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Tuesday, September 19, 2017

CHAPTER 5 From the Soon to Release "Upside Down in the Yukon River"

What a blast this has been! Just 4 short weeks ago while having coffee w/ Jason Walsmith of  "The Nadas", he suggested sharing the early chapters of the upcoming book. One chapter, one week at a time. The result? Every Tuesday at 7 PM we go live on my personal facebook page for "A Chapter and a Chat". As a new author working to build an audience I quickly realized the smarts in this idea. Sharing some of the book allows people to get an idea what my writing is all about. For those of you who read "40 Days Life, Love Loss and an Historic Run Around One of the World's Largest Lakes", you know it is a book about a run that has very little to do with running. The new book is much the same.

The World's longest kayak race serves as a backdrop for a book that is so much more than a book about a boat race.

If you fancy a big adventure, have dreams still dancing in your soul yet unrealized or have decided that today is the perfect time to start living your very best life, it's my hope that this book will speak to all of the above.

Thanks for coming along for the ride. I hope you enjoy Chapter 5 of the soon to release "Upside Down in the Yukon River".
#dreamBIGdreams

Steve







Chapter Five


I sat at the computer. The room was not of much size, doubling as both office and living room. Flat screen televisions had not yet become the norm, and the faux wood paneled TV I’d inherited from my grandfather, which I still have to this day, served as both desk and entertainment.
Adventure racing had allowed me to dip my toe into many different waters, which is the real beauty of the sport. Rappelling and ropes had appealed to my climbing side, which was where all my adventuring had begun in my late twenties. I’d travelled with my good friend Ty Dickerson to Eldorado Canyon years prior to experiencing my first rock climbing trip. In a VW van, of course. With little more than enough money for gas and freeze dried food, we fit to a T the bill of dirtbag climbers and loved every second of it. We’d climb all day and by night read books about the greats like John Long and Lynn Hill. That trip in the summer of 1990 had opened my eyes to the adventurous lifestyle and mindset. It had eventually led me to living in Colorado for a short time, where I had been introduced to all manners of adventure and adventure athletes.
Orienteering had been like learning a whole new language. I loved the idea of guiding a team through unfamiliar terrain in search of a small hand-sized tent hanging from a tree limb in the dark of night. Once found, you would use the small card punch attached to prove that you had indeed been there, and as quickly and quietly as possible, get the hell out of there so as not to alert other teams, possibly less skilled, still in search of the same checkpoint. We went so far as to come up with code, signaling one of us had found the “treasure.” Once certain we were in the vicinity of the checkpoint, we would fan out as nonchalant as possible, again not wanting to draw any attention, and wait to hear the signal. “Wow! Who farted?” someone would say. Genius, right? We figured it was unlikely anyone would be within earshot. But, if someone did hear us—voices do travel a long way in the woods—we gambled that nobody would think about heading our way after such a proclamation of stink!
We’d play it up big too. “Awww dude, that is horrible, what the hell did you eat?” Dana would chime in. “This is the last time I’m racing with you guys. That’s not funny. I’m gonna hurl!” All the while, converging on the one who supposedly had dropped the butt-bomb and the checkpoint, trying not to laugh and blow our cover.
Running and cycling had also proved to be a lot of fun, but it was paddling that I was now in love with. Our first few adventure races we bungled about. Not having practiced much, we were unsure of the best “system.” We always competed in the three-person co-ed division. Steve Giblin and Dana Kennedy rounded out the team of three. Both were fantastic athletes and, more importantly, great friends. Tough as nails, patient, with an ability to laugh when things got tough. The last attribute was the most important.
Robyn Benincasa, a professional adventure racer and world champ, spoke to us prior to an adventure race in Chicago saying, “Look around. It won’t be the super fit looking athletes who will win; it will be those who can work together and problem solve the best... and have the most fun.” Great advice, not just for adventure racing, but for life.
Our first couple races, it became obvious more paddle time was needed. We didn’t lack the horsepower as much as the know how. Steve Giblin had a canoe, and we began incorporating it into our workouts. Not long after, enjoying the paddling, I invested in a sea kayak. a fourteen footer designed to cover longer stretches of water with less resistance. The longer the kayak, the better it tracked through the water. This also made it much more responsive but also easier to tip.
Spending more and more time on the water, it didn’t take long until we dialed in our system. Steve would jump in first, with Dana and me steadying the canoe. Dana got in next, and before she’d be seated, I’d have us pushed off and underway. Steve was a horse at the front of the boat and would paddle as hard as he could on whatever side he wanted, switching whenever he wanted. Dana would match him, and I’d play off them both, keeping the boat on line to the target. Dana doubled as the grocery lady. Eventually we’d be in races where we would paddle for hours at a time. Dana would keep us all fed, breaking out Clif Bars and Gu, keeping the engines stoked. Paddling became our strongest discipline. On the water, we more than held our own. I loved the intensity of it, the pain of it, mixed with the beauty of the lakes, the wooded shorelines, at times navigating by moonlight. Certain paddling sections required beaching the boat, heading inland to find checkpoints, and returning back to the boat. It was exhilarating, real sharp end of the stick kinda stuff. I wanted more. More distance, more remote, more challenge. More, more, more.
Sitting at the makeshift TV desk in my one bedroom apartment on 42nd Street in Des Moines, Iowa, I typed the words “world’s longest kayak race” into the Mac’s search window. One should be careful what one searches for. Almost instantly, the computer answered my query: the Yukon River Quest.

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

CHAPTER FOUR - FROM THE SOON TO RELEASE "Upside Down in the Yukon River"


 

 

CHAPTER 4


The surroundings were unfamiliar. I vaguely remembered, although unsure if in a dream or reality, being brought to this place. Exhaustion still clutching me tightly, eyes not yet open, I did my best to try and recall the events that brought me here. The attempts to piece events together were frustrating, like a dream after waking in the morning, some pieces clear, others just beyond the mind’s reach.
I recalled a bit of a ruckus, being wheeled into a large, drab M.A.S.H.-like tent. Again, unsure if my memories were accurate, it seemed almost out-of-body to my recollection—more like watching it happen, than actually experiencing it. There had been a real urgency to what I could only guess was a nurse or some emergency medical person’s voice. She instructed that I be removed from the emergency suit, stripped of all my clothes and warmed up. Now! The details and words, I could not recall exactly, as if I was just out of earshot in a movie in which I was the main character. The urgency was clear. It was surreal, lying there, attempting to piece events together, half conscious, still unsure if any of my recollections were based in reality.
There was a tinge of uncomfortableness or embarrassment as I was taken out of the bulky orange emergency suit and stripped out of my still damp clothing. Yes, the big orange emergency suit. I remembered. They had called for a rescue boat. Apparently the volunteer had seen I was not well as I sat next to the small fire on the shoreline, contemplating my ability to continue. He may have saved my life. Shortly after getting on the rescue boat, I’d been instructed to put on the emergency suit. I had seen these things on television: crab fishermen who’d fallen overboard placed in them in attempt to stave off hypothermia. We were miles from the next checkpoint and the rescue boat captain got me into the suit immediately, offering up some hot coffee as we launched.  Terribly disappointed to have DNF’d (“Did Not Finish”), the orange suit seemed a small badge of honor, almost cool. I thought, well, you at least went down swinging. No one would question my reasons for quitting, my toughness, once we arrived. My ego was doing its best to find some solace in failure. The mental conversations and search for justifications would not last long. I lost consciousness some time shortly thereafter.
The lone white light bulb hanging from the ceiling cast just enough light to allow those within the tent to do their work. Its glow, like the other details, random. Why are they taking all my clothes off? What is going on? What has happened to me? Am I dreaming? I have had those dreams, at times so vivid, certain they were reality. A warm drink, chicken soup or some similar broth, was put to my lips.
“Drink this,” a voice from somewhere said, holding my head up. “We need to get his body temperature up quickly. He is in trouble,” 
I was growing a bit more certain that I was indeed alive. At times it had been murky, like that space in books or movies when a character watches their life pass before them. Maybe I had been in the in-between place, one foot with the living and the other not. The weight of the wool blankets made it difficult to move. A large stocking cap of some sort covered my head. Gaining a grasp of my surroundings, I realized had anyone entered the tent, I doubt I’d have even been noticed, entombed in what nearly became my sheep-skinned casket. 

The wool cocoon, the ice-pick-in-the-forehead type headache, the tent walls, the faint voices coming from outside confirmed this was indeed a real place. My eyes opened for the first time. Still very groggy, I had no idea where “here” even was. Was it day or night? What day or night? 

Many questions needed answers.
Where the hell are my clothes?!? That seemed as logical a place as any to start.

ARE YOU ENJOYING THE FIRST FEW CHAPTERS OF STEVE'S LATEST BOOK? HAVE YOU READ HIS FIRST, 40 DAYS
YOU CAN DOWNLOAD IT FREE ON THE SIDEBAR HERE AND BECOME A PART OF THE ADVANCED READER LIST FOR THE SOON TO RELEASE UPSIDE DOWN IN THE YUKON RIVER.

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

UPSIDE DOWN IN THE YUKON RIVER - CHAPTER 2 (and a lil bonus)






Chapter 2 - Upside Down in the Yukon River

Eco-Challenge was Mark Burnett’s baby, the beginning of reality TV, and led eventually to the Kardashians. I’m sure the latter was a completely unintended consequence. Burnett’s show detailed the racing adventures of four-person teams from around the globe in some of the most remote, gnarly, nasty, beautiful areas of our planet.
Two stints living in Colorado had opened my eyes to the adventure/endurance athlete scene. Eco-Challenge was like crack. I was becoming a junkie. I could feel it. The more remote the adventure, the higher the suffering these nut-job super athletes faced, the more I jonesed for it. The Aussie team would attempt to not sleep for the entire race—something insane like five days—and eventually one of their members nearly walked off a cliff in a sleep-deprived haze. One of the girls from the all-girl team cut her finger lashing a makeshift boat together. Seemingly innocuous at the time, days later the infection from that cut nearly killed her. Three teammates tried to nurse their fourth along as he fought Giardia—puking in the boat, out of the boat, occasionally on himself and anything or anyone else within the blast range. This was the eclipse I could not help but look into. All for one and one for all! No person left behind! Either you all finished or no one finished. Four working together as one. The show captivated all who watched it. It was next-day, talk-about-at-the-coffee shop or water-cooler-at-work kinda stuff. Ian Adamson, Robyn Benincasa, Rebecca Rusch, Marshall Ulrich. These people became my sports heroes. Mark Burnett became my drug dealer, giving me episode after episode for free, knowing I’d return for more. I was not content to simply shoot up each Wednesday night from 7 p.m. to 8 p.m. and go on quietly with the rest of my life. I wanted in.
  
Chapter Three
Adventure racing introduced me to paddling. Like most kids, I had spent a bit of time in a canoe growing up. Not much though. The only real memory was a family trip to northwest Iowa. Brian, my cousin, and I had paddled out to a small island, maybe a mile or so from camp. The water was calm, a slight breeze at our back made the trip a real treat. Brian had some paddling experience; his father and he had taken a few trips to the Boundary Waters. To the best of my memory, this may have been my maiden voyage. They gave me a few basic pointers, explaining how one’s hand goes on top of the paddle, the best way to slip your paddle into the water, and the proper exit point. A few strokes on your left, a few on the right, repeat. Brian would handle keeping us on course from the rear of the boat. There was no mention of fore, aft, starboard or port. Maiden canoe voyages were the stuff of left, right, front, and back.
Arriving at the little island, we were Christopher Columbus, the first to set foot on this faraway land. Beaching our aluminum vessel, stepping into the clear, chilly, bluish-green waters, steadying the boat for my trusted companion, I was feeling quite full of myself. Not in a braggadocious, look-at-me sort of way. Well, perhaps there was some look-at-me feeling, but there was an innocence to it, a sort of self amazement. Did I really just paddle from that distant shore to here? Me, the city kid, who reluctantly came along on this trip in the first place?
Per Brian’s instructions, I steadied the boat, watching as he stepped, slowly and deliberately down the center of our vessel, so as not to topple it. As he exited the front of the canoe, we pulled the now much lighter craft onto the beach. Time to explore our new found island. Wonder filled me. What might lurk beyond the small sandy beach we stood on? Were bears hiding beyond our view? Are there bears in Iowa? I wondered. As I was fairly certain there weren’t, it felt a bit like the bogeyman. Of course, in the safety and light of day, the bogeyman was a silly concept. Let darkness fall though, and then a bump in the night, and suddenly what seemed so silly an hour ago has a bit more teeth. This felt similar. Bears were a silly, almost laughable idea from the distant shore, but we were no longer on the distant shore. This was uncharted territory, and once we were inside the towering trees that lay in wait, who knew what dangers lurked?
Brian took the lead as we began our exploration. Armed with tree branch “machetes,” we were prepared for all matters of bushwhacking and, if necessary, self defense. Young minds are such fertile ground. Just add adventure and watch what sprouts. We were certain an indigenous tribe called this place home, and we hoped to be the first to encounter them. Brian joked that hopefully they were not of the head-hunting variety. We were almost certain they would not be, and even if they were, a couple of young kids’ heads would probably be of little trophy value. We were more excited by the possibilities of witnessing a tribal dance, meeting the medicine man, and returning back to camp, painted faces and necklaces proving our honorary status within the tribe.
The island was a lush environment. The forest canopy shielded much of the sky, which unbeknownst to us was beginning to cloud a bit. I hoped Brian was paying attention, as I realized I had been following aimlessly, the forest not offering a clear path to guide our return. Being the rookie of the crew, I was not going to question his plans or abilities. My thoughts were interrupted as he stopped suddenly, his gaze intently focused just off the trail to the right.
“No way!! Look at that!!” he exclaimed, hurriedly running a few quick steps, as if whatever “it” was might escape.
As Brian reached down to retrieve his great find, I could see an ivory-white tip just above the tall grass of the forest floor and to his right. The skull was a perfect white, bleached by the sun for who knows how long, and the eight antlers—four per side—were nearly symmetrically perfect. What a score this was! Proof of our adventure, and more importantly, evidence that we were clearly explorers of the highest degree. Brian put the beast’s skull above his head like a ceremonial headdress. We concocted stories of the animal’s demise. Perhaps the carcass was still near, hidden by the beast that had slain it. If so, we should not dally long, or risk a similar fate. Could it be that the tribe had hunted the great buck, interested only in its meat and skins for subsistence? I recalled my stepfather, a great hunter in his own right, saying while field dressing a nice fat doe, “You can’t eat the horns, son.” Had they seen our coming from the distant shore and left the headdress as a gift, a sign of peace and welcome to the young explorers? We especially liked that idea.
We decided after lengthy discussion and celebration of our monumental find that it would be best not to overstay our welcome. We would return the gift of the island people by searching no further and leaving them in peace.
The gods of the sky had been quite busy during our exploration. The light, wispy, clouds, that were earlier friendly and dancing across the light blue sky had been overtaken by darker invaders. We wondered, had we overstayed our welcome, perhaps angering the gods that kept watch over this place?
Seasoned paddlers we were not. To be fair, I was not. We were however able to discern that we needed to get our butts back across that lake, pronto. Pulling the canoe from its hiding place amongst the lush, waist high grasses, we readied it to go. Even a rookie kid like me knew instinctively that the small waves and stiffening wind, now in our face, was not ideal. Sticking the front half of the canoe into the water, Brian urged me in and steadied the boat so as not to topple over. I baby-stepped my way down the center, bending slightly at the waist, enabling me to balance a bit easier holding on to the sides of the canoe. Brian launched us once I’d found my seat in the front. A few quick steps in the now not so friendly tides got us underway, and he hopped in, taking his seat at the rear.
Brian’s instructions were clear before we were underway. Three strokes left, three strokes right, repeat. Rest if you have to, but it would be best if you didn’t have to so we don’t go backwards. I understood. Our lighthearted adventure was on hold. The dark clouds above had sent invitation to the winds, and they had gratefully accepted. In turn, the lake now was being churned up, its waves pushing back against our every stroke. Earlier, the slight breeze and currents maximized the distance travelled each time our paddles pulled the water below. No longer the case, it was as if the island, or perhaps its unseen inhabitants were willing us back. The sun-drenched buck’s skull, now on the canoe floor between us, may not have been a gift after all. It seemed it was wanted back.
Brian was doing expert work keeping us in line. We would beat slightly left by the third strike on the right side of the boat, coming back in line as I switched my paddling to the left. On occasion, we would get a bit off kilter and, in doing so, nearly tip as the waves would catch us on the side. Sure, we had our life jackets on, but I didn’t know a thing about self-rescue. The thought of tipping and the cold water below that splashed up on us with every rogue wave scared me. Brian hollered a word or two of encouragement from time to time. I’m not sure if he was frightened more by the predicament or that he knew I really had no idea what I was doing. The latter probably exacerbated the former. Closing in on the shore provided a bit of relief from the wind, which in turn began to settle the water. A slight rain had begun. We paid it little mind though, relieved by the fact that we may actually return to terra firma mostly dry. The canoe hissed as it reached the end of our journey, its bottom rubbing against the sand below. It was a welcome sound. The return paddle from the island, somehow escaping
the lakes wrath, had taken us about an hour or so. I crumpled over myself, equal parts exhausted and relieved. Brian, in his haste to get us back as quickly as possible, had shot for the nearest land which put us a good bit from camp, where we had initially launched. I had noticed this when on occasion I took a moment to look up from my three stroke left, three stroke right ritual. It didn’t cross my mind to question my navigator. I had simple instructions and was pretty scared. I was all for anything that got us back to land, as fast as possible. The fear of drowning or, at the very least, capsizing was a great motivator to paddle on as told in whatever direction Brian saw fit.
Wobbly legged as could be, I exited the canoe, pulling it as far into shore as able, so as to make it easier for Brian to get out. We were whipped, a mile or so from camp Brian figured, and definitely overdue to return. I was about to get my second big lesson of the day: how to portage.
Here’s the main thing you need know about portaging a canoe: it is way harder than paddling one. At least it was for two twelve-year-olds, each not strong enough to support the craft without the other’s help. Thinking back on the scene, I’m reminded of a favorite saying: “It looked like two monkeys trying to have sex with a football.” Even if we weren’t already exhausted, on our best day on flat pavement with no overhanging branches, rocks underfoot, or ninety degree turns, carrying that aluminum craft a mile would have sucked. It would have made a roaring silent picture, sped up and accompanied by the music of the Keystone Cops. Three steps, bang into a tree, switch shoulders, drop canoe on foot, curse using words twelve-year-olds weren’t supposed to know—thankfully it’s a silent movie—four more steps, stumble and fall while trying to look ahead, so as to not hit another tree head-on, more cursing; what a comedy of errors! It would be funny only to those who might have been watching. There was no humor in this at all for us. I was a soft city kid, in over my head, and Brian, although more seasoned, was still barely ninety pounds all in. Continuing down the trail, keeping the shore in sight best we could to serve as our guide, we finally broke through, emerging from the woods that had held us captive, dropping the canoe, falling to our knees, we had made it—almost. The family site was at the other end of the campground. It was ok though, the canoe could be dragged from here. It would have to be. Seemingly, the craft had become a hundred pounds heavier the last few hours.
It seemed a cruel joke as we lugged the canoe into camp those last few steps. The angry skies were again calm. Everyone looked curiously wondering why we appeared so haggard. It seemed we were barely missed. Had they not noticed the wind that whipped the lake into a boiling sea, bent on keeping us as a trophy of its own? Had no one even questioned the safety of their two young explorers? Their whereabouts? The expected concern, the Do you know how much trouble you’re in? We have all been worried sick. Where the hell have you two been?! was disappointingly absent. We had been certain all that would be forthcoming and now, without them, the tales of our great exploration lacked the proper lead in.
Dropping the canoe next to the beer and soda can-covered picnic table, Brian and I stood silently noticing how unnoticed we were. Perhaps it was just as it should be. The magnitude of our exploration surely would have been lost on them anyway. The unexplored before today island, the tribesmen lurking around us without our knowledge, the daring paddle and portage home would remain a memory between just two boys. A grand adventure that would someday be recounted in books for sure. The gift of the island people fell to the ground as I untied it from my waste. Coming to rest near the canoe, the great buck deer’s skull was a single clue left for those that might notice and wonder. Brian and I used what little energy we had left to find somewhere to lie down. Finding a cot in the back of Uncle Bob’s pickup truck, I passed out more tired and more fulfilled than at any other time in my life.



"Well, How do you like it so far??? I hope your as excited to read the next chapter as I am to share it. See ya next Tuesday 7 PM for Chapter 4. Have a great rest of your week!"
#dreamBIGdreams
Steve Cannon


No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means electronic, mechanical, printing, photocopying, recording, chiseling in stone, or otherwise, without the written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. For information regarding permission contact the publisher.
Copyright© 2017 by Steve M. Cannon All rights reserved.  

Monday, August 28, 2017

Chapter One - "Upside Down in the Yukon River"

           

 

 

            

 

    UPSIDE DOWN IN THE YUKON RIVER



                                                         by

                                             Steven M. Cannon




                                                  

THE SPELL OF THE YUKON



I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it—
Came out with a fortune last fall,—
Yet somehow life's not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn't all.
No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?)
It's the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it's a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there's some as would trade it
For no land on earth—and I'm one.
You come to get rich (damned good reason);
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it's been since the beginning;
It seems it will be to the end.
I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That's plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I've watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I've thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o' the world piled on top.
The summer—no sweeter was ever;
The sunshiny woods all athrill;
The grayling aleap in the river,
The bighorn asleep on the hill.
The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness—
O God! how I'm stuck on it all.
The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I've bade 'em good-by—but I can't.
There's a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There's a land—oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back—and I will.
They're making my money diminish;
I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I'm skinned to a finish
I'll pike to the Yukon again.
I'll fight—and you bet it's no sham-fight;
It's hell!—but I've been there before;
And it's better than this by a damsite—
So me for the Yukon once more.
There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting;
It's luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder,
It's the forests where silence has lease;
It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It's the stillness that fills me with peace.


From The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses by Robert W. Service. Published 1907 in New York by Barse & Hopkins, Publishers. Now in the Public Domain in the USA and other countries.
Retrieved 23 June 2017 from https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Spell_of_the_Yukon_and_Other_Verses






Chapter 1

Open your eyes and grab the release on the spray skirt. These are not the murky river waters from back home in Iowa. You’ll be able to see it easily in these waters and get yourself free of this mess.
I felt no panic, no fear—which would have seemed odd to anyone witnessing my dilemma from the riverbank. I was upside down in the Yukon River, trapped in my kayak and unable to get free.
Racers were warned that this lake—Lake Laberge—had been the demise of many because of its size and unstable weather patterns. The weather had sucked, for the most part, the entire week leading up to the event. It had been an unseasonably cold and wet spring in this part of the Yukon Territory. In most years, by June the sun was a more constant companion, and the spring rains had waned. Even in the warmest, most stable of years, it was commonplace for an afternoon storm to whip this lake into a frenzy, dump those in its way, and then disappear once content with the havoc it had wreaked. This was where DNFs (“did not finish”) were made.
Over thirty miles long, the lake was a wide spot in the Yukon River that stretched as much as three miles side to side. Very seldom was the year that someone didn’t end up capsized; which was exactly where I found myself at that moment. Most who made it across the lake made it to the Carmacks checkpoint; nearly 87 percent of the people who made that checkpoint finished the race. I hoped only to get free of the kayak before it become my waterlogged coffin.
For the hour before, I had been surfing ever-increasing swells. I reflected back to the pre-race meeting. It was mandated that all of us taking on the Yukon River Quest remain within a quarter-mile of the shore. They explained that this made sense for a couple of reasons. First, if your kayak or canoe capsized, it would be possible to get yourself to shore before hypothermia killed you. Second, the further from shore, the bigger the waves. Kayaking back home in Iowa had provided little opportunity—ok, no opportunity—to practice whitecap paddling like this.
Fear could be a good thing at times. Certainly, this was one of those times. But there was also a balance to be struck. Thirty miles to get across this beast was the distance “as the crow flies.” As the crow flies meant point to point, and that meant straight down the middle of the lake; which was not an option. The event rules made it clear that the quarter-mile-from-shore limit was not negotiable. The seemingly serene, calm waters were fool’s gold. Much like during the gold rush from a time long ago that drew explorers here, danger or worse waited for those who did not give this place its due respect. And, if caught too far from shore, you would be scolded. Ignore the scoldings, and you would be disqualified. The race directors had an ample number of stories to justify their rules. With waves on the lake now a couple feet and growing, I was about to become one of their stories.


So.....What do you think? Would you like to read more? If so, subscribe to the blog and you'll be in the loop. Until next time, dream BIG dreams. 



No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means electronic, mechanical, printing, photocopying, recording, chiseling in stone, or otherwise, without the written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. For information regarding permission contact the publisher.

Copyright© 2017 by Steve M. Cannon All rights reserved.