Noughties Highlight #3: Taming the Mighty Shubenacadie

I am a naturalist at heart. I love being outdoors and I love being in awe of nature. I can never fully describe the sensation of guiding a 16ft Zodiac with up to 8 passengers powered by a 40hp Yamaha outboard engine on a river undergoing a transformation unparalleled on this planet. The Shubenacadie River is Nova Scotia's largest (72km in length), springing from Grand lake (which connects to Halifax Harbour through a series of lakes and rivers that once composed the ambitious but never completed Shubenacadie Canal) as fresh water before meeting it's tidal influx for about the last 30km where it's mouth opens onto the Cobequid Bay. The Cobequid Bay opens into the Minas Basin which connects onto the Bay of Fundy. The Cobequid Bay is home to the world's largest tidal rise (53.7ft), as the Bay of Fundy's perfectly synchronized tidal oscillation is funneled into the apex of the V shaped bay system that comprises the Minas and Cobequid Bays. As the area narrows, the water accelerates and the energy transmitted intensifies. All this force reaches the mouth of the Shubenacadie River with the town of Maitland as witness. The lazily outflow to sea comes to a dramatic halt as the course of the river is reversed instantaneously and is heralded by a tidal bore if all conditions are favorable. Nearer the new or full moons, I have witnessed a bore stretching from bank to bank achieving a height of 6-9ft and stretching backwards in a succession of back bores of similar height. However, that is just the first easy push, the water keeps pouring into the river and gets choked up as it starts to fill over sandbars and tries to push through narrower parts of the channel. This results in my favorite all time manifestation of the first Law of Thermodynamics: energy is neither created nor destroyed. The excess energy in the velocity of the water is transferred into amplitude in response to those choke points as the water slows. Literally right before you eyes, the water begins undulating and within seconds you are going over 2ft, 4ft, 6ft, 10ft of water that appears out of nowhere. The waves last as long as the choke point restricts the water flow and intensify as the water keeps streaming in from behind, throwing greater and greater amounts of energy into the waves amplitudes, so their height keeps increasing until the water finds its way through once the depth of the river has increased enough so the the floodplain becomes progressively wider and the water can flow through. After the water can flow easily through, the waves disappear and the river calmly fills up over the course of 3 and 1/2 hours, raising its depth in places over 30ft. The beauty of the Rafting trip I conducted lies in a very simple principle: when the phenomenon described above abates near the mouth, you simply have to motor upstream to find it beginning to happen all over again in another spot that has another choke point. The places you find this occurring are predictable enough, however the timing and the tidal strength producing a great effect are entirely subject to change on any given day. One becomes instinctive in reading the River, reading how her sandbanks have shifted, reading how a series of tides are building off one another. The greatest joys I've found driving my boat were when I trusted my instincts, broke off from the pack of up to 30 other Zodiacs (I know it sounds like a lot, but trust me this River gets wide in a hurry) and have found amazing waves that no one else even knew where happening. And then going back for more in the following days of course. Sending that Zodiac through the eye of the needle and forcing it through 12ft of breaking water is one of my fondest memories. The days of finding sets of 16ft,18ft rollers and crashers left me with an adrenaline rush I have never experienced. Finding the right balance to navigate such monstrosities took me a few summers to achieve but once I had the right balance, taking people into the fury of that River with a delicacy to match the courage of taking on such power in such a small boat I think I left a lot of pain out there to be swept away. I think in a lot of ways I found my peace out there, over and over again as each summer I worked brought its own fresh scars in need of some healing. Oh, Shubie, I will never forget the lessons you taught me. Change is a daily necessity, growing, healing, dealing with the unpredictable by living in the moment, I know your silt stained eddies will forever twirl in my heart.

Noughties Highlights # 2: Funneling Friday, First Friday of February

I think one of the most ridiculously awesome things I was involved with at Mount Allison was the brainchild of four amazing residents of Bigelow House (Pete Aikman, Graeme Bezanson, Nick Fry, and myself) due to our status as poor first year students and the cheapest drunk available at the time, Colt 45. 8% alcohol, 1L available for $5, and a taste like tin only a cheap malt liquor can give, it was an iconic part of my first semester at university. The label read on its backside once you'd drank it down to that point "It works every time" and they were not far off the mark. Drink two of them and you were almost guaranteed a black out drunk for $10. I remember bringing up the possibility of chugging a whole Colt 45 at meal hall and I remember the debate it sparked that led to the first (yes, it became an annual thing) Funneling Friday, Friday Feb. 4th, 2000. How we took it from just trying to see if we could do it to trying to see if we could do it in front of a mass audience in Bigelow's first floor mens bathroom featuring gangster apparel and with a DMX prayer circle before we walked into the "arena" was appropriate considering the imaginative potential of the four of us. We all had theme music and drew straws for position. I remember Pete funneled his in two shots, Graeme gave it a good effort, Nick tore his stomach lining and puked up blood, and that left me to demonstrate chugging a colt 45 was possible in one shot. Thus the "One Shot Wonder" was born, although I did power puke after it was all backlogged in my stomach, can't quite describe the sensation adequately. It was awesomeness incorporated and cemented our imprint on a long binge drinking history within Bigelow House. Our second year in Bigelow was like one long build up to the First Friday in February for our frosh class as the legend of Funneling Friday was cast down upon them and their membership in the second annual event highly encouraged. Obviously, after tearing his stomach lining the first time round, Fry was not actively participating, but the rest of the original quartet gave it another go. Pete had made us uniforms shortly after the first show, so we were decked out in uniform and Fry's was hung on the wall behind us as a mark of respect. This time there were 10 of us and we had outgrown the bathroom on first floor so we hosted this spectacle in our common room in Bigelow's basement. Over 80 people attended the most ridiculous thing I've ever been a part of. Everything had continuity, gangster apparel, theme music to a prayer circle beforehand. I kick started the event by funneling in one shot and not power puking. Three others followed in the same vein interspersed with some horrific puking episodes by others- the crowd brayed for more like in the Coliseum. With everyone having their turn, in an act of infamy, I took the extra Colt 45 we had on hand and funneled my second in one shot before power puking like no other. I had become a celebrity. When I showed up at the MTA pub later on that evening it seems like word had spread and everyone gave me a heroes welcome. It was as if I had done something great, a feeling I will never forget. Finally, the third edition of Funneling Friday was hosted at the Funhouse on 43 Bridge St., my house I shared with fellow Bigelow alumni for my third year at MTA. I did not actively perform in this event (felt like I had nothing else to prove) nor did any others from the original foursome, but was master of ceremony (pouring all funnels) and led the prayer circle beforehand to ensure the greatness of the event was not lost on that freshman class. My house was packed to the rafters and the show was as good as ever. I was in awe of how big it had become, how a simple query of "Do you think you could funnel a Colt 45" could become a cult tradition of our residence a few years later. In my fourth year I know the show did go on but I think it had started to lose its luster a bit as none of the original participants were involved and I think the original creative energy behind its preparation was started to ebb. Do they still funnel Colt 45s on the first Friday of February in Bigelow House? I certainly hope so. Let your Roughriders roll!