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Seal River in Northern Manitoba

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The day here in east-central Saskatchewan is dreary, with freezing rain. It seems like a good time for me to share my story of the trip that Kathleen and I took down the Seal River in 1997. That was a long time ago, but the river is still there, and remains a superb paddling adventure. So I hope you like it.


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At the time, Kathleen and I still lived in Vancouver, and mostly paddled rivers in the Northwest Territories. But I needed to attend a conference in Winnipeg that summer, and so we thought, why not paddle a river in Manitoba. We chose the Seal, part of the Canadian Heritage Rivers System, which remains unaltered by major projects such as dams.


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We would begin our trip on Shethanei Lake, and then paddle 280 km (175 miles) from the boreal forest, though the boreal forest/tundra transition, and then out onto the tundra, one of our favourite landscapes. The trip also provided the excitement of paddling to Hudson Bay. We needed to know when the ice went out of Hudson Bay, so I called Mike, the owner of the Seal River Lodge, just 6 km (4 miles) north of the mouth of the Seal River. Mike recommended that we should not reach Hudson Bay any sooner than July 15. He also asked me how we planned to get to Churchill, approximately 70 shore-line km (45 miles) south of the mouth. I told him that we intended to paddle to Churchill. Mike immediately said, "Don’t do it. We’re tired of fishing dead bodies out of the bay. I open my lodge on July 15. You should paddle up to the lodge and stay a few days. We can then fly you to Churchill. Don’t try to paddle. If we don’t happen to be there, just come in to use the radio phone, and we will come get you."

Mike’s warning supported the information contained in in a Canadian Heritage Rivers brochure for the Seal River, which said that Hudson Bay features treacherous shoals…(which)… canoeists and kayakers cannot do safely. All river travellers are advised to arrange for water taxi or aircraft pickup from the Seal River estuary.”


(Note: I am going to post what I have so far, just to make shore that the apostrophes, hyphens and quotation marks are working. Here goes!)
 
That worked! Back to the story.

Regardless of what Mike said, I still wanted to paddle to Churchill. And, not surprisingly, it has been done. I had recently read an article by Hap Wilson, published in the Winter 1995 edition of Kanawa. Hap and his group paddled the Seal River in 1994, a trip made memorable by a huge wildfire that literally chased them down the river. The dramatic cover on that Kanawa issue showed two paddlers on the river, with an exploding, smoke-spewing, fire-ravaged forest on the opposite shore. Truly exciting, but not what Kathleen and I would want as part of a wilderness canoe trip. We’re not adrenaline junkies, after all. We just want to paddle to Churchill.

Hap’s article offered insight about paddling from the Seal River to Churchill: “Some locals asserted grimly that no one had ever done it yet and lived to tell the tale! An over-exaggeration, perhaps.”

I tended to agree with Hap’s perspective. People who don’t canoe don’t really know what a canoe, experience, and skill can accomplish. In fact, Hap and his companions did paddle to Churchill. I called Hap in early June to ask him about the experience. He said they had “been favoured with calm conditions, but that the tidal flats were very muddy and very extensive.” He didn’t encourage or discourage me from paddling to Churchill. During the conversation, I learned that Hap, who, along with his wife Stephanie Aykroyd, was writing a guidebook to the wilderness rivers of Manitoba. He offered to send me photocopied pages of his “navigation charts” for the Seal River.

I had also recently read a fantastic book, Kabloona in the Yellow Kayak, by the late Victoria Jason. In 1991, Victoria and her two companions had kayaked north from Churchill, at the beginning of her four-summer expedition through the Northwest Passage. Victoria had courage, skill, and experience. She knew what she was doing. She knew what a kayak, and by implication, a canoe could do. Surely Victoria would tell me “Just go ahead. Don’t pay any attention to those naysayers. They don’t know what they’re talking about anyway.”

Victoria lived in Winnipeg. I called her the day after I arrived in Winnipeg for my conference. “So Victoria. What do you think? Should I paddle from the mouth of the Seal River to Churchill?”

“Don’t do it. You’ll die.”

“But you did it.”

“But we were lucky.”

“So why is it so dangerous?”

“The tides go out 10 km (6 miles), and very strong winds often come up very quickly.”

This still didn’t sound so bad to me. “I’ve been on lots of large lakes subject to strong winds. If the winds come up, why can’t I just get out of the canoe, set up camp, and wait for the wind to stop?”

“To keep water deep enough for paddling, you have to go beyond some ledges, and beyond the shallow flats. If the winds come up then, you are committed. You can’t just get out and set up camp.”

“I’d still like to try, though.”

“Well, If you insist, I suggest that you put on the water two hours before high tide, and take out two hours after high tide. That way you will always been in sight of land and would not put yourself at risk from sudden storms far out on the bay. You could probably do that.”

“I like that approach, Victoria. Thanks!”


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Kathleen and I allowed 4 days to paddle the 70 km (45 miles) from the mouth of the Seal River to Churchill. We should be able to paddle approximately 15-20 km (9-12 miles) in each 4-hour sprint. At 2 tides per day, we would need only 4 of 8 tides to bring favourable paddling weather. This was our Plan A. If Hudson Bay looked too dangerous or uninviting when we got there, we would follow Mike's advice to paddle 6 km (4 miles) north to the Seal River Lodge. This was Plan B. I felt very good about this.

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Just before leaving Vancouver, we received the navigation charts of the Seal River from Hap Wilson. Hap listed 39 sets of rapids between Shethanei Lake and Hudson Bay. Sixteen of these rapids were rated as Class III or IV, including 14 km of continuous white water leading up to “Deadly Rapids.” This information supported the Canadian Heritage River Brochure that said "White water is the primary draw of the river for the approximately two dozen groups a year who paddle the Seal."

This worried us a little, as Kathleen and I are not white-water junkies. We don't select rivers for white water. We just like being in unpeopled landscapes.


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In his book, Song of the Paddle, Bill Mason wrote that "The canoe took me away from the crowds and introduced me to places that had remained unchanged for centuries. And in the going I discovered a sense of freedom that has never been equaled in any other way.” These words describe perfectly why Kathleen and I canoe wilderness rivers. And, when we travel alone together we experience a sense of intimacy which also is difficult to equal in any other way.

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We would also be able to visit the town of Churchill, and Fort Prince of Wales, constructed by the Hudson Bay Company between 1733 and 1771. It was the largest fort in North America at the time. Together with Fort York, Fort Prince of Wales served as Canada’s economic centre for two centuries.


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Samuel Hearne, whose path we crossed on the Coppermine River in 1995, began his 1770-1771 overland trip to the Arctic from Fort Prince of Wales. Many other European explorers of northern Canada also began their journeys from this site. We felt this trip would connect us with our other wilderness experiences on the Coppermine (Hearne) and Thelon Rivers (Tyrrells). Even though we didn’t know this area of Canada, it felt familiar because of our previous experiences.


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We began our trip by driving to Lynn Lake, Manitoba, where we chartered a float plane from La Ronge Air to take us to Shethanei Lake, just east of the small Dene community of Tadoule, Manitoba. From there we canoed down the Seal River to Hudson Bay. From Churchill, we took the train to Thompson, Manitoba, where the float plane people had driven our van to park it in a secure lot.

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At Lynn Lake, we encountered a town in decline ever since its nickel mine closed in 1976. About one-third of the buildings were boarded up or vacant. We had Betty’s Bed & Breakfast all to ourselves. Not even Betty was at Betty’s Bed & Breakfast! We tried to make contact with La Ronge Air, but no response. By 9:00 pm, we assumed that we would be able to sleep in late, and fly in tomorrow in the afternoon.

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But we received a call at 10:00, telling us to be ready for a 6:00 am flight. At the float plane dock, with the Beaver being loaded for departure.


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The boreal forest is very different from our recent tundra trips on the Thelon and Coppermine Rivers. Although Kathleen and I felt relaxed throughout the 2-hour flight to Shethanei Lake, we both silently wondered what adventures this new country would bring to us.

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We land at Shethanei Lake, at a spot where Samuel Hearne conceivably camped for 1 month in 1770. The shallow shoreline forced to disembark from the plane’s pontoon, load the canoe while balancing on the pontoon, and then paddle to shore.

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That evening we surveyed the surroundings of our new home from a knoll adjacent to Shethanei Lake.

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The following morning I thoroughly enjoyed one of my favourite activities on wilderness canoe trips - cooking a breakfast bannock, smothered in jam and margarine.


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All wilderness canoe trips include separation from civilization that signifies a new beginning. Our adventure is now beginning. Its story and its ending remain unknown. We felt true excitement, mixed with only a little bit of trepidation.
 
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Hudson Bay still gives me shudders...Ironically, in 1977, I had a wild hair (hare?) about paddling in Hudson Bay on a solo canoe trip (I lived in S.C.). My mother didn't like the idea so I ended up paddling the Allagash with a friend. Then I read "Paddle to the Arctic" where the author almost died there (he did a lot of almost dying, on more than one trip--also read "Paddle to the Amazon", where he an his son almost died). I read a few more accounts of people disappearing there (e.g. "Canoe Country"--the author went out on a two hour motorboat trip, storm hit them, and made it back three days later). And then this summer I got to paddle to it via the Tha Anne River. With the shoals, exposure, and weather reputation, we were all anxious, as we were racing a storm that would potentially lay us up for another 3 days, camping in polar bear country (yes, we were armed). We waited for our pickup out of Arviat, and once he arrived, had to paddle about a mile out to the boat in our canoes because of the shoals. He was anchored in only 4 feet of water over a mile out. We had stowed our spraydecks to facilitate offshore loading, and we were headed out into the open Bay, with swells rising and the upcoming storm over our right shoulders. Paddles flexed, muscles ached, but we got out, only to be fogbound a few miles from Arviat--without GPS we would have been screwed (another local boat followed us as they didn't have GPS). No polar bears, though (although an Arviat local was killed by a polar bear about 10km north of Arviat on the same day we put our boats in for the trip 6 weeks before). Yeah, Hudson Bay, ok.
 
Mason,

Yiu should read Victoria Jason's book. She was with Don Starkell, the guy who kept almost dying, for the first two summers of their kayak trip through the Northwest Passage. For me, Don's approach was sometimes a little to cavalier and headstrong. Sometimes one needs to be flexible. He became famous though.

By the way, you have probably assumed that Kathleen and I "got out alive." Your description of Huson Bay is bang on. It is not to be trifled with.
 
Back in 74' 4 of us did the Albany River down to the James Bay and then down the Bay to Moosenee. I will never forget those mud flats as long as I live. They went so far from shore that it boggles the mind and at high tide there's not a lot of water and when the winds kick up the waves get pretty crazy. When we messed up on one of those days we got stranded on the flats and took turns dragging the canoes towards shore as the tide came in. Good thing I was a young lad at the time but it's probably why I have anxiety when it comes to big open water. Took us 4 days to get from Fort Albany to Moosenee.
 
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After breakfast, we loaded the canoe and paddled 2 km (1 mile) east to wander freely and aimlessly along an esker, certainly standing in the same spots where Hearne had stood and gazed upon the same scenes 227 years before us. As you probably know, eskers are rivers running below the surface of the melting glacier. The tube in the glacier fills with gravel and sand, and when the glacier finally melts, the esker is left as a ridge raised above the landscape, and provides easy travel corridors for both people and caribou.


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The day was warm, and we took time to photograph plants. Maybe we would enjoy a leisurely journey to Hudson Bay.


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Even if we get a leisurely journey, we are concerned about the possibility of meeting up with polar bears along the shore of Hudson Bay. Both of us are armed with a can of pepper spray. Kathleen carries a bear banger, a pen-sized launcher with screw-in explosives that make one heck of a loud noise. I also carry a .308 lever action rifle.

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On the beach at the foot of the esker, we consider whether we should camp early to enjoy the sun, or paddle east to the next esker campsite. We decide to paddle on, as we know from previous experience that the good paddling weather will not last forever. It might not even last a day.

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This wolf has followed us along the shore of Shethanei Lake for nearly 1 km (0.5 miles). Hearne, in his diary, reported that the Chipewyan Indians believed that the wolf "did not eat its prey raw, but by a wonderful wiseness, peculiar to itself, had devised a method of cooking its food without the aid of fire."


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As to be expected, early in the afternoon, a strong wind has forced us to shore, where we set up camp in an area burned by wildfire in 1994.


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The Heritage River brochure about the Seal River reported excellent fishing on Shethanei Lake. I sometimes claim, with great humility, that I can catch fish anywhere, any time. Kathleen waited patiently with her camera to photograph dinner.

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I should have been more humble, as I didn't catch fish for dinner. So Kathleen heated up one of our dehydrated meals. I admire people who prepare fancy meals while wilderness tripping. But that's not us. All our meals are dehydrated before the trip. We then just add water and heat it up in one pot. Quick and simple, which is particularly good on long, difficult days. The evening was hot and uncomfortable. Another reason that we prefer simple, quick meals.


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We stored our gear under the canoe, and tied it bow and stern to trees. We retired to the tent early, to escape the bugs. We also enjoyed getting out of the heat and out of our hot clothes. Later in the evening we emerged to enjoy a cool breeze with only a few bugs, and the long shadows of a northern sunset.

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Overnight the weather had deteriorated, and we woke to a blustery, grey morning.


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The 1994 wildfire both destroyed and renewed life; everywhere above the rocky beach, pink corydalis sprouted through the ash-covered soil. The seed can persist for centuries in the soil, waiting for the next fire to release it. Corydalis is Greek, for crested lark.


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We paddled only 3 hours and 12 km (7.5 miles) today, as we were again forced to shore by a strong wind as we rounded the tip of a peninsula on the north shore of Shethanei Lake. We have plenty of time in our schedule, though, and are content to stop for the day and enjoy the clouds racing across the horizon.


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We’re glad that we decided yesterday to paddle when the weather was good. Large lakes must always be respected because of the unpredictable winds. We normally don't take a large plastic water jug, that you can see in the left foreground, on canoe trips. But when we reach Hudson Bay, we will likely need a larger container for fresh water. The jug was collapsable, so didn't take up too much room.


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The storm intensified throughout even the next day, and we spent most of the morning lying in the tent, lingering around the campfire, and lounging on the beach. I grew this beard on our South Nahanni River trip in 1990. Shaved it off in 1998. I looked pretty darn scruffy.


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We remained worried about polar bears at Hudson Bay. I am not a hunter, so practiced firing my rifle at a piece of tin hung from a tree branch. I practice on all canoe trips, and usually fire off four quick rounds at the distance I imagine I would shoot at a charging bear. I would likely kneel rather than stand, which would be more stable. I have read that a charging grizzly can cover 50 yards (metres) in 3.8 seconds. I likely wouldn't even get off four rounds.


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I am pleased with the fairly tight pattern of four bullets, and am confident, that if Kathleen and I are ever attacked by anything made of tin, that I can bring the rusty beast to its knees! I am not nearly as confident that I could bring down a charging Polar Bear.


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The poor paddling weather gave lots of free time for strolling along the ridge, and taking pictures of plants such as bunchberry, growing vigorously among the blackened spruce stems killed by the 1994 wildfire.



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In the afternoon, the storm seemed to be dissipating, and we began to think of leaving. Because we were camped in the lee, we couldn’t tell if the wind was calm enough on the lake to travel. So we paddled our empty canoe to the point where we had been driven back by the wind yesterday.


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We encountered only a slight breeze. We were now free to travel. We quickly returned to camp, loaded our gear, and paddled into a very beautiful evening at 8:00 pm.


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We had hoped to reach the outlet of Shethanei Lake before nightfall. As darkness approached, however, we were still 3 km (2 miles) from the outlet, paddling along a dense, rocky, boggy shoreline. Suddenly, at 11:00 pm, out of the gloom, a sandy beach beckoned, just as the night settled beneath a crimson sunset.



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We broke camp the next day in the sunshine of our 5th morning. We were excited that we would soon escape the winds that are so common on large lakes. We would reach moving water on the Seal River in 45-60 minutes; a new phase of our adventure will then begin.
 
Really looking forward to this report, it's already superb!

Oops we both posted at the same time, going back to read more!
 
Yes, it was a BLR. Not too cumbersome to carry with me at all times. Very light. One never knows when the bear will charge. If you take a weapon, you have to always have it ready. Otherwise it's not all that useful, in my opinion.
 
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Finally on moving water, about an hour after leaving the confluence with the Wolverine River, we approached a rapid indicated by Hap Wilson as Class II to III. The topographic map also showed a series of rapids extending nearly 1 km (0.5 miles). Our first whitewater challenge of the trip. We drifted slowly closer, wondering if we should beach to scout. Class III rapids are generally at the limit of our comfort zone, particularly when we are all alone on a wilderness river.

“This doesn’t look so bad to me, Kathleen. What do you think?”

“Doesn’t look so bad to me, either. Let’s keep going closer.”

I stood up in the canoe to get a better look at the rapid.

“Doesn’t look bad at all, Kathleen. Let’s go.”

I kneeled back down. Kathleen and I both exchanged our light wooden paddles for our whitewater paddles with plastic blades and light, aluminum shafts. These paddles are heavier than wooden paddles but their more rigid blades move the canoe more forcefully. We easily ran through the rapids and pulled out on river left at the base of our intended camp up on an esker.

“What did you think, Kathleen? Certainly not a Class III. Maybe not even on the high end of Class II.”

“That wasn’t hard at all.”

We felt quite pleased. Maybe all the rapids on Hap’s navigation charts are overrated. I’m not saying that Hap overrated the rapids. When he paddled the Seal River in 1994, this rapid might indeed have included sections of Class III. Rivers change by the year and by the season. We both felt confident, though, that we would be able to run most, if not all, of the rapids between us and Hudson Bay.



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We hiked up to the top of the esker, and were more than satisfied with the great views down the Seal River. We moved in.


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Once again, I promised fish for dinner.


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Once again, Kathleen heated up one of our dehydrated meals. But, as she pointed out, dehydrated meals are actually easier than preparing a fish. She’d already cooked the dehydrated meal at home. “All I gotta do, Michael, is warm it up.”

Note that I have carried our canoe up onto the esker, and tied it bow and stern to trees. I always keep our canoe nearby. I have heard too many stories where unsecured canoes have been blown into the lake or river. It's not going to happen to us. Or so I claim. Hopefully that claim is better founded than the claim I can catch fish anywhere, any time.


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Unbeknown to us, this esker also contained a cairn with a plaque commemorating Bill Mason.


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I read on the internet that this cairn was erected by paddlers who had intended that they and Bill would canoe the Seal River in 1988. Unfortunately Bill succumbed to cancer before the summer of 1988. I am told that the plaque is now missing, and that the cairn has been destroyed. Too bad.

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We enjoyed hiking on the esker that snaked away from our camp, seemingly endlessly, through the boreal forest. Pierre-Esprit Radisson, who, with his partner Groseilliers, was among the first Europeans in the mid 17th century to travel extensively through the pristine forests of northern Canada: As we viewed our isolated surroundings, I more fully understand the feelings of Radisson, whose words, expressed more than 300 years ago, still apply to two paddlers standing alone in the boreal vastness: “We are as Caesars of the wilderness, there being nobody to contradict us.”

You probably recognize that black item in my hand as a Pelican case, which my brochure said was guaranteed against damage by everything except grizzly bears and children under the age of five. It has always protected my camera, three lenses, filters and (in those days) film very well. I could even use it as a short stool. It was a great piece of gear. I wish I didn't have it in the image, though. It looks like I am carrying a brief case on the way to work.

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We strolled back to camp through open stands of spruce. The boreal forest extends around the northern hemisphere, and comprises the world’s largest vegetation type. In 1997, most of the boreal forest still remained unbroken by human cities and highways. Not so much anymore, I suspect. Again, too bad.


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Back on the river the next day, we rounded a bend to confront a river-wide ledge that was not marked on our topographic maps or on Hap Wilson's Navigation Charts. We did run the ledge, but had to stop to bail. As I tell people, Kathleen and I run rivers as though we are making a first descent. One should never rely completely on guidebooks or previous descriptions. I have been on rivers that I have paddled dozens of times, that one day changed in dangerous ways.


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We are now approaching another ledge. Ledges can be particularly dangerous, as they often appear flat as one approaches upstream from a canoe. That flat line is a definite clue, though, and Kathleen and I get out on river left to scout.


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Scouting this ledge, rated by Hap Wilson as Class III, shows that river right could have been a serious mistake. But river left provided safe passage. Kathleen and I easily paddled on by.


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Before paddling away, though, I mentioned to Kathleen that these ledges provide ideal fish habitat, as the pools below would be filled with hungry fish feasting on insects trapped in the re-circulating water. "Let's paddle over Kathleen. If I can’t catch fish here, I can’t catch fish anywhere." Fifteen minutes later Kathleen said, "Let's go, Michael. I seems that you can’t catch fish anywhere."

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A great day on the river, as we put in a lot of distance, paddling about 44 km (27 miles) to set up camp here at the west end of the Great Island at 6:00 p.m. Along the way, we successfully ran all 11 of Hap Wilson’s marked rapids. Two of them were listed as Class III, but we eddied out to scout only the first one. The Seal River was wide, and the most challenging part of the rapids, with large, standing waves, extended from river centre to river right. We always easily sneaked down on river left, up against the bank, in nearly smooth water.

We had been paddling for six days, and took a layover day here, to rest, and to do laundry. While relaxing at the west end of the Great Island, Kathleen swatted at a mosquito buzzing so very irritatingly around her face. I think she missed the mosquito but scored a direct hit on the diamond earring, sending it flying who-knows-where. We searched for over an hour, with no success. But if you are ever camped at the west end of the Great Island, you might stumble upon Kathleen’s diamond earring. If so, Kathleen says you are welcome to keep it. Or, if you like, you can mail it back to us. That would make a great story, wouldn’t it?


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After lunch, we strolled downriver a short distance to view a rapid listed by Hap as Class II. We agreed that we could run it. Agreement is essential for Kathleen and me. Our policy is that we portage a rapid if either one of us is leery of running. And, if we choose to run, then we must also agree on the best route.


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At this point, Kathleen says that I begged her to give me one more chance to catch fish. I need to set the record straight, though. I don’t have to beg to catch a fish. In fact, she already knew that I intended to fish at the bottom of the rapid. After all, I had brought my fishing rod with me. What did she think I was going to do with it?


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"I don't think you can catch fish, Michael based on your previous failures. I'll just lie back on the bank to watch the gulls soaring above us. I’m sure they also wish you would catch something for all of us to share."


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I stood at the bottom of the rapid, scanning the water for the most likely places that fish would congregate. Based on my vast experience and fishing prowess, I knew, almost intuitively, where the fish would be.

Cast. One arctic grayling. Cast again. A second arctic grayling.


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I guess I had proven my point. I can, indeed, catch fish—anywhere—any time.

In case you're wondering, I carry the minimum of gear needed to catch fish. I usually take just three Mepps spinners. Either gold or silver. It doesn't matter to me. With these spinners I have caught grayling, lake trout and whitefish.


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After our supper of FISH, complemented with cornbread bannock, we retreated to the tent to escape the swarms of bugs.


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An hour or so later, during the evening coolness, which drove most of the black flies into retreat, we crawled out of the tent, and strolled across the Great Island to enjoy the vistas and landscapes of the boreal forest.

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While we sat on a large boulder, Kathleen read again about Thanadelthur, a Chipewyan woman who had been captured by the Cree Indians as a young girl. The Cree were southern Indians who enjoyed virtually all of the trade with the Hudson Bay Company. The company, however, hoped to also trade with the northern Chipewyan but were prevented from doing so because of the traditional hostilities between the two nations. In 1715 the Hudson Bay Company in Fort York sent out a party led by Thanadelthur to broker a peace between the Cree and the Chipewyan people.

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The mission was plagued by misfortune, sickness and starvation, and many of the Cree deserted. Only Thanadelthur’s influence caused the others to remain. She persuaded the Cree to wait exactly 10 days as she trekked out alone to contact her people. On the 10th day, she returned with more than 100 Chipewyan to negotiate a peace treaty, which, according to the Manitoba Parks Branch Land of Little Sticks Routes, might have occurred right there, at the west end of the Great Island.

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Back in the tent for the night, we plotted tomorrow’s 40-km (25 miles) paddle to the east end of the Great Island. We naturally reviewed Hap Wilson’s navigation charts, which listed seven rapids along our route. The second, at Bastion Rock, was rated as Class II to Class IV, while the last, Nine-Bar Rapids, was supposed to be 3 km (2 miles) of “gruesome” Class III & IV.

This unsettled us a lot more that just a little. As you remember, we are not whitewater junkies and do not look forward to long, difficult rapids. You might say, “But you’ve read this before. You weren’t so worried then. Why are you so worried now?”

Well, this was the first time we had read about these rapids when they were pretty much just around the corner. Easy to be cavalier when the danger was weeks or days away. Less easy to be cavalier when the danger is tomorrow.

Oh well, rapids can wait for us until we get there tomorrow. So far it's been so good. We'll see what happens.
 
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Great photos. I paddled the Seal long ago, and they bring back some memories. We too camped on the beach at the west end of Great Island, and caught grayling in the rapid just below.

-wjmc
 
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The next morning we loaded up the canoe and set off in a calm, sunny morning toward Bastion Rock, a little less than 15 km (9 miles) away. After trending southeast from our camp for a couple of hours, the Seal River turned due east. We were now just a little more than 1 km (0.5 miles) from Bastion Rock. A few minutes later, the river turned abruptly due south and the “Rock” soon came into view. Hap’s navigation chart indicated that the Class IV portion of the water was in river centre, with Class II on river right. The navigation chart also suggested a 250-m portage on river right.

Bastion Rock, now only 100 m (yards) away, sat at the bottom of the channel. Most of the water deflected back toward river centre, with high standing waves. Kathleen and I hugged the right bank and beached our canoe at the top of the side channel that swept around and below Bastion Rock on river right. As a river-running policy, Kathleen and I (almost) never enter side channels without scouting. Side channels have less water and are often clogged with debris and log jams. We got out, tied the canoe to some riverside rocks, and sauntered downstream to scout. Just as Hap suggested, the side channel offered Class II water, with a low ledge at the bottom of the drop.

“What do you think? Run or portage?”

“Run.”

Back in the canoe, we paddled down the side channel and re-entered the main current only minutes later, safely below the Class IV water. Way to go, Hap. Your navigation chart was bang on. Of course, that’s the way we would have run Bastion Rock anyway. Navigation chart or no navigation chart.

We are now looking back upriver toward Bastion Rock, on the left.

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Two kilometres (1 mile) later we reached the next rapid, a river-wide ledge with a drop of maybe 1–1.5 m (3-4 feet). Hap listed the rapid as Class IV, scout! The rapid consisted only of the ledge. No rock gardens. I believe that we could have powered over the ledge right up against the left bank and paddled hard to escape the recirculating water at the bottom of the ledge. We have paddled ledges like this before. But not on wilderness canoe trips. Not when we are so isolated. Kathleen and I don’t capsize on wilderness canoe trips. We don't take chances. Besides, the portage was only a few metres (yards). No big deal.

We had bought a new Mad River Explorer for this trip. I had neglected to put bungee cords on the bow and stern decks of the canoe to secure the painters. The stern painter sometimes got caught in crevices. Mistake on my part.


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After reloading the canoe, Kathleen and I enjoyed lunch, sunning ourselves on the rocky shore. Our greatest challenge of the day waited for us only about 10 km (6 miles) down the Seal River. Nine-Bar Rapids, which the Canadian Heritage Rivers brochure indicated was a “possible 3 km (1.5 miles) portage.” Nine-Bar Rapids, which Hap Wilson reported to be 3 km (1.5 miles) of “gruesome” Class III & IV.

That new canoe does look very nice!


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Less than two hours later, the land up ahead dropped away as we approached Nine-Bar Rapids. We paddled cautiously along the inside bend of the left bank as we approached foreboding, turbulent ribbons of white. We eddied out, wrapped the bow line around a large, stream-side boulder, and hiked down the bank to scout Nine-Bar Rapids.

We walked single file, without speaking, both of us independently assessing the cascading challenge before us. The Seal River glowed beneath the lengthening, sunlit shadows of early evening. Golden-green tongues of water surged through an armada of impassive, dark, angular, rocky outcrops. Curling sheets of foam sparkled throughout.

We continued down the north bank until we reached a calm cove about halfway through Nine-Bar Rapids. “What do you think so far, Kathleen? Are you wanting to run or portage?"

"I think we can run what we’ve seen so far, Michael. Let’s go back to the canoe. We can paddle down to this cove and then scout the rest of the rapid.”

"OK."

We trudged back slowly along the north bank, planning our intended route. "I think this rapid requires only two major moves, Kathleen. First, we need to make a strong ferry out to the eddy behind the large rock at the top of the rapid. From there we can drift by the first jumble of rocks next to shore. Then we need to drive back hard to the left to avoid the ledge in the centre of the channel.”

Kathleen nodded. "I was thinking the same thing. After that we should be able to sneak along the left shore. The rest of that entire stretch down to the cove seems to have downstream Vs between all the rocks.”

We headed back to our canoe, turning around frequently to memorize the changing perspective of our checkpoints throughout the run. "See that greyish-looking, pyramid-shaped rock? We’ve got to stay just right of that before beginning to head back left. If we head back any sooner, we’ll never get through that first wall of rocks.”

"I see it. Are you confident with our choice to paddle this?”

"Yes.”

"Let's go, then.”

Back in our canoe we stretched our spray skirts snugly over the coaming of the spray deck cockpits. We glanced back one last time down the rapid, picked up our whitewater paddles, and then sat quietly, facing upstream. Kathleen on the left, me on the right. As usual, at the beginning of every difficult rapid, my mouth dried like a discarded chunk of Styrofoam baking in the summer sun. "It’s your lean, Kathleen.”

"I know. You just make sure you're powering hard when we cross the eddy line.”

We took a deep breath and thrust our blades fully into the water. With short, purposeful strokes, we ratcheted our canoe up to the top of the eddy. We crossed the eddy line at full speed, angled slightly outward, both of us leaning lightly downstream. The racing current grabbed the hull of our canoe, from bow to stern, and propelled us outward, across the rapid, toward the mid-channel eddy below the entry rock. With a few forward strokes, we rested safely in the haven of our first checkpoint. On either side of us the Seal River churned in a nerve jangling, clamorous din.

We cocked our heads downstream, searching for the greyish-looking, pyramid-shaped rock. "There it is,” said Kathleen, "but it certainly seems a lot more in river centre and closer to the ledge than when we were standing on shore.”

"Things always look different from the river. Do you want to leave the eddy on river right or river left?"

Seconds later we re-entered the rock-studded maelstrom, slowly working our way down to the greyish-looking, pyramid-shaped rock. We rode a narrow tongue of green water between two rounded boulders, slipped past the greyish-looking, pyramid-shaped rock, and angled our canoe toward the left bank. The ledge loomed ominously, its jaws wide open, only four canoe lengths below.

"Forward. Forward. More power!”

Knifing through the eddy below the greyish-looking, pyramid-shaped rock, our canoe sped toward the left shore. "OK. Enough power. We're by the ledge. Let's straighten out.”

We then ran with the current along the shore, slowing our descent by sideslipping into eddies below scattered rocks that offered clear, obvious passages. Moments later, we easily glided into the shallow, still water of the welcome cove, where we now rest. Halfway through. Only 1.5 (0.75 miles) km to go.

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I stood on the bank and gazed downriver. It seemed that several routes existed, as far as we could see, anyway. "This doesn't look so bad, Kathleen. Not many rocks at all. Mostly shallow gravel bars, and some standing waves no more than a metre (3 feet) high. What do you want to do? Do you want to walk down the shore to scout the rest of the rapid?”

“The first half wasn’t so bad, Michael. And this looks better. Why don’t we just work our way down. The water’s not too pushy. We’ll just go from one eddy to the next. We can always get off if we can’t see the next eddy.”

We settled back into the canoe, and the rest of the rapid proved fairly easy, except for a lift-over at the ledge at the end of the run. We then paddled into the calm water at the east end of the Great Island at 8:30 p.m. After our successful run of Nine-Bar Rapids, we were feeling quite relaxed, floating comfortably in the early evening. As we slipped past a fairly large rock, its top suddenly rose up and leaped into the water. Quite startling. We normally don’t expect rocks to rise up and leap. Although we were nearly 140 km (85 miles) from Hudson Bay, the leaping rock was a seal, which are common on the river, and for which the river was named.

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Just before 10:00 p.m., after 11 hours on the water, we arrived at the Environment Canada water monitoring cabin, which was rebuilt after the 1994 wildfire that burned for three months and consumed 250,000 ha (620,000 acres). As no one was home, we moved in to enjoy the luxury and comfort of sitting on chairs while eating our supper at a table. Just before crawling into our sleeping bags, we toasted our day’s success with a glass of brandy, savoured beneath the bright light of a Coleman lantern. Almost like sitting in one of the fashionable pubs along Vancouver’s upscale Robson Street. Well, not quite. We didn’t cradle elegant brandy snifters in our hands. There is a limit to how elegant I can feel while drinking brandy from a plastic cup.

Kathleen and I slept fitfully in the cabin, as mosquitoes harassed us all night. Very few bush cabins, if any, are bug free. We talked briefly about going outside to put up our bug-proof tent. That seemed like a lot of trouble, though. We applied more bug dope, burrowed deep into our sleeping bags, and toughed it out until morning. Bush cabins are often not as comfortable as you might think or hope.

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We left the Environment Canada water monitoring cabin at noon and drifted lazily, about 12 km (7.5 miles), down to Daniels Island, where we stopped for a snack at 2:00 p.m.

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The thermometer read 38 degrees C (100 degrees F) on the sun-drenched beach. Too hot to paddle on.


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We decided to make camp. We lugged our gear up on the ridge to pitch our tent in the shade of a few trees. We dozed and hoped that the heat would soon end.

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During supper, we decided to forgo our one remaining scheduled rest day on the river and push on to Hudson Bay. That would give us one full day at the bay to assess its potential for paddling to Churchill.

The sun shone unbearably hot all afternoon, most of which we spent seeking shelter in the shade. At 10:30 p.m., a moose, likely to escape the heat and the bugs, swam into the river and crossed beneath the blazing sun, which was sinking slowly toward the northwest. We hoped tomorrow would cool off.

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We woke to a cool 8-degree C (45 F) morning. The wind had shifted to blow in from the east, bringing fog and mist from Hudson Bay, which now, for the first time, seemed to lie, ominously, in wait for us.


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Our lunches are usually very simple. Often Top Ramen soup heated up with water boiled at breakfast, and then kept hot in our thermos. Cheese and crackers. Dried pineapple rings. Gorp. Quick and easy.

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Late in the afternoon, we approached the "raised peat plateau."

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For reference, note the "raised peat plateau" in the southern-most portion of the river. We are now in the boreal forest/tundra transition, and are making good progress toward Hudson Bay.

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Based on information in E. C. Pielou’s book A Naturalists’ Guide to the Arctic, the peat plateau likely formed 5,000−10,000 years ago. I paraphrase:

When the accumulating peat from dying, but not decaying sphagnum moss becomes thick enough, it fails to thaw in summer, becoming a flat slab of permafrost. The ground above the frozen slab starts to rise, (1) because the water in the peat expands on freezing, and (2) more water migrates toward the expanding slab. These expansions cause a raised dome to appear.

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As it rises, the dome becomes better drained and starts to dry out in summer. Its surface cracks; rain and warm air reach its frozen core, and before long the centre thaws and the whole structure then erodes and collapses.

As Kathleen and I stood on the peat plateau, looking down the Seal River, the sun appeared for the first time that day. We hoped that the hot, sunny weather that we’d been cursing only yesterday would soon return.

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After paddling about 35 km (22 miles) today, we stopped to camp at 6:00 p.m., just north of the raised peat plateau. This was exactly where our tentative itinerary listed us to be today. We also successfully ran six more of Hap’s rapids, including a Class III and a Class III–IV. At our water levels, we would not have rated either of these rapids as that difficult.

We both felt tired and ate a simple supper of cheese, plus soup cooked quickly on our stove rather than over a campfire. We retired to the tent immediately afterward to sip brandy, to munch on fruitcake, and to study our plant books and maps. Although tired, I was satisfied and content. I was even comforted by the thunder rolling toward us from across unbroken tracts of boreal forest.

For the second evening in a row, a mist formed over the river, perhaps an influence of Hudson Bay, which now lay only 60 km (37 miles) due east. Approximately 90 km (56 miles) away by river.

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The mist persisted throughout the night, and hung heavily over our morning camp. We dozed, and then lazed through breakfast, hoping for the fog to lift.

Kathleen and I generally build very small fires. Just enough to heat our food and clean the dishes. We don't burn a lot of wood, and don't even take a saw or axe anymore. If the wood is too long, we just simply put one end in the fire, and the slowly feed the longer portion in as needed. We like to cook on sand. We scoop out a trench below the grate. Before leaving camp, we cover the charred wood with sand, and smooth it over. One would hardly know that we had cooked there.


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We finally paddled away at 12:30, despite poor visibility and a steady headwind.
 
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This has been inspiring !
I've really enjoyed your trip report ! My hat's off to you, and Kathleen !
Thanks !

Jim
 
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Stay tuned? I'm freakin' glued to the monitor. Absolutely riveting, great photos too. What film/camera were you using? And how in the world can you remember all the details? You must have had some terrific notes...
Can't wait for the next installment!
 
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