Overland to the South Nahanni - A Canoeing Expedition
by Peter Gumplinger and Jan Soukup
Prelude
"Names such as Deadmen Valley, Headless Valley, Funeral Range, and Broken Skull River ignite our imagination of turn-of-the-century mishaps and murder," wrote Kathleen and Michael Pitt [1]. Marie Bremner [2] "carried mental pictures of the thundering Virginia Falls, of tiny canoes dwarfed by the towering pinnacle at the Gate, and of ghosts of headless prospectors at the mouths of chattering streams." My partner, and driving force behind this adventure, Jan Soukup, had "cravings to get a taste of the wilderness adventures of the great early Canadian explorers, like Alex Mackenzie and David Thompson." I was simply flattered by my friend's announcement that I shall be his partner of choice.
Jan's dream of canoeing the South Nahanni started long ago when, as a young student in Prague, he saw a documentary film about Albert Failie, Nahanni River's devoted old prospector. According to Jan, the Nahanni should be Îdeserved' and not Îhumiliated' by the spoils of modern technology, meaning floatplane access. He was adamant that he would only consider for the approach an overland route, which combines downriver travel with upstream lining and dragging, plus multiple portages; muscling everything over the Continental Divide, for a total of roughly 50km.
The South Nahanni River, located in the extreme south-west corner of the Northwest Territories, holds a world-wide reputation as a grand canoeing adventure, but as an avid whitewater kayaker, I had reserved this river for something to do in veteran years. That is, until I read the following, intriguing, and much quoted passage from Ken Madsen and Graham Wilson in Rivers of the Yukon [3]. (It also surfaced, very recently, as a German translation in the Austrian Alpine Club yearbook [4]):
"Enough canoeists have survived and enjoyed the Nahanni to dispel the legends, but those of stout heart and limb neednât despair. There is still a route that will re-create the adventure and hardship. Particularly the hardship."
With one foot each in the mountaineering and whitewater community for some twenty years, I believed that paddlers are generally not made of the same mettle, as are climbers, particularly those in the Coast Range of British Columbia, when it comes to hardship by way of bush. I needed to find out for myself, so here is what I wrote in letters to friends after the fact:
"·The mosquitoes had their worst cycle in great many years. The day we arrived at the start of the trek was the day I began living behind my bug-shirt. I didn't come out from under it for two weeks, aside from fingering a spoon into my mouth in short and daring manoeuvres. It was hard to imagine that anyone would submit to such punishment voluntarily, not to mention the harshness of the trek itself, the weight of the loads to be carried, and the density of the willow bush and arctic spruce forests. The rapids had to be lined upstream, sometimes up to the neck in frothing cold water, always in fear of being dislodged from the ground momentarily. There was no room for injury, but virtually every step carried the possibility of getting hurt, spraining an ankle, bruising a shin, or cutting a hand. Sometimes there was not enough water to float the boats, so as we slogged through the muck, it sucked at our feet with every step, and more than once we slipped up to our knees in bog."
"I carried the kayak overland above my head, upside down, with the help of a wooden crate clamped to the cockpit. The bars which rested on my shoulder where cushioned with foam rubber. Yet, I could only carry the contraption for about ten minutes before I'd throw it off my shoulders into the willows and collapse behind it, oblivious to the thousands of mosquitoes. The nuisance would immediately descend upon every square-inch of me, trying to find unprotected skin, or a piece of clothing not woven dense enough for them to pierce through. Due to the way the contraption was constructed, I could not see straight down to where I was stepping. This caused me enormous grief when I needed to balance the weight above my head from one slimy boulder to the next, or from one muskeg billow to its neighbour. It was also impossible, unaided, for me to lift the assembly over my head after each break, and so the three of us had to stay together and rest in unison, whenever the first of us tired."
"We laboured detached from the time of day, often to exhaustion, until the body finally refused to obey the mind. The portage was every bit as strenuous as I heard it was going to be. It was the toughest thing I have ever done, and it helped that I was mentally prepared for it."
The German/Austrian climbers, with summits like Patogonia's Fitz Roy to their credit, concur in their article with these remarks about the portage (literally translated):
"This rarely chosen approach has a reputation among the Canadian bush-experts as a serious and cruel self-punishment· The mosquitoes make relaxation impossible and become an unbearable plague. Our romantic Canadian campfire ambience is gravely dimmed· Time has lost its meaning to us. We have our own rhythm now which dictates the necessary rest· We shove, paddle, and burden every day to exhaustion. We move forward in a trance. Our perception becomes increasingly narrow. We barely register the vacant scenery. All difficulties are surmounted with apathy. Food has only an existential meaning. We utterly yield to our fate and live only in the ÎHere and Now'."
Background
After several permutations of people scheduled to join us at the Moose Ponds, headwaters of the Nahanni, everything fell through. Only the portage party of three remained: Jan, his fiancée, Milena Rigan, and I. This left me preparing for the unthinkable, dragging a 22kg, plastic-moulded, Prijon T-Canyon kayak across the mountains, with the intention of using it to transport all my gear, and my share of the food for 18 days, down some 250 km of wilderness river. Jan's Quicksilver Rocky Mountain Cruiser fibreglass canoe could not be relied upon taking some of my load. It's a sleek voyager and no freighter in comparison with the canoes that are usually used for this kind of quest. It became obvious that an extra dry-bag had to be synched to the kayak's deck, notwithstanding that my T-Canyon boasts some 125 litres of total available storage room, with both flotation bags removed.
For its first 60 km, the river gushes through the notorious, Class II-III+, Rock Gardens. I was not worried, given that I would have a most suitable craft, however marginally buoyant, if I managed to store everything, and haul the beast to the river. What mitigated our endeavour somewhat was a planned rendezvous with three BCMC members, who would be flying into Rabbit Kettle Lake. Whence, we expected to be re-supplied with food provisions about halfway through our journey.
The internet lines between Edmonton and Vancouver sizzled with our exchange of e-mail, as I implored Jan, who does engineering design work for the UofA Physics Department, to come up with a viable scheme for portaging a kayak through thickets. I was doubtful of his suggestion that I should be able to carry the kayak, singly, in canoe-style. Impossible, was my answer. Finally, thanks to some wood planks, nails, screws, wing nuts, a hammer and a cordless drill, which Jan brought from Edmonton, a carriage frame emerged on a dirt lot in Fort Nelson. It was truly a functional piece of art, conceived and built with Czech resourcefulness. I tried it on for size and my serious scepticism, which I held right up till then, happily evaporated.
Chronology of Events
June 31st, 1997
Web reports of closures on the North Canol Road and scare-mongering by our friends about the predicted unusual high snowmelt runoff, made is seem like a miracle when I drove my faithful Subaru onto the Pelly River barge. We had come in my station wagon, without a glitch, all the way from Fort Nelson, transporting the full gear, including the boats. We were now leaving the community of Ross River, Yukon. This was the last outpost of civilisation for us. As we continued, we soon noticed some very recent repair work of water damage, but otherwise, the North Canol Road was in good shape. The bridges even sported signs with the names of the creeks. We passed an old graveyard of army trucks from WW2 along the way, and at last, after some 170kms, we approached the first bridge across the South Macmillan River. The Itsi Mountains, to the east, looked wildly more beautiful than I had imagined. These were not mountains I had ever heard off before, and yet, their peaks, snowfields, and glaciers formed an impressive backdrop to the spindly northern spruce forest in the valley foreground. We proceeded on to the second South Macmillan crossing, but only to take a look at the boulder-strewn river.
Our route was decided much earlier in the comfort of out living rooms, as a result of researching the available reports and maps. We concluded early on that we would search for an alternative route. To our knowledge, all previous parties put in at the second river crossing, then navigated very treacherous rapids until they reached the mouth of Witham Creek, which flows out of the portage valley from the south-east. All accounts we had read talked of near disasters striking early in this stretch of whitewater. Hence, we opted for a conservative approach, substituting muscle and sweat of hard work for the bravado. We were looking for a tributary creek to provide an access corridor to the main river from the road, although all possible choices flow into the South Macmillan below the Witham Creek confluence.
The original portage party [5] was supported by helicopter to do their scouting. Their report mentions the Hess creek meandering relatively slowly from the road to the river. They talk of a calm section of the Macmillan River immediately downstream of the Witham creek confluence. However, they also point out serious difficulties that lie in the tracking upstream of the first 4km of riffles and rapids, with overhanging trees from the banks, and the water too deep for wading. They concluded that this alternative required more time (they estimated three days to reach Witham Creek), and they did not recommended it. In light of our own experience now, we are doubtful that they actually tried this route other than from the air. We were thus persuaded to try the even smaller Dewhurst Creek in hope of avoiding the riffle section. Jan donned his sparkling clean everything, jumped into the creek, and disappeared behind the first bend. Soon he returned with the verdict - unusable - and so our only option emerged by elimination. It was Hess Creek, or bust!
July 1st, 1997
I somehow managed to find sleep that night, beside the road at the 200km marker, even though my mind was churning with anticipation. We woke to a gorgeous day. As we drove back to the bridge at Hess creek, a startled moose cow jumped out of the ditch and almost directly into my radiator. After unloading, I drove away again to an out-of-sight roadside gravel pit, with a parked RCMP trailer. I really hoped that the trailer's insignia would deter vandals, as I waved adieu, and abandoned my property for the next 40 days in the middle of nowhere. It suddenly felt lonely out here, while I slowly walked the 3km, gazing at the gleaming snowfields and summits of the Selwyn and Itsi Mountains, which frame the portage valley beyond the broad Macmillan River basin. As I walked down to the bridge, I could see that only a short distance downstream, jumbled sweepers blocked the glittering water surface across its entire width. This did not bode well for our undertaking.
I conveyed the bad news to my partners, who had changed into their wetsuits, and were almost ready for the launch. So, we only went around the very first bend, and we were already working away with my folding saw. The spruce this far north has scrawny branches of incredibly hard wood, and it was good that we brought work gloves. There were a couple other minor logjams along the way, but in the end, the creek made it surprisingly easy to reach the mouth of the Macmillan. It was a gentle float, except for a few sharp meanders, where we had to wade, because the deep channel undercut vegetation, and the inside bend was too shallow.
The Macmillan has a strong, but laminar current here. We tried paddling upstream, though only managed to ferry across to the left bank, which seemed marginally more promising in the prospect of tracking the boats from shore. It was mostly grass, but had a vertical embankment of undercut soil, about a meter high. This made it difficult to land, let alone line a kayak, especially one, with the lip of its cockpit dangerously close to the water. There was a constant risk that with one wrong jerk on the stern line, the boat would broach and flip, leaving me on the high bank, unable to hold it against the current. If I jumped into the water, I'd be swimming. The situation was even more precarious, since I had strapped two olive jar containers on either side of a dry-bag to the afterdeck, giving it a look of auxiliary jet engines, but a feel of utmost sluggishness. The jars helped stabilize the kayak, but only to a point, after that, they provided an extra handle for the current to exert its torque. To do away with the stern line all together was not an option either, because with the bowline alone, the kayak's nose was simply forced against the shore, and it was only a matter of meters before it got caught behind something. I had to hold the reigns just so that the boat slightly angled for a controlled ferry away from shore. Pulling it now upstream, the boat rode high out of the water, while I constantly faced it, prepared to react immediately, if the fragile equilibrium changed. I basically stumbled backwards, and so I was grateful for Milena's assistance, as she watched the boat, while obstacles distracted me. Jan's canoe tracked much better, and he soon disappeared from sight.
Invariably, there would be a tree growing at the very water's edge, usually with no room to squeeze by it on the side of the boat. In this case, the reins could still be passed from one hand to the other around the tree, but sometimes, the trunk would grow horizontally out of the bank before bending skyward. Worse yet, the tree would be leaning over the river completely, or be a sweeper. I didn't dare allow the boat a long leash, and so every one of these impediments required major manoeuvres. At other times, a willow would be enough to snare and tangle my ropes hopelessly. I'd lose direct control of the boat, which would then consistently steer under the same willow's lower branches. It was a relief that we were not the only creatures who had chosen the river's edge for passage. What a surprise, when we found out that our shore was actually an island. We decided to proceed along the south bank, and crossed at the very head of the island, where the river was shallower.
At mid day, we reached a spot with many large, round boulders on river left. Here, the river forms a fast chute along the opposite side, below a cut-bank. It was a special place and the boulders in mid-river provided relief from the insects. After lunch, the character of the river changed markedly. We were facing continuous rapids now. With the faster flow, the river was shallower and more rocks began to show, requiring us to guide the boats with a short line to the bow-loops, while wading in knee-deep water. Inevitably, we found ourselves on the outside bend with the ensuing difficulties of even faster flow, and deeper channels. It was necessary to periodically jump into the water up to the chest, and push boat and body against a very strong current. At one point, in the middle of a particular sharp bend, it became impossible to make progress alone. Up to my neck in water, the kayak pulling at my outstretched hand, I lost my footing. Although I quickly caught a branch, I was suspended in a raging current, with no option but to wait for help. Fortunately, Jan was close behind, and with combined strength we succeeded. Several more, similar incidents took their toll, and I began to scan the horizon for any indication that we had made progress. The conclusion I reached was daunting. Moreover, the river made a particularly big meander in the wrong direction. I decided it was bad for my psyche to even bother looking around, and so I kept to the task.
I was falling behind again, when I looked up and saw to my astonishment that Jan and Milena were preparing to board their canoe. Since I was only tagging along, I hadn't bothered to read the available information as carefully as Jan had done, so I knew nothing about a quiet stretch below the Witham Creek confluence. We paddled silently, sceptical of our good fortune. The sun was now low on the horizon, and the Itsi Mountains reflected off a river that had become an elongated lake. We flushed a family of Canada geese, creating a drama by separating a gosling from gander and goose. As the river turned east, the current picked up again, but just as the current became really hard, we found a deep, quiet side channel. Soon we noticed to our surprise that the water was taking on a different colour, and we quickly deduced that we must have reached the confluence. It seemed unreal, but there it was, an attractive lagoon inviting us to camp, at the very junction with Witham Creek. We had covered in a single day what was estimated to take three. Our optimism gained a hefty boost, since we had now arrived in territory that others, before us, had already conquered. Milena prepared the first of many excellent meals from her diligently sorted packages. It was devoured instantly, and we turned into our tents. I had just zipped up my sleeping bag when I heard something splash mightily in extreme close proximity. Thinking Jan had gone for a swim (which wasn't unlike him), I hollered, but when I peered out, I saw that I had alerted a huge bull moose.
July 2nd, 1997
Milena had assumed her favourite position, crouching around the fire, rustling with zip-lock food bags, and clanking with pots. A thin ribbon of bluish smoke started rising straight up among the morning shadows, when suddenly the alder foliage behind her rustled, and turning around, she almost fell into the fire from awe. The gorgeous bull moose had returned. His rack was still covered with velvet, but already it was of a size that I had never seen, even in glossy calendars. Puffs of steam emitting from his massive nostrils, he looked at us with dignity, before he splashed away with a powerful gait.
We started out tracking the boats up a more docile bottom stretch of the creek. It did not take long until we reached the cascades. They are marked on the map with slash marks, rendering the stream as if it was four kilometres of railroad track. A long faded piece of flagging tape adorned a large tree on the right terrace, exactly where one would be tempted to start an overland portage. At this location, the terrace runs up against an ancient lateral moraine, which banks the river in its course, creating the cataract ahead. Various accounts have described lining up this section as an epic undertaking, and we were in no mood to relive their experience. Having lined relentlessly the previous day, we were anxious to find out what portaging was like, and whether we could shuttle everything in two trips. The loads we strapped to the frame-packs were enormous. Jan assembled the heaviest load for himself, leaving only the canoe for the second trip. Milena's burden was just as impressive, considering that she still experienced pains from a serious neck injury she had suffered in a car accident. I left a dry-bag with all my clothing behind, but still, I had to squat before my monstrous pack, then crouch forward bringing the load over my hips, get on my knees, and then use the paddle to steady myself in the struggle to get up. So heavy was the load that there was no other way for me to shoulder it unassisted. This technique eventually also gained popularity with my partners.
We immediately found a game trail heading for higher ground. The reward for slogging up the hillside was a sparsely treed plateau, flaunting many moss-covered breaks in the willow growth, and scarred only by a few shallow crosswise ditches. The plateau was also criss-crossed with moose trails. We rested upon reaching it, taking in one of the more spectacular and exhilarating views along the portage. Behind and below us lay the Macmillan basin and the land along the Canol Road from where we had come two days earlier. We quickly reached the point where the plateau blends into the shoulder of the mountain, marked by a water-filled depression. Approaching the hillside, it was important to gain just enough elevation to enter a game trail, which was ideally designed for our purpose. The strong trail crosses several small boggy ravines and then contours nicely until it peters out in a rocky marsh near the creek. Scouting revealed that it was preferable to cross the creek here, and we decided to return for the boats.
As we assembled the carrying frame for the kayak, dark clouds, which had formed during the hot afternoon, began to discharge their cargo. In a matter of minutes, the vegetation all around us was wet, and so were we. Fortunately, the rain stopped as sudden as it began, and with the returning sun, we embarked on our second forward trip. Milena was now carrying an even heavier load than on the initial leg, and I would basically race to cover as much distance as possible, in time until the pressure on my shoulders became unbearable. With the carrying contraption nicely framing my face, and with the kayak well balanced upside down above my head, I could lift and drop the bow with my forehead, using the boat to plow through the willows. The branches couldn't hit me and I was pretty reckless in my race against time. Jan had the front of the canoe tilted down, for the same reason, and so the yoke sat firmly against his neck and shoulders. The drawback was that he could not see very far ahead as he followed Milena within sight of her gaiters, occasionally bumping into her, when I made an unannounced stop on the trail ahead. Due to the abundance of trails on the plateau, we ended up travelling differently each time. We only found our reliable game trail again because of the boggy ravine, which provided us with a bearing. We were travelling the whole time out of sight of the creek.
I first attempted to cross the creek with my heavy backpack, and without using the buoyancy of the kayak as a stabilizer. I soon realized, however, that I was asking for trouble, and so we decided to barge the encumbrance with the canoe during several ferries. Thoroughly bushed, we established camp on the opposite shelf. The second day on the portage slipped way into the third when we finally crawled into our tents. The ground cover all around was a deep layer of cream coloured lichen. Sleeping on this springy carpet was like sleeping in feathers.
July 3rd, 1997
We savoured the beautiful morning in the white blossoms of Labrador Tea bushes, the yellow tents contrasting with glaciated peaks and the deep blue sky. Eventually, we packed our gear and hitched ourselves back into the role of the beasts of burden. Another strong game trail led us to a bay-like aneurysm in the shape of the creek, where we found traces of an old human camp, in the form of a few blackened rocks arranged in a circle. We found the ground near the bay, and next to the creek, distinctively boggy, and so we aimed our course in the direction of an indistinct esker. We gained it for the price of precarious walking over a field of teetering boulders. In due time, we scrambled up onto a last promontory, which provided us with our first panorama of beautiful Witham Lake, embraced by the towering Itsi Mountains. We had ventured some distance from the creek in our attempt to avoid loathsome muddy sections. Although this choice added to the portage distance, we stuck with our decision for the remaining trips.
We couldn't wait to launch our watercrafts, and let the cool crystal waters shoulder all the weight. My wooden contraption, still assembled, added a crown to the hill of gear piled into the centre of the canoe. I had strapped the Billy bag to the rear deck, and was now praising the comfort of having a backrest, even if the stern of my kayak rode grotesquely deep in the water. We took it easy crossing the calm lake, enjoying the chance to rest our weary bones. At last, we entered a very static creek inlet, disguised as many little bays in the marshes of its beaver kingdom. Gradually, the ponds took more of a creek shape and we started to detect current. While I powered against this current, I failed to look to see if the others were indeed following me and, at one point, where a beaver dam obstructed further progress, I realized I was alone. I whistled but received no answer. I returned to the open lake, all the while wondering which channel the canoe must have taken in this estuary labyrinth. Climbing to shore, I saw and heard no one. It was as if my partners had been scooped out of existence. After what felt like a long time, I was happy to see Jan wandering around in the reeds, searching in vain for a reasonable passage further up the tributary.
By the time we unloaded the watercrafts, the sky in the west, whence we had arrived from, changed dramatically. We could see a wall of rain shower obscuring the valley entrance and moving up fast. The chilly rain struck just as we had managed to stash everything under the overturned canoe. Chilled from the previous exploration through the beaver-works, coupled with sudden wind, we waited for a brief lull in the precipitation to change from our wetsuits into rain gear. The shower passed over as fast as it arrived, and now veiled the more elevated valley ahead with a translucent curtain. The broad, fairly level ridge, which parallels the course of the creek at this location, seemed to be a natural portage corridor, although it required a zealous thrash through dense willow to reach is crest. We knew from the map that the topology of our ridge and the stream eventually converge near the point where the creek emerges from a level swamp, some 4km upstream. The moose-highway-department, with the apparent intention to connect feeding grounds with fast pathways, had promptly built a large trail, equally suited for our purpose. Tired from another long day, we spied a level campsite in a deep lichen caribou pasture, holding a quintessential waterhole, about half the distance along the passageway. Even more fatigued upon my second arrival at camp, I was dragging the Tupperware-kayak with no strength left to hoist it back onto my shoulders, after I had made an unscheduled stop behind my partners. We had a hasty supper and collapsed to a sound sleep.
July 4th, 1997
We woke to a steady drumbeat of rain. When it finally stopped, the lichen ground squished with water like sponge under our feet. The wetness was rising in tatters of fog all around. There was something absurd in the scene of our high alpine camp, resembling that of mountain climbers, but draped with canoe, kayak, paddles and lifejackets. By mid-afternoon, after the sun had burned off all the moisture, we left our alpine meadow, and now followed a most scenic trail with beautiful vistas in all directions. Especially the wall of peaks, alongside us, drew our constant gaze. We suddenly heard a thundering noise. Frantically eyeing the ramparts for danger, we just saw the explosion of snow and dirt as the avalanche hit, streaking the slopes below a chute with debris.
The put-in at the outlet of the swampland was very unappealing, and particularly mosquito infested. The rocks above water were covered with a thin layer of mossy sod, while those below water were covered with slippery slime. We rushed to change into our wetsuits, loaded the boats, and pushed off. The kayak's shallow draft and my surface scraping paddle strokes allowed me to glide over numerous shoals. Jan was not so lucky. He was constantly out of his canoe as we penetrated the dark and gloomy looking swamp. Clouds had rolled in again, and just as we started feeling really weary, we saw a most perfect little gravel bar, at the base of where the creek steepens to a staircase. There was just enough room for two tents. Soon, the smell of chickpea à la Milena with dried onions, garlic, bacon bits, and jerky filled the air. Once the cooking was safely under way, Milena silently retired into the tent apparently so exhausted that she didn't have the strength to wait and eat. Jan and I, on the other hand, wanted to hypnotise the pot with our hungry eyes, and then devoured the meal impatiently, while the beans were still a little crunchy. We did not need the lullaby of the cascading waters to fall into an instant sleep of total oblivion.
July 5th, 1997
Jan got up first and scouted the dense spruce forest ahead for game trails. We later saw him waving at us from a clearing above the creek's right escarpment. He appeared pleased with his findings. By the time we followed his trail to the clearing, a brief shower rolled over us, and then the trail simply ended a short distance past the spot where Jan had turned around on his advance exploration. We scouted back and forth, with no avail. There was no trail to be found anywhere and, in hindsight, the worst bushwhack of the whole portage commenced. In the process of bulldozing spiny spruce branches out of the way, we got thoroughly wet from the water deposited on the foliage. Eventually we reached the second lake, whose surface reflected what seemed to be an ethereal apparition, the symmetric pyramid of Mt. Wilson (2276m), totally isolated and bathed in a golden aura of sunrays. We knew that this mountain was looming directly above the Moose Ponds, our portage destination.
We were unable to find a better route on the way back for the boats. Tired from bushwhacking even without loads, we decided to take a breather upon reaching the viewpoint. I was the first to look down to our campsite. What I saw seemed utterly surreal. There was a person mucking around on the tiny gravel bar. In time, the figure huddled over our old fire, and rekindled it. We felt cheated. Was there no place left anywhere, without running into somebody? He had even caught up to us, which I thought impossible. Honestly feeling a bit hostile, we were thinking on our way down what to say to the stranger. Instead we all laughed, when he told us that he had no clue of a party ahead of him, and seeing our boats beached on the gravel bar was a similarly mysterious encounter. John's shock of short-cropped blond hair and bug-bitten face was barely sticking out from under the hood of his Gore-Tex jacket. He had so far muscled up all waterways, and never portaged his solo Mad River Guide canoe. Starting at the second bridge across the Macmillan River, he had had several near disaster swimming accidents. In these he lost his mosquito repellent, mosquito head net, and he also inadvertently triggered his bear spray, which somehow found its way into his eyes. After this short parley, we went about our chore as if nobody else was around. We thought that John must have relished being solitary, but on the next day, we joined our forces for the remainder of the portage. Jan admired John for his courage, and I relished in the opportunity to exchange white water tales, because John, it turned out, was first and foremost a kayaker.
Finally, after straining ourselves with the boats overhead through bush so thick that a rabbit would have difficulty squeezing through, we were waterborne again, aiming for the opposite end of the lake. The map shows that the creek, which provides the link to the final lake, does not enter this lake at the farthest reach. A cosy gravel bar, right inside the mouth, tempted us, and we called it an early day. Another drizzle, which by now had sailed on, left a double rainbow as a fitting frame for the solitary peak of Mt. Wilson. Nestled in a flood plain, our campsite had gorgeous views in all directions. The mood over the peaceful lake was dazzling, as we watched John's canoe emerge into view. His silhouette, kneeling low in the middle of the boat, contrasted against the light of the oblique sun. He slowly pushed the wake across the mirror surface with every measured stroke of his paddle. We chatted for a while when he passed our tents. Given his rate of travel, we expected him to continue much further, and so we regretted that we had not offered him to stay with us, when we later saw his campfire smoke only 300m away. Around suppertime, I made an unsuccessful attempt at fishing.
July 6th, 1997
We woke up early to sunny weather. Only a short distance away, we could make out various pieces of John's clothing draped over bushes to dry, but by the time we got moving, John was already gone. As we strolled, with the boats on a leash, along a creek bed of many meanders, we passed several tiny waterfalls, in the form of spill gates across beaver dams, and noticed that the water table behind was considerably higher than our creek. It was thus only a matter of time before we encountered the first of several massive beaver dams. The kayak, with its round bottom and keel, could be pushed across the relatively gentle inclines of spill water soaked grass. The canoe, on the other hand, had to be substantially unloaded at least once. This topography was a lot of fun and very inspiring to us, so we didn't mind the toil. We climbed in this way substantially, nearing tree line, until we reached a short channel with a boisterous current. Strangely, this section presented us with no real impediment either and, rounding a big beaver lodge, we paddled into Portrait Lake. The shore had a nice inviting pebble beach. Just as we reached the beach, a wind squall came up the open valley, churning whitecaps on the lake. After killing some of the windy time with a lunch break, we launched into the waves, pretty well sailing with the wind.
The far shore had a surf undercut bank with a tiny dirt beach for landing. The height of land, at 1250m, was a soggy meadow beyond Portrait Lake. A rusted old shovel lay in the deep wet grass, where we reassembled our packs. John had been lingering around, apparently waiting for us. Together we proceeded to slosh through the water, agitating thick clouds of tiny male mosquitoes. Pretty soon we found a muddy, yet strong, moose trail in the right direction. In the belief that future parties will much appreciate it, we festooned its crucial beginning with a long piece of flagging tape. The trail was deeply forged into the spruce forest down to boulders, but with only a handful of logs tangled over it. Conveniently none were too bulky for my folding saw. The trail, dropping ever steeper into the valley of the Ross River, was quite reliable. Lower down we noticed that the trail was marked with old axe trail blazes and the occasional bit of faded flagging tape. Upon reaching the valley floor, and quite unexpectedly, after so many signs of humanity, the trail completely disappeared into a stinking swamp of calf high water. An oval hill across the expanse of swampland provided the only possibility for a camp. We had lost several hundreds of meters in elevation and were now faced with retracing our steps back to the boats. After a short discussion, we opted for getting it over with.
It seemed like a long time before we arrived back at Portrait Lake. We were now faced with the longest portage, amply named the "Portage from Hell" in a previous account [2]. A reddish sheen of the very late northern sun reflected off Mt. Wilson. The mountain is an incredibly dominating feature from this vantage, but the boulder-strewn section of the trail was particularly tedious for me, and I could hardly rejoice in the vista. After a slow weary haul, interrupted by many rest stops in increasingly shorter intervals, we made it down and across the swamp to our hill. We felt content that, with good luck, we should be able to cross the Continental Divide, and reach the Moose Ponds tomorrow.
July 7th, 1997
The clear sky of the last night had persisted into the morning. Between sips of coffee and bites of breakfast, we gradually packed and carried the already sealed bags down a short way to a landing spot, where the beaver canal system towards the Ross River started. In due time we paddled into the dark quiet water of the beaver channel. The canal curved between luscious green banks of willows and swamp grass, dotted with dead and bleached trees, killed by the increased water table. We had to duck a few snags fallen in or across it, and very soon, we arrived at a transfer connection to the shore of the Ross River, a mere 30m away. The clean gravel and easy tracking on the Ross River were a pleasure in the hot sun. Fording the river at intervals, we arrived at a warm, pebbly island with big driftwood to sit on, and a deep back-eddy nearby, which looked like a good fishing hole. After this leisurely siesta, we muscled against increasingly strong and turbulent current. When the situation became distinctly cumbersome, we knew that we had reached the area from where we should start the final portage towards the Moose Ponds. Encountering unpleasant swamps on river left, I scouted upstream, past rapids, to where a grove of trees yielded a spot, which could not deny human activity. We summoned the resolve to muscle the boats up the rapids to this spot, although we now think that there must have been a better way to start the final overland trek.
After a brief rest, we were on our way. First we stumbled through wet ground and water holes in among tall spruce trees, before we climbed steeply up an esker on a faint trail. Along the top of it ran a much stronger moose trail persuading me, in the role of the navigator, that it would lead where I was going. With Mt. Wilson as navigational beacon behind, instead of beside us, it became evident that we were wandering aimlessly with our loads from one clearing in the willowy bush to the next. It was frustrating. I couldn't find a moose trail, which would keep steady in easterly direction through the gentle, expansive pass. Rather exhausted I paused with Milena, letting Jan and John do the scouting. The revving motors of a floatplane, taking off nearby, confirmed the direction of the ponds, and jolted me back into a sensation of unwelcome civilisation. I felt awkward, sitting somewhere in the willows, so close to the finish, and yet so unsure of how to get there, while these pilots flew overhead. The two scouts had found a better trail, adorned with ribbons, and led us to a small pond. There, to my utter surprise, Jan decided to camp. I protested, but he and John mollified my concerns, arguing that we could probably float from this puddle into the real Moose Pond.
We still had to go back for the second carry, and this being very late by now, we rushed back in a trot, only this time along a trail, which followed the edge of a ravine through the minimum elevation dip in the Divide. Near the Ross River, the trail, although well flagged at times, became rather erratic, to the point that, in the rush, we got separated into two groups. Staggering along the path like marionettes, totally drained of energy, we silently counted on carrying the boats this one last time. The skies had overcast without us taking notice until we arrived back at the selected campsite. We did not feel like celebrating, given the gloomy welcome in the Northwest Territories. I also felt we had stopped short. I had never seen Jan, my unwavering idol in terms of perseverance, so tired.
July 8th, 1997
In the morning Jan swam the length of our puddle to discover that its connection to the main pond was by a small steep creek, incised into a grassy hillside. It was definitely not a navigable canal for his wishful imagination. After breakfast John joined him east along the trail of the previous night. I was back in my tent when they returned and announced that they had found a paradise campsite. They were so enthusiastic, that they managed to convince Milena and me to pack up and move to the new spot immediately. This was supposed to be our day of rest. After maybe half a kilometre, we reached a grassy self, recessed slightly into the edge of the north bank, protected behind by arctic birch bush, and opening a magnificent view down to the Moose Ponds, some 25m below. The place was truly magic. The clearing was exposed to the south and seemed to enjoy a microclimate of more southerly places. Beautiful meadow flowers and even a grove of poplars populated it. Everything was very delicate and luscious, and totally undisturbed. No human foot had been set on this garden yet this year. To top the paradise qualities, a crystal clear spring of icy water welled up just below the top of the escarpment.
To prove the fitting name for the ponds, moose were constantly seen munching on the water plants, along the far side of the lake. John and I went fishing with our boats. We were catching nice size arctic grayling with almost every cast. As we drifted downwind across the body of water, two canoes appeared with paddlers in bright white Tilley hats. They were obviously more interested in exercising their paddles than fishing, which we could not understand, given the bounty and ease with which we scooped up the delicatessen. They were also frightfully clean and perfectly dressed. The women even wore makeup. A queer conversation ensued when we tried to explain to them that we had not flown into this neighbourhood. Meanwhile, Milena was making fried twelve-grain bannock from a prepared mix to go with our catch. The delicate white meat of the trout-like fish was a forgotten luxury. We each had a gulp of the last rum, brought along especially for this occasion, to toast our successful arrival at the Nahanni. Our idyllic evening was abruptly interrupted by a sudden thunderstorm. We quickly retired into our shelters while John, who did not have a tent, braved the rain at the fire. Then, he too, crawled into his bivy-bag under the overturned canoe.
July 9th, 1997
It had stopped raining only half an hour before we emerged from our tents. Everything was wet, and we rushed to make a quick breakfast before our climb of Mt. Wilson. Milena had decided to pass at the invitation, and instead, she would recuperate some more, wash her hair, and organise the gear for the canoe journey. John, still trying to keep warm in his bivouac, declined as well. We donned our bushwhack-nylon, hiking boots, gaiters, and gloves. First we crossed the pond by canoe, and then we were faced with the main challenge of our climb. The approach turned out to be an arduous struggle of epic proportions, up the bushy slope at the foot of the mountain. Moose didn't seem to travel much in this direction, and Caribou were found higher up. We grovelled up and up, getting totally soaked from the wet bush, the resumed rain, and our sweat. Finally, the trees were getting lower, thinner, and sparser. We followed a creek-eroded gully along its edge, until we reached a boulder field above the trees. While we rested here, having a snack, we noticed that the day was getting lighter and warmer. There was still a lot of moisture everywhere, but our chances of reaching the summit had decidedly improved.
As we rounded the lower north ridge, we made out two young caribou in their camouflage pelt, eyeing us. The animals seemed more curious than afraid. Rather than running away, they walked straight toward us before casually disappearing over the ridge. We picked our route, via as many rock bare patches of scruffy grass as we could find in the vicinity of the broad ridge. When even these little ambassadors of the world of flora petered out, we were into serious scrambling. The steep convex slope consisted of big blocks of granite piled up helter-skelter on top of each other, and pretty well all of them were loose and teetering under our weight. It was the biggest pile of rubble I have ever laid my hands on. Eventually we passed the inflexion point on the curve of the ridge, and it narrowed. We skirted the prominent triangular snow slope along the easy ridge crest, and before long, we could see the summit cairn still enshrouded in thin patchy clouds, driven by a cooling moist wind. Miraculously, within minutes of our arrival at the summit, the warm sun pierced through the haze, and as if touched by a magic wand, the clouds started to dissipate. The landscape surrounding us looked very green. Forever repeating valleys and mountain ridges extended to the distant horizon in all directions. We could see much of our portage route as on a palm of our hand. To the north, Mt. Christie, the only other mountain with a name in this neck of the woods, presided over the true source of the Nahanni. A tiny lace of shimmering water meanders down to touch the Moose Ponds and continues curving and twisting south past our peak, increasing very little in size. I strained my eyes, using the binoculars, to look south-east towards the dreaded Rock Garden.
We had been on the summit for more than an hour, when we saw two tiny canoes floating on the main pond. One looked distinctly like John s green solo canoe. They met for a while at a clump of reeds, chatting undoubtedly, but then, instead of lingering around the lake fishing, John followed the emerald streamer into the river. It was a sorry realisation to us that he was leaving. Picking our way even more carefully down the treacherous block slope, and retracing much of our steps from the ridge back to the trees, we found a game trail, which descended an indistinct ridge, adjacent to a rivulet, and east of where we had ascended. Jan was trotting along in a hurried pace, but we had to leave this path and thrash back to where we had stashed the canoe. Milena gave us a joyful welcome, relieved that she would not be left to tackle the next 550km of wild river back to civilisation alone.
Epilogue
Twenty-two eventful days on the Nahanni itself were yet to come, and already we thought that for us, like Ken Madsen and his party before us, we would be "looking back on the past days as the highlight of our Nahanni adventure."
References:
[1] Kathleen Pit, and Michael Pitt. "The South Nahanni River: A Canoeist's Mecca."
Beaver Tales April 1991: 6-7.
[2] Marie Bremner. "Overland to the Nahanni." Kanawa Magazine Winter 1993: 4-8.
[3] Ken Madsen. "Paddling in the Yukon - A guide to the rivers."
Primrose Publishing 1996.
[4] Kurt Albert, "Fitzcarraldo - Mit dem Boot zum 'Cirque of the Unclimbables."
Alpenvereinsjahrbuch des Österreichischen Alpenvereins - Berg98 1998: 55-66.
[5] Mary-Lou Roder. "Access by Land and by Canoe to South Nahanni National Park."
Canadian Geographical Journal Feb-March 1977: 64-67.