FIRTH RIVER PART THREE: Sheep Creek Rapids

This will be a quick post as I am about to leave for Mexico and Costa Rica. The Firth has many rapids but none as wild as those at Sheep Creek. On my first trip, all guests rode the rafts, but policy has changed. On the second and third trips, we hiked up to a viewpoint while the guides took the rafts through one at a time. What follows in a mix from two trips.

First challenge.

Yes, there's a raft in there.

Yes, there’s a raft in there.

There it is.

There it is.

Second obstacle.

Sideways works as well as straight on.

Sideways works as well as straight on.

A bit of a splash.

A bit of a splash.

Safely through.

Safely through.

Third obstacle.

Let's get lined up right.

Let’s get lined up right.

Paddle hard!

Paddle hard!

Harder!

Harder!

Almost have it.

Almost have it.

Easy does it.

Easy does it.

Made it.

Made it.

There’s lots more to show about the Canyon Reach, but that’s for a later post (probably not for a few weeks).

FIRTH RIVER, YUKON: PART ONE

Treeless mountains, a winding course, fierce whitewater.

Treeless mountains, a winding course, fierce whitewater, coastal plain, a quiet end.

Eleven days. Ivvavik Nation Park in the Yukon. Ten thousand square km of wilderness north of the Arctic Circle. No roads, no inhabitants. A unique river that escaped the glaciers that scoured and scraped across Canada over the past two million years. Just us. Three rafts carrying people who love being the only humans in a place that has remained virtually unchanged since our species first appeared on the continent.

The only way to get here.

The only way to get here.

It begins with a bush plane that drops us off in a pleasant meadow. It ends on a lonely spit of land by the Beaufort Sea.

Sunset on Nunaluk Spit

Sunset on Nunaluk Spit

I’ve rafted the Firth three times with Nahanni River Adventures. I’d like to do it again before I die. It’s that magical.

I’ll have several posts about the river, using photos from two of my trips (my computer ate everything from my second journey). Below is a sampling.

First camp near Mary Lake

First camp near Margaret Lake. The Arctic was being kind to us.

Gravel beaches, grey skies.

Gravel beaches, grey skies.

Lunch in the cold with good companions.

Lunch in the cold with good companions.

Lots of time to explore.

Lots of time to explore.

Beautiful places to camp.

Beautiful places to camp.

Fascinating, ancient, multi-coloured rock

Fascinating, ancient, multi-coloured rock

Exciting rapids. The guides made us walk around this one.

Exciting rapids. The guides made us walk around this one.

A curious muskox.

A curious muskox.

The river ends in a peaceful and very shallow lagoon.

The river ends in a peaceful and very shallow lagoon.

Nunaluk Spit and the Beaufort sea. A barren, windswept place of haunting beauty.

Nunaluk Spit and the Beaufort sea. A barren, windswept place of haunting beauty.

Land's end at 2 a;m.

Land’s end at 2 a;m.

Oh, Wilderness were paradise enow!

The beauty and majesty of the Canadian Rockies

The beauty and majesty of the Canadian Rockies

Somewhere north of the Arctic Circle

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

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

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.

Once more unto the North, dear friends, once more.

Virginia Falls, Nahanni River

Virginia Falls, Nahanni River

Enough Shakespeare! I won’t be fighting the French at Agincourt; I’ll be in the North fighting mosquitoes on the Nahanni and Firth rivers. It’s time for another trip to my second home (the Canadian Rockies are my primary retreat from urban life). Two weeks on each river will see me through half of our short Alberta summer. I won’t be home until the first of August, and since our northern wilderness is still blissfully free of cell phone and Internet coverage, there will be no more blog entries until then.

These will be “soft” trips, northern style: rafts to carry everything and everyone, guides to row them, do the cooking and generally look after us, and lots of wildlife, fortunately, not all of the six-legged kind. My aging joints like “soft” trips; there would be a palace revolt if I suggested climbing Denali again. (That’s a much younger me in the photo at the top of the page!)

Since rafting the Firth costs about the same as a luxury safari in Botswana, you have to be a little crazy to sign up for the privilege of putting up your own tent every night, let alone do so more than once (this will be my third time on the Firth, second on the Nahanni). Still, I would not trade my life of adventure for all the material objects I could have purchased over the years but didn’t.

Ciao!

ICE: Arctic Post # 7

It’s what comes to mind when one thinks of the Arctic. But ice is not a simple subject; it forms in many ways and takes many forms, from delicate and beautiful to massive and frightening.

Chandelier ice

Chandelier ice, Burnside River

It can be a place to live, if you’re a polar bear.

Home

Hudson Bay

The poetry of ice and water can work its magic as you sit on the shore and contemplate the endless lonely reaches of the North.

Beaufort Sea at sunset

Beaufort Sea at sunset

Arctic rivers feature a type of ice that I have never seen in the south. Called “aufeis,” a German word meaning “ice on top,” it forms in winter when water rises from below and spreads on top of existing ice, creating a sort of layer cake that can be several metres high. During summer breakup, the layers have a haunting beauty.

Aufeis on Burnside River. Photo by Don Taves

Aufeis on Burnside River. Photo by Don Taves

Aufeis can be terrifying if you have to find a path through towering walls on a fast current that blocks retreat if you have picked the wrong channel.

Burnside River. Photo by Don Taves

Rafting the Splits on the Burnside River. Photo by Don Taves

Or it can just be a lot of fun.

Rafters at play while the guides try to find a thru-channel. Lagoon at mouth of Firth River.

Rafters at play while the guides try to find a thru-channel. Lagoon at mouth of Firth River.

 

LOUSEWORTS: Arctic Post #6

Lousewort? It sounds like something you should attack with disinfectant. What an ugly name for something so beautiful. Let’s take it apart. “Wort” has nothing to do with its unfortunate homonym “wart” (or at least it didn’t until J.K. Rowling turned hogwort into Hogwarts). It’s simply an Old English word for a plant, and it shows up in many flower names, for example, coralwort, honeywort, lilywort, none of which sound particularly menacing. It’s the “louse” part that can’t be elevated by etymology; it really refers to lice. People used to think that the plant was infested with vermin and that animals grazing on it would also become infested.

We have a few louseworts in the Canadian Rockies, and although they are pretty, they are not spectacular. To see the full glory of the lousewort, you have to go to the Arctic.

#41 Arctic Loussewort and caribou antler

Arctic lousewort and caribou antler

 

#40 Capitate Lousewort

Capitate lousewort

 

#42 Arctic Lousewort

Arctic lousewort

 

#89 Wooly Lousewort

 Oops! How did an arctic willow get in here? My mistake. But it’s beautiful anyway.

 

#112 Sudetan Lousewort

Sudetan lousewort

 

#113 Sudetan Lousewort

Sudetan lousewort

 

IMG_0292

Wooly lousewort

THE RIVER: Arctic Post #5

Burnside River in June

Burnside River in June, 2007

You booked the trip, paid your money (a lot!), scheduled your vacation. You have twelve days to raft the tundra, see the caribou migration and cross the Arctic Circle. Except, the ice is breaking up later than usual and you can’t move. So you sit on a rock, contemplating the rhythm of the river and your own insignificance. Be thankful for the lesson; it’s one that city dwellers never learn.

The Burnside eventually relented and let us complete our journey.