​The waters of the Great Bear River drain from the vast fresh water basin of Great Bear Lake. The water is clear and cold as we cross over it and remains a distinct current for hours until the siltier waters of the Mackenzie overwhelm it. 40 kms down river we still feel the coldness of the Great Bear long after its clarity is gone. 
The evening remains calm and clear and we push on to Norman Wells. By 1:00am the light is low and visibility difficult. The lights from Norman Wells are visible in the distance but the 10kms to get to them seem a chasm to us now. 
We pull ashore on an unappealing section of gravel with scrub brush extending several hundred meters to dense forest beyond. We quickly set camp and hit the sleeping pads. 
Arianna tells me later she heard something outside the tent before she fell off to sleep but kept it herself. 
At 4:30am I awake with a start. There's a big dog outside barking aggressively. He's only feet away. More barking and a growl. 
"A-ooooooooooooooo"
I have a compressed air horn in the tent and give it a blast. 
"A-ooooooooooooooo"
No reaction. 
"Jesus, it's a fucking wolf!!" I exclaim. 
I scream at the top of my lungs. "Get the hell out of here!"
More barking and growls. 
"A-ooooooooooooooo"
I quickly put on my jacket and pants. I have a 12-gauge shotgun at my feet and  I load in four slugs. 
"What are you doing?!"
asks Nicky. 
"I have to go out," I reply. 
I unzip the tent door,  slip on my shoes, unzip the fly, take a deep breath and step outside. 
Staring at me from 50 feet away is the largest wolf I've ever seen. Even the stuffed one I saw on the drive up doesn't come close. He cants his head to the sky. 
"A-ooooooooooooooo"
He looks straight back at me. I hit the air horn again. 
No reaction. 
I scream at him "Get the fuck out of here!!" and make one step forward. 
No reaction. 
"Christ"
I lower my shotgun about 30 feet above the wolf's right shoulder and squeeze the trigger. The blast is deafening as the butt punches hard into my shoulder.  The wolf wields around and runs 50 meters inland, stops and turns to me. More barking. 
"A-ooooooooooooooo"
I yell into the tent, 

"Guys, we got to get out of here. This guy doesn't want to go."

The next 30 minutes are very tense as we keep everyone together while packing the gear up and tearing down the tent. It all feels so much slower when there's an angry wolf pacing a short distance away. My real concern is that there's a pack close by and his howling is bringing them in. When the tent collapses the wolf strides towards us and crosses about 30 meters above. He stops shortly and stares. He's pissed. 
We pack the boats and slip off the shore. It's just after 5:00am and the wind is cold and strong. The river is uninviting but I've never been happier to be heading out onto stormy waters.

​We move out of Wrigley on high spirits and a fast current. We've committed ourselves to long days if conditions permit as a gusty 40km north wind and a 1C temperature morning remind us that safe travel conditions in the Arctic are a privilege not a right.  
After an easy hour we sweep past the 366m Roche qui-trempe-a-l'eau with its giant slabs of Devonian limestone plunging into the waters of the river. It stands in stark contrast to the regular riverscape of a gravel and sand beach with a forest backdrop we've become accustomed to. We are told that despite the name there are no pools to soak in. 
With our new found enthusiasm for long days we manage to push out 85kms to a sandy beach on the west bank just before the Blackwater River. 
We're promised a bump up in river speed after the Blackwater and are not disappointed the following morning. We manage another good day of 70km but are tired and feeling the effort. 
Our current remains discernible through the bulk of day three and the longer shifts are paying dividends. By 7:30pm we've reached Police Island on a big bend before the town of Tulita. We're 26kms out from the community but already have 74kms in the bank. It's a perfect evening with little wind and clear skies. We decide to go for it. When we arrive in Tulita we're exhausted but thrilled. We've managed to travel a stretch of river in three days that our guidebook suggests will take seven. 
Our plan now is to push when we can and rest when we can't. The weather is fickle up here and the summer season short. Push we must if we stand any chance of making it to Inuvik. 
We begin setting up our tent on the beach near the boat launch of Tulita. As with Wrigley there's no sense of a town other than a gravel road leading to the water. 
A large white pick up truck arrives and approaches. Inside is a big man and a young girl. 
"My granddaughter couldn't sleep so we took a drive," says the man, "Keira saw your girls and wanted to come over." 
It's near midnight and it's still very bright out. I can understand why little ones have tough time falling asleep, us big ones do too. 

"My name is Edward Kenny," he continues, "I think it's good for Keira to meet new people."

There's an ease in Edwards way. He's quick to laugh and tells us stories of his life and that of his family. He tells us the importance he places on learning and how he's encouraged his kids to get an education. 
"University is free for them," he says, "I tell them to take advantage of it. My youngest is down in Grand Prairie now studying accounting. Keira's her daughter." 

Edward is retired but is being drawn back into work. He's skilled in the oil operations of Norman Wells, is a river boat captain, a boiler repairman and even made it to a Canucks training camp when he was young. 
"We have a lot of talented hockey players in town," he says, "My son plays in Saskatchewan."

We watch a large white tail fox investigate our camp just before we lay down. Caitlin is thrilled. 

"Daddy, I really wanted to see a fox on this trip and now I have."

We spend our following morning walking through town and enjoying the rest. Tulita sits high atop the west bank at the confluence of the Mackenzie and the Great Bear River. It's a spectacular location with the impressive Bear Rock dominating the view to the north.
As is custom when visiting a town we pay our visit to the Northern for snacks. It opens at 1pm - today being a Sunday - and there's a lineup waiting to get in. We meet Edward and his granddaughter in the aisles and he kindly drives us back down to our boats for departure. 
We had planned to spend the night in town but the weather forecast is calling for periods of rain to begin within 24-36 hours and with that likely wind. 
I explain to the girls we'd like to shove off this afternoon and get as far down river as we can. Norman Wells is only 80km away and promises to be a better rest spot than a windblown gravel bar. They are reluctant but understand the logic of the decision. 
We push off at 3:30pm  with the intent of avoiding the bad weather. Little do we realize there's something more intense in store.

​Wrigley is a small community of roughly 200 people located atop the east bank of the Mackenzie. If not for the gravel road down to the water you'd have no idea that there's a village here. This current town site is the third relocation of the community in the last century and was chosen in part to ensure that it was well above high flood line. When the Mackenzie breaks up in the spring it gets choked with ice and jams. The jams back up water and flood vast areas of land behind it. I saw images of floods in Fort Simpson that show the town under water with the water being 6ft over the bank. The astonishing thing is that the river bank is at least 50ft high.
We haul our boats up on shore near the gravel road and set camp high on the bank in a wooded area designated for tents. It seems like a work in progress as the outhouse has been built, the hole for the toilet seat cut but no pit has been dug. An inattentive user would find themselves with very soiled feet on the plywood floor below. 
We pitch our tent to overlook our kayaks and the river and watch a steady flow of vehicles make their way down to water's edge, stop for a couple minutes then head out again. At first we're curious about what they're looking at and even think about going down to take a peek but it soon dawns on us that the object of their interest is us. We're the new comers to town and our Seaward Passats are far sexier looking than a tripping canoe. 
As the vehicle procession wanes the rainfall grows and it does so in earnest and it's brought the cold too. By morning a north wind is howling and there are whitecaps on the river.

"You don't want to be going out in that," says Charlie, a fisherman and trapper who lives in Wrigley and has come down to check on his boat. 

"Waves can get this high" He raises his hand as high as his head.

"Yea, we're playing it safe," I say to him. "We're going nowhere in conditions like this."

We spend the day in Wrigley cooling our heels and taking in the towns vibe. There's no store here but the local band office starts up their slushy machine for our girls. We're told that a local named Mary will sell us some drinks for the kids and we make our way over to her house. We leave her place with drinks but also a large cinnamon cake and a box load of banana muffins. We escape quickly before she gives us everything she has. 

"You're traveling the river. It's an offering. You're on the river"

The weather has cleared by morning but the temperature has dropped to 1C. 

"Welcome to the Arctic" says one well wisher as we eat breakfast sitting on the gravel by our boats. "Winter will be early this year."

As we prepare to push off Mary drives down with her 11 year old grandson Hunter who's made a sketch for us. He's fascinated by what we're doing. 

Traveling the mighty Deh Cho is both a moving wilderness experience and cultural enlightening one. We're touched, inspired and empowered by what we're discovering.

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. 

It's 5:00pm Friday July 15th and we leave Fort Simpson with mixed emotions. We're eager to get back onto the river of course but we're disappointed that we're now going to be doing it alone. It was an emotional farewell to Craig, Carole-Anne and Nathaniel. They've been with us from the very start of this expedition, from the conception of the idea, through all the planning and prep to get it off the ground and now by our side for the first 11 days of effort. I can't emphasize enough how well we got along as families and this is what makes it all so tough.
Craig, Carole-Anne and Nathaniel will remain in Fort Simpson for at least another day before heading south and home. The community here has been very welcoming to us and will be an easy place for them to remain and work out the logistics of getting their boats and gear back to North Vancouver.  
We've been camped at the east end of town on a sandy beach right at the intersection where the Liard River joins the Mackenzie. Scrambling up the bank you look out upon not only two mighty rivers meeting for the first time but also upon history. This junction has always been an important spiritual area for the Dene and represented an important trading point for their people. The Hudson's Bay Company recognized its importance as well and established Fort Simpson in 1822 as a fur trading post. 
We were fortunate last night to coincide our arrival with a large community get-together and BBQ held at the fields just above where we were camped. The smell of the BBQ drew us in and we soon noticed Jim Antoine from the Rabbitskin River. 

"Hey Jim!" shouted Craig. 

"You made it!" replied Jim. "Welcome, please join us. There's meat on the barbecues, salads and drinks on the tables. It all comes at a great price too. Free!"

We couldn't believe our luck and feasted until bursting. We've discovered quickly that the people here share what they have and are generous with their time - two simple characteristics that are sorely lacking in the world I'm accustomed to.

​Waking up to a mirror smooth Mackenzie River reflecting clear blue skies with the simple anticipation of a day of paddling ahead is a transcendent feeling. I can't imagine a better way to spend the summer.

We made it to Gravel Camp last night with a bit of a hard push but we're happy for the effort. The shoreline was very steep and rocky for kilometers and then gave way to marsh and reeds without any suitable transition for camping.  A headland on our Canada map looked like it may have flat, dry ground and we decided to go for it. It was a good call. The site is wide open with a  flat gravel base and presents a perfect panorama of the river.

The Mackenzie is almost 4 kms wide at this point and twists southwest to Browning Point at the mouth of the Trout River some 10kms distant.  Browning Point - once known as Browning Landing - used to be a small community with several cabins and a sawmill. Historical records suggest that it may have been also the location of the first fur trading fort built on the Mackenzie River established back in 1795. For us it's just a simple charcoal silhouette pasted upon a glowing blue sky - our view for the morning.

After 12kms of paddling the section of river we're on narrows to less than a kilometre in width and the current begins to accelerate. We're forced to stop because of a small thunderstorm and use the time to eat lunch.
The afternoon paddle is fast and fun with the river bumping up to 18kmph in one section called 'Head of the Line'. We spot two black bears on the banks of the river as we approach the village of Jean Marie River. They stand out clearly, their black fur a sharp contrast to the grays and greens of the shore. We slip into the village in early evening and camp on a wide open gravel bar just across from town.

The community is tiny - there are only 53 residents in the village - and has no store but we're greeted warmly by community members and meet Chief Gladys Norwegian at the band office.

Our conversation is relaxed and easy with us telling wild tales of paddling on Beaver Lake and she describing her life in the village over the years. She has recently returned to the Jean Marie River after working in education for years and is now going about making positive change.

"My father was chief here in the past." She says.  "He believed it was important to be knowledgable and conversant within the dominant culture while still maintaining your own cultural identity."

Her father was clearly ahead of his time.

"I didn't go to residential school either. Because of my father I went to school here."

Thanks to the senior Chief Norwegian Jean Marie River was the first indigenous community in the North West Territories to have their own school. The log building was built by community members in the 1950's. The old school house sits idle at the moment but there are hopes of transforming into a museum and recognizing its importance in helping dismantle the 'Indian' residential school program.

It's an easy two day 68km paddle from Jean Marie River to Fort Simpson. We reach the halfway point and are happy to meet up with Dene elder Jim Antoine before pitching tent. He's up from Fort Simpson with his grandkids and has been towing them around in a large inner tube behind his motorboat. We've been watching them with amusement for some time now.

We paddle up to his idling boat at the mouth of the Rabbitskin River. They kids are still on the inner tube.

"Hey there!" Says Craig. "Any suggestions on a good camp spot around here!!?"

"Yep...a short distance up the river there's nice camping with a waterfall. It's where I camp. You can use it if you want." Says Jim.

He revs up his engine and is off up the Rabbitskin River with grandkids in tow. We look at each other unsure if we should follow.

"Let's go for it" I say. "Hopefully it won't be too far."

After about a kilometer we come to a bend in the river and see Jim's boat tied on shore and his grandkids floating about in the water. Jim is weed whipping the site for us. "Thank you" I call out, "You didn't have to do that"
"I needed to do it anyway" he yells back. "Oh, I saw a bear swimming across the river on the way up. Keep an eye out. They get curious."

We see no bear overnight but do see his prints on the shore as well as a wolf's. Small river channels are highways for these animals.

It's a quick jaunt down to Fort Simpson the next morning on a swift current. We have a little trepidation as unknown the Green Island Rapids lie in wait but all anxiety is quickly dispelled as  we speed through fun boils and small waves to the community of Fort Simpson.

Nathaniel Fava (aged 10) will take over the description from here:

"Today we passed through the Green Island Rapids. I expected them to be a bit more exciting. They were merely boils. The boils tend to spin your boat around. That gets tedious after a while.
The river was shallow and with the boils the coast guard had put lots of buoys for the barges. You get a feel for the current when it crashes against the buoy.

Soon we will be pulling into Fort Simpson. We will have a store and a restaurant. This will be my final day on the river. Some parts have been hard but overall its been a lot of fun. Now I can say I've paddled 410kms of the mighty Mackenzie River."

​We've decided to name our camp at the west end of Mills Lake Mozzy Camp for the obvious reason. We're nestled amongst acres of swamp and must be near ground zero of mosquito breeding nirvana. Their sheer numbers are staggering and their will power unstoppable. Mosquitos are so abundant up here that at times your whole essence becomes focused on combatting them. They're the reason caribou migrate after all. The poor ungulates start moving simply because they're being driven so mad they have to.
A stiff wind will act as a natural defense as will the rays of a searing hot sun but our current site presents neither. We have robust bug jackets and copious amounts of deet to help in our defense yet somehow the mozzies still manage to get through. Going to the toilet poses a particularly vulnerable moment in the protection strategy. For several minutes large areas of normally unexposed flesh is their for the taking. Craig has got to spraying deet - from a can apply named can called Konk - on his backside before venturing out to see his man about a dog. The question: "Did you Deet Your Ass?" has become so common to us now that it has taken on the acronym DYA.
The night at Mozzy camp becomes bug free one once we're in our tents and by morning our foes have disappeared. 


Our day starts late because of our midnight arrival but temps are good, winds are light and skies are clear. It's a relaxing day of gliding on mirror smooth water down the mighty Deh Cho. 

We travel close the north shore for the first time and find a wide open camp on a gravel bar near Grassy Island. Local hunters and fishermen use the north shore for camping because of the abundance of wolves on the opposite bank. We follow their lead. 
The camp provides an uninterrupted 180 degree view and is quickly named Panorama Camp. 

Our camp routine is becoming settled now with the quick erection of the tent being priority one upon arrival. Once up we tuck the kids inside - away from the bugs - and start loading in clothing, sleeping bags and Thermarests. The kids job is to get everything ready inside the tent while we prepare supper outside the tent. The blowing up of Thermarests and laying out of sleeping bags invariably devolves into some sort of wrestling or shouting match but we don't care. They're contained, out of trouble and in their happy place and that makes us happy too. 
Dinner comes shortly after and is some form of dried food concoction that's quickly devoured and quickly cleaned up. I cook and Nicky cleans. Craig and Carole-Anne vary their duties.  Because of bears and wolves we maintain a healthy distance between our cooking/eating area and the tents. We store all our food in the hatches of the boats. Hanging food is not an option here because of the size of the trees - too small - and the amount of food - too big - so we seal everything in hatches and hope for the best. We have a compressed air horn to scare away inquisitive critters and I have a 12 gauge shotgun if they get obstinate. It will only be used as an absolute last resort. 
I'm typically first up in the morning with my crew and Craig first up with his. We both enjoy a cup of coffee and revel in the 'me' time of being up sipping a cup of joe. Once the troops start to dribble out it's back to the business time of doing everything we did the night before but now in reverse. Breakfast is quickly eaten -porridge and a hot drink - and the boats are repacked. It's fascinating how the repacking always appears as an impossible feat even though we know we had everything in the boats the night before. Snacks for the day are then passed about, water bottles and bladders filled up and  bodies sunscreened. Kids are put into the boats while one of us does a quick run around site to make nothing is being forgotten and then we're off. 
We break Panorama Camp and have another smooth day of clear water. The days are hot and sunny and are producing thunderstorms in the afternoons. The skies build through the day with large white cumulus clouds like massive cotton balls being stuck up on a pastel blue canvas. Storms are visually obvious and contained and can be tracked as they sweep across the landscape. 
The river widens and slows as we approach Browning Point. We slip onto another big comfortable gravel bar for the night and coin our new home Gravel Camp. 

Sketch done by Caitlin of our midnight paddle on Mills Lake!