Archive for category Kayak Trips

The Yukon River Quest : a Baptism of Sleeplessness

Stumbling in the dusk of a Yukon midnight on rounded river stones at the Lower Laberge checkpoint I battle my legs that have become unforgiving and wobbling after the 87 kilometer slog from the running start at Whitehorse. I give up the struggle and opt to sit on the ground and wrestle into new dry layers for the cooler nighttime temperatures until the sun rises ever so slowly above the tree line. The next section, the 30 Mile Canyon’s swift currents would provide a respite from the intense paddling required to cross Lake Laberge’s unpredictable winds and waves of which I experienced both.

The Lake.

A look ahead mid lake to a storm cell.

A look ahead mid lake to a storm cell.

A running theme to my journey on the YRQ (Yukon River Quest) would be the phrase ‘nothing can prepare you for…’ and this would begin with the legendary Lake Laberge. A 50 kilometer long shoreline that provides no mental relief as the contour of the land does not allow the paddler to see the end of the lake until the final few paddle strokes. I entered the lake thinking that the forecasts were a dirty trick and completely useless to me as was the headwind coming from the Northeast. The support boats lined up with buoys to direct the long line of competitors diagonally from the entry point at the Policeman’s Point delta to the shore.

When I hit that shore the winds were not just blocked by the hillside, but stopped completely and the water became a glass tabletop accompanied by a draining heat that was previously hidden by the winds. My speed dwindled but I was still paddling. In the distance, a thunderhead builds and a single clap of thunder erupts, warning me of two things. One my carbon fibre paddle is a terrific conductor and two, the weather could within a heart beat become daunting on the lake. I would not be struck by lightening but did have to contend with the winds that began sending a slight ripple on the surface of the lake and then with alarming speed whipped the inland sea into a bright green white capped frothing mess and what seemed endless head down paddling. I over exerted myself and felt the twinges in my left shoulder. The winds died and the water softened but would never return to a full calm.

The length of the lake was always in the back of my mind even as far back as my training paddles after work. It was not until I was on the lake that its full potential to work your nerves and your mental state became reality. The simple fact that you cannot see the end of it as the geography only allows a view of one point for hours. Then, rounding that point the only view again is the next point some distance away. This mind destroying routine repeats. The GPS reads out my distance, speed and ETA to the next checkpoint which never seems to get closer, my speed never rising fast enough and my ETA a lingering dream of some future event not to come.

I watched the sun set and paddled the last 10km in the dusky midnight sun happy to see the blinking red light denoting the entrance to the river proper and a welcome return to going with the flow after eight hours of paddling in dead water.

The River.

A view of Five Fingers Rapids from the look out.

A view of Five Fingers Rapids from the look out.

My river map depicts a serpentine section of near overlapping bends and I imagine how much distance I would make up if the gods would just grab both ends of that stream and pull it straight. I stop paddling, drifting at 8km/hr to take in some calories. I don’t think of what I carry in my bag as actual food, rather just calories. I needed at least 340 calories per hour to maintain my pace and it became a struggle to even ingest half that amount. Power bars, gummy bears, fig bars, 5 hour power shots as chasers to Redbull, and then there were the oh-so delectable energy gels that kept me going during the over night hours when my stomach could not bear anything solid.

The landscape. Yes, I am also here to compete in the toughest paddling marathon on the planet but aside to that is this amazing wilderness. High cliffs, low delta, bog, river fog, swift currents, a minor rapid, and at times almost fiord-like v-shaped notches between mountains that appeared to be drawn by children. At times the river narrowed creating lovely strong currents to push me along my way. At other times the river opened up wide to a maze of islands, sweeper currents and log jams. I start seeing things. The sleeplessness was on the list of things that I could not be prepared and the resulting mental depletion leading to hallucinations on varying levels from seeing things in the rocks and trees such as faces and animals, to full-on visual and audio ghosts of the mind. I had never experienced hallucinations before in my life so these came as a surprise to me and an immediate frustration. The so-called sleep monsters causing my head to bob as though I was falling asleep on a city bus, making my eyes heavy and causing me to fully realize that all this was happening while I was in a kayak. A capsize in the icy waters would definitely wake me up but was something I wanted to avoid. It was not until I found other racers to chat with as we paddled that these symptoms of ultimate fatigue alleviated I only briefly.

The people.

From the moment my team and I arrived in Whitehorse to the ending of the race in Dawson it is the people I met along the way that made this challenging and at times emotional experience all it could be. Our hosts welcomed us with food, drink, laughter and soft beds. My fellow racers, though truly competitors also gave way to giving and helping each other. Offering encouragement, aid on the river, and even hotel rooms at the 7 hour rest break at Carmacks. I was turning down offers! The camaraderie within this moving community of racers, organizers, a host of joyful and simply amazing volunteers to which I am forever grateful and my dream team support crew is what I take away from this. Not the exhausting hours of paddling, nor the sore aches pains and flattened backside. Even the incredible scenery falls short of what the Yukon people, new paddling friends and my close team brought to the YRQ.

The weather.

At the end of the race as I was guided to the hotel by my partner Anik who braced against my constant paddle-drink veering to the right I said that I felt as though I had been Yukoned. The great north had hit me with just about everything she had. Rain, winds, and constant head winds. Heat that was nearly debilitating at times, and the non-stop daylight, though dampened slightly by rain clouds was never truly dark.

The rapids.

For five years I had fretted about the Five Fingers Rapids. After running them and it should be noted that this was my first ever rapids I can see that I really should have been more concerned with the lake section. Five Fingers was the highlight of the entire paddle. I passed a small island where a spotter stood vigil and shouted a warning that I was nearing the rapids and to keep right. I did so, hugging the right side of the river and could hear the rush of water but could not see it. The sun had began to rise and up in the Yukon that rise is shallow and slow. It also caused a blinding glare preventing me from seeing the notch that I had to aim for. I was not until I was about 50 feet away that the sun was trapped behind a tree, or a rock and the notch opened up to my view. Waves and boils of water were backlit. Every water droplet suspended in light and draped with river fog steaming up from the water’s surface. In dreamlike quality I paddled hard into what I hoped to be the sweet spot.

A slot of water that would take me through safely. Like a pinball I bounced from broadsiding waves to the line of rapids to my right that I dearly wanted to avoid. ricocheting out the other side I found myself wanting to do it again! I whooped loudly to the safety boat who cheered me on. I felt elated and refreshed and regained a strength I had lost on the lake. I sat enjoying the current and fiddled with my GPS to set it for the next waypoint. I looked up and was being pulled to the left side of the island after the rapids and worked hard up against the current to follow the right side, the softer safer route around the island. All the while berating myself for being cocky! I would find myself using more energy in similar fashion at least four more times that day to avoid being drawn down channels.

The end.

Taking a rest break at 60 Mile CP, the last stop before the finish line.

Taking a rest break at 60 Mile CP, the last stop before the finish line.

Reaching the last checkpoint at a place called 60 Mile after hours of paddling in milky cream coloured waters caused by the silt pushed into the Yukon River by the intersection with the White River, under heat that had taken the place of the early morning rains. I was tired, but happy. I was paddling with two of the stand up paddle boarders that were allowed into this edition of the YRQ as an experimental class. I am in awe of these athletes and shared my last hours on the river with them. We took a break at the check point to stretch before the last leg to Dawson that was an expected 5-6 hours of paddling. I left that checkpoint feeling the bubble I had stayed within since the start begin to loose air. I was emotional, in a certain amount of pain from my sore shoulder and tendonitis raging in my left wrist. I could see the end, it was near. I let the emotions take over for a few moments, with watering eyes and a lump in my throat. I was going to make it. I would be dead last, but I did not care about my time, my placing or position. I was set to be a finisher in the Yukon River Quest, if the last hours did not finish me.

The real adventure of this race for me was those last hours. Fading in and out of my sleep deprived stupor. Just keep paddling embroidered on the flat of my deck bag my constant mantra. I was on auto-paddle following the center right of the endless but easy to navigate channel that would inevitably, even if I only drifted take me to Dawson City. The optical illusion of going downhill was exenterated at this point. I was in fact paddling downhill with the flow if the river to the Bering Sea but in my sleepy state I felt as though I was paddling down endless steep shuts of grey water. If the current slowed it was as though I was going up and over bowls. My visuals were becoming a greater part of the problem. There was a long period of time where I felt as I was paddling under an series of overpasses. Concrete columns appearing in my peripheral vision and the spotter plane that kept track of us flying far too close to collision with my imagined structures.

The last part was a mixture of foggy mind and tired body and everything that could go wrong did. I could see the famous scar, that white exposed rock demarking Dawson and it was still at least an hour of paddling away. My over-packed and now messy cockpit cause the first problem when the looped handle of a dry bag jammed my left rudder pedal making maneuvering increasingly difficult. The Yukon had one more head wind in store for me as well. At one point I gave into it all. Depleted and drained and unable to fully grip my paddle or steer out of the wind I let my kayak drift sideways in fast current. I can only imagine the drama and speculation taking place at the finish line as everyone wondered what the hell I was up to out there.

From behind, a familiar set of voices. Not imagined, not hallucinatory but real, my support team. My loves and my dearest friends had been gathered my our host who was volunteering as a sweeper boat and came up from behind. Gus, who had paddling the marathon several times shouted and coached me to the last few paddle strokes. Cutting through my fog and the adrenaline took over me and I sprinted as best I could to the end. The horn sounds and I am done. I am home and greeted by fellow paddlers, onlookers and my team. The next few minutes were overwhelming as I struggled to my feet from the kayak cockpit that had been my home for so long. Nearly drowned as my partner helps me drink from a water bottle and leaning terribly to the right from a sore hip I managed to give a coherent interview on shore before staggering to a hot shower and a reward of a cold beer in the hotel room. I slept for 10 hours.

Paddlingboy 2.0

Arriving at the finish line of the 2016 Yukon River Quest.

Arriving at the finish line of the 2016 Yukon River Quest.

The Yukon River Quest attempt was a bucket list item that I had thought, completed or not would be checked off that list and I would move on. Nothing surprises me anymore about myself. At Carmacks, after 30-some hours of paddling my kayak I arrived announcing I was done. My crew mate Gus noted that I did not say I was scratching, just that I was done. After giving myself a good talking to in the hotel room I realized done only done for now. I was back in my boat. At the second rest break, a small 3 hour stop where I found no time to sleep I lay in my sleeping bag making plans for next year’s race and all the things I would do differently based on some hard lessons learned. I must be out of my mind and thought that once I got some sleep that I would come to my senses. Alas, no. I have secured a kayak for the 2017 edition of the YRQ and going back to the river with a new plan and a year to prepare.

I can’t end this post without thanking a few people. My partner Anik who took such sweet care of me before  during and after the race. My kayak support team of Gus Oliveira and Pia Cove who made this experience all that it could be and more, and I have never laughed so much in a long time. The volunteer hordes of the YRQ made everything easy and again added to the amounts of laughter and good spirits. A special and from the heart grateful thank you goes to the crew at the Coffee Creek rest break who were kind, gentle , thoughtful and amazing to us messed up paddlers.

I was indeed Yukoned. She tossed it all at my but in the end I and my little wooden kayak endured, and that is what this marathon is all about.

 

, , , ,

Leave a comment

Before and After the Yukon River

Painted on the wall opposite Klondike Kate's cafe in Dawson City, Yukon Photo by Dave Barnes

Painted on the wall opposite Klondike Kate’s cafe in Dawson City, Yukon
Photo by Dave Barnes

I have been away from the blog for months now as life and work and all sorts seems to take my energies away from my writing time. But as I did my weekend walk from my girl friend’s palatial apartment building and down through the tranquil Ross Bay Cemetery with a cup of coffee in hand it occurred to me that three months from now I will be doing the same darn thing on a Saturday afternoon as is my tradition while she is at work, but in three months time I will be doing this stroll recovering from and hopefully revelling, and not despairing the Yukon River Quest experience.

Now that the weather has improved my training has officially begun and I have set a 20km loop around the islands north of my home on Saltspring Island. Set in Trincomali Channel it can be flat calm one day and a tossed mess of white capped waves the next, and in the case of my paddle the other evening all in one day! I am relying on all sorts of gadgets to record my times and help assess my progress…if any over the next couple of months. I feel good, the boat is great and am looking forward to bringing a kayak I built in my living room over a decade ago to the Yukon River and put myself and my kayak to the grand test of racing from Whitehorse to Dawson City, a mere 715 plus or minus kilometers against the clock and against my own fatigue.

I admit to waking up some mornings wondering what the hell I have gotten myself into this time. Then, I sit in my kayak and all is well. While blasting through wind waves the other evening, knowing full well they, and the tide were conspiring to ruin my 20km lap time I was laughing. Like riding a bike. I have not put my butt in a kayak solidly for a couple of years other than occasional evening or weekend paddles. I am starting from scratch and feeling fitter with each outing. The sun of springtime helps, and I wonder how it is for my fellow competitors who may not have the availability of luxurious backyard waters to train in, and in such nice conditions. I am lucky in where I live, and the support team I have to help me undertake the crazy task of making it so very far on my own, alone on a winding river up in the great white north under a disinterested midnight sun.

I will keep you all posted from now on with regards to training, thoughts and with luck, I will be sitting on my girlfriend’s front porch in three months time writing the opening pages of the post Yukon experience.

, , , , ,

Leave a comment

That Damn Hat

the hatThe Hat!

“Hey Dave, I put a beer in the creek at Hudson Point for you, but you can only have it if you beat the time that Blake and I set in the double.” shouts Gus across the Trincomali Channel as I plough my way up feeling the back lash of each stroke through the paddle shaft.

There was a beer in the creek, chilled and wet and lovely and mine, if only I could find the energy after over 10 hours of non-stop paddling around Salt Spring Island on a warm Easter weekend. If only I could muster the power to paddle the last 4 kilometers to the spot that I launched from at just before 6:30 am that day. He was fresh, after only an hour of paddling leisurely and I was bonking. At the distraction in meeting up with him on the last leg I realized one big mistake I was making. I forgot to keep eating and drinking. I was running low and should not have let my eagerness to keep up with my friend who was a finisher of the Yukon River Quest foil what was to be still a brilliant and successful day on the water. A lesson learned that I will always keep with me. Ego, and apparently the promise of cold refreshing beer at the end of a long day nearly took me out altogether.

I did make it and somehow during that last stretch found the inner something to pick up my pace just enough to beat his best time in a tandem by a whopping 3 minutes. Not much, as slim margin at best but it did tell me that I was paddling fast enough to keep up with a duo in a kayak. Eleven hours, seventeen minutes and another five searching aimlessly for the beer carefully hidden behind a streambed stone, I was home. Oddly enough, ten minutes later I was feeling like I could do the day all over again. Was it the beer, or the adrenaline or both? Either way I was ready to get in the kayak. I felt immediately encouraged by this sudden full-bodied enthusiasm to continue. The River Quest dream started that night and the following day as I hiked up Mt. Erskine to a favorite spot overlooking the beginning of the narrows I had paddled less than 24 hours earlier. The weather had changed. The calm slot towards Burgoyne Bay where I so easily glided was now frothing and white-capped. I picked my circumnavigation day well it seemed, but then I thought again and wondered if I could have managed a second rotation around the island in tougher conditions. Nearly the same distance would be what I faced on the Yukon’s famed Lake Leberge notorious for squalls and wavy conditions.

Today, I sit sipping a cold beer after work and the anticipation of the weekend approaches as does that River Quest dream. On Sunday the registration for the 2016 edition of the paddling marathon on the Yukon River opens and I hope to be one of the first to enter. I will be at a family event so it will be done among supporters and well wishers. Upon completion of the registration I will be allowed to do something I am told by Gus who yet again placed a carrot on the stick for me. If I register, I can wear that damn hat! I hope that he will be holding it for me when I arrive at Dawson City, tired, sweaty, accomplished.

, , , , ,

1 Comment

Madness Under a Midnight Sun

In a week the registration for the longest paddling marathon on the planet opens and I will be one of the first to sign up. Call it a bucket list item, a midlife crisis gone off course from fast cars and dating inappropriately aged women. Tell me I must be nuts to even think about entering the race. I would reply, a little of column A and a little of column B. In the past couple of years as I really began to put some serious thought about paddling the 715 km distance between Whitehorse and Dawson City also known as the Yukon River Quest (the Quest) some have questioned why do it at all.

Painted on the wall opposite Klondike Kate's cafe in Dawson City, Yukon Photo by Dave Barnes

Painted on the wall opposite Klondike Kate’s cafe in Dawson City, Yukon
Photo by Dave Barnes

“You could just paddle the river as a holiday adventure.” as an example of the most common response to my crazy scheme. I have to say to that, it will be a holiday. I love road trips and the last one I took to the Yukon is a long story for the telling later on down the road. But I was hooked by the place, and especially the people I met along the way. And it is an adventure. The whole point is not whether or not I manage to stagger to the finish line, or fail to make it even to the first rest stop. That is the meaning of adventuring. If there was no question of success, a guarantee of completion without hardship or personal trials then why bother. So the naysayers I challenge you to go with the flow and accept that I am rather bent and willing to subject myself to long hours in a kayak, wildlife at every turn in the river, a growing tiredness and the need to pee.

During which I will meet people and witness wilderness from the unique perspective of a kayak that I will never un-see for the rest of my life, and sensations I will never un-feel for the rest of my years. I will face demons and doubts along the way. I have great people backing me, morally and physically. My support crew is a good friend who has finished the race several times. I trust him without hesitation and that only leaves the paddling to me. And though I know I will not be as competitive as he, I know he will get me as far as my body and mind will take me. I made a random contact on the ferry the other evening with a fellow who knows the river well and lives in Whitehorse. My team grew by one more as his knowledge will get me a long way. I have a lady in my life who felt that kayaks were death traps but after an afternoon in a tandem kayak with me this past summer she began to see why I do what I do. Although she may quietly think I am bonkers but is coming for the ride nonetheless and will love me no matter how bad I smell by the end. I hope.

Now the hard part. Training time. Today I strapped on the runners and went for a gasping, wheezing run but know that I will find my pace again and get back into fighting form for a long haul. “You could just paddle the river as a holiday adventure.” will come into my head at some point along the long crazy river sometime around Canada Day next summer. I will face that one when I get there.

, , , , , ,

1 Comment

Madness Under a Midnight Sun

I have a year! There is no turning back now, the team is coming together. The kayak is kited out, and fitted out, and tweaked to perfection in preparation of something I have been pondering as a kayaking trip for a few years, the Yukon River Quest. All that is left to do is get myself into racing shape. Yikes!

YRQ 2015When did this madness begin?

In 2011, I was part of a support crew for a tandem kayaking team entered in that marathon paddle event starting in Whitehorse at the blowing of the paddlewheeler SS Klondike’s horn and ending, for most paddlers a few days later in the historical gold rush township of Dawson City some 715 km later. Our team scratched at the midway rest stop at Carmacks due to injury, but by that point I had the bug. The combined comeraderie among the teams, support crews and race volunteers created a community of like-minded nutters with a common goal, to get that boat and paddler to the finishline before the cut-off time.

By Dawson, the tremedous explosion of paddles and boats that left the riverside at Whitehorse became a trickling of pooped but elated paddlers arriving one at a time to the finishline greeted one and all by the crowds watching on shore and loved ones. How awesome it would feel to land there after kayaking both day and night virtually non-stop and earning a place in that club, the club of nutters willing to endure long hours in the seat, cold, sleep depravation induced halucinations and fatigue just to get to the gold rush after the bars close.To finish is the goal and for now I am not concerning myself about my personal best time, just to have a good time just me and my kayak and many hours to consider all those things left at home.
The consoling thought when I lay awake doubting my sanity at this decision is that while I am fighting the sleepiness and sore muscles at 3am someplace between Whitehorse and that first rest stop 300+ kms away at Carmacks is I won’t have to do the dishes!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

https://kayakrogue.wordpress.com/2013/04/16/being-on-land-is-harder-than-being-on-the-water/

, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Leave a comment

She’ll Make Point 5 Past Light Speed!

In four days one of the longest, toughest paddling marathons begins. The Yukon River Quest draws the lunatics of paddling together for a 700km+ *about 444 miles* up the winding river from Whitehourse to the Gold Rush Mecca of Dawson City for more than two full days of non-stop kayaking or canoeing. new rudder 2I was up there in 2011 assisting as support crew for tow friends attempting the task. Sadly, the mission ended at the mid-way point of Carmacks due to injury. Being support for a team was truly difficult. Managing logistics, food, kayak, tents, and then there was personalities…need I say more? By the end of the week I realized that it was possibly easier to paddler the race than to support a team. Erase all of the above responsibilities and all that is left is “just keep paddling”.

A couple of weeks ago I took the plunge and ordered a rudder system for my kayak. I had paddle for nearly a decade in this Pygmy Coho, which I cannot say enough about as far as it’s over all performance and comfort. It tracks like a dream, so why add a rudder? Two reasons, I am a photographer and steadying a kayak while attempting to shoot is next to impossible, two, I am tired of working out so hard to ferry against the elements, and sure there are really three reasons. Somewhere in the back of my mind the idea of running the YRQ has been rumbling in my soul. Subconsciously, the addition of a rudder simply means I am committing to the idea of racing the marathon from Whitehore to Dawson. Can you tell I am talking myself into this mania?

New RudderToday, the first day of summer, the longest day turned out to be warm, sunny and virtually windless. What better opportunity to hit the local waters and drop that rudder to see how it performed and more importantly, how it changed the handling of my kayak. I can say as far as official review of the Smart Track Rudder System it is hands down the most polished rudder set up ever. A single cord controls the up and down and the set pegs allow for firm bracing while the sensitive toe controls work the rudder easily. Five stars for that, and gosh golly darn it that means not having a rudder was my only out for putting myself through the ordeal.

My thoughts were that if I deleted the paddle control and added a rudder I would be able to focus fulling on forward motion, and even though I am out of shape today, I did manage to add a bit of speed to my average flat water pace. Maybe the old girl will get me to Dawson next year? Time to start conditioning, training, paddling and maybe I can get the woodie past point 5 at light speed after all.

 

, , , , , , , , , ,

Leave a comment

Lets Go Exploring: San Juan River Estuary.

The last ever frame of the cartoon strip Calvin and Hobbes had the pair sailing off on a sled into a white background, parts unknown. The caption simply read, “Lets go Exploring!” Three little words that ran through my head as we four unloaded kayaks, paddles and enthusiasm on a sandy access near the Pacheedaht campground at Port Renfrew, BC. The idea to paddle up into the San Juan River Estuary was one a couple of us had bandied about and on a recent day trip to the coast I was tasked with some recon. This consisted of driving back and forth over the single-lane bridge over the river’s mouth peering over the railings to see upriver to the first elbow. Other than a powerline stretched over the river decorated with red and white balls so planes won’t get snagged I had no idea how far anyone could paddle upstream. When asked back at home by those interested in joining the trip I said it was totally, “doable”.

The estuary by definition is at the mercy of a rising and lowering tide fed in by the perpetually windy Juan de Fuca Strait. The open mouth of the river turns into a shallow maze of sandbanks and submerged logs at lower tides. An exposed sand bar blocks the outflow to the sea completely at this time. Wind waves bashed ashore against it, but on the river side things looked calmer. The tide would rise considerably by the time we planned to return so simplifying our path to the launch site.

On the water, the wind found us, and the paddling to that first elbow in the river’s course was done by riding high on some substantial swells. The winds were forecast to increase overnight but for some reason we all assumed amnesty on the river from their effects. Around the corner the open ocean and its nasty winds were behind us. The air was warm as was the water and the tops of trees swayed. The water became quite deep in places in rich emerald green and so clear that the stones on the floor were visible. In a moment, the deep would disappear and then suddenly shallow signified by the noise as my rudder blade pinged off small round river-polished stones. Fallen old growth trees lined a section of the shore like sleeping giants side by side one by one like toppled dominoes. Dwarfed we were in perspective. With only a vague GPS map to guide us along the trip upriver was one of true exploration fed by the curiosity of what may be around the next corner, the next gravel bar, the next rapid.

Rapids, a word or two about them. I am a sea kayaker. If I see tidal rapids I tend to find a new course. I am not a white water adrenaline guy and none of us had ever been river paddling before. It was good that we all read from the same page on this account as there was not one person who had done them before and therefore egging the group to jump in the deep end only because they feel comfortable there. We paddled against the flow. Most of the river sections were flat, relatively calm and deep. The current, and there was current was barely noticeable on these stages. Until of course, we were met with a step up in elevation. The flow increased and more often than not it was so shallow that getting good paddle traction was impossible. I wondered along the way if it had been a better snow year would we be in for more flow, and certainly deeper water. Even the smallest rapids stopped us in out tracks and the portage beyond the obstacle at one spot was a mere five feet. The sweeper rapid on a sharp corner we all avoided and on the way back down it was the only one we got off the river to carry the kayaks to safer waters. The rest of the steps were fun, slow-moving drops.

For three hours we worked out way up river stopping only to walked the river shore often to see if the next bend was to be our last. Inevitably it was not and we continued. A log jam standing about ten feet high nearly stopped our progress completely if not for a one meter gap with a bunny hop over a slightly submerged tree. On the return I led the group enjoying the faster water and using my rudder to steer the gauntlet and through the gap without a single paddle stroke. From that point we eventually found the short channel that lead into Fairy Lake. Here we met a man with a small canoe and a kite he was attempting to fly in the gusts swirling around the bends from time to time. The tops of the Alders bend and hushed whispers sounded in their leaves with each padding gust of wind. A reminder that our last leg in open water may be difficult indeed. I assured the group, and told myself to believe it would all die down long before we reached that point.

The afternoon drew on, the sun came out to greet us as we wandered, paddled, walked through deep brush, ate plump berries (wondering if the bears noticed) and fell into tranquil self-absorbed silences in out kayaks for long periods of time. It was noted on a particularly dreamy patch of slow-moving deep green water with high walls of forest highlighting the slot of open sky a mist shrouded mountain that we all could be floating on any bit of water, on any bit of British Columbia, at any time in history. The mist cleared, and a unmistakable logging scar appeared shaking us back to the present and thus ruining our delusions. We paddled on.

The hour became late, we landed upon a gravel island in the middle of the river. A mild rapid flow peeled away from one side of it causing a convenient eddy to allow easy landings. The four of us basked there in the sunshine, the first we had seen all day. All was quiet, all was calm. I exhaled in more than just breath. Not much was spoken on that hour perched in the center of a river with so much ahead of us to explore until I broke the silence with the reminder of the one we had left behind in camp, and the fact all the food was in the trunk of my car. It was time to paddle home. The time back was less than half that of the upriver paddle even with gusts of wind that to my prediction were not nearly as violent when we rounded the bend into open water. The tide was high and a shoreline short cut was to be had.

A look at the map when I got home shows how far we had paddled and how much potential there was to continue had we left earlier in the day. Fairy Lake was just the tip of the iceberg and I plan to return with Hobbes and Calvin and anyone with a kayak to see what lay beyond our lazy gravel bar. Next stop Lizard Lake…Let’s Go Exploring!

 

 

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Leave a comment