In these complex and contradictory times people tend to hate modern technology--and to love modern technology. At the same time we're blaming technology for the mess the world is in, we're waiting for more of it to bail us out. Canoe paddles of plastic, Kevlar, and graphite seem like the best thing to have come along since hermetically sealed beef jerky, but we're convinced that no paddle in the world can compare to a good-old-fashioned wooden one.
I don't believe it's a mere romantic notion to claim that wood is in many ways superior to synthetic materials. People who talk about the "soul" of wood reveal a certain philosophical orientation, but they may also be making a valid observation. Wood was once a living, supple entity. Its grain and texture is as individual as a fingerprint, a consensus of unique factors of environment, climate, weather, and age. Those characteristics shape even dead and kiln-dried wood into one-of-a-kind raw material with heart.
A good wooden paddle is such a pleasure to use that it makes you eager to paddle it all day long. As with any tool of quality, it is balanced and shaped to feel like an extension of your arms, not an extra appendage. It slices the water silently, subtly, without clubbing and splashing. Like a fine musical instrument, its qualities become more apparent the more you use it, and in the hands of a master, it performs masterfully.
I have two good paddles on my desk as I write this: a traditional beavertail made of cherry and an ottertail made of black walnut. Both are manufactured by Grey Owl Paddles of Cambridge, Ontario, and retail for $67 and $95. Brian Dorfman, owner and managing director of Grey Owl, started the company in 1975 when he was a disenchanted stockbroker who depended on canoeing for mental therapy but was dissatisfied because he could not find good wooden paddles he could afford. Taking matters into his own hands he began a company that now builds 40,000 to 50,000 wooden paddles a year, in about 25 models. The key to the company's success--and Dorfman's happiness--is the wood. "There's something about the 30 or 40 steps that goes into a wooden paddle," he says, "that's still fun after all these years. I don't think you could say that about a synthetic paddle manufactured on a machine."
Like bone, wood shrinks and swells with humidity. It breathes the same air we breathe. It adapts after long use to its user, absorbing sweat, growing polished, adjusting to the grip and power of individual hands. Keep a paddle long enough, and treat it carefully, and you end up with an object with character, a possession as personal as a talisman. To someone who cares for it and respects it a wooden paddle is not an incidental accessory to a canoe. In the words of Grey Owl's Brian Dorfman, it becomes much more than "just a stick to push a boat along."
Bent-shaft paddles and high-tech materials are efficient and nearly indestructible, but they don't make me a better paddler. For my money I want a traditional straight-shaft paddle with a beavertail blade, made of ash or cherry or some other attractive and durable wood. This is pure pig-headedness on my part. In our age of technological wonders, when most of the things we own are standardized and instantly replaceable, I want a one-of-a-kind paddle that remains loyal to my peculiarities, and is as difficult to replace as a family heirloom or an old cherished friend.
Copyright (c) 1996 Jerry Dennis. All rights reserved.