| Otter Bar Kayak School |
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Page 2 of 5 
picking the line
There are not many places left beyond the reach of all the buzzers and bells of the modern world. Not many places where it’s possible to push back the tide of electronic entanglements long enough to make room for relationships with friends and family in the flesh. It seems unlikely that such a place exists just a few hours north of San Francisco, let alone that it could entail such luxury. In its final miles, the road to Otter Bar narrows to a single, precarious lane, but at the end of this track lies a clearing filled with light, flowers, and grass—a lawn so expansive and perfectly manicured that the two ponds it encompasses might easily be mistaken for a pair of lost water hazards. Above, the Klamath National Forest rises in ridgeline after buttressed ridgeline, walling off the outside world. Otter Bar is beyond power lines and cell-phone reception. Here, power comes from a tiny gravity-fed water turbine that owner Peter Sturges installed to create a reliable source of electricity. “There’s not a single day that goes by,” Paul Johnson says as he surveys the park-like grounds, the neat little cabins, and the rows of candy-colored kayaks, “that I don’t think about this place and wish I was here.” He shakes his head as if dumbfounded to find himself—out of all the weeks of the year—at the beginning of this particular week. “Un-be-lievable.” Paul is perpetually surprised by his good fortune, a fortune he made for himself, starting a successful dental practice and managing it so it has never taken over his life. “This guy is Mr. Recreation,” says Steve Lynch, another dentist on the trip and Paul’s best friend. “He doesn’t let anything else get in the way.” “Yeah,” Paul says, joking. “That’s why my house looks like it does.” Paul has become something of a legend among this group of friends for calling ceaselessly to schedule adventures. His good-natured persistence can wear down even the most solitary recluse. Kayaking isn’t Steve’s first choice of sports; he’s a distance runner, cautious and steady by nature. Yet he’s here, drawn in by Paul’s enthusiasm for this place. “This is my second year. Last year I worked with Graham as an instructor,” Steve says on the first day, gesturing toward Graham Charles, a lanky New Zealander. “And you came back?” asks Graham, mock-incredulous. “I came back because Graham was so nice to me.” “You must have me confused with someone else,” says Graham with a grin. “At the end of the week, he put his arm around my shoulders and said, ‘I’ve got the sport for you,’” says Steve. “And he handed me a tennis racket.” Despite a slight wobble of apprehension in his kayaking, however, Steve is paddling well this year, moving the boat where it needs to go and rolling up when he flips. He’s a season ahead of Ted Caldwell, a real estate investor whom Paul persuaded to come at the last minute. Then there’s Mark Servis, a professor at the University of California at Davis School of Medicine—the pragmatist in the group—providing reality checks against Paul’s let’s-do-it-all vigor, but more often than not content to be swept along. He has brought his 16-year-old son, Kyle, to bunk with Sean Johnson and Sean’s friend Evan Blanco. Rounding out the group is Bob Ferguson, a 73-year-old attorney still holding out against adulthood. Paul and Bob met at Otter Bar two years ago and have been fast friends since. They time their visits to coincide, and last year Paul’s older son started renting a studio in Bob’s house in Venice Beach. This year, Bob came a week early, hoping to improve his skills before his pals descended on the lodge. “When I first got here, I was sore for three or four days, and I thought, Oh, my God, age finally caught up to me,” Bob woefully confesses to Paul. “But then by the fifth day, I realized it was just muscles I hadn’t used, and I was able to come bounding down the stairs.” He raises his arms above his head and flexes in salute to himself. When Bob sees the boys, he wraps them in backslapping hugs. Suddenly, he turns serious. They owe him, he says. He knows they were the ones who stole that bottle of wine last year. Sean denies the accusation. “Oh, I know,” Bob chuckles. “I saw. That was a really nice bottle of wine. I hope you guys enjoyed it.” Sean checks himself mid-nod. “Well, as your lawyer,” advises Bob, “I want you to know you have the right to remain silent.” |
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