The Light Canoe And Double Blade--Various Canoes For Various
Canoeists--Reasons For Preferring The Clinker-Built Cedar
THE canoe is coming to the front and canoeing is gaining rapidly in
popular favor, in spite of the disparaging remark that "a canoe is a
poor man's yacht." The canoe editor of Forest and Stream pertinently
says, "we may as properly call a bicycle 'the poor man's express
train'." But, suppose it is the poor man's yacht? Are we to be debarred
from aquatic sports because we are not rich? And are we such weak
flunkies as to be ashamed of poverty? Or to attempt shams and
subterfuges to hide it? For myself, I freely accept the imputation. In
common with nine-tenths of my fellow citizens I am poor--and the canoe
is my yacht, as it would be were I a millionaire. We are a nation of
many millions and comparatively few of us are rich enough to support a
yacht, let alone the fact that not one man in fifty lives near enough
to yachting waters to make such an acquisition desirable--or feasible,
even. It is different with the canoe. A man like myself can live in the
backwoods, a hundred miles from a decent sized inland lake and much
further from the sea coast, and yet be an enthusiastic canoeist. For
instance.
Last July I made my preparations for a canoe cruise and spun out with
as little delay as possible. I had pitched on the Adirondacks as
cruising ground and had more than 250 miles of railroads and buckboards
to take, before launching the canoe on Moose River. She was carried
thirteen miles over the Brown's Tract road on the head of her skipper,
cruised from the western side of the Wilderness to the Lower St. Regis
on the east side, cruised back again by a somewhat different route, was
taken home to Pennsylvania on the cars, 250 miles, sent back to her
builder, St. Lawrence County, N.Y., over 300 miles, thence by rail to
New York City, where, the last I heard of her, she was on exhibition at
the Forest and Stream office. She took her chances in the baggage car,
with no special care and is today, so far as I know, staunch and tight,
with not a check in her frail siding.
Such cruising can only be made in a very light canoe and with a very
light outfit. It was sometimes necessary to make several carries in one
day, aggregating as much as ten miles, besides from fifteen to twenty
miles under paddle. No heavy, decked, paddling or sailing canoe would
have been available for such a trip with a man of ordinary muscle.
The difference between a lone, independent cruise through an almost
unbroken wilderness and cruising along civilized routes, where the
canoeist can interview farm houses and village groceries for supplies,
getting gratuitous stonings from the small boy and much reviling from
ye ancient mariner of the towpath--I say, the difference is just
immense. Whence it comes that I always prefer a very light, open canoe;
one that I can carry almost as easily as my hat, and yet that will
float me easily, buoyantly and safely. And such a canoe was my last
cruiser. She only weighed ten and one-half pounds when first launched,
and after an all summer rattling by land and water had only gained half
a pound. I do not therefore advise anyone to buy a ten and a half pound
canoe; although she would prove competent for a skilful lightweight.
She was built to order, as a test of lightness and was the third
experiment in that line.
I have nothing to say against the really fine canoes that are in
highest favor today. Were I fond of sailing and satisfied to cruise on
routes where clearings are more plentiful than carries, I dare say I
should run a Shadow, or Stella Maris, at a cost of considerably more
than $100--though I should hardly call it a "poor man's yacht."
Much is being said and written at the present day as to the "perfect
canoe." One writer decides in favor of a Pearl 15 x 31 1/2 inches. In
the same column another says, "the perfect canoe does not exist." I
should rather say there are several types of the modern canoe, each
nearly perfect in its way and for the use to which it is best adapted.
The perfect paddling canoe is by no means perfect under canvas and vice
versa. The best cruiser is not a perfect racer, while neither of them
is at all perfect as a paddling cruiser where much carrying is to be
done. And the most perfect canoe for fishing and gunning around
shallow, marshy waters, would be a very imperfect canoe for a rough and
ready cruise of one hundred miles through a strange wilderness, where a
day's cruise will sometimes include a dozen miles of carrying.
Believing, as I do, that the light, single canoe with double-bladed
paddle is bound to soon become a leading--if not the leading--feature
in summer recreation, and having been a light canoeist for nearly fifty
years, during the last twenty of which I experimented much with the
view of reducing weight, perhaps I can give some hints that may help a
younger man in the selection of a canoe which shall be safe, pleasant
to ride and not burdensome to carry.
Let me promise that, up to four years ago, I was never able to get a
canoe that entirely satisfied me as to weight and model. I bought the
smallest birches I could find; procured a tiny Chippewa dugout from
North Michigan and once owned a kayak. They were all too heavy and they
were cranky to a degree.
About twenty years ago I commenced making my own canoes. The
construction was of the simplest; a 22 inch pine board for the bottom,
planed to 3/4 of an inch thickness; two wide 1/2 inch boards for the
sides and two light oak stems; five pieces of wood in all. I found that
the bend of the siding gave too much shear; for instance, if the siding
was 12 inches wide, she would have a rise of 12 inches at stems and
less than 5 inches at center. But the flat bottom made her very stiff,
and for river work she was better than anything I had yet tried. She
was too heavy, however, always weighing from 45 to 50 pounds and
awkward to carry.
My last canoe of this style went down the Susquehanna with an ice jam
in the spring of '79, and in the meantime canoeing began to loom up.
The best paper in the country which makes outdoor sport its specially,
devoted liberal space to canoeing, and skilled boatbuilders were
advertising canoes of various models and widely different material. I
commenced interviewing the builders by letter and studying catalogues
carefully. There was a wide margin of choice. You could have lapstreak,
smooth skin, paper, veneer, or canvas. What I wanted was light weight
and good model. I liked the Peterboro canoes; they were decidedly
canoey. Also, the veneered Racines: but neither of them talked of a 20
pound canoe. The "Osgood folding canvas" did. But I had some knowledge
of canvas boats. I knew they could make her down to 20 pounds. How much
would she weigh after being in the water a week and how would she
behave when swamped in the middle of a lake, were questions to be
asked, for I always get swamped. One builder of cedar canoes thought he
could make me the boat I wanted, inside of 20 pounds, clinker-built and
at my own risk, as he hardly believed in so light a boat. I sent him
the order and he turned out what is pretty well known in Brown's Tract
as the "Nessmuk canoe." She weighed just 17 pounds 13 3/4 ounces and
was thought to be the lightest working canoe in existence. Her builder
gave me some advice about stiffening her with braces, etc., if I found
her too frail, "and he never expected another like her."
"He builded better than he knew." She needed no bracing; and she was,
and is, a staunch, seaworthy little model. I fell in love with her from
the start. I had at last found the canoe that I could ride in rough
water, sleep in afloat, and carry with ease for miles. I paddled her
early and late, mainly on the Fulton Chain; but I also cruised her on
Raquette Lake, Eagle, Utowana, Blue Mountain and Forked Lakes, I
paddled her until there were black and blue streaks along the muscles
from wrist to elbow. Thank Heaven, I had found something that made me a
boy again. Her log shows a cruise for 1880 of over 550 miles.
As regards her capacity (she is now on Third Lake, Brown's Tract),
James P. Fifield, a muscular young Forge House guide of 6 feet 2 inches
and 185 pounds weight, took her through the Fulton Chain to Raquette
Lake last summer; and, happening on his camp, Seventh Lake, last July,
I asked him how she performed under his weight. He said, "I never made
the trip to Raquette so lightly and easily in my life." And as to the
opinion of her builder, he wrote me, under date of Nov. 18, '83: "I
thought when I built the Nessmuk, no one else would ever want one. But
I now build about a dozen of them a year. Great big men, ladies, and
two, aye, three schoolboys ride in them. Tis wonderful how few pounds
of cedar, rightly modeled and properly put together, it takes to float
a man," Just so, Mr. Builder. That's what I said when I ordered her.
But few seemed to see it then.
The Nessmuk was by no means the ultimatum of lightness and I ordered
another six inches longer, two inches wider, and to weigh about 15
pounds. When she came to hand she was a beauty, finished in oil and
shellac. But she weighed 16 pounds and would not only carry me and my
duffle, but I could easily carry a passenger of my weight. I cruised
her in the summer of '81 over the Fulton Chain, Raquette Lake, Forked
Lake, down the Raquette River, and on Long Lake. But her log only
showed a record of 206 miles. The cruise that had been mapped for 600
miles was cut short by sickness and I went into quarantine at the
hostelry of Mitchell Sabattis. Slowly and feebly I crept back to the
Fulton Chain, hung up at the Forge House, and the cruise of the Susan
Nipper was ended. Later in the season, I sent for her and she was
forwarded by express, coming out over the fearful Brown's Tract road to
Boonville (25 1/2 miles) by buckboard, From Boonville home, she took
her chances in the baggage car without protection and reached her
destination without a check or scratch. She hangs in her slings under
the porch, a thing of beauty--and, like many beauties, a trifle frail--
but staunch as the day I took her. Her proper lading is about 200
pounds. She can float 300 pounds.
Of my last and lightest venture, the Sairy Camp, little more need be
said. I will only add that a Mr. Dutton, of Philadelphia, got into her
at the Forge House and paddled her like an old canoeist, though it
was his first experience with the double blade. He gave his age as
sixty-four years and weight, 140 pounds. Billy Cornell, a bright young
guide, cruised her on Raquette Lake quite as well as her owner could do
it, and I thought she trimmed better with him. He paddled at 141 1/2
pounds, which is just about her right lading. And she was only an
experiment, anyhow. I wanted to find out how light a canoe it took to
drown her skipper, and I do not yet know. I never shall. But, most of
all, I desired to settle the question approximately at least, of weight,
as regards canoe and canoeist.
Many years ago, I became convinced that we were all, as canoeists,
carrying and paddling just twice as much wood as was at all needful,
and something more than a year since, I advanced the opinion in Forest
and Stream, that ten pounds of well made cedar ought to carry one
hundred pounds of man. The past season has more than proved it; but, as
I may be a little exceptional, I leave myself out of the question and
have ordered my next canoe on lines and dimensions that, in my
judgment, will be found nearly perfect for the average canoeist of 150
to 160 pounds. She will be much stronger than either of any other
canoes, because few men would like a canoe so frail and limber that she
can be sprung inward by hand pressure on the gunwales, as easily as a
hat-box. And many men are clumsy or careless with a boat, while others
are lubberly by nature. Her dimensions are: Length, 10 1/2 feet; beam,
26 inches; rise at center, 9 inches: at seams, 15 inches; oval red elm
ribs, 1 inch apart; an inch home tumble; stems, plumb and sharp; oak
keel and keelson; clinker-built, of white cedar.
Such a canoe will weigh about 22 pounds and will do just as well for
the man of 140 or 170 pounds, while even a light weight of 110 pounds
ought to take her over a portage with a light, elastic carrying frame,
without distress. She will trim best, however, at about 160 pounds. For
a welter, say of some 200 pounds, add 6 inches to her length, 2 inches
to her beam and 1 inch rise at center. The light weight canoeist will
find that either of these two canoes will prove satisfactory, that is
10 feet in length, weight 16 pounds, or 10 1/2 feet length, weight 18
pounds. Either is capable of 160 pounds and they are very steady and
buoyant, as I happen to know. I dare say any first class manufacturers
will build canoes of these dimensions.
Provide your canoe with a flooring of oilcloth 3 1/2 feet long by 15
inches wide; punch holes in it and tie it neatly to the ribbing, just
where it will best protect the bottom from wear and danger. Use only a
cushion for a seat and do not buy a fancy one with permanent stuffing,
but get sixpence worth of good, unbleached cotton cloth and have it
sewed into bag shape. Stuff the bag with fine browse, dry grass or
leaves, settle it well together and fasten the open end by turning it
flatly back and using two or three pins, You can empty it if you like
when going over a carry, and it makes a good pillow at night.
Select a canoe that fits you, just as you would a coat or hat. A 16
pound canoe may fit me exactly, but would be a bad misfit for a man of
180 pounds. And don't neglect the auxiliary paddle, or "pudding stick,"
as my friends call it. The notion may be new to most canoeists, but
will be found exceedingly handy and useful. It is simply a little
one-handed paddle weighing 5 to 7 ounces, 20 to 22 inches long, with a
blade 3 1/2 inches wide. Work it out of half-inch cherry or maple and
fine the blade down thin. Tie it to a rib with a slip-knot, having the
handle in easy reach, and when you come to a narrow, tortuous channel,
where shrubs and weeds crowd you on both sides, take the double-blade
inboard, use the pudding stick, and you can go almost anywhere that a
muskrat can.
In fishing for trout or floating deer, remember you are dealing with
the wary, and that the broad blades are very showy in motion.
Therefore, on approaching a spring-hole, lay the double-blade on the
lily-pads where you can pick it up when wanted and handle your canoe
with the auxiliary. On hooking a large fish, handle the rod with one
hand and with the other lay the canoe out into deep water, away from
all entangling alliances. You may be surprised to find how easily, with
a little practice, you can make a two-pound trout or bass tow the canoe
the way you want it to go.
In floating for deer, use the double-blade only in making the passage
to the ground; then take it apart and lay it inboard, using only the
little paddle to float with, tying it to a rib with a yard and a half
of linen line. On approaching a deer near enough to shoot, let go the
paddle, leaving it to drift alongside while you attend to venison.
Beneath a hemlock grim and dark,
Where shrub and vine are intertwining,
Our shany stands, well roofed with bark,
On which the cheerful blaze is shining.
The smoke ascends in spiral wreath,
With upward curve the sparks are trending;
The coffee kettle sings beneath
Where sparks and smoke with leaves are blending.
And on the stream a light canoe
Floats like a freshly fallen feather,
A fairy thing, that will not do
For broader seas and stormy weather.
Her sides no thicker than the shell
Of Ole Bull's Cremona fiddle,
The mall who rides her will do well
To part his scalp-lock in the middle.
Forest Runes --Nessmuk