Expedition 2012

Monday, April 8, 2013 will mark a full calendar year since the Expedition’s departure from Dunmore for points north.  In the months since our return we’ve shared with many of you a few of the experiences and challenges we encountered along the way.  To commemorate our departure, let’s have a look at where we stood in Aprils past:

In April of 2009, Expedition 2012 remained but a twinkle in Keewaydin’s eye.  The coming summer celebrated one hundred years of Keewaydin Dunmore, and those of us on the staff for that year (strange to think that some of our number had not yet encountered Keewaydin) focused more upon that event.  The idea for the expedition came about on a hike in the Adirondack Mountains in July on a staff day off.  Over the course of four miles of hiking and about an hour and a half, the seed of the expedition germinated and expanded to the boat-building, border-crossing journey that came to be.

April 2010, a year later, would have seen most outlandish ideas from the past summer laid to rest as the boondoggles they were.  The idea for the Expedition, however, remained planted in our minds, and April 5saw the first actual documentation of our intended route:

An itinerary in hand and a developing web presence ensure that the expedition would not fade, and another year of work saw the development of our plan not only for direction and route, but for fundraising, communication, and contingencies.  Two years ago this week the Board of Directors approved our plan, as an email from Johnny attests:

“I know I’ve touched base with some of you already, but just to make the formal announcement…

Yesterday I presented Expedition 2012 to the full Keewaydin board of trustees at their meeting in NYC. After some discussion of the trip’s risks, costs, and massive upside, they voted unanimously to support our venture financially and with the Keewaydin brand. … The enthusiasm for our project is out of control and many board members have already indicated a variety of different ways that they plan to throw in their support.”

All this was a long prelude to the day at which many of us reached the crux of our hopes and dreams for the Expedition:

“Day 1 – April 8^th, 2012.  Salisbury, VT:

Today we finally paddled out of Lake Dunmore and began the odyssey we’ve been planning for three years.  What an intensely satisfying feeling – I’ve been smiling to myself all day.  The follow-up to last night’s dinner at this morning’s paddle out was amazing.  I’m stoked to have this first day in the bag and sixty-four more to come.”

Friends gathered, families said their goodbyes – some more tearfully than others – Jane Lindholm interviewed us for Vermont Public Radio, and most of us made final adjustments to our boats and gear before lining up at the shore for the official send-off.  This was an emotional moment – years of planning coming to fruition in a few short instants – and each of us took away something slightly different:

“Extremely overwhelming nerves made me not really answer [Jane Lindholm’s] questions well… Then it was time.”

“The send-off line was tough, as saying goodbye to my parents made me rather emotional and Diane got to me as well.”

“I think I’ll remember the looks on everyone’s faces at paddle out for a long time.”

“Send off was awesome with the cannon and bell-ringing with the Kway Kway Kway chant.”

The first day was not easy:  a short paddle brought us to our first portage out of Lake Dunmore and into the Leicester River.  The river, despite the dam release (specially arranged for our departure) remained low, with numerous trees and natural dams to surmount, and our slow progress put us a little behind schedule at day’s end. “All the obstacles put us a few miles behind schedule,” one journal notes, “Group seemed a little on edge about that.  Found a nice campsite with super muddy banks and had a nice fire going.”

The ease of the campsite routine put any disquietude to rest, however, as each crew member slid into the familiar assigned tasks around the campsite. “Pete and Kyle were in command for the next few hours; we hashed out an efficient dinner of pasta parma rosa, stuffing, and cole slaw, baking bread and morning bread on the fire in our stand of trees.” The night ended, as so many others would, with ten men standing around the fire, marveling at the uniqueness of their journey thus far and anticipating the ventures to come.

Writing this now, I am reminded by a favorite passage from my favorite author, a few short lines by Graham Greene that gave an impetus to my efforts both in planning and paddling:

And while we other poets sit at winter dusk
And softly whisper each our little dreams,
You’ll rise and with the ardor of your youth
Stride from the warm glow of the flickering fire
To carve your dreams in facts across the world.

After a lull in the action, Expedition 2012 is back to bring you more stories from the trip!  Work on the documentary is underway so be sure to stay involved as Spring draws near.  For now, we hope this post by Jeff Chandler stirs up trip memories of your own.

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As I sat on a bus headed from Arlington to New York, I tried to think about all of the moments from the trip I wanted to talk about.  In New York, Kyle was preparing the necessary equipment to start filming a series of interviews for the Expedition 2012 documentary and when I arrived, it was my job to speak insightfully about what all of these experiences meant to me.  The trip took sixty-seven days to complete—the bus ride about four hours—but before we had even left Virginia, as we crossed the Potomac River, I realized something the trip had changed in me that I hadn’t stopped to recognize before.

Before the trip, I could have passed across this bridge over the Potomac on a windy day, noticing the whitecaps surging underneath, and thought to myself, “Brrr, that water looks cold,” but the simple acknowledgement of its uninviting appearance might have been the extent of my thoughts on the scene.  Now I see so much more.  I watch the frigid water on either side of the bridge and as many questions flow through me as drops of water flow under me.

It starts general.  How far could I travel downstream before I reached the next dam or lock?  Or, more likely in the case of our trip, how far upstream would I have to work before an otherwise insignificant little ripple of whitewater required all my strength and concentration to ferry up.  At this thought, my mind wanders to the shallow shoreline of the Ottawa River on Day 17 where the rocky bottom bit at our paddle tips as we scraped for more water in an effort to move just 40 yards further upstream against the swift current.  Maybe this bridge marks a portage and we could carry along this road to another body of water.  In that case, where could I take out along the bank so that the icy water would not rise above the height of my boot and leave my feet wet and cold for the rest of the day?  Does the current gain strength and bottleneck under this bridge as it does on the Ottawa River by Canadian Parliament or again on the same river far to the northwest in Mattawa?  At those sections, the bridge pylons gave us just enough of an eddy to rest our arms before driving up against the current to calmer water.

Perhaps this bridge shelters a well known meeting spot for local teens in the same way the bridge over the Riviere l’Acadie does in Chambly.  Would the rebellious adolescents at either end, hiding beneath its support beams, separated by the river and by gender, watch us with awkward confusion and smoky conversation as we drifted past in strange wooden canoes?  If this is the first bridge in many kilometers of wild river, would it be as welcome a sight as the train bridge high over the Onakawana River where it empties into the Abitibi or would it be a place of shelter and nerve like the one we huddled under just before entering the thrashing whitecaps and roaring headwinds of the St. Lawrence?

Maybe it is not meaningful in any of these ways we experienced and maybe it takes on a whole new place in a tripper’s memory as they pass by, but I know now that I am not just standing on a bridge anymore.  I am standing on a landmark on a map of some tripper’s itinerary.  And on the day they reach it, this bridge will hold a meaning that stays with them for the rest of the trip and for the rest of their travels.

As my bus ride continued north to New York these thoughts were still on my mind.  Outside the window, stretches of forest interrupted neighborhoods and parking lots and I realized that it was not only my view of rivers and bridges that had changed.  Once our Expedition moved beyond more frequent canoe routes aided by well groomed portage trails and bike paths, we were responsible for blazing our own way through the woods.  Where nature did not courteously supply a clear path, it was our job to find one.  Now, as I look at a patch of forest, I see characteristics of the small troubles and triumphs we met along each portage trail.

Outside the bus window there is a large grassy area where the woods open up.  Here we could easily unload the boats and set out all of the gear for our portioned trips across a carry.  There is no long grass in which to lose a glove like on the side of the Ottawa just beyond Carillon or craggy rocks where water bottles like to hide on the shore of the Fredrick House River.  And there is certainly no steep muddy bank like the one that borders the entire East Whitefish River.  The footing is firm, unlike the loose shifting caribou moss around the hunter’s cabin at the beginning of the East Whitefish just past Nokomis Lake.

Now I find two trees at the edge of the forest, perfectly spaced and angled to rest the bow of my canoe a kilometer into the 4K carry from the East Whitefish onto the Whitefish River.  I see a fallen tree trunk supported about 2 yards off the ground.  If I were to come across this log on the trail, is it low enough to step over without losing my balance or high enough that I can duck under with my wannigan?  And at this turn up ahead, is there enough space to spin with a canoe or will I have to do a three-point turn of sorts to maneuver between the trees?  Slowly, in what was before just another patch of trees, the features of a trail start to emerge.

Maybe we haven’t even started the carry yet, but instead it is my job to go ahead with the hatchet and scout out the best route through the woods.  In this case, where could I tie flagging tape so that my trip mates, with heads hung low under the weight of the tump strap, could still see and follow it easily?  Are the branches so dense here that they would sweep under the gunwale of the canoe as I walk and whip at my face and arms like on all of the portages along the East Whitefish?  Is the hill in front of me as steep and endless as Devil’s Portage along “the Trip In” or is it rolling and slippery wet like under the power lines by the Frederick House River?  Are the bugs here as relentless as they were at the end of the portage off of the Abitibi onto the Onakawana River or are the winds so strong that I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep the canoe on my head like when we crossed the open farm plot west of Chambly?  Is this trail as familiar as the one around the Gorge on the Otter that we use every summer or is it so strange that I end up going a different way each time like around the dam on the Ottawa on Day 23?

Each portage trail holds, and in some cases scars, a special place in our memory of the trip.  They were both loved and hated for what they gave us but each was an essential part of the story.  And this story, remembered for the miles and miles of paddle strokes over water, owes just as much recognition to the miles and miles of footsteps over land in between.

As we start the interview, I’m wondering if I still remember the stories well enough to tell them accurately and do them justice.  Are there moments that were so important to me during the trip that I won’t remember how to tell them when faced by bright lights and camera lenses?  Can I find some memory from the Expedition here in this setting like I did in the bridges and forests on the bus ride up?  I look past Kyle, the camera, the light, and in that space, I find myself in a canoe.  The gentle rock of an even K-stroke is there and the comfortable give of a caned seat.  The smell of cedar bent ribs still lingers even after two months of muddy water and baking sun and in this same way, so too will these memories.

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This installment in our series comes from Pete Wright ’96, who is currently traveling around Europe.  We wish him all the best.  Many thanks to all our readers and supporters – those of you we saw in New York this week in particular.  Yay yay for the Keewaydin community.

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Throughout our 69-day excursion we had a plethora of experiences and encounters for both good and ill, but the last 72 hours of the trip take the cake. Never have I experienced such a rollercoaster of emotions as I did over those three days. This will not be a poignant philosophical commentary; instead I merely want to share one of the most amazingly absurd and absurdly amazing experiences in my life.

It started on our last day on the Onakawana River, which we had slogged through over the past two days, maneuvering around logjams and negotiating tiny rapids, just shallow enough to drive a canoeist mad.  After earlier concerns that this river might delay us from arriving in Moosonee on time, it had become clear that we were going to make it come hell or low water (in this particular case). The day began much as the last one had ended, shooting slowly increasing rapids, ever ready to jump out of the boat in case a pesky (and decidedly random) rock shoal presented itself. A full morning and early afternoon of this paddling and dragging finally brought us to the Polar Bear Express train bridge looming over the river, indicating the rapidly approaching end of the Onakawana and return to the mighty Abitibi River. It’s hard to describe the joy we all felt, rafted up on the Abitibi and letting the swift current push us down the ever-widening river, as we drank deeply from our water bottles in celebration. Johnny put the feeling into words, describing the coming stretch of river as our Champs Elysees, to which I was prone to agree seeing as how we had only two more rapids to negotiate before reaching the end and would be paddling on the gigantic Abitibi and Moose River. I went bed that night with a smile on my face thinking of all that we had accomplished so far.

The high spirits continued the next morning, as we awoke to an unprecedented sensation in the air, a tail wind.  I should digress to explain the significance of this:  we had plenty of wind to deal with during the course of the Expedition, but it was almost exclusively head winds, with the occasional cross wind thrown in for good measure. Once, earlier in the trip, we had a good breeze at our back and decided to sail, with the boats lashed together and the tarp billowing before the bows. No sooner had we raised our makeshift sail, than the wind shifted to the side and inexplicably continued to shift into headwinds frustrating us all and forcing a quick unlashing of the tarp and boats.

On this day, however, we paddled on for a bit and decided to sail, since the wind was holding and the river remaining quite straight. This was particularly exciting for Tom, Ben, and Kyle, who had not really experienced the thrill of tarp sailing. With Jeff as our skipper, keeping an eye on the trim of the sail, off we went at a sometimes alarming pace. The combined effects of the fast moving current and the heavy winds had us moving at times close to 13 k/h (roughly 8 mph), which I can tell you is shockingly fast whilst in a canoe. What a thrill it was sailing down stream, while avoiding the occasional rock and even sailing down rapids. Unfortunately, sometimes you can have too much of a good thing, as the winds began to churn up waves large enough to threaten our jury-rigged catamaran. We detached boats and pulled into lunch grinning having covered somewhere around 20 miles in a morning.

After every high, it’s said there is always a crash, but I didn’t think it could be experienced quite so literally. Around the next bend in the river lay the Allen Rapids, representing the confluence of the Abitibi and Moose Rivers. Having finished lunch, we were ready to attack this penultimate set of rapids, which I had been informed could be run down its left channel. As we got closer we discovered that the left channel had three spurs, the left-most of which looked rather hairy. Giving the river a quick scout, it appeared that the right spur was fairly straight forward, so we proceeded to work our way across to that side. This is when things got truly exciting and a bit worrisome! Suddenly James began waving the eddy out sign frantically and Tom and I saw what lay ahead in the form of two large ledges spanning this side of the river. We were too far into the suck of the rapids to make the shore, so Tom and I followed James and Nick down the ledges, keeping the boats straight to avoid flipping. We made the best of it, but the combination of the ledge structure and the low water resulted in the canoes scraping over the ledges. We managed to bring the boat to a rest midstream, with James and Nick working their way over to the shallows down below, and composed ourselves before bringing the boat to shore. With what I like to believe is tremendous skill we avoided any major damage to the boats, though this could just as easily be attributed to shear dumb luck! After making sure we were all alright, I ran back to the rest of crew, who had successfully found the far shore and we agreed to portage along the mudflats to the Moose River.

After a repair of one of the boats and portaging against heavy winds, we finally had reached our last waterway and its breadth was unparalleled by any river I have paddled. I was amazed and disturbed to discover that such a truly expansive body of water could be so shallow. We pushed on despite this planning to stay above the Kwetabohegan Rapids. As we approached, the water got shallower and shallower until we were out of the boats lifting them just to make progress towards the near shore. Far off to the left we could see the rapids and it became apparent that the flow of the river had shifted drastically from what out topographical maps showed (they were 50 years old after all). We began to work our way left, walking, wading, and paddling towards the rapids with an ever-darkening sky to the west filling with threatening clouds. With sounds of thunder and distant flashes chasing us, we found a workable patch of land with an enormous downed birch tree laying alone, evidence of the ferocity of the weather. Never have we moved so fast as a group to set up tents and a makeshift tarp using the root structure and trunk of the fallen birch for the ridgelines. We ate and hid from the storm as it raged fiercely on all sides, hunkered down in the tents or under “bunker” tarp and eventually drifted off to sleep, but not before singing Happy Birthday to Johnny.

The last full day of paddling began cold and wet and I hit the water very aware of the proximity we were to actually completing this crazy adventure. I had grown used to the cold, the rain, and the headwinds, so facing these once more just meant tightening up my NeoShell and paddling with a little more vigor, but we sure were drenched by the time we hit land again. We made it to the islands near Moosonee but could not locate our campsite, so we paddled over to a large building Rich spotted to ask for directions. The Cree Village Ecolodge on the island of Moose Factory will forever retain a place close to my heart for what came next. As Johnny went in to ask the front desk, the rest of us huddled in the heat of the entrance way, trying to warm our soaked and shivering bodies and laughing about what a sight we must be for these Cree. When Johnny returned and informed us that the manager had offered to let us stay on their property, it was the beginning of a flood of hospitality and generosity from Greg Williams (the manager) and Ben Williams (the head chef and Greg’s son) the likes of which I have never known. They allowed us to come inside and warm up, then topped that by giving us a room to shower in. We ate a celebratory dinner, after which Ben gave us a tour of the Hudson Bay Company staff house and historic other buildings. It was remarkable to see and hold the artifacts that allowed the Hudson Bay men to first paddle and explore the waterways we had just covered during the trip. The day and sequence of events I have just recounted ended in fitting fashion. A sunset unfurled before us, which ignited the evening sky with such intensity that photos of it that I have shown to friends made them ask if it was a forest fire.

Though the experiences of the last 3 days were remarkable in the rapidity with which they shifted, they were not atypical of things experienced during the trip. The ups and downs of this brief period of time are but a microcosm of the trip as a whole and our experiences throughout. When faced with challenges, the group always came together to overcome them and encourage each other. The hospitality we received at the Ecolodge was not uncommon to us, as we found the Ontarians and Quebecois we met along the way incredibly welcoming and interested in our journey. And of course when we had our opportunities for fun and excitement, we grasped them with enthusiasm, as any good Keewaydinessi is wont to do.

This installment of post-Expedition musings comes from Jeff Chandler:

Day 44- “Nothing exciting ever happens before we are out on the water.  There are rarely even any good thoughts worth writing down.  There seems to only be enough awareness to do what needs to be done to eat, pack up, change into wetloaders, load the boats, and go.  Today was no exception.”

As I read back through my journal from the trip, I found a common theme to the beginning of each entry: mornings were by far the least exciting part of each day.  And yet so much depended on that first mindless blurry-eyed hour.  The leaders for the day woke up early to start a fire and get water boiling.  The tents needed to be taken down and rolled tightly to keep from getting wet during the day.  Wannigans were packed, tumped, and carefully loaded into the boats, and all before the morning’s coffee kicked in.  The morale for the rest of the day could have easily been broken in one moment of careless behavior or dropped responsibility during this fragile time, but it never was.

Even when our wetloaders were frozen too stiff for us to cram our feet into or the constant thrum of black flies outside the tent made us dread the moment we’d have to leave it, no one complained.  There were many looks exchanged in these early hours of, “What are we doing out here?” or, “Are we crazy?” but eventually we were back out in the boats, continuing on another day.

A few journal excerpts may help give an insight into the little struggles and daily routine we faced each morning.

Day 2- “5:00 or 5:30 am wake-up, I’m not even sure which, but the early start paid off.  It was still dark while I was trying to put on my dry-pants, socks, and boots which explains why I ended up wearing one sock on my right foot and two on my left all day.  It’s still early in the trip, so I’ll work on that.  Hot oatmeal and bacon with some coffee to warm us up.”

In the early days of the trip, when we wanted to give ourselves as much time as possible to make our mark and the winter weather cut daylight short, our wakeups were bright and early, without any sign of the brightness.  Our first few paddle strokes often did not even see the warm rays of the sun.  We all emerged from the tents and found our way to the tarp by headlamp, trying to keep the light out of each others’ eyes for fear of starting off on the wrong foot so early.  Warm oatmeal and coffee were the only things on our minds.  Everything else could wait.

Once the last few scoops of oatmeal had been scraped from the bottom of the pot and the bacon pan lay empty, there were some final seconds of warmth around the fire before someone would say something like, “Well…” and we’d all disperse to pack up the campsite and move on with the day.  It was this silent understanding of the need to continue regardless of tough conditions that let us know we were all in it together.

Day 16- “I awoke to the squawk of the geese again and the patter of something on the tent fly.  It sounded too light to be rain.  I lay there for a while, wondering what time it was and how much longer I had in this warm wrap of sleeping bag before Kyle came to wake me up to go cook breakfast… I heard Kyle’s footsteps outside and he asked if I was awake.  I put on warm clothes and my dry shoes as quickly as possible without waking up the other guys in the tent.  Wet socks would have been unbearable.  Once outside, it became apparent that the weather was in fact snow.  I put on my glove liners which helped a little, at least when dealing with the cold metal stove.  The oatmeal and coffee water took forever to boil.”

On several occasions, the weather we woke up to was far different than that the night before.  On this morning, I vividly remember Kyle and I sitting huddled under the kitchen tarp, zipped up in as many layers as would fit under our rain coats, wool hats pulled down over our ears, and gloved hands clasped tightly between our knees.  We were camped in a swampy section of land two days before Ottawa and there was no sign of dry wood underneath the slushy mix of snow and rain that coated everything.  With no fire to provide heat, we sat shoulder to shoulder on a wannigan in front of the stove, telling ourselves that the small flame that was very slowly boiling our breakfast water was also giving off heat in our direction.  We taught each other bits of songs and laughed at the geese still drifting by in the river, despite the frigid temperatures; anything to keep our minds off of the numbing feeling in our toes.

Though we laughed at the absurdity of the situation we had put ourselves in at times, never once did we question whether or not it was for a good enough reason.  That much was clear every morning of the trip.  No matter how dark, cold, or impossible the day seemed when we left the tent, we knew it would get better and that by the time we woke up back on Lake Dunmore, all of these mornings would have added up into something undeniably worth everything it took along the way.

Over the next few months, we’ll be featuring a few memories from various days and places on the expedition.  This is the first in our series, by crew member Bill Souser:

I had no idea what to expect of Keewaydin Temagami.  I had heard stories from the staff who had taken trips to Sturgeon River or done the centennial Verendrye-to-Temagami routes, but they didn’t hold much store in my imagination.  I knew Temagami was on Devil’s Island, a small piece of land floating in the elongated North Arm of Lake Temagami.  I knew they didn’t have the permanent facilities that we did on Lake Dunmore because most of their trippers spend the summer out in the woods rather than on the island.  I had not heard that there were gas lamps in the Map Room, or that there were outdoor ovens for baking bread, or that numerous narrow trails traversed the island.  Nor had I heard that there were several permanent docks such that you could find one for any hour of the day or any breeze.  And I hadn’t heard word one about the lodge.

Keewaydin’s lodge on Lake Temagami is a large two-story building that serves multiple purposes as a gathering space, a performance stage, and a museum of trophies, school plaques, and lists of campers graven in wood that reach back into last century and even the century before that.  The moose head above the giant stone fireplace is flanked by two equally massive flags:  on one side the Union Jack and on the other the Stars and Stripes.  On the opposite wall hang Hudson Bay Company standards and the earliest of the camper plaques, some of which bear the name of F. Leonard Adams, as does one of our boats.  There’s the bow of a canoe from the “2,000 Mile Mojo Trip”, which went to Hudson Bay in 1915.  There’s a gallery at the south end of the building, and the north end is occupied by a stage, elevated above the rest of the hall.  In two corners there are upright pianos – out of tune in the way that comes from living through the winter unheated – one of which sits under the stairs, while the other is next to a window facing the lake on the stage.

A lot of my memories at Keewaydin have to do with a piano.  I remember – vividly – the first time I sang as a camper in Annwi, terrified because I didn’t know any words to any songs in the book.  In other years, I remember Waboos leading the hand motions to “Twas Friday Morn” and chiding those of us who banged on the tables.  I have memories of the expert skill of Ted Handy improvising on one visit when I was in Wiantinaug.  In 2006, I joined the staff and learned to play these songs myself.  While there’s no audience more intimidating than Waboos sitting in front of you alone, there are a few rest hours that I remember for playing this song or another, talking about Ev Robie, or going through the last verse of “I’ll Not Grow Too Old to Dream.”

One night at Temagami, after an amazing dinner of moose and fish and fresh vegetables, the ten of us went down to the lodge to sing a few songs.  Early in the trip we developed a repertoire ranging from classics by Stan Rogers and Johnny Cash to the newer style of Dawes and Jonny Corndawg.  Paul Heintz commented on our proclivity to song when he joined us early on the trip, and since that time we had been consciously aware of the harmony and dissonance we shared between the boats.  We crowded around the piano on the stage and we started working through our repertoire, our voices reflecting off the hard surfaces of the wooden walls and ceiling.  It wasn’t until we reached the end of “Northwest Passage” by Stan Rogers that the music really started to ring in that space and I began to realize how awesome an evening we were having.

David James Duncan has said, “Music is just a word for a thing we love largely because it consists of things that words can’t express.”  These songs that we shared had bonded us through the preceding days and weeks, over six hundred miles of paddling.  I will carry many memories of paddling over various lakes and rivers, the wind in my face and one of those songs on my mind or in my ears, but none of them will be so important as the memory of that hour, the ten of us watching the sunset into dusk on Lake Temagami, gathered around the piano, singing.

At long last, here’s our final statement on belief in Expedition 2012.  This one comes from Kyle Sauer ’09:

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1200 miles in 70 days, from Lake Dunmore, VT to James Bay in Canada, in handmade wood canvas canoes, with other crewmembers, all with the aim to raise money for disadvantaged kids to go to summer camp. If you’d told me four years ago that I’d be involved in this, I’d wonder if you had me confused with someone else, because I was going to college for film school. Up until that point in my life, I believed that life existed in a straight line. But moving away from home for the first time made me realize that I was one of the lucky privileged few who had more to choose from, and that the world was much bigger than I perceived.

When I started working at Keewaydin 3 years ago, I saw children go a comparable epitome… and they were only 8 years old. They come to a completely new place, to live simply and closely with others, to learn the names of different leaves, perform on stage for the first time, swim where they can’t touch the bottom, and go to bed knowing that it wasn’t what they’ve done that day that make them the person that they are, but the manner in which they did it.

Okay, maybe they didn’t realize all of this was going on at the time, but I saw it, I swear. And after seeing this, it was tough to go back to college, where what you do is who you are. But my chance to merge my double life came a week before I started my senior year in college. The other members of Expedition 2012 called and asked me to graduate early, come along for the trip, ditch all forms of technology except for a camera and make a film about the journey.

And then it was my turn to feel like an 8 year old going to camp for the first time.
By nature, their proposal brought instant fear. I’ve never been on a trip of this magnitude, paddling all the way, out of communications with my family. Plus, what did the trip really mean to me? What would become of the film, even if I manage to shoot it properly?
Well, I’ve come to realize that opportunities are just that. I don’t know what will become of it afterwards, but if I’m fortunate enough to be given an opportunity like this, I’d be a fool not to make the most of it. And on the trip, I’ll bring with me what I’ve learned from Keewaydin: that Home is a feeling that can travel far away from your house. That every time you feel proud about something you’ve accomplished, there are a number of people deserving your thanks. And always remember what if feels like to be given an opportunity, especially if you’re in a position to provide one.

I’m Kyle Sauer, I will be the videographer, and this is why I believe in 2012.

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We leave tomorrow.  Be sure to continue to check http://www.expedition2012.com for our progress, and we thank you for all your support!

Expedition 2012 is about to depart! Thank you all for your loyal support and active interest in our progress.

In order to consolidate our web presence while we’re out on the water, we will be using www.expedition2012.com as the hub of all our updates. Please make sure you check it regularly, as you can expect daily updates there.

Specifically, the home page of the website will feature an interactive Google map of our journey, complete with place markers in the GPS coordinate locations where we sent out “OK” check-in messages.  You can even click these place markers for a bit of description about our progress. Remember, you can zoom, scroll and navigate through the map however you like, so don’t be afraid to explore.

In addition to our updating map, we will have Picasa photo albums of each trip sector. You will see a slide show of the most recent images on the home page and can access older pictures under the media tab in the photo page. Clicking one of these slide shows will take you to Picasa, where you could access other albums and order prints through your favorite web photo service.

Our blog will also receive periodic updates from the journal entries of our crew members. You can access our blog through the button on our home page. Our Twitter account, @JamesBayOrBust, will also be updated regularly through the early parts of our trip. Make sure to follow us on Twitter to get these updates. You can also access our Twitter through the button on our home page.

We hope that this strategy will keep you informed and engaged with the trip and make it easy to get all your Expedition 2012 news from a single location.