On 15 June I left Whitefish, Montana – not even unpacked from a ten-week road trip – to meet my parents at David’s house in Lacombe, Alberta. From there we would travel together to Lac la Biche, Alberta, to meet the Voyage to the Bay brigade. We planned to join the group on Monday morning after they completed the historic height of land portage across the continental divide entering the Hudson Bay drainage.
Everything fell into place. We met the brigade at the La Biche Mission late Friday afternoon. On Saturday afternoon I chatted with and listened to the local residents who shared what they knew of the upper Beaver River. The most informative was the Mad Trapper. He talked of a paved highway along side Red Deers Creek, down to Field Lake and finally into the Beaver River. It all sounded like a dream come true. After hearing the Mad Trapper, David and Mark did a reconnaissance of the portage route. Although the Mad Trapper had been around the area all his life, what he forgot to tell us was he was enlightening us about the portage as it was during his childhood, about 100 years ago.
Conditions have changed!
Toad described her experience on the upper Beaver River, what she had expected and what she experienced. I spent all of Monday morning sitting with the expedition’s belongings along Highway 55. Once my kayak, an 18 foot 5 inch Necky Arluk III, touring boat, was fully loaded and there was still no sign of the four canoes I was waiting for; I decided to leave my parents at the bridge and paddled upstream for about 40 minutes. I found an exquisite marsh with the Beaver River meandering in all directions, but generally, I paddled north. Overhead black terns yelled and accompanied me up the river and back down. I found lesser scaup, redhead, canvasback, American widgeon, American coot, but what surprised me most was flushing a sora on one of the sharp river bends which I didn’t, perhaps more accurately, could not properly navigate. Ramming the bow into the shoreline grasses – this accident happened repeatedly on the Beaver River or “squiggle” as Toad called it.
I never did find the missing canoes. Eventually I turned around, returning to the bridge, then paddled downstream a short distance. I immediately encountered a beaver dam, duckweed and what looked like an impenetrable thicket below the beaver dam. I couldn’t imagine dragging my fully loaded kayak through the tangle with no visible pathway. Paddling back to the bridge I suggested my parents paddle down to check if I had exaggerated the conditions.
While they were paddling down to the beaver dam, I watched a car drive slowly across the bridge, then stop at the mound of gear. Taking my duty as guard seriously I started towards the intruder. People jumped out of the car, I started to get concerned. Then I noticed they were unloading paddles, dry bags, water bottles and even a life jacket. Something was drastically wrong, but I now knew there wouldn’t be paddlers on the river. Looking up the highway I saw the first canoes cresting the hill about 2 kilometres distant. They had apparently been beaten and the portage had just grown “longer.”
It was Tom’s car that had arrived. He had inadvertently bumped into David after they discovered the upper Beaver River was unnavigable for canoes. I caught a ride with Tom back to the Mission to retrieve our car. For the next four hours we portaged people, gear, food and canoes about 20 kilometers down the road to the confluence of the Beaver and Amisk Rivers. David had some information suggesting the Beaver River below the confluence was “a good family paddle.”
Now that our car had been retrieved a week early, the complexity of arranging a new shuttle was more then could be handled. By Tuesday morning David and brigade were again itching to be on the river. My parents and I had all our food packaged together, so I couldn’t just up and charge down the river.
I absently commented, “I wonder if I could paddle that section of the Beaver River.” David lit up with the comment – “If you do that you’ll be an expedition member.”
After regrouping and paddling in Lakeland Provincial Park for a day we based ourselves at Winston Churchill Provincial Park.
Thursday, 22 June, I started on the Beaver River. I decided to begin at Bridge 3 and paddle to the Hylo Bridge, about 3 kilometres direct distance. From the highway it seemed the river should be easily paddleable. If the river below this point was passable I would return and paddle upriver from Bridge 2 and Bridge 3 but I wasn’t going to struggle with those sections until I knew the rest of the river was paddleable. I lashed my Muck Boots (Thank you, NASA Dude) to the back deck of the kayak and clambered into the kayak barefoot. I was being optimistic. After a few minutes of paddling a wide, easily navigable river, I began to wonder if I had made a bad recommendation to suggest the river was not paddleable.
I soon found my first beaver lodge, followed by a small beaver dam. I struggled over the dam. Then there was another. I decided to put the Muck Boots on for this one. In quick succession I encountered several beaver dams. Next was a major obstacle, a six-foot tall fence designed to stop a bison. The bottom of the fence was about 20 centimetres under water. I considered paddling back up to the bridge but didn’t want to clamber over the beaver dams again. The alternative was to paddle full speed ahead into the sedges along the river’s edge, then pull myself to shore. Once in shallow water I was delighted to find a place where deer and moose had been crawling under the fence. I tucked the nose of the kayak under, then scaled the fence and plopped down the other side into a marshy, quagmire. The kayak slid easily under the fence. Down the river I soon encountered another bison fence, but this time I was able to duck and slide under.
At the next beaver dam I breathed a sigh of relief.
It had been removed!
I paddled on, the water became shallower. I passed an elevated hunting blind and came to another beaver dam – again removed.
I ground to a halt. Frustrated I slithered out of the kayak, half lifting and half floating it over the gravel bar where there had once been a beaver dam. At least it was gravel for the bison to cross otherwise it would have been a muddy mess.
The river became narrower. I hit more rocks. I cringed. It was time for the first portage of about 100 metres. Out through the pasture, below a cabin and hay barn.
Back in the river for another 100 metres to another beaver dam that had been removed. It quickly dawned on me that the only thing that made the Beaver River navigable was beaver dams creating pools to paddle. Once the dams were removed the river diminished to a trickle that could be easily contained in a 15-centimetre PVC pipe.
I portaged again. Another 150 metres and another bison fence to boot.
“I’m downloading tomorrow, there is still too much weight in this kayak.” “No telephoto lens tomorrow and I’m dumping a couple litres of water right now.”
I heisted the bow of the kayak to the top of the fence; bench pressed the rest of it up trying to be careful not to damage the fence or, more importantly, my boat. When the balance point was over the fence I set it down and slowly lowered the nose to the ground. I made my way to the steel stanchion at the river’s edge and scaled the fence again.
Scccrrraaaapppppeeee. Again. Where did that come from? I kept cleaning algae off the rocks. Tannins darkened the water so I couldn’t see the granite boulders lurking just below the water’s surface.
Scccrrraaaapppppeeee
GRIMACE
I started applying whitewater kayaking skills trying to detect the boulders by surface disturbance.
Scccrrraaaapppppeeee
Two more bison fences each accompanied by a black pipe – perhaps irrigation pipe. I didn’t investigate. The fences were acting as strainers collecting river debris. I sidled up to the bank, just below the ranch house while watching the bison in the paddock on the other side of the river.
“I sure hope these bison are as docile as the ones I saw in Yellowstone a couple weeks ago.”
Two more fences! Drat.
Then I noticed a gate was open. I checked it out. The next gate was open too. Shouldering my kayak I started through the ankle-breaking, hardened muck.
Squish, uggh. Knee deep in bison mud. Bison mud inside and outside my Muck Boots. Yuck, Pew. Squish, Squish, Squirt. Ew, that was bison mud jetting straight up my leg. Glad I wear bike shorts when kayaking – at least it couldn’t go up my shorts. Splat, splash – what was that? Just my camel back bag falling out from behind the seat landing in the smelly mud. Won’t be drinking from it until I find clean water!
Now what? I don’t want bison mud in my kayak. Where do I wash off? In the river. I gingerly stepped into the river. Still bison mud, except now it’s soup. I sank past my knee. The other foot was locked behind a grass tussock.
Extricate.
I’ll just sit on the kayak and dangle my feet over the edge while I get in. That should take care of some of the mud and slime.
The river improved. There must be a beaver dam coming up.
Scccrrraaaapppppeeee.
Maybe not.
Hey, there’s the bridge about 300 metres away. I’ll be there in a couple minutes.
Another bison fence. Look I might be able to get under it. What is that smell? Yuck, I just opened up a carcass. Bison, cow – it didn’t matter, it stank! Let me out of here. Oh, there’s two more – don’t hit the floaters.
The channel opened up. The Beaver Squiggle showed its character – 30 minutes later I arrived at the bridge.
Included are maps for each segment of the upper Beaver River I paddled. If not otherwise labeled, the number points indicate beaver dams – about 50 in all with as many as 8 in a single kilometre.
Segment 1 is completed. 3 ½ hours.
Visit http://voyagetothebay.cauc.ca/ for the complete story of the nine other voyagers who paddled 3,038 kilometres in 84 days by canoe and foot . . . .
