Remember the 1982 made–for–TV movie of Ray Bradbury's "All Summer in a Day"?
No??
Well, for all you philistines, both the film and short story are set on Venus in some distant, terraforming future. Tragically for the poor neo–Venusian children, the terraforming stopped short of doing anything about the Venusian rain. Apparently, on the second planet from the sun it rains every day of the year but one, hence the misleading lyric of the title.
On our canoe trip it did not rain
every day. Rain drops stopped falling on our heads the sixth day, and later the eighth through eleventh days. But for most of the trip, the clouds divested themselves of their double–h–to–the–o with evangelical persistency, as if the precipitation was trying to convince us that we could be happy if only we let water into our hearts. In the end though, all the rain likely made the trip more memorable, heightening the challenge of the journey and our sense of accomplishment at its close.
The goal was to paddle the Snake River from Duo Lakes, near the river's headwaters, through its confluence with the Peel River, to Fort McPherson in ten days. As the raven flies, the distance is roughly 520 kilometres from put–in to take–out. Below are some attractive pictures from the journey, framed by words you are welcome to ignore.
* My partner in paddling was Hessian Brit and fellow volunteer Martin Kratz. Martin, prior to this trip, had never paddled whitewater, had never done an extended canoe trip, and yet somehow was still foolish enough to both go into hock to pay for the trip, and to trust me not to run us into a headwall or hydraulic. The fact that he didn't know what either of the latter terms meant at the time may have contributed to his imprudence, but without it, the trip would not have happened. Mahsi cho, Tsuk.
DAY 1Our flight from Inuvik to Norman Wells is delayed by several hours, giving us welcome slumber time as we sprawl supine on airport benches. We eventually arrive at the 'Wells in the afternoon—watch–free, I have happily slipped out of discrete time—and are soon aboard a floatplane.
The pilot, Dennis, lets us know before take–off that we might encounter some thunder cells requiring a careful berth, and sure enough, we find them. The sharply circumscribed storm clouds have me excitedly taking photographs and Martin looking, well, less excited.
After almost an hour and a half of flying time, we come upon the Snake (a mistranslation of the Gwich'in word for 'worm'). The fecundity of the Snake's upper reaches so impressed Hudson's Bay Company officer John Bell that he established the trading post of Fort McPherson down river. Indeed, much of the scenery is eerily evocative of a Swiss storybook, as if we might stumble across Heidi and a herd of Braunvieh around any bend.
| The headwaters of the Snake River. |
As the floatplane drops in altitude, we see that Duo Lakes resembles a miniature Everest base camp, with bright yellow tents dotting the hills surrounding the water. Dennis circles once to judge the wind conditions and then sets us down on
the lake closest to the river, at whose shores a party of curious onlookers has gathered. In one of those Canada–is–small– and–the–number–of–people–who–pay–to–be–dropped–off–in– the–middle-of–nowhere–is–even–smaller moments, it turns out that the large group are with a family of outfitters from Ontario who happen to be related to a friend from home.
After portaging the canoe to the river, we head back to the lakes with the intention of hiking up a nearby ridge. As we reach a faeric little spring on the hillside, the wind picks up and the clouds roll in. Deciding to err on the side of caution, we descend back down to the shoreline, have dinner, and retire to our tent. Halfway through our meal, it had begun to rain, and it continues to do so throughout the night.
DAY 2We awake to dense cloud. And go back to sleep.
Later, we awake. To dense cloud. More sleep follows.
After going through this process several more times, we rise to the still absent sun and schlep another load of gear down to the river before breakfasting. Finally, as we gullet the last of our scrambled eggs, the sun shows up, though it looks like it has been hitting the bottle. Nonetheless seeing our moment, we hit the water.
The current is fast, and all the rain means this normally shallow section of the river is nothing but easy swifts and
Class Is until we hit the river's first
canyon, which has mostly Class II+ sections, a Class III in their midst. The rapids are all sharp bends in the river where the water runs into a cliff, or 'headwall'. It is fantastic whitewater, probably the most enjoyable I have done. We portage around the Class III.
| The Class III we declined nicely illustrates the concept of a headwall. Note the gashes from large rocks being hurled against it at spring–melt water levels. |
Shortly after leaving the canyon, the rain returns and eventually suffering from the cold, we pull ashore, have an equally cold dinner, and make camp.
DAY 3Another day of rain greets us. The river is quite braided in this section. The elevated water often escapes its banks, creating new channels through the willows and black spruce. Occasionally, we run one of these and play chicken with the trees that have fallen across the river. In the middle of the day, we come across a scenic little beach nested in a canyon and stop for lunch.
| While the water had been fantastically clear until this point, just before the entrance to this canyon a milky white stream joined the flow, which can be seen mixing with the clear water in the background. From then on, the river was turbid. |
As we come around one corner, perched on a striking pillar of rock is an even more striking ram. Unfortunately, by the time we get ashore and extricate our cameras from their waterproof containers, he is gone. For those of you who haven't seen a Dall's sheep, as we passed him we were literally close enough to see the reds of his
eyes.
Later, we see several more sheep on cliffsides, but never succeed in getting close enough to produce worthwhile photographs. A dinner in the rain is followed by an exceedingly buggy campsite as we bring the day to a close.
DAY 4
Today begins like the previous ones, and then gets worse. The wind is stronger, whitecapping the river at times and numbing our digits. The cumulative rainfall has done a number on the water level, and three– to four–foot standing waves form at most bends. The river is wide enough that we can avoid them, but only with some stern paddling.
After a handful of hours in the canoe we get to the
second canyon. The rain has stopped by now and the wind lessened. Climbing up a hill to the left of the canyon entrance, we head over and scout the
rapids. You can probably guess from the video that we decide to portage. We also race several sticks, but they all die. And by sticks, of course, I mean ground squirrels.
| Adrenalin is my epinephrine. |
| Some arctic dock along the portage trail. |
The high standing waves continue on after the canyon. While the rain comes back for a time, we finish the day paddling in welcome sunshine, profoundly tired.
| The first of the sun we had seen in days. The sight of it almost brought tears to my eyes. |
DAY 5
In recounting anecdotes from the trip, Martin would later refer to this day as 'Black Tuesday', though I would argue that it was decidedly more of a grey day, comprising weather and incidents that were alternatively dark and sunny.
The morning is overcast but innocuous. When a period of actual blue sky and sun appears, we immediately stop for a lunch and an opportunity to dry our clothing. Later, feeling warm and content, we idly begin packing up. Then
a storm so windy comes over the mountains that it is literally difficult to stand up, prompting us to rather quickly seek shelter.
Huddled under the canoe, we wait out the storm for about half an hour, by which time the worst of it has subsided. However, our blue skies have been overthrown and the rain doesn't appear to have an exit strategy. Deciding that paddling is the best way to cope, we get back in the canoe, now right side up.
After a short while, a narrow gorge, looking very worthy of exploration, comes into view. The current is strong, so we must line some way up the river to make it back to the entrance. As if by magic or the art of a bad director, while we begin climbing this coolest of canyons, the sun reappears from behind the mountains.
| (Appreciative whistling.) |
| As you might be able to tell by my sodden appearance and the background, getting to successive stages of the gorge often required both swimming and bouldering. This was proper canyoneering. |
| Yeah, it was a nice canyon. |
Not getting close to the end of the gorge, we bailed and took in the view, which is here on the map. You can see the gorge as the dark line on the left side of the river opposite the forked stream bed visible in the photograph. |
After climbing down to our boat, we get back on the river. Within ten minutes, things go from good to bad again. Around a slight but heavily treed bend, we notice too late that the river, whose current is already speedy, now narrows rapidly, creating five–foot standing waves that span the river. With very little choice in the matter, we are into the thick of them, the bow of the canoe rising up over the crests before plunging back down into the trough of the next wave. We manage to keep our momentum, and steering for the right bank, finally make it ashore. By that time, the canoe has more than a foot of water in it. Feeling rather delirious, we line down the rest of the narrows, and when the river broadens once more, we eat, set up the tent, and sleep.
DAY 6
We wake up still feeling a little wary about what the river might hold. However, the day proves to be sunny and warm, full of golden eagle sightings and enjoyable little canyons. Lots of butterflies float along the river banks, including some impressive
Old World Swallowtails that I don't succeed in photographing, my temerity at catching them always giving way to fear of injuring them. The evening is spent contemplating our first proper sunset of the trip over scotch and fine pipe tobacco.
This day also marks our departure out of the Mackenzie Mountains. The landscape from now on will be of the river valley cutting through flat boreal forest.
DAY 7
We've lost the sun again. The day is one long, hard paddle into the rain and wind. When we finally stop to camp, we've lost fine motor abilities in our fingers and spend an hour laughing hysterically at our inability to fasten and unfasten clips, or use cutlery. Who knew near–hypothermia could be so amusing?
DAY 8
After the coldest day of the trip, the gods show us some mercy and we have sun again. In fact, today proves to be one of the most magical of the journey as the forests are now comprised predominantly of birches, and we happen upon them in the midst of seeding. The trees release copious amounts of downy seeds that invade the air like a slow-motion, sun-shot snowfall. The soft spots of light fill the volume of the world around us as far as we can see.
After much hoping–to–see–it–around–every–bend, we finally arrive at the Snake's confluence with the Peel River. Earlier on our trip, we had seen a peregrine dive–bomb a gull that was threatening its nest. Now, at a broad spit of sand known as the
Taco Bar, we witness the avian equivalent of Godzilla versus King Kong, as a bald eagle tries to get at the nest of an enormous (though still smaller than the eagle) glaucous gull—a rippin' good fight ensues.
Stopping at the end of a long day, we have finished the first 300 kilometres of our trip in seven days of paddling, five of which were in the rain. Ahead of us now lies 220 km of slow-moving current, which we have to cover in three days. Fortunately, we have no idea of the distance and our trip report, later discovered to be horrendously inaccurate, says the section should only take two days.
I had hoped to see an azure darner on this trip, but succeeded in catching exclusively lake darners, like this female here. |
Labrador tea really does make a good cuppa. |
DAY 9The Peel River has a decidedly different character than the Snake. The landscape is much drier, and on the hottest day of the trip, the atmosphere feels almost post–apocalyptic after the lushness of the Snake. However, due to the rain, the current is not as slow as we had feared, allowing us to take breaks in certain sections and simply let our canoe float along with the river. I don't know how long we paddle for, but it is at least past midnight when we stop.
| At lower altitudes, fireweed was everywhere. |
DAY 10We start paddling at 11:00 AM. We know the time at this point because we have taken out our satellite phone in attempt to call ahead to our pickup, who isn't at home. (Having the day re–atomized into minutes and seconds after nine days without it is disconcerting.) Our aim is to paddle until we reached 8 Mile, where the Dempster Highway crosses the Peel by ferry and where we will catch a ride back to Inuvik.
We see our first fish camp fairly early on, but also suffer from a headwind that gathers strength as the day progresses. Eventually it is so strong that the river not only white-caps, but we can no longer generate any forward momentum; it is all we can do to hold our position on the water. Pulling ashore, we get out our lines and begin hauling the canoe down the river until a curve puts us in a lee and we can paddle again. Later, the river changes course and we spend the rest of the day with a crosswind, or occasional tailwind.
Sometime in the evening, we pass a monument marking where an RCMP patrol perished trying to get back to McPherson. The sight is doubly depressing, because we know that they expired some distance from McPherson, meaning we still have a long way to go. Later, we pass Gwich'in Rocks, three pillar figures representing hunters who turned to stone when they saw a woman menstruating. I suppose that in a land without reptiles, one gets unusual variations on the Medusa.
In the early morning, the sun sets briefly before rising again, and the sublime displays of light and cloud are about all that keep Martin and I from taking a paddle to the other's head. The river has become painfully shallow in places, and we run out of bugspray just as the swarms seem to worsen. Utterly defeated, we pull onto a beach and bivouac with our bug jackets pulled over the top of our sleeping bags. It is 5:30 AM, and we have been paddling for eighteen and a half hours. We have still not reached the ferry crossing.
DAY 11Five hours of sleep and we are up at 10:30 AM. After a quick breakfast, we are back on the river. Just before one in the afternoon, we see our first fellow humans since leaving Duo Lakes. They are in a small aluminum boat on the other side of the channel. We wave, hoping to ask them how much further it is to the ferry crossing. They either don't see us, or don't care, but it doesn't matter, because at that moment, the
ferry crossing swings into view. The distance is done, the elation profound. Our ride picks us up from the ferry crossing a few hours later and by evening, we are home.
Be well, all.
