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< September/October 2004
	Paddle Tales
The Contest A generational battle for canoeing supremacy Randy Cunningham

I always bragged that my niece, Gen, would soon be my peer or better in a canoe. Little did I realize how ill prepared I was for that day. It happened on a trip down the Clarion River in Pennsylvania with a party from the Cleveland Metroparks. I was looking forward to relinquishing the responsibilities of the stern position, being that my wife is wedded to the bow. Gen knows what she is doing in the stern. I taught her.

The lessons I gave occurred earlier on a lake in the Adirondacks. I was a harsh instructor.

"Forward stroke! Now J-stroke. I said, ‘J-stroke!’ Don’t let me hear any splashing!"

"You’re so mean!" she would protest.

I know I said I was ready to give up control, but that was a lie. It became obvious when we hit the first series of riffles on the Clarion. I love the bow because it allows me to show off with duffeks and cross bow draws. She was not interested.

"Forward stroke!" she said, sounding much too like me. "Don’t worry. I’ve got it!"

And she did. She expertly maneuvered around boulders, found the Vs, and when she took over the bow, I was amazed at her skills at throwing strokes that I still have not mastered. I began to feel about as useful as one of our Duluth packs. I still tried to subvert the new order by sneaking in a duffek or cross bow.

"I’ve got it!" she maintained. "Forward stroke!"

"You’re so mean!" I whined.

We continued down the river, the old resisting the rise of the young. The river was not interested in our contest. It only honored those who paid attention. Paid attention to it, as in the river--not to the fall colors.

We did not notice the classic pillow 6 feet dead ahead until it was too late. There was a brief exchange of "I’ve got it" when in fact only the rock had "it," as in our trajectory. In an instant we heard the scrapping sound of Royalex against rock and knew that we were stuck. Another of our party pulled alongside, and a conference began on how to undo our embarrassment. Age got out and maneuvered youth and beauty back into deeper water.

There was no more boasting or competition aboard our canoe. We had both screwed up big time. Gen was reminded that canoeing is cooperative, not competitive. I quit pouting and remembered that I still had a job to do.

The contest ended on rapids that our party scouted. There was a risky path to the right. Lots of chop that could hide lots of rocks, which is exactly what the canoe that tried it found when it grounded. The other path to the left required threading a needle with a series of hard rights and lefts to go down a chute, while avoiding some very nasty boulders. Gen and I threaded the needle. No more competition. She set us up and minded the stern as I took us through the course with an ecstatic series of deftly executed duffeks and cross bows.

"Cool!" said I.

"Awesome!" Gen agreed.

Whatever generational superlatives we used, it was pure joy.

The day I had long predicted had arrived. Gen was no longer my student. She was now my peer and partner. The contest was over.