July 6th: To the Little Rivers Who Don't Always Make the Headlines

July 6th, 2008; Day 29

The Coppermine River

Author: Meg

To most people, northern canoe expeditions bring visions of rivers cutting through old glacial features with whitewater and still watered streams running like a freight train to the Arctic Ocean or Hudson Bay. If you're familiar with Northern Canada, names like the Elk/Thelon, Kazan, and the Back might even come to mind. We refer to this renowned collection as the BIG 10 - that is, the rivers that make all the headlines. As I sit alongside an unruly, barreling stretch of rapids on the Coppermine River, an elite member of the BIG 10, I'm inclined to pay homage to the little rivers that brought us here; the lesser known, but no less in character: the Parent. Just over a week ago, we left the waterways that dump into Great Slave Lake and joined the downstream travel toward the Arctic Ocean. The Parent River would bridge the 40-50 mile gap before reaching the Coppermine. We didn't have specific expectations for this section of our route simply because there isn't much information to base them off of. It was a stretch to rekindle our style and communication as tandem whitewater partners, and enjoy the change of downstream current. The Parent River must have smelled our nonchalance as it was anything but a mere bridge to the Coppermine. First, the water. In three words: tight, technical, and bouldery. We run in 17 foot, fully loaded, low riding canoes. Stick that in a fast boisterous boulder garden, and the moves get a little tricky. I recall running a long winding set with Emily last week, all the while yelling "Good! You're on your line! Great! Good! Now move right! Great! There's the triangle rock! Okay, now, go! Oh shoot! Oops! Sorry! I didn't see that! Okay we're cool! Wait! Oops! Sorry! Didn't see that one either! Shoot! Great! We're good! Awesome! Okay! Nice job!" After congratulating each other for a set well run, we looked back to what resembled the fountain ripples a small boy would float his toy sailboat in at the park. That's the Parent River: small hydraulics, but it makes you yell.

If we weren't lucky enough to find a way we could run our boats down a set of whitewater, our second option was to line them from land. We LOVE lining our boats. It's an incredibly graceful practice of standing on shore, one person holding a rope attached to the bow and the other one holding a rope from the stern. The objective is to walk the boat alongside the rapids, letting the current pull the boat as the liners steer a path. As you hop from rock to rock, easing the boat over curlers and in and out of eddies, the technique resembles that of a skilled fly fisherman – balanced and fluid. On the Parent, however, two things stood in our way of embodying such balance and fluidity: the multitude of boulders and the inch of slimy lichen that covered them. Don't get me wrong -- we had our moments of grace. But after the 8^th, 9^th, or 12^th hour of unwedging stuck boats, bush whacking willowed shores, and all that slimy rock hopping, we began to resemble not a fly fisherman, but rather just some guy, slow and stumbling, without a rod, trying to catch a greyling with his hands. That's the Parent River: you can line, but you can't stay dry.

When paddling or lining a set of whitewater wasn’t possible, the third option would naturally be portaging. But in case you didn't read Nina's update about the HOL last week and the 23 portages we did on the Emile River, you can safely bet we'll come up with some awfully creative ways to get down the river before we'd opt to portage. So we dragged it down a lot. Yes, fully loaded, barge-like canoes. We yanked them up and over all kinds of obstacles. When the water gets too deep to stand, we'd hold onto the gunwales and ride a bit with the current. Sometimes we'd be surprised to see that both the bow and stern person were riding at the same time, and that therefore no one actually had control of the boat. We even revisited a technique we used during our 2005 expedition to maneuver amongst ice. When there's adequate water and current to keep the boat moving, but enough obstructions that an occasional foot was needed to pry or help pull, we'd sit on top of the bow and stern deck plates, paddles in hand, riding the canoe more like a horse. I attribute my expert display of running the end of a rather large set in this position to growing up with draft horses. Thats the Parent River: you can get down, but you have to use your head and damage your gear a little.

The Parent River held many more surprises than just the work of the water. It was nestled in extraordinary tundraed stretches of rocky cliffed walls, sandy beach pits, and eskers, oh the eskers. These running ridges of glacial deposits make-over open expanses and offer the bird's eye view to the fortunate and wise who choose to climb their peaks. From the top of an esker, we saw the edge of the tree line which we had descended back into for the time being. The meeting of the open tundra in the army of black and white spruce trees will have to be described in a later update. It's far too complex of an occurrence for this tired canoeist. The roar of the Coppermine River is still filling my ears, likely suggesting that I stop reflecting on the waters of yesterday and start thinking about tomorrow. The Coppermine's whitewater is a little bigger. And by a little bigger, I mean it's like a moving lake with very few options and waves measuring in feet. More to come on these adventures next week, but for tonight (its midnight and the sun is just near setting), here's to the little rivers who don't always make the headlines.