Barely two miles downstream from Fort Simpson we camped on a barely suitable island. We had to be careful where we stepped because in some spots the seemingly firm ground suddenly gave way. I found out the hard way. When I went to pull a canoe onto the shore, the ground gave way, and there I was — up to my knees in mud prompting an eruption of laughter from Byron. During our planning he had suggested that I bring some high waterproof boots because he had read that the Mackenzie had mud a foot deep along its shore. I didn’t bring any and had been poking fun at Byron since we had not yet encountered any mud. Now he had his chance to laugh as I tried to wallow out of the mire.
With a cool breeze and almost no mosquitoes, we slept in the open air little knowing how few times we would again enjoy the pleasure of sleeping outside the confines of a tent. When we finally hit the river a bit late next morning, the wind got on my nerves, my shoulders felt stiff and sore, and I paddled along angrily the first few miles feeling rushed and trapped inrto keeping up with the other guys. I couldn’t stop when I felt like it — I had to stay in the canoe and keep paddling so we wouldn’t get separated. Got to make those miles. Got to prove something to somebody. Suddenly, like a wave rushing up to the shore and breaking on the sand, the anger and irritation passed. I got off the river and admired some blue-eyed grass and a thicket of lavishly blooming wild roses. The angerI had felt had been brushed away by the rose petals and blades of grass, andI was happy to continue on peacefully through the waves.
By this time we were far separated and not until late in the afternoon did I realize I must be ahead of Doug an Byron. As I drifted around a bend, I saw Nahanni Mountain hanging blue and distant on the horizon, and the sight cheered the afternoon with promise of beauty to come. Suddenly the wind whistled up the valley like a freight train sending me running for cover. Like a miniature tornado, it scooted along the river picking up water, swinging up the banks, breaking off trees, and tearing off branches. With such an awesome display of power, I was one thankful man that nothing hit me.
Soon Doug and Byron showed up, and we camped oobn a pretty beach with a good view of the mountains. Next morning a misty, drizzly rain doused my visions of beautiful, early-morning light shining on the mountains, just perfect for picture taking. But my body screamed “No,” to the idea of leaving our warm fire, getting into the cold canoe, and setting off against the cold wind and rain.
“How do you expect to make miles and get to Alaska if we refuse to paddle?” my mind asked.
My body quickly retorted, “Don’t want to go to Alaska. Don’t want to paddle. Want to stay here by the fire.”
My mind won the battle as usual, and off I went into the cold rain and vicious headwind. Twice storms kicking up huge waves stopped uys, the second time stranding us on a little island in the middle of the river. We huddled rather discouraged on the muddy bank wondering how to get off the island. After eight hours of hard paddling, we had come about twenty miles. We needed something to lift our thoroughly dampened spirits.
After the storm abated, we rounded a bend, and Doug suddenly pointed saying, “Look over there.”
I glanced and said, “Yeah, looks like another coyote.” A second look and I exclaimed, “No, that’s a lynx. Just look at the fur on him.” I reached for my camera and, of course, it had no film and the nearest roll was buried deep in a pack. We drifted silently to within twenty feet. The lynx didn’t move, but its eyes followed our every action, and his muscles rippled like coiled springs. With one easy bound, he leaped into the bushes and sat there, green eyes gleaming out of the darkness. What a lift to our spirits!
We camped at the mouth of the North Nahanni River surrounded by the Nahanni Mountains on one side and the Camsell Mountains on the other. Byron said, “I’ll bet that at sunrise those mountains will be something to see.”
Doug grumped, “Well, you can get up then, take a picture, and we’ll see it when we get back.”
Doug arose first next morning, a remarkable event in itself but made more remarkable by the fact that the sun was not up yet. “Come on, “Byron urged, “We can sleep some other time.”
“Okay, let’s go paddling through the mountains.” Later I found Doug and Byron sound asleep on the shores of Willowlake River sheltered from the wind in some big rocks. I wandered to the top of a small hill and strolled through a huge field of fireweed in full bloom. I picked and ate some of the fireweed stalks, but it would take a long time to get a meal.
When I returned, we had a little discussion on the distance we ought to be traveling. Doug urged, “I’d like to reach the Artic Circle by June 2 to see a 24 day with no night.”
“Well, that’s a hell of a long ways,” I replied.
Yeah, I guess it is. But we could do it if we put our minds to it,” assured Doug in a confident tone.
“It would depend a lot on the current and the weather, but I suppose we could if we really had to,” agreed Byron. I listened with a sinking feeling. We seemed to be falling into what I call the “push for miles” syndrome. The ultimate goal seems so far that it’s easy to get discouraged and want to speed up. In the long run, however, speeding up is self-defeating. After all, we were out to enjoy ourselves and not to race anywhere.
Byron and I outvoted Doug, and I suggested,” We ought to take a day or an afternoon off and climb a mountain or something for a change from steady paddling. It would do us a world of good.”
We passed the town of Wrigley next day and heard the story of the townsfolk deciding to move the town across the river to be nearer the airport. Although the move occurred several years earlier, many maps still show the town on the west side of the river. We stopped below the Roche qi Tempre L’eau, which, translated by my very rusty high school French, means ‘the rock where the water is warm.” We had heard of hot springs beneath the towering rock, which rises over 1000 feet. The rocks and trees soaring high in the sky beckoned to me saying, “Come up and see the country.” I couldn’t resist the invitation and climbed to the point where rock met sky. The lower slopes of aspen thickets were a little difficult to walk through, but very beautiful, white trunks and bright green foliage contrasted against the sky. As I climbed, the aspen gave way to spruce, and by staying close to the cliffs, I found the rest of the way easy going. After collapsing on the rock and wiping the sweat off my brow, I gazed over the valley.
On the valley floor from one horizon to the other wound the Mackenzie River, a huge brown swath through the land. On both sides lakes and marshlands and coniferous forest covered the wide valley floor. Mountains shrouded in mists rimmed the ranges of mountains, mysterious and far away. With feelings of wonder and fabulous well-being, I retreated to our camp and excitedly told them, “You’ve just got to climb up there – the view’s marvelous.”
An Indian man named George Williams came visiting, and we peppered him, as we had all the Indians we met, with questions ranging from what he did for a living to how Indians felt about the government. We watched as he answered. He often thought so long that we wondered if he had forgotten the question, but then he would answer.
“What do you think about the pipeline proposal from Norman Wells south? And what about the road being put in along the Mackenzie River? “I asked.
He answered slowly, “I don’t want the pipeline and I don’t want the road. The river is our road. The pipeline will destroy our land. That’s all we want from the government, just our land. We don’t want money — just our land.”
Doug asked, “What’s it like in the winter?”
“Damn cold! Last winter we had about seven feet of snow and out trapping I about froze. One time coming back from the mountains,” and he pointed to a far-away range. “It was 60 below and I wanted to get back home. Kept going and froze half my face.”
He asked where we were going and seemed impressed when we said Alaska. As he pushed his boat into the river he cautioned, “Watch out for San Sault Rapids. Be sure to stay to the left, or else it’s good-by world.” And he fired his outboard motor and roared off to Wrigley.