Let's look at the gear snobs first.

These are the canoeists that cruise by in their state of the art Kevlar boats with oiled ash gunwales, cane seats and conspicuous brand names. They propel themselves with mirror-finish wood bent-shaft paddles that they lovingly store in customized padded paddle bags. This type of paddler sighs, roll his eyes and clucks his tonge in shocked disbelief at the sight of any boat lower in quality than his own.

The appearance of a beat-up fiberglass recreational canoe will evoke wide eyes and amused guffaws from this type of paddler. If the person paddling that clunker is also happens to be using a scuffed-up paddle purchased at Canadian Tire, the canoe snob will not be able to stand it. He will paddle speedily to the opposite side of the lake, lest the mediocre quality of this equipment contaminate his gear like a contagious disease.

From the safety of that remote viewpoint, the canoe snob will take out his binoculars and begin to make careful observations. He compares his clothing to that of the derelict paddler on the other side of the lake. He knows that the only acceptable garb is a Tilley hat, a Columbia fast-dry shirt, expensive zip-off leg pants and Gore-Tex boots. He stares in amazement at the person that would dare to defile the wilderness by paddling in an outfit consisting of an old baseball cap, a t-shirt from Norm's Garage, jeans and running shoes. The snob carefully scans the packs in the canoe. What? Not a single dry bag or expensive barrel harness to be seen! What can this person be thinking?

And then there's snob type two … the route snob.

We've all had a conversation with this type of paddler. Sneaky and insidious, they trap us by striking up a conversation and asking where we've paddled recently. They appear so genuinely interested that we give them a detailed account of our 3-day trip down Mud Creek on the July long weekend. Of course, we are then obliged to reciprocate, and ask "How about you? Watcha paddled lately?"

The route snob then delves into a detailed narrative of his trip on the Pavungatuk River, which starts in Northern Manitoba, loops around the north pole, winds through the Nahanni watershed, then skirts the Northwest Passage to finish at a native village on Hudson Bay. The trip logistics always require an extended train journey and the chartering of a fleet of Twin Otters. The trip duration is never less than six weeks and the group took a six-month leave of absence from their jobs to plan the trip. Your tale of the black bear you saw on the edge of Mud Creek pales in comparison to their stories of herds of caribou, polar bears and beluga whales.

Lest I be accused of having a terminal case of sour grapes, I must be up front and confess that my regular tandem canoe is a nice, but well-used Kevlar model with an area of patches approaching the original surface area of the boat. My trips are numerous but short in length, and generally take place within a couple of hours of my home.

In spite of this, I am sincere when I state that I am not criticizing anyone with nice gear or who has the opportunity to paddle remote northern rivers. I am always suitably green with envy when I see a nice canoe or hear the story of an extended wilderness canoe trip. My criticism is directed solely at those with the attitude that anything less than oiled ash gunwales and north-of-sixty canoe trips results in an inferior canoeing experience.

The joy of wilderness paddling is not tied inextricably to ownership of expensive equipment. Granted, good gear and nice boats can make the experience more pleasant, but the boat and packs are a means, not and end. They are simply a method we use to gain access to wilderness. A pleasant method (I do love paddling simply for the experience of paddling) but essentially, we're talking about the mode of transportation here, not the entire experience.

Similarly, I do agree that there is something special about paddling the barren lands; but the point of wilderness paddling is to absorb a particular experience of wilderness. To a seasoned paddler with the time and resources to head up to our Arctic regions, their experience of wilderness may be profound. To a novice paddler, a family with small children, or to a canoeist who simply does not have the finances or time to head north, the experience of wilderness in more populated areas can be just as profound.

I have watched the morning mist burn off as I drifted in my solo canoe in a narrow channel of the Pickerel River in central Ontario. No other canoeists were around, and I could see no buildings, bridges or transmission towers. From an analytical or logical viewpoint, I knew that I was within 10 km of a major highway and just around the corner from a large fishing lodge. On an emotional level, I was alone in the wilderness - there was nobody else within a million miles. At that particular point in time, I felt that was the first person ever to have paddled there. At times like this, the illusion of wilderness is enough. The experience of solitude and appreciation for the beauty around me was as real and valid as that of the paddler who was drifting on a remote northern river.

We do a disservice to the entire paddling community when we pass judgments on people because of their equipment and route choices. When all is said and done, It's better to be out paddling in a heavy fiberglass tub in a Provincial Park than sitting at home lamenting the fact that we can't afford the sleek Kevlar boat or the remote trip.
   
Copyright © 2000, Richard Munn  All rights reserved.  Not to be reprinted without the express permission of the author.