“Actually, this is just a place for my stuff … That’s all I want, that’s all you need in life, is a little place for your stuff … Everybody’s got a little place for their stuff. This is my stuff, that’s your stuff. That’ll be his stuff over there. That’s all you need in life is a little place for your stuff.” — George Carlin
My A/C has been out for weeks and it doesn’t cool down much at night in the Florida mid-summer. I have been testing myself to see how long I can keep at this game (and the energy savings have been huge). Temps inside my house have been creeping steadily upward and currently the house is a toasty 87F (30.55 C) and it’s midnight. Funny thing is, I’m heat-adapted and perfectly fine sleeping with just a pair of box fans to keep the air moving. However, the heat and humidity is finally taking a toll. My tents, jackets, and other expensive gear have started to delaminate and fail due to heat and humidity, so I’m off to get a new A/C compressor fan motor tomorrow.
So, to put this into perspective, I’ll again be providing an expensive climate-controlled environment so that my inanimate stuff is happy and comfortable. Is that crazy or what? 🙂
Partner Linda Bartlett tries out her spanking new Impex Force 3 in Newfoundland’s Terra Nova National Park
I just returned from a whirlwind trip — teaching and speaking at the Atlantic Canadian Paddling Symposium in Nova Scotia before rushing off to Newfoundland to teach at the annual Kayak Labrador and Newfoundland (KNL) symposium. This isn’t as crazy as it sounds — next year the Atlantic Canadian Symposium will be held in Newfoundland (in lieu of the KNL event).
I should be accustomed to it by now, but it still feels silly to pack a suitcase full of winter clothes and gear, including a drysuit, and heavy wool insulation, when the mercury outside my Florida home is topping at a sweltering 90 degrees (32 C). I first experienced this disparity in 2000 when I traveled in summer to Greenland to compete in the 2000 championship. Flying from Baffin to Greenland I was shocked into reality as I gazed at the brilliant ice pans below that glistened in the sun. A chill went through me. “You’re not in Kansas any more”. Now, Newfoundland and Nova Scotia aren’t as cold as Greenland, but it did snow briefly in Newfoundland when I arrived!
It was great to visit both Nova Scotia and Newfoundland during the same trip. Although they are geographically close, they have very different personalities and cultures.
I circumnavigated Newfoundland in 2008 and have returned many times since then to visit my long-distance partner Linda Bartlett. We met at the conclusion of my circumnavigation. Visiting Nova Scotia this year was a first for me. Where Newfoundland is stark and rugged and has thin, rocky soil due to glacial scouring, Nova Scotia is more gentle with deep lush soil. It felt familiar — reminding me of the rich, rolling hills of the Midwest where I was raised. Both provinces are uniquely beautiful, although in different ways. The people here are wonderful. I’d rate the folks in Atlantic Canada as among the most generous and hospitable in the world.
Atlantic Canada symposium — Nova Scotia
The Atlantic Canada symposium was held on the Eastern Shore, about 45 minutes outside of Halifax. I taught Greenland-style kayaking to very enthusiastic students. Most of them had never held a Greenland paddle before. For the keynote address I discussed expedition kayaking against the backdrop of my Newfoundland circumnavigation. I originally wondered if talking about Newfoundland would be old news but I was surprised at the cultural distance between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland — for example some people in the audience were not aware of “resettlement”, a government sponsored relocation during the 1950’s – 1970’s where Newfoundlanders in the “outports” were moved from small villages into larger towns. Some intrepid people moved their homes over water or ice. I find the entire story amazing (as well as heartbreaking).
The schedule included time to allow instructors to take classes (thanks Chris!) and I jumped at the chance to learn canoe poling from Kevin Silliker and Tim Humes. Both men are as entertaining as they knowledgeable. It’s good to be humbled with the challenge of a new skill (although a canoe pole IS a skinny stick after all…) At the end of their session I was able to pole a canoe in wind and navigate very mild whitewater. I plan to use these new skills for fishing in nearby Mosquito Lagoon — standing in my kayak or canoe.
I enjoyed the diversity of the event. Canoes as well as kayaks were highlighted.
KNL Annual Symposum — Newfoundland
I hopped a plane for Newfoundland to visit Linda Bartlett and to teach private lessons, prior to coaching Greenland skills at Terra Nova National Park. This is a beautiful area where long fingers of forested, rocky land touch the North Atlantic. It felt like a homecoming, I had first visited and taught in the park in 2007, prior to paddling around Iceland.
KNL has a very unique teaching structure; classes are rotated between instructors. That gives each student the ability to sample everything on the menu (kind of like having tapas rather than a single heavy meal). What I find very unique about this event is the overlap between different disciplines. Unlike many events that have become highly specialized, here you will find cars with both whitewater kayaks and sea kayaks on the same roof and kayakers who love both activities. The KNL event emphasizes whitewater one year and sea kayaking the next. Brenna Kelly was on hand to coach whitewater skills this year.
It was very satisfying to see that Greenland-style paddling has been embraced in Newfoundland. I saw very few Greenland paddles in 2007, and they were fairly common this year.
Many thanks to Christopher Lockyer and Craig Moores of KNL for help with trip logistics, and everyone for their hospitality. I look forward to returning to Atlantic Canada soon!
— I need help with names in the photo essay below. Please send me a note and I’ll update the captions!
Nova Scotia – the event was held at “memory lane” a living museum
The Greenland-style paddling classes were well attended.
The joy of hitting an effortless “balance brace”!
Canoes, Kayaks, and Surf Skis (Oh My!)
Geneviève Langevin. Like many students she sampled a diversity of classes
That’s me, front-left, trying an even skinnier stick than usual… Photo courtesy Wayne Feindel
Nothing has the warmth of wood canoes…
Getting ready to try poling for the first time…
Kevin Silliker shows us how it’s done
Alan Goodridge (Newfoundland) and Amy Samson (Halifax, Nova Scotia). Fellow students in the canoe poling class.
Linda Bartlett demonstrates how to stay warm in Newfoundland– a “Rosie-scarf”! warm and fashionable :^)
KNL event; getting ready for the group paddle
The group trips at the KNL event were very well attended
Jen Kleck of Aqua Adventures must have pulled a few strings with the weather Gods. Even coming from sunny Florida I could not help but to be mightily impressed with the warm, Mediterranean-like weather in San Diego. The eighth Annual Southwest Kayak Symposium, held on Mission Bay, took place in glorious Spring conditions, with brilliant greenery, crystal blue skies and palm trees swaying in the warm sun.
As a Floridian, the conditions felt familiar, but distinctly different. The expected humidity was absent and the rolling panorama of hills, the Pacific swell, the cacophony of seals and sea lions on the rocks at La Jolla, made for a very memorable event.
The Southwest Kayak Symposium is held at “CampLand on the Bay”, a funky RV campground on Mission Bay. It’s an RV camp on steroids and is a microcosm of American/California culture. Lurking amid the lush vegetation are mammoth RVs with sides that pop-out to house-sized proportions, grocery stores, hot tubs, golf-carts and other conveniences. The venue (complete with chatty parrots overhead that attempt to drown out conversations), is a great place for a symposium, with large open areas of lawn and easy water access. Mission Bay offers beginners a safe place to whet (wet?) their appetite, while nearby La Jolla (the Jewel) offers more challenging conditions with Pacific surf and sea caves.
It was a pleasure to be reunited with friends and fellow coaches again, including Phil “rock star” Hadley, Russell Farrow, Nigel Foster, Kristin, Jen Kleck, Jake Stachovak (taking time off from his Portage to Portage expedition), Duane Strosaker, Michael Shugg and many more.
This was my second time coaching at the event. I joined up with Maine coach John Carmody on Thursday at La Jolla to introduce a number of students to the surf zone and to practice skills such as turning in wind and waves. This was the first time that I had witnessed John in action and was impressed by his quiet style and substance. I could only imagine the awe of one our students, living in land-locked Colorado, who had the thrill of paddling on the sea for the very first time; feeling the rising and falling swell, hearing the cries of sea birds echo off cliffs, and playing in the surf, all which combines to make this environment so alive.
I was on hand to coach students with their Greenland skills and together with instructors Duane Strosaker and Michael Shugg, thoroughly enjoyed myself. The students were enthusiastic and warm and many had at least one “AHA!” moment that excited and inspired them — which is what makes teaching so rewarding and truly worthwhile for me.
The party Saturday night included great food, a bonfire and music including Steve “Hullcracker” Wilson, Mark Sanders, Russell Farrow and Nigel Foster. The highpoint (err, lowpoint?…) was Phil Hadley performing a lively rendition of “Wild Thing”. The video, by Michael Shugg, appears below — watch it only if you dare! For the first time you can see what REALLY goes on at kayak symposiums! 😉
Many thanks to Jen Kleck for allowing me to participate. I look forward to attending next year!
Immaculate Green Lawn at La Jolla. Groups were performing Yoga, throwing frisbee and even playing croquet!
Nigel Foster waits for the right moment while launching at La Jolla
John Carmody coaching off the rocks at La Jolla.
Michael Shugg’s video “When Kayakers Go Bad….”
Jen Kleck and Jake Stachovak. Photo by Duane Strosaker.
Mark Sanders sings of the “Great White”… Photo by Duane Strosaker.
The “Lego-block” expandable kayak!
Relaxing with Nigel Foster (left) in the campground.
Pop-up tents for the coaches sprouted quickly in the campsite.
Russell and Kristin at the campsite.
The expressive Phil Hadley (on a good day)
Duane Strosaker performing Inuit Rope Gymnastics
Russell Farrow, Greg, Phil Hadley after the last classes were completed on Sunday. Photo by Michael Shugg
Jean Totz (past Sweetwater partner) and Jen Kleck ( Aqua Aventures San Diego) enjoy lunch on Sunday when the temps felt “more like Florida”
Spring weather in Central Florida is moody and sometimes downright bipolar. You can be blessed with warm, summer-like days, the beaches filled with bikini-clad sun-lovers, or cold stormy skies and near freezing temperatures. Participants at the 13th Sweetwater Symposium got to sample a bit of both moods.
After a year’s hiatus the 13th annual Sweetwater Symposium was held Feb. 26 – 28, with BCU/ACA/Greenland week starting Feb. 22. Although the week started with balmy temps in the mid seventies, by Saturday a cold front bringing arctic air had paddlers bundling up in full winter gear. Dry suits in Florida? Yes, it is true. Fortunately Suzanne Hutchinson, Kokatat rep, was on hand to discuss drysuits and help paddlers with new gaskets. I was happy to have brought my Kokatat drysuit and storm cag — the same gear I wore in Iceland and Newfoundland. It was the first time I have ever needed it in Florida at midday. The cold front blew through Saturday afternoon creating some very fun and challenging conditions and paddlers were soon greeted to blue skies with warm temps on Sunday. “This is more like it”, one participant grinned, as he strode by me in shorts and sandals, on his way to the water.
“Event HQ”, the focal point of the event, is Sweetwater’s new shop and is on the water. The shop has a “Key West” flavor to it and the entire event had a different feel this year. Some participants described it as very intimate, low-key and welcoming. Sweetwater president Russell Farrow said that “the event had a cool vibe — it was great to be able to walk directly from the shop to the water”.
One of the great things about sea kayaking and symposiums is that the coaches are so accessible. You rub elbows with the biggest names in the sport. For example, if you want to bend Nigel Foster’s ear over a beer during dinner then that’s fine. If you have a technical question that you didn’t want to share in front of class, then you can ask Jen Kleck, Steve Maynard, or another of the coaches privately. This lack of “celebrity” distance is very refreshing and is sorely lacking in most sports.
I enjoyed teaching Greenland skills and was heartened to see that interest in Greenland paddling technique — skills done on the move, was more in demand than rolling. The kayaking community is learning that Greenland paddles are much more than just tools for rolling and are excellent for day-trips, rough-water kayaking and expedition use. We explored forward stroke techniques that squeezed the full power and capability out of “the stick”, practiced directional control techniques including several bow-rudder techniques and contrasted Greenland technique to “mainstream” technique. It is always rewarding for me to teach, especially when I see students have an “aha” moment.
A huge great-white shark hung above the restaurant bar next door to the shop, and greeted guests with a menacing grin during the presentations and dinner. Kristin Nelsen discussed kayaking from an artist’s perspective and how the changing light and shadows influences her ceramic work. Nigel Foster took the crowd on a vicarious year of traveling in the life of a kayak personality and designer, journeying from Seattle to Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Italy, China and more. A special guest was Jake Stachovak who took a break from his Portage to Portage Paddling Project to entertain the crowd with his trip progress. His quest is a 5000 mile solo kayak journey around the Eastern United States; linking the Mississippi River to the Great Lakes via the Gulf Coast, Atlantic seaboard, and New York Canal Systems, ending where he began in the small town of Portage Wisconsin. Jake described a number of interesting adventures (and misadventures), including being “pepper-sprayed” in the dark streets of a river town. Jake is planning to write a book about his experiences and you can follow his progress on his blog.
Special thanks to Russell Farrow of Sweetwater Kayaks, for allowing me to be a part of the event and to Jeff Fabiszewski and Ken Knapton, both excellent instructors, for their help with the Greenland classes.
Jake Stachovak (taking a break from his expedition) and Kristin Nelson
Winter weather finally broke and was replaced by Florida sunshine (photo courtesy of Gil)
Russell (right on guitar) playing with his band Sisemore, Saturday night at the Aqualounge
Presentations featured Kristen Nelson, Nigel Foster and Jake Stachovak (photo courtesy of Gil)
Demonstrating Greenland strokes on the move (photo courtesy of Gil)
Lost in Iceland was originally published in the October 2008 issue of Sea Kayaker Magazine. The entire text follows below (you may need to click on “Read the full post” to view).
I will be visiting Newfoundland again this month and beginning work on a new article for Sea Kayaker about my solo circumnavigation of Newfoundland last year. With a new project on the way, and adequate time since it was published, I’m happy to finally share this article on my website.
Lost in Iceland was meant to be different — I forced myself to be uncomfortably honest and open, but I think that made it more human and hopefully, more interesting. I have received more comments on “Lost in Iceland” than all of my other articles combined and its been translated into three additional languages for printing in various magazines and digests. The version presented here is longer than the printed version and includes some text that had to to removed due to space considerations. I hope that you enjoy it.
Lost in Iceland
Greg Stamer
When I was 22 years old and freshly graduated from college I had planned to bicycle through Europe, pedaling from hostel to hostel. My plans changed when I received a job offer just days after my graduation – a lucrative position as a software engineer. The position was prestigious, the money was fantastic, but I had to start immediately. I was disappointed about having to cancel my adventure, but excited at the same time. It was time to start following the corporate path to success. My friends were envious and my parents were proud.
Twenty-five years later my secure career had become a prison without walls. The death of my father triggered an internal earthquake that literally split my world apart and changed the way that I perceived success and life. My marriage failed. I realized that life is what happens daily, in between the grand plans. I could no longer spend most of my time in a cubicle, trying to squeeze my “real life” into the weekends. Although I enjoyed scores of kayaking trips one or two weeks long, the kind of kayaking expeditions I dreamed of were simply not possible. My requests for a leave of a month or more were refused due to “needs of the business.” I felt like a fox with his leg caught in a steel trap. I could give up and wither away, or I could chew myself free, leave a mess, but limp away to live on my own terms. There was only one sane, but brutal choice. In February of 2007 I left my job, sold or gave away most of my things, leased my home and I went to Europe. To Germany.
I had met Freya Hoffmeister, “The Woman in Black”, in 2005 at a kayaking symposium where I was teaching Greenland-style techniques. As an ex-gymnast she learned the maneuvers astonishingly fast. She had a dream to compete in the Greenland championships and I had competed there twice, being on the first American team in 2000 (SK FEB 2001). Freya appealed to my sense of adventure and I loved her fierce independence and spontaneity – the very things that I yearned for while living the corporate life.
Freya and I frequently crossed paths at kayaking events around the world and began a long-distance relationship, but we each grew tired of the distance. In a brash act of spontaneity, I phoned Freya in the middle of the night, and told her I would be willing to move. She said yes, and within months I relocated to Germany.
With Freya’s home in Husum as a base, we kayaked the turquoise waters of the Spanish Mediterranean amid rocky crags adorned with olive trees, kayaked in the peaceful Baltic Sea with snow falling around us, chased each other downhill on skis in the French Alps amid glaciers, and toured widely through Europe. We had found an “adventure partner” in each other and excitedly began dreaming of building a life together. Eventually we returned to Husum and cracks soon began to develop in our relationship. While traveling was easy and natural for us, the mundane routine of daily life illuminated our differences in stark, honest clarity. Not only our values but the speed, focus and depth of our lives was very different. Freya consumes life with the same intensity and passion as a cancer patient who is looking to fill every remaining minute left with excitement. Plans are set quickly and changed just as quickly. She sets goals for herself, achieves them and rapidly moves on to something new. “The past is past, the future is now,” she proclaims with conviction. We were moving in different directions and we could both feel the distance between us growing.
In May, we traveled to Wales where we were instructors at the Anglesey Sea Kayak symposium. Israeli sea kayaker Rotem Ron gave an evening lecture about her adventure in 2006, the first solo kayaking trip around Iceland. I had been fascinated by Iceland’s volcanoes, hot springs, and glaciers since childhood, and Rotem’s adventure struck a chord with Freya.
As we were driving back to Husum, Freya was still thinking about Iceland. From behind the steering wheel she suddenly blurted out that she was going to go – and not next summer or next year, but in three weeks. Her spontaneity did not surprise me. I said that I wasn’t interested in joining her; it was time for us to part company. But I soon changed my mind. It was now or never. Freya and I both were determined to start living the trips that we had dreamed of for years. We would concentrate on the trip as our goal. There was a risk of sacrificing the remains of our relationship in the bargain, but inside both of us was a faint hope that the adventure would draw us together again.
We both were scheduled to be instructors at another kayaking symposium, this one in Newfoundland, and while we were there we spent our free time planning our Iceland trip and purchasing gear. After that symposium concluded, Freya and I enjoyed an eight-day trip kayak-camping around the Avalon Peninsula in southeast Newfoundland. The trip served as a perfect sea trial for Iceland. It was a test to see if our different paddling styles and camping styles, and different personal styles, were compatible for the strains of kayak touring. As a dry run for Iceland it was a complete success. We teased each other mercilessly, but we each respected our differences, and returned to Germany in high spirits.
In Husum we made our preparations quickly. We ordered maps and gear, rented a satellite phone and tested communications. Since English-language weather reports are not available in Iceland, Karel Vissel, a computer technician living in Israel who supports kayaking expeditions worldwide with weather forecasting, agreed to send us daily weather updates to our satellite phone. In only a week we were ready to depart. At the airport our luggage was bulging at the seams with expedition gear including two weeks of food so that we could launch immediately upon our arrival. To avoid additional oversize charges we resorted to stuffing our carry-on bags and even our jackets with our heaviest items, cameras, radios and similar gear, to the point that it was awkward to walk and board the plane. We laughed as we struggled with our balance, wondering if the flight crew would notice. It was a huge relief to finally remove my leaden jacket. I hoisted it quickly – attempting to give the illusion that it was light as a feather, and placed it in the overhead compartment with a heavy thump.
After many years of dreaming of a long trip we were both like two greyhounds waiting impatiently for the starting gate to lift so we could sprint off. We had agreed that this would be a fast trip. We were in strong physical shape and we wanted to push ourselves. Our goal was to paddle headland to headland and do the kayaking we were most passionate about – the lively water offshore and the turbulent waters around headlands, where the energy of the sea is intensified and brought into sharp focus.
Long Crossings
Faxaflói in extreme southwest Iceland is the largest bay in Iceland. It cuts a massive gash into the coast about 30 miles inland and extends more than 50 miles across. The capital of Iceland, Reykjavík is located on its southeastern shore and most of Iceland’s population lives in the vicinity. The area has a rich history and was the stage for the early settlement of Iceland.
“Are you sure that you have checked the scale of your map? Neither of those bays has been crossed by kayak before.” Steini Sigurlaugsson, an experienced Icelandic kayaker who was helping us with logistics and planning, was incredulous at our decision to make two 50-plus mile crossings of the largest bays in Iceland-Faxaflói (Whitehorse Bay) and Breidafjordur (Broad fiord)- back to back, at the very start of our journey. He urged us to reconsider. From our launch site at Garðskagi, we could just make out the mountains across Faxaflói, almost 60 miles away. This was by far the longest crossing attempted by either of us. We were prepared for foul weather during the long, exposed crossing, but I was as apprehensive as I was excited.
Only hours earlier we had been dropped off from the airport and we quickly readied our gear and pitched our tent. Unfortunately Steini was not able to meet us. We were anxious to talk to him in person about communications and trip logistics. Even after the long day of rushing through airports and hauling gear, I couldn’t fall asleep. The midnight sun, combined with the excitement of starting a major circumnavigation conspired to keep me awake. On June 9th, Freya and I awoke to calm weather, but fog obscured the horizon. The seas were amazingly calm and we’d have a light wind at our back. Except for the fog, the weather was perfect for the long crossing. We quickly struck camp and made our final preparations. We were completely alone and it was unnaturally quiet as we eased into our kayaks. Our next stop was the lighthouse at Malarif, 56 miles across Faxaflói.
We quickly settled into the paddling routine that we adopted in Newfoundland. We paddled for an hour navigating by compass, rafted up for a quick snack, turned on the GPS to check our course, speed and check for drift. After the five-minute break, we set off again. This routine kept us together, and gave us something tangible to look forward to during the long hours in the cockpit. Freya and I are both competitive to a fault, and it wasn’t long before each hour of paddling became an unspoken “stage race” where we vied to be in the lead at the hour mark. We pushed much harder and faster this way than had we been alone, but as the miles accumulated behind us we began acting more like competitors than a team.
The sky was sheathed in fog, but from time to time the sun discovered a crack in the clouds and the sea became a sparkling field of diamonds. When the fog lifted we could see whales, more than 20 of them, dancing along the horizon. After several hours we could no longer see the shoreline behind us, nor our destination ahead. Long crossings might sound glamorous, but in reality they make time stand still, especially when in fog. With no shoreline to gauge our speed, the only indication that we were moving were the Puffins and other seabirds that materialized slowly out of the fog ahead and nervously scattered as we cruised by.
Halfway into crossing Faxaflói the mountains peaked through the fog. In the clear, rarified air of Iceland, they appeared close enough to touch but we paddled for hours without being able to discern any change in the distant landscape. At each rest stop I would turn on the GPS and read the verdict about how far we had traveled since our last break. Even though we were often traveling faster than four knots it felt as if we were crawling. When the fog closed again it robbed us of color. My bright yellow kayak was the only indication that the world had not turned completely gray. As the hours wore on, our breaks grew slightly longer, and we would take short naps, slumped forward and hugging each other’s kayak for stability. At times we paddled with eyes closed, and even fell into a very light sleep while still moving.
Finally, at 1 a.m., after 15 hours, the boats grated against black volcanic rock at the base of the Malarif lighthouse. Before we could collapse into our sleeping bags we had to unload our kayaks and drag them up a steep cobble beach, change into dry clothes, set up camp, prepare and eat dinner and report our position on the satellite phone. Freya discovered that the case holding her cell phone had leaked, ruining the phone. For signaling devices we carried a personal locater beacon, a satellite phone, and two VHF marine radios, so we didn’t consider this a major setback.
We awoke the next morning feeling surprisingly refreshed and eager for our second major crossing: Breidafjordur. We reported our position to Steini via a satellite phone text message and requested a weather report. Within minutes his message arrived. Communications seemed to be working perfectly. The forecast called for unusually calm winds and smooth seas. Heavy headwinds were forecast for the next day.
We wanted to make the crossing of Breidafjordur before the headwinds arrived. We first had to round the tip of the Snæfellsnes peninsula, a misshapen tongue of land forged from volcanic activity and scoured by glaciers. Standing prominently as a lone sentinel near the tip is Snæfellsjokull, a glacier-draped volcano. Many believe Snæfellsjokull has magical powers and consider it to be one of the seven main energy centers on Earth. I half-joked to Freya that maybe this explained why we didn’t feel any morning stiffness after such a long day before.
The volcanic coastline appeared as if it had just erupted from the earth. The base of the cliffs we passed were long ribbons of black and green rock stacked so tall that it hurt to crane our necks high enough to peer up to the peaks. The day was beautiful and sunny and the water was as smooth as glass – like a huge lake. We had not expected such fine weather. Steini would later write to us saying, “Amazing how lucky you guys are with the weather. All of May was northerly Force 6-7 and snowing occasionally.”
The winds that we had been racing to beat arrived early and caught us with 16 nautical miles remaining in our crossing. An ugly, dense, black front churned and boiled along an opaque horizon and slammed into us so suddenly that it felt like a giant switch had been thrown. We were hit with Force 5-6 winds and our forward progress was instantly reduced to a crawl. We had to shout above the commotion of the wind to communicate. Our breaks became extremely short and infrequent since the instant we stopped paddling we were immediately blown backward. I cursed myself for not bringing a drogue to slow drift. Several hours from landfall a helicopter and then a large commercial ship passed close by. We kept paddling steadily to make it evident that we were not in need of any assistance.
The headwinds drained our strength. To keep focused and to keep from getting sloppy, I made 10 strokes in perfect form and with full power, then closed my eyes and took ten easy rest strokes, and then I repeated the cycle. After 22 hours, Freya and I landed on Raudasandur, a beach composed of finely crushed red sea shells. Exhausted, I stumbled ashore like a drunkard. I had never felt so physically drained. Freya and I looked at each other without expression and then got to the difficult business of dragging our leaden boats up the beach.
We were spent, cold and hungry. We quickly set up camp and fixed dinner. I was composing a text message for Steini on our satellite phone, giving our position and status, when in the distance we heard the drone of a truck engine. Soon the truck flashed into view on the beach and water exploded from its wheel wells as it forded a small stream close to our camp. The truck stopped abruptly in front of our tent and four uniformed men hopped out and strode toward us. “Are you the lost kayakers?” one of them asked.
“No, we’re not lost. Who are you looking for?” I responded. The leader of the rescue team indicated that they were searching for two kayakers, a man and a woman, American and German. My heart sank when it became clear that we were the object of the search. “Did you have any idea that we were looking for you? We have about 15 rescue boats and 30 cars out searching. All together 62 different groups of searchers are looking for you. A farmer saw you come ashore and called us. We also had a report from a ferry and a helicopter, but both of those reports indicated only a single kayaker heading toward this beach.”
Apparently only my yellow kayak had been spotted on the water by the rescue teams that had confused the searchers. Freya’s black gear is good for cold climates as it quickly warms in the sun, but it makes her difficult to spot on the water. At several points during our trip I lost sight of her, and had difficulty locating her amidst the black sea and rocks.
“Why are you looking for us?” I asked. I tried to hide the embarrassment I felt for being the object of a rescue effort after having been out only two days in fine weather.
I learned that the search had been started on our first day, at 10 p.m., while we were still hours away from making landfall on our initial crossing. One of our friends had become worried that they hadn’t heard from us, and called the Coast Guard. We had told our contacts that we would report our position regularly, but by this we meant daily. Obviously, we had not been specific enough. We kept the satellite phone in a dry bag and had no intention of using it routinely at sea for fear of water damage. The loss of Freya’s cell phone had prevented more casual contact. We also had a communications glitch. Although we had tested our satellite communications with a number of different email addresses, the text messages to our primary contact were reaching his computer, but they were inadvertently going into a spam folder where they sat unseen. Freya and I both were sharing the task of reading and sending messages, but we did not notice any inconsistencies. In fact, communication appeared perfect. When we asked for weather reports we received them, but it was only a coincidence. Steini had been sending reports regularly without our asking for them.
I made several phone calls to clear up the situation. When I trekked to the farm nearby to ask permission to camp I was interviewed by several journalists. The farmer later visited our camp and told us how he saw us landing and had quickly called the authorities. Soon afterward two policemen arrived with a paper for us to sign. The paper stated that going forward we would provide our contact team with our correct location information. When I patiently explained that we were exactly where we had planned to be the police said that wasn’t how they understood the situation and simply held out the paper. I felt a rush of anger but I took a deep breath, smiled, and said that I would contact the Coast Guard daily. I was too tired to press my point and signed the paper. The policemen then left without saying a word. I was so mentally and physically spent that it was painful to remain awake, but finally we could sleep. I stumbled inside the tent, fumbled with the door zipper, and was asleep in an instant.
After sleeping only an hour Freya and I were awakened by a tapping on our tent. “Hello, Hello! We are with the news. Are you in there? Can we talk to you?” Several reporters and cameramen had come to report the story on national television. I wasn’t fully conscious and simply incorporated the noise into a dream until Freya shook me awake. She grumbled some words in German that I hadn’t heard before, but needed no translation. We were both in dire need of sleep but with people tramping about the campsite we would certainly remain awake so I agreed to an interview. Freya gave me a stern look and called me the “polite American” – she was not in the mood for media attention at all. “I thought you lived for attention,” I shot back. In protest, Freya refused to speak or stand, and squatted next to her kayak. We both had dark circles under our eyes from lack of sleep and Freya wore her sunglasses during the entire interview. I told the reporters that we appreciated the efforts of the search crews but were sorry that they had been called on a false alarm. A friend of ours who caught the interview via the Internet remarked that I had handled the questions tactfully, given the circumstances, and that Freya, with her black attire, sunglasses and no-nonsense demeanor, was “looking wonderfully enigmatic; a cross between a Secret Service agent and Angelina Jolie in Lara Croft, Tomb Raider.”
Once the television crews had left, I double-checked our kayaks and discovered that my cockpit cover and the front hatch of my kayak had been removed by one of the crew for filming. The interior was now gritty with red sand. Grumbling, I cleaned up the kayak, then returned to the tent and fell into a long, deep sleep.
For the remainder of the trip I contacted the Coast Guard daily on my VHF. For the first two communications we had a helicopter fly over within 15 minutes of reporting our position. While the Coast Guard later said it was only a coincidence, at the time we were sure that our kayaks were being targeted as a training exercise.
Freya and I reached a balance on our journey. Although we squabbled incessantly like an old married couple, we looked out for each other, and pushed each other at the same time. The difference in our paddle types was not a significant issue. With a wing paddle Freya set the pace in flat water and in headwinds and with my Greenland paddle I was slightly faster in the confused water around headlands and while surfing. Much of this was probably mental; Freya is energized by “fighting” headwinds, and I am energized by getting a “fast free ride” from tailwinds. Our daily average was more than 40 miles (65 km) per day.
NW Fiords and the Northern Headlands
The Northwest fiords are among the most beautiful locations that I have ever traveled. The landscape appeared so raw and unspoiled that it seemed to be from another time. Had I seen wooly mammoths grazing in the valleys, they would not have seemed out of place. Ice-capped mountains, narrow crooked fiords, rolling green plains, all touched by the sea and of such an intense scale that it was difficult to fully comprehend. As we crossed headlands between mountains, cold air pouring down from the higher elevations and into the fiords dropped the air temperatures instantly, as if a giant freezer door had just been opened.
Just prior to starting our long crossing of Húnaflói (Bear Bay), we encountered our first geothermal pool. Although we had covered only 30km (18.6 miles) for the day, it was heaven to soak our tired bodies in the hot mineral water. We soaked for six hours and enjoyed the luxury of our first short paddling day, as we couldn’t go farther for the day without having to complete a major crossing.
During the break I saw my reflection in a mirror for the first time since we had started the circumnavigation. I was aghast at my disheveled appearance and at how much weight I had lost. My swim trunks had grown huge on me. My face was thin, and my entire stomach was so hollow that my navel was misshapen. I had been eating all the pasta I could tolerate but I was burning many more calories than I was eating. I increased my calorie intake but even so, lost 21 pounds by the time we completed the journey.
As we continued headland to headland across the northern reaches of the country, fog was a frequent companion. Occasionally we would stop for lunch or spend the night on offshore islands. As we neared the island of Flatey, the sun poked through the fog and it became so warm that I could smell the warm latex of my drysuit neck gasket. As the fog receded, a squadron of arctic terns swooped down to the water all around us, a black cyclone, squawking loudly as they fed on a school of baitfish surrounding our kayaks. Two pods of dolphins streamed toward our kayaks like torpedoes and at the very last moment they disappeared under our hulls to feed on the dense school of fish beneath us. My pulse raced as I watched them disappear into the cold, deep water. We laughed, thrilled to be in the midst of such intense life and activity.
Southern Coast
We pushed hard to reach the settlement at Höfn to resupply before a forecasted storm slammed into the exposed coast. My muscles were screaming for rest, as we had already covered 56 miles (90 kilometers). It was nearing midnight, but this close to the Arctic Circle the sun still burned brightly on our faces and illuminated the volcanic landscape and the milky white waves laden with glacial silt. With 24 hours of daylight we could paddle as long as our strength held out. Standing between us and the dream of collapsing into our sleeping bags was the needle thin inlet at Höfn (meaning “harbor” and pronounced “Hup” like a hiccup). Höfn is regarded by many as the most dangerous inlet in Iceland. More than 50 people have lost their lives to its fast tidal rapids, jagged rocks and constantly shifting black volcanic sandbars.
I poured out maximum power. Normally this would have me racing at six knots or more but I was virtually at a standstill among the stark black boulders guarding the inlet. Sweat trickled inside my drysuit and my face felt hot and flushed. My strength would not last long. Freya too was only managing to keep from getting washed out to sea. We adjusted our course slightly to ferry glide across the main flow of the current and slowly clawed our way across the inlet mouth to a small eddy on the western edge of the inlet where we could catch our breath in the gently swirling water.
Immediately before us were car-sized boulders standing between the sea on one side and a source of outflow from Europe’s largest glacier, Vatnajökul, on the other. Just upstream from us was a long field of white, steep and confused standing waves created by the tidal race that can flow at 10 knots or more. We would have to wait hours for the tide to change, portage overland to bypass the inlet or go on the offensive and head directly into the violence. We were tired and chose to go for it. It was the wrong decision.
I planned to eddy-hop from boulder to boulder until clear of the standing waves, and then ferry glide into the slower moving water by shore, but I clipped a rock, lost speed, and was swept directly into the violent wave train. The standing waves were large, cold and turbulent, requiring frequent bracing. I fought for simple control for five long minutes until I managed to accelerate into less turbulent water at the foot of the waves and surf diagonally into the shelter of rocks near shore. Freya was watching the drama from the opposite shore. Determined to find an easier way, she managed to ferry-glide across the current without being swept seaward and entered the eddy right next to the shore. Freya reached out and held onto a small rock along the bank. She then alternated paddling with pulling herself forward one rock at a time, each rock gouging her hull, while being careful not to let her bow drift away from the rocks, where it would have been immediately snatched by the current.
The southern coast provided our most serious challenges. Its cold, arid desert of black sand is the result of floods created by volcanoes erupting underneath the ice sheets. Locals warned us of quicksand in some areas where wild horses have been known to get mired and perish. Few features in the landscape provide any shelter from the wind and steep beaches produce powerful dumping surf. To minimize the number of beach landings through the surf, we frequently spent the entire day at sea, coming ashore only to make camp. Upon launching from one camp, a dumper exploded on top of me before I had tucked fully and when I opened my eyes seconds later I discovered that both of my contact lenses had been flushed away. I surfed back ashore, blind, before putting in new lenses and making a successful launch.
Icebergs are nowhere to be seen around the Icelandic coast except for glacial lakes, such as Jökulsárlón, situated on the south end of the Vatnajökull glacier near Höfn. In Höfn, Freya and I had debated bypassing Jökulsárlón to make better time, but a bystander had overheard our discussion and commented, “What’s the point of racing around Iceland if you don’t stop to see anything?”
When we paddled through a break in the black sand shoreline and into Jökulsárlón, we found a lagoon brimming with icebergs trapped by the shallow inlet to the sea. The face of Vatnajökull glacier calves bergs in an infinite variety of shapes and in a spectrum of colors from white to pink to blue to brown. It was bitterly cold in the lagoon but after having spent most of our time paddling in open water we felt almost giddy to be weaving around the sculptured ice. Occasionally the silence was shattered as a berg rolled, or cracked, producing a deafening sound like rifle shot. We spent the night in the lagoon, camped with a view of icebergs silhouetted by an intense blood-red sky.
Two days after leaving Jökulsárlón we had favorable tailwinds and pushed hard- covering 68 miles (110 km)-to put this section of coast behind us as quickly as possible. Near Vik, a village that lies at the apex of Iceland’s smooth southern coast, spike-sharp sea stacks marked that we had passed the halfway point of the expansive reaches of black sand. Persistent headwinds slowed our progress and we began paddling around the clock – whenever the winds were lightest. As we approached the fishing town of Stokkseyri we both were relieved to put the end of the inhospitable deserts of black volcanic grit behind us, even though that meant that our journey was almost over.
We landed in a rocky harbor at Stokkseyri, climbed a steep berm to scout for a campsite and found ourselves amid lush green lawns. Since we had grown accustomed to seeing nothing but black sand, the intense color was startling. A homeowner offered to let us pitch our tent on her yard of deep green grass surrounded with flowers; it seemed like an incredible luxury. Freya pulled me aside and said, “We don’t belong on a fancy, civilized lawn. We are vagabonds, Greg.” Freya was right. We politely declined and camped on rocks near the water. It wasn’t comfort we craved, but freedom and the untamed, rough edge of life beyond civilization.
Closing the circle
Freya and I stepped ashore on the northern tip of the Reykjanes peninsula just before midnight, completing our circumnavigation of about 1,007 miles (1620 kilometers), in 33 days. We shared a brief, perfunctory hug and then we gazed across Faxaflói to the distant shore, remembering our first long crossing at the beginning of the trip.
Steini was there to greet us. As we loaded our gear and drove in silence through a moonscape of volcanic rock, it occurred to me that the real challenge of the journey – the re-immersion into “regular life”- was only beginning. The long kayak journey had given me a laser-like sense of purpose and the freedom and thrill of living fully in the moment. The very risk of the trip itself was life-affirming in a way that “cubicle life” had not been. At the end I was filled with an odd mix of emotions. The feelings of satisfaction and achievement of completing the trip were tempered by the pain of a broken relationship. A chapter of my life had closed. I had no home to return to – it would be months before I could reclaim it after leasing it-and I had no career to return to. The overwhelming feeling that I would need to reinvent myself felt as large and looming as the towering cliffs of the Northwest fiords.
As we drove, Steini mentioned how the first settlers sailing to Iceland carried carved sacred pillars from their homes in Norway. As they approached Iceland they threw the pillars overboard and settled wherever the currents carried the pillars ashore. I realized that I, too, needed to give up the illusion of control that my career had fostered, follow my passions and let the currents carry me where they will. Exhausted and with an unexpected feeling of peace, I fell into a sound sleep.
Trip Stats:
June 9th – July 11th 2007
33 days total trip
25 paddling days
1007 miles (1620 km) total distance
40.4 miles (65 km) daily average
68 miles (110 km) longest daily distance
56 miles (90 km) longest open crossing
Clockwise circumnavigation
24 hrs of sunlight !
Equipment used
Kayaks, NDK Explorers (Freya used a 3-piece model), Greg’s paddles, take apart carbon Greenland by Superior Kayaks, Freya’s paddles, mid wing and large wing by Epic Kayaks, Gore-Tex Expedition Dry Suits by Kokatat, Ocean Tour EXP Reinforced spray skirts by Snapdragon; Turtle Back deck bags, Under Deck bags, Interior Mounted Cockpit bags, paddle leashes, Sea Tec tow systems by North Water, Quicklace Mukluks and Mukluks light boots by Chota, Greg’s PFD, Lotus Designs Locean, Freya’s PFD, Peak UK.
The author wishes to give special thanks to Nigel Dennis of Sea Kayaking UK for providing a kayak for my use to make the trip possible, Steini Sigurlaugsson of Seakayak Iceland for logistics, encouragement and inviting us into his home, and Karel Vissel for his reliable weather reports and support.
Greg is president and founder of Qajaq USA (qajaqusa.org). He lives in Orlando, Florida. Greg has a Website at www.gregstamer.com
Text copyright Greg Stamer. Images are copyright Greg Stamer and Freya Hoffmeister. Additional images can be viewed in the “Lost in Iceland” gallery.
Russell Farrow of Sweetwater Kayaks, St Petersburg, Florida
Friday after work I traveled to the West coast of Florida and caught up with my good friends Russell Farrow and his wife, Claudia, of Sweetwater Kayaks in St Petersburg, Florida. We swapped tales of our recent travels and brainstormed about future expeditions over a few beers and dinner. The following morning I hung out with Russell at the shop. Yes, Sweetwater is OPEN for business, having had their grand (re)opening in October. I’m happy to report that business was brisk while I was there. The new shop is close to the original location but is on the water, making instruction and kayak demos very convenient. The new shop, although much smaller than Russell’s previous building, has a great island atmosphere. It reminds me a bit of being in Key West.
More good news is that the Sweetwater symposium, that was canceled last year, is ON AGAIN for 2010! Please mark the event on your calendar and support Sweetwater to keep it growing and thriving!
Sweden is a beautiful place to paddle. The archipelago delivers a fantastic assortment of islands to camp on, and explore. Being accustomed to the heat of Florida, and recently Israel, I got my first taste of “Winter” for the year. We were greeted with light snow flurries, wind and cold temperatures as I helped Johan and Peter of Escape Outdoors prepare for the weekend classes (wing and Greenland instruction). This is perfect drysuit weather. Our first task was to collect supplies and erect a tipi on a nearby island. Complete with a woodstove and furs on the floor, this is a an ideal warming shelter and provides room for eight or more. The tipi will be used for lunch and dinner. With the woodstove burning it is toasty warm inside. Luxury!
In the evening Johan and I donned protective suits, climbing helmets and headlamps to explore a local cave. From the opening chamber the cave transformed into a serpentine maze of very tight tunnels. Some of the constrictions looked much too small for an adult to get through. “Are you sure we can fit through there”?
If you are in the Gothenburg area, please drop by. I look forward to meeting you!
Greg surfing John Petersen’s Baidarka in San Simeon California during the TAKS symosium. Photo by John Petersen. Click on image to view full-size.
I’m not sure if I love kayaking because it is a form of travel or that I love traveling because I always mix it with kayaking. Both kayaking and traveling are a form of freedom. But (Mae West’s views notwithstanding), you CAN have too much of a good thing. To me travel is best when complemented by adequate time to enjoy home, friends and family.
I’m off today for Israel (Optimist Sea Kayaking Symposium), my gear barely dry after rinsing off the Pacific salt from California. And California was on the heels of adventures in Japan, Delaware, Michigan and Newfoundland. After Israel I will visit Sweden and then will finally have time to work off the jetlag, relax and relfect.
I’m certainly not complaining. I love virtually everything about travel. My worn, dog-eared passport is down to the last two pages for stamps. I inherited my Grandfather’s wanderlust. My Grandfather was born in Hamburg, Germany and found his calling as a missionary who traveled the world. As a boy I sat on his lap spellbound as we leafed through his meticulous photo albums and he spun tale after tale. My imagination was fired by pictures of him in exotic places, such as on camel back by the Sphinx, with headhunters in the jungles of Borneo, in Europe and more, always with my father and uncle alongside (who were just lads at the time).
In Israel I’m looking forward to visiting the same sites in Jerusalem that my Grandfather and father spoke of, and photographed. Once home I’ll shake off the last bit of jetlag and share some adventures and images with you, of the past two months.
This years’ Michigan Training Camp (Qajaq TC) started off with a bang as storms created wild conditions on Lake Michigan, much to the delight of the participants. Dennis Asmussen, Mike McDonald and myself led a surf session, that provided a great opportunity for participants to play and test their skills and rolls in challenging seas. From the smiles and shouts that ensued, it’s clear that everyone enjoyed themselves. I was impressed that there were very few wet-exits, even though this was the first time that some students rolled in conditions. The short-period waves were great fun and you could occasionally coax them into giving you long rides of 100 yards or more. One breaker hit my foredeck with enough force that it sent my kayak reeling backwards and setup a nice back-surf, anchored by a hanging draw. Of course, the secret to surfing is that whenever something interesting happens (that looks cool), that you just tell people that you meant to do it!
The Qajaq TC is a Greenland-style event held near Traverse City, Michigan and is affiliated with Qajaq USA. It is one of my favorite events. Much of the joy of an event like this is the reunion with “my other family” — a charmingly dysfunctional and eccentric kayak family. Although there are far too many special friends to mention, it was heartwarming for me to cross paths with Dennis Asmussen again, after several years’ hiatus. It was also great to teach with Helen Wilson, once more. Helen was a guest instructor and she shared her rolling grace with students as well as entertained the group with her experience at the Greenland competition.
The venue is cozy and fantastic — a camp situated between a thin strand of dune and forest separating the calm waters of Lower Herring Lake from the often wild waters of Lake Michigan. The dune provides a fantastic location for a bonfire, dramatically overlooking the big lake. The beauty of the location is that it offers participants a choice between mild and wild kayaking.
The camp sports a small number of rustic cabins, a wood-fired hot-tub and more, all linked by a series of paths through the woodlands. The intimate nature of the camp ensures that the event stays small. Organizers Nancy Thornton and Diane Carr run a well-honed operation. They have avoided the “bigger is better” growth and sprawl common with many successful events.
The food, served up by Uncommon Adventures owner, Michael Gray is simply fantastic. This is the only symposium that I frequent that features gourmet-quality cuisine. If you only come for the good you will NOT be disappointed.
And finally there is the instruction. As a Qajaq USA event the focus is on mentoring, where everybody is both a teacher and a student — although there are dedicated coaches, of course. The mentoring is thorough, yet informal. There are always multiple sessions (or pods as they are called) in progress. Although much of the focus is on static braces and rolling, skills taught are very diverse, from forward strokes and bow rudders to harpoon throwing and forward leaning handrolls. The beauty of the system is that students are free to move between groups and can absorb as much (or as little) as they please.
If you are into G-style, love great company and fantastic food, put the Qajaq TC on your “To-Do” list in 2010. But be warned, the event fills early.
Hover your cursor over the images to see a caption.
