Canyons of the Nahanni: Third Canyon

The canyons are separated by stretches where the mountains pull back from the river. They still block our view, but the valley is wider. Already we can see that the rock is softer and more prone to erosion.

Between Fourth and Third Canyons

 

The Nahanni is wide here and the sky big.

When we do come close to the rock, we see that it is quite different from Fourth Canyon.

How was this created?

 

A cliff trying to fall down.

 

The walls close in again.

 

Third Canyon

 

The Gate and the Pulpit

The Gate was our destination for the night. Our arrival was preceded by a thunderstorm that echoed and reverberated through the canyon, and accompanied by a downpour. When the rain showed no sign of stopping, our guides put up a tarp and we erected our tents underneath it before moving them to a site. Of course, as soon as all the tents were up, the rain ceased.

Canyons of the Nahanni: Fourth Canyon

Start of Fourth Canyon from below Virginia Falls

Why is it called Fourth Canyon? Early travellers began their river journey at Nahanni Butte and came upstream, and so they numbered the canyons as they encountered them. Each canyon has distinctive features. Here we have relatively solid limestone and wonderful colours in the rock.

Limestone walls tower above us.

 

The colourful rocks led to the name Painted Canyon.

 

Forest, mountains, and painted walls.

 

Fourth Canyon

Unlike the Grand Canyon, which began as a high plateau and was cut by the Colorado River, the Nahanni was here long before the mountains rose up around it.

Our reward at the end of this beautiful day? Grey skies and a wet campsite.

Camp above Clearwater Creek: wet sand, ants and rain.

But the journey has just begun, and we’re a hardy bunch. Next post: Third Canyon.

The Magnificent Falls of the Nahanni

Virginia Falls, Nahanni River, seen from the air.

 

Five weeks in northern Canada, more than 2000 photos. It’s hard to know where to begin, but I can’t go wrong with one of the most beautiful waterfalls in the world. If you are made of really stern stuff, you can put a canoe in the water at Nahanni Butte and paddle upriver for several gruelling days. Most people prefer to fly there, either for one day or as part of a multi-day trip on the river. Our group was planning to travel down the Nahanni in oared rafts.

If conditions are right, and your pilot is in a good mood, you may get to come in low, directly over the falls, on your way to a landing.

Flying over Mason’s Rock that splits the falls. The left side is more than twice the height of Niagara. Sluice Box Rapids in the background.

 

Bird’s-eye view of the crest of the falls.

The landing upstream is surprisingly peaceful.

Dock at Virginia Falls campground.

We spent a day viewing the falls. Water rushing through Sluice Box Rapids toward the precipice creates a tumultuous ballet of billowing whitecaps and spiralling mist.

Sluice Box Rapids

Swirling mist

Spray reaches to the top of Mason’s Rock.

Chaos at the precipice.

To complete the tour, a view of the falls from below.

 

 

Oh, Wilderness were paradise enow!

The beauty and majesty of the Canadian Rockies

Somewhere north of the Arctic Circle on the Firth River

It has been a strange few days. Friday evening, I landed in Edmonton after a month of river rafting in northern Canada. Monday, I drove the TransCanada Highway through Banff and Yoho National Parks. The contrast could not have  been more sobering.

For twelve days, in July, fifteen other people and I rafted the Firth River, north of the Arctic Circle in Ivvivik National Park. This park, which receives fewer than 100 visitors a year, hugs the Yukon/Alaska border and ends at the Beaufort Sea. Apart from a few structures erected by Parks Canada and some laughable landing strips for planes that can set down virtually anywhere, there are no traces of modern humans, although the area does have a number of archaeological sites. In the 10,000 sq km of the park, we were alone.

No dispute: Ivvivik is wilderness in its purest form, almost unique on our planet.

Camp at Wolf Tors on the Firth River

For four hours on Monday, I drove through two of the most popular mountain parks in Alberta and B.C. My very conservative estimate of the number of vehicles I saw travelling toward me in that time is 7500. Assuming that a similar number were going in my direction, that’s 15,000 cars, RVs and trucks in one afternoon, all speeding along, their occupants perhaps enjoying the scenery, but just as likely thinking of other things.

Is this wilderness? Is this what we are preserving, supposedly in a natural state, for future generations to enjoy? What I saw in Banff and Yoho looked more like an invasion, like ants swarming over a prize food source. Isn’t bumper-to-bumper traffic too much love? And what of the trails that lead off the highway? When you have to move over to let faster hikers pass, you are not alone with Nature.

Camp in a meadow of wildflowers on the Firth River. No sounds but the river, the wind and the cries of birds.

The argument, of course, is that if people don’t see the beauty of our parks, they will have little interest in preserving them. And the mountain parks are spectacularly beautiful, even if you never get out of your car. To see the Firth, you need good organization, expert river guides, enough money to transport you and all your gear by air, and a willingness to camp in whatever weather the Arctic chooses to throw at you.

I came home today saddened because I don’t know the answer. Wilderness doesn’t survive when people arrive in large numbers. Do we have the wisdom and dedication to preserve it even if we cannot visit? But if we never visit, how can we know what wilderness is? I’m afraid that for many of the people I passed in Banff and Yoho yesterday, wilderness is good scenery with a road through it. But am I not a hypocrite? I wish that everyone could visit Ivvivik and see it as I have, but I don’t want them to.