"I always do a different journey each time out so it's always new and fresh to me," Frank explains. "Each body of water has its own nuance that you have to figure out, be it going downstream or upstream, across oceans or lakes. At any moment a critter like a bear, wolf or caribou can materialize from the landscape. Always surprising."

But while each expedition presents new challenges and landscapes, something fundamental remains consistent.

After thousands of paddled kilometers across Arctic waters, Frank's relationship with his paddle has transcended the technical. "Years and years of long-distance paddling has made it so my paddle is an extension of my body," he says. "When I take the first few strokes on a long journey my muscle memory from thousands of paddled kilometres clicks in and it feels as natural and fluid as walking or brushing my teeth." 

Frank's approach to gear selection mirrors his approach to expedition planning itself: intentional, minimalist, and proven. "I always look for the simple and functional in my gear choices," he says. "Light, strong and well-designed to last for years and years of long-distance journeys."

That philosophy played out dramatically on a recent Arctic expedition. Frank brought along Arturo Simondetti, a 23-year-old with little to no canoe experience, for a 1,350km journey that would test seasoned paddlers. The decision came down to something deeper than technical skill. "Arturo didn't have experience, but I knew he'd be a good partner as he had the right mental attitude and was tough. The paddling stuff could be taught along the way."

For that trip, they used a strategic combination: Churchill bent shaft paddles for the long days across lakes and ocean, and Bandit paddles for navigating whitewater sections. "The ease and efficiency of the bent shaft paddles took the burden off the long days on the water," Frank notes, "while the toughness and power of the Bandits were the perfect tool for Arturo to cut his teeth in the whitewater."

Frank's advice for anyone heading into the backcountry echoes this same stripped-down philosophy: "Do more with less rather than less with more when it comes to gear. Any gear is just a tool to get the job done and more gear will just weigh you down. Select durable, well designed equipment that will handle the journey—not just the shiniest object that attracts your attention."

When we asked Frank what his Werner paddle was telling him during those marathon days on the ocean — the kind of 16-hour push that requires everything from both body and equipment — his answer was perfect in its simplicity.

"My paddle told me nothing at all. It was simply an extension of my body that flowed with me. The best paddle is one you don't have to think about, one that does what you need it to do, day after day."

It's a philosophy that extends beyond the paddle itself. "My Werner allows me to focus on the creative aspects of my journeys by being so dependable," Frank explains. "I can paddle all day without thinking about it. I just 'do' — which opens me up to all the other possibilities presented in the course of an expedition."

Those possibilities include filming, photography, and the kind of present-moment awareness that makes for memorable wildlife encounters. A dawn meeting with a fox. A massive herd of muskox materializing from the landscape. The serendipitous discovery of an old trapper's cabin that provided shelter during a day and a half of 100km winds. These are the moments that define an expedition, the ones you can only be present for when your equipment simply works.

"Gear that matters most is gear you trust to get the job done," Frank says, "helping to cover vast distances in the wilderness as you achieve your ideal state."

Frank is back in Antarctica now for a six-week stint, corresponding from one of the most remote places on Earth. He's probably not thinking about his paddle. Which is exactly the point.

After 20 years of expeditions and thousands of kilometers across Arctic waters, rivers, and coastlines, Frank Wolf's measure of the right equipment is elemental: it should disappear. Not through absence, but through such complete integration with the work at hand that tool and user become indistinguishable. The paddle becomes an extension of the body. The stroke becomes as natural as breathing. And the paddler is free to focus on everything else—the landscape, the wildlife, the creative process of documenting the journey, and the simple flow state that comes from covering vast distances under your own power.

"Light, strong, and well-designed to last for years and years of long-distance journeys." That's not marketing speak. That's what survival looks like when you're 36 days deep into the Arctic with two days of food left and 100 kilometers still to cover.

That's what happens when your paddle tells you nothing at all.