Although we had paddled our last strokes on a wonderful river, more adventure beckoned, but first we had to cross Lake Athabasca. Our guidebook said repeatedly: “Do not attempt to paddle directly across the lake to Fort Chipewayn. Storms blow up suddenly, and it is best to start at first light to avoid the afternoon wind.”
Our celebration the previous night made it sure we didn’t come close to starting at first light. When we finally did get underway, instead of paddling across the lake, we walked about two or three miles in the shallow lake, dragging our canoes. When the water became deep enough to paddle, we disregarded the guidebook’s warning and went directly across. With water never more than four feet deep, the waves were a little rough and could have been treacherous. While we were out in the big waves, miles from shore, I resolved not to do anything foolish like that again.
Miles go by much more slowly on the lakes than on rivers. While I missed that strong current pushing me along, the lake fascinated me. If I looked northeast, the horizon shimmered over miles and miles of water with a good possibility that ice was still on the river mouth on this third week in May.
As we left the lake, reentered Wood Buffalo National Park, and headed down La Riviere Des Rochers, Byron and I discussed our relationships. We had had a few trivial arguments with a little tension between us. I explained, “I’ve been having really bad headaches the last few days, and that’s probably caused our difficulties. I guess we want the best of both worlds; the freedom of traveling alone and also the pleasure of company.”
“Well, I think we’ve been seeing too much of each other,” answered Byron. “Remember on the Crest? We never saw each other except at lunch and at camp. That’s probably how we got along so well then. We drifted along silently for a minute, and then he said, “I think I’ll let you guys get way ahead of me today.”
The Riviere des Rochers, a short connecting link between Lake Athabasca and the Peace River, has many little channels. Very beautiful under a dark cloudy sky with black water flowing smooth as glass between lush green banks, all was still and quiet. But when I looked through my camera’s viewfinder, the beauty disappeared and I saw only a dark ugly river. Putting the camera away, I said to myself, “If someone wants to see this beauty, he will have to come look himself.”
I caught up to Doug at Little Rapids where a rock weir had been built to keep more water in the Athabasca-Peace Delta. The water level in the delta had been dropping because of a reduction in flow of the Peace River as a result of the W. A. C. Bennet Dam in BC. When we were about to go around the weir via a detour, we saw a narrow channel about ten feet wide blasted from solid rock. Doug looked and said, “Would you look at that drop!”
“It’s a big drop but nothing’s in the way. What do you think? Want to try it? I asked?”
“Let’s go for it,” was Doug’s quick answer.
We shot down the narrow chute, the canoes bucking wildly and water cascading over the bows, our only mishap getting wet.
When we stopped on a rock island to wait for Byron, I found my rod and caught another pike. Doug refused to try saying, “I’m afraid I won’t catch one, and then I’d look like a fool.”
Eventually we decided to camp on our rock island, a marvelous rock with a built-in rock fireplace and several nicely sculptured rock easy chairs in front of the fireplace. After eating baked northern pike with mashed potatoes and tea, we sat in our rock easy chairs by the fire. I had baked the pike in an Optimus Mini-Oven where I could bake cakes, muffins, pizza, and casseroles, almost anything. Although small, it certainly helped add variety to my menu.
That evening I cleared the air with Doug as I had with Byron, and he agreed we were seeing too much of each other. Then the conversation turned to wondering about Byron. He had said nothing about camping alone. Where was he? Ahead of us? Not likely. In trouble? Again not likely as Byron could take care of himself as well as anybody else, but suppose he had run into a mama bear with cubs? Suppose he fell asleep and tipped over? Suppose he had been arrested for carrying a gun without a license in a national park—the scenarios became wilder and wilder until we couldn’t stand inaction any longer and decided to look for him in my canoe.
After paddling about half a mile, we realized it was so dark we couldn’t see him even if he were in trouble. Also the canoe was so tipsy with two of us that it seemed more than likely we would capsize and be in trouble ourselves. On our return we ran over some very sharp rocks at full speed putting some terrible gouges on the canoe.
We slept fitfully and arose at dawn to look for him. About four miles up river we found him camping. He had gotten tired and stopped rather than coming on to our camp. We listened with mixed relief and anger. “I don’t give a damn where you camp, but at least have the common courtesy to let us know where you are going to be. We were awfully worried and all for nothing.”
Relief covered most of our anger, and we returned to our camp and loaded our canoes going on to meet the mighty Slave River. I’m unsure why mapmakers decided to rename the river at the confluence of the Peace and Riviere des Rochers, but they have decreed that below the confluence, the resulting river will be known as the Slave River. Running high and fast, the muddy current boiled and swirled along, and our canoes swung back and forth in the powerful current. We took care to avoid strong eddies and whirlpools near the island and other obstructions in the river. With the irresistible current pushing us, we went further than anticipated before camping by a large creek.
Byron found his rod and, with his first cast, caught a small pike which he released. His second cast caught a five-pound pike, which he kept for supper. Then Doug got a big one on his line and just about beached it when it gave a mighty lunge and broke the line. But he soon had another big one.
On the Slave River our canoes were like little pieces of flotsam drifting along with the immense current moving powerfully toward the Artic Circle. At noon we ate and bathed and washed clothes in the hot sun as we expected to reach Fitzgerald above the dreaded rapids the next day. We hoped to find someone to carry our canoes and gear to rejoin the river below Fort Smith, and it’s always better to be somewhat clean in civilization. Also, we had a natural washing machine where the river flowed through two channels in the rock. We used one for washing, the other for rinsing, and a flat warm rock for drying. The spot also supplied a swimming hole in an eddy where we didn’t have to worry about being swept downstream.
On our last night in Alberta we camped four miles south of Fitzgerald and celebrated with an eating party designed to consume two weeks of leftover food before picking up another food package next day.
With four Class 6 plus rapids in thirteen miles between Fitzgerald and Fort Smith, it’s almost mandatory to hire a guide. Granted we were too inexperienced to try, but I was tempted to go ahead anyway. I didn’t like having a thirteen-mile truck ride. Deciding we had no other option, we flipped a coin to decide who stayed with the canoes — me. Byron and Doug explored the town and returned saying no one was home in any of the four houses in town so they would hitchhike to Fort Smith to find a ride.
Since it looked like a long wait, I spread my foam pad in the sun and fell asleep, awaking a few minutes later to find myself surrounded by rafts, equipment, and people firing questions at me from all directions. “Where did you start? Where are you going? When did you start?”
“We left Jasper April 27,” I murmured sleepily, “and we’re heading to Alaska.”
Another barrage: “Wasn’t ice on the river when you left? Are you going to make it to Alaska before winter? Are you having fun? How far is your whole trip?”
I answered their questions and asked a few of my own. These newspaper reporters were doing a story on Sub-Artic Wilderness Adventures raft trips through the raids and were about to embark on a wild ride. Soon the leader asked, “Are you going past Fort Smith?”
Yeah, we plan to but first need to find a way past the rapids.
He announced, “I’ve got a trailer here, and I could take the canoes. By the way, I’m Jacques Van Pelt of Sub-Arctic Wilderness Adventures. Most canoers write to me ahead of time and make arrangements for either a guide or transportation.”
“We are used to having good luck,” I answered. “If we had planned it, this couldn’t have worked out better. You don’t even have to make a special trip.”
A few minutes later our canoes were on the trailer and we were traveling to Fort Smith and the Northwest Territories. As we jounced along the narrow gravel road that passes for a highway in this part of the country, Jacques Van Pelt kept up a constant stream of information about the river and surrounding country. He told about the white pelicans that nest in the middle of the rapids and the plan to put in a hydro-electric installation near the nesting ground which would destroy both the rapids and nesting ground. He had started doing raft trips and canoe tours through the rapids partly to create public awareness of all that will be lost if authorities allow the developers to destroy the rapids.
Jacques suggested, “Instead of going down the muddy Slave River to Great Slave Lake, why don’t you let me take you over to the Little Buffalo River? It’s a small, clear river, fishing is excellent, and you would see lots more wildlife.”
“Well, I’ll have to talk it over with my friends before we decide anything.”
He took me to the post office where we picked up Doug and Byron and our food parcels. They had caught a ride into town with Jacque’s wife. After he took us to the river he told us, “Give me a call if you want to go to the Little Buffalo.”
We gave the idea some thought, and after a man told us we would almost certainly see some buffalo, our minds were made up. We called Jacques and found we would have to wait a day and a half before he had time, but waiting seemed worthwhile. We would have enough big water on the Mackenzie and Yukon rivers.
We spent the time organizing our gear and wandering through town. After we saw the fearsome Rapids of the Drowned, the last of the four big rapids, we were glad we had taken the safe ride around them.