July 27th: Welcome to the Jungle

July 27th, 2008; Day 50

Boulder Creek
GPS: 67 deg. 39.5 min. North; 116 deg. 46 min. West

Author: Nina

First an apologetic preamble: a full accounting of the events of the past week requires far more time and narrative skills than I currently possess. In addition to the usual rigors of the day, I was up most of last night on Griz Watch - but more on that later. Let's begin at the beginning. Monday morning by all accounts can be a bit challenging, especially before one has had one's morning coffee. Last Monday morning I woke to an eerily still calm at our campsite on the north shore of the northernmost of the Dismal Lakes. As I lay looking at the seams of the tent above me, I heard a strange sound - a woof of air. As usual, when the weather is decent, we were sleeping with our tent fly wide open, so by craning my head I could look out the door at our packs - all seemed normal. I listened to Emily slumbering peacefully beside me - could she have made that noise? Doubtful. I lifted my head to look out the front door of the tent only to find myself staring at the head and shoulders of a large grizzly bear, who was curiously sniffing around the front vestibule. I could see the mud caked in his tawny fur and the twitch of his black nose.

I woke Emily with a whisper and we laid perfectly still for a few minutes. The bear moved silently, the only sound was the expirations of his breath (the woofing sound I had heard) as he made his way around the side of the tent and out of sight. The bear circled our tent and laid down on top of our food packs, scratching himself against our gear and sticking his snout into our lunch pack.

Armed with our bear spray, Emily and I were able to wake Meg and Beth and make our way over to their tent. Meg fired off a few rounds of our shot gun into the air and after a brief moment of hesitation, the bear decided that our lunch wasn't that interesting after all and ambled away down the shoreline. Half clothed and shivering in the morning light, we watched him go.

Tuesday mornings by all accounts are a good deal more enjoyable. In our case, I was at least able to make a cup of coffee before the excitement began. Still at the same campsite, on the shores of the Dismal Lakes, Emily and I looked up from our coffee to see a group of six caribou silhouetted against the ridgeline. I ran after them with a camera as Emily woke Meg and Beth. As I crested the hill, I found myself face to face with a young male caribou, surprised, but apparently unafraid of me. It took me a moment to realize why. In the valley behind him, the tundra was swarming with caribou.

They were crossing the creek by which we were camped and climbing the hillside in waves. During the lulls between groups, we were able to sneak out into the midst of their path. Meg and I found ourselves crouched together in a patch of cotton grass as the herd literally engulfed us. On every side, large bucks with many pronged racks and those with young calves slowly progressed through the valley stopping now and then to graze. The air filled with the sound of their chewing, the bleat of the calves, and the sharp click of their hooves against the rocks.

At one point, Meg and I watched as a group of five magnificent bucks grazed on a stand of willows not 15 feet in front of us. As with the rest of the herd, they seemed unconcerned with our presence unless we moved suddenly, all except for one. From the midst of the willows a young calf with big black eyes stepped forward curiously. He planted his feet wide and eyed us skeptically, sniffing the air as if to say to the older deer: "Um guys, I'm not so sure about this . . ."

Our best guess is that 2,000 caribou passed our stand in the two hours that we sat and watched them, and it continued long after we finally decided to head back to camp. By the time we returned to our tents, we were so pulsed with energy and excitement that not even the news that our resupply plane was still grounded in Yellowknife due to bad weather could dampen our spirits.

The plane finally arrived on Wednesday evening. When Karen stepped out, she was the first person we had seen outside of our group of four in over a month. We stayed up late into the night celebrating her arrival with a huge dinner of bacon, eggs and fresh fruit, pouring over the mail she brought from our friends and family, and listening to news of the outside world.

So it was that on Thursday morning we were finally ready to leave the Dismal Lakes and the Coppermine watershed behind and head north across the tundra toward the Rae River. We have often called the watershed into the Rae the "crux of this expedition" - the most challenging move that makes the rest of the route possible. But it is not just a means to an end. It is also a unique opportunity to leave the bigger waterways behind and cross into a region that is even more remote than any we have known. From the north shore of the Dismals, we portaged through a series of unnamed lakes that skirt around the eastern edge of a group of bleak, snow-flecked mountains. From there we crossed the height of land and began to follow a tiny creek that flows north along the edge of these mountains towards the Richardson River.

This creek is just a tiny thread of blue on our map and we've been pleasantly surprised by the amount of water in it, which is to say, we haven't had to portage the entire distance. We've named the creek "Boulder Creek," both after a certain lake in northern Wisconsin that is near and dear to our hearts and after its tendency to disappear amongst the vast field of boulders just after you decide it is worth putting your canoe into the water and trying to paddle.

We make our way as best we can, portaging when necessary, wading the boats when possible, and even on occasion moving a particularly inconveniently placed boulder out of our way. Our progress is painstakingly slow, but steady, and every time we see a tiny trickle of water joining Boulder Creek from a drainage to the east or the west, we cheer.

Having Karen here makes all the difference in the world. She's brought an infusion of energy and strength to the group and crucially tips the balance so that we need only make two trips on each portage instead of three, as we had to do during our first watershed crossing. We pass the time telling Karen stories from the first 45 days, laughing at each other's ridiculous antics, and watching the wildlife. Oh yes, the show did not stop on the Dismal Lakes. As we have made our way north, we've encountered many more groups of caribou, stragglers trying to catch up with the main herd, as well as wolves with a similar objective, another grizzly, two pairs of nesting peregrine falcons, and a solitary musk ox with whom we shared the the shoreline of a tiny lake for an evening. These animals appear and disappear into the tundra without warning, as curious about us as we are about them.

Our wildlife week culminated last night with yet another encounter. Late in the evening as I stared at the edge of Boulder Creek brushing my teeth, I realized that one of those boulders I was staring at upstream, was staring back at me. Yet, another grizzly – this one truly enormous, with an almost white head and shoulders. He was clearly aware of our presence, but unconcerned. Apparently, unbeknownst to us, we had occupied prime siksik (ground squirrel) hunting grounds, and as he walked he dug up series of burrows slowly moving closer to our camp.

The noise of our shotgun and a couple of flares were enough to keep him from crossing the creek into our camp, but not enough to convince him to leave the area. Nor were we able to move out of his way given the boulder choked stretch of creek before us.

Thus began Griz Watch - a very long night, during which the bear patrolled his side of the creek, digging up siksik holes, scratching his back by rolling around on the ground, and occasionally, to our great annoyance, taking a nap. We took shifts keeping watch beneath the tundra tarp, ready with a gun and the flares in case he decided to cross the creek. It was a cold, clear night, and as we watched the cantaloupe colored sunset moved across the northern horizon into a rose tinted dawn. Mist rose off the creek and floated through our camp in silver sheets. Sometime around 6:00 a.m., the bear finally tired of keeping us awake and wandered over the ridge to explore other hunting grounds to the west.

This evening, as our 50th day out here draws to a close and we all anticipate a good night's sleep, we are grateful as always for our safety, for the strength and comfort of our companions, and for the incredible opportunity we have to explore these lands. Although Boulder Creek may be narrow and rock strewn at our feet, we know both that these waters are leading us toward our greater destination to the north and that our days here, however momentous or tedious, are to be cherished in their own right.

July 20th: Things Are Going to Change, I Can Feel It

July 20^th, 2008; Day 43

The Dismal Lakes
GPS: 67 deg.; 25 min. north; 117 deg. 0 min. west

Author: Emily


Picture yourself on a Saturday night, laying out the clothes, gear, and food you will need for a big race the next morning. Feel free to pick any race of your choosing: a foot race, a bike race, or perhaps the ultimate wheelbarrow racing championship. Whatever your choice of racing would be, it is an event you have trained for with dedication and passion. You have put in the time, read the training guides, and studied the race course. The past few days you have been tapering, resting your body and getting mentally prepared, only going for easy jogs or spins in the wheelbarrow. Now you have everything packed and are as ready as you're going to be. Despite all of your excellent preparation, you are a little nervous. You know that at some point during the race tomorrow you will be in pain, at some point you might doubt your capability, but that ultimately, you will get caught up in the race day momentum, laugh, and take pride in having poured yourself into your effort. I believe a great musical artist once said "Lose yourself in the music, the moment, you own it, you better never let it go."

One more important detail. This is the first time you have ever attempted a race of this type and have almost no idea of what to expect. Perhaps you and your friends decided it would be fun to try something new. As you set the alarm to wake up early the next morning, you feel a mixture of excitement, nervous anticipation, and a little confusion at why you and your friends thought this was such a good idea after all.

Wow! If you made it through that long, imaginative journey, you may have recognized an attempt at an analogy for this paddling trip. Let me explain the parallels.

Tonight we are camped on the Dismal Lakes at the point from which we will begin our Watershed to the Rae River. We have literally taken our last paddling strokes on big open water and will likely be portaging out of this campsite. Somewhere way back last fall, each of us let ourselves get caught up in the collective energy of this group and ever since we have been working to get ourselves here, to a place called the Dismal Lakes and try our hand at what for us is exploration in its truest sense. We have done what research we could about this area; we have trained our muscles to paddle and portage, and have made detailed measurements of mileage from one small lake to another to a stream to another stream and eventually to the Rae River. We have almost everything we need and are almost fully prepared to set the alarms, get up in the morning, and give it all we've got.

Essentially our last week has been a week of tapering. Since we left Rocky Defile, where Beth wrote her last update, we paddled just a touch further down the Coppermine and then turned up the Kendall, leaving behind all the logs we had been following from other previous trips and setting out on our own terms. The Kendall is a small but sizeable river flowing out of the Dismal for a brief 15 miles before joining the Coppermine. Despite the short distance, we spent 2 ½ days moving steadily up river, never portaging once, but spending our days, wading our boats upstream in waist deep water, tracking our boats from shore with ropes, as we stumbled through the willows, and occasionally paddling hard to make miles against the current. The best thing about the Kendall was that it spat us out into a gorgeous expanse of tundra that ended our flirtation with the tree line for good. The Dismal Lakes are anything but what their name implies. They are: dramatic elevation, bright purples of lupine and yellows of cinquefoils, cold open waters, constantly changing skies and tundra. Yes, we're back in it to stay and loving it. The rest of our tapering period on the Dismals has been spent packing, resting, organizing, hiking and eating, so, in effect, we're ready to do this, just waiting for one major thing.

Entertain the pre-race analogy one more time and imagine that you've managed to make it through all your training without one key piece of gear. Perhaps it has been back ordered for the last month and a half, but that it is supposed to arrive by priority mail just a few hours before the race. Say that piece of gear you are missing are these extra special, one of a kind running shoes that make you go twice as fast. Well, in the real world, those one of kind shoes translate into our dear friend and fifth pack, Karen Stanley. Having been with us in spirit for all of our training so far, Karen is flying into us for real with our resupply in a day and a half (or tomorrow), just in time to race with us, just in time to give us a new boost of energy and enthusiasm to make the next big push. So my friends, in this trip of many different chapters, part one is coming to a close and part two is just beginning. Our group of four will become five, we will leave the lakes behind in search of new rivers, and we will soak up the energy of the land that surrounds us.

July 13th: I Followed You Big River When You Called

July 13th, 2008; Day 36

Rocky Defile Rapids, The Coppermine River, Nunavut

Author: Beth

Well, we have spent the last week on the Coppermine River following its course as it descends towards the Arctic Ocean. The Coppermine is a river well known to those who travel in the Canadian Arctic -- one of the big names, and I feel a bit intimidated to try and do it justice with words. It is unlike any of the other rivers I have paddled up here. After Rocknest Lake, not far from the headwaters, there are no more lakes to interrupt the current, as the river flows steadily north, with only the pace of the current and the land around it changing.

The first couple of days on the river were filled with fun whitewater -- almost all of it runnable, with swift current in between. The banks of the river were rocky in places or lined with bright white sand bluffs, and the shore rushed past as we flew down river. The weather was very kind to us for the first few days, too: warm and sunny, not very common up here, and we had a few days that really felt like a typical summer vacation. Mid-week we reached a great milestone of our trip, crossing the Arctic Circle. At 66 deg. 30 min. north, it marks the latitude at which the sun stays up for 24 hours for at least one day each year. Coincidentally, just about the time we crossed the Circle, the clouds rolled in, the temperature dropped, and we were treated to a couple days of typical Arctic weather -- cold wind out of the north, spitting rain. This may sound miserable, and it could be if you let it, but bad weather tends to bring out the funniest in my trip mates (so we think). Our most recent strategy for staying warm is to practice our telemark ski turns (basically deep knee lunges) on our breaks. Nina and Emily teach Meg and me the technique as we laugh at ourselves tripping over rocky uneven shores.

The change in weather coincided with another change in the Coppermine, too. We began the 80 mile stretch of river with no rapids. There is still current, however, and it is still strong at times, but when the wind is in your face, it can be difficult to make headway. This stretch of river flows through a large river valley. The terrain feels at once both mountainous and expansive, with a wide valley surrounded by large rocky hills, sometimes forested and sometimes open tundra with occasional pockets of snow remaining. Often we felt like we could see the river going down hill and we were just sliding down with it. The bright reds and yellows of our clothing and canoes pop against the deep blues and greens of a landscape and the grey of the sky. We look very small and very bright, which I love for some reason.

Today we woke to sunny skies and yet another change in the Coppermine. The river banks closed in and the river picked up speed. We ran a few rapids this morning, then continued somewhat cautiously knowing that we were approaching a large rapid known as Rocky Defile. The river took a bend to the left and as we came around the corner, it looked like the earth had been picked up and cracked in half to allow the river through. Two hundred foot cliffs rose into the air on both sides of the rushing waters, a breathtaking thing to see. We decided to portage the rapid -- the waves in the canyon were huge. On the portage trail is a monument to two canoeists who drowned in this rapid in the early 1970s. It was a powerful experience to stand and look at the gorge, the incredible rapid, and the monument overlooking it. A mixture of awe and sadness filled me. But I felt at the same time acutely alive and so fortunate to be able to be standing exactly where I was, taking it all in.

Tonight we are camped at a small sandy beach below the rapid and tomorrow we will turn off the Coppermine to go up the Kendall River. I am a little sad to be leaving this big river. The rest of the Coppermine between here and the ocean is supposed to be incredible too, but there are other rivers to explore; always more rivers to explore.

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.

June 29th: The HOL

June 29, 2008; Day 22

Parent River
GPS Coordinates: 65 deg., 5 min. North; 114 deg., 24 min. West

Author: Nina

You've heard about Meg's memories of 2005, Beth's summer vacation and Emily's wildlife encounters. Now it is my turn. I'm here to tell you about something a good deal less pleasant. That something is the HOL. The HOL is our name for the traditional Dene route that connects the Emile River with Grenville Lake, the Coppermine Watershed, and the Barrons. For us, the HOL involves three days of portaging with a day of piling across Mesa Lake thrown in. It's an apt name both because it is short for the height of land that divides two watersheds and because the correct pronunciation of the HOL is a mix between "haul" and "howl," as in the howling of your back muscles as you haul your gear from one river system to another, which, in short, sums up the majority of this past week.

The first rule of the HOL is you do not complain about the HOL. It doesn't matter if you're walking through muskeg or foot sucking mud, crawling up a cliff or crossing a boulder field; don't say a word, just keep walking. It doesn't matter if the caribou trail you're following descends into a tangle of willows; take a beating and keep walking. It doesn't matter if the black flies' rising clouds greet you on each portage; zip your bug jacket, muster a smile and get walking.

The second rule of the HOL is you do not complain about the HOL. Yes, your thirty days worth of food forces you to take three trips on each portage turning every mile into five. Yes, your one day of paddling on Mesa Lake will be against a headwind so stiff your progress is reduced to a slow crawl. Yes, every portage will seem uphill both ways. What did you expect? It's the HOL.

The third and final rule of the HOL is to remember that for all of the hauling and suppressed howling, the HOL is worth it. As we paddled out onto the sun silvered waters of Grenville Lake, a fast hill rose behind us, rinsing away the aches and blisters and leaving us on the verge of a new stage of our expedition. The HOL has given us an opportunity to learn more about the history of this land. We have with us an archeological report that details the Dogrib use of the Ts'etino Hoteh -- the sea of far away portage -- between the Emile River and Mesa Lake. There is also a rich oral history surrounding the portage out of Mesa Lake to the north. Here, in the 1820's, a treaty was negotiated between the Yellowknife and Dogrib Dene that ended a decade long war. These stories and others gave a new depth to the lands we traversed.

The HOL has also brought us to the Coppermine Watershed and waters flowing north. Grenville is the headwaters of the Parent River, a tributary of the Coppermine. For the first day and a half, it's mostly meant the occasional waiting and dragging. But after our two weeks of climbing the Emile, the fact that this waiting and dragging is downstream makes all the difference. This afternoon, we finally reached some run-able whitewater, most of it a thin narrow chute of turning water. As Emily and I plunged down it, after carefully scouting, of course, I was reminded of a bobsled track or a water slide, albeit, one with a little bit more of a roar than usual.

And finally the HOL has brought us out of the trees and onto the tundra. Ours is now a world of green hills and sandy eskers fading to blue on the horizon. Without trees to give it scale, it is hard to tell whether the far shore is miles or meters distant. Our days seem short and artificially circumscribed compared to the sun's wide flung arc. Each night as we sleep, cradled by a carpet of cloudberry blossoms and Labrador pea, a prolonged sunset fades into sunrise with little to distinguish them.

So we continue north through this eerie and beautiful land, happy, healthy and more often than not, doubled over in laughter. But even as we give thanks for each moment of this experience, our thoughts are often with those farther to the south. Two days ago on Grenville Lake, we encountered a raft of ice. This 20 square feet or so reminded us of the Manito-wish trips on the Dubawnt River and the summer of 2005 when we saw so much ice, where the lakes seem as clear and blue as those you have encountered so far.

Also, to Rick Stirr, we will be thinking of you tomorrow. Happy Birthday! And finally, we got around to painting names on our boats. They have been christened "Stan" and "The Jenny," the two very special people down south who they are named after. Thanks so much for helping us get here.