Smokey Island Refuge proves to be exactly that and we wake up to a smoke free morning. It's hard to even pick up a trace of smell in the air.
After last night's effort we get rolling a little later than usual and keep our effort under control once moving.
We make it to the mouth of the Willowlake River just before lunch and search out a small homestead at the confluence. Jim Antoine's brother lives there and Jim said we must paddle by and say hi. We spot it on the North bank a short distance up the Willowlake River. Two men walk down to the dock as we approach.
"Hello." I call out, "Your brother Jim said I had to say hello when passing by."
"Welcome! My brother-in-law here doesn't speak english" Jim's brother points to the other man, "But he's a good worker and he's an eligible bachelor" he continues, laughing heartedly.
"My girls are still a little young yet" I say, laughing with him, "But I'll keep it in mind for the future."
Caitlin darts me a look that could melt stone.
The Willowlake River drains the Horn Plateau and is noticeably warmer and cleaner than the Mackenzie River. Dene tradition says you are not supposed to swim in the water but drink it you must.
"I drink the water straight out of the river," says Jim's brother, "I've been doing it for 15 years and I have never been sick."
The day remains warm and windless as we paddle on to Old Fort Island, our intended camp for the night.
As we approach the island the telltale grumble of rapids puts me on alert. A strong current starts to sweep left of the nose of it and I realize immediately I won't make the point I was aiming for. The rumble is from water running around a steeper drop at the tip of the island where large slabs of rock drop straight into the water. It's different than anything we've seen so far. The stretch of unsettled water sweeps past the island for to the side for 100 meters. A distinct eddy line forms and brings us back to the point We originally we aiming for.
Old Fort Island was the original site of Fort Wrigley back in 1877 until it was moved in 1904 to the west bank of the Mackenzie. In 1967 the community moved again to its current location about 35kms downriver from where we are now.
There's no choice but to set the tent up on the slabs. Our Thermarests are very robust and can smooth out even the most uneven surface. There are swimming pools among the rocks but the cooler air and late hour don't make them as enticing as we'd hoped. We're all tired and head to bed shortly after arriving.
The sound of the tent fly flapping wakes me up. I look at the screen of the tent to see the Mackenzie's frothing. There's a very strong wind building. It's begun to rain hard as well. The tent isn't pegged to the ground because of the slabs beneath and is only attached by the weight of rocks in three locations. Another gust hits and the tent reels. This is the dreaded north wind I've heard so much about.
"I need to anchor this thing down," I say to Nicky. She groggily nods and offers to help. "It's ok, I'll do it," I reply.
I head outside and rummage through the peg bag in the vestibule. I hadn't attached the guy wires to the tent thinking I wouldn't need them but I do. I attach lines in six locations and tie them off to large stones I hump up from a dry creek bed below. It holds.
The wind and rain pummel us for the next 6 hours and give us a taste of what nasty can feel like. I know it could be worse.
We squeak into the town of Wrigley late in the afternoon after another difficult night. There are no freebies on this journey.
After last night's effort we get rolling a little later than usual and keep our effort under control once moving.
We make it to the mouth of the Willowlake River just before lunch and search out a small homestead at the confluence. Jim Antoine's brother lives there and Jim said we must paddle by and say hi. We spot it on the North bank a short distance up the Willowlake River. Two men walk down to the dock as we approach.
"Hello." I call out, "Your brother Jim said I had to say hello when passing by."
"Welcome! My brother-in-law here doesn't speak english" Jim's brother points to the other man, "But he's a good worker and he's an eligible bachelor" he continues, laughing heartedly.
"My girls are still a little young yet" I say, laughing with him, "But I'll keep it in mind for the future."
Caitlin darts me a look that could melt stone.
The Willowlake River drains the Horn Plateau and is noticeably warmer and cleaner than the Mackenzie River. Dene tradition says you are not supposed to swim in the water but drink it you must.
"I drink the water straight out of the river," says Jim's brother, "I've been doing it for 15 years and I have never been sick."
The day remains warm and windless as we paddle on to Old Fort Island, our intended camp for the night.
As we approach the island the telltale grumble of rapids puts me on alert. A strong current starts to sweep left of the nose of it and I realize immediately I won't make the point I was aiming for. The rumble is from water running around a steeper drop at the tip of the island where large slabs of rock drop straight into the water. It's different than anything we've seen so far. The stretch of unsettled water sweeps past the island for to the side for 100 meters. A distinct eddy line forms and brings us back to the point We originally we aiming for.
Old Fort Island was the original site of Fort Wrigley back in 1877 until it was moved in 1904 to the west bank of the Mackenzie. In 1967 the community moved again to its current location about 35kms downriver from where we are now.
There's no choice but to set the tent up on the slabs. Our Thermarests are very robust and can smooth out even the most uneven surface. There are swimming pools among the rocks but the cooler air and late hour don't make them as enticing as we'd hoped. We're all tired and head to bed shortly after arriving.
The sound of the tent fly flapping wakes me up. I look at the screen of the tent to see the Mackenzie's frothing. There's a very strong wind building. It's begun to rain hard as well. The tent isn't pegged to the ground because of the slabs beneath and is only attached by the weight of rocks in three locations. Another gust hits and the tent reels. This is the dreaded north wind I've heard so much about.
"I need to anchor this thing down," I say to Nicky. She groggily nods and offers to help. "It's ok, I'll do it," I reply.
I head outside and rummage through the peg bag in the vestibule. I hadn't attached the guy wires to the tent thinking I wouldn't need them but I do. I attach lines in six locations and tie them off to large stones I hump up from a dry creek bed below. It holds.
The wind and rain pummel us for the next 6 hours and give us a taste of what nasty can feel like. I know it could be worse.
We squeak into the town of Wrigley late in the afternoon after another difficult night. There are no freebies on this journey.
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