Lakelander - May 2004
By Paul McKenzie Barron


The long anticipated weekend had begun. I was sitting in the beer garden of a hotel, the appointed meeting point, supping my pint. As a youth, my nose had never been out of a good book, and I had imagined myself alone in forested mountains, inspired by the writings of London and Tolkein. Just divorced again and fast approaching 40, I’d shunned the cliché of 2 wheels and a 0-60 in nano-seconds for something slightly more sedate, this was to be the first step to my long-time dream of canoeing the MacKenzie River. I’d enrolled in the Open River Canoe Adventure (www.orcadventures.com) Lakelander course, run in-conjunction with Woodsmoke (www.woodsmoke.uk.com) and marketed as, and I paraphrase, "An introduction to the world of Open Canoes and canoe-craft, with possible BCU 2-star". I thought that I’d learn how to paddle an Open Canoe, I was wrong.

The green Landrover came rattling down the slope behind the hotel, drowning out the calls from the stags that were roaring near the tree line further down the valley. Two lads decamped and wandered over. Both were clad in army combats and boots, wool check jumpers, long hair in pigtails and in various stages of un-shavenness. Introductions were made. First impressions, Ben McNutt, founder of Woodsmoke, is a big lad who looked like he could wrestle a bear, and spoke with a softened Northern Irish accent. Steve Smith looked like a gentleman hippy, but had a grin that you can only respond to with a smile. Another Steve appeared from somewhere near the bar, a huge pack on his back, wearing hiking clothes that had obviously been slept in and hair that hadn’t seen a brush in a few days. Apparently, he had arrived at Ambleside Station 3 days before and had hiked a circuitous route to meet us here, just for the fun of it. He was to be, like me, a student on this course.

Packs were stowed on the Landy’s roof, along with 5 jerry cans filled with drinking water and the 20-minute bone-rattling drive up to the campsite was undertaken. We had driven through part of a 2000 acre privately owned estate, the main harvest apparently sheep and timber. The campsite was located on the Southeast corner of a tarn, perhaps 4-5 acres in size, amongst Larch and Spruce, and we were issued with an upturned Cedarstrip canoe and a Basha (a camouflaged tarpaulin about 2.5m by 1.5m) as our quarters. Steve the Student and I had arrived early to help set up the course but first a fire was lit; water pulled from the well and a brew was underway.

I first wet the paddle shortly after. Steve and I laid out a course of coloured balloons in the tarn. The water was flat and, because of its sheltered location nestling in a bowl shaped valley below the Craiffe Heights, virtually windless. Steve paddled whilst I tied balloon and stone to line for our makeshift buoys and by the time we reached the northern end of the tarn, the sun was setting and we were far enough away from camp that the only noise was the calling of a pair geese to their offspring hiding in the reeds a few yards from the stern and the dripping water from the paddle. This was truly idyllic.

Others had drifted into camp over the late afternoon and evening and darkness found the entire company perched on logs around the fire, banter and the brew pot both on a running boil, eating Steve Smiths Campfire Chilli (which should be said, is an Extreme Sport in its own right). A kind of fellowship had begun here and fostered during the next days, that which you don’t get from a B&B. We ladled water from same pot, used the same slit trench, paddled hard, slept on the same ground and all wanted to learn or to share something of canoe-craft. Over the 3-day duration we also learnt something of each other.

Ben was brought up on the wilds of the north coast of Ireland and started harvesting wild foods from a young age. Following an art degree and an apprenticeship with Ray Mears (Ben illustrated his best selling title ‘Bushcraft’) he set up Woodsmoke in the Lake District to share his extensive knowledge of bushcraft and woodlore.

Steve Smith joined Woodsmoke at its inception. Trained on the mountains and in arboriculture, he’s probably as close to a woodsman as this century will allow. His passion though is canoeing, the Cedarstrips and paddles were all crafted by his hands. His recent return from a 1000 plus mile paddle down the Orange River confirmed my ‘hippy’ first impressions.

Paul the Paddle, a canoeing enthusiast and open canoe coach, had just spent the previous week dragging some businessmen over the wilds of Snowdonia before sitting down at our fire. Paul shot off shortly after the course finished to lead an expedition in the Scottish Highlands. Badger, his dog, never left his side and was probably more at home in a Canoe than any of us would ever be.

Lisa, Bens partner and Co-Founder of Woodsmoke, also has a degree in art and completed an apprenticeship with Ray Mears. She makes things from nature, using traditional skills, be it rope from grass, tanning and stitching animal skins or whittling a spoon and bowl with a forest axe. She has an immense knowledge of the natural world.

By contrast, us students were far less experienced, but willing. Henry, an ex-marine, signed up for the course to expand his skills and to eventually lead his youth group on canoe expeditions. Henry is Glaswegian, but despite the language barrier proved a great conversationalist and joker. Steve No 2, who hiked from Ambleside, was a nurse and semi-professional sailor. He’d spent 2 weeks in an Open Canoe in New Zealand and wanted to pursue it further. Not-so-Tall-Paul (with my name also being Paul, nicknames were established before the first mouthful of Chilli was eaten), amazed me more than all the others. He was nervous of the water, but doggedly spent the days crisscrossing his fear, and we respected his courage. He was also a nurse, here for the ‘total experience’. I began to wonder if my course expectations were a bit low.

I awoke at 5.30 and despite my retirement well past midnight the previous evening, I felt fully refreshed. Steve No.2 surfaced at the same time and after a trip to the well we poked, blew and fed the fire to a furnace to get the morning brew on the go. Steve wondered off with axe and saw in hand in search of deadwood, whilst I wondered down to the dam that held back the tarn at its southern end. It took the sun a good 30 minutes to burn away the mist after its golden rim rose over the wooded flanking hill. I wish it had taken longer, the mist patterns, reflected colours, awakening wildlife was fascinating. I’d seen dawns like this before, but travelling at 70 miles an hour over tarmac with the Radio tuned in, I realised I hadn’t seen a thing. I’d not been taught a thing on this course yet, but in hindsight I realised I was already learning.

I returned to the campfire to find Steve No2 and Henry finishing a brew. Stevie and Paul the Paddle wondered into camp (the instructors shared our fire at night, but were sleeping further up the hill). We began to portage the canoes to the tarn. Not-so-Tall-Paul slept like a hibernating squirrel, even after we removed his canoe from over his bivvy bag. Buoyancy aids and paddles were handed out, canoes were mounted and the 3 of us tentatively set off onto the tarn. It was 7.00am, it was early, but we were eager. Not-so-Tall-Paul joined us later and we were left to explore, both Steve and Paul the Paddle circled us, travelling from one canoe to the other offering us advice, banter, encouragement and letting us learn our lessons. After an hour we no longer trapped our thumbs on the gunwale, could goon stroke a straight line, realised the fundamentals of trim and laughed a lot. The sun burnt the last of the cloud, fish jumped as flies got friskier in the heat, and a Mallard and 7 small ones made their way down the western bank. In the next 2 hours we could turn, had replaced the goon with a jay, rudder, sweep, were using our stomach rather than our arms, and tried all the above on our weak sides and laughed.

Around 10.30 a saucepan being hit with something metallic called us back to the dam. (The tarn has SSSI conservation, primarily for its rare dragonfly, and we exited and entered where we knew we could cause no damage to the reed beds and marshy bank). We followed our noses from there. Lisa and Ben had magic’ed a full fry-up for 8 using one frying pan and numerous willow bows that were bent over the fire. It disappeared in a fraction of the time it had taken Lisa to cook it.

Steve and Paul the Paddle de-briefed and briefed us over a post-breakfast brew before the placid tarn was again subjected to our paddles. We continued our learning, Steve and Paul the Paddle skitting between boats to re-enforce lessons shown us as a group. We drawed, pryed, jayed, cross-stroked, good side and bad around the course Steve No 2 and I had laid out, even passing through the gates backward, and we laughed. Then we had our first assisted rescue demonstration.

My knees were starting to hurt and I adjusted my position as I watched Steve No2 traverse the ballooned course backwards. The canoe just rolled and the tarn water temperature, as all good Lake District tarns should, took my breath away as I fell in. Paul the Paddle’s bow greeted me when I surfaced, he covered a distance in good time, and I was asked whether I was OK and comfortable with the situation. I can swim, the buoyancy aid was working, and I’m not panicking, so yes was my answer to both queries, though the latter was relative. Paul the Paddle narrated the rescue, the laughter lines of the guys replaced by serious looks as Paul continued his narrative. I did as I was told, the canoe retrieved, emptied, righted and I was hauled into its belly and handed my recovered paddle. I was pleased to be out of the water, I would have been pleased sooner if the other guys hadn’t asked so many questions!!.

Lunch was ready, a help-yourself buffet of rolls, butter and meat but with 2 surprises. Whilst Ben and Lisa had tandemed on the water, they’d exited early and Ben had been scavenging. We were treated to Nettle Soup, harvested from a stand not many meters from the campfire, and a dish that I named Weed Salad. Ben had collected leaves, flowers and herbs of varying descriptions, all edible, and all growing within a short perimeter of the camp. I was stunned, Tesco’s was miles away. “Bushcraft is just learning about natures bounty,” Ben said. It sounds better with an Irish accent.

After lunch and over a brew, Steve and Paul the Paddle continued, talking about design and canoe use, the rudiments of rope and line, and, inexplicably, how to fish. The afternoon was our own to do as we wished. We all headed out on the water, Steve and Paul continuing to counsel and demonstrate well into the afternoon. We finished the afternoon session with polling, traversing the tarn a number of times, hugging the edges before finally disembarking. We were tired, sore, stiff but laughing. And hungry.
We had attached hook, line and worm to a number of the makeshift buoys. The tarn teamed with Brown Trout, and though juvenile, Henry, a keen fisherman, had his eye on having one, so he diligently paddled around the lines to see if we had been successful. We watched from the 19th Century boathouse, in which all the equipment, books, paddles etc were stored but a shake of the head seen across the length of the tarn meant we had failed.

Ben produced wraps of newspaper, and handed them to us. They smelt fishy. Ben demonstrated how to gut and de-bone the purchased trout, and prepare them for cooking. He offered us powdered milk, flour and baking powder for bread. We followed his instructions, revealing the fish that we then offered up to the fire, and rolling a ball of dough that we placed in makeshift ovens created from different size pots ready for the embers.

As the fish spat from heat of the fire and the dough was warmed, we returned to the tarn. We jumped from the canoes and helped others clamber back in. We assisted from a canoe, we assisted from the water, we dragged ourselves in unaided. The water had got colder, but we all stayed out until everyone who wanted to had done it. And we laughed.

At dusk we broke bread together (its unlucky to take a knife to Bannock Bread), nibbled the fish off the skin, finished off the last of the weed salad and talked of the next day’s expedition. Portage over the hill to Windermere, 6-8km paddle south on the lake, quick spot of Lunch, rig a sail and back. The generator in the boathouse sprang to life, and with all the cake we could eat, we watched a couple of Bill Mason video’s, Steve and Paul the Paddle virtually bowing to the ground in respect. Badger the dog was relegated to second, Bill Mason taking the honour of most at home in a canoe, in fact, I never saw any footage of him on land. We retired to the campfire. Not-so-Tall-Paul was snoring by 11.00pm, Steve No2 moved the brew pot from the heat and turned off the last lantern at 11.20. I was asleep by 11.21.

I awoke at 6.00, Steve No2 and Henry had prodded the fire to life and the pot was boiling. The three of us were on the water by half-past. I was stiff, but half an hour loosened up my muscles. We picked up the balloons and beached the canoes. We woke the sleeping beauty and broke camp. I wasn’t looking forward to the portage but Steve Smiths canoe trailer appeared, so we humped packs and boats to the Landy, tidied up the camp as best we could, trying to leave no trace, and by 10.30 we had bounced our way over the estate and located a suitable entry point to Windermere.

Having spent 2 days in the valley with the tarn, Windermere and its environs opened up our field of view, and with another cloudless day ahead, looked awesome. The trailer contents were emptied, buoyancy aids, paddles and spares, canoes, hat, lunch and Factor 20 were all sorted. Henry pushed off from the shore first and paddled to the lee of an island a 100meters from the shore. We all followed suit, Ben and Lisa paddling tandem, the rest solo and adjusting dry bags and trim as we had been shown. Henry waited impatiently as we played with the crosswind coming up from the South. An old willow stretched its boughs over the water and Henry stood to grab hold in order to provide anchorage while he waited. His canoe continued to drift, and Henry became Monkeyman instantly, one hand on the willow, one hand grasping his Ottertail, his legs running in mid-air, he looked as though he was walking on water. One of us would have gotten to him, if we hadn’t been laughing so much, so he called on his Gods in his own language (Gaelic it could have been, English it was not, I recognised no words). His Cedarstrip left the islands lee and was blown backwards, its momentum dying just as the Stern seat stopped in line with the hanging man. Henry dropped safely into a kneel and presented the paddle for the first stroke. Today was going to be a good day.

We headed generally south into the wind. We meandered around the Belle islands close to the Sawrey ferry in a loose group, putting together combination strokes to cater for the wind. It was a hot day, and we weren’t in a particular hurry, but southerly progress was achieved. We beached south of the ferry for a rest, a bite to eat and to re-hydrate.

We pushed on again after half an hour or so, attempting to pick up the pace as we left the islands behind us. We tended to keep to within 100 metres of the shoreline as the journey continued, but cut across to achieve the Ling Holme promontory. In doing so we tried to surf the waves created by the myriad pleasure boats, water skiers and cruisers. Rounding the headland revealed a bay, our lunch destination being on the wooded far side. Not-so-Tall Paul doubled up with Paul the Paddle and Badger, and a Cedarstrip went into tow. We continued southward across the water, sometimes struggling to maintain the canoes heading against the blustering breeze, and curving parallel to the bay shoreline to avoid a yachting regatta.

We beached having found suitable accommodation near Rowlinson Nab, unpacked the canoes of their lunch burdens and lay down in the shade of the trees. Steve Smith headed back into the bay to fill the brew pot, whilst food was unpacked from dry-bags and twigs were collected for the Kelly Kettle. Within 15 minutes, smoke drifted from the fire below the heating water and everyone had nestled comfortably into leaf-beds gathered from last years autumn drop. The concentration on the journey and distance between boats had kept the chat to a minimum, but now the banter started again. We tucked into rolls of Ham, Cheese, and Salad, followed by fruit and choccie biscuits, and sipped tea, coffee or tomato soup.

We had probably covered 4 or 5 Kms as the crow flies from our start point, but paddled nearer 6km or so exploring the islands, riding the waves and arching around bays and sails. We lay up for a fair time, watched the Regatta northward up the lake, and gazed at the futile attempts of a water-skier to remain upright. The sky was blue and the air clear and we could just make out walkers breaking the skyline on the distant fells. The afternoon was a few hours old and we prepared to get back to the start point where we would egress Windermere and complete the course.

Steve Smith and Paul the Paddle each began unloading poles, rope and basha’s from their prospectors whilst we cleared up and manhandled our canoes together. Two pairs of Cedarstrips were lashed catamaran style together, and A-frames raised at the bow seat with the camouflaged sheets roped over the apex. We launched when all was ship shape and paddled northward out from the lee of the Nab to catch the wind. We were somewhat disappointed to note that the blustering had died down in the afternoon heat, and there was never enough blow to fill the sheets or raise a wake. We were surprised however when an hour later we rounded the Sawrey ferry, the breeze had pushed us on quicker than we realised. Now sheltered, we lost the following wind and paddled to the egress.

I was sitting in the beer garden of the hotel, the appointed meeting point, supping my 3rd pint and with farewells exchanged. Paul the Paddle and Henry had headed north of Hadrian’s Wall, Not-so-Tall Paul was driving south. Steve No 2 had shouldered pack and wondered off looking for a place to Wild Camp, aiming to achieve the railway station at Ambleside the next day, The Woodsmoke Landy had revved and rattled up the track behind the hotel. I was the smug owner of the BCU 2-star award and I was very pleased. We had de-briefed over our drinks. Had the course met my expectations? Yes, by miles. I learnt more than just a few strokes and experienced more than aching muscles. I had encountered fellowship, campcraft, canoeing and the natural world.

I too was due to run the M6 south to Warwickshire, but that could wait till morning. I’d phoned home, and packed a day bag with food, a small stove and a sleeping bag. My pint glass empty and my tent remaining in the car, I crossed the road to climb the style opposite, searching for a bit of woodland to bivvy down for the night.

I’ve been up to Woodsmoke on other courses eager to be taught axe use, fire by friction, living off and learning of the land. And now the Lakelanders are to travel again, a 100-miler around Moidart later this autumn. I must also learn to guide my bow over white water soon.

A Ducatti 916 with matching leather gear or a loaded 16-foot prospector and Ottertail? I’m certain I’ve made the right choice.