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The Log of a Quaint Canoeist
Mary Evans
September 16, 1968
A 19th century Scotsman named John Macgregor turned the workaday craft of the Indians into a boat for the sportsman
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September 16, 1968

The Log Of A Quaint Canoeist

A 19th century Scotsman named John Macgregor turned the workaday craft of the Indians into a boat for the sportsman

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A major pioneer of canoeing for sport was a romantic Scot named John Macgregor. Before his time (roughly a hundred years ago), the canoe was a craft for Indians, Eskimos and explorers of the world's wildernesses. In canoes of his own design Macgregor made remarkable journeys and wrote quaintly boastful books about them. The books caught on with sportsmen on both sides of the Atlantic and started a vogue for pleasure canoeing, races and all, that has lasted to this day.

Macgregor's canoes were always named Rob Roy, after Rob Roy Macgregor, the Scottish hero-outlaw, with whom he had a strong affinity, gentle and religious though he was. (John Macgregor's way of taking from the rich to help the poor was to work in philanthropic organizations.)

In 1865 Macgregor launched his first canoe, which he had built to his own design. It was essentially a kayak with covered decks and made of oak faced with cedar. Fifteen feet long, it was 28 inches across and nine inches deep—just big enough for this 168-pound sportsman to squeeze into. It weighed 80 pounds and was equipped with a bamboo mast (which could be used as a fishing pole) and a bright blue sail. Macgregor spent five months cruising around Western Europe, down the major rivers (the Rhine, the Danube, the Seine) and through the Swiss lakes. The next year he published a delightful book about his experiences, A Thousand Miles in the Rob Roy Canoe on the Rivers and Lakes of Europe. Among sportsmen it became perhaps the most talked of book of the year. Until then the canoe had been something exotic, like a wigwam; but now it seemed within anyone's reach, and canoe clubs sprang up in cities like London and New York.

He took a second trip, through Scandinavia, and then in 1868 he loaded a new and lighter form of the Rob Roy on a steamer and set off for the Suez Canal and the remoter parts of the Holy Land. Here, as he boasted in his book The Rob Roy on the Jordan, for six months he took the "smallest boat ever seen in the East" and saw sights "entirely inaccessible except in canoe."

He started his trip by floating down the newly opened canal. At night he pulled the Rob Roy up on the bank, first searching about to make sure there were no murderers lurking near (the area had a bad reputation), after which he made a sparse supper of bouillon, bread and wine. His canoe had been built to fit around his reclining form so that he could sleep in it. He removed a section of the deck to give his knees room, stretched out under a netting and read himself to sleep with a copy of the London Times.

From the Suez he crossed by train to Cairo; then on up the Nile. His average rate of paddling was only 4 mph. The canoe, sometimes, had to be lugged on or behind a horse.

After his Egyptian explorations, Macgregor moved on to Lebanon.

In the mountains of Lebanon he launched his craft in the River Abana, which started off rather like a Scottish trout brook. This he got down safely, though he discovered that his canoe had been better designed for sleeping than for running rapids. In Damascus people warned him not to try to go any further down the Abana. Beyond, down the river, lay "an impenetrable morass full of whirlpools which sucked people down, and hyenas, panthers and wild boars which ate people up."

This was just what Macgregor had come for. He wanted to go, in his impossibly fragile craft, where no one else had dared venture. He set off down the Abana, the first part of which he found agreeably scenic. Then he reached the great marshes and morasses where the ancient river came to a clogged stop.

He was about to explore an area quite closed to any other existing craft. The 20-foot reeds of the marsh closed over his head. Letting himself drift along with the sluggish current, poling and pushing his way through the thick reeds, he came to the absolute end of the river. When he stuck his pole down, the mud did not even stir. The famous "whirlpools" that were said to drag men down were bottomless still holes in the muck. Nothing seemed to move. Macgregor rested and ate a sumptuous lunch, all the while meditating on his unique position of being where absolutely nothing was happening.

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