by Adam Shoalts
Immediately beyond this island, the river squeezed through what looked like a narrow S-bend laced with rapids. Given the strenuous and time-consuming work of portaging over the island, I had no wish to portage any more than was strictly necessary. At this rate, exploring the river would take an inordinate amount of time—just how long I had no idea. The adventurer in me reasserted himself, and once more I threw caution to the wind in order to run rapids. Standing on the island’s shore, I could see whitewater directly ahead, but the danger seemed minimal as long as I managed to reach the shore after the first two sets of rapids, before the sharp curve in the S-bend—around which it was impossible to see.
I paddled through the first rapid easily enough, but the second one turned out to have a steep chute like a miniature waterfall, with a metre-and-a-half vertical drop. The canoe’s bow vanished beneath the foaming water at the bottom of the chute, filling the vessel. But the canoe remained afloat, and with furious effort I was able to paddle the half-sinking craft against the swift current to the shore, where I flung down my paddle and caught hold of some tree roots to prevent the canoe and me from being swept around the bend.
Soaking wet from the wild ride through the rapids, I climbed up the rocky riverbank and pulled the canoe onshore, where I dumped the water out. Since I had no idea what lay beyond the river bend and was somewhat wary of more excitement, I decided to hike ahead on foot to get the lay of the land. What I saw astonished me.
IF I HAD EVER doubted it, I learned that even in our age of satellite technology and high-tech gadgetry, no substitute exists for the pure, simple pleasure and honest rewards of being in a remote, unknown place. The hours I had spent studying the grainy old aerial photographs and blurry satellite images of the Again River could never have prepared me for the reality of this place. I found myself in a land of unsurpassed beauty, standing beneath red pines, lush cedars, and white birches on a sandy cove nestled between massive granite boulders that had come to rest here as if tossed by the hands of some giant. Across the clear blue stream, roaring and rushing with rapids, was a small mountain, rendered nearly barren by a forest fire, that looked like some otherworldly mirage. Beyond the mountain was a narrow canyon framed on one side by sheer cliffs of pinkish granite and on the other by a rocky hill. Small trees and shrubs clung tenaciously to the cliffs. Just before this canyon was a deep, tranquil stretch of water. It seemed to me like the sort of place the ancient Greeks or Vikings would have consecrated as a sacred pool of the immortals.
I picked my way over deadfall from a past forest fire, pushing past young spruces that had sprung up in the years since the fire. I hiked up the rocky summit, hopping at times from one fallen tree to another to avoid the difficulty of constantly climbing over the obstacles that barred the way forward. The ground beneath me was cloaked in blueberries and raspberries, which I ate happily. The sun was shining above me as I reached the peak and scanned my surroundings in all directions. I could see that beyond the swirling waters of the narrow canyon, the river snaked around again and emerged in a wide, calm stretch that resembled a small lake framed by rocky cliffs and small mountains. In the far distance, I could see the glimmer of moving water, where the lake emptied into a raging torrent.
The little peninsula with the sandy cove covered in lush cedars and white birches had somehow escaped the forest fire’s path, and was one of the most beautiful places I had ever set foot in—it was a place that no dream could have improved, aside from the blackflies and mosquitoes. But the insects scarcely bothered me, so taken was I with the spot. I decided to gather as much dry cedar and birchbark as I could. These items I regarded as among the most precious treasures in the world, invaluable as they are for starting fires—especially in a land where such trees are rare. I was tempted to rest on the narrow peninsula for the night, near the sandy cove. The river curved in such an extreme bend that it flowed on either side of the peninsula at a distance of no more than ten metres. But I had a schedule to keep, and I had no way of knowing what surprises might lay ahead. To delay could be fatal to my enterprise, and it would be foolish not to take advantage of a rare day of fair weather.
Thus, with reluctance, I banished any thought of stopping early for the day in this pleasant spot and returned to fetch my gear for what would be a lengthy and arduous portage over the rocky, deadfall-strewn hills, around the canyon, and out to the little lake, where the water finally calmed enough to resume safe travel.
Rock climbing along the steep sides of the canyon was necessary to complete the portage, which was, I suppose, only slightly less hazardous than paddling the rapids themselves. In fact, this portage was so difficult, blocked as it was in every which way by chest-high fallen trees and thick emergent spruce saplings, that for a moment I contemplated running the canyon with the empty canoe rather than attempting to portage it across. But after methodically studying the rapids, I reluctantly concluded that the lapping waves were too high for my shallow canoe’s sides and would spill over and flood it again.
There was nothing to do but try to carry the canoe over the rocky hills and the barricades of deadfall. Fatigued and sweaty from the first two loads, I replenished my water bottle directly from the river and quenched my raging thirst. Since I had lost my hat in the waterfall, there was nothing to keep the sun’s rays off, as all I had to wear now was my helmet. Under the hot sun, swarmed by bloodthirsty insects, I lifted the canoe up and started the portage. Exhausting as it was getting up the rock hill—the canoe had to be painstakingly lifted over chest-high deadfall that blocked my path every few steps—the hardest part was the end of the portage. I had to climb down an almost vertical rock slope with the canoe to reach the end of the canyon.
When the portage was over, I reloaded the canoe and explored the little lake, which was really an exceptionally wide and calm stretch of river. It was hemmed in on one side by a towering rock face that rose nearly fifty metres straight out of the water and on the other by forested hills. Beyond this expanse of calm water were more dangerous rapids, which I paddled through in the canoe, navigating them with all the skill I possessed. At one place, the river narrowed to a mere three metres wide before plunging over a small chute into a wider pool. Surrounding this part of the river were more scars of an old forest fire—some dead trees were still standing, sparsely spaced; others had toppled over, and between them grew tight ranks of young spruces.
AGAIN RIVER
I lifted the canoe around the chute, which couldn’t be paddled, and then entered the pool with great caution. Ahead I could see a vertical drop of what was unmistakably another waterfall, and beyond that I had a view stretching to the distant horizon of endless wilderness.
[ 12 ]
ADRIFT
Come what may, all bad fortune is to be conquered by endurance.
—Virgil, first century BC
INSIDE THE POOL above the waterfall was an island, which I paddled around, hugging the rocky shoreline until I found a place I could safely land. The waterfall was a beautiful six-metre-high curtain of golden water, falling straight down in the shape of a horseshoe. It was the prettiest of the waterfalls I had seen so far. Beneath it was a wild canyon laced with lethal rapids squeezed between narrow walls of ancient granite. The river rapidly descended through these spectacular cataracts before widening at the canyon’s exit and plunging over another rocky fall. Beneath that final waterfall were more rock-studded rapids, and beyond that the river curved around a bend and disappeared from view. This canyon was the largest I had come across and covered nearly half a kilometre in length, all of which would have to be portaged. This portage would be an undertaking of considerable difficulty—more than ever, a partner would have been useful. There was no easy path forward; the ground on either side of the canyon was a jumble of fallen trees, effectively blocking any passage forward except by the most determined effort. I would have to climb steep cliffs and rocky hills while hacking through the young, thick spruces that had emerged since the old fire and pull the canoe eithe
r under or over the overlapping dead trees that lay like roadblocks in every direction.
The Again River was proving a tough adversary—my hands were becoming more scraped and cut daily, my face was sunburnt, my right knee near the joint had somehow been cut up (I was unsure how it had happened), the rash on my feet from the constant wetness had spread to my legs, my back was sore from carrying the heavy loads, and all over my body were small bruises and scrapes. But I bore my battle scars with pride and remained confident that nothing could stop me in my quest to explore the river.
I was now somewhere near the artificial provincial boundary between Quebec and Ontario, so I knew that I wasn’t the first person to explore this wild canyon. A small team of government surveyors who had charted the boundary line must have passed through this area on a north–south axis in the late 1920s. Of course, they weren’t here to explore the river, let alone attempt to paddle it. But emerging from the forest, they must have been struck by the awesome incongruity of these towering rock hills, crags, and gorges compared with the typically flat and swampy terrain. It was certainly a rare departure from the muskeg and swamp that covers nearly all of the Lowlands.
When I reached the roaring cascade at the end of the canyon, I saw that it split around a barren rock island, forming another small waterfall on one side. A few hours of hard work enabled me to transport everything to the base of this little waterfall. I could not see what lay beyond the bend outside the canyon, but more rapids were certain. As much as I wanted to, an impenetrable barrier of deadfall and thick brush onshore made travelling ahead on foot to scout what lay beyond the bend impossible. The only option, risky as it was, was to repack the canoe and paddle more or less blindly downriver. As a precaution, I would stick as close to the shoreline as possible, in case another dangerous waterfall or cataract was hiding around the next bend.
I repacked the canoe and cautiously paddled forward around the bend, the swift current propelling me on. As I suspected, no shortage of dangerous cataracts and enormous rapids were waiting ahead. For the next kilometre or so, the whole river was a wild, ungoverned fury of whitewater, with inconsequential stretches of less violent water in between. The river snaked in a hairpin curve at one spot, flowing into yet another canyon. The rapids in the apex of this bend were impassable; their giant waves would swallow my canoe if I dared try to paddle through. To arrive inside the canyon’s walls, I had no choice but to perform another extremely tiring portage over some of the thickest brush and deadfall I had faced. I made camp for the night beneath these rocks, in a spot that was otherwise pleasant, with good access to the water for cooking and plenty of firewood. I set up my tent beneath a few live cedars, and that night fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
THE NEXT DAY, I paddled hard without interruption, running every rapid I encountered and, for once, having no portages. As a result, I made great time and managed to canoe the remainder of the river, which was about half of its entire course (or roughly fifty-four kilometres), aided greatly by hundreds of swift rapids and a strong current. Throughout the day the river’s appearance changed frequently and dramatically, so that at times it was hard to believe I was still canoeing the same waterway. After the last canyon, granite rocks gave way to grassy sandbanks and limestone cliffs. Much of the route along the river was burnt out by a forest fire, though some portions remained cloaked in undisturbed old-growth forest. In places were stands of large birch and poplars as well as beautiful forested islands. There were no more canyons or waterfalls, and while I paddled through endless rapids, they could not compare with the ferocity of the upper part of the river. Throughout the day, I came across a variety of waterfowl, as well as beavers.
By the evening, I had reached the end of the Again River, where it emptied into the vast waters of the Harricanaw River. The Harricanaw was nearly a kilometre wide—strewn with gravel sandbars, shoals, and rapids. I made camp on a high bank in thick woods overlooking the junction of the two rivers.
While my journey wasn’t over, that evening I treated myself to a cup of cranberry tea to quietly celebrate the fulfillment of my long-cherished ambition to explore the Again River. I had pried open its long-guarded secrets, seen things no other mortal eyes had ever seen, trod in untouched places, and gained knowledge of the previously unknown. I had discovered at least five unmapped waterfalls—more if I counted smaller “split” falls around islands. I had navigated rapids no one else had ever paddled, and in the process, I had become the only person on record to canoe the Again River in its entirety, right from its swampy headwaters down to its outlet on the Harricanaw. Perhaps one day I could look forward to seeing my name added to a monograph listing river journeys, such as Canoeing North into the Unknown, under an all-new entry for the Again River. But, in the foreseeable future, I neither expected nor cared to receive any accolades for my achievement—after all, this had not been a Geographical Society expedition but a personal quest. And as a personal quest, I had received all the recompense I could desire from what I had seen and experienced. Surely, for the rest of my life, the memory of the roar and sight of the Again’s waterfalls will remain vividly imprinted on my mind—much as I imagine Livingstone was haunted by the roar of Victoria Falls to his dying day or John Muir by the sight of Yellowstone’s geysers.
THE NEXT MORNING I bade farewell to the Again River and set off down the Harricanaw. I thought I could detect a hint of sea air on the morning breeze, but it was a good thirty-four-kilometre journey down this new river to reach the salt water of James Bay. The Harricanaw was an impressive sight, with big trees and enormous islands on its wide course. In addition to the familiar tamaracks and black spruce, balsam fir, poplar, birch, and cedar grew above the river’s high muddy banks. Several bald eagles soared overhead, hunting for fish.
As peaceful as the Harricanaw appeared, the river conceals a dark, violent history. In the eighteenth century, the Hudson’s Bay Company had established an isolated outpost near the Harricanaw’s mouth on James Bay. This tiny fur trade post, cut off from the rest of the world in the wilderness of the Lowlands, was manned mostly by aboriginal people. On January 20, 1832, a group of about a dozen eastern Cree arrived at the post and were, according to an eyewitness, “in a Starving and Naked State.” They begged for food and other provisions, which the post’s commander, a Métis man named William Corrigal, gave them. Two days later—apparently as secretly planned—the group returned, burst into the post, slaughtered its inhabitants in cold blood, and plundered it of furs and supplies. Corrigal, his native wife, and seven other Cree who were occupants of the post were killed. Four survivors managed to escape the massacre. They embarked on a desperate trek to seek help at Moose Factory, a larger post about sixty-five kilometres away on the Moose River. There, a posse of men was quickly assembled to hunt down the murderers. They eventually succeeded in tracking the killers down, five of whom were summarily executed.
The remains of the Hudson Bay’s post are long gone, and near the Harricanaw’s mouth, where it once stood, is now only silent forest. As I scanned the area, it was easy to imagine that ghosts still haunted this unhappy place. According to Cree legends, ghosts haunt many islands and old campsites around James Bay. The only animal I saw in the vicinity was a small black bear, scurrying along the riverbank.
On the opposite side of the river was a small clearing with a cluster of wood buildings. This was Washow Lodge, established two years earlier by the Moose Factory band council in a novel attempt to alleviate unemployment problems by stimulating adventure-tourism in the region. The Harricanaw, after all, was a large river without any substantial portages that could be navigated with relative ease by experienced canoeists. It had never amounted to a major trade route in the heyday of the fur trade, but in the twentieth century various adventurers had been attracted down its five-hundred-kilometre-long course, including the young Pierre Trudeau. Float planes could land on its mouth to transport canoeists and other guests, and motor boats could access the river from across James Bay.
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When I reached the muddy shoreline near the lodge at low tide, I could distinctly smell the sea air on the breeze. The lodge had no dock of any kind, so I was forced to wade to shore and drag my canoe and supplies across mud flats, sinking down into the muck as I attempted to reach solid ground. The lodge was situated above a grassy bank in a half-acre clearing. It looked deserted—the buildings were locked and the area around them was rather untidy, with equipment and rubbish strewn about. I couldn’t help but think that attracting tourists to this area wouldn’t meet with much success. The swampy Lowlands aren’t what most people have in mind when they picture majestic wilderness. Nevertheless, I admired the idea—perhaps if the Moose Cree could succeed in making people see the Lowlands as a wilderness with intrinsic value, the land could be preserved from industrial exploitation—to my mind, a welcome change.
One service the lodge offered was transport via motorboat across stormy James Bay to the Moose River, on the western side of the Bay, where I could catch the Polar Bear Express train south to Cochrane. As much as I enjoyed ocean canoeing—something I had done many times—my frail little craft, only thirteen feet long and about half the depth of a standard canoe, was inadequate for the open sea. It had served me well on the portages through thick forest, but the inevitable trade-off was limited utility and safety on open water. A shuttle would spare me at least several days—possibly more if the weather was stormy—of hard paddling on James Bay in my battered canoe. I decided to wait around to see if a boat would arrive at the deserted lodge—biding my time sketching landscapes and with my binoculars watching for the elusive Eskimo curlew. But no boat or plane appeared, and I began to suspect the place received few visitors.