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Erica,
I think you are correct! See Mason’s response above.
I think you are correct! See Mason’s response above.
-
Happy Birthday, Simon Fraser (1776-1862)! 🧭🏞 4️⃣9️⃣
Cree River Summer 2023
- Thread starter Erica
- Start date
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- Nov 30, 2017
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Cree River, Summer 2023.
Paddling Pitt, isn't it nice to know you were correct the first time?
The big excitement for this rest day is pancakes! I bring my own mix of whole wheat flour, powered milk, powdered eggs, sugar, and baking powder. Just add water. In all these years, I have never used the Trangia "frying pan" which is a small, tiny lipped thing. With the wind blowling, the flame kept blowing out even with the windscreen. So I turned the windscreen upside down and that worked. I made only two large pancakes which were very, very tasty with butter and maple syrup. I could have eaten many more, but I ran out of batter and out of fuel. I had put in a full inch of alcohol in and pancakes used it all. Clean up was also a mess with all that grease. Was it worth it? Yeah!
In this lake you can still see the current but it doesn't make noise. When the wind lies down, it is so silent. Then you realize just how much there is that you didn't notice. Insects humming. Splash of minnows trying to escape. Bird chirps. How to evoke that feeling of silence that is not really silence?
Mostly no wind, but occasionally it blusters up. My neoprene booties are falling apart at the soles. I taped them up before yesterda's run; they will need more tape before the next. I forgot to turn them inside out to dry. Will do that now...The tyvek on the bow cover is falling apart. I could fix more with duct tape, but I think I'll reserve that for the canoe. I have to wear the booties because with the shoes, I can get my feet out quickly should I capsize. I'd never get out with the shoes hung up on the seat.
I took a walk along the shore which typically was covered with the gorgeous mosses, lichens and ground pine. The moose and friends have worn a simple trail along the edge. The geese still fly overhead. I hear and see eagles. I’m sure a nest is nearby. I find feathers of great size.
I have taken to putting a tarp up over the tent. The wind blows right through the tent walls and if it rains, that comes through too.
.
The river runs clear and shallow beside this little camp of mine. The sun comes out in the afternoon and I decide to bathe in the river. (No soap in the water, folks. Largely just getting wet and rinsing my hair.) I have a stick to help balance on the slippery rocks. I air dry on some slightly bigger rocks. The sun is shiny, the sky is clear, but the air is full of smoke.
I take a walk up the esker and see where past fires have moved in unevenly, leaving green amidst the back. Even in the black the new jack pines are growing up quickly. And I pass by my canoe, which reminds me I need to administer more first aid.
This is a beautiful area with pines, flattish spots, high points, places to get in the water, and of course, pancakes. I feel comfortable on the river. My confidence in running the white water has increased. My confidence in the boat has increased. I'm really on the river now. I resent the Zoleo. With daily texts. I did not come out here to talk to someone every day.
Paddling Pitt has a story of a someone who had a bad start to a trip, with a minor injury or two. She later said if she'd had a Zoleo, she would have left the trip but is so glad she didn't because the rest turned out beautifully. In a book about descending the Horton River before it was "found" pits the author against his partner who brought a sat phone so he could talk to his wife every day. In North to Athabasca, the pair also use a sat phone. I get wanting to be safe. But surely something is lost here, folks.
September 4, 2023 a Monday.
I did not sleep well. All the bumpies were getting to me. I woke suddenly in the middle of the night - cold. Readjusted everything and went back to sleep. I woke early and broke camp by 9:55 am which is 20 minutes better than yesterday. It is cold, cloudy and smoky. I'm hoping it will warm up as the sun comes out. The sun did try, but clouds won this round.
I try to keep track of the river. It runs narrow, bulges to RR, narrows again and then separates around dozens of low islands. Suddenly zillions of islands break up the river like fingers. I'm trying to find enough water to keep the boat going. Get hung up on rocks, but I can't get out because I am now in the middle of a wide stream. No where to go. I rock like crazy, push with the paddle and pray loudly until we get through.
Rinse and repeat. Guessing which thread will bring one through is not easy. A thread that starts big with plenty of current may get divided into three, four or more threadlets just past where I can see.
There were also places where big waves came from two directions at once. There were boulders that popped up out of nowhere that I managed to avoid.
There is 4K of RI on the map, but it is really much more than that. There's a segment with many ledges. Big waves sloshed into Dancer three times. Waves also broke over the bow and ran off the cover. I felt the ones dumping icy water onto my thighs. Water is sloshing in the bottom of the boat. I need to do something about that, but there is no place to stop.
I register my cold only dimly. My main priority, once I reached slower moving water, was to get water out of the boat. I do not want to run the next R2 full of water. But many of the bays are jammed with Labrador Tea and shallow water that extends out to the current. I can’t find a place to land. No rocky edges. No sandy beaches.
I identified a bay that looked deep and didn't require passing to the other side of the river. The water was deep until 1-2 feet from the shore. I didn't like the look of it, but tucked in and started looking for the sponge.
The sponge was not to be found. I’m standing in cold water, soaked through everywhere. I look all over and through the canoe for something to bail with and cannot find even a little cup. There must be something. Discouragement creeps in. To get the water out, I will have to empty the boat, turn it over and repack. This could easily take two hours. And this scrappy location has no place to do that. I realize I am quite cold and extremely tired and in no shape to take on more rapids. A bit grimly I start looking for a campsite in a generally miserable spot.
to be continued....
Paddling Pitt, isn't it nice to know you were correct the first time?
The big excitement for this rest day is pancakes! I bring my own mix of whole wheat flour, powered milk, powdered eggs, sugar, and baking powder. Just add water. In all these years, I have never used the Trangia "frying pan" which is a small, tiny lipped thing. With the wind blowling, the flame kept blowing out even with the windscreen. So I turned the windscreen upside down and that worked. I made only two large pancakes which were very, very tasty with butter and maple syrup. I could have eaten many more, but I ran out of batter and out of fuel. I had put in a full inch of alcohol in and pancakes used it all. Clean up was also a mess with all that grease. Was it worth it? Yeah!
In this lake you can still see the current but it doesn't make noise. When the wind lies down, it is so silent. Then you realize just how much there is that you didn't notice. Insects humming. Splash of minnows trying to escape. Bird chirps. How to evoke that feeling of silence that is not really silence?
Mostly no wind, but occasionally it blusters up. My neoprene booties are falling apart at the soles. I taped them up before yesterda's run; they will need more tape before the next. I forgot to turn them inside out to dry. Will do that now...The tyvek on the bow cover is falling apart. I could fix more with duct tape, but I think I'll reserve that for the canoe. I have to wear the booties because with the shoes, I can get my feet out quickly should I capsize. I'd never get out with the shoes hung up on the seat.
I took a walk along the shore which typically was covered with the gorgeous mosses, lichens and ground pine. The moose and friends have worn a simple trail along the edge. The geese still fly overhead. I hear and see eagles. I’m sure a nest is nearby. I find feathers of great size.
I have taken to putting a tarp up over the tent. The wind blows right through the tent walls and if it rains, that comes through too.
.
The river runs clear and shallow beside this little camp of mine. The sun comes out in the afternoon and I decide to bathe in the river. (No soap in the water, folks. Largely just getting wet and rinsing my hair.) I have a stick to help balance on the slippery rocks. I air dry on some slightly bigger rocks. The sun is shiny, the sky is clear, but the air is full of smoke.
I take a walk up the esker and see where past fires have moved in unevenly, leaving green amidst the back. Even in the black the new jack pines are growing up quickly. And I pass by my canoe, which reminds me I need to administer more first aid.
This is a beautiful area with pines, flattish spots, high points, places to get in the water, and of course, pancakes. I feel comfortable on the river. My confidence in running the white water has increased. My confidence in the boat has increased. I'm really on the river now. I resent the Zoleo. With daily texts. I did not come out here to talk to someone every day.
Paddling Pitt has a story of a someone who had a bad start to a trip, with a minor injury or two. She later said if she'd had a Zoleo, she would have left the trip but is so glad she didn't because the rest turned out beautifully. In a book about descending the Horton River before it was "found" pits the author against his partner who brought a sat phone so he could talk to his wife every day. In North to Athabasca, the pair also use a sat phone. I get wanting to be safe. But surely something is lost here, folks.
September 4, 2023 a Monday.
I did not sleep well. All the bumpies were getting to me. I woke suddenly in the middle of the night - cold. Readjusted everything and went back to sleep. I woke early and broke camp by 9:55 am which is 20 minutes better than yesterday. It is cold, cloudy and smoky. I'm hoping it will warm up as the sun comes out. The sun did try, but clouds won this round.
I try to keep track of the river. It runs narrow, bulges to RR, narrows again and then separates around dozens of low islands. Suddenly zillions of islands break up the river like fingers. I'm trying to find enough water to keep the boat going. Get hung up on rocks, but I can't get out because I am now in the middle of a wide stream. No where to go. I rock like crazy, push with the paddle and pray loudly until we get through.
Rinse and repeat. Guessing which thread will bring one through is not easy. A thread that starts big with plenty of current may get divided into three, four or more threadlets just past where I can see.
There were also places where big waves came from two directions at once. There were boulders that popped up out of nowhere that I managed to avoid.
There is 4K of RI on the map, but it is really much more than that. There's a segment with many ledges. Big waves sloshed into Dancer three times. Waves also broke over the bow and ran off the cover. I felt the ones dumping icy water onto my thighs. Water is sloshing in the bottom of the boat. I need to do something about that, but there is no place to stop.
I register my cold only dimly. My main priority, once I reached slower moving water, was to get water out of the boat. I do not want to run the next R2 full of water. But many of the bays are jammed with Labrador Tea and shallow water that extends out to the current. I can’t find a place to land. No rocky edges. No sandy beaches.
I identified a bay that looked deep and didn't require passing to the other side of the river. The water was deep until 1-2 feet from the shore. I didn't like the look of it, but tucked in and started looking for the sponge.
The sponge was not to be found. I’m standing in cold water, soaked through everywhere. I look all over and through the canoe for something to bail with and cannot find even a little cup. There must be something. Discouragement creeps in. To get the water out, I will have to empty the boat, turn it over and repack. This could easily take two hours. And this scrappy location has no place to do that. I realize I am quite cold and extremely tired and in no shape to take on more rapids. A bit grimly I start looking for a campsite in a generally miserable spot.
to be continued....
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Cree River part 12.
We last saw me standing in cold water, wet to the skin and cold to the bone. And it is raining. My assessment is that my brain is still working rationally, that I should not try to paddle further that day, that I should make camp and get warm.
I tied the canoe up securely. This area is thick with trees right down to the Labrador tea, and then goes sharply up. I walk up and down and up and down and find nothing. Even the "benches" are not flat at all. A bit here or there may look flat, but closer examination reveals hillocks and divots. One place, I saw on my way in, is a very tiny bit of ground free of vegetation. It appears to be an area frequented by beavers. Unfortunately, access is blocked by several logs and I can't get in there with the canoe. So I discard that option.
As I am walking, my pace increases. I am working hard, sweating and still cold. I suddenly realize I am not thinking altogether clearly and I need to get an external heat source going before I get hypothermic. There is no safe place to have a fire. No rocks. No beach. No clear area, except the beaver landing. This is hard packed duff, but it's the best I've got. I have my ditch kit always on my waist, so I don't need to go to the boat to get supplies. Lots of tiny branches lying around and collecting enough dry to start a fire is fairly easy. I set up the fire and go to the ditch back for my film can of cotton balls and lighter.
A light rain continues.
I place the cotton ball under the tinder and light. It doesn't burn. I bring it up to my face for closer examination. It is not cotton. It is some sort of synthetic. It melts but does not burn. This is such a stupid error on my part and I am chastising myself and feel a flicker of panic, as in what if I can't get a fire started. It is wet, I am wet. I am cold. It is raining.
Gotta dismiss the panic and the chastising; neither will help. Well, I always take backups of everything. I have candle in the first aid kit, which is readily accessible. I just have to walk back to the canoe and get it. Most of the trees around me are jack pine growing densely. But with a clear mind, after the dismissal of unhelpful thoughts, I see there are a couple of white birch trees. Ah, hah. The trees are young and the bark clings tightly but I am motivated and manage to get a good handful.
Back to the fire pit, which is really just a spot on the ground. With the candle stub and thin birch bark, the fire starts and grows as I add thicker and thicker branches. The heat fans out and the warmth is delicious. I huddle over the fire to warm up. I feel like I just survived the wreck of the Titanic.
Warmed up, I cruise the area for branches dead, but not lying on the wet ground. I need to collect enough now to keep the fire going. Most of the branches are on the ground and covered with lichens. And wet. But some have providenially landed with branches in the air and I break these off and haul them back to the fire. I break what I can into fire-sized pieces but some I cannot break and these I have to feed into the fire from the side.
Next: set up camp. I go get the canoe, paddle over the the bare spot and pole in as far as I can. I have to get out into the water, sink into the mud, step over the branches and pull the boat in as far as I can. Unloading is tricky, awkward and I'm pretty sure I slipped and fell a couple of times, although I have not noted that in my journal.
First priority: set up the tarp. There are plenty of trees to support a tarp, but so many the tarp had to be pulled this and that. Still it's a tarp and there is now a place where the rain does not fall. I've set it up so that the fire is just outside and partially protected by the tarp.
I set up the tent and camp under the tarp. I can get into warm clothes. I now have a pad I can sit on, so I sit next to the fire, rest and get warm. I warm my hands over the coals every few minutes while writing my journal. My thermometer says it is 45 degrees F and it is getting colder. I'm a bit nervous about the fire, being in the duff and I have no way to start another fire, having used up the candle. There is not a lot of birch bark here. Keeping the fire going is a priority.
September 5, 2023
I have a small stash of chemical hand warmers. I used one last night which helped me stay warm. Morning now; it is 35 degrees. I do not have enough warm clothes to paddle in warm clothes and have an emergency set of dry warm clothes, which is one of my safety rules. I must always have emergency dry clothes which include fleece underwear, top, wool socks and fleece hat.
I have some thinking to do today.
To be continued...
We last saw me standing in cold water, wet to the skin and cold to the bone. And it is raining. My assessment is that my brain is still working rationally, that I should not try to paddle further that day, that I should make camp and get warm.
I tied the canoe up securely. This area is thick with trees right down to the Labrador tea, and then goes sharply up. I walk up and down and up and down and find nothing. Even the "benches" are not flat at all. A bit here or there may look flat, but closer examination reveals hillocks and divots. One place, I saw on my way in, is a very tiny bit of ground free of vegetation. It appears to be an area frequented by beavers. Unfortunately, access is blocked by several logs and I can't get in there with the canoe. So I discard that option.
As I am walking, my pace increases. I am working hard, sweating and still cold. I suddenly realize I am not thinking altogether clearly and I need to get an external heat source going before I get hypothermic. There is no safe place to have a fire. No rocks. No beach. No clear area, except the beaver landing. This is hard packed duff, but it's the best I've got. I have my ditch kit always on my waist, so I don't need to go to the boat to get supplies. Lots of tiny branches lying around and collecting enough dry to start a fire is fairly easy. I set up the fire and go to the ditch back for my film can of cotton balls and lighter.
A light rain continues.
I place the cotton ball under the tinder and light. It doesn't burn. I bring it up to my face for closer examination. It is not cotton. It is some sort of synthetic. It melts but does not burn. This is such a stupid error on my part and I am chastising myself and feel a flicker of panic, as in what if I can't get a fire started. It is wet, I am wet. I am cold. It is raining.
Gotta dismiss the panic and the chastising; neither will help. Well, I always take backups of everything. I have candle in the first aid kit, which is readily accessible. I just have to walk back to the canoe and get it. Most of the trees around me are jack pine growing densely. But with a clear mind, after the dismissal of unhelpful thoughts, I see there are a couple of white birch trees. Ah, hah. The trees are young and the bark clings tightly but I am motivated and manage to get a good handful.
Back to the fire pit, which is really just a spot on the ground. With the candle stub and thin birch bark, the fire starts and grows as I add thicker and thicker branches. The heat fans out and the warmth is delicious. I huddle over the fire to warm up. I feel like I just survived the wreck of the Titanic.
Warmed up, I cruise the area for branches dead, but not lying on the wet ground. I need to collect enough now to keep the fire going. Most of the branches are on the ground and covered with lichens. And wet. But some have providenially landed with branches in the air and I break these off and haul them back to the fire. I break what I can into fire-sized pieces but some I cannot break and these I have to feed into the fire from the side.
Next: set up camp. I go get the canoe, paddle over the the bare spot and pole in as far as I can. I have to get out into the water, sink into the mud, step over the branches and pull the boat in as far as I can. Unloading is tricky, awkward and I'm pretty sure I slipped and fell a couple of times, although I have not noted that in my journal.
First priority: set up the tarp. There are plenty of trees to support a tarp, but so many the tarp had to be pulled this and that. Still it's a tarp and there is now a place where the rain does not fall. I've set it up so that the fire is just outside and partially protected by the tarp.
I set up the tent and camp under the tarp. I can get into warm clothes. I now have a pad I can sit on, so I sit next to the fire, rest and get warm. I warm my hands over the coals every few minutes while writing my journal. My thermometer says it is 45 degrees F and it is getting colder. I'm a bit nervous about the fire, being in the duff and I have no way to start another fire, having used up the candle. There is not a lot of birch bark here. Keeping the fire going is a priority.
September 5, 2023
I have a small stash of chemical hand warmers. I used one last night which helped me stay warm. Morning now; it is 35 degrees. I do not have enough warm clothes to paddle in warm clothes and have an emergency set of dry warm clothes, which is one of my safety rules. I must always have emergency dry clothes which include fleece underwear, top, wool socks and fleece hat.
I have some thinking to do today.
To be continued...
Modernity, our covert world of plastic, strikes again.
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Cree River - Last Entry - Part 1
September 2023. Here again, my dates are unclear.
Morning dawned clear, bright and 35 degrees F. I went back to bed. Later the morning sun warmed the bottom of the tent wall on the river side. I peeked out ready to pull back the tarp, but the direct sunlight is only temporary. Still, I stuck my right foot out into the sun to try to gain some radiant heat.
I take stock of my equipment and assess my ability to continue in the cold and wet. I have learned that cold and rain is forecast for the predictable future. I have more than enough food. I have most of my equipment, missing only a fuel bottle and my staff. The canoe is dinged but otherwise in good shape and is taking the waves well. Duct tape seems to be holding. No leaks. I have my two paddles. After scrounging around, I find enough fire starters to last another week anyway. But, I have only two sets of warm clothes, when three is my minimum.
Each set of warm clothing consists of: a pair of long underwear bottoms and tops (capilene), a wool or polypro hat, wool or polypro socks. (Other clothing, blankets coats, etc. don’t count.) The plan is I wear one set of when paddling (likely to get wet.) One set is for wearing in camp. And one set is for emergencies. There is a lot of ongoing white water on this river, so getting wet is highly likely. But that is the only equipment/supply issue that presents a problem.
If I didn't have the blasted Zoleo, I wouldn't have to make the decision of whether or not to bail. I would just have to continue, come what may. The risks seem reasonable to me, even short a set of warm clothing. And to be honest, at this age, dying of hypothermia in the wilderness is not a bad way to go, feeling so warm I take off my clothes, lie down in the leaves and slowly pass into a coma and die. (Being a hospice nurse, I have seen many deaths; many are not pretty.) But I do have the Zoleo.
What gets me in the end is my husband's feelings. He has not liked my wilderness trips (though he won't go with me.) To help him feel more comfortable this time, I took a Wilderness First Aid course, purchased a Zoleo subscription, continued the SPOT subscription (I might lose the Zoleo), and got a Global Rescue plan. Still, with tears in his eyes, he told me the worst thing for him would be me dying and him having to go to Canada to bring my body back.
Ok. Marriage requires compromise. I text him via Zoleo to find me a plane out.
The End.
To me, this is the end of the trip. But Paddling Pitt and Kathleen, who were the first to see the pictures and hear the story were adamant that I should include the remaining days and the flight out.
So for those of you who may still be interested, here is the anti-climax, a second thrilling run, and the surprise ending.
The Wait
With time on my hands, waiting for a plane, in the cold, I pondered the relative success or failure of this trip. I had planned to get to the mouth of the Cree River and I am nowhere near that. On the other hand, I spent 22 daya in the wilderness, on the water, and that is an achievement of sorts. I compiled a list of the high points. My list:
1. Excellent trip with variety, new things and adventure at every turn.
2. The Bald Eagles were amazing. They look so much more regal up here.
3. That magestic moose - With the binoculars I could see his rippling muscles standing out from his smooth, wet coat.
4. Caught my first grayling!
5. The rapids were exciting, especially shooting the ledge unintentionally.
6. The Colden Dragonfly is an excellent boat.
That should be enough to make the trip a success.
I'm checking messages every hour to see when I can get out of here, although it is plenty pleasant on a cool, sunny day. It is a day for general chores. Dinner, hygiene, collecting wood, musing, just spacing out. Belatedly remembered to charge the electronics when the sun is out. Listening to the birds who chirp and flit around me as if I am not there. It is outright cold in the shade and the breeze has a bite to it. In the sun, it is lovely.
The water near the shore is quite dirty and so I have to shuck my shoes and socks and get into the canoe to paddle out to clearer water. My feet are cold, but it is nice to be on the water and not huddled under the tarp.
At each camp on the river there has been at least one Canada Jay (also known as robber jay, whiskey jack, etc.) checking on me. They have not been looking for food, stealing or begging. They've just been there long enough to check me out and then go on their way. Here, they've been an ominous presence. They fly from look out to look out, settling on the branches and turning to peer at me. They have encircled me with their gazes. It feels like they are eyeing me for some sinister ritual.
Yesterday when I was busy and engrossed in straightening up I was totally startled by a large wack and quickly realized it is a beaver expressing his outrage at my intrusion into his territory. It is certainly his home that I have invaded.
Maybe 100 feet back from the river, under a black spruce tree is a small hole. I noticed it yesterday. It occurred to me today this is a beaver hold/tunnel that probably is a bolt hole leading to the water. I learned this as a child and haven't thought of it since. In maybe fourth grade I became obsessed with stories anthropomorphizing woodland animals. Wapati the Elk was one. I can't remember the others. It was about this time I started reading Jack London.
I hiked up the hill (which was very steep) and found Archer's park-like esker, or at least one like it. It is amazingly flat and park-like with jack pines sprinkled around just enough for occasional interest and shade. The ground is covered with lichens. Blueberries are just now ripening. I was wandering around, oogling the new spacious environment and suddenly became conscious I was not paying attention and I probably should start so as not to become lost. There are occasional moose tracks in the lichens, but no trails.
At one point the edge of the esker abruptly drops off like a cliff. These are the first expansive overlooks I've had of the river.
On top of the esker, looking at the blue sky and white clouds I remember a friend from graduate school. She said to me one day, "When I am at school (in the city) looking at clouds seems like a waste of time, but when I am in the Adirondacks looking at clouds, everything else is a waste of time."
I park myself near a jack pine and turn my face to the sun. It is afternoon, very quiet and I fall asleep.
Back at camp, I resume sitting under the tarp and get a fire going. Suddenly I hear the whopping paddle of wings, like a loon taking off from the water, but I see no birds. I isolate the source of the noise; it is a brown rodent. I didn't know beaver could be so noisy when swimming. He sat on some little sticks and preened, carefully combing his fur. He swam a bit toward me, veered to one side, peered at me. We were both motionless until I had to ease pain in my back. The slightest of moves on my part, but he caught it and dove! Popped up again, watched me, dove again. To be seen no more. There was no slap of the tail and nothing revealed his tail. Could this be a muskrat?
These aquatic rodents seemed too small to be beavers. But perhaps they were youngsters? I also heard at dusk mewlings and crying in the sort of tone universally recognizable as babies looking for mommies. Wasn't it late in the year to have small babies? Try as I might, even through the binoculars, I could not for sure see the tails. I remember reading that up to three generations of beaver can live together in the same family group. I saw them sitting on small branches eating willow leaves. I don't think beaver eat willow leaves, but I could be wrong. Eventually, I saw the laterally flattened tails. Muskrats.
Next: some animated chitterings on the left was followed by a small one paddling past the canoe and her tone of voice was "I will too! So there!" There ensued a contrapuntal exchange of an angry "You get back here right now! Or else!" from the left followed by "Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah," on the right. At some point the adult crossed the canoe boundary and dragged her daughter back by the ear.
I got the good news/bad news message. There is a plane available for tomorrow but it can't carry outside cargo, meaning I'd have to leave the canoe behind; declined. I'll have to wait to Thursday for the larger plane. Well, I am comfy for the most part. I only worry about staying warm. I learn rain is scheduled for tomorrow.
I've hardly heard the geese today. Maybe one or two in the distance. Loons were calling distantly.
I got notice that my plane would leave Stony Rapids at 1:45 pm, but to expect delays. I've asked to be notified when the plane leaves Stony Rapids so I can finish packing up. It is drizzling rain and cold. I put out the fire for the last time. With extra pots of water, I soak the fire and dig as deep down as I can. The fire has burned six inches into the duff. I am horrified, but there was nothing else I could have done. I take the tent down. Pack everything up. But I leave the tarp and a few other things up because I don't know how long I will be waiting. And it is still raining. Without the fire, the cold settles in.
I sit cross-legged on another tarp, cross my arms and bend forward until my head is between my knees. I have found over the past few days that this is the warmest position to sit in. Folded up like an oyster shell, I fall asleep.
Loud engine noise jerks me awake. I didn't get the warning. Grabbed stuff and smashed it into bags. Cut the tarp down, there was no time for the wet, stuck knots.
It took four passes for the plane to lower and slow enough to land on this little lake. The pilot skillfully backs the tail of the plane up into the weeds at the edge of the shoreline, just down from my camp. The pilot I knew, and a new pilot in orientation, grabbed my stuff and loaded it up before I could turn around. I was prodded into the plane while they mounted the canoe. I could not find my phone. I had it sitting on my lap in oystershell position and I must have jumped up without thinking about it. One of the pilots said he heard my phone beeping in one of the bags and not to worry. So I didn't. The plane had no problem getting off the ground and we peeled away from my campsite, from Cree River.
The plane rode smoothly back to Stony Rapids. The pilot took a short detour and a dip to show me and the new guy some sand dunes in the middle of the forest. Were it in miniature, it would look like a child dumped a bucket of sand on top of plastic pine trees in his sandbox. The sand covers standing trees nearly to the top. I was told this is a rolling sand dune and it just makes its way through the forest.
It was late afternoon when we got back to Stony Rapids . They dumped my canoe and my stuff by my vehicle. There were no places to stay the night in Stony Rapids and I was pointedly not offered the spot in their office. I would have to drive at least as far as Missinipe.
See The Ending - Part 2 next
September 2023. Here again, my dates are unclear.
Morning dawned clear, bright and 35 degrees F. I went back to bed. Later the morning sun warmed the bottom of the tent wall on the river side. I peeked out ready to pull back the tarp, but the direct sunlight is only temporary. Still, I stuck my right foot out into the sun to try to gain some radiant heat.
I take stock of my equipment and assess my ability to continue in the cold and wet. I have learned that cold and rain is forecast for the predictable future. I have more than enough food. I have most of my equipment, missing only a fuel bottle and my staff. The canoe is dinged but otherwise in good shape and is taking the waves well. Duct tape seems to be holding. No leaks. I have my two paddles. After scrounging around, I find enough fire starters to last another week anyway. But, I have only two sets of warm clothes, when three is my minimum.
Each set of warm clothing consists of: a pair of long underwear bottoms and tops (capilene), a wool or polypro hat, wool or polypro socks. (Other clothing, blankets coats, etc. don’t count.) The plan is I wear one set of when paddling (likely to get wet.) One set is for wearing in camp. And one set is for emergencies. There is a lot of ongoing white water on this river, so getting wet is highly likely. But that is the only equipment/supply issue that presents a problem.
If I didn't have the blasted Zoleo, I wouldn't have to make the decision of whether or not to bail. I would just have to continue, come what may. The risks seem reasonable to me, even short a set of warm clothing. And to be honest, at this age, dying of hypothermia in the wilderness is not a bad way to go, feeling so warm I take off my clothes, lie down in the leaves and slowly pass into a coma and die. (Being a hospice nurse, I have seen many deaths; many are not pretty.) But I do have the Zoleo.
What gets me in the end is my husband's feelings. He has not liked my wilderness trips (though he won't go with me.) To help him feel more comfortable this time, I took a Wilderness First Aid course, purchased a Zoleo subscription, continued the SPOT subscription (I might lose the Zoleo), and got a Global Rescue plan. Still, with tears in his eyes, he told me the worst thing for him would be me dying and him having to go to Canada to bring my body back.
Ok. Marriage requires compromise. I text him via Zoleo to find me a plane out.
The End.
To me, this is the end of the trip. But Paddling Pitt and Kathleen, who were the first to see the pictures and hear the story were adamant that I should include the remaining days and the flight out.
So for those of you who may still be interested, here is the anti-climax, a second thrilling run, and the surprise ending.
The Wait
With time on my hands, waiting for a plane, in the cold, I pondered the relative success or failure of this trip. I had planned to get to the mouth of the Cree River and I am nowhere near that. On the other hand, I spent 22 daya in the wilderness, on the water, and that is an achievement of sorts. I compiled a list of the high points. My list:
1. Excellent trip with variety, new things and adventure at every turn.
2. The Bald Eagles were amazing. They look so much more regal up here.
3. That magestic moose - With the binoculars I could see his rippling muscles standing out from his smooth, wet coat.
4. Caught my first grayling!
5. The rapids were exciting, especially shooting the ledge unintentionally.
6. The Colden Dragonfly is an excellent boat.
That should be enough to make the trip a success.
I'm checking messages every hour to see when I can get out of here, although it is plenty pleasant on a cool, sunny day. It is a day for general chores. Dinner, hygiene, collecting wood, musing, just spacing out. Belatedly remembered to charge the electronics when the sun is out. Listening to the birds who chirp and flit around me as if I am not there. It is outright cold in the shade and the breeze has a bite to it. In the sun, it is lovely.
The water near the shore is quite dirty and so I have to shuck my shoes and socks and get into the canoe to paddle out to clearer water. My feet are cold, but it is nice to be on the water and not huddled under the tarp.
At each camp on the river there has been at least one Canada Jay (also known as robber jay, whiskey jack, etc.) checking on me. They have not been looking for food, stealing or begging. They've just been there long enough to check me out and then go on their way. Here, they've been an ominous presence. They fly from look out to look out, settling on the branches and turning to peer at me. They have encircled me with their gazes. It feels like they are eyeing me for some sinister ritual.
Yesterday when I was busy and engrossed in straightening up I was totally startled by a large wack and quickly realized it is a beaver expressing his outrage at my intrusion into his territory. It is certainly his home that I have invaded.
Maybe 100 feet back from the river, under a black spruce tree is a small hole. I noticed it yesterday. It occurred to me today this is a beaver hold/tunnel that probably is a bolt hole leading to the water. I learned this as a child and haven't thought of it since. In maybe fourth grade I became obsessed with stories anthropomorphizing woodland animals. Wapati the Elk was one. I can't remember the others. It was about this time I started reading Jack London.
I hiked up the hill (which was very steep) and found Archer's park-like esker, or at least one like it. It is amazingly flat and park-like with jack pines sprinkled around just enough for occasional interest and shade. The ground is covered with lichens. Blueberries are just now ripening. I was wandering around, oogling the new spacious environment and suddenly became conscious I was not paying attention and I probably should start so as not to become lost. There are occasional moose tracks in the lichens, but no trails.
At one point the edge of the esker abruptly drops off like a cliff. These are the first expansive overlooks I've had of the river.
On top of the esker, looking at the blue sky and white clouds I remember a friend from graduate school. She said to me one day, "When I am at school (in the city) looking at clouds seems like a waste of time, but when I am in the Adirondacks looking at clouds, everything else is a waste of time."
I park myself near a jack pine and turn my face to the sun. It is afternoon, very quiet and I fall asleep.
Back at camp, I resume sitting under the tarp and get a fire going. Suddenly I hear the whopping paddle of wings, like a loon taking off from the water, but I see no birds. I isolate the source of the noise; it is a brown rodent. I didn't know beaver could be so noisy when swimming. He sat on some little sticks and preened, carefully combing his fur. He swam a bit toward me, veered to one side, peered at me. We were both motionless until I had to ease pain in my back. The slightest of moves on my part, but he caught it and dove! Popped up again, watched me, dove again. To be seen no more. There was no slap of the tail and nothing revealed his tail. Could this be a muskrat?
These aquatic rodents seemed too small to be beavers. But perhaps they were youngsters? I also heard at dusk mewlings and crying in the sort of tone universally recognizable as babies looking for mommies. Wasn't it late in the year to have small babies? Try as I might, even through the binoculars, I could not for sure see the tails. I remember reading that up to three generations of beaver can live together in the same family group. I saw them sitting on small branches eating willow leaves. I don't think beaver eat willow leaves, but I could be wrong. Eventually, I saw the laterally flattened tails. Muskrats.
Next: some animated chitterings on the left was followed by a small one paddling past the canoe and her tone of voice was "I will too! So there!" There ensued a contrapuntal exchange of an angry "You get back here right now! Or else!" from the left followed by "Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah," on the right. At some point the adult crossed the canoe boundary and dragged her daughter back by the ear.
I got the good news/bad news message. There is a plane available for tomorrow but it can't carry outside cargo, meaning I'd have to leave the canoe behind; declined. I'll have to wait to Thursday for the larger plane. Well, I am comfy for the most part. I only worry about staying warm. I learn rain is scheduled for tomorrow.
I've hardly heard the geese today. Maybe one or two in the distance. Loons were calling distantly.
I got notice that my plane would leave Stony Rapids at 1:45 pm, but to expect delays. I've asked to be notified when the plane leaves Stony Rapids so I can finish packing up. It is drizzling rain and cold. I put out the fire for the last time. With extra pots of water, I soak the fire and dig as deep down as I can. The fire has burned six inches into the duff. I am horrified, but there was nothing else I could have done. I take the tent down. Pack everything up. But I leave the tarp and a few other things up because I don't know how long I will be waiting. And it is still raining. Without the fire, the cold settles in.
I sit cross-legged on another tarp, cross my arms and bend forward until my head is between my knees. I have found over the past few days that this is the warmest position to sit in. Folded up like an oyster shell, I fall asleep.
Loud engine noise jerks me awake. I didn't get the warning. Grabbed stuff and smashed it into bags. Cut the tarp down, there was no time for the wet, stuck knots.
It took four passes for the plane to lower and slow enough to land on this little lake. The pilot skillfully backs the tail of the plane up into the weeds at the edge of the shoreline, just down from my camp. The pilot I knew, and a new pilot in orientation, grabbed my stuff and loaded it up before I could turn around. I was prodded into the plane while they mounted the canoe. I could not find my phone. I had it sitting on my lap in oystershell position and I must have jumped up without thinking about it. One of the pilots said he heard my phone beeping in one of the bags and not to worry. So I didn't. The plane had no problem getting off the ground and we peeled away from my campsite, from Cree River.
The plane rode smoothly back to Stony Rapids. The pilot took a short detour and a dip to show me and the new guy some sand dunes in the middle of the forest. Were it in miniature, it would look like a child dumped a bucket of sand on top of plastic pine trees in his sandbox. The sand covers standing trees nearly to the top. I was told this is a rolling sand dune and it just makes its way through the forest.
It was late afternoon when we got back to Stony Rapids . They dumped my canoe and my stuff by my vehicle. There were no places to stay the night in Stony Rapids and I was pointedly not offered the spot in their office. I would have to drive at least as far as Missinipe.
See The Ending - Part 2 next
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The Last Exciting Run
I remembered it being about a six hour drive. My memory was wrong. It was closer to 10 plus hours. I peeled out of Stony Rapids and remarkably did not stop for gas. I just wanted to get out of town. Driving was okay during the day. There was not much traffic. I saw a couple of moose crossing the road. Another couple out in a marsh. I'm tired, but doing well, I think.
But as the sun set, visibility shrank. It's a gravel road, no lines marking lanes, no shoulders, nothing bu blackness to see the sides of the road which drop off prescipitously. The road has just barely enough room for vehicles traveling in opposing directions pass each other. The dust stirred up by passing vehicles causes driving conditions not unlike a snow storm where all you can see is pin points of light stuff streaming into your headlights.
I'm starting to get tense and I notice the gas gauge reads uncomfortably close to Empty. There is gas for sale in Points North, but I don't know if I will make it before closing. I don't. I stopped at their gates anyway, where I could see, and I wipe the windshields and headlights free of their dust coating.
A sign coming out of Points North seems to indicate 167 miles to Missinipe. I try to calculate if I have enough gas to make it to Missinipe. I've never driven this vehicle, a 2019 4Runner, until flat out empty so I don't really know where empty empty is on the gauge. I pray for extraordinary gas mileage.
The next 167 miles are nail-bitingly tough to drive. Clouds of dust, abrupt drop-offs, no shoulder and still occasional trucks barreling down on me. There is no place to stop. There is no shoulder anywhere. Stopping would cause any vehicles behind me to smash into me. I wrack my brain for some way to stop OR what I can do if I do actually run out of gas. I am not coming up with anything except prayer.
A sign pointing to Missinipe looms out of the dust and I am almost giddy with relief…until I realize this is the junction with 102 and Missinipe is still 72 miles away! The gas gauge is now sitting on the E. Almost below the E. I assess the situation, inventory my assets. The only thing left I had was prayer.
Luckily, immediately after turning on to 102, (and unlike 905 which was up and down and up and down) the road started going downhill and it would stay running downhill all the way to Missinipe. I took my foot off the acelerator and coasted down as much as I could. I barely touched the gas pedal except when absolutely necessary. I constantly envisioned a guardian angel running behind me, with wings outspread pushing me and my vehicle. We all headed downhill toward Missinipi, me, the 4Runner and a blessed angel.
Pulling in to Missinipe was such a relief, but my troubles were not yet over. Missinipe is a very tiny town. Like only three short blocks by three short blocks. You can drive up and down each street in about 10 minutes, which I did. Twice. But I could not locate the CRCO offices and cabins. It is now 4 am and I have a reservation and the key is under the mat, but no idea where it is.
Everything in town is dark as pitch. It is clearly way past bedtime for everyone in Missinipe. Suddenly I see a man walking in the street and going to his car. I stop to ask him where CRCO is and he directs me to....drum roll...the wrong outfitter. There's nothing left for me to do but call Ric and wake him up.
It takes two phone calls to Ric to get me to the right place. I pull into the parking place right outside their office and...my car dies. Car resting spot next morning.
I used an extra day at CRCO to sort out gear, dry clothing, reorganize for a car trip home, borrow a gas can, find gas, get filled up, and so on.
Heading home, I stopped to visit a friend near Saskatoon and then over to Paddling Pitt's and Kathleen's home where I was warmly welcomed. As mentioned earlier, we reviewed my trip, identified the ground pine, tried to identify some other plants. They fed me real food and I slept in a comfortable bed. Kathleen figured out how to get my pictures onto their TV screen and we went through them all. I couldn’t have asked for a more appreciative audience. Could have stayed there much longer, but the road was calling.
The drive home was mostly uneventful. At my husband's urging I stopped in Indiana to see his mother and then in North Carolina to see his father and finally home. Next is the surprise ending. At least it was a big surprise for me. But it’s personal and many may decide they don’t really need to know it, so I have put it into a spoiler.
Meanwhile, I thank all of you, dear readers, who have hung in here for the whole trip.
The Surprise Ending
The ending is personal and some I am sure don't care to know which is why I have put it in a Spoiler. But it is kind of the cherry on the top of this whole experience and explains, in part, why it has taken me so long to complete this trip report.
I remembered it being about a six hour drive. My memory was wrong. It was closer to 10 plus hours. I peeled out of Stony Rapids and remarkably did not stop for gas. I just wanted to get out of town. Driving was okay during the day. There was not much traffic. I saw a couple of moose crossing the road. Another couple out in a marsh. I'm tired, but doing well, I think.
But as the sun set, visibility shrank. It's a gravel road, no lines marking lanes, no shoulders, nothing bu blackness to see the sides of the road which drop off prescipitously. The road has just barely enough room for vehicles traveling in opposing directions pass each other. The dust stirred up by passing vehicles causes driving conditions not unlike a snow storm where all you can see is pin points of light stuff streaming into your headlights.
I'm starting to get tense and I notice the gas gauge reads uncomfortably close to Empty. There is gas for sale in Points North, but I don't know if I will make it before closing. I don't. I stopped at their gates anyway, where I could see, and I wipe the windshields and headlights free of their dust coating.
A sign coming out of Points North seems to indicate 167 miles to Missinipe. I try to calculate if I have enough gas to make it to Missinipe. I've never driven this vehicle, a 2019 4Runner, until flat out empty so I don't really know where empty empty is on the gauge. I pray for extraordinary gas mileage.
The next 167 miles are nail-bitingly tough to drive. Clouds of dust, abrupt drop-offs, no shoulder and still occasional trucks barreling down on me. There is no place to stop. There is no shoulder anywhere. Stopping would cause any vehicles behind me to smash into me. I wrack my brain for some way to stop OR what I can do if I do actually run out of gas. I am not coming up with anything except prayer.
A sign pointing to Missinipe looms out of the dust and I am almost giddy with relief…until I realize this is the junction with 102 and Missinipe is still 72 miles away! The gas gauge is now sitting on the E. Almost below the E. I assess the situation, inventory my assets. The only thing left I had was prayer.
Luckily, immediately after turning on to 102, (and unlike 905 which was up and down and up and down) the road started going downhill and it would stay running downhill all the way to Missinipe. I took my foot off the acelerator and coasted down as much as I could. I barely touched the gas pedal except when absolutely necessary. I constantly envisioned a guardian angel running behind me, with wings outspread pushing me and my vehicle. We all headed downhill toward Missinipi, me, the 4Runner and a blessed angel.
Pulling in to Missinipe was such a relief, but my troubles were not yet over. Missinipe is a very tiny town. Like only three short blocks by three short blocks. You can drive up and down each street in about 10 minutes, which I did. Twice. But I could not locate the CRCO offices and cabins. It is now 4 am and I have a reservation and the key is under the mat, but no idea where it is.
Everything in town is dark as pitch. It is clearly way past bedtime for everyone in Missinipe. Suddenly I see a man walking in the street and going to his car. I stop to ask him where CRCO is and he directs me to....drum roll...the wrong outfitter. There's nothing left for me to do but call Ric and wake him up.
It takes two phone calls to Ric to get me to the right place. I pull into the parking place right outside their office and...my car dies. Car resting spot next morning.
I used an extra day at CRCO to sort out gear, dry clothing, reorganize for a car trip home, borrow a gas can, find gas, get filled up, and so on.
Heading home, I stopped to visit a friend near Saskatoon and then over to Paddling Pitt's and Kathleen's home where I was warmly welcomed. As mentioned earlier, we reviewed my trip, identified the ground pine, tried to identify some other plants. They fed me real food and I slept in a comfortable bed. Kathleen figured out how to get my pictures onto their TV screen and we went through them all. I couldn’t have asked for a more appreciative audience. Could have stayed there much longer, but the road was calling.
The drive home was mostly uneventful. At my husband's urging I stopped in Indiana to see his mother and then in North Carolina to see his father and finally home. Next is the surprise ending. At least it was a big surprise for me. But it’s personal and many may decide they don’t really need to know it, so I have put it into a spoiler.
Meanwhile, I thank all of you, dear readers, who have hung in here for the whole trip.
The Surprise Ending
The ending is personal and some I am sure don't care to know which is why I have put it in a Spoiler. But it is kind of the cherry on the top of this whole experience and explains, in part, why it has taken me so long to complete this trip report.
I got home. My husband sat me down on the couch and said, "I want a divorce." He moved out. After a period of intense emotional upset, I had to put my life together again, this time paddling solo in life as well as on the river. And you know what? I like it. I am possibly happier now than I have ever been.
THE FINAL END
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Phenomenal summary, Erica! Also, quite a shocking spoiler.
Yes, what he said and I'll add that your honesty and your ability to make wise decisions is admirable.
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Enjoyable read right up to the spoiler. That's a bummer but I'm glad to hear that you've got a positive outlook and that it's working out for you. Paddle on.
PS: I totally agree w/ PaddlingPitt, the extraction and the drive home are interesting parts of this trip. Thanks for sharing it.
PS: I totally agree w/ PaddlingPitt, the extraction and the drive home are interesting parts of this trip. Thanks for sharing it.
Forum anti-swearing rule be danged: What a crap heel mother effing bullpucky thing for him to do!
He guilts you into taking the Zoleo and you cut the trip short to appease him for that? And he makes you stop and see his parents on the way home? No one wants to stop and visit someone else's parents on the drive home after a trip like that. It's a rude interruption into your thoughts.
Good riddance!
Thanks for sticking with the writeup. I understand now why it took so long. I hope your solo happiness continues.
Take care,
Alan
He guilts you into taking the Zoleo and you cut the trip short to appease him for that? And he makes you stop and see his parents on the way home? No one wants to stop and visit someone else's parents on the drive home after a trip like that. It's a rude interruption into your thoughts.
Good riddance!
Thanks for sticking with the writeup. I understand now why it took so long. I hope your solo happiness continues.
Take care,
Alan
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Thanks for wrapping up your trip for us. The little bow on top was not expected however. I’m glad you are enjoying the solo time.
That was quite a trip Erica. Twenty two days is a long time to be out there. And then have to deal with the cold and rain that far North in September could be brutal. I think you made a good decision.
Sorry about what you had to deal with when you got home but I'm happy you that doing well now.
Sorry about what you had to deal with when you got home but I'm happy you that doing well now.
One of the better trip reports I have read and so personal. Well, at least you know you are a strong person and you will be fine.
Phenomenal TR…thanks so much for taking us along. Glad it ALL worked out at the end and you are happy.
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