The 200-ish mile Cape Wrath Trail from Fort William to the top of Sutherland was cooked up in the early 1990s by David Paterson, a photographer who’d just come off a job shooting the West Highland Way. Paterson wondered if you could extend the WHW through the North Western Highlands to the very tip of the British Isles in Sutherland. Over many visits he established a route and in 1996 produced a beautiful book: ‘The Cape Wrath Trail: A New 200-mile Walking Route Through the North-West Scottish Highlands’, creating what he humbly ‘dared to call the Cape Wrath Trail’. Since then various other routes have evolved between the two points. There’s no set route, far less two helpful waymarks to rub together, but it would not be an exaggeration to describe the CWT as Britain’s toughest long-distance path. Though it’s tracklogged comprehensively on walkhighlands, follows passes and valleys, and tops out at just one 600-m summit, the terrain, weather, scarcity of resupply points or any other services in the North Western Highlands puts the CWT in a class of its own. On occasions, there is no path at all, but the advent of the 2003 Scottish Land Reform Act opened the moors to all, offering an infinity of options or ‘variants’.
Originally Paterson’s route passed from Dundonnell through Ullapool, crossing the half-mile of Loch Broom from Altnaharrie on the Scoraig peninsula using a regular ferry. That ferry ceased operating in 2003 and the CWT now reroutes itself miles inland up to the head of Loch Broom and via Oykel Bridge. But as none other than Cameron McNeish suggested in a rather hastily written ‘Foreward’ on a Cape Wrath Trail website:
‘…the route should follow a south to north line as close as possible; it should allow passage through the most scenic areas; it should try and avoid tarmac and paved roads or paths but instead follow existing footpaths and stalkers’ tracks whenever they were useful and it should avoid crossing mountain ranges and major rivers except where necessary.’
In 2013 Cicerone published The Cape Wrath Trail guidebook. They’d published an earlier version as ‘North to the Cape’ in 1999. The 2013 Cicerone author Iain Harper has a website on which he questions and then decides not to include his Coigach-Assynt route option for safety reasons. ‘… Not including an Assynt alternative in the guide was a difficult decision, but on balance I came down on the side of caution, however for the more adventurous walker it should definitely considered…’.
I’m not an especially adventurous walker and have not done the CWT, but knowing the Coigach-Assynt area, and from the walkhighlands reports I’ve read on the current route, Postman’s Path excepted (see below), the Coigach-Assynt doesn’t seem much more dangerous or remote than many other rather hairy sections on the CWT. And furthermore, our variant stays closer to McNeish’s ‘south to north line [and takes a] passage through the most scenic areas’. The peaks of the Assynt are like nothing else in the Scottish highlands and it seems to me a shame that the original CWT route had fallen into disuse for want of a half-mile boat ride across Loch Broom.
That boat ride (or using a packraft, of course!) is the key to unlocking this Coigach-Assynt variant and on a pleasant summer’s morning it would be perfectly packraftable paddle from Altnaharrie jetty to Ullapool on the north side of the loch (David H did so in 2012 on his northwestern epic).
But after the six-mile walk up from the Badralloch turn-off near Dundonnell, arriving at Altnaharrie jetty on a rainy evening in early December 2013 with a spring tide in full ebb against a 20mph wind, paddling towards Ullapool’s harbour lights seemed less of a jolly jaunt. To cut a long story short, we ‘d contacted the harbour master to see if he could help out with a lift. At least one other CWT walker has done this. He arranged for the night shift to come over and pick us up. [It’s worth noting the former Altnaharrie Inn gourmand’s restaurant alongside the small jetty in now a private residence].
After a cozy night and a lavish brekkie in Ullapool’s Ceilidh Inn, Robin and I set off set off for the 12-mile walk to Culnacraig via the notorious Postman’s Path. We didn’t quite make it and as it involves no actual paddling, you can read about it on Walkhighlands. In 2021 round-Britain coastal walker Quintin Lake recalled the path: I thought I’d seen it all by now, but the postman’s “path” to Culnacraig passes over some of the steepest ground I’ve yet encountered. If there weren’t a path to lure me onwards, I’d have turned back.
From the vicinity of Culnacraig our suggested variant takes a more direct line than the Cicerone suggestion shown in yellow (above). It crosses over to the narrows at Loch Lurgainn which are just about wadeable to a boatless walker with a stout stick, but which we paddled during a break in the December storms. You can read about that here.
A few months later Jon and I returned to Achiltibuie with our new Alpackas to pick up the variant from the foot of Stac and follow it through to Kylesku where it rejoins the regular CWT for the last lap to Cape Wrath. It can all be walked or waded but our route was streamlined by taking three paddles (right) and a shallow wade. You can read about that here.
Fellow IKer Gael proposed we meet up during his May visit to the Hebrides; his chance to get a closer look at places he’d passed on the SSKT. Once he’d done his own thing on Mull I suggested Coll and Tiree as a satisfying and remote offshore destination. Those two outer Inner Hebs may claim to be the sunniest places in the UK and looked interesting in Google sat, with many sandy coves. But it also became apparent that all that sunshine required unusually strong winds to blow away the clouds. Whatever’s blowing in the Inner isles on a given day, on Coll and Tiree you can bank on double. Sea Kayak Oban admitted that they’d only managed to run two tours there in six years.
When we met up in Oban, Gael had already made contingency calculations, multiplying several locations by the state of the tide and then dividing the result by the 5-day forecast and subtracting our IKs’ average speed in knots. According to his complex computations, a three-day run out of Arduanie around the Slates would work out best for us.
After a brilliant seafeed at EE Usk on the waterfront (left), we squeezed my moto into Oban Backpackers’ storeroom and set off to Arduanie where a sleet shower pelted us while we loaded the boats. The rest of today was actually going to be OK weather, a bit windy. Tomorrow less bad but Friday might be a tent bound zip-in according to the forecast, so our Kindles were charged up.
I was snuggly wrapped in my new, lightweight Anfibio drysuit as we set off for a late lunch on Shuna’s east shore before curving around into the wind to cross to Luing. From here we worked our way down to its southern tip then made a dash to Scarba, eyeing up the sinister and all too near Gulf of Corryvrecken which gave me the heebie-jeebies.
Gael had been told of a camp spot overlooking another tidal phenomenon, the Grey Dogs, and once pitched up on the moderately dry platform, we walked over to survey the Dogs where a metre-high standing wave rose up and collapsed every few seconds. Even though we were in neap tides it did this continuously all evening; only at 6am did I see the waters briefly still.
That night the rain closed in and pelted down. We huddled under a tarp – a good last-minute decision to take that – then made the delicate acrobatic contortions to get out of our gear and into our tents without spreading the wet.
Early next morning the Dogs dozed under clear skies, but by the time we were on the water they’d risen again from their submarine lairs and water rushed along the channel’s shores like a river. Even Google sat snatched its picture with the Dogs in spate. In fact, during neaps, either side of the breaking waves looked flattish water, but who knew how a boat would react in there so I assumed we’d head directly north. But when Gael turned his K40 purposefully into the Dogs’ maw I gulped and bleated, ‘We’re not going in there are we?’ Too late, the current had caught me and the ride was on.
What looked like flat water between the boiling shore and the midstream surf zone was actually a rolling swell a metre or two high but easily manageable in an IK. Gael rode into the middle for a play – the picture left shows the turbid water between us – and soon we were flushed out into the Firth of Lorn on Lunga’s west shore where the sea state was more placid. What that place must be like to paddle in spring tides doesn’t bear thinking about, but obviously some lap it up (below). There’s probably less risk than tackling the same sort of white water on a river.
Strictly speaking, Scarba isn’t part of the Slate Islands to the north, but this whole area is well known to boaters for its convoluted tides and associated races. For a paddler, the water pushing up and pulling past the isles and channels creates all sorts of complexities in route planning, something which Gael grasped far better than me.
As we approached the lighthouse at Fladda he pointed out a cross-current where he advised we pieleffe. What was ‘pieleffe’, some kind of French nautical term? No: ‘paddle like fuck’. Oh, OK then. Now safely on Fladda’s slatey beach we took a tea break, me still a little frazzled after running [alongside] the Grey Dogs [in neaps] and not being torn limb from limb by clashing whirlpools.
Fladda had a big walled garden and similarly well-protected longhouse attached to the lighthouse. On the adjacent island of Belnahua the 19th-century ruins of quarrymen’s lodgings survived. Apparently, there was another island somewhere here which they’d excavated well below sea level until there was only a rim left. Then came a great storm and washed it all away.
We headed with the brisk tide over to Cullipool harbour on Lunga; the unusual jetty is built of vertically set drystone slates, not something I’ve seen before. From here it was up to the Cuan Sound as the sun began to creep out. Once inside we hit dogwater so that the proposed lunch at the pub by the bridge became overruled by our appetites. A grassy shore on Seil island did just as well and provided space to dry out the tent.
The channel narrowed and became lined with expensive-looking holiday homes which rather tainted our exposure, and as we neared the bridge we passed the only other paddlers we saw, a couple in a canoe letting the tide wash them south. At Telford’s late 18th-century [Clachan] Bridge over the Atlantic we swapped boats. While I shot ahead in the K40, against the current Gael’s impression of my Amigo wasn’t so amicable. Compared to my Grabner, his Incept is a good 20% faster (or less effort, if you like). A lot of the time on this trip Gael was coasting while I felt like I paddled non stop which may have explained my fatigue. I dozed off at lunch and slept like a log overnight, no matter what fits the tent was having. Near the top of Seil we pulled past some sailboats to the back of an inlet and pitched the tents with taut guys in preparation for Windy Friday.
In fact, that day dawned fair; a cold front from the northwest brought in lovely clear air in which the Incept seemed to glow. Gael suggested we edge out to the outside of Seil to see if the sea was manageable to Easdale. We probed outward and while I’d not have gone on alone, by the time we were committed it was only two miles to Easdale. There were no actual whitecaps, just large waves that didn’t even swamp my boat but required momentum to maintain direction. A plastic coffin would have been in its element here, slicing the waves like Bruce Lee attacking a jelly.
Turning into Easdale port was a welcome relief but it had only taken me two nights out to find people annoying and the place suffering from what I perceived as tourism fatigue. Coaches pulled in and disgorged passengers who milled about for a few minutes then moved on. The so-called village shop looked like nothing more than a stockpile of porcelain and lace trinkets; I couldn’t wait to move on. What must locals think when their village becomes colonised like this? Make hay I suppose.
We decided to head back to the car, across the bay’s side waves, back through Cuan Sound then more dogwater and a grassy extended lunch by the big tree on Torsa island. Then it was back out into the sideslap across the mouth of Loch Melfort to Arduanie.
After some 33 miles of island hoping I’d caught enough sun to turn my head into a beetroot and we’d tackled a variety of easy sea conditions. It had been fun exploring the more commonly visited locales of Hebridean sea kayaking, all accessible and escapable, notwithstanding the complex tides. And a chance to do so with someone who grasped the concept of ‘3D’ sea kayak navigation was an added bonus, like a free course. Plenty more to see down here. Back at the jetty we lashed the boats to the roof and headed south to the Mull of Kintyre.
With a day to spare after our two-night run around the Slate Islands, Gael suggested we head down to Gigha off the Mull of Kintyre. I’ve always wanted to visit this Scottish appendage and for Gael, Gigha had a special resonance as the starting point of the Scottish Sea Kayak Trail which he completed two years ago. Quite an achievement alone in an IK.
First of all though, I was ravenous for food on a plate not mush in a bag. We pulled into a cafe in the pretty port of Tarbert for some 1980s decor and food to match (right), then marched over to the Co-Op to see what was going cheap. Whatever I’d been eating on the Slates, it hadn’t been enough
We camped opposite the island, then once the wind abated next morning, carried the boats onto the ferry. Once underway I came over all lethargic on account of the Slate paddle (or perhaps the gluttonous Tarbert episode). It wasn’t helped by pushing a headwind up to Gigha’s northern point on our anticlockwise lap.
Finally we turned downwind, portaged the sandy isthmus at Eilean Garbh and moved on to the next sandy beach for a long lunch break and what had become my customary doze. Out on the northwest horizon pale blue humps marked the Paps of Jura. I read this short book partly about Jura recently (no so satisfying); among the Inner Hebrides Jura seems to have a certain allure.
Whether it was a pumped up seat, a good rest or the benefits of three days’ sea kayaking, I got belatedly reacquainted with my paddling mojo. I sat up straight, drew like a pro and soared across the waves like a surf ski, while Gael dabbled along the shore. The ocean side of this narrow island was a bit wilder, but for me lacked the features and interest of the far northwestern coast. Or maybe is was pre-doomed by the stigma of being too far south to be exotic.
We covered the 5.5 miles to Gigha’s southern tip in an hour thirty; a good pace for a pair of bloats. Back on the sandier mainland side we dipped about looking for a secluded wild camp but there were too many properties or not enough space. And with little wind now, the boathouse campground looked less inviting than a 3-mile scoot back to the mainland.
We set off, giving the day’s last ferry a wide berth by aiming for a big green buoy about halfway across. Once there and still feeling on form, I decided to PLF to the mainland jetty just to see if I could. Halfway there, with steam pouring from my drysuit’s vents and the tide pulling us south, Gael passed in the Incept without too much effort. I hammered away regardless as the jetty crept closer and touched down in 48 minutes, a minute after Gael. A good, end-of-tour burn up to clear out the cylinders. It was good to see some other islands and with easy access and escape routes, Gigha would make a great first circumnavigation for a beginner. But as always, the wilder isles to the north and west hold more intrigue.
Feathercraft’s short-lived Aironaut IK looked like a breath of fresh air. As with their folders, FC managed to turn the usual IK sow’s ear into a very silky looking purse. With all kayaks, it’s the sensation of gliding or responsiveness to paddle strokes that has as much appeal as being in the outdoors. And judging from looks alone, the Aironaut did that better than other IKs even if the concept may have been flawed and the boat was discontinued.
The Airo’ was pitched as a nippy recreational day boat for folks who find Feathercraft folding kayaks a faff to set up on the spur of the moment (left) and a pain to store or transport fully assembled. It’s the relative effortand complexity as well as assembly time that can kill spontaneity, especially if you’re at an age when you’re no longer as supple as a leaping salmon. I’ve also encountered the fragility of ally-framed folders – something to which IKs are immune, though both are susceptible to cuts and abrasions.
A few years ago I briefly owned Feathercraft’s Java, what they rightly called a ‘sit on top’ IK, but I didn’t get on with it (read the link). The Airo was a conventional sit in IK, complete with a fixed deck like the Gumotex Framura. By IK standards, even the Aironaut name was clever too, suggesting a light, cutting-edge boat. From the images it’s got to be the slickest-looking IK out there, though the competition isn’t that great.
The magic numbers are: 4.5m (14’ 9”) long, just 66cm (26”) wide, a weight of only 9kg (20 lbs) but a modest payload of 136kg. The rest you read here is my usual speculation based on those details and the photos I have pinched from the Feathercraft Aironaut webpage and eBay.
As with my old Incept K40, using ‘plastic’ coated fabrics means it can all can be heat-welded together, which you presume is cleaner and less expensive than gluing by hand. Urethane-coated nylon may not sound such a ‘high quality, technical fabric’ (to quote the FC blurb), but packboat manufacturers are notoriously cagey about fabric specifics. As with Alpacka packrafts, exactly what type of urethane is key, as is the composition of the nylon base. Both may be custom specified from a source manufacturer to deliver certain properties. A nylon weave base fabric is supposedly more stretchy than polyester which is good against spikes, but less good in containing a rigid inflatable form. That’s probably why it needed to run a such a high pressure.
My Incept was a fast IK, aided by a notably slick PVC-urethane coating over a ‘1100 polyester dtex’ (= about 1000D) base. Knowing that, suddenly the Airo’s 420D doesn’t sound so robust, but that’s how Feathercraft managed to halve the weight of a K40, which otherwise has very similar dimensions. Another clue might be in the payload of 136kg; the Airo’s many tubes may add up to a relatively small volume. The Incept was rated at 160kg.
They achieve that amazing weight by fabricating the Airo from 210D urethane-coated nylon on the deck and multi-tubed black sides, and 420D in the hull (hard to tell the later two apart in most pics). So it’s a regular three-chamber IK. When I recall the Supai packraft was made from 75D polyester, triple that for the sides and six times for the hull sounds reassuring, though direct denier comparisons are misleading. It’s about weave density not actual fabric thickness.
The Airo had Halkey inflation valves like the Incept, and pressure-release valves on all three chambers. PRVs are vital so the seams won’t stress and pop if it gets hot (as happened to my Java). I’m always a little perturbed that my high pressure Grabner had no PRVs and added them to my Gumotex Seawave’s sides for protection with sun-induced over-pressurisation.
However, see the link at the bottom of the page. It seems the combination of a long, solo IK made from a thin fabric needed a high 5psi rating to not sag in the middle, but even with PRVs all round, there were reports of a couple of Aironauts blowing apart irreparably which may be why it was discontinued (FC claimed ‘high costs’). Soon after FC sadly closed down for good. You might think: fit lower-rated PRVs to spare the hull, but if the boat was designed to work at 5psi, anything less would see it sag like a Sevylor bloat, especially with a girthsome paddler.
A blown I-beam in the floor. Hard to repair without opening the boat right up.
Also, like my old Sunny, Incept, Grabner and Seawave (left, alongside and Airo), the Aironaut is a European-style ‘tubeless’ IK with no slip-in sponsons (‘inner tubes’) to give a hull shell its form. Perhaps that too was necessary to run a high 5psi (0.34 bar) pressure,something which requires a good pump as well as good construction if it’s not to leak at weak points. Once on the water though, high pressure hulls have real benefits in terms of hardshell-like hull rigidity and paddling efficiency. Look at the pictures and see how straight the kayaks appear, even allowing for light paddlers (and compare to my Java here). Then factor in the Airo’s Java-like cheese-cutting bow and I suspect this may have been a fast IK, and all without clumsy and bulky stiffening rods or dropstitch floors. It’s no great surprise that it was Feathercraft who managed it, but it seems it the design was flawed.
FC seem keen on you using their sea sock insert which fits around the coaming and stops the boat filling right up in a capsize. The thought of snagging that while trying to get out in a hurry would be a worry. It’s also a little unnerving that they include a paddle float in the package (left), admitting perhaps that the 26-inch wide Aironaut was a tippy IK and getting back into the cockpit would be tricky on the high and buoyant Aironaut. I tried it with the Incept once, but as we know, practicing near the shore with a mate taking photos is not the same as tipping over out at sea, especially when alone. You would be better off getting the knack of rolling.
At 75cm long (26.5 inches) the Aironaut’s cockpit hatch is the same as my mate’s Big Kahuna. In all my clobber and fluctuating girth I wouldn’t want it any smaller, though I imagine there is more’ squidging’ space and no Kahuna alloy bars getting in the way; instead there are the thigh straps – essential for rolling and bracing. You also got a spray skirt plus a detachable, low profile skeg which is also a good idea at sea; the latter in my experience is much less faff than a rudder which I’ve found to be inadequate anyway once a tailwind gets beyond a certain strength. Good on FC for including all this in the package. Grabner and others take note.
The Feathercraft Aironaut was made in Canada and went for around CAN$3000 or the same price as the otherwise similar Incept K40 or a good Grabner.
Compared directly with the K40, the Aironaut was nearly half the weight, had a fixed deck which to me limited the appeal, had a simple skeg instead of a complex rudder, was a little narrower but a little longer, ran less payload and was supposedly tippy which, however they managed it, the K40 never was. Judging by other FCs I’ve tried and owned, I bet the Airo was better made than the K40 too, though that weight-saving fabric choice appears to be at the a cost of durability.
Some people place a rubber cap on the paddle shaft and use it as a walking stick. This application makes me nervous about damaging the paddle shaft.
Luc Mehl, The Packraft Handbook
Packstaff in Scotland
No one’s ever asked me how to make a packstaff attachment for their four-part paddle, but I’m going to tell you anyway. After nearly two decades decade, I’m still a big fan of my idea for traversing rough terrain with heavy loads (above).
What’s so good about packstaffs? Well, they’re a great way of converting your light but strong paddle shaft into a light but strong walking staff that’s stronger and longer than too short trekking poles or hefty camera monopods, both of which are useful on the trail, but largely redundant on the water. Not needed on flat ground, staffs help you trek uphill and down dale with the same benefits as trekking poles, spreading the load off your ageing kneesto your arms and chest. And when hauling a full load, they help with balance, reducing the effort need in your core for self-correction. I‘m sure my legs have felt less tired after a full day of loaded packstaffing in the hills. Why not just use some trekking poles like a normal person? I tried them once years ago and can see the benefits, but it’s just more gear and I actually prefer using a longer single staff in one hand, while maximiusing gear functionality on land and water.
Packstaff in Turkey
A longer packstaff can easily support your weight as you inch downhill with a heavy backpack pushing you forward. A cheap telescopic trekking pole would collapse, or sure feels like it might, same as a repurposed monopod. Like any long staff, they’re also handy for prodding bogs, fighting off killer Turkish mastiffs, just like tubmen in the old days, plus help with vaulting narrow streams and ditches or fording stepping stones in a bid to keep the feet dry. Again, a lightweight walking pole may not be stiff enough to do this. An MYO packstaff nib weighs 200g, costs next to nothing, and works with any four-part paddle, like my old Aqua Bound Manta Ray. There’s even a bloke on ebay who’s partly copied my concept. See bottom of the page on how to simply convert an Anfibio Vertex Tour by sawing off the end of a canoe paddle handle of one section and using the other canoe paddle handle section.
Packstaff in Mauritania
Find a bit of tube that’s close to the right diametre to slip into your paddle where the blade goes. My blue tube was from some cheap paddle that came with a long-gone slackraft. Add tape to make a snug fit, if necessary. But not so tight that you risk jamming when wet. Drill a hole at a point where there’s enough overlap to make the assembly strong, and then fit a spring clip. I bought a pair on eBay for a fiver, though you can buy cheaper pressed out ones for less. As it happens it turns out my Aqua Bound uses cheap pressed clips. You may not be able to find the typical 7-8mm buttons to fit the AB files. I settled with 6mm. This spring clip is easy to fit and a big improvement over my previous ‘slip-on’ nib which got sucked off in bogs.
Match up the overlapFit spring clip into blue nib6mm button in 8mm hole
Collar is important to take loads off the button
Next, line up the two holes or fit the spring clip and add a collar. You don’t want the nib’s striking force impacting on the clip’s button alone. I sawed a bit of old fibreglass kayak shaft which was a tight fit on the blue tube, so split it then glued it on. That glue didn’t work so well so I added a couple of rivets. The collar also protects the end of your paddle shaft. The actual end ‘nib’ is currently a black plastic screw section. Stuff and glue in a bit of cork or other blockage in your nib end (right) to stop the tube slowly filling with mud or stones. The nib weighs 137g.
All up my packstaff weighs 213g. The AB paddle is 890g
Using the packstaff with an open shaft at the top, I sometimes worry that stumbling onto that shaft at face height could take an eye out. With a canoe T-grip (below left; fiver on ebay) you can press comfortably on the staff coming down a hill, and it also acts as a handy hook. Mine had to be ground down to fit. It weighs 78g with a 6mm SoftTie to attach it to the nib during transit.
When you don’t need to carry the packstaff you can stick it under a shoulder strap, but I find it slips out. So better to break it down to two parts and slip it under a belt or similar loop. Again, I find the double-loopable SoftTies handy for this, and the loop stays on this paddle to make a handy paddle leash attachment using the mooring line when sailing or in rough open water.
Packstaff 2 In 2022 I got an Anfibio Vertex Multi Tour 4-parter so sold my old Aqua Bound Manta Ray 4P which weighed about the same. The Multi Tour comes with two canoe handle sections to make a pair of canoe paddles. I can’t see myself canoe paddling but figured there must be a way to convert these pieces into a Vertex packstaff. Sure enough there is. Use the canoe paddle add-on handle with the clamp on the end and the section of paddle shaft also with the clamp, then saw the handle off the plain canoe handle section. You now have a three-part, length adjustable packstaff. Jam whatever nib you think is needed onto the thick carbon-plastic end of the sawn-off handle. The whole thing weighs 400g, and the advantage of length adjustment between 100cm and 133cm, which may have its uses. Annoyingly, in a noble bid to reduce excess gear I sold the Vertex and kept the Wave. I’ve since found an unused alloy, telescopic camera monopod that’s as long, weighs 370g, a bit less than the Vertex set up. It’s clearly not designed for packstaffing so I’m not sure it won’t slip under heavy loads. We shall see.
Back in 2015 the Packrafting Store in Germany sold us a couple of pre-production Anfibio inflatable packrafting vests to try out. These came without the big mesh pockets, unlike the current production item, left. Called a Buoy Boy, an ‘inflatable jacket’ or buoyancy aid is all they claim to be, not a PFD, far less life jackets. They don’t even claim to have the rescue/harness elements suited to white water recoveries, as found on better PFDs. A warning label inside spells it all out. Instead, your Buoy Boy bad boy is just a compact, unobtrusive buoyancy aid that’s well suited to sedate packraft touring.
You clip the waist clip and hook the strap under the crotch to stop it riding up, as can happen with a regular PFD, then zip up the front. Our prototypes had two ‘push and blow’ valve tubes inflating the two chambers (three breaths each). These chambers don’t cover the lower back which is composed of a thick, stretchy mesh below the inflated collar (left), so avoiding that inelegant ‘pushed-up PFD’ look in your packraft. The rear collar around the neck might even float you unconscious, face up, like a proper life jacket, but that would be a happy coincidence and despite the appearance, it is not a design element.
We weren’t even planning to take our regular PFDs on this mid-winter trip, so a compact option came in welcome, especially when a late-night boat ride required them. Best thing: it’s unobtrusive to wear deflated, doubling up as a high-viz vest whose benefits we also appreciated when road walking in the Scottish mid-winter gloom. We even inflated them while walking in freezing conditions to act as extra insulation, while at other times the Buoy Boy will be less hot than a regular PFD; another problem I’ve found when foam PFDs and paddling in 25°C+.
Weight is from 340g to 400g for a Med/Large. My ‘M/L’ was a snug fit once fully inflated over all my mid-winter clobber (I’m normally 42″ chest). A great bit of kit that I can see becoming my regular day-tripping BA, especially when I have to wear one due to regs rather than need to due to conditions.
Update. I used my orange BBoy proto just about all the time as most of my paddling is flatwater and it’s great not to feel cluttered. I bought myself a larger L/XL with horizontal valve straps and very handy large frontal mesh pouches just what was needed. Unfortunately it was black – I prefer brighter colours for safety and photos. Now in 2018 colours are blue (S), yellow (M/L) and black or yellow (L/XL) – hooray! A roomy Large on me weighs 450g with crotch strap. Price is €99. More details and photos here.
A photo I shot exactly a week ago as we walked over the Coigach peninsula having paddled Loch Lurgainn narrows. We’e heading towards Achiltibuie for a cup of tea (right). Notice how Robin’s hair melds magically with the mid-winter bracken. Must be a form of archaic Celtic camouflage carried through the genes. From the far back left coming forward and right, the amazing mountains of the Assynt: Quinaig (‘Kun-yak’); Suilven of course with Stac behind Robin and Cul Mor on the far right. All great climbs. It was the weather the day before (left) forced a change of plans. Full story with more pics evolving here.
At a verified 670g (23.6oz) including an added grab line, Supai Adventure Gear’sFlatwater Canyon II ($300) must be among the world’s lightest and most compact boats. Before a winter storm blew our plan off the map, the trip we’d lined up in northwest Scotland was ideal for the Flatwater: short crossings saving lengthy overland detours or risky deep wading, but no extended or exposed paddling.
Fabrication Examining the deflated raft, it became clear it was composed of just four pieces of flat material: the top and bottom ‘rings’ which define the hull shape, an inner hull wall joining the top to bottom, and the floor fixed under the completed ring. You could almost make one yourself.
No fabricdetails on SAG’s website, but the Packraft Store states: ’75 denier polyester with single, innerside urethane coating’. This whole denier thing can be a bit misleading, the raft fabric looks and feels similar in thickness to my MSR Dromlite water bags (right) made from 200 denier, PU-coated Cordura (nylon?), but the Flatwater polyester has what looks like a reassuring ripstop weave (visible below left). And as we know from our studies in IK hull fabrics, polyester stretches less than nylon and so is more suited to inflatable boat applications than compact water storage. Where the seams overlap on the outside edge they’ve included seven reinforced tabs (above left) to use as attachment points (a weak point on my non-ripstop Dromlites, even with an eyelet). The floor is made of the same weight fabric and shows what look like ‘spot welds’ along the inch-wide seam (middle).
That’s it, apart from a big threaded inflation port onto which screws a white cap fitted with a 18-inch hose topped with a blue twist-lock valve (left). You blow the boat up by mouth (took me about 45 breaths) then top up to operating pressure with the twist lock, like on an Alpacka. But unlike a pre-Boston Alpacka, the long hose means you’re able to further top-up from the water where inflatable boats initially sag as they cool. Plus you could potentially manage a slow leak the same way.
The hull form tapers and narrows towards the bow to resemble a blunt wedge, similar to old Sevylor Trail Boat (right). Like all packrafts and even slackrafts, the added buoyancy (tube diameter) in the stern counteracts the mass of the paddler’s weight. There’s no seat and a new boat comes with a repair kit with full repair instructions on the SAG website.
Some of my measurements (checked several times and now confirmed by the Packrafting Store) vary greatly from those still posted on the SAG website many years later in 2020 and which had their Canyon over 10% bigger, inside and out. Even if they’re factoring in ‘paddler squidge’ making more room inside by pushing on the hull, that won’t make the boat seven inches longer.
As for buoyancy, SAG originally quoted ‘250lb’ (now a more realistic 200lb or 90kg). Robin briefly paddled the raft with his pack which we thought added up to about 100kg. That felt like the limit once a light breeze came up the valley, and required gentle paddling to avoid too much cyclic bobbing and possible swamping.
With the weight; the Store states 633g, SAG quote 24oz (680g). As mentioned, with a grab line and traces of dirt, our boat comes in at 670g on the IK&P calibrated kitchen scales (left). I won’t quibble over 40 grams; to be able to paddle across a loch in a boat weighing less than my trousers is quite something.
On the water The air was calm but temperatures were close to freezing as we set off to cross the eastern narrows on Loch Lurgainn below Stac Pollaidh mountain. We’d originally planned to come over in the other direction from the Culnacraig shore, but the storm which went on to wreak havoc across Britain nixed that plan (story here). So today we were just taking a 10-mile day trip with a short paddle, from Stac car park southwest back to Altandu.
I tried to get directly over the two boats to get an equal perspective but I still think this shot makes the Supai appear a little smaller than it really is. I make the Yak ~42% longer.
‘Fragile and small’ had been Robin’s first impressions after Sven from the Packraft Store in Germany sent us the raft to evaluate. Robin had recently upgraded to a couple of Gumotex Twist IKs so may not have been impressed by the Supai’s thin fabric. I had more faith in that, but as for the size, I too anticipated that SAG had cut it a bit fine with the Flatwater II, even if it lived up to their motto: ‘where every ounce counts’.
Down on the loch shore, even with a helpful breeze to fill my Yak’s bag, inflation time for both boats was actually the same, although by the end of it Robin was staggering around a bit. As Tim Evans found on his trip, other inflator bags can be adapted to avoid passing out.
Now, laid alongside my Alpacka Yak (same width but 66cm or over two feet longer), to me the Flatwater’s proportions rather too closely resembled a slackraft I skinned from a Sevylor pool toy a year or two back. I knew that with my weight of about 100kg in gear, I’d be pushing this boat’s limit. Without a drysuit I didn’t want to risk it.
It took some prodding to get packrafting newb Robin (80kg + clothes) in the Supai and I’m not sure I blame him. A sudden move could see the stern dip down and douse the butt. After fitting his closed cell mat to keep warm and protect the thin floor, he set off for a quick spin and soon realised there wasn’t so much to worry about. Paddling gingerly with his home-made paddle (a broom stick, two sawn-down buckets and zip ties) he did a few loops while learning to control the annoying yawing you get with short packrafts and slackrafts, as well as managing the less welcome bobbing which might amplify into a back-end pour over. Yawing keeps the speed down which may be just as well. Start paddling too fast and the bow will rise with a corresponding drop at the stern when slowing down, again risking a pour over in wavy conditions.
Having established he wasn’t going to sink with all hands, I lowered Robin’s 10-kg pack onto his legs then hopped into my Yak. The pack’s added frontal weight should minimise the Supai’s yawing – at least that’s the effect on my Yak. But it’s well known that first time in a new packraft, especially a short one like the Flatwater, paddling efficiently is an acquired knack. Our extra chilly scenario (not helped by his experimental B&Q paddle) meant that Robin couldn’t really relax or bomb around in the Supai. (I tried his B&Q but soon sent it back as it brought in unwanted splash all over my boat). A gust rolled up the valley, rippling the loch’s surface, adding further to the feeling of anxiety in the Supai. From my PoV it looked like the stern was more than half sunk at times – and half sunk on a round tube makes pour-overs all the easier. I skimmed over to the other side and got out to get some long shots and was reminded yet again what a great boat my Yak is. No worries about getting in clumsily, sudden winds or carrying Robin’s pack. Sat here a day earlier when a gale was ripping through at an average of 35mph and gusting to twice that, it may have been a different story, but my long-bodied, yaw-suppressing, high-sided, tough hulled Yak inspires confidence, even without the spray skirt.
The price you pay is weight and bulk. Ready to paddle, at 3.1kg with seats, heel pad, pack attach and lead,plus other straps and some mini krabs, my boat is 4.5 times heavier than the Supai as tested, and even more bulky when you add in the blow bag, skirt and repair kit: the red bag shown right.
Robin slowly waddled over to the south edge of the loch and got out with care before pulling the plug and rolling it up. As on any inflatable, the floor is vulnerable and we discussed ways of getting round this. One problem is the Supai’s floor glues to the hull ring above the lowest points in the hull tubes which means the undersides of the hull are actually lower than the floor (until you sit in it on the water). Using a thicker floor panel won’t eliminate all possible wear. Robin is a versatile home-fabricator (as his B&Q paddle proves) and we decided the least invasive way of protecting the entire underside – hull and floor – would be to string a sheet of whatever you like from the peripheral half-inch hull seam (the seven reinforced tabs not being quite enough to do the job). No messy, irreversible, crease-inducing gluing required, just a line of holes along the seam plus a drawstring. Pre-emptive protection is something I’ve done to my Alpackas’ ballistic nylon floor and although it won’t look too neat, a floor sheet would enhance the less robust Supai’s undercarriage, despite a weight penalty.
Our conclusion He may have got used to it over time, but the Supai felt too skimpy for 80-kilo Robin. Ill-dressed on the day and over-fed in general, I didn’t even try to get in. Build quality is great and the fabric I could live with; it’s much better than slackraft PVC and the extra care needed in handling is well worth the weight saving over an Alpacka. Factoring in experience, company (support), weather conditions and operator weight, the Supai felt right on the limit. Initially you’re reluctant to paddle normally for fear of swamping which could turn exponential. Alongside a Yak it’s a pretty slow too, although I don’t think that’s a flaw. My Yak is slower than my IK which in turn is slower than … As long as it makes progress, a boat is as fast as it is.
Alpacka’s Scout might be a fairer comparison with the Flatwater II. According to Alpacka stats it weighs 1450g, is 4.5cm narrower, 2cm shorter inside and 26cm longer overall, while costing at least $200 more in the US. That still puts the Supai well in the ballpark on weight and cost.Anfibio’s Alpha XC is another which I’ve actually tried. Although it looks to have been designed for the canyon lands of southwest USA, for the lighter paddler the Supai could a great packraft for less predictable Scottish conditions involving short, flatwater crossings. The negligible weight really opens out the options and means you don’t have to get too fanatical about the rest of your gear which can translate into greater comfort.
I knew this even before I saw the boat, but what I’d love to see is a Flatwater XXL more closely matching my Yak’s (or my) size. I’d happily trade the extra 8cm of width the Supai has at the hips for fatter and higher tubes all round, plus another 10cm added to interior length. It’s hard to think that would add up to much more than a kilo overall, but would reward the portlier or overnight-equipped paddler with a more versatile boat able to deal with dodgier conditions. Let’s hope this is part of Supai’s game plan. * SAG later released the Matkat. Not exactly what I was thinking but we tried that too.
Photos also by Tim Evans who writes:
I got interested in packable boats as I love both walking and being on the water. My first major trip was in an Alpacka Yak from Whistler to Vancouver. I hiked for 2 days, paddled the Cheakamus River for a day (with some easy whitewater), then paddled 24 miles of ocean inlet back to Vancouver. This trip was only possible because of the packraft. Then I bought a Supai and did 35km through a lake system north of Vancouver that included a number of portages. I saw a pair with a canoe which they pushed on a trolley through the portages with 200lbs of gear. It took them hours to go a few km. I did the 4-day trip with 16lbs of gear including food, just to see if it could be done (it can). I could have jogged through the portages with my little boat tucked under my arm. The Supai was a light as it gets, but SLOW for any sort of distance.
Sadly my pics area bit ropey; camera was set on 640px…
We last did the Spey from Aviemore to the sea in 2007 when I still had the Sunny. This time round Michael was in Steve’s old, 19-foot Pouch double, Steve was in his Feathercraft Big Kahuna and I was in the Grabner.Levels were low again, if nor lower, it was the last week in the fishing season but at least the weather was looking good.
The first day is just 12 miles and not so interesting, with the best views behind you. With the hour-long assembly of the Pouch completed and the van stashed at Spey Bay, we set off about lunchtime. Strong backwinds made my skeg-less Amigo hard to handle and I found myself expending a lot of energy trying to stop the back end coming round. Or perhaps I was yet to learn the knack with the Amigo, having paddled it on the sea with a skeg all summer. After a few hours we arrived at the Boat of Balliefurth bankside camp field and paid our three quid. Dinner was a freeze dried mash up from stuff I’d had lying around for months, made easier to prepare and eat with Steve’s half-hoop Eureka annex tarp.
Next morning was another sunny, late-September day and we were relived to pass the point where one of the Kleppers got disemboweled last time by a submerged, mid-river fence post. On this occasion the boat-killing spike was visible a few inches out of the water. We’d thought about doing the river a week later, when the fishing season was over, but timing put us here now, with the fisherfolk getting their last casts in before closedown. The tension between rod and paddle is an old story in England, but up here is exacerbated by the fact that the tweed and wader-clad anglers are paying – who knows? – hundreds of pounds a day for the privilege of fishing the famous Spey. With that cost comes the use of the many ‘day huts’ we saw on the finely manicured banks, as well as optional instruction from a ghilie. And then three kayaks blunder right through the spot where you’re prize salmon is lurking, like it’s a right of way or something. We did our best to paddle round the back of the many anglers – some ignored us, some grumbled and a few lone ones appreciated it or were able to wave or indicate where they’d prefer you go. Struggling behind one bunch wading in the shallows, Steve got pushed across the current and flipped harmlessly while they just smirked and carried on casting.
Once free myself, I shot off downstream chasing what some said was Steve’s paddle, but within a mile another fisherman said he’d not seen it float past. I walked back wondering how we’d get out of this one, but soon came across Pouch and Kahunaman paddling along. Seems the paddle had got submerged right by the boat, so all was well bar a lost pair of shades. Luckily that morning Steve had fitted his FC ‘sea sock’ – a body bag attached to the cockpit rim which stops the whole boat getting flooded if it flips. It was about that time so once back at my boat we spread out for an early lunch, letting out dew-soaked tents dry as some canoers from last night’s camp passed by.
Aberlour was our destination that evening. We’d managed it last time, even with the ripped Klepper, but it seemed we were even further behind today. As we paddled on, the shallows and rapids piled up and the folding boats were getting a bashing, while I took on a couple of inches of water bouncing through the wave trains. Occasionally, if we misjudged the route we had to wade (left). The famous and actually straightforward Washing Machine rapid was only running a half-load that day, but nevertheless succeeded in giving the inside of my Grabner a full rinse which took a few minutes to pump out. More white-water followed, and still I have to say the Grabner didn’t seem to handle well, requiring vigorous paddle yanking to avoid rocks or get in the right spot. Even in the pools, it still took some concentration to track straight before pulling back repetitive bow draws or momentum-losing stern rudders to keep the nose downriver. I’m sure the very similar shaped Sunny wasn’t so bad.
Barely a mile went by without passing a fisherman. One grumbled that we should whistle as we came through, but that seemed like it would raise more antagonism, though passing them on the opposite bank may have been right on their target area. Trout were jumping for sure, but we never saw anyone actually catch anything. I’m not sure fly fishing is about that. After a while riding the bouncy wave trains lost its shine in the face of the after-pumping required, though the swamping was certainly less bad than the Sunny which was best drained by pulling over and standing the boat on end. The canoers we were leapfrogging were getting knocked about and hung up in some rapids too. Shallow rapid followed shallow rapid while we had the feeling that the ghilies, aware of where boats were late in the day, patrolled the banks to make sure we wouldn’t camp on their land.
The easy white water had kept us occupied so that round dusk the old Victorian foot bridge of Aderlour came into view. We camped on the bank right there, a long day of around 26 miles in about hours. The great thing with camping by the bridge is that toilets, the Mash Tun pub and a Co-op are all just a few minutes walk away.
Restocked next morning and off by 9am, it was a 20-miler to the North Sea, during which time the riverside scenery got a little more interesting, the rapids kept you guessing and so did the fishermen. With no other dramas the breakers of Spey Bay rocked up at around 4pm but, just like last time, no one had the energy to go out and mount the surf.
The old wooden-framed Pouch slipped through unscathed yet again and 70-year old Michael had handled the ungainly barge very well, helped by a rudder. The decks of Steve’s lower Kahuna were often swamped in the rapids but towards the end the Feathercraft sustained a bent alloy member (only $30) plus a small rip in the hull. The Amigo was of course immune to the knocks and easy to hop out of, but I’m again wondering about fitting an articulated skeg high on the stern. A bit like a fixed rudder that pivots up harmlessly as it scraps the river bed, and with a retractable and locking line (again, like a rudder) to pull it up out of the way when you don’t want the back pushed round in a sweeping current. I have an idea and it would be easy to fit.
It’s fun to paddle the 60-odd miles from Aviemore to the sea, but next time on the Spey I’d miss out day one, hope for higher water levels and do it out of the fishing season. It would also be fun to do the sporty Day 2 in the packraft with a skirt. They say the Spey is one of the best canoe paddles in the UK but that just shows how few good, long rivers there are here and why sea kayaking, or short-range hair boating are much more popular. The stony shore of Spey Bay is a bleak place the paddle, but the van was intact and there was a welcome cafe for a sit-down snack before piling the van up to the roof with our packboats and heading south.
Inflatable Kayaks & Packrafts 