Author: Mike Reiseberg (Page 5 of 6)

Surrounded by mosquitoes and drenched by thunderstorms, we didn’t even stop for lunch on the last miles of the Little Buffalo. I had two mental images of Great Slave Lake: in the first we reached the mouth of the river and looked across a lake still covered with ice; in the second we looked on an angry sea of white-capped waves. Both images were wrong—our first glimpse of the huge expanse of water revealed no ice and only a gentle swell on the lake.

As we stopped to eat a few more bites at the mouth of the river, the mosquitoes were marvelously thick, just as I had imagined them in the Northwest Territories. Twenty could easily be crushed with one pointless swat; millions more arrived ready to die for a taste of blood.

Elated to be on the big lake, clear and bluegreen, we soon raced with all our strength to reach a point of land reaching into the lake before a threatening thunderstorm. We seemed to pick up energy from the tremendous force of the storm, and every stroke felt effortless even though we paddled with all our power. We reached the point just before the storm and quickly pitched the tent before the wind roared down the lake so hard that the water level on the windward side came up three or four inches. Doug’s paddle floated away, and he had to splash out in the waves to rescue it. I had to move my packs quickly away from the rising water.

It was a glorious storm. Any sensible person would have stayed in the tent waiting for the rain to cease, but not us. We have no sense when pursuing beauty, and we stood in the driving rain watching the lightning shoot from the clouds and listening to the thunder boom. Briefly the rain turned to hail, and then the storm blew on as quickly as it had begun leaving in its wake a hauntingly beautiful rainbow.

Next morning water stretched from horizon to horizon like a huge mirror on which our bow waves created long diagonal ripples. Stopping for lunch on a 30 by 20 foot wide island, we found one bush and a dead wolf prompting us to christen it Wolf Island. Our usual two-hour lunch break doubled and tripled until eventually we spent the night. In the morning we were wind bound, so we built a fire in the shelter of the one bush. I read poetry, and we discussed life while consuming endless cups of tea. For another pastime we watched ice floes drift by and we kept hoping one would hit the island. None did.

Next morning fog and mist covered a much calmer lake, but I hadn’t slept well and felt terrible. By the time I pushed my canoe into the water, Doug and Byron were far out in the lake. Grasping my paddle, I drove my canoe forward with all my strength. Soon my paddle swung in a good fast rhythm, the canoe surged through the misty waves, and all my resentment and misgivings melted away. I felt alive all over again. The cold air and icy water made me think, “This is what we were expecting; let’s enjoy it.”

More of what we expected greeted us as we rounded the next point. Ice! As far as we could see! We pulled to shore, built a fire, and talked about the situation. I said, “Looks to me like we just caught up to the seasons.”

Byron said, “Looks to me like we could maybe squeeze along the shoreline.”

“Yeah, it’s clear all along the shore. I wonder if it will be deep enough,” I replied.

“I think it will be. We can do it. After all, we deserve this,” said Doug. “It’s our only option other than wait for the ice to melt.”

We tried paddling along the narrow path of open water, but sometimes we had to drag our canoes over ice foes. The intense sunlight seemed to bounce off the ice and transform the very air into pure light, and the water made a shining path between shore and blindingly, dazzling ice floes. The breeze shifted the floes, which broke the ice, and the broken pieces danced with the waves sounding like a gigantic wind chime a hundred miles long.

At the end of a happy day becoming intimately acquainted with ice on Great Slave Lake, I lay my sleeping bag on the rocky shoreline to watch the sun set and rise. Ice stretched east, west, and north as far as I could see from horizon to horizon. As the sun sank in the northwest, the sky slowly darkened, and the ice gradually turned orange and then purple. When the sun inched below the horizon, the ice became ghostly white in the dusky twilight.

I awoke to see a big, golden ball rise into the clear sky. Slowly it sank into my consciousness that the ice had all moved about 200 yards away from the shore. “Great,” I thought, “We’ll have no trouble with ice today.” I rolled over and slept until the mosquitoes came with their wake-up call.

After a few miles of traveling in relative ease, the wind shifted and blew the ice back into shore. Soon we found ourselves in candle ice eighteen inches thick, too hard to paddle or poll through and too soft to walk on. Byron and I went ashore and walked around the next point to see how far the ice extended. Prospects for further travel seemed rather dismal until the wind shifted or the ice melted, and the next day ice still stopped progress.

Surprisingly, I found that obstacles added to rather than detracted from the trip. The ice seemed just what we needed. Tensions disappeared as we united against a force stronger than.ourselves. I was glad to be stopped by a lake full of ice. We had absolutely no choice in the matter and somehow that seemed exactly right.

“What is there to life but to seek adventure?” I wrote once in my journal, and I’m sure it is partially true still. Seeking adventure is great, but there is a fine line between adventure and risking one’s life foolhardily. Risks are part of any adventure, part of the bargain. But I have always felt that the risk of being seriously hurt or killed is very much overrated. In my experience, the only times I have been in danger of being badly hurt or dying have almost always occurred as a result of my own stupidity such as the next day’s example.

A strong west wind blew during the night. When we started across the bay, bobbing up and down in the gentle two foot swells, the only visible ice jutted from the east side of the points. As we neared the second and third points, the wind began to increase in strength. Almost instantly the waves became mountainous walls of water. We increased our tempo, hoping to round the point and reach sheltered water. The waves were so high I could see Doug or Byron only when we came on the crest of a wave simultaneously. When we rounded the point, to my utter dismay we saw ice lining the shores solidly as far as we could see. With a vast expanse of angry, white-capped waves and a shore lined with heaving chunks of ice; we had no choice but to go forward, hoping to find an opening in the ice. Returning against the wind would be impossible.

My hands froze to the paddle shafts as I used all my strength to drive the canoe forward. The wind increased, until it became only a matter of time before the waves would be too big to handle. With the water temperature in the 30’s and ice floating in the water, a capsizing or swamping would probably be fatal. A huge curling wave sloshed over the side of my canoe, spraying ice water across my face and chest. The lake had us; she was showing us who was boss.

But she let us go. We found a narrow channel between two huge ice floes and slid into the opening pushed by the waves, dodged several little ice floes, and with great relief set foot on solid ground. We built a roaring fire and settled in to wait for the wind to die. As we watched, the wind slowly shifted the ice and sealed the opening through which we had escaped. Lady Luck seemed to say, “You’ve learned your lesson.”

Something about the awesome bigness of the lake, its strength and power, made us feel something akin to reverence. It could have vanquished us with no notice or care, yet it was beautiful.

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.

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.

After our wonderful day of rest, we paddled to Fort McMurray and claimed our food boxes, which always give us a good feeling knowing we had enough food for another three or four weeks. I had lost a water bottle a few days earlier when I dropped it in a huge block of ice so I bought a two liter bottle of Sprite for replacement. By the time I had drunk it and eaten two packages of cookies, my stomach was about to revolt—time to get out of town.

Not far downstream we saw a mama bear and two cubs. Doug drifted silently towards the bears who were rooting under some logs. They were so preoccupied that Doug got very close before they ran away. Because they are so quiet, canoes are great from which to see wildlife—bear, moose, coyotes, fox, many beaver, and an occasional deer.

About two minutes after we stopped to camp on a beautiful beach, we were swimming. Byron let out a whoop and took a flying dive ending in a beautiful belly flop; so spectacular we requested an encore so Doug could get a picture. The sandy river bottom and cool water were delightful.

We had gradually switched from cooking on our gas stoves to cooking over a fire. Campfires became an important part of our experience, and we built one almost every night. For one thing, white gas was expensive and fire cheap. Also, cooking over a fire added excitement when the grill flipped and dumped three or four pots into the fire or a pot boiled over putting out the fire. Often we burned a hand when forgetting how hot a pot handle becomes.

We sat late around the fire, thinking and dreaming and discussing deep thoughts. Everything seemed so clear and simple. The problems of an entire world could be solved easily in front of a fire for ideas and thoughts come easily, conversation is natural and relaxed, and no one tries to impress others with superior arguments or knowledge. Conversation flows like the river: sometimes a steady flow of words, sometimes fast and lively as the rapids, sometimes cascading into a deep still pool of silence.

Mosquitoes arrived in force as the sun set. With completely calm air, the mosquitoes took full advantage to launch an attack on three unprotected canoeists. We didn’t stay unprotected long—out came our defenses: mosquito repellent and netting rather than the tent as we had become very partial to sleeping in the open air.

Just the weather we were experiencing made this trip worthwhile. After a clear night, rain fell but by afternoon we had blinding sun and heat building to a big thunderstorm. But the day ended under sunny skies, and the wind had switched 180 degrees from north to south.

The wind became so strong we were almost held to a standstill by late afternoon. Remembering the mosquitoes, we chose an open windy sandbar for our campsite. The wind kept them away until after dark, and then the temperature dropped so low that they never showed up.

Just as the moon rose between a big spruce tree and a small silver cloud, I awoke and shifted my position so I could watch it comfortably. As the moon slowly slipped above the tree and lit up a tiny cloud, the music of the night played softly on the cool night breeze. An owl hooted across the river. A fox barked. Waves lapped the shore and I could almost hear the moonbeams dancing on the river.

… and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop, and I thought that I surely was dreaming, with the peace of the world piled on top (1).

Robert Service, The Call of the Yukon

When I next awoke, a thick fog blanketed the river, soaking my sleeping bag and making it generally difficult to get up. So far, fog in the morning had indicated sun in the afternoon, and this day was no exception. I sat on the shore and watched Doug and Byron disappear into the fog before I left. The fog shut away the rest of the world, and as I paddled down the middle of the river, it seemed like moving in a cloud, alone and high in the sky.

The fog burned off rapidly, and I cruised on in my little red canoe on the completely calm and empty river. Once I stopped to visit a badger who disappeared into his hole. He wouldn’t answer my knock so I guess he wasn’t the sociable type.

The Athabasca River had been fast and full of little rapids from Jasper to Fort Assiniboine. Then it became gentler, encased in a big valley until past the town of Athabasca where it kicked up its heels in a series of violent rapids. Past Fort McMurray it became much wider with a sluggish current, and the valley disappeared into a flat landscape.

We camped often on one of the many sandbars because the wind kept the mosquitoes down, and we easily found a spot for the tent. But sand always seeped into our sleeping bags and about everything else.

Because of the superb hot and sunny weather, I was getting a good sunburn, but we weren’t complaining. Later we would get plenty of the bad weather we had been expecting. As we neared the end of the Athabasca River and approached the delta where it pours into Lake Athabasca, the surrounding land became flatter and flatter with the last hill disappearing on the horizon. Although not majestic, the river became serenely beautiful bordered by light green cottonwoods, which harmonized with the dark coniferous trees. Doug said it right, “This is just plain pretty.”

We called it a day 45 miles from where the wind blew strong enough to almost stop our progress. I had been suffering from splitting headaches along with sunburn, and the sun beating down made my head feel as I it had been baked even though I wore a hat all day. Small irritations loomed much larger when I wasn’t feeling well, and everything Doug or Byron did seemed to irritate me. I was a complete pain in the butt not wanting to be with anybody and spending most of my time alone.

When Doug suggested we paddle all the way to Lake Athabasca next morning, I became very upset—a 45-mile day without much current to help. Normally I would have said, “Let’s go for it.” Now, though, I said, “I don’t really want to, but if you’all want to, let’s go ahead.”

Doug said, “I’d kind of like to. You know, sit on the shore and watch the sunset. It would be nice.

I replied, Well, okay, but don’t worry about me if I don’t show up till tomorrow morning.” Under my breath I muttered, “Don’t worry about me if I don’t show up at all.”

I paddled along slowly trying to resolve problems in my mind. Maybe I should travel alone until | got my head straight. Several times I stopped to walk away from the river and visit one of the countless tiny lakes in the delta. Frogs laid their eggs in the water, and several times I stumbled onto a duck’s nest. Ducks swam lightly over the placid water, and humming mosquitoes filled the air. Spring had come to the north woods.

I stopped at a creek to get some clear, cold water to drink, but I never did get a drink. As I pulled into shore, a two-foot long fish, disturbed by my canoe, made a mighty leap and shot into the river. I had doubted the existence of fish after unsuccessfully trying so long to catch one. Now I saw one with my own eyes. I whipped out my rod, chose a red and white spoon, and started casting. Then I saw the fish nose back into the creek channel so I cast the lure directly in front of it and bang! The lure disappeared in a flurry of mud. The fish made a powerful rush into the river, but two or three minutes later I excitedly pulled a seven or eight pound fish onto the beach and hit it over the head. ‘Then I dropped the rod and jumped up and down yelling, “I caught a fish, I caught a fish!”

What a boost to my spirits! I was ready to paddle to the moon and back. Gone were all thoughts of paddling alone—I had to show my fish to someone. Besides, I didn’t know how to clean or cook it. I headed to the lake to find Doug and Byron.

As I neared the lake, the wind blowing toward me became colder and colder. I just knew the lake would still be frozen. We had anticipated that possibility and included extra food in the boxes we had picked up at Fort McMurray.

I met Doug and Byron on the shore preparing to set up camp. The lake was open as far as we could see. I called, “Why don’t you look in the snout of my canoe and see what I brought for supper.”

Byron wandered over and said, “Well, okay, but I hope it’s ice cream.”

“No,” I replied. It’s better. A fish! I don’t know what kind, but it’s pretty big. At least it’s the biggest I’ve ever caught.”

Byron reached into the plastic bag, pulled the fish out, and held it up. “A northern pike!” he exclaimed. “Would you look at that. His first fish, and it’s bigger than any I’ve ever caught.”

“I don’t believe it,” chimed in Doug. “You must have bought it from an Indian. What kind of lure did you use?”

“It’s still in its mouth. I don’t know how to get it out. It kept snapping and just look at that mouthful of teeth.”

All at once we said, “Let’s build a fire and cook it!”

And so ended the Athabasca River—three happy canoists eating grilled northern pike, drinking peppermint tea, and watching the sun set over a sea of golden reeds.

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.