Saturday, August 2 (Me)
The day again broke cool and overcast. We went about our business of breakfast and breaking camp. The mountain peaks to the northwest shone, as though snow-covered, in a window of bright sun in a sky that otherwise threatened rain.
We put on the water at 9:00 a.m.; both Kathleen and I wore our paddling jackets and spray skirts in anticipation of rain. Willie asked my prediction of when the rain would arrive. I gazed about and suggested that the storms might miss us entirely. "About 40% chance of rain," I opined.
Twenty minutes later the rain overtook us from the south, and we snugged our skirts over the coaming of the spray deck. The squall was relatively brief, about 30 minutes, but the weather remained cool and windy, even after the rain. I wished I had worn more than a light cotton shirt under my paddling jacket.
Rain soon overtook us from the south.
The Adventurers passed by two Bald Eagles, whose white heads seemed even more prominent and regal in the grey-green landscape. Onward we paddled, hoping for a little sun. Onward Kathleen and I paddled, mostly in silence, content in our own secret thoughts.
Just before noon, the river turned to meet the Stewart-Cassiar Highway, or perhaps the highway turned to meet the river. I don't know which. We drifted near the picnic table, on the left bank, that we had heard about from previous groups down the Dease. We decided against stopping. Ten people would never all be able to sit down at once.
We paddled two more bends to lunch on an island that had been today's tentative campsite, which we had originally selected near the highway to provide early egress, if necessary. We all decided against camping here—way to close to the highway. Too close to traffic, and the ever present potential hooligans and vandals.
Back into the canoes and kayak for another 20 minutes to set up camp in a deep southward bend opposite a high cliff that sheltered us from the wind. For some reason I'm feeling tired today, and napped before Cheryl's fantastic dinner of tuna pilaf, with strawberry shortcake and dream whip for dessert.
It seems that everyone is tired today. All 10 Dease River Adventurers had retired to their tents by 8:15 p.m.. I can again hear Willie reading aloud to Pierre from R. M. Patterson's book
Trail to the Interior. A little farther down the beach Greg and Cheryl are reading Harry Potter to Sean and Allana. Comfortable, muted sounds that have become a normal background to our trip. Satisfying sounds that more than compensate for the periodic rumble of the highway a few kilometres to the west.
Across the river, high above the canyon rim, at least a dozen ravens soar and vocalize. Caws, shrieks and croaks —all very entertaining, and a lyrical prelude to sleep.
Saturday, August 2; Day 10 (Bill)
Today started early for me. At 1:30 a.m. I left the tent briefly for the bathroom. Upon my return, big Pierre was awakening from a slumber, and opined that he’d just heard a moose snorting in the underbrush nearby. Quite naturally taking umbrage at such a contemptuous remark, I was obliged to pull out my quirt and lay a couple of hearty licks upside the boy’s trash talkin’ nappy head. He was immediately rendered unconscious, and for the remainder of the night I was free from any further Tom Foolery.
However, I must hasten to add that Pierre, with either a Dutch oven or skillet in hand, has rapidly progressed from an apprentice to a seasoned journeyman over the open camp fire. Both his blueberry pancakes and biscuits are to die for, and I can almost see Aunt Jemima smiling and nodding approval as I squeeze her sugary elixir out and watch as it slowly OOOZZESS down the sides of my morning cuisine.
Pierre and I were up again, and received a light show as a reward. Two distant, craggy peaks with a carpet of green well below the summit were surrounded by clouds; but somehow a bolt of bright sun found a channel through the shroud and illuminated the mountain landscape. It was a stark contrast and quite an impressive sight.
Breakfast and packing up went in an orderly fashion, and we lifted anchor and steamed off at 9:00 a.m. after Mike’s morning scouting report. He gave us his usual optimistic predictions, including a 60% chance of staying dry. Not five minutes into the trip it began to sprinkle. Shortly thereafter I paused to put on my son’s rain jacket. This proved to be a veteran move on my part, as in short order the sprinkle turned to a full fledged rain, at least by Fresno standards. The rain petered out within a half hour, as did the Grand Tetonesque Mountains, which gradually disappeared from view.
Owens and Pierre hoping the rain holds off.
The river became wide and straight, and the weather remained overcast. Two mature Bald Eagles perched on logs along the top of a cliff were content to watch us as we passed by. I surmised we were going through some good pools for catching fish, at least for birds who know how to catch them. I doubt I could personally verify my suspicions.
By noon we were near Pitt’s life long nemesis—civilization. It was a road hidden by trees, and only the occasional sounds of big rigs could be heard, but it was civilization none the less, and too close for Mike’s liking.
After lunch we headed on, and in short order found a bend in the river tracing a beautiful cliff topped by a thick forest. Lots of horse prints and ants, but it was the right place to stop because it was early afternoon and what might be further down the river was suspect at best. I will arbitrarily name the camp spot Horseant Bend.
Our delicious dinner prepared by Cheryl and Greg of couscous casserole and strawberry/blueberry bannock cake was preceded by some discussion of US, France, England and Canadian history. We still aren’t sure how the US justifies having a military base on Cuba. I wonder how much rent we pay Fidel per month?
Laura waxed both eloquent and poetic before our killer desert, and I think her poem about the Dease encouraged the sun to shine for a bit. I believe the dropping temperature will send the troops heading early for the tents and the warmth of the sleeping bag.
Day 10 is just about in the books, and the Four and Two Mile Rapids now loom large. My concern is not running the rapids, but having to portage all that gorp. I don’t suppose one can consider himself a true wilderness paddler without having completed at least 1 portage, but having lugged 125 extra pounds of gorp back and forth for 2 weeks seems sufficient to warrant receipt of our wilderness canoe merit badge on a technicality. If worse comes to worse, I do know one thing— I am getting Pierre to shoulder the yellow bag, eh.
It’s 9:30 p.m. and as I doze off to sleep, I am serenaded by an unlikely trio. The whistling wind, 2 squawking ravens, and big Pierre sawing some serious lumber. But wait, I hear a faint but audible sound—the unmistakable rumble of a big rig rolling down a lonely stretch of the Stewart-Cassiar Highway!! This is not good.
Sunday, August 3 (Me)
I awoke around 5:00 am. The ravens were still partying. It had been raining most of the night, and I was glad that it was only 5:00 a.m. Perhaps the rain will stop in another hour.
Six o'clock, and the rain continued. Still no signs or sounds of life at the kitchen tarp. Apparently all the Adventurers are hoping that the rain will stop before they emerge from their tents. I drifted off back to sleep.
At 6:45 I heard sounds at the tarp. Time to get up. I dressed and joined Cheryl, who was already busy making coffee and bannock. The rain persisted, but was not nearly as bad as it sounded in the nylon tent.
Willie joined us beneath the tarp to ask if we would be traveling today; he returned to his tent to give Pierre the bad news that we would indeed be packing up, rain or no rain.
We paddled away from our camp that came to be known as "Horseant Bend" at 9:15 a.m. Only two hours—and a bit—to eat our breakfast and break camp. Rain is a very strong antidote to sauntering, lingering, and puttering. The rain had now stopped, but very Black Clouds blowing up from the south trailed right behind us.
We approached Blue River in the late morning, and ran a Class I rapid, just where Patterson had promised it would be. A few rocks, which we easily avoided by zigzagging a few times across The Mighty Dease River. A Bonaparte's Gull, a Red-throated Loon, and a Great Horned Owl added additional excitement to the morning's paddle. The Black Clouds still pursued us, about two bends behind.
We glided by ‘Dease River Indian Reserve 2,’ a large community of many houses, an outhouse with a stove pipe, an earth mover, and one horse. No sign of any people. The Black Clouds were hot on our collective stern, only one bend to the south.
We lunched across from the island about 5 km (3 miles) down river from the reserve, our tentative campsite on our itinerary. Ahead lay patchy blue sky. Behind we heard thunder from the rapidly approaching Black Clouds. We put back on the water, paddling hard toward the sun, but lost the race.
The Black Clouds overtook us, poured rain upon us for a few minutes, and then pummelled us with hail. Our little flotilla was shrouded in mist falling from above, as well as rising from the Dease itself from the impact of tens of thousands of hail stones. I laughed out loud at the sheer humour of it. Laura later acknowledged that she laughed out loud at the sheer lunacy of it. Willie reckoned that the hail storm was one of the highlights of the trip.
It was all over in a matter of minutes. The sun reappeared and we paddled on, eventually setting up camp on a magnificent gravel bar just downstream from Masidoor Creek. The weather continued to improve throughout the evening. Our spirits are high, our minds are at rest, and our bodies are warm and dry. Willie and Pierre hung out yesterday's still wet laundry, and Cheryl took time to launder her family's clothes. We are one bunch of clean Adventurers.
Pasta by Don and Laura completed a memorable day. Only about 20 km (16 miles) to Four Mile Rapids. I hope tomorrow's run goes well.
Masidoor Creek camp.
Cheryl and Greg at Masidoor Creek.
Laura and Don at Masidoor Creek.
Owens and Pierre at Masidoor Creek.
Pierre and Kathleen at Masidoor Creek.
Sunday, August 3; Day 11 (Cheryl)
This morning I woke up to the sound of rain on the tent. Greg said it had rained all night. I was the first one up and I was grateful for the tarp Michael put up the night before. Everyone got up later today, hoping the rain would stop; but it didn’t.
We pushed off in the rain and paddled towards the little patch of blue sky in front of us. It seemed all day there was a little patch of blue somewhere to give us hope. Even when the hail started to bounce off the water around us, there was blue sky somewhere.
I think we paddled about 40 km (25 miles) today before we decided on camping on a large gravel bar island. The sun was shining when we pulled our boats ashore, but there was a black cloud on the horizon. We were extra efficient setting up camp today, as we wanted to be set up when the storm hit. We ended up only getting a few minutes of rain as the cloud passed us by.
The sun then came out and we decided to take advantage of the situation we now had—a set-up camp and a hot sun. Sean, Greg and I sat on buckets, leaning back on our canoe, and used Sean’s kayak as a foot rest. With the sun beating down on us I couldn’t imagine a better spot. As the trip is coming to an end we started to reflect on the ‘best of’ and ‘worst of.’ We talked of our best days— but no one had a worst day. We discussed the best meals—but no one had a worst meal. We talked of our best camps—but again we didn’t think we had a bad one. I started to feel a little emotional that this wonderful trip was coming to a close.
Allana has finally crawled from the tent. She has been very intent on making her Dad a special birthday card. She has been amazing on this trip. She has been happy over 99.9% of the time. Always finding some way to amuse herself, no matter where we are.
I am very proud of Sean as well. It has not been easy for him to keep up with the canoes on this trip, but he doesn’t complain.
Dinner has been called and I’m looking forward to Don and Laura’s creation. It turns out to be garlic walnut pasta, and white chocolate mousse. The food on this trip has been fabulous.
Even though the company has been good (as always) my family is weary and we wander back to our tent. Our plan was to play the phonics game and read the last two chapters of Harry Potter. Unfortunately the 40 km (25 miles) caught up to us, and we couldn’t stay awake for the last chapter.
Another great day on the Dease comes to an end.
Monday, August 4 (Me)
No rain overnight. I awoke at 5:00 a.m. to a golden, sunlit morning, albeit a little colder. I zipped up my sleeping bag a little higher and slipped back to sleep.
At 6:45 a.m. I woke again. Kathleen asked if anyone else was up. I peered out the front door toward the kitchen area, about 75 metres (yards) away. "I don't see anyone, but I think I see smoke. You know what that means."
"Yes," she replied. “Where there's smoke, there's Willie."
The Adventurers set off down the river at 10:00 a.m, in bright sunshine, headed toward Four Mile Rapids. Of course, we have been heading toward Four Mile Rapids ever since pushing off the beach at the head of Dease Lake; but today we are focused. We are intent. We will likely reach the rapids in less than 3 hours of paddling. (Note: Four and Two Mile Rapids are so named for their distance from the Liard River.)
About 11:30 a.m. we stopped for a short break, now only 30 minutes or so from the much dreaded Four Mile Rapids, which were one of my major concerns about the trip. The Black Clouds, obviously in hiding overnight, reappeared from the south. We put back on the water to escape, but to no avail. Rain and a half dozen ominous rolls of thunder seemed a forbidding omen for the rapids that waited, now only two short bends away.
Around the entry bend we went, and Four Mile Rapids appeared. Don and Laura in the lead boat slowed, and we all eddied out on river right to discuss our options. Don suggested that we run down the left bank to an eddy, from where we could see around the left-turning bend. I agreed. Kathleen suggested that we should just walk down the right bank to look around the bend, rather than ferrying over with the potential that we might just need to ferry back if river left proved too difficult.
Once again, Kathleen's prudence and caution turned out for the better. Through our binoculars, river left showed more rocks and higher standing waves than river right, which was essentially a straight shot, almost snug up against the bank, with few obstacles. We all ran, including Willie and Pierre, who are now two experienced paddlers with a "devil take the hindmost" kind of attitude.
A few minutes and a few dodged rocks later, Four Mile Rapids disappeared behind us, and we eddied out on a gravel bar on river right for lunch. Unfortunately, this last gravel bar before Two Mile Rapids was un-campable—too small, and covered with large boulders. We put back on the water, and headed for Two Mile Rapids, purported to be the most formidable of all The Mighty Dease River obstacles.
Running Four Mile Rapids.
Approaching from upstream (where else would we approach from?), we heard, before seeing, Two Mile Rapids. Suddenly there appeared a nasty-looking ledge of bedrock on river right, around which the Dease disappeared on a sharp bend to the right. We eddied out on river left in a large pool formed above the outside bend.
Two Mile was a short rapid, less than 100 metres (yards), with moderate haystacks. A rock-free run beckoned on river left. We ran through one boat at a time, so that most of the Adventurers could stand on shore to cheer and film the historic event. Even Willie and Pierre ran down (without following any lead boat I might add) after lining by the curling wave below the entry ledge. Although Two Mile Rapids can certainly be classed as Class II, our route was not as difficult as Stone Island Rapid. No one even took on any water. Such is the value of scouting first and running second, as opposed to the other way around.
Kathleen and Michael approaching the entry ledge of Two Mile Rapids.
Almost to the eddy.
Owens and Pierre approaching the entry ledge of Two Mile Rapids.
Pulling out above the entry ledge of Two Mile Rapids.
Lining by the entry ledge to Two Mile Rapids.
Back in the canoe.
Completing the run.
The Dease River Adventurers look on approvingly.
The seasoned Adventurers set up camp on a large gravel bar just below the rapid, and basked in the warmth of the afternoon sun, as well as the glow of our collective success in Four Mile and Two Mile Rapids. Kathleen and I pitched our tent on a sandy terrace right above the river. As we drift to sleep tonight, we will be able hear the Dease coursing by on its way to the Liard River.
We will be in Lower Post tomorrow afternoon. The Adventurers already talk of cold beers, hot showers and warm beds. The lure of soft comforts and civilization, now only 3 km (2 miles) downstream, is already supplanting the power of wilderness. Our trip nears its end. Two years in the planning. Only two weeks in the doing.
Monday, August 4; Day 12 (Greg)
The consensus for the day was to get a slightly later start since we only have 24 km (15 miles) to go.
We get up at 7:30a.m instead of 6:30 a.m, and this allows a leisurely start to our auspicious day.
The sun is shining and the first leg of the trip is easterly, making the water sparkle with millions of diamonds as the sun reflects in our faces.
We start our journey to the dreaded Four Mile Rapids in warmth and comfort.
As we paddle towards our pending fate with Four Mile Rapids, a thunder cloud looms on the horizon, occasionally reminding us of the might of mother nature.
The day is to be short—three hours of paddling we predict. We stop for a bathroom stop after two hours. The rain nipping at our heels as we leave our rest stop.
We quickly paddle out of the rain and into the sun again—oh the comfort of it all.
Four Mile Rapids still looms in our near future. What will it bring? River Right? River Left? Can we run it? Do we need to portage? Will we camp there? Above or below?
Finally we reach the peak of anticipation—Four Mile Rapids lies below in all its glory. We get off on river right well above the rapid. No one seems too eager to portage or to trudge down along the river to intimately scout this rapid.
From our vantage point a clean, easy channel is visible down the right bank, and that is good enough for us. Allana is a little apprehensive but Bill and Pierre are chomping at the bit to run this rapid.
We run the rapid well, and we all wonder what the fuss was really about!!
With Four Mile behind us we make our way down looking for a decent camp spot. There is nothing that meets our high standards set by previous spots, and we find ourselves staring at Two Mile Rapids straight on!!
We pull off on river left and as the books say there are routes down river left and right, but we decide to continue down river left to the “lagoon” and scout over the bluff.
Two Mile Rapids (“Ledgy White,” according to Allana) is much shorter but more difficult than Four Mile, but still do-able down river left.
Don & Laura and Sean are the guinea pigs, followed by Michael & Kathleen, then Bill & Pierre, and finally Greg & Cheryl.
We videoed and filmed everyone through the rapid as the vantage point was good.
We discussed paddling through to Lower Post but no one wanted to end our trip this soon. We found good camping on a gravel bar just below Two Mile Rapids and set up our final camp.
The weather is ever changing—sun, cloud, sun, cloud, sun, cloud, sprinkle, cloud.
Tomorrow we have the Liard to look forward to. Large log jams laden with hungry grizzlies as obstacles against the 10 mile (16 km) ferry from one side to the other. Michael’s still worried!
We will complete our journey down the “Mighty Dease” tomorrow, as we paddle to Lower Post. We will get a late start, maybe noon and complete our journey in leisure (except for the grizzlies on the Liard, that is). These past two weeks we have all been living life on a very basic level. Food, but oh was it good! Shelter, only in the best places. Water, lots and lots of water!!!
The evening brings a good meal cooked by Kathleen, supplied by Bill and Pierre, with hors d’oeuvres and desert (Greg’s Birthday Cake) by Cheryl.
Plenty of reminiscing of the past two weeks. Don and Laura’s songs (“Oh Allana, won’t you paddle with me?”); experiences and stories and company,
Michael and Kathleen’s experiences and camp critiques and their stories and company.
Bill and Pierre and their fishing endeavours, gorp and jerky. The paddling experiences they now have —to have run both Four Mile and Two Mile rapids.
Sean, the solo kayak, for his determination and company.
Allana, for seeing the best in every place she is.
Greg and Cheryl, for the appreciation of being with such a prestigious and auspicious group.
And for a trip I know we will all remember fondly forever, hooligans aside.
I thank you all—The Mighty Dease River Adventurers of 2003.
Tuesday, August 5 (Me)
I slept until 7:30, and was surprised at being the first Adventurer at the kitchen. No fire going. No tea water boiling. Our last day on the river, and everyone is sleeping in.
I am feeling unhappy, even a trifle irritated, that our journey has ended so soon. I'm only just now beginning to feel part of the river— that the river is part of me. Only in the last couple of days have I begun to feel comfortable and strong with the daily physical demands. Making and breaking camp no longer requires effort. Paddling all day brings satisfaction rather than weariness. And now we have already spent our last night on the Dease. Likely less than one paddling hour to Lower Post. The trip is over. I cook my morning bannock on our stove. For the first time, a morning camp fire seems superfluous and unappealing.
The Adventurers begin to appear, slowly, from their various tents. We all putter at breaking camp, and put on the river at 11:00 a.m., our latest start to a paddling day. We drift lazily with current. Downriver we can see a ridge stretching obliquely across our line of sight. This ridge must be the northeast bank of the Liard, our final destination.
For the past two weeks the Dease had indeed become a mighty river, growing wider and stronger as it accepted the discharge and power of countless tributaries. Now the Dease itself was merely a tributary of the even larger and more mighty Liard.
Thirty minutes later we approached the Liard, where the gravel-laden outflow of the Dease has thrown up several low islands. These islands absorbed and diffused the flow of both rivers, whose confluence occurred seamlessly, almost imperceptibly. The Mighty Dease River, our home for the past two weeks, simply vanished into the Liard, with nary even a whimper, let alone a climatic crescendo.
We dragged our boats up a swift, shallow riffle between an island and the right bank, and gazed across the Liard River to Lower Post. Somewhat surprisingly, but so very conveniently, our three vehicles sat parked directly across from us, on a high bank overlooking the river. We ferried across the Liard and pulled out at the base of a boat launch below our cars.
By noon all gear had been unloaded and packed away. The Adventurers shook hands and hugged one another, congratulating ourselves on a great trip. I turned once more to look west, toward the Dease, whose mouth was completely obscured by the islands of its own creation. A person could pass by here, and never know that The Mighty Dease River even existed.
The Adventurers then drove to the Band Office to thank Chief George Miller for allowing us to leave our vehicles in his yard on the reserve. We then headed together for the Alaska Highway, a few km north of town. Mere moments later our three vehicles were no longer in sight of each other, as we disappeared into our own portions of pavement.
Willie, Pierre, Kathleen and I headed to Watson Lake for beer, fries, and chicken wings. I must admit that I certainly enjoyed the convenience of a waiter bringing me hot food and cold drink simply by asking. Nevertheless, I would much rather have been reclining against a log, eating gorp on a sun-filled gravel bar, rather than sitting in a sunless, smoke-filled bar. And that's the simple, honest truth.
Tomorrow we begin our 2,000 km (1,250 miles) drive to the south, where darkness comes early in the evening, where leaf blowers rule the neighbourhoods, where hooligans and vandals hold court, and where days of the week seem to be important. One can only hope that memories of The Mighty Dease River will keep us content for another winter.
Owens and Pierre below Two Mile Rapids.
The Dease River Adventurers
Standing, left to right: Owens, Pierre, Laura, Don, Kathleen, Michael
Sitting, left to right: Cheryl, Sean, Allana, Greg
