Beyond the Trees

by Adam Shoalts

  After about five kilometres of difficult wading and lining, the river began to rapidly narrow, forcing all that roaring water into a channel less than two hundred metres wide. This increased the current’s velocity as a result. Now the river was racing past at a terrifying speed.

  I soon came to large boulders on shore, which ran straight down into the river, forming small cliffs. Given the boulders, I couldn’t continue hiking while pulling the canoe in the water beside me. Nor could I avoid the boulders by wading; the river was too deep for that. I’d have to climb over the boulders, while letting out rope to guide the canoe in the water around them.

  I took a moment to visualize things. I had to be sure. There was definitely no margin for error here.

  I coiled up the rope in my right hand, pulling the canoe in a back eddy close to shore, where it could rest for a moment out of the main current. Ahead were the giant boulders, first I’d have to climb them, then I’d carefully tug the canoe out into the river, before pulling in the rope to advance the canoe up the current. Then I’d skip to the next boulder, keeping ahead of the boat, and repeat the manoeuvre. It was important to move fast so that I’d stay ahead of the canoe to control it; if I let it get too far from shore, or if I wasn’t precise with the rope, it could catch the current, pull sideways, and overturn—leaving me stranded.

  My palms were sweating as I executed my moves: scampering ahead as agilely as I could in ungainly waders, climbing from boulder to boulder, reeling the canoe up almost parallel to me, darting ahead again. To ease the tension I talked a little to the canoe as I went, reassuring it, telling it that I’d reel it back in safely.

  So far, so good. Then high red cliffs loomed up ahead, running straight down into the river and blocking the way forward. I pulled the canoe into a low spot on shore before the cliffs, securing it there. I’d have to go ahead on foot to scout out how to get around these cliffs.

  It was dicey work, edging up the cliffs, climbing carefully over steep rocks. One slip and I could fall into the river below or bash my head on a rock. I was thankful for all the indoor rock climbing I’d done; the training helped me move with more confidence. After scouting things out, it seemed it was possible to line around the cliff if I was careful.

  I returned to the canoe, towing it into a calm spot just below the start of the cliff. It could rest there while I climbed as far ahead as I could, leaving just a bit of slack rope. Once up on the cliff, I stood near the edge and looked back at my little canoe bobbing in the turbulent river below as waves rippled out to the rocky shoreline from the rapids in the middle.

  All right, I said to myself, here it goes. I tugged gently on the rope, nudging the canoe’s bow away from the calm water and into the main current. The current caught it, but I moved rapidly to reel it in, pulling fast to safely control the canoe and bring it alongside the cliff. When I’d coiled in almost all the slack rope, I darted ahead along the cliff, keeping the rope tense to hold the canoe steady in the current.

  Next I climbed down to a steep, cobble-strewn bank where I could reel in the canoe the rest of the way along the edge of the rock wall. A few more pulls brought the canoe safely up alongside me. I breathed a sigh of relief to have the canoe in my hands again.

  This feeling proved short-lived. Just a short distance ahead I came to more cliffs, only these were much larger, again rising straight out of the water. They were far too big for me to climb—my rope wasn’t nearly long enough. And even if I had more rope, it would be too risky to chance tracking a canoe from such a height.

  I looked around trying figure to out what to do. Clearly, I couldn’t go over the cliffs, nor could I pole or paddle ahead: the fast-flowing river was too powerful. I thought of portaging, but even that seemed doubtful, as the rocky cliff promised to be difficult to get around. And even if I did succeed in getting around this cliff, what if there were more ahead? I couldn’t see beyond these cliffs, but from what I’d so far encountered, this side of the river seemed like it was going to have a lot more cliffs, and the contour lines on my maps weren’t encouraging.

  I looked across the surging water to the far bank. That side of the river had steep slopes filled with rocks of the sort I’d been hiking along before coming to the big boulders and cliffs on this side. But there weren’t any cliffs that I could see on that side. If I could get across to it, I might have more luck there.

  I decided to try crossing the river. It wouldn’t be easy; the current’s velocity here was tremendous, ripping by at great speed. Downriver was a big rapid, which I’d lined up along the shore, and I didn’t want to be swept down into it. I could probably run it if I had to, but that’d mean getting spit out far downriver, causing me to lose precious, hard-worn progress. Covering just five kilometres had taken me nearly three hours.

  To ferry across the river against the current to the far side would require some careful manoeuvring and hard paddling. I coiled up the rope, stashed it in the bow, then fetched my straight shaft paddle, which I needed for the greater control it would allow me in the current. To get across, I’d essentially have to paddle upriver, which would put me in a sort of treadmill on the current, but in the process that would allow me to shift the canoe across sideways without yielding distance.

  I braced the canoe along shore, took a last glance at the river above and below, then hopped in and shoved off. On my knees I paddled hard upriver; fortunately the current wasn’t as strong near the shore and I shot ahead a bit before catching the main force of the water. This pushed me back a little, but hard strokes held me steady in the current. I began to edge across, paddling as if trying to go upriver but angling my canoe slightly to ferry or shuffle it across. The whole operation went quite fast, and I landed on the opposite rocky bank more or less where I’d intended.

  This side of the river was cliff-free, but still a challenge to make headway on. The current remained fierce, and the jumble of small rocks everywhere on the sloping banks made walking tricky, as I could lose my footing just about anywhere. Slow and steady, I told myself and kept going.

  Hours of hard effort later I came to a place where the river widened, forking around a couple of low gravel islands before curving sharply out of view. The near side of the islands was easily navigated; the water was shallow and the current less strong, allowing me to wade.

  Beyond these islands, I encountered a spectacular sight: a towering, steep-walled canyon through which the river roared. Securing my canoe on shore, I went ahead on foot to scout it out. There was a small beach just below the stupendous cliffs that marked the canyon’s entrance, or rather, the end of it, as it only seemed like the entrance to me since I was travelling upriver. The canyon walls towered some sixty metres high. Along the cliff edge grew spruces and willows while inside the narrow walls swirled massive rapids and dangerous whirlpools. From a theoretical point of view, the canyon was beautiful. From a practical point of view, it was a nightmare. How was I to get up it?

  It seemed unlikely that I’d be able to continue through the canyon, but anything that might reduce portaging was worth investigating. I began by climbing up the rocks near the canyon’s start, picking my way carefully up to a rugged peak. These rocks weren’t part of the main canyon but rather formed a sort of spur, or peninsula, that jutted out into the river. Here the river narrowed to about fifty metres, with furious whitewater roaring in the main channel, but on the inside of the rocky spur I’d climbed there was a little tranquil cove.

  However, from atop the rocks, I could see that the canyon walls rose much higher farther up, the whole force of the river squeezing through it and forming violent rapids. I climbed down to the cove and then moved up the shoreline, deeper into the shadows of the canyon, until I came to vertical walls that prevented me from advancing any farther along the water.

  Between these vertical cliffs was a narrow slope, a sort of rock and gravel slide with some willow bushes where I could climb up. Huffing and puffing, I scrambled my way up the cliff here to the canyon’s rim. When
I reached the top and stood up to look around, my eyes met with an unexpected sight—a large stone monument about six feet high perched near the cliff edge. After months travelling alone in the wilderness, stumbling across human-made objects felt a bit startling, accustomed as I’d grown to uninterrupted rocks, trees, tundra, plants, or water.

  I walked around the monument and saw on its face a finely cut stone inscription above a concrete base. It read:

  DAVID

  AND

  CAROL JONES

  WHO LOVED THE NORTH

  AND ITS PEOPLE

  WERE DROWNED IN THESE RAPIDS

  ON AUGUST 14TH 1972

  THEY RESPECTED

  HONESTY AND TRUTH

  This inscription discouraged me a little. I took a few steps away from it over to the cliff edge and looked down two hundred feet at the swirling, thundering water below. That didn’t seem very encouraging either, so I turned back from the edge.

  Beside the monument was a faint trail. This must be, I realized, from parties of canoeists coming downriver when they portage around the canyon. The Coppermine, due to its wild rapids, attracts parties of whitewater paddling enthusiasts willing to pay the hefty fees for an air charter by floatplane to get dropped off on the river. Such canoeists can paddle down with the current, usually taking two or three weeks, then fly out again at the river’s mouth. Since I was here at just about the right time, midsummer, this part of my route offered me my best chance of crossing paths with fellow canoe campers, something I hadn’t seen any of since my journey began thousands of kilometres away in the Yukon.

  I followed the trail in the direction I’d come, until it petered out and I picked my own way down a rocky hill and over some willows to where I’d left my canoe and gear. “Well,” I said to the canoe, “there’s no way we can make it up that canyon; we’ll have to portage. But don’t worry, there’s a bit of a trail we can follow.”

  I strapped on my backpack, took some water, then set off. The portage, it turned out, was about half a kilometre long, snaking up over the cliffs and along the canyon edge. The trail was distinct along the top part but toward the end faded away on the rocks and I found my own way back down a steep, rock-strewn slope to the river’s edge. When I reached the monument, I paused for a moment’s silence.

  Four more trips back and forth were required to transport my two barrels and the canoe, which I carried over my head, as I didn’t wish to drag it on the rocks and hard ground. However, when I reached the top, near the canyon’s rim, I set the canoe down. Instead of carrying it here, I dragged it through the willows, knowing that if I tripped on a rock or if the wind were to gust and knock me off balance, I’d topple two hundred feet into the river below. The sunny weather seemed to make the blackflies particularly vicious while my hands were full with the canoe.

  Once I’d transported everything across I carefully repacked the canoe alongside the river and then edged it out into the water, which was still swirling along with tremendous velocity. Glancing at the narrow entrance to the canyon, I thought how bad it would be for a canoeist coming downriver who failed to stop and was sucked into the canyon, not having realized the danger. I wondered if that’s what had happened to David and Carol Jones.

  With the canoe ready, I turned away from the canyon and began slogging ahead on foot once more, pulling the canoe beside me. The portage had meant a lengthy delay, and my heart sank at how little progress I’d so far made upriver. The banks remained steeply sloped and difficult to walk along without twisting an ankle, due to the piles of rocks everywhere. I was feeling exhausted and a little discouraged, but I forced myself to keep going.

  It was late in the day, and suitable campsites were few and far between. The river’s steep banks, beyond which were high hills, meant a lack of level ground anywhere to sleep on. I pushed on, inching forward step by step, hauling the canoe against the powerful current. In vain I looked for any flat ground to sleep on. At last, wearied and hungry, I settled for a tiny, partially sloped bit of gravel beneath high, steep banks near the water’s edge. It wasn’t by any means a nice place to sleep, but I was too exhausted to much mind. Inside my tent I studied my maps. With despair, I calculated that despite having put in eleven hours of my hardest efforts, I’d made it just twelve kilometres upriver. Such pitiful progress was demoralizing. At no point on my journey had I felt so low. Even my worst days on the Mackenzie I’d still done twenty kilometres, and that was over a shorter day. At this rate, I knew, I’d never complete my journey.

  Difficult as it was, I had to dispel these doubts, and try to encourage myself for what tomorrow would hold—another brutally hard day of upriver travel in which somehow I’d have to do better. Lying in my tent on the cold, hard ground, I tried to prepare myself for the morning. I consoled myself with the thought that, on balance, I was probably doing what I loved most.

  × 13 ×

  GIFTS FROM ABOVE

  The next morning I was underway early, hauling my canoe upriver while hopping along the rocks beside it. Then came more rapids, which required a combination of strenuous effort and careful precision to overcome, as I knew all too well what might happen if I slipped in the current and fell over, or lodged my foot in an unseen crevice beneath the water, twisting an ankle.

  As I pushed on, sections of the river improved greatly, widening enough so that I could actually stand in the canoe and pole off the bottom near shore. To switch back to poling was a great relief. I made the most of it, poling as hard as I possibly could. Some of the smaller rapids, or swifts, I even managed to pole up, by sticking close to the high banks and choosing my spots just right.

  At the edge of the rapids were often large grey boulders sticking up like the back of a hippopotamus, which created a calm spot directly behind by diverting water. As I approached these I’d spring off the bottom with my pole and, once behind them, hop out onto the boulder, pull the canoe around it, and then jump back in on the far side, poling ahead to the calmer water. In some of the smaller swifts, however, I found that with great effort I could fling myself out from behind the boulder with the pole into the main current and, poling hard, make it up through the swifts. (Once or twice, though, the current proved too strong when I tried, spinning the canoe around and forcing it downriver. I’d have to steer back into shore and try again, this time reverting to my safer hopping-out-on-the-boulder approach.)

  In a few sections the river widened enough that I could actually paddle, as long as I kept close to shore and out of the reach of the main current. And in places where high sloped banks towered above me I could jab at them with my pole, propelling myself along; this was even faster than poling through the water, but it only worked in places with the right steep banks for it. Finally, in a precious few spots few and far between, but encouraging all the same, the surging current would create back eddies close to the high banks, where the water rushed back upstream. When I caught these currents the canoe would seem to fly along, cheering my spirits, though they lasted only a few seconds. Mostly, however, I had to haul the canoe as I waded through the rushing water.

  When I halted after twelve hours travel to make camp, I found my progress had much improved: I’d managed to make it twenty-five kilometres. Still, I didn’t want to get overconfident. My route entailed travelling some two hundred kilometres upriver on the Coppermine before I could cross into the lakes of the central Arctic, so there was still a long way to go.

  My third day battling up the Coppermine I navigated more difficult rapids, but my dread of them faded as I rounded a sharp bend and came to a place where the river widened and the current slackened. A great rugged range of hills—or more accurately, small mountains—rose up on the eastern side of the river in successive waves, stretching beyond the horizon. Along their lower slopes grew black spruce, which survive along sheltered river valleys, though a short distance beyond them the trees give way to vast open plains of seemingly limitless extent.

  I was happy to see this wide bit of river not only becaus
e it meant an easier current, but because it was the spot I’d selected, based on satellite imagery, for my next resupply. There are few places on the Coppermine River where a floatplane can safely land, given the rocks and rapids, but this wide part, with its more subdued current, was one of them. I paddled up the middle of it, checking the water levels and looking for any hidden shoals that could cause trouble for a plane.

  Having pushed myself as hard as I could, I’d again exceeded my estimates, and it’d taken me only two weeks to arrive here from the end of Great Bear instead of the three I had to cautiously figure on.

  It was with economy in mind, and the need to minimize the amount of heavy food rations that I was carrying during such arduous upriver travel and portaging, that I’d resolved for a resupply at this point. That wasn’t all: to save money and cut down on the weight of my loads up the remainder of the Coppermine, I’d decided on a gamble. The pilot was going to give me only half my rations, keeping the other half with him on the plane. On his return to Yellowknife, he would land on a lake to leave the rest of the supplies for me inside a wooden crate. There was a chance, of course, that a wolverine or grizzly might find the crate and break it open for the rations, but that’s why I’d asked for it to be put on a remote island far offshore. It was a risk, but knowing what I did of the Coppermine, and what I’d seen so far of it, the prospect of allowing me to travel lighter up the remainder of it, since I wouldn’t have to haul all the extra supplies with me, was worth taking.

  Once I’d found a suitable spot with deep, unobstructed water where the plane could land, I made camp. Since I’d be expecting visitors, I figured I ought to try something I hadn’t done in weeks—what’s known as “bathing.” Bracing myself, I took a swim in the river’s frigid waters. It felt chilling, but refreshing all the same (aside from the blackflies swarming my head).