September 5, 2014
Day 6 of 21
km 95.3, Peel River, Yukon Territory
It was a day of rapids, portaging and carrying canoes over wet rocks. A day that drains all your energy as you fight the river for every kilometre. It was clear that we had left the Eagle Plain Lowlands and entered the Peel River Plateau, which had a dramatically different geology. We could see it in the cliff faces that began to accompany every turn in the river and the ever-increasing whitewater. The river was no longer the gentle and forgiving flow we had started with. It had become an entirely different entity.
Lunch occurred late in the afternoon at a swampy lagoon on the left side of the river, near a cliff coloured like the leaves falling around us. Eager to join the leaves floating about in the air, the cliff would periodically eject massive light brown boulders into the water below. Everyone else quickly left their canoes, eager to be on land and to remove their wet cold feet from wet cold shoes. I stayed in my stern cockpit, and curled up into a ball. I was too tired to move. Too fatigued from forcing down a whirling maelstrom of anger and sadness that was climbing up out of my stomach and into my throat.
Eventually, lunch was called. Consisting of pitas, pizza sauce, petite pieces of canned chicken, slim salami slices and an overwhelming amount of cheese, it barely dented my hunger. Because of all the art and documentary equipment, we were tight on rations and I had been hungry every day. I tried to savour the tiny meal but failed miserably, instead woofing it down like a stray dog. Realizing there would be no seconds I disappeared into the forest, eager to be alone. I walked amongst the orange and gold birch, poplars and black spruce until all I heard was the wind speaking softly in my ear.
I wanted to scream.
What’s wrong? Warm and soft, Alecia’s question echoed in my mind.
Nothing.
If I had tried to say anything else, I would have burst into tears.
I kept walking until I found a brilliant beam of sunlight on the forest floor large enough for my body bulked up by layers of synthetic clothes. I lay down, merging my red Arc’teryx jacket into the cacophony of fall colours and tried to stop thinking.
• • •
The sound of my name screeching through the forest woke me up and I dragged myself back to the canoes. It was time to go. Once back in the stern, Aurora and I dug our paddles into the mud in an attempt to free our beached whale of a canoe. Finally, we slid back into open water and paddled on in silence. My mind was blank. I was numb, and paid only enough attention to steer our canoe after the three boats ahead.
The river turned right.
I watched the lead canoe, and the two little black blips that were Joel’s and Alecia’s heads drop. My gut clenched and I sat up straight. Their canoe turned sideways and hovered on edge like a cyclist leaning into a sharp turn, and then those blips were in the water. I watched the two other boats ahead of me do the same. Instantly I knew there was a ledge ahead. A river feature where there is a sudden diagonal drop; a ledge is like a baby waterfall without the cute and cuddly. Almost certainly it would flip us too, putting Aurora and I into the glacially fed arctic river. If it did, we would join our friends in a dangerous situation: not only were we at risk of drowning or getting severely scrapped up in the turbulent water, we also had to deal with hypothermia. And if it didn’t flip us, we would need to rescue our friends.
I knew all of that instantly. Knew it from years of paddling, of guiding. Fear should have gripped my heart as I realized that it was too late for us to avoid it. We were going to hit it too. And I didn’t care. I wanted to go over that ledge, to flip my canoe and drown. I had almost drowned before, it hadn’t been so bad. Four years ago a boil on the Churchill River had sucked me down almost twenty feet below the surface and surrounded by sunlight shimmering through the blue green water, it had been peaceful. At least now I would be rid of the rotting hand that held my heart and head in its slimy grasp.
“Is there a canoe in the water?” Aurora asked.
“Yes.”
The ledge was a meter away. Bam. I was hit by lightning and my exhaustion vanished as adrenaline pumped through me. I entered my whitewater paddling position by lowering my right knee to the floor of the canoe, pushing my right foot under the plastic seat and bracing my left knee against the inside of the boat. This dropped my centre of gravity, stabilizing myself and increasing my control over our canoe. I moved my right hand down the shaft of my wooden paddle, scratched from years of paddling, to increase my leverage and tightened my grip.
We were about to go over the ledge and I realized I hadn’t explained anything to Aurora, who had never canoed before this trip. I still feel guilty for not preparing her for any of this when I had the chance.
“Paddle forward hard!” I screamed.
Our sixteen-foot red canoe dropped down the forty-five degree rock slope towards the hole of re-circulating water below. It’s actually the hole that is dangerous, as this is where water travels back upstream and is powerful enough to suck in a swimmer or a canoe and hold it there. The secret to getting over a hole is to hit it dead on and with lots of speed. Kinda like a spaceship trying to escape the gravitational well of a black hole. As we slid down the ledge, I gave a large pry to face the canoe directly towards the boiling water.
“Lean back!” I screamed again. I desperately hoped Aurora could hear me over the swirling water.
Aurora threw herself backwards, her spine touching the neon blue spray skirt that covered our canoe. If I had been looking at her, I would have been able to see her face and I wonder what I would have seen in her eyes. By doing so, she made the bow of the boat lighter and prevented our canoe from diving down into the hole. If it did that, we wouldn’t escape. But it didn’t stop water from rushing over the bow and soaking Aurora.
“Paddle forward!” I yelled again.
We were mostly out of the hole, but I could feel it trying to suck us back in. For five furious strokes, we hung there, not being pulled in but not escaping either. Paddling purgatory.
The swirling water seemed to sigh, and slowly we inched away.
We weren’t done yet; we had another ledge to go. Thankfully it was smaller, and our strategy worked again. Out of immediate danger, I looked around and realized that so far we were the only boat to make it through. Normally, I would have stayed on the river and done rescues from my canoe, but having taken on water and without any idea of what lay ahead I couldn’t risk it. I steered our canoe towards the right shore.
The gravel bank scrapped against the hull like nails on a chalkboard, and as I sprang from my cockpit I hurled my paddle like a javelin onto the black beach. I paused when I reached Aurora and knelt beside her. One look at her face told me she was in shock.
“Aurora.” Her grey green eyes found mine. “Get warm, build a fire if you can, and help people once they get to shore.”
She nodded once. I grabbed a rescue bag, and sprinted down the shore towards those still in the water.
• • •
In the end, eight of our twelve-member group ended up in the water. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured but all of them had a terrifying swim and it left all of us rattled. As people made it safely to shore and gathered around the roaring bonfire I had made, there were endless tears and hugs as we comforted each other. Still mostly dry, Calder and I left the fire and the flimsy drying racks to set up the tents as darkness descended upon us. As I shovelled uniform black shale shards – an indication of the instability of the sheer cliffs above us – to create four flat tenting spots, I realized it was the happiest I had felt all day.
Finished and cold, I returned to my canoe for my down vest and was horrified to find my green drybag lying open in the boat. I had layered up after lunch and hadn’t closed it out of laziness. If Aurora and I had tipped, all of my clothes would have floated away. I shook my head sharply.
After eating an insufficient dinner, we debriefed. Under bright stars, with the cameras and audio recorders off, we each shared our version of events. We spoke to our fears, the terror of ending up in the water or watching helplessly. Each word spoken was charged, filled with rawness and vulnerability. We were like mages casting spells from our seated circle, asking the land and each other for clarity and comfort and certainty about what had happened. With each rendition, the harder it became to hold my version of events together, as though my brain kept attempting to merge each narrative together.
Near the end, I remember saying that we are here at the good grace of the river and that it will take whatever it wants from us. Which, in retrospect was probably not helpful to those who swam but to me was a great comfort in its honest assessment of our mortality. We talked until late into the night, eating deeply into the hours needed for sleep, until there was nothing left to say. Nothing except what I experienced in my head. It would take a year and another river to crack my lips open.