There is a section of river that I am concerned about today. The river straightens out. The gradient increases. Could it be too challenging? Will there be beaver dams? Will thickets have taken the river over?
The only way to find out was to start paddling. I was optimistic about the day. I suggested to my parents that they go to the confluence of the Amisk and Beaver Rivers and start paddling north. I would meet them part way through the day.
I started paddling a little earlier today. Again I was delighted with the ease with which the float was progressing. It may only be 4 to 5 hours to reach the confluence. A few beaver dams were being encountered but they were all runable. I was beginning to be concerned. It was approaching 2 hours of paddling. The shores were marshy. I had been drinking water. I hadn’t found a place to get out. I needed a beaver dam! Rounding a corner I found duckweed. This meant only one thing – a beaver dam. I paddled harder hoping for enough momentum to carry myself easily through the duckweed. Wait this was another bridge. This duckweed would be thick. Very soon my paddle was digging through the duckweed like a shovel. Each stroke moved me forward very little, then no movement. Like a duckweed breaker, I backed up a little, then paddled forward enough for my bow to be lifted up on duckweed so it could crack through the duckweed mat, opening a little more water for navigation – just like a coast guard icebreaker – only I was battling duckweed with a kayak in the middle of a continent. Once on dry ground I looked back and could see my path of darker green, churned duckweed. Would it have been easier for a second boat once the initial path had been broken?
A homestead captured my attention on a bend in the river. Still standing were log cabins and a stick built house. Nearby was the trace of a stone foundation. The story of settlement was in this field waiting to be read. Did the pioneer first build a building of rock – rocks that would never come apart, only to discover what happens to rocks in a cold environment, then build a log cabin and finally a ‘modern’ stick building? As I paddled by I pictured people standing outside the cabin, in a clearing hewn with their own hands on the shore of the Beaver River, working the farm, or even hunting the abundant wildlife in preparation for the winter.
The day was still going well. Halfway, at least as the crow flies, to my destination and still only two hours paddling. I was finding channels to skip Beaver River Squiggles. The valley narrowed down, the channel straightened, the current picked up – at least there was now a noticeable current.
A beaver dam, but I could run it. I was exuberant.
Scccrrraaaapppppeeee
The biggest rock yet and I had missed it! At least seeing it that is. I hit it head on and nearly capsized.
Several beaver dams in quick succession. With quick maneuvering (there is nothing quick about turning my boat) I was able to negotiate the turns.
The river narrowed. It became a babbling stream. I scraped through the first rocky area and entered the next but it had a short, sharp bend where it entered the rapid. I ground to a halt and exited the craft.
I had lunch by the first real riffle I had experienced on the river, took a quick dip to cool off. The water felt awesome.
More beaver dams – most were still runable but the river was narrower and I was having difficulty making the corners. I was working my way around one of these corners when I heard scrambling in the bushes. A bear, I hoped.
It was my parents getting ready to clamber over their fourth beaver dam of the day. I handed off my camera so they could take pictures as I ran the dam and promptly crunched into the shore before reversing to make the mandatory turn.
They had already seen a very curious bear, several deer, a coyote and the ubiquitous Beaver River cow. The only wildlife I saw were a few bucks in velvet as well as ducks, lots of ducks with innumerable ducklings.
I encountered my first ducklings just after running aground on my first carcass two days ago. I slowly chased the ducklings down the river. First there would be 8 then after a while, 7. The hen would fly down the river a short distance, ducklings following as fast as they could. One by one the ducklings would tire out and dive. After spreading several families of duck, primarily lesser scaup along what could have been ½ to even 1 kilometre, I became concerned that the families would never get fully reunited. There had to be a better way. On the second day out I decided to race a family of ducks. My normal cruising speed without corners was about 7-9 kilometres per hour. On the next family of scaup I encountered I pushed hard. I was able to achieve 12-13 kilometres per hour. If there wasn’t a corner I would quickly catch up with the ducklings and they would dive. The hen would continue on down the river distracting me. I’d follow. If there was a corner I’d push for the inside corner, herding the ducklings to the outside. Again, they would dive. It worked like a charm. I felt better that I was not splitting up duck families.
I had become adept at this technique. Having done it more than once, was I a duck-herding expert just as Toad and Mark were log crossing experts? Today I was successfully using the duckling herd pass technique, however today I started encountering mallards, cinnamon teals and blue-wing teals in larger numbers. (It has been interesting to see the changes in duck species observed as I have progressed down the river.) I came upon a family of blue-wing teal. I sped up. The ducks sprinted a short distance and dove. I was befuddled; this wasn’t ‘normal.’ As I passed where the baby ducks dove they were running out of air. They started surfacing all around the kayak. One ran into the kayak on its way up. Thump!
I felt bad.
Now I had to determine the duckling species before racing through. If they were dabbling ducks I’d herd them to one side of the river and watch in astonishment as they vanished into the sedges, whereas if they were diving ducks I have to outrun them down the river.
Today, near the end of the day was the first time I have seen common mergansers on the river. This came as somewhat of a surprise as I am accustomed to them being the most common duck on rivers, but I typically boat on rivers with more current. Could it be that today I finally reached an area where there was enough current? Perhaps I had just reached the area where merganser forage was finally plentiful?
We paddled as a group down the River. It was enjoyable to finally have paddling partners, although the time spent alone, at my own pace, without outside pressure was good for my PTSD.
When I met my parents it was just over five kilometres to the confluence of the Amisk and Beaver Rivers. Actual paddling distance following the meanders of the Beaver River was nearly 12 kilometres. In their paddling experience they experienced most of the personality characteristics the River could offer: meanders, cows, mud, beaver dams, obstructive bridges, barbed wire fences and ever present wildlife.
The bridge they came upon was typical of the unpredictable for the Beaver River. It was preceded by a beaver dam less then 25 metres upstream. Appropriate highway warning signs were in place. The bridge was exceptional, probably capable of supporting 20,000 kilos. A trailer from Calnash Trucking had been backed into the river. It spanned the river perfectly. Adding to the challenge, the bridge was guarded by two seta of barbed wire fences on each side which added to the adventure of the portage. There was just enough room beneath the bottom wire to slide a canoe. The bottom of the trailer was at river level effectively preventing navigation by all but the most determined waterfowl and perhaps beaver and muskrat. Just below this bridge were the remnants of an old river bridge – burned pilings. I had seen similar pilings in several locations upstream. I can’t help but wonder about the construction and appearance of the original wooden bridges. Getting to the downstream side of the bridge I was surprised to see that the tires were still on the trailer – perhaps making it ready for a return to highway service at some later time. I couldn’t help but wonder how much differential oil or axle grease had been scoured away by the ever-present Beaver River?
Shortly after crossing the bridge the tranquility of the river environment was shattered. It was still two kilometers to the confluence but I began to feel and hear a dull throb. What could be causing such a disturbance in what had been a very pleasurable, almost wild experience on the upper Beaver River over the last three days. As I continued down the river the dull throb grew into an ever-present roar. I finally realized I was hearing the Talisman Energy, Craigend South Compressor station near the confluence of the rivers.
While working for the National Parks I was involved with ambient sound monitoring – a process used to establish a baseline sound threshold which could be used to measure changes in ambient sound levels that may result from potential industrial development near a park area. In remote and wild areas we value a level of silence. I had just passed through a remote area of Alberta and now was confronted with an unnatural noise. I didn’t realize it but I had been enjoying the silence of the Beaver River. I had earlier realized I had not been hearing the constant drone of jet aircraft flying over, as I do at my home further south. I had been appreciating the lack of aircraft noise. Only once in my visit to the area had I noticed routine aircraft overflight –while camping at Timber Lake Provincial Recreation Area where there was the monotonous roar of aircraft flying into Cold Lake on maneuvers. While on the Beaver River I had often thought to myself how much I appreciated the quietness of the area, the lack of aircraft, but coming around a bend and being subjected to the throb of the compressor site signified how much I had been valuing the relative lack of mechanical noises while on the River.
The questions should be asked: What value do we as humans give silence or quietness? How do we give silence a value? Is it worth a dollar figure? Is it something we just expect and don’t really value until it is compromised? How much silence is right? Is the quietness standard of somebody from Toronto different from the standard of somebody in Creston, BC? What level of quietness should be the standard? How do we balance the economy of industrialization, in this case oil production, with the value of quietness?
These are difficult questions.
Even after twenty years working in natural resource management I don’t have the perfect answer for how to effectively balance ecosystem preservation with development.
Segment 3: 7 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 . . . .
