Around midnight a few sprinkles of rain roused us, and we scurried about putting up the tent. As I drifted back to sleep, safe in the tent’s shelter, I noticed the rain had stopped. That happened so often that I came to the inescapable conclusion that putting up a tent has a direct effect on the weather. If we hadn’t risen to pitch the tent, the rain would have, I’m sure, continued for hours.
Next morning we staggered along the tortuous portage trail carrying three packs weighing about one hundred pounds. Now we had to face Little Grand Rapids. After walking along the shore and scouting a safe path, we put on life jackets, stowed a spare paddle in easy reach, pushed away from shore, and shot down the rapid dodging boulders and dropping through large chutes rated Class 3; we had easily passed our first major test in Little Grand.
Faced with our next obstacle, Brule Rapids, rated Class 4, we made an error in judgment and attempted an attack on the right side. As soon as we stopped just above the rapids to scout, we saw that the middle of the channel was filled with massive waves while the right side had several large drops over boulders and ledges. We chose to line our canoes past the worst places, and it went well until we reached a spot where the river dropped about three and a half feet over a ledge. I thought I could pull my canoe fast enough over the ledge to avoid swamping it in the turbulent water below the falls, but as I pulled the canoe over the ledge, the bow buried itself in the swirling water below. I pulled with all my strength on the bow rope and managed to get it through before the canoe filled with water. For the other canoes we used two people: one to position the boat above the falls and another to pull it through. That worked well, and we ran the rest of the rapid easily, drifted on a little farther, and camped, pleased with surviving another day. But we still had misgivings about the rapids ahead of us.
We awoke early to challenge an eight-mile stretch of continuous rapids: Boiler, Middle, and Long Rapids, rated Class 3 and 4. Although huge, frothy waves raged in the main channel, we always managed to find safe paths near the banks where we could line the canoes. Most of the time we were in shallow water near shore, dodging back and forth in the boulders. It might have been fun to take the chance out in the huge waves in the main channels, but we didn’t have the skill or experience to try, and we didn’t want to blow the whole trip on a thrill ride through some big rapid.
After the next eight miles of holding our breaths as we crashed through waves and bounced around rocks, we enjoyed hitting calm water and just drifting along looking for a campsite. We settled on a beautiful aspen grove, a little far from the river but worth the extra effort. As I relaxed on the bank, I saw Byron sneaking along with the shotgun in one hand and his camera in the other. I thought, “He’s probably stalking a duck and can’t decide whether to shoot it or take its picture. When I wandered over, I discovered Byron stalking a big black bear, which paid no attention to him and leisurely strolled along. Byron move in very close, snapped a picture, and then retreated rapidly. He said, “I just felt a little safer with the gun when that close to the bear.”
My MSR stove had been in sad shape at the beginning of the trip; the sparker didn’t work, all the wires that held the pot had lost their retaining washers and fell out at every opportunity, and the asbestos pad and plastic base under the stove had fallen off. It required a major reassembly job just to put it back together to use. This evening I set it up, put a pot of water on to heat, and went off to a creek for more water. I returned to find the stove engulfed in flames because I had foolishly set it on some dry aspen leaves, which had ignited. The pump on the stove started to melt and flames began burning my journal and several boxes of food. A couple more minutes and the fire would have reached my packs causing real disaster. I quickly doused the flames with my water and surveyed the damage. Surprisingly, the pump still worked, so did the stove, and while I had lost the corners of a few pages in my journal and scorched one pizza mix, I got off very lightly for that mistake. From then on I always put aluminum foil under the stove.
The nearly full moon created a magical effect as its soft, silvered light danced on each delicate leaf, bounced off white trunks, speckled the forest floor with tangled shadows, and transformed the river into a shining path through the dark forest. I had trouble going to sleep—I kept expecting to see prancing elves any minute.
Early next morning an orange and red moonset astonished me as the big, red moon gradually disappeared below the trees, casting an orange stream of light on the river, a scene I never saw again.
After running more rapids the next day, our confidence increased, and we had a better idea of what the canoes could take. Still, when we heard a roar and saw masses of white, dancing waves ahead, our hearts beat faster and we gripped our paddles tightly.We decided we could run Crooked Rapids with Byron going first and Doug and I following close behind. We went wide left around a wild set of waves crashing over rocks and then paddled hard to shoot down a chute into the calm water below. I missed the clear channel and plowed into some four and five feet standing waves, sure I would soon be dead. Water crashed over the canoe, but the canoe’s spray skirt kept out most of it. Doug, watching from an eddy below the rapids, later told me, “Your canoe completely disappeared behind those waves and then it would come up over the waves at an incredible angle and dive in behind the next wave.”
While Doug and Byron scouted Rock Rapids, I bailed my canoe. They returned with reports of a huge ledge, the kind that eats canoes for lunch, in the turbulent water below. We decided we could skirt around the drop on the far right side of the river, so we paddled across and easily ran the rapid close to the bank with the shore a blur as we whizzed by.
A rapid aptly named Big Cascade with four to six foot ledges almost all the way across the river next challenged us, but we found a clear path down one side of the river and slid our canoes over the ledges. Then Doug and Byron started arguing as we drifted along in calm water. Byron was quite pleased with the day’s progress while Doug wanted to try one more rapid. I agreed with Byron so we set up camp eighteen miles from Fort McMurray.
As I lay awake watching the clouds drift toward the full moon, be ignited by the moonlight, and then drift on to be extinguished in the black night, I thought about our recent conversation. Doug had read, “Life is what happens while we are making other plans.” It’s easy to fall into that trap. I do it all the time. When I’m working at some two-bit job earning money to go traveling, I say to myself, “When I’m out of here and into the wilderness, I’ll be happy and find meaning in life. Then in the wilderness it’s all too easy to think, “Well, when I get back from this trip, I will really be somebody, and then I will be happy.” And when I do get back, I realize that where a person has been and what he has done doesn’t of itself make a person any better or improve his life. This cycle can go on forever—always putting happiness in the future.
Later that night rain began, not a noteworthy event but for the methods we tried to keep dry. Without enough room to pitch the tent, Doug and Byron covered their gear and themselves with plastic tarps. I tried to sleep under my canoe but found out quickly that a 26” wide canoe doesn’t provide much shelter in a blowing rain. Flipping a piece of plastic over me, I went back to sleep only to wake later and find water trickling down my neck. My breath condensed on the plastic and then dripped on me. “Enough of this,” I thought, and got up and pitched the tent on a piece of very uneven and sloping ground. Rain continued until noon, and I stepped out of the tent quoting Thoreau, “Cold and damp, are they not as rich experience as dryness and warmth?” Maybe, but they are certainly not as comfortable.
We cruised down to the last of the challenging rapids on Athabasca River— Mountain Rapids, Class 4. They looked frightening with the river tumbling over three big ledges in quick succession. We would have to negotiate the first ledge on the extreme right side and then move quickly into the middle of the river to hit a chute leading through the turbulent water crashing over the second and biggest ledge. Then we would need to move back quickly to cross the third ledge. We would have preferred to run the first and last ledges and lift the canoes over the middle one, but the ice lining the shore prevented us. So we gathered our courage and ran it successfully. Later I remarked to the guys, “It’s a good thing this is the last rapid as we’re probably getting overconfident. It might be just a matter of time before we would have tried something we couldn’t handle.”
Doug replied, “Well, that was a pretty easy rapid.”
I answered, “Yeah, that’s what I mean. We did it so now we feel like we could go ahead and try something harder. I had had nightmares of capsizing and losing gear or breaking up my canoe and having to drop out of the trip. That possibility worried me more than any thought of drowning.
At Fort McMurray we set up camp and visited the post office for our food, which we had bought beforehand and packaged into five shipments. They were mailed to five towns widely spaced along our route, addressed to ourselves in care of General Delivery with instructions to the Postmaster to hold the boxes until we arrived. It saved us time and hassle to walk into town and pick up a box with exactly the right amount and type of food. Most towns along our route are very small and didn’t have the type of food we wanted. Mailing our food worked about the same in cost and might even have been cheaper. However, we risked having our boxes lost by the post office.
Food, a very important part of a long journey, causes unnecessary strain on friendship if shared. Admittedly, sharing food has advantages such as sharing gear saves weight and allows a greater variety of cooking vessels. Shared cooking might be an advantage (supposedly one person can cook while the others rest or they can all pitch in and create a variety of dishes). However, the disadvantages outweigh the advantages because differing tastes cause problems as well as the amount each person eats, especially if one eats twice as much as the others. Rotating cooking chores sounds efficient, but some one is always lazy or a lousy cook or can’t get himself out of bed to cook breakfast.
On the Pacific Crest Trail we had been independent because of circumstances—each had lost a partner or started alone, and each had his own equipment. This arrangement worked so well that we were sold on separate food supplies. In practice we often shared food and cooking gear, but it wasn’t required.
My food organization was almost nil, and the way I bought it was comical in its disarray and confusion. I made a long list of foods I had tried and found good and another long list of food I wanted to try. Then I went up and down the shelves of a warehouse type grocery store picking what I wanted, just guessing on amounts using prior experience as a guide. Twice I returned to buy more because after spreading it on the floor, I didn’t think I had enough. Sorting the food and packing it carefully took an entire day. I addressed the boxes and left instructions with my grandparents on when to mail them. Despite the seeming lack of organization, my food came out exactly right.
While eating next morning, Doug flipped on his little transistor radio (we brought it for weather forecasts but seldom used it), and we learned it was Victoria Day, a statutory holiday in Canada. The post office would not open until tomorrow. So we declared a rest day, and it felt good for a change to sit in warm, green, leafy sunshine under a birch tree. I read a book, carved a wooden spoon, took a nap, and then crossed the river to climb the steep valley sides and discover what I could see from the rim.
As I climbed slowly, the valley unfolded beneath. At the rim I saw the river winding across the country below and felt the breeze ruffle my hair. A yellow butterfly perched on a flower attracted my attention, and a closer look revealed that it had just emerged from its cocoon. As I watched with expectation, its wings slowly stretched and expanded. It held its wings steady for a few minutes, allowing them to harden, and then after a few tentative flaps, it soared away on the gentle breeze.
Days when we didn’t travel became an important part of the journey. No progress toward the destination, but a resting of body and a refreshing of soul made further travel more rewarding.