Mountain River Recollections (Part 1, Launch)

Shooting the rapids in NWT, Canada , 1995

I remember it very clearly; all of us swore (I swear) that at that moment we would rather be sitting back at work behind a desk with a hot cup of coffee in front of us, than here, cold, wet and staring at frost-covered ridges.  Heck, this was July after all!!  Albeit, we were immediately south of the Arctic Circle.  And come to think of it, we never did need those fancy mosquito shirts we all fussed about while outfitting ourselves before the trip....

The Mountain River is a wide, fast tributary to the Mackenzie River, the largest river system in Canada, and the largest river flowing into the Arctic from North America.  It is situated in the Sahtu region which ranges from Great Bear Lake to the Mackenzie Mountains (Sahtu is the Dene name for Great Bear Lake). During this trip upon which we had embarked, we would expect to paddle roughly 200 miles in an almost 4,000ft (1,200M) descent, taking a week to 10 days.  The dream nucleated with Stuart and Trevor, followed closely by Heather and another couple known only to Trevor; Ana was along gamely, whether she was really into it or not.  But they needed a few more enablers as well it seemed.  I was the lone wolf in search of a paddling partner, as the canoe configuration would be 4 total, two per vessel.  Who else was going?  Friend of a friend; maybe she's cute and we hit it off too.... no need to worry about that as it would turn out.  Ok, experience matters most, and she had it, even if we spent most of the trip virtually incommunicado.

Trip planning and preparation were mostly courtesy Heather, Stuart and Trevor.  From maps, to food, to logistics - I was along for the ride and this ride was good!  We shared some of the load through allocation of food barrels and gear amongst the eight of us.  I had a decent Minolta SLR camera at the time and purchased a grey Pelican case and some carabiners to ensure it stayed with the canoe.  Although the internet was a technical reality at the time, slow speeds and poor resources rendered it next to useless for reliable information - today you don't even have to go to the NWT since you can experience it all on YouTube!  Information in the pre-internet days meant books, outfitters and enthusiast groups - ie, pretty sparse and very word-of-mouth.  I recall that some or all of us attended a photo presentation in Toronto at one point.  Still, I was impressed at the maps and route descriptions that Stuart managed to uncover.  While these crude photo-copied pages would be our guide, a few precious dollars also scored us some color topographical maps (which while indispensable on the river, would become a source of future group dissension....).  After a few shake-down runs in the local spring run-off, we pronounced ourselves 'good to go'.

My grand contribution was our Official Trip T-Shirts - proudly handed out to all at the airport prior to departure.  With enough consensus I opted for the long-sleeve style in mountain green and took sizing orders.  A graphic design was chosen (rather stolen, from the back of a Spirit of the West CD) and the text and dates carefully spelled out.  This would be my first practical lesson in clarifying all aspects of a project.  Worth noting here that producing any reasonable facsimile of a creative, unique graphic image in the 90’s was a long shot.  I did design what we needed using word processing software and made all the elements proportional to each other.  I treasure my shirt today, but man, am I still so pissed they printed the damn crest too small...!  "Exactly like that, only Crest-Sized" is what I repeated over and over, referencing the many ‘normal’ sized examples available in the shop, and to which all assurances were given.  They did not enlarge it whatsoever, let alone to “crest size” as we had agreed, but printed it exactly as I’d given it to them.  Too late by the time I went to pick up the order to get them reprinted (oh, and if so, at my cost, so the money was already spent).

yeah, that's a very small t-shirt crest...

So, 90 miles south of the Arctic Circle, we flew into a firestorm at Norman Wells, NWT - literally, we flew into a firestorm.  From the Mackenzie River waterway nearby (which we could not see) we needed to board a chartered floatplane for our planned assault of the Mountain River.  Clouds of white-grey smoke alternately obscured and revealed a few hundred yards of road ahead of our transport van on the drive to the air field.  Almost immediately, we were informed that due to the proximity of these summer forest fires we could not fly as planned to our launching point, 1200M up on Willow Handle Lake, and were forced to wait it out in the loft of a log cabin at the North-Wright Airstrip.  Indefinitely.  Reports on the containment efforts were at times encouraging, only to later return us abruptly to our pessimistic purgatory.  So we chilled, and waited, played board games and slept.

Finally came the word to fly!  Our group of eight went from sitting idle for 24 hours to wheels up in virtually minutes, in a mad adrenalin-jerker.  110 miles away, it would be a little over an hour.  Two runs with two canoes, four bodies and gear fitting inside the Twin Otter floatplane at a time (the same type as that which recently crashed in Alaska with Senator Ted Stevens aboard).  Threading mountain peaks and then circling to land on the tiny lake, a short taxi led to the stubby old dock on the southeast side of the lake. Practically tossing our gear out, canoes and provisions were unloaded for the second round.  I’m surprised we didn’t have to sign a waiver – maybe we did!  We would set up camp around the south side of the lake one night in preparation for our assault on the eponymous river.

Willow Handle Lake is surrounded by high ridges and peaks, most of which appear unnamed, and our schedule allowed a day spent hiking prior to tackling the river.  This turned out to be virtually an all-day affair including climbing to a rocky ridge at 7500 feet.  The steep, loose talus slope was the most difficult section to traverse, and I gouged a hole in my shin while stepping on a shifting rock; the scar from which I can see to this day.  Nurse Heather was called upon to fabricate her best donut bandage and improvise a pressure dressing using my baseball cap.  Going up is always easy - going down your future joint health comes into focus as if through a crystal ball. This would be my first indication that I may have inherited bad knees, and it was slow, careful steps that saw me back to camp.

from an earlier shake-down run

 Leaving the northwest end of Willow Handle Lake would prove much harder than our hand-scribbled play-book entreated.  Pressing our loaded canoes through rough, tangled, sometimes chest-high scrub and sinking in muddy bog for hours, it was starting to resemble a futile trek led by Gollum.  Our initial progress was pathetic, looking back periodically we never seemed to be getting any closer to Mordor from where we had started hours earlier.  It was perhaps a half mile, but progress was ultimately made in drag, drag, scrape, scrape increments.  We were barely a day into the trip already tapping physical and mental energy reserves we hoped we'd never need; we were still on foot, and hadn't even seen the tributary to the tributary yet!  The way finally got a little easier, and creative canoe-dragging methods led us to a tiny creek (known to most in the scant literature as Push-Pull creek) that barely afforded enough depth to take our burden the remaining distance to the major tributary feeding the Mountain River.  Half the adventure seemed to be merely in getting there!

Mountain River Recollections (Part 2, Paddle)

Shooting the rapids in NWT, Canada, 1995

A river like the Mountain requires canoes outfitted with spray skirts.  Having kayaked in my teens and early 20's I was used to spray skirts but had not yet run rivers by canoe that necessitated this precaution.  Heather admonished us frequently to remember, "the rock is your friend!" in regards to potential rock encounters while riding the white water, this tip used to avoid flipping if pressed into one.  I recall only one spill in the group - resulting in gear and clothing wet, but food and canoe intact.  All ashore to dry out!  Trevor's fire-building skills quickly had Stuart and Heather drying off (oh, did I just call them out?).

We reached First Canyon at Cache Creek about two days in, as the river flow was quite fast.  Though we had already paddled through several rapids and canyons, this is the 'oooooh, aaaaah, gulp' section of the Mountain River that we each anticipated with minor trepidation.  It is a half-mile pinch of narrow rock walls hundreds of feet high with class 3-5 white water and whirlpools around successive blind bends, depending on the season; scouting the route in advance is not an option.  We stayed for 2 days, camped on a high gravel bar near the mouth of Cache Creek, the white water a constant dull roar in the background.  The short break was appreciated, and we used the time to rest and explore the area.  One notable feature where we took a group photo was an eroded creek bed that left a bridged arch over which allowed the creek water to flow both over and under it!   

 

A few of us crossed the river and hiked high up the far side of the canyon in an attempt to recon the route ahead.  Still, nothing could be seen past the first bend.  Like most things in life, the anticipation is far more terrifying than any actual experience.  And although it at first seemed to represent a significant point of no return for our River Adventure, truth be told we'd passed the real point of no return once the Twin Otter left us at Willow Handle Lake - pick-up by power boat on the guano-coated shores of the Mackenzie River was our only true way out.

From this northern position, light remained with us at virtually all times; we were circling the sun at a latitude and declination such that it appeared to essentially hug the horizon 22 hours a day.  Dinnertime drifted later while our mornings seemed to come earlier and cranky-er.  Rarely getting to sleep by midnight or 1am made breaking camp before 9 or 10 the next morning a challenge.  Routine: wake, prepare food, break camp, paddle, stop, drink water, scout, paddle, stop, drink water, paddle, stop, make camp, prepare food, stay awake too late, wake and repeat.  Chores were shared, but each soon found a favorite niche contribution.  The combination of pre-packaged and dehydrated food we ate for almost two weeks was actually very good, filling and hearty.  It was only as we prepared mentally to 're-enter' civilization that it became clear how much we missed animal protein and fat!  Our first return dinner at a crappy little diner in Norman Wells verily demanded a steak.  The small bed in the cramped motel was equally glorious.

First Canyon would eventually give way to Second, Third, Fourth and Fifth, where we left the mountain section of the river and the banks opened up wide.  There would be few mishaps on the river, and it would rarely be the river getting us wet.  Our primary nemesis proved to be the unpredictable weather - if dark skies, cold rain and strong winds almost every night could be considered unpredictable.  When the wind did come, typically mid-afternoon to evening, it appeared in a brisk flurry as if the legendary Atachookaii suddenly waved his great caribou skin cape.  As camp was being set up one afternoon, I looked up at the sound of a shout - could have been Heather; could have been Stuart; or both - to see an already erected tent rolling fast toward me.  The river was to my back and I instinctively jumped in front of the tent with arms and legs outstretched.  Wham!  Full-on tent-in-the-face.  Stuart arrived in time to wrestle the mass of rippling ripstop back to where it belonged and finally staked the sucker down tight just like Gulliver.

We were prepared and we endured, but mornings packing a wet tent soon turned into mornings of packing wet tent, wet sleeping bag and wet clothing before heading back out onto the river.  Actually, being ON the river regardless of the weather turned out to be the best place, as our minds and bodies could generate heat and remain focused on the task rather than our discomfort.  As alluded to in the opening paragraph, we awoke after one particularly dismal night to a dusting of snow on the peaks around us.  Having to also wash occasionally, the only option was dunking into your pick of any small creek fed directly from Mother Nature's kitchen freezer.  This experience only made tolerable by super speed and the odd stitch of dry clothing still at hand.

My canoe partner and I passed most days in silence, cut by the periodic shout of "rock!" or a directional left/right offering.  She excelled whether at stern or bow, both of which came with a certain demand for experience and well-timed technical input.  We made it work, and each day slowly turned into the next.  And, like a lot of trips I've taken, I tend to recall the getting there and the getting home, but not so much of the actual day-to-day of the trip.  We (mostly) enjoyed each others' company and definitely enjoyed the route and rapids, however the difficult conditions slightly overshadowed these events.

Most days followed the pattern of the day before, and each of us adopted a role and a responsibility within the group and generally stuck to it.  During the literal and figurative course of our river descent, the unnamed couple began to keep to themselves (often with my canoe partner) more and more, and the three became progressively distant from the other five of us.  Whomsoever possessed the precious topo maps each day was deemed the “leader” of the expedition, and thus for some a key source of disagreement that soon bubbled into daily argument.  It seemed that a power-struggle was brewing, though one about which I did not care and in which I was, fortunately, not involved.  Nothing really loud erupted, but a lot of quiet fuming and resentment extended on for days.  I don’t recall if/how we all eventually said goodbye.

The river, flowing inexorably north, often presenting us with multiple choices as to which side of the next sand (gravel) bar we should track for the ‘fullest flow’.  The paddling portion of our trip appeared to be winding to a close when the delta formation of the river hinted that a larger body of water was not far ahead.  Again, as with many things in life, the appearance of the mighty Mackenzie, and trepidatiously with it civilization, was somewhat anticlimactic.  It is a large and impressive waterway, to be sure, but its shores are rocky and uninviting in places, and I suppose we also knew that the trip was over.  We had successfully descended the Mountain River and arrived as planned, ready to return 65 miles south by chartered boat to Norman Wells.

Mackenzie River pick-up spot

A business trip to Phoenix immediately on the tail of our return to Yellowknife necessitated shipping expedition gear directly back to Toronto, while work supplies and clothing had been shipped to the Arizona hotel in advance.  What rush to traverse more than 60 degrees of latitude in under 24 hours!  And especially when I ended up in the 100+ degrees of an Arizona summer!  My first trip there.  Although I made it back out on white water here and there in later years, this adventure on the Mountain River would turn out to be my last extended canoe & camping trip.