I drive my vehicle back a couple hundred meters to the outhouse pullout near kilometer 108. I can see the washout from my vantage point but it's a distance away now. Water is running high in the river adjacent to the pullout and it's flowing on the opposite side of the road as well. I'm at the high point of the road and there's nowhere else to go if the water gets any higher. I manage to fall sleep but do so only in fits. I keep dreaming that the water has risen around the van and I wake up with a start. 

At 1:30am I drive up and check on the water level and see it's dropping. A small plane dips in from the west and circles me twice. He's only a couple hundred feet off the deck and I give him a wave to say all is good. I suspect this is a reconnaissance airplane checking on the status of the road. 

By 6:30am the water has dropped enough that I'm willing to risk a crossing. I give Nicky a call through my Go!Iridium and let her know I'm going to try. Satellite technology takes the edge off in situations like this. The overflow section is reduced in width to about 30 meters and, from my cursory scouting, seems to be only a foot or so deep. The limitations of my 2-wheel drive minivan are very exposed out here, like "taking a knife to a gun fight" as one friendly local joked.

I put the van in its lowest gear, take a deep breath and go. Thomas and the trucker pinned it and so do I. I sense the pressure of the flow as I enter the water and feel the front end dip into something deeper in the middle but my momentum's good and I bump out the other side.

"YES, YES, YES!!!!", I scream out loud. 

I cross one more small washout about 5 kilometers further on but I know I'm out. Shortly before reaching the visitor center I'm stopped by makeshift barriers lined across the road. There are two rigs on the other side of them, their drivers asleep in their cabs waiting to get through. 

"I'm not waiting here", I think to myself, "I'm heading to Dawson."

I remove one barrier, pass through, put it up again, and drive out. I arrive in Dawson City just after 9:00am Thursday morning and soon discover the volume of rain the region has just experienced is unprecedented. The Dempster Highway is washed out in 15 different places and the Peel River ferry crossing at Fort McPherson is closed.

It appears I'm here for a while.

I’m up again at 6:30am in Fort Liard and on the road by 7:00am. I’m determined to get to Inuvik by tomorrow if I can. The gravel section of the Liard Trail disappears when I enter British Columbia and leave NWT. I see several bison herds by the side of the road and feel fortunate those behemoths jumped away from my van last night rather than at it. I’d have been pummeled.

The journey from Fort Liard to Whitehorse is just over 1200 kilometers but I make good time and roll into Whitehorse by mid-evening. I don’t have camping gear in the van - it’s all up Inuvik with the kayaks - so I look for a room in town. It’s the busy summer season for Whitehorse and the community is completely full. I drive 15 minutes north and find a tired looking motel where the reception desk is also the bar. The bar’s busy and so’s the motel and I get the last room in the place. I’m blind to the roughness though as a hot shower and a soft bed hold my focus.

I rise early and push north to Dawson City and the Dempster Highway. The road between Whitehorse and Dawson is a 525 kilometer stretch of smooth pavement and spectacular scenery. The Yukon River is never very far from the road and presents dramatic views with the Five Finger Rapids being a highlight. Here the Yukon River pushes through a line of steep rock spires to form a series of formidable rapids that posed a major obstacle for gold miners attempting to reach the Klondike in the early 1900’s. Although not very technical by whitewater standards the rapids are big and noisy and had me holding my breath when I paddled through them in 2001.

Dawson City is 40 kilometers beyond the turnoff for the Dempster Highway and I choose to head directly north rather than visit town. The Dempster is a notorious section of road that is as beautiful as it is unpredictable and I’m eager to get it started. The road is made of gravel and rock and is well known for a slick conditions and shock destroying pot holes. It’s Canada’s only all weather road to cross the Arctic Circle and drivers are suggested to bring a full sized spare on a rim as flat tires are more the norm than the exception.

I realize quickly that the road is much rougher than I remember with potholes everywhere. It’s begun to rain hard as well.

I traveled the Dempster Highway for the first time in 2013 when I undertook an expedition attempting to row the Northwest Passage from Inuvik to Pond Inlet. The Arctic dished up some unpredictable conditions to us on that trip and ended up scuttling our efforts after two difficult months. It appears to be doing exactly the same thing today.

The first leg of the Dempster stretches 368 kilometers to the ‘community’ of Eagle Plains. Eagle Plains is in fact just a series of buildings that provides gas, vehicular repair, accommodation and food for Dempster travelers but it has a deserved reputation as being a true outpost of the Yukon and is smack dab in the middle of the journey. The community of Fort McPherson is the next stop on the road some 181 kilometers further on. There’s a ferry crossing here over the Peel River just before the community just as there is at Tsiigehtchic on the Mackenzie another 57 kilometers ahead. We’re very familiar with the Tsiigehtchic ferry having spent the better part of a day watching it do its three way crossing across the Dempster and across the Red River to Tsiigehtchic when we camped at the shores of the community last week. From Tsiigehtchic its just another 127 kilometers north to Inuvik to complete the 733 kilometer Dempster Highway. At the speed I’m averaging it will take me 12-14 hours.

There’s visitor centre for the Tombstone Territorial Park about 80 kilometers up the road and I stop in to check on conditions ahead. I’m told it’s been raining heavily in the mountains for days and the rivers and creeks are swollen but the road is currently passable. A couple I speak with in the parking lot disagree and say they turned around.

“It’s was too dangerous,” says the man with a long black trench coat, a handle bar mustache and large leather cowboy hat. If rock and roll icon Lemmy hadn’t died recently - the legendary hardcore lead singer of the speed metal band Motorhead - I would have asked for his autograph. “It’s not worth risking it mate.” he says.

“I’ll poke ahead a bit ato see what it’s like,” I say, “I can always turn around.”

Within 20 kilometers the conditions begin to deteriorate. The deep drainage ditches on either side of the road are swollen with run off and several have broken their banks. There’s a Park Operations truck stopped on the opposite side of the first overflow section I cross.

“Does the water normally get this high?” I ask the driver of of the Park’s vehicle as I pull up beside them. The passenger answers as she gets out of the truck.

“We’ve never seen it this high. There’s usually no water here at all,” she says, pointing to a significant river below. “We’re checking conditions ourselves.”

“I’ll follow you if you don’t mind,” I say to the driver. “You guys have a bigger vehicle and it’ll help me judge things.”

“We’re not going far,” says the driver, clearly disturbed by the turn of events. “Keep close.”

Within minutes I see a large front end loader and dump truck on the road. They’re creating a make-shift dyke to redirect a huge flow of water that is attempting to breach the road. They have succeeded for a distance but the water has swept across the road just beyond. The Park guy chats with the driver of the front end loader and then continues forward. I follow.

We enter the stream of water. The Park’s vehicle stops halfway across for some reason but starts moving again when he sees me try to go around him. “Sorry dude, can’t risk stopping in this,” I say out loud in the van.

We traverse two smaller overflow sections in the next few kilometers until he pulls over and motions he’s turning around. I give him a wave and continue on.

A short time later I come around a wide bend and notice a couple standing in front of a truck facing a large fast flowing creek where a road used to be. It appears like they’re stranded.

I stop the van and walk down to them. “You guys OK?” I shout over to them. “Park’s guys say it’s the worst they’ve seen.”
“This was a dry creek when we came through a couple days ago,” the man hollers back, “We have a cabin and food back there so we’ll be OK.”
“You’re all good then!?” I yell, giving the thumbs up.
“All good,” he says, “Hey, thanks for stopping!”

I continue and the road gets worse. I stop at a crossing I’m not comfortable to make and see a large 4x4 red king cab power through in the other direction. The truck pulls up beside me and the driver rolls down her window.

“Turn around,” she says, “It’s much worse further on. Huge washouts. Barely got through even with the help of a highway’s truck. Slides are happening too.”
“Thanks!!” I say to her,  “I’ll turn around now.”

By the time I’ve turned around she’s gone but I catch up to her soon as she’s stopped at where the couple are stranded. The woman gets out of her truck and I stop too. The couple are still at their vehicle facing the creek and we both go down to talk with them.

“I was thinking of maybe wading across,” says the man as the woman and I come within earshot of him. He’s at the water’s edge. “To see how deep it is. Maybe I could drive it? I don’t think so”

The water is moving very swiftly and has broken into two distinct channels. Both are at least 10 feet wide and likely waist to chest height in depth.

“Don’t do it dude,” I say, “You’ll be swept away in that current. Why don’t you hike around up to the road and we’ll give you a lift back to Dawson. I’m heading back there and so is Gladys, the driver of the truck.”

“You’re heading back to Dawson?!,” says the man. “That’d be great. I have to get to work in town tonight. We both need to get back.”

The couple are able to scramble up the edge of the creek and clamber up to the road where the culvert is.

“My name is Kevin,” I say as the couple reach my vehicle. I extend my hand in greeting.

“Thomas,” says the man “This is my girlfriend Melaina. We both live in Dawson. Thanks for this. This is a huge help.”

Gladys continued on with my insistence.  as I had everything under control but I’m not back driving long before we see her parked ahead of us,

“Crap, this is where I had trouble on the way in,” I say to Thomas and Melaina. “I hope it’s passable.”

I park behind the truck and am dismayed by what I see. The berm of gravel placed by the front end loader earlier is still there but the overflow has swollen considerably and appears now like a river running across the road. The edge of the road is eroding badly and there’s a drop halfway across the roadway.

“We should see how deep it is before attempting it” I say.
“I have rubber boots on,” says Melaina, “I can do it.”
“I’ll roll up my pants and join you,” I say, “I don’t mind getting my shoes wet.”

We each grab a branch and use it as a probe. The current is strong and I stop when water nears my knee.

“It keeps getting deeper over here,” I say, “I’m not sure where the road edge is either. It would be chest deep there.”

“The road is crumbling beneath my feet,” says Melaina, she’s probing out on the far side where the road is eroding. “This part would collapse if you drove on it.”

“There’s no way I can cross that in my mini van,” I say. ‘The water will be above the underside of the door.”

Gladys thinks her truck can make it across but doesn’t feel comfortable driving it herself. She asked Thomas if he’d drive the truck but he’s hesitant, it’s not his truck.

A large semi arrives not hauling its trailer. The driver eases to a stop beside us and surveys the water from his cab. He rolls down his window and I step up to him.

“You going for it?” I ask,
“You betchya,” he says smiling, a tooth conspicuously missing among his front teeth. There’s an edginess in his manner and his confidence is obvious. A woman sits beside him. She doesn’t look at me. Her gaze remains locked ahead.

I step from the cab and watch him accelerate towards the crossing. He has no intention of taking this carefully. He enters the washout fast and water immediately sprays upwards in sheets. When he reaches the deepest section the rear wheels of the rig whip sharply to the right but his momentum and power thrust him forward. He rumbles up the other side and stops, maybe waiting for us to follow, but he doesn’t exit the cab. We do nothing. There’s nothing we can do and he drives away within minutes.

Thomas and I look at one another.

“Crap, that looked a little crazy,” I say, “It looks deep too.”
“It’s too deep I think,” says Thomas, “We’re going to have to wait a bit.”

And wait we do. One hour and then we check the water. Little change. Two hours - its come down a little. Three hours - its come down a little more. Thomas and Melaina are resting in the truck as there’s more room. Four hours - Thomas tells me that they’re going for it.

“I have a lot of pressure in that truck,” he says, “They want me to go for it. I think I can make it in that thing.” pointing back to the 4x4.

“Yea, I think so too,” I say, “Waters come down a bit and you got good clearance.”

I walk up to washout and watch. Thomas takes his cue from the trucker earlier and guns it. The 4x4 sends out a big wash as did the semi and fumbles a bit in the middle but pulls though to the other side. Thomas stops, gets out and calls back from the other side.

“You all OK, Kev?!, he screams, barely audible over the rumble of the water.
“I’m good my friend!!,” I yell back and give him a thumbs up with both hands and walk back to the van.

Time to wait.

Arianna was right, a new adventure has just begun. We’ve arrived in Inuvik and our vehicle is not here. It was scheduled to arrive the week of August 29th but there’s no guarantee of that either. We’re simply at the mercy of the barge company that is shipping it.

We set up camp at the Happy Valley Campground, about a 10 minute walk from the boat launch. We have so much gear that we need to call a taxi to help us transport it. We’ll leave the boats down by the water for now but will look into a way of getting them up to the campground as soon as we can. It looks like we’re going to be in Inuvik for a while and we don’t want to risk leaving our kayaks unattended for long. It’s late - past midnight already - and we’re tired and haven’t eaten yet. We do a quick run up to main street to a 24 hour convenience store and buy bread, cheese and salads. We’re not in our sleeping bags until near 3:00am.

I rise early and call NTCL, the barge company shipping our boat, and enquire to where our vehicle is.

“Your van is still in the yard,” says the NTCL employee from Hay River, her voice sounding frazzled, “We’re loading the barge now. What do you want to do?”

“Don’t load it, please,” I say with emphasis, “Leave it where it is. Don’t load it.”

I need to get to Hay River. I'll drive the vehicle up to Inuvik. It's our only choice. I start making calls. Booking a flight out of an Arctic community can be a stressful affair. Prices are extremely high and availability is poor. I call a travel agent in Hay River to help me out and by pure luck fall on the most helpful person there is.

“Top of the World Travel,” says the woman on the other end of the line, “Cindy Romanow speaking. How can I help you?”

“Hi Cindy,” I say, “Let me tell you my dilemma...”

And so goes my explanation, a flurry of uninterrupted talk for the next 5 minutes, likely a jet engine wash of words for Cindy but she listens patiently and quickly eases my concerns.

“I’ll get you out today,” she says, “I have a 1:15pm to Yellowknife I can get you on. You’ll connect there to Hay River. You’ll be in at 5:00pm. I’ll see what I can do about the price. Sound OK?”

“OK?! I say, “Sounds fantastic!!”

A call from Cindy 15 minutes later has me booked and set to go.

“Get to the airport now,” says Cindy, “You don’t have much time. I know the folks down at NTCL. I’ll grab your van for you and meet you at the airport with it. See you at 5:00pm”

I can’t believe my ears. Not only has Cindy booked me the cheapest flight possible out of Inuvik, she intends to go over to the barge company in Hay River to pick up my vehicle for me this afternoon and then she’s going to come to the airport to pick me up with it. I didn’t ask her to do this, she’s doing it because she wants too. Again, northern hospitality at its finest.

My flight from Inuvik to Yellowknife is an interesting one simply because of the woman I’m seated beside. She’s carrying a drybag and a small backpack and looks like she’s come back from an adventure.

“Did you just finish a trip?” I ask

“Yea, I just flew out of Paulatuk,” she says, “I was on a kayak expedition but had an injury and had to come out.”

“You were kayaking the Horton River I take it?,” I say.

“No, no, we were trying to paddle the Northwest Passage,” she says. “I had a bad infection in my hand and needed to come out. My teammates are still out there"

She must have thought I had a mild stroke for my expression. “You’re kidding?! You were part of that team?!”

“You heard about it?!,” she says with genuine surprise.

“I was part of the team that tried to row the passage in 2013,” I say, “I was very aware of your expedition.”

"Really?!, she says, "I know all about that trip."

I discover that Emily Cole is an Albertan canoe guide who works out of Alaska. She and her three teammates are attempting to kayak the Northwest Passage and are experiencing everything I’d expect they'd experience - brutal winds, wild weather and dark uncertainty. The Northwest Passage is an environment so raw and savage that just existing in it feels challenging enough. Another woman has replaced her on her team and they'll be starting out of Paulatuk soon. They have tempered their objective and are no longer attempting the full Passage but are now aiming for the hamlet of Kugluktuk at the mouth of the Coppermine River - a bold objective in its own right.

“I’ll be following along,” I tell her, as we bid farewell in Yellowknife.

It’s a quick hopper flight to Hay River with a heart in the mouth cross wind landing and Cindy is waiting for me as I disembark.

“You must be Kevin,” she says extending her hand in greeting. “Here’s the key to your vehicle. Do you mind dropping me home.”

“Of course,” I say, laughing in disbelief that she’d ask, “I can’t believe how helpful you’ve been to me. It’s so above and beyond what I’d ever expect.”

“It’s no problem,” she says, “It’s what we do.”

I drop Cindy off at her house. Her husband Tom lays out the best route I should take north, they feed me food, provide me with a map and set me up with a jerry can for the extra fuel I’ll need for the journey. I may have got the poor deal from a barge company but any sense of dejection they created has been erased by the incredible hospitality of Cindy and Tom.

By the time I reorganize the car, fill up with gas and purchase food for the journey it’s 8:00pm. I arrived in Inuvik 16 hours earlier after a 35 day expedition. At this moment I had hoped to be soaking in hot tub letting the aches and grime melt from my body but instead I’m faced with a 3300 kilometer journey over rough and remote roads just to get back to where I was a few hours ago.

I elect to take the more direct but more challenging Mackenzie Highway and Liard Trail to connect to the Alaska Highway. The road is more difficult but is shorter and shorter at this point is the most appealing. The only fuel stop is in Fort Liard 600 kilometers down the road and the bulk of that road, over 500 kilometers of it in fact, is gravel and dirt.

Darkness comes earlier than I expect and true night envelopes me just after 11:00pm. I haven’t experienced real darkness in over 5 weeks and stop on occasion to grab fresh air and stare at the stars. The road is difficult and varied with some sections being fast and hard while others are soft and loose. I fish tail on one corner and feel my heart pounding through my chest. Nearing Fort Liard in complete darkness I am startled by giant black forms bounding in my periphery only to realize I’m speeding through a heard of bison. I roll into Fort Liard at 3:00am, the inn I booked a room with is all locked up and unreachable. I was looking forward to a shower - I didn’t have the opportunity to take one when I finished yesterday - but sleep comes easily in the back of my van and the bulk of this gravel section is now done. Little do I realize the real road challenge lies just ahead.

"Well, my daddy left home when I was three
And he didn't leave much to ma and me
Just this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze
Now, I don't blame him cause he run and hid
But the meanest thing that he ever did
Was before he left, he went and named me Sue"

I’ve had the Johnny Cash song A Boy Named Sue in my head all expedition. I’ve sung it out loud so many times on the journey that my girls now know the words off by heart. It’s odd how certain songs percolate to the surface but this Cash classic won’t leave me for some reason. Fred Penner’s children’s classic Sandwiches is also bopping around my head but that’s my wife’s fault, She’s been singing it non stop for weeks. It’s the musical cross she’s had to bear this journey.

We leave Tsiigehtchic at 2:30pm under perfect conditions. The weather forecast is for three days of sun so we’re hopeful our journey into Inuvik will be a straight forward one. It proves straight forward enough for the first four hours but a wall of cloud that appeared on the horizon an hour ago has caught us and has brought a terrible wind. We pull off for our break with frustration.

“How can a weather report be so wrong,” I say as I set up our JetBoil to boil some water, “We’re going to be tested to the end I think.”

But I’m wrong. By the end of our 1-1/2 hour dinner break the wind has died and the clouds have broken. Beams of sunlight illuminate patches of shore just ahead of us. One spot in particular that glows in the light is Separation Point. This is the location where the Mackenzie River breaks into three distinct channels and where the Mackenzie Delta begins. It’s also the point that Sir John Franklin left resupplies for his 1826 expedition to chart the shores of the Arctic in his quest to find the Northwest Passage.

We round the iconic spot and look up the coast for the location where we will enter the smaller east channel that will take us to Inuvik. I nearly miss the turn when we reach it.

“Is that where we go?” asks Nicky, “It looks like a channel”

“I don’t think we’re there quite yet,” I reply, “I’ll check my Canada Map on my phone to be sure.”

“We are there.” I say, “We’re flying, this is the turn!”

The channel can only be a 100 meters wide, much smaller than the main channel we’re on which is likely 4 kilometers in breadth. When Alexander Mackenzie reached this point his guide wanted to take the smaller channel but Mackenzie insisted they remain on the larger one. The guide knew the smaller one led to the Arctic Ocean but couldn’t convince Mackenzie. They remained on the larger one but we’ll follow the smaller.

The water in the narrow east channel is glass smooth and the current significantly more sluggish than the main channel.

“We’re going to have to work to finish this one.” I say out loud.

Loons make their haunting calls as we approach and I drift off with my own tune in my head.

"Well, he must o' thought that is quite a joke
And it got a lot of laughs from a' lots of folk
It seems I had to fight my whole life through
Some gal would giggle and I'd get red
And some guy'd laugh and I'd bust his head,
I tell ya, life ain't easy for a boy named Sue"

It’s nearly 11:00pm and the sky is radiant orange. The burgeoning of real night has begun but we’re still a week or so away from an inky blackness. The glow of the setting sun is reflected so perfectly on the water that it appears like we’re paddling through it. We realize the expedition is coming to a close and want to enjoy the evening as much as we can.

“Maybe we could paddle through the night,” I throw out to everyone, “What a cool way to spend the final evening!”

“I’d be happy with it,” says Arianna from the front of my boat.

“Sure Dad, I’m OK with that,” says Caitlin.

“We could do that,” says Nicky with some reluctance in her voice. She’s not as convinced as the rest of us.

“Let’s see how we feel anyhow,” I say, “It might be a cool way to finish this off.”

It feels like a delta now. The river is no longer straight but rather meanders forward, weaving and winding its way through the marsh that it feeds. The bank has changed too and is much lower in height than before. A mucky edge quickly steps up to broken forest that is interrupted every so often by a finger of meadow that extends inwards. The mosquitos are back as well. They’ve essentially been nonexistent in the cold and wind of the last couple weeks but not here. Even out in the middle of the channel they swarm us forcing us to cover up completely and break out the Deet repellent again.

“These mosquitos make the idea of going all night easier,” says Nicky.

But motivation wanes for all of us as the hours tick by. The evening is dark and a fog builds on the water. It becomes difficult to see.

“I’ll check out that small meadow,” I say to Nicky at 2:15am looking for a place to camp, “We can set up the tent quickly and get a few hours of sleep.”

I step on shore to discover it covered in fresh paw prints. A pack of wolves was here and judging by the freshness of the prints, they were here recently.

“Wolf tracks,” I say, “Lots of them. Let’s go a little further.”

The tracks are so fresh that I keep an eye to shore as we drift downstream. I see movement.

“Nick, look. A wolf,” I say, “Holy crap, it’s a pack...look!!”

“There’s eight of them daddy,” says Arianna, excitement tinging her voice, “No nine of them, there’s another one back there.” She points at the shore.

All the wolves are black except for one big white one. The black ones are moving about but the white one remains motionless staring right at us.

“Those three are puppies I think,” says Caitlin with equal enthusiasm, “They’re smaller than the others.”

“That white ones the alpha for sure,” says Nicky, “It’s staring right at us. It hasn’t moved an inch.”

It all happens so quickly. Within moments we have drifted down river and the wolves have drifted out of site.

“I can’t believe we just saw a pack of wolves,” I say quietly to myself. Arianna hears me. “I know daddy. It’s so cool!!”

We paddle for an hour and settle on a flat piece of ground on the outer elbow of a river bend to pitch our tent. We slip into the little space we know so well and quickly drift off to sleep. There’s always something out there to keep you alert - tonight it’s the wolves - but once in the tent concerns always seem to slip away.

How I feel in the tent has made me think about those small churches in the communities and what they represented for the people that built them. Looking beyond the obvious religious aspect of the place of worship, I can’t help but believe that these buildings represented something else to the people, something more basic, something that touched them on a more primal level.

The people who used these buildings traveled great distances into an environment that was wildly unforgiving and raw. They did this in the 1800‘s when there were no cars, or roads, or planes to get in or out. They got there just like we did, by this river, on a boat. When they chose to live in a place like Fort Good Hope or Tsiigehtchic it meant choosing to live a life in a place that was on the fringe of what’s humanely possible. This is the Arctic after all. Winters are long, dark and incomprehensibly ferocious. For most of these people the Arctic environment would have been a completely new experience as well.

I believe now that these buildings represented far more than just places of worship for the people that built them and used them. I believe on a more primordial level they represented a connection to home, to a place that was comforting and familiar, to a place that provided reassurance and security.

To some degree our little tent does this for us too. We fall asleep quickly in our place of security surrounded by an environment not fully under our control.

Being the appointed task master on this journey I have everyone up again within 5 hours to keep moving. We still have a big day ahead and to have any hope of making it to Inuvik today we need to move early.

It may sound like I’m pushing everyone unnecessarily hard but my experience of traveling in the Arctic tells me otherwise. We’re in the second week of August and we’re traveling north of the Arctic Circle. The weather could change at any moment and become very challenging or even dangerous. Early mornings and a little lack of sleep is one thing, freezing temperatures, high winds and even snow are another. We’ll choose the discomfort of being tired on a good day rather than being well rested on a bad one. We skip breakfast and are moving by 8:00am. The bugs are too bad here to stay and eat. We’ll move down the river and find a better spot.

"And he said, "Son, this world is rough
And if a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough
And I knew I wouldn't be there to help ya along
So I give ya that name and I said goodbye
I knew you'd have to get tough or die
And it's the name that helped to make you strong"

Within the hour we round a bend and see Corey and Ella’s tent on shore. They didn’t spend the night in Tsiigehtchic as we did but rather elected to keep moving. They were close to a day ahead of us when we left yesterday and I thought they’d be in Inuvik by now. I paddle towards them and when I’m a short distance out Corey emerges from the tent.

“Hey stranger,” I yell out, “Everything OK with you guys?”

“Yes, all good,” says Corey, “We had a really rough day yesterday.”

“Buddy, I know how you feel,” I reply, “We’ll see you guys in Inuvik. Beers will be on me.”

We paddle to the opposite shore, travel for another kilometer and stop for breakfast. The wind has picked up and keep the mosquitos at bay. By the time we’re ready to leave Corey and Ella pass by on the opposite shore and we give them a wave. They’re moving fast and their body language shouts they mean business. There’s little doubt they’ll be reaching Inuvik today. We push off shortly as well.

Knowing we only have two shifts left seems incomprehensible to us. We’re tired, so very tired, and desperately want to be done but we have mixed emotions because it’s our last day and we’d like to make the most of it.

We undertook this expedition to unplug our kids and get them outside. We did it to connect them with nature and understand there’s so much more to our country than they’ve experienced at home. We’ve done what we’ve set out to do but reflecting on it now I believe we’ve accomplished a lot more.

We quickly discovered that traveling in the north is not like traveling anywhere else. The sense of community up here is tremendously strong, there’s an understanding among its people that you look out for one another - if you have something, you share it, if someone needs your time, you give it. None of this is seen as a chore or an obligation but rather something that you simply do. People look out for one another. My daughters have seen this now. They’ve experienced it first hand. They’ve been at the receiving end of this generosity. Its had an effect on them.

Heading into this expedition we needed to put trust in our kids because not everything would be under our control. They knew this and understood this. We put faith in them and in so doing empowered them. They knew the expedition was going to be hard and that they’d need to work through some very tough times. We warned them before hand and when it happened they were ready for it. Caitlin and Arianna’s composure under duress, under real duress, amazes me. They experienced big waves, stormy winds, aggressive mosquitos, lightning storms, forest fires, curious bears, long hours, late nights, rainy days, boring food and grumpy parents. I even had to discharge my shotgun to scare off an angry wolf. Through it all the girls held up. They did more than hold up, they thrived.

"He said, 'Now you just fought one hell of a fight
And I know you hate me, and you got the right
To kill me now, and I wouldn't blame you if you do
But ya ought to thank me, before I die
For the gravel in ya guts and the spit in ya eye
'Cause I'm the son-of-a-bitch that named you Sue'"

Our kids are capable of far more than we realize. We wanted to unplug our kids this summer and take them into the wilderness. We did that and in so doing opened them up to a new world of experience. I know this trip will stay with them the rest of their lives and will shape the character of the women they become.

The humour in Johnny Cash's song hid its meaning from me. The reason it was swimming around my head, the poignancy of its message, is obvious to me now. We need to challenge our kids to make them strong.

We slide into Inuvik under a setting sun, exhausted and elated. We pull our boats up on the beach, have a group hug and take a photo.

“We did it!!, I say, exhaustion and emotion in my voice.

“Now for the next adventure Dad,” says Arianna, “We don’t have a car to get home.”

We set up camp in Tsiigehtchic by the boat dock and race into town before the Northern store closes at 6:00pm. I’m walking the aisles when I read the email. The NTCL barge is delayed, our vehicle won’t arrive in Inuvik until the week of August 29th...three weeks from now. All our effort to get to Inuvik for the week of August 8th is for naught. All or plans and commitments back home for August are lost. I’m stunned. We have two large double Seaward kayaks that have to come home with us. The barge seemed like the perfect solution - we drop our vehicle off in Hay River, paddle down the river and reunite with our vehicle in Inuvik after the barge brings it there and then we drive home. Perfect ... but ... no more.

Nicky and I begin to talk options and we’re quickly drawn out of our journey.
“Maybe we could rent a car, put the boats on top and we could drive to Hay River.” I say, “I could then drive the vehicle back to Inuvik and fly home while you drive back from Hay River.”

“That would probably be expensive,” says Nicky “And the drive back to Inuvik is over 3500 kilometers. That’s nuts!”

“Maybe we could buy a clunker car in Inuvik and put the boats on top,” I continue, “Arghhhh, it probably wouldn’t survive the Dempster.”

The Dempster Highway is Canada’s only all weather road to cross the Arctic Circle and is one of the gnarliest highways in the country. Drivers are suggested to bring a full sized spare on rim as flat tires are more the rule than the exception. The road is made of gravel and rock and is notorious for a slick surface and shock destroying pot holes.

“We could all just fly back, I suppose, and one of us could fly up again in September when the vehicle when it arrives and drive the boats the 4000 kilometers home.” I say with reluctance. “It’ll kill us financially though and be brutal for the lone driver.” A cursory check on flight costs indicate tickets at $2,400 per person one-way from Inuvik to Vancouver.

“We don’t even know if the barge has left Hay River yet either,” says Nicky, “It’s Friday night now and we won’t be able to get through to NTCL until Monday morning anyhow. Hopefully we’ll be in Inuvik by then.”

“You’re right Nick, we got to put this out of our minds and not let it ruin our trip,” I say, “Let’s forget about it until we get to Inuvik and deal with it then.”

We head back to the boats from the Northern and make a pact not to discuss the dilemma any more. On our way down a vehicle drives by us and stops.

“You just paddle into town?” asks the man.

“Yes, we did. Those are our boats down there,” I say pointing to the beach where they sit. “Didn't I see you out canoeing earlier too? You guys were flying!”

“Yea, that was me and my buddy,” replies the man, “It’s Canoe Days here in town on August 19th and we’d like to put Tsiigehtchic back on the map. You should stick around for it. You’d do well.”

“Considering our circumstances right now,” I say laughing, “We just might.”

“Would you like to clean up?” asks the man, “I have a house on the market and I need to use up the water in the tank. You’re more than welcome to use it if you want.”

“Really?!, We’d love to!” I say, “Thanks so much. My name is Kevin by the way.”

“Sonnie,” he replies, “Nice to meet you. The house is just up there. The brown one. I’ll see you there in half an hour.”

And so continues the northern hospitality. Sonnie opens up his house to us, tells us to stay as long as we want and even offers frozen food from his freezer outside.

“This one’s duck,” says Sonnie, grabbing a bag with three ducks in it. The ducks look fake for the very fact that they look so real. They are perfectly intact, just frozen solid.

“This is moose meat. You could cook it over the fire with a stick at camp,” he says laughing.

“What’s that one I ask,” pointing to another bag with a different coloured meat inside.

"That’s caribou guts,” he replies, looking at me with a grin. I try not to flinch in my expression.

We decide not to take up Sonnie on his food offer but thank him profusely for use of his house. We head back down to our boats feeling clean in both body and spirit. We won’t let the car snafu effect the final leg of our journey.

We paddle downriver for an hour then pull off for breakfast.

“The bear should be a long way from here,” says Nicky, “I hope so anyway”

We make a large fire from drift wood on the beach and warm up. We all feel energized as the sun rises ever higher. Nicky and I sip coffee by the fire as the girls play on the gravel beach. It’s a temporary moment of respite but it’s a glorious one.

The day is windy but is at our back and pushes us for a tremendous 40k in 4 hours after breakfast. Our routine now is to paddle solidly for 4 hours, take a break for 1-1/2 hours and then put in another 4 hour shift and another break. Depending on the time, the weather and how we feel we occasionally throw in a third shift of varying length. We’re getting fitter now and we’re able to sustain our efforts surprisingly well.

Our appetites have become huge too and our diet has begun to change. We’re vegetarians at home but have elected to eat small amounts of meat out here to help with muscle repair. Beef jerky has been the meat of choice. Our freeze-dried and dehydrated meals which were too large for us in the beginning have now become lacking in size. The delicious healthy snacks Nicky painstakingly prepared for weeks prior to departure have been gradually replaced by Northern store fair. Arianna pointed this it out the other day on the boat as I was riffling for a Pop Tart.

“Daddy, we started with lots of healthy snacks but now all we eat is Wonderbread, sliced cheese, licorice nibs, lollipops, Pringles, Baby Ruths and Pop Tarts. What’s happened?”

“I know sweetie,” I reply, “I’m not sure what to say except ... be quiet and eat your candy.”

Our buoyed spirits after our speedy 40k quickly sink as the wind builds. We can only make another 10k before we’re forced to camp, this time on shore. It’s a steep cut bank with a flat meadow on top. There are no bear prints at the base of the bank and we like the feel of the location but in reality we have little choice, we can’t get to an island in this wind.

The wind dies by morning but the temperature has dropped markedly. To me it feels similar to the morning of Wrigley where it was 1C. The Arctic is beginning to feel like the Arctic and I’m concerned the season has started to shift.

The weather remains stable through the day and we attempt three full shifts to get kilometers in. We started fairly late and are well rested so push late into the night. The evenings are getting much darker now and it’s at its gloomiest when we get caught. It’s just after 2:00am and the wind and rain begin in earnest. We couldn’t see the weather system approaching in the low light and now it’s upon us. We need to camp ... and fast!. We were aiming for an island down river but we won’t make it now. We investigate a steep beach only to discover fresh mud slide debris all over it. I’m fairly resigned to the location but Nicky having a better geological sensitivity (she works at the Geological Survey of Canada) makes her thoughts heard.

“We’re not camping on this damn beach no matter what!!!”

We find a camp on a muddy sandbar a short distance away. We sink to our knees in soupy sand at the waters edge and are encased in muck when we build the tent. We’re all in a foul mood and exhausted. The kids are quiet and cold.

‘I’m certain this spot was under water just a few days back”, I say as I push sticks into the ground to act as tent pegs. “I don’t think there’s any bottom to this bloody mush.”

“At least we have no fear of animals,” I continue, “They’ll drown in the F&#%ing quicksand.”

Once in the tent our world settles down and we become content in our little area of refuge. We have become so comfortable and accustomed to our tent that each time we recreate the space we feel a sense of relaxation in its familiarity. It doesn’t matter whether we’re on a meadow, on the edge of a cliff or on a muddy bog, once inside our tent we feel protected from the outside world and relax. Sleep comes easy and we all sleep in late.

Morning is cold and windy and the rain is steady and hard. The rain eases near noon but it remains cold and cloudy out. The sky has a dark softness that hints that the rain will return soon.

“Guys, I think we should get moving.” I say with an insistence in my voice that makes it more an order than a question. I've stepped outside to see a man about a dog and now stick my head through the zippered door of the tent. “Let’s try to get a little further before the rain starts again. We can find a better camp than this anyhow.”

It’s moments like this that are the most testing on an expedition. The last thing on earth we feel like doing at this point is heading out from the comfort of the tent into the cold and wet but we know we have to in order to get to Inuvik. I knew we’d have tough moments like this on the expedition and I knew as adults Nicky and I could begrudgingly deal with it but I wasn’t sure how our girls would react.

The girls fold their Thermarests, pack their clothes and dress warmly as instructed. They’re not happy - either are we - but they remain quiet and focused. In many ways they remain more composed than Nicky and I who have a tendency to bicker in moments like this.  They prove themselves far more resilient than I’d ever thought they’d be. I’m franklt amazed out how ell they are dealing with hardships on this trip and am a very proud poppa.

We’re chased by a wall of rain throughout the morning but it never catches us. We make it through one 4 hour session and slog through 3 hours of another one before the wind builds too high to paddle and we set up camp. There’s a large mound of bear scat close by but, like with the previous site, we have little choice. The wind is too intense to search out anything else. The scat appears old and there are no fresh prints to be seen. The temperature remains very cold and we’re forced to make a fire. There is a band of blue in the northern sky and it might be coming our way. We fall asleep with hopes that the sun is on its way.

It is. The morning shines bright and blue with only a light wind to ruffle the water. We jump at our chance and realize we’ll make Tsiigehtchic today if the weather holds.

Daniel in Fort Good Hope told us that the river entrance to Tsiigehtchic is very similar to The Ramparts “with large cliffs bordering the river on both sides” We spot them in the distance and race towards them with the laser precision of a missile.

I soon realize from the map that the cliffs form the edge of a large arc in the river that stretches some 15 kilometers in length with the village of Tsiigehtchic at its end. There’s a small bay at the start of the arc called Cony Bay. Historical accounts suggest it’s where Alexander Mackenzie first met the Gwich’in people on his voyage north and for us is the perfect location for a break and some food.

“Did you bang my boat,” I ask Nicky as we enter the bay. She is paddling behind me and often rides my wake for easire paddling. She routinely taps my stern with her bow and it always throws me off.  I feel another bang this time under the boat. “Hey, there it is again. It's coming from the water.”

Cony are fish and are similar to a broad whitefish but bigger. They can grow up to 18kgs in size and if my suspicions are correct the waters here are teaming with them. We are hit multiple times before we hit shore. Cony Bay must be a fisherman's paradise.

We spend a leisurely two hours sipping hot drinks and eating Raman noodles in our little oasis. We set off on our final leg of the day to Tsiigehtchic and notice a boat traveling on the far shore. It’s moving slowly.  As we paddle into the channel the boat becomes clearer.

“It’s Ella and Corey,” says Caitlin, her boat beside mine, “Let’s catch them.”

After 15 minutes of effort we realize they’re moving faster than us. They won’t be caught unless they want to be caught.

"They’re motoring,” says Nicky, “We can’t go that pace.”

And the reality is we can’t. The girls are active participants in this expedition but don’t paddle much. Nicky and I are paddling fully loaded double kayaks essentially by ourselves. Arianna doesn’t paddle in my boat while Caitlin only puts her muscle into it when she needs to - specifically when she wants to go faster than me and Arianna. Caitlin is always with Nicky and Arianna always with me. There’s a reassurance for Nicky knowing she can always engage the ‘Catie Turbo Charge’, as we’ve come to call her added bursts, if she needs it. We don’t mind that the girls aren’t paddling. The objective for us is to get them outside into the wilderness not to flog them mercilessly.

Corey and Ella stop paddling, they must have spotted us. Before long we’re beside their boat swapping war stories of the previous week.

“We’ve had all our clothing on for days,” says Ella, “We’ve been freezing.”

“We were wondering how your girls were doing,” says Corey, “How were they staying warm?”

“They stayed warm OK,” says Nicky, “Though Arianna was wearing both of Kevin’s jackets at one point and looked like an alien.”

There’s an enthusiasm and energy in our conversation that is unique to moments of shared hard experience. Tsiigehtchic appears off the west bank - a small church high on a bluff, a scattering of homes about a hillside, one of the most pleasing images I’ve seen in a while. We’ve made it!

According to Daniel who standing at the boat launch when we arrive “The first explorers called it Fort Good Hope when they made it through The Ramparts and saw this spot. They knew they had found something good!”

The town of Fort Good Hope sits high on the bank of the Mackenzie River at a spot where the intimidating limestone cliffs of The Ramparts have disappeared. A small river feeds into the Mackenzie at the spot as well. The location is prominent and inviting and is perfect for a community.

The Church of Our Lady of Good Hope is the most distinct building in town and sits high atop the bluff facing out to the Mackenzie. It’s the first thing we saw from The Ramparts. It’s a simple one storey wood structure with a steep gabled roof and slender spire but is beautiful in proportion and design. It was built in 1865 and is an exemplary example of the northwest style of the time. It’s on the register as a National Historic site of Canada.
 
We set up camp in an open field across from the church atop the 100 foot bank with a commanding view of the river. The Ramparts are still visible to the south but the view to the north, the view to what unknown awaits us, is less obvious. In its place is a bruise of broiling black clouds that’s quickly coming our way.

The storm soon hits and we weather it in our tent chatting and playing cards. We make our way to the Northern as per ritual once the weather clears and we’re kindly offered a drive back by a man donning a black ball cap and a Harley Davidson leather jacket.

“You guys the family paddlers?” asks the man.
“We are,” I reply.
“Would you like a drive to the boat launch? I see you have a lot of stuff!”
“We’d love a lift. Thank you!” I reply.
“My name is Douglas. I’m the wildlife officer in town.”

Douglas has an easy going way about him and I sense it would be hard to ruffle his feathers.

“I need to drop by my house first if that’s OK?” he says, “Friends are coming over for pizza and I need to unlock the door for them.”

I’m holding a framed image of Cam Neely and Bobby Orr that was on the passenger seat when I entered his truck. I say nothing until I notice a Boston Bruins logo over Douglas’s garage when we arrive at his house.

“Bruins fan I see,” I say.
“My team,” says Douglas. “Best team there is.”
“I’m from Montreal,” I say sheepishly. “I know Boston well.”
Boston and Montreal are notorious rivals of course.
“Habs fan, eh!,” he says incredulously as he opens the truck door to get out.
“I can walk to the boat launch from here if you’d like,” I say jokingly as he walks towards the house, “My kids are innocent though. Let them stay.”

Douglas returns to the truck and starts driving.
“My dad’s a Habs fan”, he says, “I’ll make an exception with you too”  
He points to the street sign as we drive out. Cam Neely Road it reads.
“My house is in a new subdivision and I got to name the street. The other street is Boston Bruins.”

Douglas drives us to our tent and offers to take us for another drive if we stick around tomorrow. “We’d love to but we’re eager to get going.” I say, “We still have a huge section ahead."

Douglas passes me his phone. I read the screen.
Q: What do the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Titanic have in common?
A: They both look good until they hit the ice!

By morning the weather has improved and we ready ourselves to leave. I get the chance to speak with an elder named Joe who had driven down and was parked near our tent.

“We were worried about you coming though the rapids,” says Joe as he takes a deep draw on his cigarette. “We knew you were with children and we were keeping watch. We’re happy you made it in safe.”

We had no idea that word had come down the river about our trip. The sense of genuine concern displayed for us by people throughout this journey is humbling and uplifting.

“Is there anything I should lookout for on the upcoming section to Tsiigehtchic?’ I ask him.

“You’re done with the rapids,” he says, “Shoals and wind will be your problem now. Grizzlies too. Watch out for them after Little Chicago. When we travel we camp on the islands or on the west bank. Stay on the islands if you can.”

Little Chicago was the wintering residence for prospectors traveling to the Klondike gold rush in the 1890’s. It’s about 100 kilometers north of us here and is a place I’ll remember now.

We push off at 1:00pm and head straight across to the west bank and follow it closely for the rest of the day. A northeasterly headwind has built up and has taken all the push out of the current for us. We struggle to make mileage and when we stop paddling we're actually blown back upstream. The day is beautiful and the wind eventually dies. I navigate us to a small island in the channel about 50 kilometers from Fort Good Hope.

“What’s that daddy,” asks Arianna as we approach.
“Kinda looks like a tent to me,” I say. “I’m sure it’s just a rock being distorted in the light sweetie.”

As we get closer we see wood smoke and two figures. There’s a canoe on the sandbar as well.

“It’s the canoers,” I say to Arianna, “I didn’t think we’d catch them.”

In the communities along the way we’ve been told about a young couple canoeing ahead of us. We saw their canoe at the boat launch yesterday when we arrived in Fort Good Hope but they were gone before we had a chance to chat.

“I hope they don’t mind us sharing their spot,” I say to Arianna, “I’ll go and have a chat with them.”

We land on the sandy shoal of the small island. The sand of the beach gives the appearance of a tropical setting even though we’re only 10k shy of the Arctic Circle. I walk directly over to the couple before unloading.

“I hope you don’t mind us sharing your spot,” I say as I stride up to them, “I had this island on my radar for several hours.”

“No problem at all,” says the young woman, glasses on and her dark hair in a tussle. “There’s tons of room for all of us.”

“It’s nice to have the company too,” says the young man who looks as bedraggled as I feel, “You’re the first paddlers we’ve seen on the trip.”

I soon discover that Ella and Corey started their journey in Hay River five days before us. They’ve been experiencing much of the same conditions as ourselves and are tired.

“It’s a longer journey than I thought,” says Corey “We’ve never done anything this long before.”

“Yea, we’re tired too,” I say, “We’re keen to get this section done. It’s a biggie!”

We are on the water before Ella and Corey in the morning and give them a big wave when we push off.

“See you up the river,” I yell.

In under two hours we cross the Arctic Circle. We stop, take a group photo and feel like we’ve achieved a milestone. We have now paddled to the Arctic. The urge not to linger has become more pronounced in us and we don’t linger for long. The weather too is displaying a new urge - to deteriorate - and, true to form, does so shortly after. By lunch we’re off the water, battered by a strong northerly and are resigned to loosing another day. The wind lasts through the night only to calm by morning.

The new day is wind-free but we quickly find our new nemesis to be large sandbars that extend for kilometers into the river. The detours we are forced to make prove so big that on two occasions we risk taking the inside line around islands only to find them blocked and having to retrace our tracks upstream. We end the day camped on a tiny island right in the middle of the river.

The island proves the perfect security from grizzly bears but opens us up to exposure from wind. A quick check of the weather on my InReach device before bed indicates high winds by morning. I hear the wind build through the overnight hours but drop suddenly by morning. I look at my watch and it indicates 7:17am.

“Guys, this is our only window to get across,” I say out loud in the tent to wake everyone up. ”It’s nearly 7:30, the wind is going to build again. We can have breakfast on the far shore. Let’s go now. OK!? Go, go, go!!!”

I’m amazed at how well the girls take all this. Getting them up at home for school is next near to impossible but here there’s no complaining or resistance, just action. They understand the importance of what we’re doing and why we’re doing it. I glance at my watch when we’re ready to push off and am shocked. My digital watch has lost its seal a week ago and there’s a mist covering the inside. I must have read it wrong in the tent earlier. It reads 3:58am. I read the 3 to be a 7. The light did seem a little dimmer than usual. I keep the error to myself because we still need to get to the other side but I’m getting frustrated by our circumstances.

As we make our crossing I find myself debating with myself about the necessity of only staying on islands from this point forward. “How many grizzly bears are really out here?” I think to myself. “We could have just camped on the beach that we’re aiming for now and there would be none of this jumping at calm weather windows in the middle of the night.”

As I play out my argument in my head I stare out at the beach we would have camped at last night and I see movement.

“Look Arianna,” I say to her as she sits in the front cockpit looking forward, “What’s that?”
“It’s a bear daddy. A big bear.” She replies.

The lope and pigeon toed stride of the beast is unmistakable: a grizzly bear.
We watch safely from water as the big bruin strides with dignity along shore, right where we would have camped.

“Sure is different looking than all the black bears we’ve seen, eh sweetie?”

No more debate, we’ll be looking for islands to camp on moving forward.

​Leaving Norman Wells has a different feel than leaving previous communities. Scattered throughout the river near town are six artificial islands with oil pumps on top. The silhouettes of the pumps rising and lowering look like grotesque oversized skeletons pounding hammers into the rock. They work tirelessly in the Arctic light and appear spooky and unsettling to me. Their very existence seems at odds with the pristine landscape they surround but their presence here speaks to the reality of this place. Oil and gas is what makes Norman Wells run.


The first oil wells were drilled here in the 1900's and oil extraction has been going on ever since. Supply was so abundant that in the winter of 1943-44 the US Army built a pipeline from Whitehorse over the Mackenzie Mountains to Norman Wells in order to have a secure source of oil for the war effort. The war ended and the pipeline was dismantled but the right of way remained and became the now popular CANOL hiking trail.
Oil and gas may be the history of the the Wells but is the last thing I want to be thinking about now. The evening is clear and blue and is a far cry from the wind and rain we saw this morning. We're so happy we spent that time in a cozy cabin and not in a cold and soggy tent. 
As the oil pumps of Norman Wells disappear behind us a south wind builds and pushes easily to a camp at the southern tip of Ogilvie Island. The southerly builds in intensity overnight and hammers us good. Arianna and I can't sleep for the noise. "Dad, the tent won't blow down will it?" asks Arianna after one intense blast. 
"No sweetheart, I have the guy wires all pegged and we're going nowhere. It sounds worse than it is."
The wind blows most of itself out by morning but a bluster still remains. It pushes us for the bulk of the day. By evening the air becomes very still and the water like glass. The sun streams across the gently heaving surface of river and makes it appear like mercury, a steely silver, thick and and viscous. 
Camp is a spartan affair on a gravel bench above a rocky shore and encourages us to keep moving when we awake. We had hoped to make it to the memorial above the San Sault rapids last night but didn't. The memorial is erected for 21 year old Hugh Donald Lochart Gordon who drowned in the San Sault Rapids in 1961. Our guidebook describes the memorial as "a small shelter for those who need it." The idea of getting to a shelter intrigued the kids, no matter how small, but when we arrive at the memorial we're glad we hadn't pushed. High on the bank, guarded by dense brush, is a cross on a plinth. We make the pilgrimage to pay our respects and discover the shelter the book talks about is in fact the plinth - a small metal pyramid with a small broken hatch door in front. I suppose a mail box is a shelter cabin for those that need it. 
Hugh's memorial looks out at the full breadth of the San Sault Rapids. The Mackenzie is 4 kilometers wide at this section and the bulk of it is frothing from here. The scale of rapids is hard to judge but the grumbling thunder that resonates from it is easy to digest. Villagers have been warning us of this section for weeks and have insisted we keep river left to avoid issues. We dutifully follow instructions. We enter faster water at the point where the Mountain River meets the Mackenzie near the memorial and we know we've entered the rapids. I can perceive the drop in elevation in the river, something I haven't experienced so far.  Small wave trains appear in front of us and slide beneath the bow but pose us little trouble. We ferry hard to right and avoid the worst section of rapid by a large cut bank and soon find ourselves in smooth water again. We've made it through, thrilled and relieved. 
The remaining part of the day is steady and smooth, logging in the miles as we need to do. It's only now that the immensity of this effort reveals itself. "What the hell were we thinking!!??" is a thought that has swum around my head several times recently. This river is often humbling and overwhelming. 
A grouping of small islands are scattered about the river where we are and we land on one to make camp. "Dad, is this a bear print?" asks Arianna pointing to the sand. "Sure is, sweetheart" I reply. "Black bear and it's fresh. We'll move along" We paddle for another 30 minutes and land at the last island in the chain. A print free sandy beach bordered by a high bank is camp for the night. I erect the tent on a flat area of the high bank overlooking the boats at the water. It's about 3:00am when Nicky wakes me with "Did you hear that?" 
"No, I heard nothing", I reply groggily, "Go back to sleep" A few minutes later she hears something again. She doesn't wake me, looks out at the boats and sees nothing. 
At 7:00am I head down to the boats to start breakfast. I immediately notice paw prints all around the kayaks. The biggest print with clear claw marks shows where it came out from the water. It appears our interloper has checked us out and was on his way. 
It's amazing how the knowledge of a bear in the vicinity helps rally the troops. Within the hour we're on our way. The day is calm and sunny and we drift down the right bank towards our second and final rapid of the journey - The Ramparts. Our guidebook makes no serious mention of the rapids but villagers have told us to keep river right and follow the barge buoys. 
It's just before we reach the rapids that
Arianna spots the black dot on the bank. "Is that a bear Dad?" she asks out loud from the front cockpit of our double kayak. 
"Not sure sweetie but we'll find out soon enough." 
As we approach, the dot begins to gallop. "If it's a bear it's a big one," I say, "Strange looking bear though"
Ever closer and the shape takes form. A large shaggy main drapes down over a bulky body and only reveals the ends of spindly legs below.  
"Holy crow, it's a muskox" I say, "I can't believe it!" In recent years muskox have been seen further and further south but I'd never thought we'd see one here. 
"Look, he's trying to hide in the brush," I say laughing as the muskox runs up the bank and stands behind some flimsy bushes. "Does he really think he's hiding?"  
Our not so stealth muskox is hidden like an elephant behind a palm tree. He's big and beautiful but bright, likely not. 
The Ramparts is a narrowing of the Mackenzie where its 4 km breadth is squeezed through a high walled canyon only several hundred meters wide. I can only imagine what powerful fluid dynamics are going on beneath us to make this happen but on the surface we're presented with chaos. The technical rapid section of the The Ramparts is the least of our problems as we avoid the bulk of it on river right but the wave action generated from a wind that has newly found lungs mixed with the powerful eddy generated at the mouth of the canyon is making for very strange and disquieting water. Waves are reflecting off walls of the canyon walls to add to the disorder while a swift current allows no escape. We hold our breath and slip through, we're in the canyon. Towering vertical limestone walls plunge into the water on both sides and extend before us for miles. The sun bathes the south wall of the canyon in a soft yellow light and we're transported into a realm of water and cliff, of wonder and awe. 
Historically, as the name implies, The Ramparts was used as a refuge for the local Sahtu people defending against Inuit attackers arriving from the north. Today it acts as the gateway to The community of Fort Good Hope and with the Arctic Circle nearly upon us, the metaphysical gateway to the Arctic as well.

It only takes us an hour of paddling to make it to the McKinnon Territorial Park located at the southern end of Norman Wells. This is where we had hoped to reach a few hours ago but ran out of time and energy. Had we just been able to push on a little longer we wouldn't have had to have gone through what we did. We're all a bit shaken now. The behavior of that wolf flies in the face of everything I've read and experienced over the years. Back in 2000 I had two big grey wolves run right across my track while I was cross country skiing in Alaska and they took no notice of me. I followed fresh tracks from a pack of wolves for two days when icebiking on the Yukon River in 2003. They packed a trail for myself and two teammates and they were clearly aware of our presence. We didn't see a single one. In 2009 I had a wolf sneak up behind me and sniff my head when I was resting against a log on the west coast of Vancouver Island. I turned my headlamp on when I heard it and he was just a few feet away from me. He scurried off. And, of course, just a week ago we had a pack of wolves howling and yapping a mere 50 meters from our tent and they too took no notice of us. What happened a few hours ago doesn't fit the behavior I understand of wolves. The creature we faced was not scared of us and showed distinctly aggressive behavior. Have my assumptions of wolves been wrong all along? The thought is weighing on me. 
McKinnon campground is a godsend for us though. We're exhausted from the ordeal and set up our tent high on the bank and sleep the sleep of the dead. A light rain carries us into mid morning. 
I wake with a start as people walk past our tent chatting. My nerves are on edge. I scramble out and meet a group of fellow paddlers here in Norman Wells to descend the Kettle River. They've been idling for a day waiting for the weather to clear in the mountains so they can fly out.

I've read that the guiding company they're using - Canoe North Adventures - welcomes self guided paddling parties to use there facilities. I give them a call. They inform me that not only are we welcome but they have two rooms available if we'd like. 

"Arianna, would you like to sleep in a cabin tonight?" I ask, as she sits close by. 

"Really Dad, really!?!" She says, her blue eyes expanding to saucers in her tiny freckled face. "Yes, please, yes, yes!!!"

I arrange for us to be picked up from the campground at 3pm and we decide to walk into town to get supplies beforehand. It's a 5 kilometer walk down a dusty gravel road clearly geared to industry rather than humanity. From the expressions and waves of the drivers of the mammoth hauling trucks passing us, walking on this road is rarely done.

"We have to find a taxi to take us back," I say,  "This is nasty!"

We stop at the Northern as per routine and grab lunch at a restaurant. Small luxuries heal the battered soul. 

With our Northern plunder we start heading back out of town. 
"Let's call the taxi after we go down to the wildlife office," I say, "I want to ask about this wolf." 
A local I spoke to in the Northern suggested this would be the thing to do. 

"Would you like a lift somewhere?," says the young man with sunglasses on. We've only walked a couple minutes before the white pickup rolls up to us.

"You bet!", I say. "We were going to go to the wildlife office but if you're offering a lift to the campground we're all in."
"I work for Parks," says the young guy. "My name is Jess."
As we drive I tell Jess  the whole story about the wolf. He stares forward half smiling with the occasional nod. 
"A big white wolf?" He asks. 
"Yes!", I reply "Huge"
"We call him the phantom wolf," he says, "He's been coming into town with his mate for two years eating dogs. I've only seen his prints in the snow in winter but I know he's big. He and his mate have a den out that way."

"Ahhhh, That explains it," I say, "He was protecting his pups."

"Yes. Sounds like it." Replies Jess, "And by the sounds of it you were too."

Jess drops us at the McKinnon Territorial Park and before he leaves explains how the facility works. 
"Camping here is free. There's cut firewood at each site and there's barbecues under cover with propane in the communal area." He explains, "We're trying to encourage the use of the park. We have a greenhouse here too. Feel free to grab whatever you want. And there's teepees if you'd like to sleep in one."
With a wave Jess is gone.

Our Canoe North pickup arrives and soon things go from good to great. We are brought to a large log and timber framed cabin on the shore of a small lake that seconds as a float plane harbour for North Wright Air. The friendly staff show us to our two double rooms on the mezzanine and point out the showers and laundry as well.
"All the timber framing and logs for the walls were barged in. Only the ridge beam and that big centre post are from here," explains Beth as she gives us the tour, "Those two were pulled right from the Mackenzie."
"There's coffee and cake over there," pipes in Suzanna as she points to a counter facing out to a lake, "And dinner will be served around 7:00pm. Relax. You deserve it!"
We've been transported to heaven. Luxury can only be fully appreciated when you haven't experienced it in a while. We've been fasting to that end and hungrily lap it all up. 
We pushed hard to get to Norman Wells because of the weather forecast and the meteorologists didn't disappoint. We spend the entire evening and following morning listening to the heavy rain pound the cabin's metal roof. We timed our arrival perfectly. 

By 3:00pm the system
has passed and we head back to the boats. We push off at 6:00pm well rested and eager to get our job done.