sooner handed the wad of bills to the seller and got started with the preparations for hauling it home when the rain started. I stood in a downpour attaching the carriers to the roof racks on the Subie and getting the boat strapped on. I was completely soaked by the time I finished. It rained so hard that I was just starting to think about how horribly ironic it would be to drown while putting the kayak on the car rather that while using it. As I snugged down the last strap, the rain stopped.

Besides being a very good price just for the boat, a paddle and spray skirt were also included:

The posting hadn’t mentioned it, so I was pleasantly surprised to find that it also has a rudder:

Rudders are handy out on an open lake when the winds kick up. Or so I hear. I have yet to learn that lesson one way or the other.

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Breakfast with Brandon, Kayaking with Co-pilot Egg

We had a series of big thunder-rippers come through over night. One after the other, they pounded their way through, so loud and persistent that Brave Sir Hogarth was beside himself with the urge to wake us up and get us all down into the fallout shelter. Informed that we don’t have a fallout shelter, he gave me that look that can only mean “What?? Why the hell not??? What are those thumbs you guys are so proud of good for if you don’t use them to build a fallout shelter?” I returned his disparaging glare with a scowl that I hoped would mean “Cower if you must, my Brave Knight, but let us at least try to get some sleep.” Apparently, it didn’t. If the results are to be the judge, it meant “come up with a new plan, and wake me when you have it figured out.”

Fifteen minutes later, he woke me up with a look that said “Lifeboats! Everyone to the lifeboats!! What??? We don’t have those either??“

On the plus side, the back end of a ripping storm like that is often at least one nice day of blue sky and clear air. Lucky for me, that was the case. The morning Weather-out-the-Window(tm) forecast was beautilicious. A second opinion from the national weather service confirmed it: FLY!

But… I had promised the Co-pilot Egg that we would go kayaking. What to do, what to do. Quite the dilemma, and even Sir Hogarth the Answer Dog couldn’t offer a solution. Mostly because he was still somewhat irate about our inadequate storm preparations, I suspect, and not really in the mood to help me out. Not so much couldn’t, but wouldn’t. The Egg had had a member of the Junior Varsity All-Girl Giggling Club over for a sleepover, though, and they seldom emerge from her quarters before the noon lunch whistle, so I had at least the morning. Breakfast! In Lima! A stellar idea! So stellar, in fact, that it had already been planned. ‘Twas just a matter of notifying Occasional Blog Commenter Brandon of my departure time.

I grabbed the camcorder on the way out thinking that I might as well make a movie of the little trip. Which, well, I did, but man is it boring! That’s not to say that it wasn’t a fun flight; the weather was just terrific for flying. It’s not even that there was nothing interesting to see. I saw a round barn (for some reason, I think those are sooo cool!), and I flew over the Honda test track. The test track is incredible. I grabbed a couple of pictures from Google map.

This one shows the immensity of the oval track if you compare the one mile legend to the length of the straights:

This one shows the various testing conditions they have besides the long haul of the oval:

I think the only road condition they can’t test here is the “Inattentive Soccer Mom with a Van Full of Screaming Kids and an Ear Plastered to her Cell Phone” that is so nearly ubiquitous on our local highways. Oh, and they might not have the “Guy With a Cell Phone in One Hand, a Cigarette in the Other Hand, and a Beer in his Third Hand.” We get a lot of those, too.

Lima isn’t renowned as The Breakfast Capital of the World for nothing. As it turns out, Lima isn’t renowned as The Breakfast Capital of the World at all. Nothing more exotic than two Bob Evans’s and a Panera Bread. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Bob’s is where we eat breakfast in the big city too. Throwing caution to the wind in the manner only a homeowner who has failed to provide a fallout shelter or collection of lifeboats can do, I ordered the Border Scramble Breakfast Burrito, a concoction of tummy-roiling ingredients (Beans? BEANS?? Before flying???) guaranteed to make their presence felt on the return trip. Short trip, though, and the odds, while not being in my favor, were nonetheless tolerable. Besides which, I LOVE breakfast burritos!

After the kind of conversation two pilots are bound to have (No, not politics. Flying!) and a nice breakfast, I had to get back home for the kayaking. The skies were still pilot-friendly, not having stirred themselves up with bumps and haze and all of that other stuff they like to do on hot summer afternoons. A nice, greasy landing back at Bolton finished off a nice morning flight.

I arrived back at the house to find the two members of the Giggling Club just sitting down to breakfast. Very good timing on my part! The Egg and I would be on the river by 1:00 at that rate. Kayaking being similar to flying when it comes to tight quarters having no “rest” facilities, I downloaded the morning caffeine intake to prepare for a few hours stuck in a boat. Flying clothes are not kayaking clothes, so preparations along those lines were accomplished as well. Soon enough, we were on the way to the canoe livery.

Egg, herself having no kayak of her own, would require a rental. That being the case, I too would be in a rental. I thought ahead far enough to bring my own paddle, though, thinking that the kind of equipment available for a $20 rental was, while adequate, unlikely to be of the high quality I have become accustomed to. After all, they rent these things out to people that have never used a kayak before, and having seen some of the more stellar members of their target market out on the river, I can certainly understand why they have to use the most robust and lowest cost equipment available.

But… spoiled by good equipment, I am! And I was correct about the quality of the equipment: the kayaks were Old Town Otters, a very low cost kayak that I suspect is made out of recycled Rubbermaid trash cans, and a solid plastic paddle that weighed almost twice as much as mine and was only half the length too. “Sucks to be the Egg,” I thought, but it wasn’t more than a half mile down the river before I was swapping my carbon fiber paddle for her plastic abomination. It was heavy and unwieldy, and she was under much better control with the better paddle. She got my gloves too, about a mile later. She was gripping the paddle overly tight and giving herself blisters. I know that, having done it myself. Which prompted the purchase of the gloves in the first place, of course.

The shorter kayak (less than 10′ as compared to the 17′ Shearwater) turned much easier, but I’m not sure if that was a blessing or a curse. It took the Egg no more than a mile or so to get comfortable with controlling her boat under normal conditions, but she found (as did I, on one memorable occasion) that it was easy to come out of a faster piece of the river and “spin out.” These boats simply don’t track straight at all.

The canoe livery offers an Upper Trip and a Lower Trip. The trips are measured from the location of the livery, with the livery being in the middle. For the Upper Trip, they put you in a van and carry you six miles up river to start, and you pull in at the livery after working your way back down river. This is the trip I take in my boat since both the drop-off and destination are publicly accessible. Since I’ve made that trip a couple of times now, we opted for the Lower Trip. I also thought it might be the easier of the two since the livery turns hundreds of first-timers loose on it daily, and one would think that liability would enter into the equation.

Apparently they are counting on the strength of the liability waiver they required us to sign, because I found the Lower Trip to be a lot more challenging than the Upper. There are more shallow areas, and shallow areas can present either or both of fast water or water so shallow that you get stuck on the rocks. The other complication to arise was having a second kayak to coordinate with. After bouncing off of each other enough times, the Egg and I figured out that we needed to keep a little space between our boats, but it remained the case that we would periodically get in each others way as we negotiated some of the faster parts of the river. It was not uncommon to be barreling along just fine only to be blocked by a spin out from the leading kayak.

I also learned not to follow the lead of a boat that was 45 pounds lighter than mine. There was one area that the Egg made it through by scraping over the rocks, but I got solidly stuck. I had to get out of the boat and drag it to deeper water. That was better than what happened a little later, though: I ran into a big, submerged rock going full speed. Remember that these boats are plastic? Well, the big stone hit the bottom of the boat in just the right spot to flex the plastic and impart at least a portion of the force of the impact into, well, my stones, if you catch my drift. Ouch!

By the time we were halfway down the river, Egg was controlling her boat well enough that she could get through fast, tight areas unscathed while I, the supposedly more experienced kayaker, ran into obstructions. I lead the way through one area where I was about to run right into the trunk and roots of a fallen tree and had to stuff the paddle into the root structure to push myself away. The roots and dirt acted like the proverbial Tar Baby (I apologize if that term, like many others, is now politically forbidden to use, but I can’t think of another simile that works as well) in that once the paddle went in, I had a helluva time pulling it back out. I ended up with my right arm covered in dirt, mud, and various flakes of root detritus. Much to the delight of the Egg, who shuffled on through the same spot completely unscathed. The secret to her success must have been the paddle, I figure. In fact, I’m sure that was it!

There weren’t many people on the river, and those that were we caught up with and passed. Once you get out in front of the others, your chances of seeing wild life are greatly increased. We saw a couple of turtles slipping into the water, and at one point we got as close to a blue heron as I’ve ever been able to get. All of that quiet nature stuff is great, but it only makes the return to “civilization” even more stark.

This time, we were greeted at the exit point by a group of 25 noisy pre-teen kids on an outing from their day care. They were quite busy throwing rocks into the river, and completely blocking the exit point with their canoes. They were attended by a handful of chaperones that clearly had no idea that their function was to ride herd on the children under their charge. Typical of more and more people these days, they were completely oblivious to their (in)actions, and couldn’t be bothered to move their boats a few feet out of the way of others that may be wanting to get off of the river.

Egg had a good time, and I think she would kayak again, but I’m not keen on renting again. We waited nearly half an hour to be picked up by the livery folks, the boats floated, but really weren’t good kayaks, and by the time you spend $40 to rent every time you want to go, you’re not too far from what it would cost to pick up a used boat on Craigs List.

And, having failed to provide a Weather-out-the-Window(tm) picture from the glorious morning, here is an evening photo:

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Kayaking 101

Co-pilot Egg and I attended the beginner level kayaking class offered by Clintonville Outfitters tonight. They hold the class at Aquatic Adventures, a scuba and swimming training facility just a few minutes from our house. Our instructor, Matt, had trailered over a nice selection of kayaks to choose from, and Egg and I chose a pair of Hurricane Kayaks.

I was particularly interested in the Santee 100LT, which is a ten-foot recreational model weighing in at a mere 31 lbs. My 17 ft. touring model is a real strain for me to move at 47 lbs, so I was interested in looking at something lighter that I could move around by myself on those days when I want to take it to a reservoir or lake. I also wanted one that would be small enough for Egg to control. She took the 100LT and I went with the next larger model, the Santee 116. It too is significantly lighter than my Shearwater at 36 lbs.

After a brief introduction regarding some of the different types of kayaks available, we started the in-water training. Egg volunteered to be first in the water and had very little trouble getting into the boat. We were using a “deck launch,” which is really just a way of saying that we stepped into the boat from the edge of the pool. On my two trips down the Darby, I didn’t have the luxury of an edge to step off of, so I’ve been using a “get yourself all muddy with the nasty smelling crud on the banks of the river and then try to push yourself across the mud like a freshly born sea turtle” launch, which I’m here to tell you is a vastly inferior cousin to the deck launch.

As I cannon-balled myself into my boat, narrowly avoiding an ignominious plunge into the water, Egg paddled off across the pool. Much like my single experience with snow skiing, she almost immediately learned that getting moving is pretty easy, but getting stopped is an entirely different story. Without the benefit of an actual river stretching off in front of her, it was just a matter of time before she pranged into the far side of the pool.

It was a small class with only four students and Matt, but even with just five boats in the water it quickly degenerated into a kind of slow-motion, water-borne bumper car fiasco. At least until we started getting the hang of turning, anyway. I noticed a couple of things about the Santee as compared to my Shearwater right away: it is much easier to turn, and the seat is MUCH more comfortable. The comfort factor was greatly increased by the type of PFD (life jacket) that I was wearing. I’ve been using a cheap Wal-Mart ski-type PFD, and it is very uncomfortable in the small confines of the Shearwater’s cockpit. The PFD I was using tonight was specifically designed for use in a kayak and thus was orders of magnitude more comfortable.

The easier turning thing was a mixed blessing. The bad thing about the Shearwater is that it takes some effort to get it to turn, but the good thing about it is that it takes some effort to get it to turn. It turns out to be situationally dependent as to whether it’s good or bad. When you want to apply some power strokes and stay in a straight line, its tendency to stay straight is a plus. But if you let it get away from you and get into a situation where you need to get it turned quickly, well, not so much.

After paddling around awhile, Matt had us all move to the edge of the pool. This is where he demonstrated the stability of these boats. This is exactly the part that I wanted Egg to experience because she had said that she was afraid of the boat tipping over. These recreational boats are far broader in the hips than my Shearwater is. They’re more like the Oprah of kayaks, while my boat is more like a Keira Knightley model. (Use Google images if that comparison doesn’t mean anything to you – you’ll see what I mean). Anyway, what it all comes down to is that the only way to tip one of these boats is to really want to.

So, having proven to us that it is pretty hard to tip one of these boats over, Matt’s next assignment to us was to immediately forget that lesson and tip them over anyway. Which we did. It wasn’t very hard to do deliberately, but I did manage to bang my head on the bottom of the boat while I was under it, and Egg, being in a perpetual contest of oneupsmanship with me, promptly banged herself in the face with hers. The point of getting us out of the boats was, of course, for us to learn how to get back in. Let me tell you, even with a boat having the hips of a brood mare, that is one helluva hard job to do. I found it to be reasonably possible if I was in the shallow end of the pool and I could essentially just jump in, but when I went down to the deep end I found it to be much more of a challenge.

The problem was that when you turn the boat back to right side up, it’s full of water. That extra weight naturally makes it sit far lower in the water, and it becomes much tippier. You have to kick with your feet to get yourself up out of the water and straddled across the boat, but when you try to get yourself actually back down into the boat, you will either tip over to the side you’re climbing in from, or flip right over the far side. It was roughly 50-50 for me as to which side I would flip towards. Eventually I learned to get straddled on the boat and then ever.so.carefully move around to get back down inside of it. Even with an abundance of patience and caution, I’d dump myself right back out 80% of the time. And boy howdy, is it ever TIRING!

This difficulty in getting back into the boat finally made me realize why you want to be able to roll the boat. If I had this much trouble getting back into a boat with hips that could graciously be described as “child bearing,” I would have no hope of getting back into my anorexic Shearwater. With the roll, you simply (well, probably not “simply”) stay in the boat. Unfortunately, the roll is a topic for the as-yet-unscheduled advanced class. I’ll be watching the Clintonville Outfitters web site for that, though, because I can’t see going out in deep water without knowing how to do it, and I really want to explore some of the local lakes and reservoirs. For now, though, I’m fine with periodic trips down the Darby.

Egg seemed to have a great time, or at least is no longer afraid of the boat. I asked how much the Santee 100LT costs, but it’s a bit steep at $678 or so. There’s another light boat called the Featherlite 9.5 made by Heritage Kayaks that’s cheaper, but reportedly at a lower level of quality. Affordability is, of course, a desirable quality in and of itself, so it becomes more a question of exactly how much lower in quality it is. Matt was using a Heritage Kayaks boat and managed to stay afloat (and dry, the bastard) for the entire class, so it can’t be too bad and a price difference of roughly $225 is pretty significant. It’s not like it would see the hard use of a rental or white water boat, after all.

So, great fun, albeit fun that I will pay for tomorrow with sore muscles. I’m very definitely looking forward to the advanced class, and I want to stop by the shop and see how much a better PFD is going to cost me.

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Another trip down the Big Darby

The Weather-out-the-Window(tm) morning observation indicated that the forecast for a gloomy first half of Saturday had, in fact, been accurate as can be. Low, scuddy clouds were really all I needed to see to know that flying was not in the cards. Winds and visibility don’t matter when the clouds are low and angry (or at least morose) looking.

Round about 1pm, however, the clouds parted and it looked like we were in for at least a few hours of nice weather. I thought that it might be nice enough for another ride in the kayak. We’ve had a bid of rain, though, and the stream that runs through my neighborhood was still showing the effects of recent flooding. I figured it to be worth taking a look, so went ahead and loaded up Blue Heron One.

The river from the launch area was clearly higher than it was back on Memorial Day weekend, but the water didn’t seem to be overly excited. Intrepid is my middle name (well, it’s not, but I owned a Dodge Intrepid once, and that’s close enough) so I decided to press on. As it turns out, it was an even better ride than last time. While I missed the compliments paid to the boat by the beer drinking canoe paddlers, solitude on the river has a quality in and of itself. I did not see another boat for the entire trip.

It’s not a lonely feeling at all – it’s similar to flying alone. Just you, your conveyance, and the challenges provided by the unpredictability of the medium, be it water or air. Decisions to make, control to be maintained, will to be exerted over sometimes recalcitrant conditions. Satisfaction by the bushel when mastery of the elements and vehicle conquers unexpected events. The feeling of a job having been well done, without the burden of having had a job assigned.

With the benefit of having a few hours of experience from the last trip, I found it very easy to put the boat where I wanted it, when I wanted it to be there. The water was moving faster than the last time, so the utility of the paddle was more in the realm of directional control rather than propulsion. Except, that is, in the not uncommon situations that required a few power strokes to move the boat from a current that was taking us where we did not want to go (which was, more often than not, directly into a solid object) into a more friendly (survivable) stream. It’s a lot like dealing with a crosswind when flying; the nose is not necessarily pointed in the direction you’re actually going. There were a number of times that I had to paddle cross current to get the boat into a flow that wasn’t going to drive us into a tree or under an obstruction too low to the water to pass under comfortably.

There were no deer today, but there was a blue heron that I chased down the river. Every now and then I’d spook him out of whatever hidden lair he was resting in and he’d fly further downstream. I never saw him soon enough to get a picture, which is pretty much my experience with blue herons. They simply don’t like having their pictures taken. At one point, I must have gone past him because when he took flight, it was from behind me. He flew right over my head. I saw where he landed, though, so I was ready with the camera when I caught up to him:

It’s my ancient Fuji digital (I’m still not willing to risk the good camera) and its viewfinder is simply awful. I couldn’t be sure if I got the picture or not, and since he hadn’t flown away, I turned around and paddled back up the river to try again. Man, did that ever piss him off! He flew away, but rather than just fly quietly down stream as he had been doing, he squawked and honked and generally groused until he went around a bend far down river.

I also saw a few turtles, but just as they slipped off of the river banks and into the water. There were no exposed branches for them to sun themselves on with the water being as high as it was. There were also a lot of dragonflies, many of whom hitched a ride on the front of the boat:

The ride only took an hour and ten minutes this time, and it was way too short.

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Scheduled a kayak clinic, found out that I am NOT funny

At the combined urgings of loyal reader Jeff and common sense, I googled to find a near-by kayak clinic that I could attend with the goal of learning how to recover from an upset kayak. It’s not as easy to deal with an upset kayak as it is to deal with an upset wife – it apparently takes more than flowers and Mexican food.

Google, with its on-demand vast storehouse of knowledge, quickly provided the answer. An outfit here in town offers kayak clinics on a monthly basis at a pool just a few miles away from home. It’s a pool at a scuba diving training place. As such, I thought they might be reluctant to have my river-gunk stained boat in the pool, so I called the shop to see what they thought. They weren’t concerned about it at all. In fact, they told me that all of their boats are regularly on the river as well. I told them that I’d bring mine, then, since it seemed a good idea to practice in the boat that I would be using.

Almost as an after-thought, I asked if the 17′ length of my boat might cause a problem.

“Well, you might have trouble getting it turned around. We only get to use half the pool; there’s a diving class using the other half.”

To which I replied, “Yeah, but wouldn’t they be using the bottom half?”

[insert dead silence here]

Oh well. I never realized kayaking is such a serious business. Or, you know, maybe I’m just not funny.

Oh, and I called back the next day to sign up Co-pilot Egg to go with me. I’m afraid I’m going to need another kayak for her to use. This is too cool not to share.

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Kayaking on the Big Darby

The Weather-out-the-Window(tm) forecast for today was, if anything, nicer than yesterday’s. Having just flown yesterday, and it being nearly a year since starting the kayak build, it seemed appropriate to make my first real trip today. The obvious departure point was the canoe/kayak launch area co-located with our local sled riding hill on the banks of the Big Darby. This offers an easy place to get the boat into the water, and there is another publicly accessible area a few miles down river to come back out. All told, it’s about six miles on the water.

Having had the boat in the water once before, the one thing I already knew for sure was that it would float. The rest I had to learn as I went. The first thing I learned was that kayaking in a Blue Heron Boatworks vessel is a horrible way to blend into the scenery. It draws a tremendous amount of attention. In fact, 9 out of 10 bystanders volunteered the comment that it was awesome, beautiful, or pretty. Additionally, 4 out of 5 beer drinking canoers modified the adjective with a preceding F-word, which I think is intended to convey that idea that is somewhat above and beyond awesome. The most original comment came from a guy with his hat on backwards who observed it to be “old school.”

I’m used to this kind of attention, of course, because Papa Golf draws a lot of attention as well, but this was different, and not in a subtle way. In what way, you ask? Well, I didn’t build Papa. I have to say, despite not being able to have a nice, quiet, introspective paddle down the river, it was really, really nice to hear all of those compliments.The only thing I didn’t really like was being asked how much it cost, so I took to deflecting the question by replying that it was home made. Felt a little like bragging, but better than confessing to driving a $1,000 boat down the river. Yuppie.

After about 20 minutes of slowly paddling my way down the river, I was getting a better feel for how to steer and control my direction. Not too much longer after that, I found that I was getting the feel for planning ahead for dealing with cross currents, much like you learn how to position a plane for a cross wind landing. I also found that keeping the nose straight is a lot like landing the taildragger: you watch far downstream (or down the runway) to get an early start on any unwanted drifting of the nose.

The boat rides pretty high in the water, and it only takes a few inches of water to float it. There are, of course, times when the water is fast and shallow and there may be a little scraping over the gravel. I got pretty good at detecting the lee behind a submerged rock and avoiding it, but in the cases where I just couldn’t miss one, I also learned the technique of lifting a cheek to raise that side of the hull to minimize the contact with the rock.

It doesn’t take much effort at all to keep the boat moving at the pace of the plastic kayaks and the canoes, and with just a little more effort I was able to speed (the term being relative when it comes to man-powered boats) past the larger, noisier groups. For the second half of the trip I pretty much had the entire river to myself.

It became very natural to move the boat where I wanted it to go within the first 45 minutes. Good thing, too, because I came to a spot where the water was channeled between the river bank and a low island, with a branch from a fallen tree hanging over the water at bang-your-head-into-it level. There was a three or four foot gap to get through, but it required a 90 degree right turn in rapidly moving water to get through it. I made it through there with a foot to spare, and then was faced with an immediate 90 degree turn to the left.

Right after the excitement of what passes for rapids (which were quite rapid enough for me, mind you) on the Big Darby, I came around a corner to find a wide open lagoon-like area. And there, standing on the side of the river having a drink, were three deer. I lifted the paddle and let the boat drift closer and closer to them, something they found interesting to watch, but apparently not threatening enough to cause them to leave. I eventually drifted over to a large fallen tree where I was able to snuggle in under the branches. One of them kept an eye on me while the other two had their drink, then they decided they had had enough and walked away.

A little further on, I was drifting slowly along through a canyon of trees of varying shades of green, with the blue sky making a triangle formed by the lines of trees on the sides and the bill of my cap across the top. I saw a couple of dry, white branches coming up through the surface of the water, each extending about 8 to 10 feet out into the sun. Each branch was lined across its entire length with turtles warming themselves in the sun. I assume they were families as for each two large ones, there was a collection of much smaller ones. They too were very interested in my approach, and eventually they all dove off the branches into the water.

Long before I was ready, I reached the end of the trip and my return to “civilization.” The access point is off to the corner of a small fishing pond, and catty-corner to Trapper John’s Canoe and Kayak rental. About a dozen members of the demographic that I’ve taken to referring to as Generation Jackass were carrying on as is their wont, and the river was flooded (so to speak) with groups of exuberant renters starting their way down the river. It was a stark contrast to the wonderful hour that I had just enjoyed coming down the river.

I learned one more important thing: it’s kind of hard to get out of that boat after 90 minutes. I had just enough cell signal to call home for my ride, and spent another 15 minutes answering questions about the boat. Oh, and was reminded by bystanders again and again about just how effing AWESOME it is.

I don’t disagree!

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Against all odds, it actually floats!

It all came together tonight: temps in the low 80s, UPS delivered the kayak carriers that I ordered last week, and other than getting the yard mowed, I had no outstanding chores. I brought the boat up from the Boat Works and got it loaded onto the poor little Subie:

I gathered the troops and we made the 10 minute drive to the Big Darby. The boat is big and ungainly, and to be honest it’s a royal pain to move around alone, so the extra help was a huge benefit. We got the boat into the water, and when it showed no immediate tendency towards plummeting to the bottom of the 8 inch deep water, I climbed in. This naturally lowered the boat enough that it was resting on the river bottom, so the trend towards failing to immediately sink was to continue for at least a few more gratifying moments. The entire operation had gained the undivided attention of all of the other folks hanging around the river banks by this time, so pride forced my hand: I pushed away from the sanctuary of the river bank and out into the open water:

Never having been in a kayak of any type before, I was surprised at how wobbly it is. It’s a lot like the first time someone grabs the stick of the RV – they’re surprised at how easily it rolls, and they often rock it back and forth trying to get it settled down. There’s a benefit to that quick response in the RV, and it’s quite likely that it’s a good thing in the kayak as well. It’s a very long boat, and as a result it’s pretty hard to get it turned around. There may be some quicker way to turn it that depends on its ability to heel over as quickly as it does – I think I might have to see if I can find a Kayaking for Dummies book to get a better feel for how I’m supposed to drive this thing.

I was also very impressed at how easy it is to get it moving forward; very little effort with the paddle gets it going pretty fast:

Dinner had been delayed quite long enough by this time, so as much as I was enjoying paddling around in my pool toy, both the pit crew and I needed fed. I had mastered steering enough by this time to be able to hit the long, wide part of a river pretty accurately:

I’m just so proud of my little boat!

Update:

Regarding the “tippiness,” I did a little research using the ‘Peek Inside’ feature on Amazon.com, whereby you can find out pretty much anything you want to know if you don’t mind using the Surprise Me button until it finally hits the page you’re looking for. As I suspected, the tippiness is used to make the boat easier to turn. The first few times I tried to turn the boat, it was liking pivoting an aircraft carrier. Essentially what was happening was that I was trying to push 17′ of vertical surface against the resistance of the water. The proper thing to do is lean into the turn. That will change the shape of the hull that is felt by the water, or so said the book. By design, a cruising kayak like mine is somewhat resistant to turning when level since you don’t want to ge fighting to keep it straight as you paddle; the tipping is used to make it turn when you want it to. Kind of like a motorcycle, I’m thinking.

The problem initially is that the tipping is oh so easy to do and you feel like it’s just going to go all Poseidon Adventure you. It turns out, and I discovered this a little later by myself in my brief outing, that there is a thing called ‘Secondary Stability’. This is when you’ve tipped the boat far enough that the big, flat chine is flat on the surface of the water. The tippiness more or less goes away at that point. It makes perfect sense, but it takes a few times trying it to convert it from a leap of faith into a proven fact. Next time out I’ll try a few turns with a tip to the secondary stability position.

I’m still not sure what the value of doing this is, though:

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