We've all dreamed it, but for this author, it turned out to be more of a nightmare.

Paddling to work has been a dream of mine for some time, and recently all of the pieces of this endeavor came together—for three days.

I felt like I won the lottery when the small high school at which I teach built a new campus on the banks of Bear Creek in Medford, Oregon. Bear Creek is not a classic. It’s urban, has poor water quality, a significant transient population, and a distinct odor. But, as it tumbles toward the Rogue River over smooth sandstone it forms some Class II-III rapids, and at 800 cfs or higher, decent surf. It’s boatable.

As a teacher I have a distinct advantage over other vocations—shuttle bunnies. I mean students. One student in particular with a big truck, who happens to live near me, jumped at the opportunity to actually haul something in his 10 miles-per-gallon beast. So, after I used my ecology class to clear out a take-out (noxious weeds were the excuse), I was ready to go.

My wife couldn’t believe I was going through with it the first morning, but I was all smiles and trekked through the streets of my neighborhood down to the creek. Four miles, 40 minutes, and 15 bird species later I arrived at the school parking lot to the confused stares of my fellow teachers.

Unfortunately, my third day of paddling to high school was not quite so idyllic, because, well, I didn’t make it. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I did make it—with my wife’s help. Halfway through the run, I boofed off a low-head dam. It was the same line I had used the last two days and I hit the bottom relatively gently. I was actually quite pleased with my boof on this treacherous Class II, and so too were the nearby bicyclist and the guy with the brown paper bag attached to his lips. Very soon, however, I felt my new Eddie Bauer slacks soaking up water. Panicked, I reached under my boat to feel a gaping hole in the hull just behind my seat. I then remembered my Macintosh laptop and paddled to shore with the nose of my boat rising higher and higher while my stern sank lower and lower. I was about to swim in the toxic sludge that passes for Bear Creek.

Fortunately, I was able to pull my skirt, throw my computer bag into the blackberries and then throw myself into the bushes as well. This hurt, but allowed me to avoid 1.) a soaked computer—I’m sure Apple wouldn’t cover it, 2.) my first swim in 10 years, and 3.) total humiliation from my colleagues and especially my students. I called my wife, who picked me up on the side of the street with a dry pair of pants and took me to work.

While I initially thought the extra weight of my winter flab caused the crack, a call to Jackson Kayaks revealed that they discontinued their blue plastic because of brittleness (warranty covers it). This made me feel only marginally better as my students laughed at me throughout the day. Now I’m back at it in my new, non-blue Jackson.

Originally Published, Paddler July-August 2008