I believe I’ve mentioned I’m from the south. I like boiled
peanuts, Spanish moss in trees, Nascar, and fishing in a lazy river. Though for
the record, the fishing part wasn’t really my cup of iced tea, that was more my
dad’s. I just went along to hang out with him. And I really liked it too, right
up until he handed me a pole and a can of…worms. One look at the sharp pointed
hook and squirming worms and my love affair with fishing came to a crashing end.
But I loved the boat rides. I was always game for a run up the river to see
where the fish were biting. As long as I wasn’t the one baiting the hook. Or
removing the fish. Or eating the fish, for that matter.
But scary fishes and
squirmy worms aren’t the point of my story. That’s reserved for a lesson I
learned in being over-confident of your river navigation skills. You see, being
the outdoor girl that I am, when an opportunity to go on a two day Alaskan canoe
trip came my way, I naturally took it. So what if I’d never before paddled a
canoe. I’d been on plenty of bass boat trips along southern creeks. Besides, how
hard could it be floating downstream?
The answer - a LOT harder
than you’d think.
First of all, in the south
rivers tend to run gentle. Except maybe really BIG ones, like the Mighty
Mississippi, but I wasn’t fishing on those. My only experience with a rowdy
river came after a hard rain when the creeks were pushing flood stage, but even
that wasn’t anywhere close to an Alaskan river full with late spring run-off
waters
.
Class 5 rapids mean
anything to you? Well, okay, maybe that’s exaggerating. It’s just that my
previous experience in no way qualified me for running a river that would thrill
even a seasoned outdoor guide. But at the time I was happily clueless as to what
I was getting myself into.
In my defense, Birch Creek
has a name that implies an easy, pleasant float downstream. It’s designated as a
national Wild and Scenic River, and I anticipated picturesque landscapes and
amazing wildlife views. I wasn’t disappointed. Plus, my date had done this sort
of thing before and even though I hadn’t, I was quite comfortable at the
prospect of unfamiliar terrain.
credit: http://www.2paddle1.com
(Birch Creek)
So, friends drove us out of Fairbanks and up the Steese
Highway where we dropped our vehicle off at the exit point and continued on
another 30 miles or so. Armed with sun block, mosquito repellant, and rain gear,
we put in and I eagerly settled in the front of the Scanoe (that’s a flat
bottomed, squared stern canoe, in case you’re wondering). We shoved off from the
shore with our pup tent, cooler of food, and other supplies neatly tucked in the
center, and began our slow drift away from civilization. It was exhilarating,
really. To be surrounded by nothing but raw untamed wilderness for two whole
days, I thought I’d find heaven on earth.
What I found was Murphy’s
Law, lurking, waiting to strike. You see, the trip started all deceptively calm
and peaceful, luring me into a false sense of security. The first couple hours
were idyllic as we gently floated downstream, softly paddled around bends, and
enjoyed spectacular views.
Then the work began. And I
mean WORK. Birch Creek is a Class I, II, and a few Class III rapids sort of
river. That’s whitewater rafting talk for…Yeehaw! Hang on and let’s have some
fun! Or in my case – Oh My God! Is that a tree hanging over the river?
I was about to learn the
danger of sweepers.
What I foolishly hadn’t
realized was that canoeing is not without peril. We slid into a wide channel
where the current picked up and began zipping us through choppy water.
Maneuvering turned tricky and my date started shouting commands as we zigzagged
through the maze of rocks and boulders. Believe me, I was following his orders
to the letter, but the devilish current flung us around a bend and next thing I
knew, we were shooting straight into the twisted arms of a downed tree. I
paddled like crazy, desperate to avoid the head-on collision, but we ended up
broadside against a major sweeper and fighting off a hostile tangle of tree
limbs.
My date/guide jumped into
the frigid waist deep water and dragged me and the canoe free of the danger, but
not without muttering a few choice phrases that would make a bull moose blush.
Afterward we sat on a
nearby sandbar and nursed our cuts and bruises, and breathed a sigh of relief
that we escaped relatively unharmed.
But that was just lesson
number one. There were many, many more. I learned how to ‘walk’ a canoe, which
means get out, get soaking wet, and drag your boat over too shallow water. I
also learned how to lower a loaded canoe down a short waterfall by using rope
and sheer determination. But most of all, I learned how NOT to tip a canoe over.
Fortunately for our supplies and camera, I mastered that skill without actually
having to flip upside down.
Major learning curves
aside, when I finally settled down and got a handle on what I was doing, I
stopped being nervous and started to enjoy the scenery. And what spectacular
scenery it was.
There were large rock
narrows, steep cliff banks, miles of thick forest, black spruce bogs, and a wide
blend of meandering channels and rushing rapids. Even now, years later, I
vividly remember rounding a bend and coming upon a mama moose with her young
calf standing by her side. As we drifted silently by she stared at me, eyeball
to eyeball, and we communicated. I swear. I got this crazy feeling of oneness
with nature, like Dr. Doolittle or Jane Goodall of the gorillas. And I still
have it too, which explains why I now live in a veritable zoo at home.
But there I was, at a time when late evening shadows should
be settling in the hills, at least they would be if we weren’t in the Land of
the Midnight Sun. It was nearing summer solstice, the longest day of the year,
and that meant perpetual daylight. But it was time for dinner and to set up
camp, so we found an ideal place and pitched our tent. We still had another day
of canoeing ahead of us, but I knew I was ready for it. I’d been initiated and
survived. I could handle anything. Even hoisting our food supplies up a tree to
keep the bears at bay didn’t faze me. I was in sync with nature and understood
my place in it.
And I wanted more.
After that trip I couldn’t get enough. There was Tangle Lakes in central Alaska,
Denali whitewater rafting, snowmobiling, glacier hiking, ice fishing, and list
goes on. The trouble is deciding what to write about next…***
Monica McCabe writes
romantic adventures set in far-flung locales and has a secret wish to be a
travel writer and get paid to be on perpetual vacation. Until then you can catch
up with her on her website at
www.monicamccabe.net
and read about her Alaskan adventures.
