As Jacques Van Pelt and his wife took our canoes and us to the Little Buffalo River in Wood Buffalo National park, we heard on the radio that the ferry across the Mackenzie River was closed because of ice coming from the Great Slave Lake. Jacques assured us there would be no problem—some ice might be left but we should be able to go around with no difficulty.
First we stopped to see Little Buffalo Falls, a hundred foot tumble into a big pool. We looked around, shot some pictures, and then put our canoes in about two miles below the falls where it seemed as if we were starting the trip over on a beautiful little river again. With clear, cold water, banks only forty to fifty feet apart, and a gentle current, our only problems were beaver dams and logjams. We easily slid over the tops of beaver dams, but several log jams required lifting and dragging the canoes over logs. Even that was kind of fun. Even more fun were the little rapids and riffles, which required some fancy maneuvering to avoid being grounded. There was no danger. If we missed a turn or a stroke, instead of capsizing or worse, we stepped out of the canoe, lifted it off the rocks, and refloated it in deeper water.
We paddled late into the evening. Then thick clouds of mosquitoes hovered over our heads while we cooked and ate, but when the sun sank and the temperature dropped below freezing, they disappeared. Mosquitoes acted as an alarm clock; as soon as the sun rose and the air warmed, they were up and at us. And since the sun rose about 3 a.m., the bugs were up before we cared to be. But who cares about a few bugs (or a million or two), and who wants to sleep while the sun shines?
During over a month on the Athabasca we had seen not one canoer and only one group of Sunday afternoon paddlers. Suddenly we began seeing more than we liked such as a school group from Fort Smith with ten canoes and a host of kids. We breezed on by rather quickly, chatting only briefly with each group as we passed. When we stopped for lunch, they caught up to us again with a radio blaring loudly in the lead canoe, shattering the wilderness peace and quiet. After eating we quickly passed them, and on hearing that ridiculous radio blaring, I was so disgusted that instead of clearing the next three logjams, I enlarged them to hinder their progress. We never heard or saw them again.
Several times a day I climbed the banks and walked through the trees to the huge, grassy prairies hoping to see a few of the estimated 8000 wood buffalo roaming freely through Wood Buffalo National Park. Once I paddled about two miles up a side stream and walked onto the prairie in my search. On returning I realized that the stream was less than half as wide as my canoe was long with no way to turn around so I paddled in reverse for a mile bouncing off the sides of the channel.
Focusing on little goals while keeping the big goal in mind is the only way I have found to complete big projects or long journeys. I try always to have an immediate, intermediate and a final long-range goal. For example, I left Jasper with the immediate goal to cross Jasper Lake (a goal I would achieve that day), the intermediate goal to reach the big rapids before Fort McMurray (two or more weeks away), and of course the final goal to one day reach the Bering Sea. On the Little Buffalo my immediate goal was to see a buffalo, I was looking forward to seeing and paddling on Great Slave Lake, and the final goal was still to reach the Bering Sea. If I were always looking toward the Bering Sea, it would be easy to get terribly discouraged; it seemed so far away and travel so slow that we would never get there. Interim goals are important because I didn’t concern myself with reaching Bering Sea, only making my little goals.
Jacques spoke correctly when he said we would see wildlife. With the banks close together, we could be intimately involved with life on the shore. On one day I saw two black bears, three river otter, squirrels, chipmunks, a host of ducks and geese, and a great horned owl. Not bad for one day.
He was right about the fishing too. We caught three fish in five minutes. With plenty of food, we didn’t really need to catch fish, but we enjoyed both the catching and the eating as they added variety to our diet.
When I woke next morning I saw Byron sound asleep wearing his sunglasses. Nights began to disappear as we went farther north and the longest day, June 21, came closer. With sunset and sunrise only a few hours apart, the sky never completely darkened.
Next day when I saw a bear on the shore I put my 200 mm lens on my trusty Olympus OM01 and silently drifted toward him. When the bear smelled me, instead of running like a normal black bear, he stood his ground, growling and snuffing the air. After I snapped a couple close range pictures and beat a hasty retreat across the river, I yelled at the bear trying to make him run, but he defiantly growled and showed no signs of backing down. Then when he started down the bank toward the water, I paddled with every ounce of energy I could muster. Another bear also showed no inclination to run, and seeing four bears in one day would tend to indicate a rather high concentration of bears along the river.
That night we came close to burning Wood Buffalo National Park. We cleared a place in the dry grass and lit our fire. While Doug tended the fire, I hooked a huge northern pike. I knew I couldn’t eat that much fish so I hollered for Doug to bring me his pliers and help release it. Doug ran over, and with one quick, deft move he slipped he hook out. Meanwhile the fire had spread from its cleared area and licked hungrily at the tinder dry grass. We tried to stomp it out, but the fire spread quickly. Doug saved the day by grabbing his biggest pot and throwing potfalls of water on the raging fire saving the park.
Mosquitoes love the warm evening air and came out in force, doing their best to harass us. I had sewed my netting into a big bag into which | put my sleeping bag and myself. None of the mosquitoes could get in, but they took advantage of every spot where the netting touched bare skin. Still I slept fairly well after learning to keep the netting away from my skin and to ignore the resonant hum of mosquitoes swarming all over the netting.
Doug and Byron had a rough night because mosquitoes kept getting under their netting. Every so often I heard, “Damn these little critters. They’re drinking all my blood,” and various other curses and imprecations. Byron got up just before sunrise saying, “To hell with it. I’m off to get breakfast at McDonalds,” and paddled away in the pre-dawn light.
Doug followed shortly complaining loudly, “I didn’t sleep a wink all night. The barometric pressure must be dropping and keeping me awake.”
“As long as the barometric pressure doesn’t drop on me,” I answered sleepily, “I’m going back to sleep until a more civilized hour.” I might have sympathized with them, but all they had to do was pitch the tent and their troubles would have been over.
I found them about noon sound asleep on the riverbank and quickly joined them. We would have slept the afternoon away but a thunderstorm woke us with drops of rain, and we were soon all awake and scrambling to cover our gear.
The Little Buffalo had almost no current in its lower stretches, and the water had become unpalatably salty. We didn’t need to add salt to any of our food. Since this was our last night on the Little Buffalo, I made one last long search for one animal. Again I came up empty-handed, but butterflies filled the prairie, and I spent an enjoyable hour chasing them through the grass. I tried my best to get some to pose for me, but they were too enamored with their flighty beauty to sit still for one moment.
Doug and Byron retired early trying to make up for lost sleep, but I sat on the riverbank and wondered what Great Slave Lake would be like. One author called it an “angry” lake. The sun slowly drifted across the sky as calm and peaceful as the river. Byron’s loud snoring harmonized well with the pervasive hum of mosquitoes. I thought about our choice of canoes and wondered if we should have used larger boats. All the wilderness travel I’d done was in rough terrain that would rule out motorized travel. Seeing country that I would never see in a motorized vehicle required hard travel, part of the price of seeing wilderness. To tread where few feet have trod is part of the wilderness mystique, but this trip was different. Big rivers can be traveled by anyone with a motorboat, so why were we putting forth the effort of paddling? Then I realized that a canoe or kayak was the only craft that could make the entire 4,000-mile trip. Many times I looked on our adventure as an ice cream cone; paddling is the cone that holds the ice cream together.