We gathered on an early Saturday morning in a place from which we could see Angel Island and sites across the Bay. The exercisers arrived before the boys did. A prompt departure was a challenge - military efficiency is not expected, but we still failed to leave before the arrival of the legendary Late Scout. The trip up to Burke's Canoe Trips was uneventful, with some delaying on the road longer than others for their cappucinos. In previous years, a Troop father had generously allowed us to camp on his riverine estate with an apple tree much beloved by small Scouts, but in this year the house was undergoing renovation, so we could not stay there. I could not find the cord which I had bought for this trip and with which I had intended to secure my drybag, so I had to use my shoe laces. Part of being prepared is knowing secondary uses of objects! The supply boat carried our extra water, which our leader had managed to acquire. The first challenge of the river was a choice between a portage and a particularly swift and bushy curve. Many of the Scouts chose to portage, but with skill we avoided the worst traps of the curve.
When we had passed this, we saw a cormorant gliding along the river, heedless of the canoers invading his realm; there were many revelers this weekend, since those who sought adventure had adapted their expectations to current drought conditions. We also saw ducks in a row - I had thought this an image drawn from the repetitive targets of carnival hucksters, but it is a real phenomenon. Six or seven duck were perched on log in an eddy, craving the algal growth below them.
The Troop dad, who had gone home to fetch his kayak, now joined us for a stretch. He was good company and he left before the journey back up-river became too long. The cormorant appeared again, this time on the stump of a high tree, with its wings spread out. Majestic and serene!
The campsite which we had found in lieu of the apple orchard was a RV campground, so we held out few hopes for it, but our site was surprisingly pleasant and large. It was much better than the land on which we used to camp, the land of the Pomo tribe, which held a large dirt patch and an over-priced convenience store. One Scouts had forgotten his kit, so I lent him one of my two bowls on the promise of a thorough cleaning and remembering to bring his supplies next time.
There was a proper fire pit, so our campfires had actual fires, a nice change from the creatively arranged but hardly warming translucent Nalgene bottles illuminated by flashlights.The skits were in the low moderate range, not bad for the beginning of the year. The yells were reasonably creative, and all the songs were off-key. I spoke on the history of canoes, a rough, unpolished speech, but most works start as uncut diamond.
The Troop settled down quickly after the campfire ended. I had forgetten my warm top for sleeping outside, but the second, interior drawstring of my sleeping bag provided a more than adequate cocoon. The spot which I had selected was ideal, as far as dirt patches go - flat, no sharp rocks or tree roots, no overhanging tree branch to drip on me in the morning. That last proved not be a concern, since the place was too dry for dew. The older boys had decamped to a lower grassy field, but around midnight they returned from the mosquito-laden mere that adjoined the grassy area.
In the morning, the adult group had no breakfast, but a combination of personal rations and an overflow of apples from one of the Scout groups solved the problem. There was a brief Scout's Own, done sufficiently and briefly. By this point, there was only one parent to choose as the speaker. We returned home early, but everybody had had a good time.
Showing posts with label canoeing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label canoeing. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Canoe Trip 2011
Recently, we went on the fall canoe trip on the Russian River. The group was a little top-heavy in terms of age, but bonding is bonding. The trip, sadly, is no longer a two-day water trip, although it is an overnight - every night you pitch a tent counts for camping! We embarked below the campsite, and headed out. I'd been practicing my oar strokes in a wooden canoe on a relatively sheltered part of Lake Tahoe, so it took a while to adjust to the current and a battered (but fortunately not leaky) metal canoe. My power was better than my control, but my old sailing instructor at Tahoe could have told you that. The water in the river was much higher than the warm, green, scummy ride of last year, and the riverine topography now included additional broad shallows that extended under the bushes. This is a trip on which I am glad I am shorter than the average Caucasian male! We ate a bit later than I had anticipated, but everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Yes, there were swamped canoes and at least one lost paddle, but nobody was hurt in the process.
The campfire in the evening featured songs, skits, and yells, including a canoe-themed skit. No doubt the boys , were they writing this, would spend more time on the campfire than I shall. The next day we awoke and breakfasted. Since we can no longer do the stretch from Asti to our campsite, Sunday has become a day for some early fall skill advancement, in this case knots. I trust this stood the Scouts in good stead at the next meeting, where they worked on lashings.
The Scout's Own format has evolved somewhat, and now there is a Scout perspective as well as a parent speaker. I like this structure, because it gives the Scouts ownership over the service (I don't know what else to call it) without obscuring the focus of this part of the trip. If the Scout's insight varies from the superficial to the profound, I could say the same of a sample of homilies.
The campfire in the evening featured songs, skits, and yells, including a canoe-themed skit. No doubt the boys , were they writing this, would spend more time on the campfire than I shall. The next day we awoke and breakfasted. Since we can no longer do the stretch from Asti to our campsite, Sunday has become a day for some early fall skill advancement, in this case knots. I trust this stood the Scouts in good stead at the next meeting, where they worked on lashings.
The Scout's Own format has evolved somewhat, and now there is a Scout perspective as well as a parent speaker. I like this structure, because it gives the Scouts ownership over the service (I don't know what else to call it) without obscuring the focus of this part of the trip. If the Scout's insight varies from the superficial to the profound, I could say the same of a sample of homilies.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Canoeing
This summer, in view of the absent Canoe Training trip in the late spring, I've pulled out my wooden canoe and taken in out in varying conditions. I welcome the shelter provided by the point and the boat field, but a lake (especially this one) does not have a direction of flow, which means you have work to move in any direction. The swells and winds are unpredictable, but there are enough obstacles (birds, boats, and rocks) to challenge my navigation skills.
The usual course is southwards first, between the rocks at the lakeside tennis courts and buoy field, outside the buoys at the pier which (in theory) prevent boats from ramming into the pier at high speed, down to the old pier near the end of the point, and back almost to the starting point. From there, I go around a smaller point that used to have rocks jutting out of the water, past the summer swimming raft off which I used to push my cousin Victoria, past the other summer swimming raft, and around back to the starting point. The round trip is a third to half a mile. Sometimes I reverse the direction.
In calm waters, I'll often overestimate the power of my strokes and have to correct for it; my old sailing instructor used to say the same of my tacking. The canoe, fortunately, has no draft whatsoever, so any rocks lurking six inches under the surface cannot threaten my craft.
The usual course is southwards first, between the rocks at the lakeside tennis courts and buoy field, outside the buoys at the pier which (in theory) prevent boats from ramming into the pier at high speed, down to the old pier near the end of the point, and back almost to the starting point. From there, I go around a smaller point that used to have rocks jutting out of the water, past the summer swimming raft off which I used to push my cousin Victoria, past the other summer swimming raft, and around back to the starting point. The round trip is a third to half a mile. Sometimes I reverse the direction.
In calm waters, I'll often overestimate the power of my strokes and have to correct for it; my old sailing instructor used to say the same of my tacking. The canoe, fortunately, has no draft whatsoever, so any rocks lurking six inches under the surface cannot threaten my craft.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
2010 Canoe Trip
NOTE: This should have preceeded the post on camping in the redwoods.
Last weekend I went the annual canoe trip with the Junior Woodchucks. This account is of necessity redacted and changed to protect the names and identities of the (sometimes not so) innocent. Sadly, there are no postable pictures, even ones of yours truly. The Russian river was its usual temperature and color (warm and slightly green), and the contingent of Woodcraft Indians was smaller than I would have liked. This year, however, lacked the swarming invertebrates of last year's trip. Luch was absurdly early, as usual, but that's the boys' call, not mine. The pullout for the canoes was a little too narrow and steep, and there was not quite enough shade. I pulled some water from the river, trusting in my iodine tablets.
In many spots along the river, there was choice: overhanging bushes where thhe current ran, or shadeless shallows where it did not. Fortunately, I had recently and finally disentangled my broad-brimmed hat (not a petasos, sadly) from my travel wallet, which had had remained in such condition since my return from the western Mediterranean, so the spiders in the bushes did not get in my hair.
There were the usual mishaps characteristic of a river trip, but my new dry bag held up admirably. I did not witness every rescue and recovery on the trip, but the two incidents in which I was involved were resolved satisfactorily. In the former case, all the equipment was recovered, and soon the spirit of the unfortunate pair recovered as well. The latter case was harder, since it involved a swift current and large branch; more than one person lost their grip during the operation and had to fight their way back upstream, but eventually the canoe was freed from the embrace of water and wood.
Some other campers had rather unsportingly taken some of our spots when we returned to our campsite next to the Pomo general store, but I suppose some people just don't have a sense of fair play. In any case, we adapted and consolidated and still had enough table for our food groups. The campfire that night was short, since the skits were done according to food group rather than patrol. Everybody already knew the traditional songs, so I was not as creative as I could have been, but I hope I made up for that on Tuesday.
On Sunday morning, we did not continue down the river, as we once did, but we did have a Scout's Own by the river bank. The seating was uncomfortable, but we had a nice discussion of the wildlife we saw on the trip, led by our own Daniel Carter. A stone skipping contest followed the Scout's Own. The swarming insects through which the stones were bouncing had a peculiar obsession with purely vertical movement which still baffles me.
Last weekend I went the annual canoe trip with the Junior Woodchucks. This account is of necessity redacted and changed to protect the names and identities of the (sometimes not so) innocent. Sadly, there are no postable pictures, even ones of yours truly. The Russian river was its usual temperature and color (warm and slightly green), and the contingent of Woodcraft Indians was smaller than I would have liked. This year, however, lacked the swarming invertebrates of last year's trip. Luch was absurdly early, as usual, but that's the boys' call, not mine. The pullout for the canoes was a little too narrow and steep, and there was not quite enough shade. I pulled some water from the river, trusting in my iodine tablets.
In many spots along the river, there was choice: overhanging bushes where thhe current ran, or shadeless shallows where it did not. Fortunately, I had recently and finally disentangled my broad-brimmed hat (not a petasos, sadly) from my travel wallet, which had had remained in such condition since my return from the western Mediterranean, so the spiders in the bushes did not get in my hair.
There were the usual mishaps characteristic of a river trip, but my new dry bag held up admirably. I did not witness every rescue and recovery on the trip, but the two incidents in which I was involved were resolved satisfactorily. In the former case, all the equipment was recovered, and soon the spirit of the unfortunate pair recovered as well. The latter case was harder, since it involved a swift current and large branch; more than one person lost their grip during the operation and had to fight their way back upstream, but eventually the canoe was freed from the embrace of water and wood.
Some other campers had rather unsportingly taken some of our spots when we returned to our campsite next to the Pomo general store, but I suppose some people just don't have a sense of fair play. In any case, we adapted and consolidated and still had enough table for our food groups. The campfire that night was short, since the skits were done according to food group rather than patrol. Everybody already knew the traditional songs, so I was not as creative as I could have been, but I hope I made up for that on Tuesday.
On Sunday morning, we did not continue down the river, as we once did, but we did have a Scout's Own by the river bank. The seating was uncomfortable, but we had a nice discussion of the wildlife we saw on the trip, led by our own Daniel Carter. A stone skipping contest followed the Scout's Own. The swarming insects through which the stones were bouncing had a peculiar obsession with purely vertical movement which still baffles me.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Canoe Training 2009
On Saturday, June 7, the troop went on its annual Canoe Training outing. This was a single day outing, unlike previous years.. Originally, we had been scheduled to go on the Canoe Training this weekend, and the Whitewater Trip earlier, which everybody loves, but sufficient volume at Cash Creek is dependent on the release of water from Clear Lake, and that release is dependent on the irrigation schedule of the Valley; apparently the water flow of California is entirely artificial (Charlie Johnck, hydrologist, might be able to enlighten me). After a great deal of schedule changes, including the cancellation of the earlier date due to rain, we ended up back on the original date, but we could only get one day. I will say, however, that the ranger at Tam-O-Rancho is a lot more personable than the old ranger at Royaneh.
We had no staff, so The World’s Best Patrol Leader (I can’t use real names, obviously) took point and sent two Scouts up the (unconventional) trail to scout - unfortunately, at one of the young men had a rather impulsive character and neither returned in a timely fashion. The troop went down to the lake by the usual way and found the “scouts” already there. This lake is small and artificial, created by an permanent earthen dam. There were more weeds than usual, part of which we removed my by hand.
The dock was on the far side of the lake; its square components were tied together in a straight line, with the exception of the final one, whose placement on the side provided a larger platform on which to take the first step from the bank. Some of the older guys marched counter-clockwise along the banks of the lake in order to paddle the dock across. At first, the boys made headway, but it became clear that something was restraining the rather awkwardly shaped dock-boat. It was clear also that the crew of this “craft” was not composed of crew members. Eventually, the anchor was located, although half sank when a certain person detached it. The new placement of the dock almost blocked the shallow basin from the deeper part of the lake.
Once the set up had been completed, the Old Man administered the swim tests and deliberately if not maliciously mangled some names, while I climbed into the lookout post. Only one boy expressed reluctance, and fortunately he tried and won in the end; to spend the entire day on the shore while all the other boys were in the canoes would be extremely boring and frustrating!
Although I had to do paperwork for the Court of Honor (is it that hard to mark down who is present?), an enlightening experience in distinguishing Goofuses and Gallants and the inconvenience of senary percentages, the boys were busy on the lake. The halving (or greater) of the time for practicing strokes and steering diminished the final competence of the candidates for the merit badge. A significant winnowing factor, as usual, was the swamping and righting of a canoe. It is remarkably difficult to swamp your own canoe deliberately (probably a self-preservation trait), but once you achieve the intentional sabotage, the operation of righting the craft presents grave difficulties. There is no support form below, so the only power comes from sufficient upper body strength, which is an absolute division: either it is enough, or it is not. Many Fourteeners have failed in their first year of Canoe Training, only to succeed in the second.
Since all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, there was a half-hour of free time on the water, during which it seemed that half the canoes were sunk (this doesn’t mean they went to the bottom of the lake, since they were still buoyant). The troop dads provided a feast of grilled hot dogs and chips, in addition to largely ignored fruit) before we changed and marched back to the cars.
We had no staff, so The World’s Best Patrol Leader (I can’t use real names, obviously) took point and sent two Scouts up the (unconventional) trail to scout - unfortunately, at one of the young men had a rather impulsive character and neither returned in a timely fashion. The troop went down to the lake by the usual way and found the “scouts” already there. This lake is small and artificial, created by an permanent earthen dam. There were more weeds than usual, part of which we removed my by hand.
The dock was on the far side of the lake; its square components were tied together in a straight line, with the exception of the final one, whose placement on the side provided a larger platform on which to take the first step from the bank. Some of the older guys marched counter-clockwise along the banks of the lake in order to paddle the dock across. At first, the boys made headway, but it became clear that something was restraining the rather awkwardly shaped dock-boat. It was clear also that the crew of this “craft” was not composed of crew members. Eventually, the anchor was located, although half sank when a certain person detached it. The new placement of the dock almost blocked the shallow basin from the deeper part of the lake.
Once the set up had been completed, the Old Man administered the swim tests and deliberately if not maliciously mangled some names, while I climbed into the lookout post. Only one boy expressed reluctance, and fortunately he tried and won in the end; to spend the entire day on the shore while all the other boys were in the canoes would be extremely boring and frustrating!
Although I had to do paperwork for the Court of Honor (is it that hard to mark down who is present?), an enlightening experience in distinguishing Goofuses and Gallants and the inconvenience of senary percentages, the boys were busy on the lake. The halving (or greater) of the time for practicing strokes and steering diminished the final competence of the candidates for the merit badge. A significant winnowing factor, as usual, was the swamping and righting of a canoe. It is remarkably difficult to swamp your own canoe deliberately (probably a self-preservation trait), but once you achieve the intentional sabotage, the operation of righting the craft presents grave difficulties. There is no support form below, so the only power comes from sufficient upper body strength, which is an absolute division: either it is enough, or it is not. Many Fourteeners have failed in their first year of Canoe Training, only to succeed in the second.
Since all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, there was a half-hour of free time on the water, during which it seemed that half the canoes were sunk (this doesn’t mean they went to the bottom of the lake, since they were still buoyant). The troop dads provided a feast of grilled hot dogs and chips, in addition to largely ignored fruit) before we changed and marched back to the cars.
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