Canada's Nahanni River
A Solo Paddle in Canada's Northwest Territories

A cold, gray dawn greets me as I crawl reluctantly out of my tent. It poured rain all last night and this cold Arctic front, with it's low cloud ceiling, doesn't help the growing sense of apprehension gnawing at my gut. After weeks of preparation and a 2000 km drive, I stand on the threshhold of realizing a longstanding dream: paddling the Nahanni river solo.

The pilot's arrival at the float plane base at Watson lake sends me into a flurry of activity. We silently load his Cessna 185 with my 125lbs of gear and lash my 16 ft Royalex canoe to one of the plane's pontoons ready for takeoff. Our destination is the Moose Ponds, the headwaters of the South Nahanni river. From the ponds near the Yukon border, the South Nahanni flows eastward through the Northwest Territories to the Liard river 600 kms downstream.

Dark, billowing storm clouds rush down to meet us as the plane takes off from Watson lake. As we glide over this vast expanse of boreal forest with its stunted trees and endless marshland, my anxiety turns to worry- "Maybe I should have taken a personal locator beacon along after all". I obsessively go over the gear, afraid that I've forgotten a critical piece of equipment. Finally, my spirits flagging, I resort to questioning the soundness of doing such an isolated trip solo.

A thin blue line appears on the distant horizon. As the plane drones northwest towards our destination, the dark storm clouds recede to reveal a cloudless blue sky beyond. By the time we make our final approach around Mt Wilson, standing like a lone sentinel over the ponds, the green marshland below is bathed in warm sunlight and all fears and doubts fall away. I make a mental note to remain aware, in the weeks to come, of the profound effect the weather has on my state of mind.

We land on the upper pond as two trumpeter swans, spooked by the arriving aircraft, take off in slow motion grace. Their gleaming white wings contrast sharply against the lush green vegetation. The pilot quickly helps me unload the canoe and gear and within minutes I am alone, watching the plane disappear over the horizon.

"I'm committed". The words resonate in my head as the silence of the immense landscape envelopes me. The only way out is a 600 km paddle down one of North America's greatest rivers. I have been dreaming about this trip for years and now here, on the brink of fulfilling my dream, the prospect is at once exciting and frightening.

The next day I set out in the chilly morning air under clear blue skies. A good omen. The creek leading out of the ponds is barely a trickle here and I push and pull my canoe through a half day of narrow meanders. It is difficult to imagine the mighty Nahanni having such a humble beginning but I appreciate the gentleness of its waters as it eases me slowly towards the bigger white water that lies ahead.

The "Rock Gardens" as it is commonly called, is a 50 km stretch of continuous class II and III+ whitewater that usually takes between 4 to 5 days to complete. This section of the river is strewn with large boulders and gravel bars. I have little difficulty running the rapids in my skirted canoe but nevertheless spend an inordinate amount of time bailing the water that insists on finding it's way in. Numerous adjustments to the spray skirt are to no avail and finally, at the end of the second day, I am forced to investigate . After removing the floatation bag from the bow, I stare down in disbelief at an ugly 40 cm gash right through the nose and skid plate! In my determination to paddle the Nahanni this year, I foolishly bought the used canoe, sight unseen, and the purchase has proved to be a very poor investment indeed. I spend the next 24 hrs making a major epoxy/kevlar repair, all the while praying that I will not be left up the proverbial creek without a canoe! A short test paddle the next day shows the repair to be holding well and I resume paddling in a much drier boat.

I have now been paddling for 9 days without any sign of human presence. The days melt into one another and I rapidly lose track of time, a phenomenon accentuated by the 24 hr daylight which prevails at this time of year. As I paddle quietly along every day, my mind, unaccustomed to the silence grasps obsessively at images and thoughts in an attempt to anchor itself. People's faces pop into my mind unexpectedly and I experience them more as a ghostly presence than a memory. For a split second, they are a part of me. I also catch myself singing the same verse from a song over and over. And why I am I counting paddle strokes?