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.