Next morning a strong wind did its best to push our tent into the bushes. In spite of it we set out and found Tom and Steve camped on a windy gravel bar. Tom waved us over for a cup of tea, and Doug asked, “Are you guys too intelligent to get out in wind like this, or have you just not started yet?”
Tom replied, “Oh no, we have no intelligence. We’ll be out in a bit.”
As the wind increased, waves began splashing over our canoes bringing our progress almost to a standstill. I asked my partners, “What to you think? Shall we hole up until the damn wind lets up a bit?”
“Yeah, but there isn’t any shelter here. Do you think we could make it to that grove of trees there?” asked Doug.
The wind felt like a solid wall with sand whipping off the bars and spray blowing off the waves, and it took us almost thirty minutes to go half a mile. We spent the rest of the day loafing in the shelter of the trees. Since Byron had purchased some flour at Old Crow, we all tried to make some good bannock. Amazingly, our first attempts turned out edible, good in fact.
Late in the evening the wind died so we continued down the increasingly narrow river toward the Upper ramparts of the Porcupine River. At sunset we watched the light become soft and shadowy, the lacy clouds turned red and purple as the sun slowly sank below the jagged horizon, and night came to the Yukon Territories.
Time is like a river flowing to the sea—sometimes it flows fast and violent, sometimes slow and serene, but irresistibly it moves to the eternal sea where time is no more. We all search for that sea although we may call it different names.
Banging noises on the shore wakened me making me think the water had risen enough to float the canoes, but instead I saw our friends, Tom and Steve, building a fire. They had risen very early after sitting out the wind the day before and had just stopped for breakfast. We wondered whether we, in our solo canoes, went faster than they in their big seventeen-foot tandem canoe. I figured they would be faster, after all they had two paddlers, but I was wrong. We kept up to them easily.
Just before crossing the border into Alaska, we stopped to explore Rampart House, an old Hudson’s Bay trading post standing empty and lonesome on a plateau above the river. The original post had been located at Fort Yukon, but the US government forced them to move upriver just across the border.
On the 94th day of our travels, July 28, we crossed into Alaska, a true milestone. The multi-colored Upper Ramparts canyon rushed us across the border. Eroded into white spires and towers of yellow and red rock, the walls rose above swiftly flowing water.
About a mile above the Salmon Trout River, a young trapped named Lester waved us over. Hungry for someone to talk to, he answered our questions in great length. Doug asked, “Why did you come to Alaska?”
“I came into the country about six years ago. I had about 11,000 bucks in debts and couldn’t pay it, so I ran up here. They can’t get me here, you know.”
“Why not?” Isn’t there some kind of law or something?”
“Hell, no, if anybody came up here after me, I’d just shoot the bastard, that’s all. I got a little cabin up there on my trap line, enough caribou and fish to eat, and I make a little money each year trapping. I sure as hell ain’t going to let some fat ass of a banker take nothing from me.”
I soon tired of the conversation and the little bugs eating us alive, so I suggested, “Why don’t we camp down by Salmon Trout? I’ll go down now, and you guys come when you feel like it.”
When they agreed, I pushed away and drifted down to find several cabins in a large clearing, and I pitched the tent by the best one. Both Doug and I became sick in the night, me with stomach cramps while Doug, much sicker, had diarrhea and vomiting. When a wild wind and rainstorm swept through the camp in the early morning, we decided to take the day off. Byron made the best of it by stringing all his gear on a clothesline inside the cabin. Because several of his packs had developed holes, much of his clothing and other items were wet.
Tom and Steve breezed by around noon so we quickly put on a pot of tea as soon as we saw them round the bend. Tea had become a ritual when they came to our camp and vice versa. They were surprised to see us still in camp, but Doug said, “This is just a sick camp. We’ll be on the river tomorrow and see you in Fort Yukon if not sooner.” I fished, gathered mushrooms, raspberries, and blueberries, and lay on my back watching the clouds drift and thinking about building cabins and enduring deep snow and long, lonely winter nights. Slowly I came to the conclusion that I would rather return home to family and friends. The decision gave me a great sense of relief as worrying about the future detracted from the very real beauty of the present. But now free again, I could travel with no concerns except to take each moment and live it fully.
We pushed off next morning into a cold, windy, nasty day canoeing through Howling Canyon while Doug made the canyon walls ring with his howling. Next we reached Canyon Village with three buildings and Tom and Steve in one. Tom handed us cups of tea as we dripped into the cabin saying, “Welcome to Canyon Village.” Since he was baking bread, we had to stay to sample it.
“This is about the nicest unused cabin I’ve seen yet,” I remarked.
“Steve looked up from patching a pack and said, “What do you mean, unused? We’re here, aren’t we?”
Tom also made oatmeal cookies, but we finally gathered our courage and started out again. Without question it became the rainiest day yet. Byron said, “Look, this isn’t too much fun. Why don’t we just go for that cabin marked on the map at Burnt Paw? As I ate bannock and jam, rain cascaded off the brim of my hat and dripped past my eyes, so we finished the shortest lunch break on record and went as fast as we could for the cabin.
Although ramshackle, the old building had only a few drips here and there. Welcome heat from a fire in the stove drove the dampness from our bodies and souls. After we pitched our tent inside the cabin, we went to sleep praying for a sunny day.
I knew the day would be special as soon as I poked my head out of the cabin door and saw a tailwind ruffling the water and clouds breaking and disappearing. Eagerly we pushed onto the river and almost immediately the sun burst through, lighting the freshly laundered landscape. The Lower Ramparts went by in a blur and sunshine added energy to my shoulder muscles. I climbed a cliff and watched Doug and Byron swish by on the opposite sides of the river.
Awakened from an after lunch nap by Byron shouting, “Hey, Lookee there. A black bear!” I sat up quickly.
“Where?” :
“Right behind you.”
Sure enough. I went for my camera while Doug started beating on a pot and Byron yelled, “Get out of here you little black thief.” The cub ran but soon returned. We scared it off again, but when it came right back, Byron said, “I guess we’d better leave this beach for the bears.”
On entering the Yukon flats we discovered they are exactly as their name indicates: low and flat. The river meanders wildly and splits into many channels. We had a hard time choosing which channel would be shortest and quickest. Often the shortest channel in terms of miles turned out to be the longest in terms of time because the strength of the current varied between channels. The afternoon’s crispness indicated fall might be just around the corner even in early August. Rose hips were getting red and soft, and the blueberries were ripe. The sky had a thin clarity unlike the loose blueness of the spring skies.
That night we camped at Shuman House in one very cozy cabin with all the conveniences — beds, tables, a stove, and a lantern. A note on the door read, “This cabin is for everyone. Please don’t use it for a doghouse, and before you leave use the broom. Put out the fire and close the door.” After supper Doug wrote letters on the table while Byron and I sat on the riverbank and discussed our journey and how it would affect our future.
“I wonder why we go ata certain pace,” Byron asked, “If we aren’t out to see how far we can go, why not just go three miles a day rather than forty?”
“I don’t know, really, but I figure the whole experience is a blend of paddling and camping, of moving and resting, and the magic of it all comes when the blend is just right.”
“I guess we’ll never forget a trip like this. I know that when I finished the Pacific Crest Trail, I just knew that I could do anything,” reminisced Byron.
“Yeah, it gave me a lot more self-confidence. I did things that I would have been scared to try before. This trip is going to be even better; I can feel it in my bones.”
I felt a little lonesome to see a star, but I slept in the cabin since it seemed to have rained every night for as long as we could remember. Of course it remained perfectly clear all night, and we woke to a frosty, clear morning.
Next afternoon as I passed the clear waters of the Shennjek River, I spotted a lynx sitting calmly on a big cottonwood log, chewing and munching on something he held down with his paw. I drifted closer but only the upright ears and wide-open eyes gave any indication that he saw me. Then I came too close, and he exploded off the log, a tawny flash through the green willows.
We went far enough to be within an easy day’s travel of Fort Yukon, our fifth and final food drop. A tiny sandbar beside a channel, about 36 miles from Fort Yukon, was home for the night. We had easily been traveling about fifty miles a day thanks to the high fast river. If the water were to rise about two feet, we would have been flooded off the sandbar, and if it had dropped two feet, the side channel would have dried up, and we would have had to portage to the main current. Both the Porcupine and Bell Rivers are known for their rapid fluctuations in water level, as much as three feet overnight. So while camping on the bar probably might not be the wisest plan, we wanted to sleep in the open and watch the stars for the first time in very many days.
As I sat by the fire watching the sunset turning the few lacy clouds pink and purple, I just plain felt good. Life is such a marvel. I had little in the way of luxuries and yet felt as happy as I had ever been. It seemed a mystery. How do we reconcile the fact that we can be so happy with so little with the idea that amassing possessions will make us happy?
The stars slowly came out one by one as the darkness settled over the earth like a huge blanket. Each star seemed to shine for me as I slipped off to sleep.