Page 5 - The CanyonDay 6 I awoke with a bit of trepidation. Today was the day we entered the canyon stretch, and were to navigate the most difficult whitewater on the trip. Our meetings and correspondence with groups who had run the river before us had brought out stories of lining boats through drops, portaging entire rapids, and seasoned guides tearing rafts on the sharp schist walls.
In addition, it was cold that morning, and drizzly. I couldn't tell if the mood affected anyone else - this was an efficient crew, and no one seemed very phased.
Back on the river, we immediately dropped out of the mountains and into an incised canyon.
The Canyon Reach
I was relieved when we arrived at Sheep Slot that we would be fine. There would be no portaging for our group. We all scouted, talked, then made our way through the drops. The low water slowed things down, but left us with little room for error. Everyone made it through more or less cleanly, and we settled in to enjoy the rest of the spectacular setting.
Ram Rapid
We scrambled up to the ranger station for lunch, our only potential human contact for the trip. It was locked up tight, but we ate under the cover of the station porch, then continued down to Anticline Camp.
Interestingly enough, the picture that convinced me that I had to do the Firth was a shot of a cataraft at the center of a beautiful anticline. We passed it that day, and used the eponymous camp, but I missed it.
Day 7The next morning, we were treated to a spectacular sunrise as the fog lifted.
Anticline Camp View
A slow morning was spent watching the weather break and the sun reveal the mountains around us. Late in the morning, we left for a hike, which turned into a march acrossed a buggy bog to the ridge east of the river. I went caribou in the bog, leaving my group in a frantic shamble, trying to catch up with the DEET carrying group ahead of me.
Anticline Camp Ridge
Day 8The next day, our beautiful sun was back again. The rapids continued in a more mellow fashion, but the river kept me in awe with the bed formation and the clear water.
Canyon Reach
We were constantly reminded how low the water was. Looking at the banks, the high water mark appeared to be up to 20 feet above us.
Canyon Reach
In spots where the canyon would widen, we could get glimpses of the tundra slopes around us. At this point, we were 20 miles as the crow flies from the Beaufort Sea coast.
Canyon View
The rapids picked up, and we started to flow. In an eddy where scouting the next half mile was recommended, we stopped and conferred. The scout looked long, and we were in the groove. We decided as a group to run-n-gun the stretch, with me in the lead. I dropped into the narrow canyon, the group close behind. Horizon lines were solved with a quick boat scout, and tight lines kept us all busy. At the end of the stretch, I looked back up the canyon at one of the most fun sections of whitewater I have ever run. I hadn't expected this trip to produce so much.
We spent our lunch scrambling up to the plateau above the river in search of the always elusive caribou stick fence. This time we were sucessful in finding it, but were a bit let down with the actual reality. However, the view of the river was spectacular. Five large grayling circled in the pool above the drop.
83km Rapid
The drop from river level was less impressive but just as beautiful.
Mark and Cathy in 83km Rapid
After lunch, we entered into another deep canyon, filled with fun rapids. Right above the meat, a small beach presented itself. It seemed silly to camp in the center of a long rapid, but I couldn't resist Caribou Fence Camp.
Caribou Fence Camp
We spent the rest of the day drying things out, and hiking up onto the rim to look at the drops. It was a tight, intimate camp, and it led to good converstation.
Caribou Fence Camp from above.
Day 9We were close enough to the coast that the fog was coloring our mornings. We suited up for day of whitewater, and prepared to enter what we expected to be the doldrums of the trip - the Coastal Plain, where we would battle the shallow waters of the Firth River Delta to reach the Beaufort Sea.
But first, a few rapids. With no warm up, we dropped right into the rest of the drop we had camped above. Toward the middle of the stretch, the narrow channel pushed into a large schist boulder that had fallen off the canyon walls. I pulled off the boulder, but eddied out below in a large pool to observe.
The culebra behind me had no problems. Scott Coster next drove his Sotar hard into the boulder, but managed to rotate off. Mark and Kathy were next, and they were not so lucky. The raft pinned on the boulder, and immediately went side up. There I witnessed some damn fine dancing - Mark and Kathy were on the high side before I realized they were pinned. They held the raft from flipping until they realized that it was useless, at which point they both stepped off onto the boulder, and let the raft flip. The boat floated upside down to me, and I corralled it on the river right side. I motioned for Scott to pick up Mark and Kathy on the other side of the river and bring them over. In two minutes, Mark and Kathy and myself were on top of their boat. Four of us flipped their boat back over, and after Mark assured me he was ready, we continued. Five mintues the flip cost us, a far cry from the epics I've been through with other flips. I couldn't help but be impressed with this entire group - Calm, flexible, and even fun.
Kathy scouts the flipper.
The rest of the canyon stretch was beautiful. The cold seeped into us all though, and lunch was a little desperate. I was dreading the Delta.
The final reaches of the canyon.
