Doug and Byron wanted to be on the move, so late in the afternoon we set off across Summit Lake. The small creek leading to the Little Bell started innocently enough, flowing high and full, but then we ran into brush clogging the creek. I gave up using a paddle, hunkered down low, and pulled it along by grabbing the brush. Soon we slid into the Bell, which was running extremely high and overflowing its banks in many places. With a very strong current we made good time swinging rapidly around the tight bends until we came to a log jam extending most of the way across the river from one bank and a sweeper hanging part way over the river from the other bank. Byron opted to try first and slid under the sweeper, which was about three feet above the water, made a sharp turn to clear the log jam, and maneuvered into the open water below the jam. Doug followed, but he went under the sweeper a little farther out in the river. I started to turn my canoe preparing to follow when I heard Doug say, “Oh no, no, no, damn…”
I spun my canoe around and drove it onto the shore leaping out in the same motion. I could see the white bottom of Doug’s canoe pinned up against the logjam. Thinking that Doug might be trapped underneath, I ran to help but then saw to my relief that he had grabbed the overhanging sweeper as his canoe capsized. I asked, “Hey, are you all right? I thought you were a goner when I saw your canoe pinned. Shall I come out and help you turn it over?“
“Hell no, I got into this one myself, and I’ll get out. Damn it all anyway; why did this have to happen to me?” Doug fumed. He managed to right his canoe, bail it out, and at his insistence, we continued on. The current became even stronger as we neared the Bell. Then we rounded a corner and the flooded river went wild. We slammed our canoes into bushes and got out to look at the rapids. As far as we could see, waves filled the river disappearing finally behind a hairpin turn. What we saw didn’t bother us; what might be around the corner make us think twice before running it blind. Because Doug was wet and cold, we decided to camp.
The water level dropped more than two feet during the night, but the rapids didn’t look any less formidable. I climbed a hill behind our camp, looked them over, and satisfied myself that we could do it. The extremely fast current shooting down the narrow brush-lined channel allowed no escape until we reached the end of the rapids. After one more look, we went for it slashing through the battle lines of tangled waves and spray and dropping through the rapid as if we were riding a water slide. Waves splashed over our bows, and the shore went by in a blur.
With one more exciting ride down a rapid, we hit the comparatively wide and calm Bell River. After paddling upstream for a few days, going downstream seemed effortless with each stroke pushing the canoe skimming along like a breeze on the surface. Thunderclouds marched their way in ordered columns above the high rocky summits, but we wound our way through them and dodged each row of clouds getting in on the tail end of each shower. As a result, the sun shone as it rained making for lovely rainbows, and rain didn’t seem to matter.
As summer turned to fall, nights gradually darkened, and we were looking forward to bug-free nights again. We had been cooped in our tent almost every night since Fort Simpson. Now Byron and I began discussing the possibilities of spending the winter in the bush in Alaska at the end of the trip instead of going home. I had always wanted to try building a cabin and spending the winter in the wilderness but wondered if this was the right time and place. Byron kept talking, and the longer he talked, the more interested I became. Soon we were seriously considering the idea.
Next morning I climbed a large hill where butterflies swarmed among the yellow poppies covering the dry hills. And the view—picture a meandering river winding like a silver ribbon across a broad green valley. Rocky high mountains capped with snow shared the horizon with billowing thunderclouds, and a half moon sailed in the sky to complete the picture. Life had never seemed sweeter than in those few fleeting moments on top of that hill. I stretched out my arms to encompass the whole vast scene and shouted to the breeze, “What a way to live!”
I waved to Doug as he went by and danced down the hill. At lunch four beaver swam by and scrambled up the muddy bank opposite us. Byron paddled far ahead late in the evening, and he saw two moose, one swimming in the river. Byron said, “Could have just paddled right up to him and hit him over the head with my paddle.”
The Bell River flowed slowly along the next day, now muddy from the Eagle River confluence. With the sun shining warmly, we paddled bare-shouldered and sweating for the first time since the Upper Mackenzie. I saw my partner’s canoes on the shore where they were eating lunch and, spotting a creek just before them, I pulled into it to get some clear water to drink. To my surprise I heard a voice say, “Hello, Mike.” There were Tom and Steve.
“How the devil did you get by us?”
“We saw your canoe up above those rapids on the Little Bell, but we didn’t see either Doug’s or Byron’s,” explained Steve. “Tom thought you must have already gone so we went ahead and ran it. Scared the hell out of us. If we’d had a lick of sense, we would have stopped there too.”
“Well, what are you up to now? Going to stop in Old Crow?” I asked
“Yep, we’ll probably see you guys there. We need to pick up more food.”
After lunch Doug left, and I asked Byron, “Did you talk to Doug about this log cabin idea before you suggested it to me?”
“No, but I told him that we were considering it, and I figured he wanted to get a job right after the trip was over and wasn’t too interested.”
I said, “That’s good. We’ve been getting along real good since the Rat River, and I didn’t want to get him upset with us talking behind his back.”
In the afternoon I was tremendously excited to see my first caribou. At first glance they appeared as if they were about to fall on their faces. Their antlers seemed far too big for their bodies. They appeared rather unconcerned and showed little fear when I came quite close.
When we caught up to Doug at the confluence of the Bell and Porcupine rivers, he remarked, “I saw four caribou this afternoon. How about you?”
“Well, I guess I saw about six or seven,“ I lied.
Then Doug said, “I outdid you. I had a caribou swim down the river in front of me for about two miles, right down the Porcupine River.”
I laughed and said, “It sounds more like the caribou outdid you.”
We could hear them snorting and splashing as they crossed the river about a mile below our camp. Early in the morning, thinking I had heard something in the canoes, I jumped out to make sure it wasn’t a porcupine. In previous camps I learned that they just love to chew things you really wish they wouldn’t, one of their favorite items being a well-used wooden paddle. I wasn’t about to let my best paddle be chewed. The horizon glowed gold, but nothing seemed to be around.