After paddling the mighty Yukon from Whitehorse, YT, we landed our kayaks near the mouth of the Klondike River in Dawson City. The year was 1962, the centenary of the discovery of gold and the Klondike Gold Rush. Dawson City had brought back the historic atmosphere of glory and luxury from the past and we took several days to enjoy and film some interesting sites.
My wife Renate, our friend Konrad, and I were determined to paddle our river route north to the Arctic Ocean. We follow the bliss and drive for adventure that also drives the cranes to fly north again. In accordance with the regulations, we registered our planned trip at the government office and gave our estimated time of arrival. The officer shook his head slowly as he read our form.
“So you want to paddle down the Blackstone, Peel and Mackenzie rivers to the Arctic Ocean?” she questioned. Then he told us that the only gravel road ended at the head of the Blackstone, that there were no human settlements in that area for more than 600 miles, and that there was no air patrol.
“No one has ever attempted this route and there is no seaplane landing site before the River Peel,” he added, wishing us the best of luck. We shook hands and I noticed a sad expression on her face.
In the afternoon we bought detailed maps of the three rivers, lots of food, mosquito repellent, and three pairs of Klondike boots. We also arranged the 70 mile taxi ride and were happy to start our road trip the next morning.
After loading our disassembled kayaks and all the gear into the truck, we enjoyed the bumpy ride up the winding gravel road. Several hours later we could see a small bridge that crossed a river. This was the end of the road. The driver helped us unload the truck near the flat, grassy shore and we were looking forward to setting up camp and rigging up the kayaks. The river was calm and small enough to throw a stone. Two days later we were ready and pushed our kayaks into the Blackstone River. It was hard to believe that we were the first to paddle this river because it was so calm and flowing gently. It was Friday, June 13, 1962. Needless to say, we weren’t superstitious.
We had barely paddled about half a mile when the river turned sharply to the left and the landscape changed like in a movie: the river had divided into thousands of small streams that penetrated an ancient glacial bed more than a mile wide. The left bank was covered with a remnant of craggy ice, about twelve feet thick, and our kayaks became trapped among the rocks. I was thankful for our new Klondike boots and cotton-impregnated pants, which kept the water in but eventually made it warm. We were equipped with “low-tech” hot water insulation and were about to discover its functionality.
Our next step was to wade into the icy water and pull the kayaks by their ropes behind us. We call this “treidling”. This can be fun when there are connected streams that are at least three inches deep, but we use our determination to achieve our goal. There was no other option. This new type of adventure stayed with us for four days, as we waded ten to twelve hours a day, to cover a total of sixteen miles. When Blackstone finally left the flat rock lake, he formed a beautiful river but not without some “booby traps”. It was like a minefield of big round rocks, two and three foot high, sometimes combined with shallow water, but we were happy to be paddling again.
Then Renate hits one of the rocks and capsizes. Fortunately, the water was deep enough to prevent injury. She walked to the shore while I took care of her kayak. It was time to set up camp, dry clothes on the fire, and celebrate the successful crossing of the glacier bed. Instead of champagne we settled for some brown rice, a can of salmon, and a chocolate bar for dessert. Renate is a good paddler, but she was fooled by a cross current coming from the gravel bank to the left and drifted onto the rock. There were plenty of mosquitoes, but we were well equipped with mosquito nets and got used to eating with our eyes closed while our faces were covered in smoke from the fire. There were no insects above any of the rivers.
From now on, the Blackstone River became a paddler’s paradise with green trees and the Ogilvy Mountains in the background. This was a great payoff for all our pioneering experiences. Over the next two days I caught enough Arctic trout and grayling to turn dinner into a feast.
The river became larger and often divided around small islands or gravel banks. I was leading the way, looking for channels with the fastest flow. When I noticed the water flowing to the right, I followed the current past a bush-covered island. It was fun to shoot into a tight left turn, but suddenly I ran into a fallen fir tree blocking most of this passage.
I yelled “Go right and straight through the whirlpool!” and crossed the greens. The strong current swung my kayak crosswise and capsized it. They forced me deep into the branches, face down, and I used all my strength to pull myself up and keep my head above the water. Desperately I clung to the engulfing sticks and fought against the force of the river.
Suddenly I heard Renate in the trunk above me. She called my name, as she brushed the branches out of her way. I responded eagerly and felt new hope and resistance to hold on. Then she swung the machete with force and fury and cut the branches that held me. I pushed my feet against the kayak and dove deep. Before surfacing, I grabbed the bow line and swam to safety. Together we hauled in the line and retrieved my kayak from its trap.
“But where is your tripod?” she asked.
“I need the tripod to film!” I insisted, and jumped back into the water here. Something shiny caught my eye but it looked very blurry. It must have been at least fifteen feet deep. I finally got close enough to recognize my tripod and grabbed it. We were both happy and relieved when I returned it and my wife gave me a big hug.
After taking our kayaks to the other side of the tree, we continue our journey and look for our friend Konrad. We found it on a gravel bank a mile downriver. He was bailing water from his kayak and explained that he had tried to dodge the sweeper, but he got caught by it.
Moments later we were rowing up the Blackstone again and heading for the River Peel, a fairly deep and smooth river, we were told.
At night we hung our clothes on a clothesline by the fire; it had already become common practice. My mind was still occupied with the events that saved my life and I said:
“I appreciate you, Renate, for obeying my instructions to head to the whirlpool of the fallen tree, but how did the machete end up in your kayak?”
“It must have happened when we were packing up this morning,” he said. “I know I should have been in your kayak and I’m baffled myself.”
“It was definitely the best mistake we could have made,” I said. “At the beginning of the trip I still couldn’t believe in the Spiritual Guide, but I feel like I’m learning very quickly.” –
Now we all laugh because it sounded so funny. Then I picked up my guitar and played along while we sang the song, When Cranes Fly North Again. There is a certain romanticism that we only recognize in sweetness, hidden in difficult moments, and we find it in paths that no one had traveled before.