Magpie River

MAGPIE RIVER EXPEDITION
JUNE 2000

The idea to kayak Quebec’s Magpie River came to me one evening while reading through a general guidebook to whitewater from all over the world. I was very interested in northern canadian rivers. I had canoed many tripping rivers to James Bay and felt that my seven years of kayaking experience would allow me to be able to handle a whitewater trip in this boreal setting. Another advantage I had was being a Junior at St Lawrence University in Canton, New York, which allowed me to apply for a fellowship that ended up funding a large portion of the trip. My roommate, Mike McDonnel, was immediately enthralled by the idea, and we had two other excellent boaters in mind to round out the expedition. Phone calls to Galen Webster and Ryan Goodrow quickly provided us with two more experienced boaters for the trip.
Maps were ordered and the gradients that we calculated looked spectacular. In organizing the trip I spoke with Charlie Walbridge and Bob Gedekoh who had both been on the river in the past. Their news was encouraging because they said that the river would surely be within our capabilities. Walbridge however, warned of a final stretch of rapids along the West Branch before it emptied into Magpie Lake, which would denote the halfway point in our journey. His warning consisted of ultrafast current and gigantic hydraulics. The one piece of advice that both of these respected paddlers gave us was to time the trip to take place in mid to late August. This, however, did not fit in place with our summer schedules. Being young we decided it would be no big deal to set our departure date a bit earlier than what was suggested. Plans were made to leave on June13th. By late April we were notified that we had been granted the Tanner Fellowship by our university. This grant would supply us with $800, enough to cover the cost of our flight.
We had grand plans of practicing runs with loaded boats and getting every detail of the voyage down to a science prior to the departure. It turned out to be a near perfect spring for boating in the Adirondacks and our attention was diverted to the numerous local rivers and creeks. While we didn’t get a chance to make any runs in our loaded boats, we did get to hone our paddling skills with over thirty days in a row on whitewater. While not boating and doing school work we managed to contact Labrador Air Safari, the company we would be flying with. It was also possible to track the weather on the Quebec Labrador peninsula fairly closely. As our trip date drew near our spirits were lifted by reports of moderate temperatures around Sept Illes Quebec, from were would fly out of to start our expedition.
Mike and I spent the end of May and beginning of June on a whitewater canoe trip down the North French River to James Bay and returned on the eleventh well accustomed to some chilly weather and blackflies, which we were expecting to be horrific on the Magpie. Once back on campus we began the monumental task of assembling the gear for the trip along with ten days worth of food. We loaded up on pasta and Snickers Bars and an assortment of other trip food and were able to come up with what seemed like pretty well balanced meals. By avoiding dehydrated food we were able to save a lot of money. The difficulty came in getting our boats equipped for the expedition and making sure that our heaps of gear fit into the boats. My Crossfire underwent major internal surgery as the rear wall was removed and the forwards pillar modified to accept gear in front of the bulkhead. By ten o’clock on the night of the twelfth, my birthday, our entire team of four was assembled and loading our boats to make sure we could carry all of the necessities. Encouraged by being able to pack all of our gear, we decided to load the Outing Club van and get a start on our drive north that evening. We were on the road by one that morning and never more excited in our lives.
Montreal and Quebec City were well behind us as the sun rose. By nine that morning we found ourselves at the Saguaney River where we were required to catch a ferry to take us across the steep walled fjord. As we waited in a short line for the massive boat to arrive we were greeted by a large whale breaking the surface about two hundred feet off shore. I still maintain it was a Humpback, but everyone questioned my whale identifying abilities. Once across the Saguenay we tried our hand at French in the next town while trying to locate an ATM machine. It was feeble, but the money dispenser was located.
The drive continued and the scenery became increasingly spectacular. Massive sea cliffs dropped to the ocean, forcing the road to travel through a tunnel at one point. Numerous rivers plummeted to the Atlantic along this route and we decided to come back one day and run all of the coastal class V drops on a park n boof tour of Quebec. Our apprehensions were slightly eased by the fact that none of these rivers appeared to be running at tremendously high volumes. We were looking for as low a water level as possible because very high water would make our trip much more difficult as we would later find out. Eventually we arrived in Sept Illes and drove aimlessly looking for where out float plane service was located. We ended up at the opposite end of town at a legitimate airport. We needed to go to Lac Rapide back on the other side of town. So back we went and found Labrador Air Safari at the end of a dirt road on the shore of Lac Rapide. Several blue and yellow planes sat clustered on a dock of sorts and I was pleased that they looked to be in good repair. We spoke with the owner who knew a bit of broken English and told him that we would be back with the money and ready to fly out tomorrow. We left and went back to town to get some last minute supplies at Wal Mart and decided to drive down to the beach afterwards. The town was very industrial and the beach appeared to be an old landfill. By six we were back at the dirt parking lot at the float plane service. The owner, LaPierre, ambled over and asked if we wanted to fly out that night. We were so excited to get the trip underway that we agreed to go in a half hour.
Things suddenly became very serious and very real as we gathered up our gear and began to load it into the plane. While changing time passed and we were told that if we weren’t ready by six thirty we would have to wait until the next day to head out. Shortly after this reminder we tossed our gear onto a trailer towed by a four wheeler which LaPierre drove out to the Otter. The two pilots helped us load the boats and we snapped off some pictures of the process. Before lift off we were given a brief flight talk which consisted of hand signals showing how to put your seat belt on and where the lifejackets were just in case. It was also mentioned that the guy flying our plane was actually a Beaver pilot and that he was training on the Otter. They said we shouldn’t worry because the real pilot would be next to him the entire time. Great!
The inside of the plane was padded with a gray cloth and a door opened through the bulkhead allowing us to see into the cockpit. The front window was elevated so nothing could be seen. The view from the side windows seemed as though it would be spectacular. While boarding thumbs up were given and comments were constantly made about how bad ass this was. It was nervous joking though. None of us were really sure what we were about to get into. To compound this was my apparent fear of airplanes which was previously unknown to me. This damn thing was small man. The pilot flipped some switches and the engine roared to life. It was soon clear why the pilots were wearing earphones as the engine noise was nearly deafening. The prop sped in front of the glass and the large Otter began to taxi out around the lake. We looped around on the glassy smooth water and as we headed away from shore the engine was kicked into a higher gear and the plane accelerated across the lake. Water skimmed from the pontoons and the Otter slowly and suddenly pulled into the sky. I was amazed by how smooth it all was. As we gained altitude the surrounding land became visible and the flight center could be seen while banking hard to the left and heading off towards Lac Vital, the start of our trip.
The scenery from the sky was absolutely incredible. When Bob Gedekoh had warned us that there was no way to walk out from the river in the event of an accident I didn’t really know what he meant until I was in the plane. Sheer granite walls flanked mountain sides and a vast array of ranges were cut by deep river gorges. A distant mountain range could be seen on the horizon and most of the peaks were capped with snow. It was actually quite amazing to see how much snow there still was on the ground in many places. Fortunately, the majority of it was confined to the vast alpine areas of tundra that existed on the mountain tops. From the air we could see many creeks and rivers, some of which contained spectacular looking rapids of unknown difficulty. In places large creeks were flowing directly on the granite bedrock in series of incredible looking rapids that would make US creek boaters envious. The possibility for first descents in the area must be nearly limitless. The fact that it was still spring here was farther reinforced by the frozen lakes that we flew over at one point. The pilots told us that ice out had been only four weeks earlier.
The copilot turned to us after about an hour in the air and informed us that we were over the landing zone. He then asked if we wanted to land on the river instead of the lake. Although this would eliminate our run down a fun looking creek into the Magpie, we agreed. This turned out to be pretty damn exciting because the river looked darn small from our vantage point. It quickly became apparent that float planes don’t land like big jets. Instead of lining up with the river and slowly descending, the engines were cut back to a dull rumble and the craft banked at a 40 degree angle. This caused the hunk of metal to immediately began loosing altitude at what seemed to me an alarmingly fast pace. Greater detail could be seen on the ground while approaching it on our circular path. Lac Vital and the creek we had planned on paddling could be clearly seen and it looked like some nice class III rapids would be missed. The tundra grew very close now and things started to happen quickly. Before I really knew what was going on the plane leveled and gently touched down on the river at which point the engine was raced to cause the plane to skip across the surface. I was temporarily filled with relief until it dawned on me that we would soon be abandoned. The pilots were considerate and taxied over to a sandbar that looked like it would make an ideal campsite.
The copilot hopped out and held a line which he passed off to Goodrow while the rest of us unloaded gear into a pile on the sandbar. The air was chilly but pleasant and a few clouds were in the sky. It was about eight o’clock and things wouldn’t get totally dark until about nine thirty. While unloading we discovered, much to our elated surprise, that there were no blackflies or mosquitoes out. We inquired our pilots about this and they told us that it was too early in the year for them to be out yet. Well, at least something good came out of leaving way to early in the year for this trip! Once the gear was all unloaded we thanked the pilots for a great flight and snapped a quick photo of them. They wished us good luck, hopped into the plane, and taxied into the middle of the river. The engine raced and the light empty plane quickly lifted into the air and rapidly disappeared in the distance.
All was quite now and the feeling of being totally on our own was pretty overwhelming. I was feeling a very strong emotion that was a mixture of fear, excitement, and dread all at once. There was actually a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, but the excitement of everything, along with being in such an absolutely foreign setting, helped take my mind off of the apprehensions I was having. Besides, the plane was gone and there was only one way of getting out of here now.
Our first course of action now was to set up the tents. They went up easily and instantly made the setting a bit more like home. Dusk was rapidly approaching and Ryan paddled off of the sandbar to gather some wood on the mainland. While he was away the three of us eagerly fished, expecting to catch a massive trout on every other cast, but our efforts proved fruitless. Since there was no dinner planned for this night, and because we ate in Sept Illes, no food was cooked. The fire soon crackled to life as a chill settled over the land. Our campsite site was a low sand island covered with low blueberry bushes and a few alders that were not yet leafed out. The river was perhaps eighty or so yards wide and while it was flat, the current sped quickly along. The level appeared to be rather high, but at least the sand bar was exposed and we could see marks from higher water. The Magpie was not flooding. Just downstream and on the opposite side of Magpie Ouest the Lac Vital outlet could be heard spilling into the main river. Several large hills rose up around us. Those on the other side of the river were mainly devoid of trees and covered with thick light green moss and snow with a scattering of dwarfed spruce and fir trees. Darkness was just about upon us when I noticed a large dark figure moving up the river. This turned out to be a big Moose that was unaware of us. The animal soon veered towards the center of the river and made it to the opposite bank, where we could barely make out its profile in the gathering darkness. The massive creature could be heard rummaging around long after it was out of sight, but all was soon quite again. Shortly after this encounter we retreated to the tents and quickly went to sleep.
We woke the next morning around seven thirty to find the sun already very high in the sky and the temperature in the mid sixties. Despite the warmth I decided to dress in a farmer john and wetsuit top with a spray jacket because the water was real cold, still consisting partly of runoff. It took us quite some time to get all of ourgear into the boats. Our morning routine was not yet familiar. As I was stuffing a stow float into the stern of the Crossfire I realized that I had ripped a hole in it on an exposed screw that formerly functioned to stabilize the stern pillar. I sort of viewed this as a bad omen, but the duct tape repair seemed to be pretty bomb proof. Then Mike stepped on his glasses. The duct tape came out again and alleviated the problem, but we weren’t exactly thrilled to have already made two repairs before the paddling even started. Interestingly our gear packed better at home and I was forced to carry my sleeping pad on my lap which I wasn’t all that excited about. This didn’t really created any risk of entrapment, but it was sloppy and things should have been more dialed in. My main concern was that it was just plain sloppy, and it seemed that after so much planning everything should have been perfect by this point. Anyhow, we were finally ready to move out.
After launching into the river we quickly realized just how heavy our loaded kayaks were. There was probably fifty plus pounds in each forty pound boat, making it quite a beast to move around. Once in the water though they seemed to perform quite well, despite sitting lower and being a bit less responsive. I was actually impressed with how well balanced and responsive to hip action the boats were. After a few strokes to loosen up we headed off downstream, hoping to paddle through the first gorge today, which promised to hold what we figured would be some of the more difficult whitewater on the trip. The first several kilometers went quickly and contained nothing more than some strong eddy lines and boily funny water were it seemed as though there should be none. All of these things were correctly interpreted to be signs of high water. After about a half hour of paddling the first horizon line was reached, but appeared to be a simple class III rapid. The runnout was in plain sight from the top of the drop. I maneuvered my boat down the ramp of green water and was nearly overwhelmed by the power of the water as I hit the first six foot wave that broke over my head. The crashing wall of water forced a deep brace to keep from completely flipping. I must admit that having such a simple wave train like this pack such a punch was surprising and put us all on edge for the drops to come.
Several more similar rapids were run before approaching a horizon line where the water constricted into a canyon and fell out of sight. The deeper tone of the drop and the fact that it was marked on the map convinced us to pull out on river right for a scout. Thank god we decided to scout! Although there were clear lines through this class V rapid, the volume was so intense that it scarred me and Galen into ferrying to river left and making a portage. Goodrow decided to run the drop on river left down a tongue that skirted a large pour over and to the left of an exploding wave that looked frighteningly powerful. If I had known now what the rapids later on were going to be like I probably would have run the gorge. Since it was the first significant drop of the expedition made it seem a bit more intimidating. There was also the issue of what appeared to be a river wide hydraulic a hundred yards or so downstream. This is where Galen, Mike, and I experienced the joys of portaging a loaded kayak first hand. Our first revelation was that ninety pounds is too heavy to carry on your shoulder. The solution left dragging the kayaks as the only other option. To facilitate this I had a six foot piece of webbing that was binered to the front grab loop. This made the task much more bearable. The system could even be worn like harness at times. Still, wrenching the boats over boulders and across side hills was horrendous to say the least. Out attire made things even more unbearable. The wetsuits may have been great for the cold water, but they were miserable in sixty degree weather when on land. Mercifully, there were still no blackflies, a curiosity we chose not to argue. To shorten the carry we found a small ten foot cliff we could lower our boats down that led to a river left eddy from which we could ferry to the opposite shore and scout the next drop in the canyon. As we started our climb down Goodrow ran the rapid and was forced to roll. Luckily he still managed to catch the river left eddy that we were launching from. The ferry to the opposite side was through powerful current, but proved not to be as intimidating as it appeared from above. Our next scout revealed a horrendous hydraulic on the left two thirds of the river with a more manageable hole blocking the rest of the current. Mike and Ryan ran it while Galen and I decided to carry on river right. The first major obstacle was now passed and our concerns of the whitewater below increased as the gradient appeared to increase significantly in the miles ahead.
Several kilometers of quickly flowing water brought us to a left hand turn in the river. As the river bent left it sank between steeper mountains that had a rougher appearance to them. Dark spruce trees clung to these hillsides which were banded with cliffs and patches of snow and ice. Rapids resumed but appeared to be quite runnable and boat scoutable. We headed into them cautiously and found the whitewater to be big and pushy class III with clean waves of six feet and an occasionally huge hole. The rapids blended into each other for what seemed like a kilometer before entering a calmer stretch with more open surroundings. This section was a huge relief. Honestly, I was beginning to get nervous that none of the river would be moderate enough to boat scout. Encouraged, we paddled downstream and were soon at the head of the first gorge which contained many rapid slashes and had a healthy gradient of 80 to 100 feet per kilometer and a volume estimated around 10,000 cubic feet per second. From our planning we had assumed that this stretch would be the first real serious section of water that we would encounter on the trip, and it was our hope to clear this gorge before setting up camp tonight.
The rapids started in a wide section of the river, but we could see the mountainsides closing in and growing steeper downstream. The first several rapids were class III-IV and we were able to cautiously boat scout them. Although it was encouraging that these rapids could be quickly run, it was curious that this section of river was marked as containing swifts and no real drops. Anyhow, our gradient analysis showed there would be at least a few mandatory carries in this section. So far the drops had been spaced nicely and there was a pool below each for recovering and regrouping. This is not to say that these sets were simple. Most rapids were deep and powerful with big waves and holes that had to be missed. They were easier in the sense that we did not have to scout any from shore. After running a bunch of these rapids we settled into a dangerously calm rhythm and Goodrow charged over a horizon line on river right without scouting. Everyone almost followed, but common sense kicked when all signs indicated that there was a healthy hydraulic at the base of the ledge. From a river right eddy we saw Ryan swim and could only hope for the best. I silently cursed him for being so cavalier about not scouting, but was relieved to see him swim free of the hole and gather his equipment. As this happened, Mike had eddied out partway down a center channel in the river and was at a point were he was committed to running the drop. We told him to wait while Galen and I paddled to river left to scout a sneak line. From shore the immensity of the hole Ryan swam in was clear, and we considered him fortunate to have not lost anything. Mike had a hard but manageable line to run so we signaled for him to go for it. Galen and I had a fun looking class IV sneak picked out which involved maneuvering around some rocks and past a few holes. From shore it seemed simple, but we were both amazed by the power of the water even on our sneak line. The run was incredibly fast and seemed a bit steeper than it looked from shore.
We regrouped on an island just below the rapid and decided to have a quick lunch. Ryan was very cold and the food did a lot of good to warm him up. Our fare consisted of a snickers bar, cheese, peperoni, and some Power Gue that tasted less than desirable. As we were eating Goodrow realized that he had lost a stick of pepperoni during his swim. Fortunately that was the only gear ditched during the swim. The lunch lasted only ten minutes because we realized the need to keep moving in order to stay on our schedule. We still thought the trip may take much longer than anticipated if any of the gorges caused serious problems or headwinds on the lake slowed down the group.
Once back on the water we ran some large drops before coming to a terrible looking horizon line still near the top of the first gorge. We exited the river on the left side and hobbled along the rocky shores to take a peek at what confronted us. It didn’t take very sophisticated scouting to realize that the rapid was unrunnable. It featured a massive tongue leading into a terrible river wide hydraulic. The portage would be on river left and there were some signs of a faint trail, but it was only at the river’s edge. The boats were dragged up into the thick scrub and the dragging started. Without the length of webbing I had to drag the boat with, things would have been much more difficult in the woods. Still, towing the 80 pound affair was incredibly tough. We were able to stay at river level during this carry which was a blessing, because we were able to stay out of the thick layer of alders and bush immediately above the water. The woods didn’t open up again until much higher up the banks. In ten minutes we were back on the water and after a short moving pool at the top of the next rapid.
The opening part was boat scoutable but things quickly steepened and forced us river right. The boats were beached in a boulder sieve and we scrambled on the rocks to scout the main channel. The scene was humbling with the main feature being another river wide hydraulic that no one seemed willing to deal with. Below this hole was a monstrous wave train with two more large breaking waves or holes in the center. Fortunately a line was put together leading through the maelstrom. The nature of the river here allowed for the sneak line. The actual river bed was quite wide, with the shores being comprised of massive ledges and boulders. At lower flows only the main channel would have existed, but due to the high levels the water was flowing in and around these rocks opening up creeky style class IV+ sneaks around some sections of rapids. This was the case at this rapid. We saw a steep line on river right through some narrow slots that led to a river right eddy below the opening hydraulic that needed to be avoided. We all ran the line successfully but were again shocked by how fast and clean the line actually was. The sneak was probably carrying a few hundred cfs or so. Once regrouped in the eddy the move was to ferry out into the main current as high as possible to avoid a hole coming off of the right bank. The trick was to not get to far out into the current and into the two other holes in the middle of the river.
Ryan headed out first and disappeared, leaving me next in line to start my ferry. Mike and Galen anxiously waited. I headed up the eddy and tried to peel out only to be rejected the first time by trying to leave too high where there was a strong eddy fence. I circled around, quite nervous now, and blasted out of the eddy a bit lower. The power of the current was sobering and in a flash I decided to straighten out and punch the hole where ever I hit it instead of blowing the ferry and floundering into it sideways. Putting my head down I paddled down a ramp of water and clipped the edge of the feature. This stopped the kayak and sent it into a backender that I was able to pull down before finishing the drop and pulling into the next eddy. Thoroughly psyched the group headed downstream and approached another horizon that deserved a scout. We all got out on the left and walked onto a ledge to have a look. The drop appeared to be class IV-V and consisted of huge water. From our vantage about twenty feet above the river things looked huge. The left side was a series of massive pourover holes that blocked safe passage. The best line was to start left and drive right of a nasty pourover before finishing down a final wave train. Mike ran first and failed to avoid the pourover. His Pirouette slid slowly into the hole and disappeared vertically before rocketing out of the water on a high brace six feet downstream. Galen ran next and had a clean line, but Ryan and I felt a bad vibe and carried on the left, which proved to be quite difficult. In retrospect, I wish I had run the drop.
Continuous class IV kept up, but we were able to utilize the many eddies and wide river bed to our advantage and keep moving. The flat water between the drops was also moving quickly because of the high water. The result was that great time was being made. In one section of constant class III-IV we found the group slightly separated above another section that appeared to deserve a scout. Goodrow and I were on river left and Mike and Galen on the right shore. We all exited our boats to scout and Ryan and I were forced to climb a large ledge to see the rapid. Cresting the top of the rise the sight was awe inspiring and a little terrifying. River right was a straightforward class IV+ line with nothing to get in the way. To our despair Ryan and I couldn’t reach river right because we had eddied out to far into the rapid. Our line was solid class V and although we were thirty feet above the water while scouting it looked as though it would be the biggest water I had ever run. The main features were two enormous boulders in the center of the river. The first was directly in the middle and the second lay downstream and to the left. There was at least forty feet between the boulders, but they appeared undercut because they supported no pillows. Entire trees stripped of their bark were wedged against the upstream side of the downstream boulder. The lead in to the rapid contained a few ten foot waves which would be useful landmarks, but there was a massive breaking wave to the right of the second boulder that couldn’t be avoided. Below this was a pourover that needed to be avoided as well. There was a river right eddy above the pourover, but if it were missed the rest of the class IV drop would have to be run straight on. What was real interesting was that Ryan and I would have had to do some rock climbing to make our portage, which was pretty much out of the question. We headed back to our boats totally committed to the run.
My heart was racing and nervous hands fumbled with my sprayskirt. I wanted to run first and get it done with but Ryan peeled out before me. Once he crested the first wave I didn’t see him again until after running the drop. The saliva dried in my mouth and tunnel vision closed out the scenery around as I became completely focused and concentrated. I put happy thoughts into my head and paddled aggressively out of the eddy. There was no turning back now and I lined up on the right shoulder of the first wave which was real big. On its crest I could see most of the line that needed to be hit. It was apparent I would easily make it between the two boulders so I started paddling hard at the breaking wave that looked twelve feet tall. This was well larger than anything on the Kennebec River in Maine by a long shot. Just before the impact I leaned forward on the deck to minimize the stopping power of the hit. It was still jarring hit, but it didn’t stop downstream momentum entirely. I thought about the eddy on river right but wasn’t in a position to catch it so I back paddled away from the pour over and charged downstream between two more boulder and finished running the bottom of what may be the most impressive rapid I have ever run. Looking back upstream from below all that could be seen was a wall of white water crashing down between the two boulders. It looked like one of those pictures you see of flooded rivers in the Himalayas. Now I had some confidence and my nerves were put slightly at ease.
The big water class four that followed seemed easy in comparison with what we had just come through. It became apparent that we would clear the first gorge today and be on schedule. The mountains opened some and spruce forests ran along the gentler slopes to the waters edge. While paddling the calmer water we excitedly reminisced about the rapids that had just been run. These were certainly some of the most severe pieces of water we had ever paddled. The river sped past some incredible looking campsites on river right. A steep fifteen foot cut bank led to a perfectly smooth plateau covered with widely spaced spruce trees and blanketed in Reindeer Moss. The pastel mint green colors were quite striking. Despite the tempting sites we decided to push on a bit farther to shorten the following day, which we now planned on including the ominous second gorge that contained the steepest gradient of the trip. Tired now, we hoped the next few kilometers would be clear of significant rapids, but we were wrong. A class three quickly grew heavier where the river steepened.
Ryan headed down on river left hoping to catch some eddies, but the rest of the team decided to scout from river right. A faint path existed and there was some evidence of a former campsite at the top of a knoll, but we decided to run the drop and then worry about stopping latter on. The rapid was only class four, but it was probably a quarter of a mile long and riddled with large holes. Goodrow had successfully eddy hopped down the left center but was forced to punch several big hydraulics. He was found walking back upstream on river right. Near the end of the rapid the Magpie spread out and steepened, making the line less than obvious from water level. The scout proved helpful and showed a line with one must make move. From a river right shoreline eddy a strong ferry was necessary to avoid a beefy hole, below which were some rocks creating a couple of nasty pourovers. After the holes all of us eddied out where ever they were available and the right side of the river became the place to be again. Plenty of time was taken here and everyone made the move easily. We found ourselves in a giant moving pool with a large ridge rising to our left topped by cliffs. The decision was made to camp next to the massive talus pile below this outcrop.
A suitable spot to pull out was found on river left below the debris pile and suitable tent sites were found in the woods downstream of the boulders. A playful class three rapid lay just below the spot and would be a good wake up call tomorrow morning. The sun was beaming on the rocks and everyone was excited to be through with the first day. Much of our fear had been based on the unknown and many of our questions had been answered by now. It seemed as though the rest of the river would certainly be at least partially runnable, and out boats were performing quite well. Replacing layers of wetsuits and clammy dry tops with dry fleece immediately rose spirits all around. Hovering around 65 degrees the air was pleasant and to our absolute astonishment there wasn’t a single black fly or mosquito. This lack of insects was reason enough to be happy. It was decided that we dedicate an hour to exploring the area and trying our hand at fishing for dinner.
Pastel Reindeer Moss adorned the rocks of the talus pile and there were some misgivings about trampling the growth. In all reality it probably wasn’t that big of a problem. A great deal of snow and ice remained tucked away below many of the larger boulders and an occasional cool breath of air would rise from below as a reminder that summer had not yet fully arrived here at the fifty second parallel. Mike and I scrambled a way up the hillside to gain a better vantage point. In the process of gaining the view we also discovered that the rocks were a little loose as a few monstrous chunks of granite shifted and rolled with hollow crunching noises. This was enough to send us back to the bottom for some fishing.
Several magazine articles and a few guidebooks indicated that the Magpie was a world class fishing river. With this knowledge in mind the first few casts I made were full of eager anticipation. Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a fisherman, but after ten minutes of flinging a gold lure fruitlessly into the river my patience ran out. An hour had nearly passed anyhow so I decided to get dinner rolling. Our food packaging system had functioned well and a generous helping of spaghetti was prepared. Although space was a major consideration when buying the food it was decided to take cans of sauce which was a fantastic idea. An enjoyable dinner can make the difference between a good day and a great day or a miserable day and one that is tolerable. Galen elaborated on the virtues of a good dinner as he revealed his spice kit and liberally applied a multitude of herbs to his dish. After eating I figured I would unpack my sleeping bag and set up the tent I was going to be in. Grasping the stow floats I crossed my fingers and prayed that they had done their job and kept the gear dry. A disturbing amount of water rested in the bottom of my Crossfire. The moment of truth turned out to be in my favor as the contents were as dry as a bone.
A cloud bank began to roll in over the horizon on the opposite shore and a drizzle was falling by the time we headed into the tents for the night. I read a few chapters from a novel while Mike wrote notes about the day on his set of maps. Before dozing off we quickly glanced at tomorrow’s maps. For about twenty kilometers the river appeared to be nothing but swifts with occasional rapid bars. It looked like fast going until a wide section of sandbars was reached and there was a big bend to the east. The maps indicated that the West Branch of the Magpie made its final descent to Magpie Lake just after this flat section. In this descent the big river dropped in excess of 100 feet per kilometer in a few places. Despite these ominous statistics sleep came easily because there was no sense in worrying about bad spots on the river until they were reached.
A light mist fell as I poked my head from the cozy confines of our tent the next morning. Clouds had us socked in but heavy rain did not seem very likely. Oatmeal was hastily made and schlepped down for much needed energy. As the others were finishing their gruel I snuck away to my boat and repacked. Clearly I needed to make more room because it was simply not safe to be carrying even a sleeping pad on my lap. The only solution was to tear out the center pillar in the bow of the boat. Removing the wedge of foam was simple and the bulkhead still functioned properly. Tons of gear could be stowed beyond the bulkhead and it contained everything in its isolated compartment. There was virtually no way that this gear could come free. The only disconcerting drawback was the lack of a center pillar in my boat. The deck was now basically structureless and it seemed possible that it could cave in and fold with very little pressure. Being pinned with my legs entrapped was not a comfortable idea but the fact of the matter was that I would have to live with that potential hazard. The large foam pillar was cached under a boulder, probably never to be seen again.
We were back on the water before 8:30 that morning and my boat was much more comfortable and well balanced now. The first class three was simple and was followed by several large yet harmless wave trains. The quick water sped along at a frightful pace and although there were larger rapids in this section much of that morning blended together. By eleven in the afternoon we had covered the twenty five kilometers to the sandbars and the great bend in the river. The Magpie was like a lake here and we were forced to negotiate shallow sand and gravel bars on river left. Mist rose on updrafts and careened across the open space above the river. Mountains were quite far back from the waters edge now. This was the calm before the storm. A nearly uncontrollable urge to pee forced us to the alder enclosed river left shore for lunch. The fare was a carbon copy of yesterday, along with some more Power Goo that probably provided more entertainment than nutrition.
Sitting around eating lunch made us quite cold and forced us to cut the meal to a scant ten minutes. Five more clicks brought us to a distinct horizon line that corresponded to the start of continuous rapid bars on our topographical maps. The river slid over smooth granite ledges creating keeper hydraulics with uniform backwashes. Most of the holes were unpunchable and appeared to be terminal. Still, the wide nature of the river made nearly all of the rapids in these first sets runnable. At many of the horizons we were able to paddle up onto the rock, muscle the kayaks onto the dry slabs, and scout without leaving the boats. The first set was run on extreme river right where diagonal seams needed to be punched with authority to avoid being kicked into the maw of the hydraulics. The task of scouting from the smooth ledges and running ten foot slides as sneak routes became commonplace. Although the lines were shallow they were deceivingly steep and fast. It was a great feeling to be able to paddle quick and clean class four lines instead of portaging the otherwise terminal rapids.
The gradient continued to increase and our group was divided once again as we reached a position were a ferry across the river was next to impossible. One blown stroke would result in the unfortunate boater being blindly swept over a horizon. Galen and I scouted from river left and found a great looking line on our side of the river. Our vantage point showed bus sized holes in the center of the river but we found a line that involved a few boofs and required punching only the edges of the largest hydraulics. I elected to run first and headed back to my boat pretty excited for the fun looking drop. Upon entering the rapid it was obvious that things were a bit more serious than they appeared from shore. Everything was twice as steep as it seemed and the speed of the current running over the bedrock was sobering. I rocketed off of a boulder which deflected the bow of the Crossfire and sent it airborne into a perfect boof. Landing past the hole below I scrambled to make the following series of mandatory moves and ended in a pool below the drop much sooner than I could have ever imagined. Galen ran a very similar line and we both commented that that was solid class five and one of the more pleasing rapids we had ever run.
Mike and Ryan managed to run a line on their side of the river and the team regrouped just below. Encouraged by our success we headed into the next rapid overly confident. Mike quickly scouted and led by ferrying to a river center eddy above a nasty looking horizon. This proved to be a mistake because we found ourselves committed to running the drop since there was no way to work our way back to shore from this eddy. Another hairy ferry brought us to a river left eddy below a fin of ledge in the river. A ten foot vertical drop lay below, but the runout was walled in by a ridge of ledge running perpendicular to the current. Ryan dropped the ledge and signaled that it was shallow. Mike followed and then I paddled over the edge only to violently piton. Luckily the bow deflected and did not to pin. The holes in the middle of the river here were stupendous and we were a little upset at having been blindly led into a major class five. A large dent adorned the Crossfire’s bow and I was happy that the deck didn’t collapse on impact.
Everyone readily agreed to scout the horizon line that lurked several meters downstream. The scout showed a clearly unrunnable triple falls that was portaged over the open ledge on river left. More slide type rapids followed in a blur of tight sneak lines and huge water routes. Sweeping to the left again the Magpie dropped into the second gorge as mountain walls closed in again and rose steeply from the water. Checking our position on the map placed us at the head of the steepest section of river. Our group was overwhelmed with excitement at the excellent time we had made and lured onward by the prospect of clearing this gorge by nightfall. Our great speed up to this point should have been looked at as a blessing and we should have slowed our pace and became more cautious. The exact opposite happened and we eagerly charged into the ensuing maelstrom.
A class three rapid started and didn’t stop. Instead it gradually built to class four as it rounded a bend. Technically this stretch was nothing particularly difficult. The alarming fact was that the current was moving at an unprecedented speed. The bedrock that the river ran over offered little resistance to slow the water. This resulted in us moving at breakneck speeds. Galen and I hung back as Mike and Ryan paddled ahead and led the way. We all stuck to the inside of the left bends and were confronted with and ran shoreline routes. The river was now continuous class IV-V and the gradient was becoming disturbing. As we rounded another left turn Galen commented that the gradient was so steep and uniform that the river could be seen running downhill like a ski slope. The effect was readily noticed, and we both agreed that things were getting out of control. A mistake here had the potential to quickly grow into a major situation. Galen and I agreed to signal Mike and Ryan to take out at the next place they could so a scout could be made. As we approached the others Ryan was already our of his boat inspecting a horizon line. He made a sweeping motion with both hands that signaled Mike to run a line driving hard left over a ledge. Mike paddle over the drop and after a second Ryan’s hands flew to his head. I asked if Mike was alright and was disheartened when Goodrow shook his head no. He was still pointing far left so I ran the ledge to see if I could help Mike. I went even farther left and slid down nearly dry rock into a swirly eddy that was feeding into one of the most brutal holes I had ever seen. Mike had already swam out of his boat and was nowhere to be seen. I went downstream in the eddy to look for Mike and remember Ryan screaming at me to stay river left. The class V chaos soon forced me to a large eddy on river left. As I eddied out I saw Galen swimming towards me! He had apparently blown his line and swam in the hole. He looked at me with the fear of God in his eyes and pleaded that I help him. There was absolutely nothing I could do except to encourage him to swim towards me. Thankfully he reached shore but his boat was carried around a bend and into oblivion. Ryan had reentered his boat by this time and fool heartedly paddled blindly into the class V rapid. This ill conceived idea was potentially disastrous at a trying time such as this.
Galen was now safely up on shore and I yelled to him asking if I could paddle downstream in pursuit of Mike and the gear that was so vital to us. When he told me there was no way I should head downstream the gravity of his response started to set in. I was glad to have an excuse to get out of the river. I quickly stashed my boat and began to run along the shore in search of Mike. The rapid was big class V with massive ledge drops and holes. A million terrible thoughts ran through my mind. I was obviously deeply concerned for Mike, but strangely, emotions took a back seat to adrenaline. Instead of being rushed and imprecise, everything I did was quite deliberate. To hurt myself running in search of Mike would have placed us in an even worse predicament. Soon there was no viable shoreline to walk along. Cliffs led directly down to water level and I was forced to wade under an overhanging ledge full of ice to make downstream progress. The full scale of the rapid was now revealed. At least three terrible holes were in the three or four hundred yards downstream of the hydraulic Mike swam from. When I saw the immensity of the rapid I first realized that one of my best friends ever could very well be dead. The awful vision of dragging his body to shore was plastered in my head. Luckily adrenaline was still in control of my body and I was able to run a punk song through my head to dull the senses. In about five more minutes I was near the bottom of the rapid. All I could see of the river was another horizon line with mist filling in the air above it. I prayed that Mike hadn’t swam over this as it was obviously a falls. Then I noticed a white helmet poking out from behind a rock on shore fifty yards downstream. Total relief flooded my system when I saw Mike walking around down there. We waved or something stupid and went through the standard are you ok deal. He had a nasty scrape on his leg but that was the only visible injury. That kid is one tough bastard. The mere thought of swimming what he did still makes me cringe. Even more amazing was that he had a boat up on shore. Mike had lost track of his kayak but had the presence of mind to pull in Galen’s as it somehow floated into the eddy before being carried over the next falls. Through all of this Mike also managed to hang on to his paddle which proved to be another godsend.
By this time Galen had made his way down to us and after a brief celebration of our reunion we made a rapid assessment of the situation. Mike’s boat and all of his gear except for his paddle was missing, and Galen had lost his paddle and some other gear. I still had all of my equipment but Ryan was unaccounted for. I headed back up to my boat to get it around this now notorious rapid while Mike and Galen headed to the next drop to see what had become of Goodrow and to search for Mike’s boat. Walking upstream to my kayak gave me time to reflect a bit on what had just happened, although nothing had really set in just yet. I did realize that although everyone was presently alright we were still over a hundred miles from nowhere and currently missing a lot of essential things. Arriving back at my boat I dragged it through thick alders and over boulders to a point where I felt I could get back on the river and run the rest of the rapid. Soon I was out of the boat on river left standing in the midst of a boulder sieve with Mike and Galen. The falls to our right dropped fifteen feet overall and was absolutely unrunnable. If Mike had ended up swimming over that he surely wouldn’t be with us today. The problem was that his boat was nowhere to be seen and more unrunnable rapids lay downstream. To make matters worse, actually much worse, I learned that Goodrow had also swam. He was ok but Mike and Galen last saw him heading downstream by foot on river left to retrieve his boat. At least we knew Ryan was safely out of the river.
It was decided that Galen and I head uphill from the river where we could best start a long portage around this stretch of river. Thick vegetation lined the river but the woods were much more open uphill and back from the water. There was also a flat plateau here with game trails we could easily walk along with our boats in tow. As we bulled our ninety pound loads up to the flat area Mike walked downstream along the river in search of his lost craft. At this point we were very optimistic about recovering the kayak. It seemed almost impossible that it wouldn’t eddy out somewhere. At the very worst it was decided the boat would turn up the following day in a wide area of the river where there were many sandbars, or in Lac Magpie at the very worse. I think secretly we all knew his boat could very well be gone for good, but no one was willing to voice that at this time. Saying that would have been a shot to our morale, and Mike was in no need of that. To make matters worse he had lost his shoes during his swim and was now traipsing through the woods barefoot. Anyone who has been to the north woods of Canada will realize how ridiculous this is.
Our portage was going well as we were about a hundred feet above the river now. As we struggled our way through the forest we heard Mike yell up to us that he had spotted a dry bag. Galen ran down to meet him and recognized the bag as containing his sleeping bag. At this point it was essential that we recover as much of our lost gear as possible, so Galen elected himself to make a ferry out to the eddy that held the dry bag. We made sure he could get back to our side of the river as it was a miracle we all ended up on the same side in the first place. From above I watched as Galen made a class IV ferry between two falls that looked lethal. This all took quite some time and we began to wish Ryan would show up as we resumed the carry. After a bit more toiling with the kayaks being towed by webbing slings, Ryan’s voice was heard ahead. He had somehow found his kayak and half of his paddle which was broken. This was fantastic news as there was one point when I was the only person that was in possession of a boat. The three of us portaged the kayaks for another kilometer before determining that we could drop back to river level and paddle once more. Ryan had walked most of the distance at water level and saw no signs of Mike’s kayak, but reported more large drops riddled with holes.
All four of us were finally regrouped below the most sever rapids in the midst of one of the most visually impressive spots I have encountered on a river. Steep mountain walls dropped to the water with the far side being nearly vertical in places. A sizeable creek tumbled into the Magpie just a little upstream of us and set in a break in the mountains. Mist danced in this valley and the clouds swirled through the narrow gorge. Despite our battered condition we all admired the scene and fantasized about returning to one day run that creek or at least take the time to explore it more thoroughly.
Enough fantasizing. The time had come to make a plan. It was late in the day and everyone was pretty worn out both physically and mentally. The three of us with boats decided to paddle the class four we could see down to an area located on the map where the river widened and the gorge opened up. A stretch full of sandbars could be seen on the topos and we set that as our goal. Even though Mike agreed to this we felt bad as we paddled downstream while he was forced to make his shoeless march trough the forest.
The rapids in this next section were much easier but remained big and clean. They were particularly enjoyable and although we were looking for the lost boat we didn’t miss the chance to unwind and have some fun while running them. After what was probably two kilometers we realized it must be torture for Mike to be hiking so we scoped out a campsite. A fine river left site was found up on an open sandbar. Ryan and Galen started to set up camp and I nominated myself to paddle a kilometer downstream to the sandbars to give a look for the boat. Once there I searched in vain for about half an hour but nothing showed up. Even though I knew that the chances of finding the kayak were slim, I was convinced the boat would be floating in each eddy I paddled through. Darkness was now not far away and I really wanted to be back to camp by dark so I started to attain back upstream. The current was much steadier than I had thought and the effort it took to paddle back was great. Then I reached a riffle that was impossible to paddle up so I made the decision to stash my boat on a grassy sandbar on river left and to walk the kilometer back to camp.
Once the boat was up on dry land and I grabbed the stuff I would need for the night I began to walk upstream. This was no easy task and I suddenly felt much worse for Mike. It was already nearly dark in the woods which were so thick with scrubby spruce they were nearly impossible to walk through. Luckily, well worn but very low game paths followed the shore of the river. Mike also noticed these but couldn’t figure out what had made them. We speculated it could be wolves or some other animal that wasn’t very tall. After sometime the trees became too thick so I headed onto the rocks and eroded river bank which was only slightly easier going. About halfway back I noticed I dropped my wetsuit top, which bummed me out. I had no desire to go back to look for it and had plenty of other clothes so I continued towards camp. I did find some wreckage from Mike’s swim. Amazingly, the insole from his Laguna water shoe had washed up onto a rock. I grabbed this to give to him as a sick sarcastic sort of joke. I also came across an ancient raft paddle, possibly from one of the first descents down the river back in the late seventies or early eighties. Being down on paddles I figured it may prove useful. Just as complete darkness settled in I walked up to the fire that was raging. I gave the bad news that no boat had been found.
Mike had made his way down and the four of us were all together again. The warmth of the fire was outstanding and the weather gods had graced us with a dry period. Mike was in pretty tough shape. His feet were destroyed, and he told us he thought he had ruptured his eardrum when he walked into a stick. His ear was caked in blood and we cleaned him up with some iodine to prevent infections. He was pretty happy with the extra clothes I had decided to take along. My gray micro fleece and extra polypro pants didn’t seem such a bad idea any more. Sitting around the fire we took some time to recount what had happened and tell each other our personal account of the events. This was good because we were still a little confused about the whole thing because we had been separated for much of the time. A recap is in store here to help clarify what went down. My perspective has already been presented so I’ll try to convey what the others told me.
Ryan and Mike were about three hundred yards ahead of Galen and myself when Ryan got out to scout the initial horizon line that caused the problem. He directed Mike to run far left but Mike failed to drive hard enough in that direction. He apparently dropped into the edge of the monster hole and was surfed to the center of the river. He claims to have hung in there for a while but realized he wasn’t going to get out in his boat. He bailed and was underwater for a long time as a series of holes followed. He recounted being driven to the bottom of the river time and time again and loosing energy by the end of the rapid. He felt that he was on his last leg when he dragged himself to shore, and admits that he probably couldn’t have swam much more. After I ran the drop Galen suffered the same fate as Mike as he was violently surfed to the middle of the river and torn from his boat. Somehow the second hole surfed him back left, allowing him to exit the river near where I was. It was at this point that we saw Ryan get back into his boat and foolishly head downstream. He now admitted that this probably wasn’t the brightest idea. Ryan recounted paddling into a huge hole that was such a big hit his paddle broke in half as it was slammed across his helmeted head. He tried in vain to build speed with the paddle halves as he dropped into the next hole where he was forced to swim after hand surfing for as long as he could. Ryan was able to climb to a river center rock only to have to jump back into the river and swim to shore. At this point Mike, Galen, and Ryan had all lost their boats. If things had stayed this way I would have had to paddle the big water of the lower river by myself to go for help. Luckily, as Galen and I headed down to find Mike Galen’s Outburst eddied out and Mike was able to swim out and retrieve it. As we portaged and Mike looked for his boat, Goodrow was walking down the river where he discovered his kayak in a river left eddy. This was another stroke of luck. The rest of the afternoon should have been clearly explained before.
We also used this time to assess our situation and what course of action we should take. We were missing Mike’s kayak which contained all of his personal gear. The group gear he lost included a tent, stove, fuel, breakdown paddle, satellite phone, and his share of the food. Galen lost his paddle, a dry bag, and all of his fishing gear along with a bit of food. Ryan broke his paddle and lost the majority off food that he was carrying. Luckily I had lost nothing. We now had boats and paddles for three people as I had another breakdown paddle. Our only option for Mike was to get him to Lac Magpie and have him wait their while we paddled out and sent a plane back for him. If we had not lost the satellite phone we could have called in our coordinates and had him flown out with no wait. The phone was gone though, and we were truly self reliant. Being self supported is a good feeling, but it was a bit intimidating now. When we had gathered information about the trip, Bob Gedekoh had warned us that there was no way we could walk out of the upper Magpie. We sort of dismissed this, but the flight in and looking at our current situation, confirmed that the river was the only feasible way to get back to civilization. Walking would have taken who knows how long and we would have run out of food long before we made it anywhere useful. So the plan was set. All of us would figure out a way to have Mike walk the ten kilometers left to the lake or float him out if it proved possible. Then we would have to leave him at the lake while we paddled out. The exact details of this were left to be determined later, when the time came.
When we decided to get something to eat for dinner we realized how little food actually remained. We had plenty of Snickers Bars, a package of Tortillas, Peanut Butter, Pepperoni, Cheese, some dried potatoes, a couple Power Bars, and a container of Treat. It was a lot of food but we still figured that it would take at the very least four more days to paddle out. We had the Tortillas for dinner with a couple of Snickers for good measure. After eating we headed off to sleep. Ryan and I had the one tent left and Mike and Galen slept in Galen’s bug tent. Although Mike had no sleeping bag he was able to use Galen’s Bivy Bag to keep warm. We were still overwhelmed by the situation and in deal with it mode, so nothing truly sank in yet. While we were eating we passed jokes about the situation back and forth. Mike took it well and spirits weren’t bad considering the days events. Still, a depressing air hung over the scene and we were a pretty battered crew. We were so worn out that everyone quickly fell asleep that evening.
Early that morning I had an odd nightmare about something and woke up screaming and thrashing in my bag. Ryan freaked out and woke me up, urging that I “Cut that Blair Witch Project shit out.” Galen and Mike heard the commotion and woke up thinking a bear was mauling our tent. Thankfully that wasn’t the case and we all slept the rest of the night. When we woke up in the morning the clouds were lifting and the weather looked like it would continue to clear and improve throughout the day.
After breaking down camp I began my walk downstream to recover the stashed boat while the others figured out how to float Mike down the Magpie. After wandering around the grassy sandbar for some time I came across the good old Crossfire and rigged it up again. I had lost the bulkhead screws somehow and jerry rigged it in place with some string to prevent it from sliding forward. As I was getting back onto the river I saw the creation floating towards me. Ryan and Galen had their boats tied together with Mike standing on the stern decks. It was way better than walking, but would need to be broken down in even moderate whitewater. Luckily, our maps showed few rapids remaining before the lake. We added the third boat onto the rig as a towing craft and got a system figured out so Mike could sit on the front decks of the back two boats. The setup worked nicely and we made good time down this part of the river. The view upstream was grandiose and made it clear why we came on such a trip in the first place. The mountains of the gorge we had just come through were visible with clouds and mist lifting from their valleys and the sun spilling its rays across the land. Things didn’t seem so bad for a while.
Progress was steady but there were still no signs of the lost boat. As we moved downstream a blue object appeared in the water. It was another dry bag from Galen’s boat. I unhitched from the barge and paddled over only to find that it was pretty much empty except for a roll of toilet paper. While I was separated I noticed the site of an old fishing camp and hopped out of the boat to explore it for anything useful. I did find an old frying pan adorned with the tooth marks of a bear. This might seem like trash, but I grabbed the pan so we had something to cook the dehydrated potatoes in. I regrouped but in a while we reached a horizon and a ledge drop that required us to separate to run. While we ran the falls Mike walked around through the woods. The same process was repeated just below at another class IV ledge which we ran on river right. As we reassembled the raft a cow Moose lazily looked across the river at the happenings. She didn’t seem very impressed. Within another kilometer a sharp horizon and a deep rumbling greeted us. The river appeared to enter a canyon here and we were forced to deraft so a scout could be made from river left.
Here the Magpie squeezed between vertical canyon walls less than fifty feet wide and cascaded over a twenty foot falls. After some quick water it rounded a bend where there appeared to be more falls. A full on portage was necessary and it was obvious we needed to climb away from river level to make the carry. Unfortunately this required a steep ascent of a hundred feet or so. The hill was so steep we were reduced to having two people on each boat pushing and pulling while clawing their way up the embankment. At the top the going was slightly easier and we came across a well worn portage path, probably for fishermen traveling upstream. This led for a kilometer to the far end of the canyon. From the bottom the power of the chasm could be truly appreciated as it careened from its confinement. The sun was now out in full force and I began to swelter in my gear. Since we were basically at the lake I removed everything except for the wetsuit. Remarkably, there were still no bugs. After a quick Snickers break we rafted up and carried on downstream. The sight of the canyon pretty much erased any realistic hoped we had of finding Mike’s boat, although we didn’t entirely give up just yet.
Some easy class two brought us to the base of a massive cliff face that must have been several hundred feet tall on river left. Mike was certainly thankful of the rafted boats because it would have taken a few hours for him just to walk around this one section of cliffs. Around the next bend we found ourselves in an arm of Lac Magpie. Mountains a thousand feet tall surrounded the lake and sheer cliffs dropped directly into the water. A fresh breeze blew over us and the site was utterly glorious. We had survived the most difficult part of the trip and were at a location were we could get a plane to Mike. The situation was farther improved when we spotted a fishing cabin in the woods on river right. It seemed to still be under construction but that didn’t bother us much. We pried our way in the door and found blankets and a variety of other things that could be useful to Mike. I spotted a path behind the main building and decided to see were it lead. In a few hundred yards it ended at a beach on the lake from which I could see another fishing camp out on a sandy point. It shimmered like a mirage but appeared to be much nicer than the place we were at now. Mike took a look and we agreed that that would be the place to leave him off. Before we made the tow to the point which was about a kilometer away we decided to relax for a while and take a lunch break. Snickers, cheese, and pepperoni was devoured by everyone. The sweaty cheese became jokingly referred to by its French name, fromage, from here on out. We laughed about it then.
While lounging for a while Mike hopped in the Outburst and paddled out into the lake in a last ditch effort to find his lost boat. There was no such luck. The raft we made was dubbed the Topo Trio and Galen had us click a few pictures of it. Towing Mike to the point only took about twenty minutes. Arriving at the actual point was a little disenchanting. The luxury building we envisioned turned out to be a decrepit and rotting fishing camp that appeared to be abandoned. The beach was a wreck from the ice and in a state of disrepair. Quite a bit of scraps were strewn around everywhere. There was another shed made of logs that contained nothing useful. The sites strongest features were its open location and easy visibility for planes and its large sandy beach, not to mention a world class view of the cliffs and mountains of northern Magpie Lake. There was also a bed in the cabin and an old jacket that Mike could use to keep warm. All said, it was actually pretty first rate.
By this time it had already been decided that the best course of action would be for Mike to remain at the cabin alone while Galen, Ryan, and I paddled out. Mike was in a stable condition and we figured that nothing could really happen to him if he stayed put at this beach. On the lower river it would be a big advantage to have three paddlers incase there were additional problems. If another boat were lost at least there would be no solo paddling. Mike wholeheartedly agreed with the plan. We quickly divided the remaining food. Mike figured we would use more energy paddling so he offered to take just the two packs of potatoes and a Snickers Bar or two. We left him with the salvaged frying pan and loaded our boats up once again. A couple of parting pictures of Mike were clicked and then there was nothing left to do but leave. This turned out to be harder than I had anticipated. I was pretty choked up but we managed to encourage each other and crack a few jokes. He wished us a safe trip and begged that we be careful. Mike getting out depended on us making it out safely also. Handshakes were exchanged and we were off. Forty five kilometers of lake paddling lay in front of us and it was only two o’clock , which left us plenty of time to make some distance.
A point was selected on the opposite shore of the lake and we began our circumnavigation. The minute we left the shelter of the point where Mike’s cabin was we were slammed by a healthy headwind. Go figure. This was kicking up some chop and slowed our progress considerably, but headway was made. The openness of the lake was unique and refreshing, but judging distances was a little tricky. After about twenty minutes of paddling the point we were headed for didn’t seem all that much closer. Although the flat water wasn’t exactly exciting, the views were incredible and the warm breeze had a refreshing effect. Occasionally a wave of icy water would break over the bow of the boat sending splashes of cold water all over. Most of the paddling for the next hour was done in silence, but we eventually reached the point of land we were aimed at. Once there it was decided to hop out for a stretch break and to survey where to head from here. While munching some food on the point we were treated to one of the mot spectacular sights of the whole trip. Tall mountains rose from the water on the far side of the lake with lush green on the lower slopes giving way to a mottled gray at tree line. Warmed by the sun and psyched about the great weather we were quickly on the move again.
This time our target was a point formed where the ridge of a mountain extended to the lake. Our best guess placed it five kilometers away and we agreed to take another float break when we arrived. A fast pace was established. The most efficient way to keep moving quickly was to Indian run. We were able to draft each other by surfing the wake of the boat in front. The lead paddler was switched every fifty strokes or so by the rear paddler sprinting to the front of the line. Even with the head wind we were able to reach our target in about an hour, which is an admirable flat water pace. The float break was alright but we decided to leisurely paddle across a bay and stretch our legs again on the opposite side. The west shore of the lake we were following became a cliff dropping directly to the water which prevented us from leaving the boats for another five kilometers. During the rest Mike’s situation was discussed and we all felt pretty bad about having to leave him. Still, we justified it by telling ourselves that there was nothing that could happen to him there. We tried not to dwell on this because we still felt the trip could be somewhat successful enjoyable.
The next section of lake was amazing. It resembled Avalanche Pass in the Adirondacks but only on a much larger scale. Waterfalls tumbled down sheer granite ledges into the lake at every fold in the shore. Our pace was much more relaxed now despite a growing headwind. There was much speculation about how great the ice climbing would be here in wintertime. It would probably be possible to land a ski plane on the lake, setting up a base camp and hammering new routes all day. The paddling was relaxing and we even commented on how the lake was worthy of being a sea kayaking destination. The next several hours consisted of steady paddling and the occasional rest stop, but we basically kept moving until about eight that evening. Once the sun dipped behind the mountains for the last time the temperature dropped significantly. As dusk approached a distant point was choose to be out final destination for the day. Landing at the point we saw a gorgeous sandy beach with many prime camp sites. As it turned out we wouldn’t even need to set up the tents tonight. A fishing cabin maintained by a local outfitter was situated here and the doors were all unlocked. Inside were two bunk beds and we were able to string up a clothes line on the porch to dry out our paddling gear. This was classic. We would sleep in style tonight. Goodrow started a fire on an expose part of the beach but the wind was so strong that it burned way to fast and hot to be of much use. A more secluded spot was selected and a manageable blaze kindled as a full moon rose into the crystal clear night air. Lounging around the fire we saw mini waves breaking on the lee side of the sandbar that were absolutely perfect in form. We daydreamed about being miniaturized and surfing these breakers as a dinner of cheese and pepperoni was enjoyed. The beds felt great that night and we slept well, knowing that the next day would be very long.
I woke up at three thirty that morning to find that it was dawn already. Although it was tempting to wake up the others so we could start early and make good time today I resisted and opted for some more sleep. After being dead to the world for another two and a half hours we all rose at six thirty to faint rays of sun trying to break through a thick fog bank that had developed over the lake. Galen asked what we had for breakfast. Ryan tried not to laugh as I pulled out a container of Spam and Treat. The Spam wasn’t bad, but the Treat turned out to be totally inedible. It was truly a pathetic excuse for food, which is saying a lot coming from my mouth. Mobilizing to get geared up was pretty tough because we had grown stiff and sore while sleeping. I remember slipping into the still clammy wetsuit that morning while looking out of the main window of the cabin at the fog bank. The maps showed twenty kilometers of lake left to paddle and fifty five or sixty kilometers to cover on the river. Bob Gedekoh had told us that the lower river could be covered in two days, but we speculated that if we paddled all day most of the fifty some miles could be covered. By six thirty we were hurrying to get on the water so we would be off of the lake before the afternoon winds kicked up. It was assumed that these winds would be blowing in our faces. A compass bearing was made aiming us at Rocher Mouton, which lurked ten kilometers down the lake and was obscured by the thick fog bank. As we paddled away from the cabin a loon playfully dove around us and sang its eerie call time and time again.
The lake was like glass and every stroke seemed to propel us with the greatest of ease towards our destination. By the time we reached Rocher de Mouton the fog had lifted and the sun was out in full force although the weather was a lot cooler than the day before. Rocher Mouton was a unique rock formation rising from the depths of the east side of the lake. The shore was composed of cliffs descending directly into the lake with a large finger-like outcrop detached from the main cliffs emerging from the water. Not only did more stunning mountain views lay downstream, but the lake could finally be seen narrowing, a sign that the start of the lower river was drawing nearer. The early paddle had warmed up our muscles and we all felt good, possible because we abandoned the taxing Indian run style of boating and each assumed our own comfortable paces. We hoped to cover lots of ground today and figured a slow and steady pace would be best. With this in mind it was decided to cross the lake to another rocky outcrop before stopping for a leg stretch.
The crossing required an additional hour and it was now approximately eight thirty. Getting out on the rocks was refreshing because the boats tended to be quite cramped and far from desirable for flat water paddling. While munching our Snickers the clarity of the water was marveled at. Rocks could be distinguished at least twenty five feet down with the greatest of resolution. The other, less exciting observation we made was the presence of waves on the lake, which surely indicated a growing head wind. Sure enough, by the time we had returned to the boats a steady breeze was blowing into our faces. To reach the left shore again, which is where we wanted to be, at least a kilometer of open water had to be traversed. However, paddling directly across without making progress towards our goal was undesirable. We decided to angle our route to the far shore, keeping us in the open and exposed to the head wind longer, but being psychologically easier. After forty minutes of struggling, the direct onslaught of the now stiff breeze we reached shore and hugged the base of cliffs and rocks which offered some degree of shelter from the wind.
Tangible evidence of forward progress was had by watching the shoreline, only a boat length away, pass smoothly by. The day was stunningly clear, and more waterfalls fell down steep gullies nearly into Lac Magpie. While the paddling was far from easy everyone seemed to be in high spirits and in good condition. The only problem I was encountering had to do with the wetsuit I was wearing. At random intervals an intense needle like itch would radiate from different points on my back. This was certainly a result of wearing and sweating in the confining neoprene for extended periods of time. While seemingly minor, the discomfort was considerable, only relieved be splashing the icy lake water down my back. I would make it a point to make my poly shirt a base layer at the next stop to avoid having the neoprene in direct bodily contact.
The lake continued to narrow and the surrounding mountains became less pronounced. The maps showed we were not far from the start of the Magpie River and our anticipation was a bit overwhelming. Ryan was so anxious to get back on moving water that he erroneously broke left into a side bay hoping it led to the lower river. His mistake was soon seen and rectified. However, shortly downstream, real evidence that the river was within a kilometer was at hand. All of a sudden the lake’s waters were not smooth and placid. Odd currents shifted laterally and boiling eddy like whirls were noted. The lake was suddenly alive, a mess of wild and mysterious currents like we had never before witnessed. The actual outlet from the lake was spotted and a gauging station noticed on river left. We stopped for a short bathroom break at the green and official looking building before ferrying to a river right outcrop for lunch. From this outcrop our first view of the lower river was obtained.
Our topo maps showed the first ten miles of the lower Magpie to be in a rather narrow walled valley and to contain many twists and turns along with numerous rapids, indicated by falls bars. Despite this, the gradient was approximately 50 feet every three kilometers, which was much less than the West Branch had been. These encouraging statistics were complimented by information obtained from an internet post and other boaters. In an e-mail conversation Bob Gedekoh, an expedition paddler that had run the Magpie in the mid-eighties, told us that the lower river held no rapids of great concern with the exception of a few portages, and that it could be run in two days. He had also been on the river in late August, which is likely to explain the view that stretched before us. The Magpie was two hundred or more yards wide, and appeared to be running at a bankful level. We estimated the volume to be at least twenty thousand cfs since it appeared to be much greater than that of the West Branch owing to the fact that the first rapid appeared to be very deep despite the substantial width of the river here. With that said, the first rapid also appeared to be very runnable and looked like a lot of fun. The left side seemed a bit uncharitable, but river right passed through some boulders and avoiedd the heaviest flow.
As we ate lunch there was much speculation about how much ground we could realistically expect to cover today. Twenty plus kilometers of flatwater had already been put behind us and it was only quarter after eleven in the morning. This gave us roughly ten and a half hours of paddling. Ryan articulated that he thought it reasonable that we reach Magpie Falls today, which was within several kilometers of the Gulf of St Lawrence. This would mean covering a total of over fifty miles, a big day by anyone’s standards. I was certainly optimistic that much headway could be made, but was also wary of falling into the trap of moving to quickly. Both Galen and I were concerned we would get suckered into moving at a hazardously fast pace by becoming obsessed by making it to a certain destination. Certainly the quicker we got out the better for Mike, but we had to remember that we were pretty much his only ticket out of there. If we made too many more mistakes people could get stranded for real. It became my goal to make no more mistakes on this trip. A conservative game plan would be the best way to effectively serve our friend.
The mountain scenery was admired, with its sparse spruce trees and patches of snow mixed among mossy glens. Another block of cheese, some pepperoni, and a Snickers Bar was gobbled up before heading back to the boats. Before entering I struggled a bit with the jerry rigged footbraces I was now forced to use, trying to tie the best knot possible to keep the system snug and tight. The tension and nervous, anxiety laden excitement of heading down a largely unknown piece of whitewater replaced the monotonous, yet mentally simple task of cruising a long piece of smooth lake.
Galen and I headed for the more forgiving river right line through the first class III-IV rapid, while Ryan broke left and headed for the largest looking waves. Galen and I were both surprised by the power and size of the river features on our line. In stead of being shallow as we had supposed, the water ran fast and deep, with waves building to four or five feet. From a small eddy we saw Goodrow smash into an eight foot breaking wave that stopped and rolled him mercilessly. As he righted the boat he flashed us a wide eyed stare, obviously also impressed by the power of the river. We all grouped up in the middle left part of the river and noticed that the rapids would probably not be truly pool drop as reported due to the high water. Fast current motored us into the next set of rapids which proved to be larger than the first. This rapid contained waves easily ten feet tall with big holes scattered throughout. This was the biggest volume and largest featured water I had ever experienced. The waves were truly huge but surprisingly clean, and while many of the holes were massive their locations could be predicted fairly easily and avoided.
Our tiny group of three careened downstream at a breakneck pace. The ride could most accurately be described as a runaway train. I can honestly not recount many of the individual rapids, but many particular sights or memories do stick in my mind. At one such place we were in the center of the river and fast water was drawing us to what appeared to be a horizon line that would certainly house a nasty hole below it. However, upon drawing closer it wsas revealed that the ramp dropped steeply, but harmlessly into a massive wave train, with monstrous walls of water easily reaching, and some breaking, over our heads. My eleven foot Crossfire could be stood vertically in the trough of these waves and not be longer than the waves were tall. This happened on several occasions. We were able to boat scout just about everything and slowly became accustomed to paddling the huge flow, realizing that we could stick to the sides of the largest wave trains until we were sure they were clean, before heading into the meat of them for some fun.
The river dwarfed the Kennebec in Maine, and even West Virginia’s New River which I had run at a high level ten feet. These were considered to be big water runs, but they weren’t in the same league as this. While individual waves on the New may have approached the size of some of these, the Magpie’s were much wider owing to the extreme width of the river bed and much more numerous. This made scouting somewhat strange. From upstream a wave train would seem to be reasonable because it was proportional to the riverbed. The thing was that these were huge proportions and once in the river the water often approached the overwhelming stage. The experience was intensely exhilarating and truly fun. I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty and bad about enjoying myself after the accident that had occurred upstream, but we all agreed that we should still get as much from the trip as possible seeing that so much time and effort had gone into it.
I can distinctly recall trying to stay to the inside of turns where the volume and current velocity was reduced. Although limiting downstream vision this was proving to be quite successful. About five or six kilometers into the lower river we became strung out by a hundred yards or so due to the continuous nature of the rapids. Our team approached a right turn and while Goodrow headed out left I stuck to my plan and tucked in tight to the inside right shore. This proved to be somewhat of a mistake as the rapid was significantly steeper than some of those we had just run. Glancing left I caught a glimpse of Ryan pounding through massive waves and realized my line was somewhat shallow and studded with holes. Narrowly missing the worse of these and crossing an incredible eddy fence complete with whirlpools I eddied river left with Ryan in one of the first large pools we had encountered in some time. We were just in time to watch Galen’s run of the pounding rapid. He entered left of center in the meat of the waves, his Outburst barely visible in the midst of the turmoil. Ryan and I knowingly shook our heads as he approached the whirlpools on the eddy line next to us only to squirt his huge boat and deeply brace to prevent a flip.
The jerry rigged bulkead began to act up, which started to make me a bit nervous. As the footbrace slid forward I found myself fitting in the kayak much looser which equated to less boat control which could make rolling the overturned boat more difficult. It was quickly becoming obvious that a swim would be a major problem on this river, perhaps even more so than during much of the trip on the West Branch. The river’s extreme width would make swimming to shore very arduous and boat rescue nearly impossible. Eddy fences and whirlpools would suck even life jacketed swimmers to the bottom for an indefinite period of time. The higher water levels meant that the rapids which were described to us as being separated by flat pools were now joined by sections of very fast water and even rapids that probably didn’t exist at other times. As a result we stopped on river right so I could tighten the boat’s outfitting and to check our position on the maps.
The maps showed we had cleared ten or eleven kilometers and it wasn’t even one o’clock yet. Such a fast pace could be attributed to the continuous nature of the river, but it was still remarkable. We now faced three or four kilometers of what the map showed as calmer water leading to a two kilometer set of drops that looked to be a bit steeper. Although that stretch gave us some concern now was a time to sit back in the boats and enjoy the scenery which was still spectacular. Cliff faces dropped from the flat topped glaciated mountains at every turn and the boreal forest now grew thickly along the banks. Although this stretch contained no rapids, the current was moving at a sobering speed. All river pictures we had seen showed banks five or more feet high lined with boulders and stones, but now we saw none of this. The water was into shoreline alders and rushing by the bases of trees in places. All eddies were shifting and boiling, another sure sign of very high water levels. The Magpie was not far below its highest springtime levels. This was some serious stuff.
Soon the river could be seen to narrow with whitewater falling away out of sight around a slight left turn. Everyone eddy hopped down the left side until we were forced to leave our boats and scout the situation form shore in order to proceed safely. The shore was composed of large boulders covered in deep layers of moss with thick alder growth next to the water giving way to thick spruce trees farther back. The forest was much less arctic than it had been two thousand feet higher at the put-in and resembled the tangled woods around James Bay. Blow down abounded and foot travel was less than desirable. After wading through an eddy and clambering up a steep bank walking downstream along the shore became impossible due to a small cliff. Our vantage point allowed us to see big and clean class III-IV water leading into an apparently large drop. Unfortunately we couldn’t see the drop and had to assume it was unrunnable, or at least worth a closer look. A moderate sized eddy was spotted several hundred feet above the horizon and we decided to boat down to there and scout again, avoiding the undesirable looking hike we faced on our side of the river.
The move to the eddy involved ferrying across the river and was complicated by three large lateral waves extending from the left shore. The move was far from difficult, but being above an unknown rapid made it a little more unnerving. Ryan headed out first and slipped out of sight, hidden by the crests of those laterals. Before scary moves I crank the chin strap on my helmet real tight out of habit. I figured this move deserved a couple of tugs, but was surprised at the ease with which I arrived in the eddy next to Ryan. I wish getting past the rest of the rapid would have been similarly easy.
The eddy was walled in by very steep banks which made crawling out of the boats tricky. Once out the eighty pound beasts were dragged to shore and wedged behind trees to prevent them from sliding into the river. We struggled to the top of a hill and saw we had been correct about there being an unrunnable drop below, but badly mistaken in ferrying to this side of the river. The entire river narrowed and slid into one of the largest holes we had ever seen. The backwash returned from fifteen or twenty feet downstream, making the hydraulic very deadly. The problem was that the carry on our side looked truly awful, while on river left we could have paddled to a smooth rock and quickly slid our boats back to a large pool below the falls. The ferry back left would have been class VI so the decision to make the portage on this side wasn’t too hard. Galen and I hauled our boats up and over a ten foot cliff, lowering them carefully down the other side, all the time being certain not to slip from the loose rocks into the river. From this position we were able to paddle down to a last chance eddy directly above the killer hole, shortening the carry considerably. From this eddy the boats were easily slid across smooth bedrock to a fierce eddy. Ryan elected to paddle directly to this eddy, and stuck the class IV move with only one tense moment.
Our maps showed the Magpie to mellow for five kilometers and flow through a section full of sandbars before coming to a twenty kilometer section of what seemed to be pool drop rapids with a significant gradient. The sandbars were washed over and a stiff current carried us against a strong headwind that may have otherwise prevented downstream progress. The next rapid encountered was pretty large and we snuck it on river left. After a pool another drop was reached and we started to work our way down the left side of this one also. We were in the midst of some large boulders and downstream vision began to be an issue. There was no getting to shore so we committed to going downstream and snaked between the rocks back into the main current just in time to slide down a final constriction in the rapid past some large whirlpools and scary funny water. It was now three or four, we were tiring, and my bulkhead was loosening again. A second lunch was called and we headed to a sandy beach full of driftwood on river left.
Stretching out felt real good, and we could all tell that fatigue was starting to set in. We had already been paddling for ten hours today and covered over 45 kilometers, twenty of which were on a lake with a headwind. There were only twenty five kilometers left to the ocean, and we felt we could at least continue on to Magpie Falls today. If we made it we realized this would have been a fifty mile day, which Goodrow seemed real excited about. It was a little amazing to think that such a distance could be covered on an unknown river, which says a lot about kayaks being viable craft for long distance tripping. Their small size and ability to be safely paddled to the edge of drops, reducing portage distances and times, makes them extremely efficient. The food for this second lunch was more cheese and pepperoni topped off by yet another Snickers Bar. The candy was starting to get old, but seeing that it was basically the only food we had left it would have to do.
It looked like the next seven or eight kilometers would consist of numerous pool drop rapids like those encountered just above. Shortly after heading out we reached one which featured an enormous center wave train with a few big holes mixed in. Most of rapids in this section were big water class IV, the features simply being to large to call it class III even though the going wasn’t real difficult. This stretch was paddled in less than an hour because the rapids were all boat scoutable. Often times we skirted the largest of the waves because they potentially hid downstream holes. However, I can recall one time in a rapid when I was sure the wave train was clean. Electing to run it head on the Crossfire rose over the waves at a fifty degree angle and slammed down the back sides nearly airborne. It was phenomenal and one of those moments when you realize why you do this sort of thing in the first place.
The constant action of big water paddling was interrupted by a horizon line at a sharp left turn. Our river left scout revealed a mandatory portage around a ten foot drop where the Magpie was funneled into the biggest hole yet encountered on the river. The carry was mercifully easy on this side and required only a short drag down a bedrock outcrop into an eddy full of logs and other flood debris. Below the falls the Magpie turned ninety degrees to the right and led to a stretch with two more sets of rapids before a considerable section of flatwater. The shadows were growing longer and accordingly we wasted no time in moving along.
The first set of rapids was runnable, with one steeper drop containing a ten foot breaking wave which Ryan briefly surfed. This was the ultimate river wave, but we bolted off downstream bent on our destination. Shortly after the wave an even steeper drop was reached. Ryan headed over it but was briefly surfed, prompting him to give us the stop sign, signaling to portage. I was certain I saw a line but Galen was already on shore and starting his carry, which was all the convincing I needed to not run this and avoid a potential but kicking.
Once on shore I binered the pink length of webbing I had to the Crossfire’s bow loop and began what turned out to be the hardest carry of the trip. Galen had charged uphill away from the shore, but I was determined to make the portage at water level to lessen its distance. My mistake, probably prompted by fatigue and the urge to get back on the water, quickly became obvious. I was soon reduced to using both hands in dragging the boat under and through thick vegetation, and over numerous fallen logs, while traversing a forty degree sidehill slope. The woods were too thick for me to carry a paddle so I had to toss it in front of me and then retrieve it, repeating the process for what seemed like a long time, but was actually probably only ten minutes. The way soon became blocked by a cliff band dropping directly into the water. Thankfully I had dragged past the large hole and could reenter the river where I was. Getting back to river level involved lowering the boat over a fifteen foot near vertical bank and tying it off as I climbed down around it. After a slight production everything was at water level, but the eddy I was next to was surging violently and the upstream current came in pulses and drew fiercely into the hydraulic that had forced the portage.
To try to get back into the kayak in this eddy would have been next to impossible so I decided to drag it to the next eddy down. I started this, but was forced to wade in the surging eddy because the shore was the cliff that had ended my portage in the first place. The upstream eddy current was occasionally so strong that standing up in the water was difficult, and holding on to the eighty pound kayak even harder. Then a surge of water battered the boat, tipping it on its side and filling it with water. I was now clinging to the webbing tied to the half sunk boat full with over three hundred pounds of water as the river tried to tear it from my hands and suck it into hole. Even though there was barely any footing I was determined not to let go. There were moments when the eddy was calmer, due to the pulse of the river, when I could make downstream progress. After quite a battle I had the kayak emptied of water and in the calmer eddy below. Thoroughly pissed and pretty tired I paddled out to meet Ryan and Galen who had watched the whole thing from several eddies downstream.
After only a short paddle another steeper rapid sent us heading for the river left shore to scout. Luckily, there were several lines to choose from on river left and the section was paddled. Some more easier whitewater led to a ninety degree right hand turn and a four kilometer section of flatwater. As we started the flatwater stretch a large Osprey circled over head. While this smooth stretch allowed some stress free mileage to be made, it also allowed us to feel just how tired we had all become. Our pace was relaxed as we headed down this straight section towards a gorge that we assumed to be Magpie Falls. After several kilometers a low rumbling could be heard and faint traces of a horizon were recognized. The scene grew in detail and the noise intensified as we approached the mandatory portage, which, judging by the map, looked as if it would be at least a kilometer long.
By the time we reached the head of the gorge it was seven o’clock and dark, ominous looking storm clouds were building. Distant rumbles of thunder were audible as Galen disembarked from his boat at a point of land to look for a carry trail. I was sure the path would be at the end of a finger like bay, which would reduce the distance of the portage considerably. I headed down this way to make sure, so we would not end up wasting lots of time looking for the correct portage. Once confirmed I came back and told Ryan that was where to go. Galen returned after ten more minutes and reported that he had found no trail, but that the rapids of the canyon were downright spectacular. We all paddled down the bay, which was detached from the main river by a narrow ridge of rock. This area was geologically interesting as the river was apparently following some type of fault or intrusion of softer rock.
The portage was a first rate trail with only a few muddy spots revealing many Moose tracks. As we carried, or more appropriately, dragged the boats, I noticed that the Ames water shoes I was wearing were holding up pretty well despite their blown seams and numerous rips. The portage went quick and easy, but at the nice bay where we were putting back on closer examination of the maps revealed that Magpie Falls was another kilometer downstream. Once back on the river we ferried out to the left to have an upstream look at the canyon we had just bypassed. The Magpie could be seen cascading between narrow rock walls, dropping over eighty feet in many horrendous pitches. The evening air was refreshingly cool and the storms had subsided. A full rainbow greeted us, which is always a good sign from God. I said a little prayer of thanks and knew that the rainbow meant that everything would be alright. A few mosquitoes came out, a sure sign that summer was fast approaching, but they were not a problem.
In ten minutes the horizon of Magpie Falls was visible, and a deep thunderous roar filled the air. A cloud of mist filled the air, and we felt perched on the edge of the world when landing on river left where there was a bit of surveyors tape. This flagging marked a freshly cut portage which we were more than happy to utilize in our way around the falls. The drag was relatively easy and we walked out onto the rocks at the lip of the falls to take a better look. The sight of over thirty thousand cfs thundering over the broken eighty foot ledge was humbling. The rainbow that graced our presence had faded to a half arc, but still provided a truly spectacular backdrop to this scene. The sun was setting somewhere behind the clouds off to the west and highlighting the clouds with a yellowish orange hue. Although excited to get to the seaway, the sight was too incredible to rush away from. This drop was the culmination of the Magpie’s final plunge from the Laurentide plateau into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and the power it generated could be felt. As eight o’clock rolled around we had yet another Snickers Bar and continued the portage after five more minutes of gaping at this wonder. The map showed only one more rapid so we decided to shoot for the mouth of the river before darkness came in an hour or so.
The put-in was after a class V constriction below the falls. We had to battle some fierce whirlpools to escape the eddy and continue downstream. The Magpie was now running narrow and deep in a trench-like gorge. In ten or fifteen more minutes another horizon was detected, and to our dismay the deep rumble of a bad falls was heard again. Another portage was required and we started the river right drag on a faint trail in a rather disheartened mode. Everyone was operating on autopilot, driven only by motivation to reach the end of the river. Energy levels were low, but frustrations were held back, which is surprising as it becomes exponentially easier to get angry at people when your exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry. The drop we were carrying could be recognized as one pictured in photos from the internet. The drop in those pictures was being run by rafters, but the photos depicted a river with water levels ten or fifteen feet lower. Despite this we hoped to be able to reenter the river below the initial ledge which was creating another massive hydraulic.
Our hopes of putting in below the ledge were dashed away when we saw the water that lay below. The velocity of the river confined between the narrow canyon walls was scary. The runout from the ledge was composed of a series of waves that must have been fifteen or twenty feet high and the day’s remaining light was rapidly fading. The portage degraded and quickly became a bushwhack that involved lowering the boats down a small cliff and hauling them up the equally steep opposite side of a ravine. This placed us on a knob of land overlooking the very bottom of the rapid. The best option now required another ten foot lowering of the boats to a tiny flat ledge outcrop barely big enough for one person and their boat. From here a ten foot seal launch placed us, one by one, back into the river. Once in the water a strong ferry to river left was necessary to avoid being slammed into a building sized boulder with a hole just to its left. The high velocity current exiting the canyon from above made the run dangerous and the rapidly gathering darkness made the move even scarier. When Galen went first Ryan and I could just discern him in the eddy a hundred yards away due to the darkness. I went next and pulled hard to make the move, only realizing I had cleared the rock and hole when I eddied out next to Galen. It was now almost totally dark and we could hardly see Ryan as he seal launched and started his drive to the left. He eddied out next to us, reporting to have been stuffed in the hole and violently surfed for a few seconds.
We knew we were close to the mouth now and relieved to see a light in the distance around the next bend in the river. However, we were very confused by the sound of another falls below us. Night was now upon us and we had no visibility. We surely had paddled to within a kilometer of the seaway and just couldn’t deal with this next obstacle which Ryan thought might be a dam. We pulled out on river left and decided to spend the night on a rock ledge just above the falls and a building with bright lights shining through a window. The morning would reveal to us the best way to deal with this final obstacle.
The dry fleece was the best. Once seated on the rocks and changed into warm dry clothes we realized the extent of our tiredness. We had essentially paddled for fifteen straight hours and covered fifty miles, at least fifteen of which were back on the lake. This was our biggest day ever and it was celebrated with some more of the food we had eaten all day. We were pumped to be able to get Mike out tomorrow, Sunday afternoon, instead of Monday or Tuesday as he had more realistically expected. The tent was not setup that night and we eagerly slept out under the stars.
It was seven thirty by the time all of us had woke up the next morning, which dawned clear and sunny. Ryan had been up first and walked down to investigate things. The building turned out to be part of a hydroelectric facility built on top of a final falls. From our campsite we could see the Route 138 bridge and realized we were only a few hundred yards away from it. A short drag down a path and up a dirt road led to a fence which we were able to crawl under and throw the kayaks over. The river portion of the trip was complete and we split a Power Bar three ways, thus finishing the last of our food for breakfast. We stashed the boats in the trees and decided to walk along the road to the town of Magpie in hopes of hitching a ride back to Sept-Illes.
As we crossed the Magpie on the footbridge the final falls and gorge could be seen. Where the river ran into the ocean some nice surf waves could be seen, we only wished we had the time to go play on them. We walked the mile and a half to Magpie, which is a small town to say the least, by nine thirty, but had not managed to catch a ride. This actually didn’t surprise us to much. We were in the middle of nowhere and looked pretty scruffy. Route 138 crosses the Magpie half way between Sept-Illes and Harve St. Pierre, which are 180 miles apart. The hitch hike back to our van would be over eighty miles long. By ten o’clock the day was growing quite warm and we decided to hike back to the boats. Each time a car or truck passed and didn’t pick one of us up we felt more and more sketchy. As we were approaching the bridge again, a car slowed down and stopped. The driver was willing to take two of us all of the way to Sept-Illes. I jumped in and the other two decided to hang back and wait for another ride or for me to come back with the van.
The car was occupied by a father and his son who were heading to Sept-Illes to meet their wife and mother and to watch a NASCAR race on TV at a hotel. Communication wasn’t easy as the father drifted from French to English seemingly without realizing it. My utter lack of French certainly didn’t help the situation. I was able to communicate that we had just paddled the Magpie River, but not where I was from. He was convinced we were from New York City because I told him I went to school in New York. After several attempts I agreed that I was indeed from the Big Apple. These two were from St Pierre and the father worked in a Titanium Mine. We raced at breakneck speeds, seldom below 80 mph, along the rugged and wild coastline and through the occasional tiny fishing village. I noticed many rivers I had seen only on maps as we crossed them on highway bridges where they plummeted to the sea in a countless number of class V cataracts and falls. The radio stations were dominated by an odd music. I dubbed these remixes of 60’s classics in English mixed with folky French songs to be Fringlish. The driver eventually put in some country music because it was in English and turned it up pretty loud. In an hour and a half we had crossed the Moise River and pulled into a Tim Horton’s. I disembarked here graciously thanking them for the ride and started my walk to the other side of town and up to the flight service.
The walk turned out to be a little over five miles long and took an hour and a half. On the way I stopped in a tourist center and defiled the rest room while cleaning up in the sink. The two gorgeous girls working there were less than impressed with me and I thought they would call the cops for sure. Eventually I reached the road up to Lac Rapide and saw it was packed with cars. A drag race was going on today and people were flocked to the area. Music was blaring and beer tents were set up all over the place. I passed quickly and shuffled down the hill to Labrador Air Safari by two thirty.
La Pierre was amazed to see me. He couldn’t understand how I had got back so quickly. I explained to him as best I could what happened and how Mike was stranded on Lac Magpie. He agreed to send a Beaver in that afternoon and to charge us for a Cessna, which amounted to only three dollars per mile. Mike’s rescue would only cost us about a hundred bucks each. La Pierre told me I didn’t need to go with the pilot so I marked Mike’s position on the map and double checked that the pilot could find the spot. Part of me really wanted to take the flight to see the scenery again, but I decided to go get the boats and round up Ryan and Galen. I was assured that Mike would be back before I returned with the van.
I sped along spectacular Route 138 to retrieve the kayaks and possibly Ryan and Galen if they had not already grabbed a ride. The drive was still fascinating and I was able to find some pretty good music. The stark beauty of the north shore of the St. Lawrence amazed me at every turn. Near the town of Sheldrake the landscape was nearly lunar. Bald dome shaped knobs of bedrock jutted above patches of dwarfed trees for a stretch several miles long. Back at the Magpie I found no sign of Ryan or Galen and could only assume that they had found a ride. I loaded up the three boats and threw a bunch of gear in the van before trucking it back to Sept-Illes. About a mile from the side road up to the flight center I found Galen and Ryan slowly walking down the road. Goodrow was barefoot and real glad to see me pull up. They had got a ride with some crazy old folks that stopped back in the main part of town. Together we drove up to Lac Rapide to pick up Mike.
When we pulled in La Pierre called Mike out. Although it had only been two days since we left him he was a sight for sore eyes. He was shoeless and his feet plus a good deal of his body, was covered in tar, which is another story altogether. We agreed to head into town to get some cash so we could pay for the rescue flight. After this we decided to get some food and head straight home. There would be no celebration in Quebec City as we had originally planned. As we drove into town we started to swap brief accounts of our separate experiences. Mike was babbling something about a bear and we couldn’t wait to hear the whole tale. At a shopping center we withdrew some cash and made calls home, much to our parent’s surprise. After squaring up with La Pierre we went to a dinner in town with a race car motif. The waitresses didn’t speak English but we managed to order what we wanted.
It turns out that back in the village of Magpie Galen and Ryan had talked to a paddler that had run many of the rivers in the area. He found it amazing that we had done the trip in four days. In a way it was a shame to have put so much time into the planning only to have raced through the river like that. Our stories of the lower river were kept to a minimum as we were dying to hear about what happened to Mike back at the abandoned fishing camp. Only he can do this part of the story justice as it is rather complicated and a bit confusing. This version is perhaps a bit embellished as it is second hand and being written well after the event, and has been retold on numerous occasions.
Here is Mike’s story as I best understand the sequence of events. After leaving him at three thirty on Friday afternoon he immediately started a fire and began to gather more wood. Things were uneventful that afternoon and after some unsuccessful fishing he went to sleep without eating any of his dried potatoes so he could save them for when he was real hungry. The next day he woke as late as possible after the day grew light at three thirty in the morning. After exploring a little he gathered wood and dragged larger timbers from a destroyed structure back to his sandbar. This was apparently tiring work and called for a bit of nude sunbathing. This day was absolutely perfect and the view from his beach was spectacular. Anyone starting to feel envious of his situation can stop now because things quickly began to deteriorate from here.
His ruptured ear drum played a few tricks on him and he heard false air planes on several occasions. Then he heard an actual plane, prompting him to throw a batch of old shingles onto the fire in an attempt to make a lot of smoke to signal the passing craft. This was done to no avail and he settled down to sleep around six thirty. Just as dusk was approaching three hours later he woke to see a black bear poking its head into the doorway of the half dilapidated cabin. Thrashing from his bivy sack he screamed and rushed the door which was more than sufficient to scare the bruin away. Mike’s best guess was that the smell of the potatoes he had cooked that night attracted the animal. Judging from the bear’s scrawny appearance, it had only recently come out of hibernation. Knowing that Black Bears are generally skittish Mike fell back to sleep assured that he would have no more problems.
Mike woke again at days first light thinking that the entire first encounter had all been a dream. Just as he entertained this thought the sound of footsteps falling on the old porch outside of the door came to his ears. Oddly his shouts and screams failed to scare the bear away this time. Instead the bear came to the side of the cabin and began to tear at the paneling and push on the disturbingly thin walls. This unusual behavior scared Mike considerably and forced him to take a more forceful course of action. Finding a piece of pipe on the floor he seized it and pounded the wall where the bear was pushing. At this the bear ambled away into the alders instead of running away in a panic as it did previously. Now determined to stay awake he sat up as long as he could but drifted back to sleep after not long. This time his sleep was disturbed by scratching noises on the outside of the cabin just above his head. This caused him to bolt up in a near panic, black bears just aren’t supposed to act like this. Indeed, every bear that I had ever encountered ran in a terrified state the moment it had detected my presence. All of the yelling and kicking he could muster didn’t scare the animals away. Desperate, Mike grabbed two metal pieces from the burners of the stove and ran outside feigning an attack on the rouge bear. This had little effect so he threw one of the pieces of metal in an unsuccessful attempt to hit the bear. His second throw was on the mark and struck the bear, causing it to walk away into the surrounding forest.
There’s no way he was going to sleep now and the day was shaping up to be real nice once again. Mike set about fortifying the place, armed with a sharpened butter knife, his own knife, a pipe, and half of Ryan’s broken paddle that he had filed into a razor like cutting tool. He wanted to make himself as safe as possible as he thought he was going to be there alone for at least another night or two. A ladder was constructed to the roof of the cabin and its walls were plastered with roofing tar that he found in an old storage shed. He thought the foul smelling tar would keep the bear away for good. Terrified of the next night he even considered isolating himself on the point of the sandbar with a wall of fire to keep the bear at bay. As if to confirm his fears he heard rustling noises in the alders behind the cabin at one that afternoon. Just as he was sure the bear would return a large Moose wandered from the shrubs and into the lake. The swamp donkey’s antics amused Mike for nearly fifteen minutes and probably helped keep his mind off of what had happened. He wasted away the next few hours carving a bird with a trout in its mouth. He had this carving with him when we picked him up after his flight. The next thing he knew he heard another plane. Just as he was getting ready to smoke the fire the Beaver came into view and it became apparent that it was going to land nearby. When it landed he was amazed with how quickly we had got the plane in to him, but not disappointed in the least. Another night with the bear was avoided and we were all reunited by six that evening. After finishing our dinner we started the nonstop thirteen hour drive back to Canton and were unloading the remaining gear by ten the next morning. What was perhaps the most eventful trip of my life was concluded and the lessons learned were invaluable.
We all disbanded so quickly after our return that we didn’t really get a chance to discuss the trip as a group in any depth beyond replaying what happened and retelling the most dramatic parts of the story many times. Since that June a day hasn’t passed when I haven’t thought about those days in Quebec. This deep reflection and several conversations about what went down have allowed me to make many conclusions about the adventure. Despite the major accident it is hard to call the trip unsuccessful. We did accomplish our goal of paddling the river and even managed to do so in an incredibly short period of time. Still, the fact remained that the trip was riddled with problems and we had been forced to leave one of our partners behind which is not far from a worse case scenario. However, because everything ended up fine in the end we were able to learn a great deal from the mishaps. Perhaps the success of the trip can be measured by the wealth of experiential knowledge that was gained. It is also important to realize how much we all learned about ourselves as a result of what happened. Overall, the situation was handled as best as we could have hoped for at the time. Of course, in retrospect after an analytical review has revealed things in greater clarity, we could have done much differently. I will discuss later. We learned that we can absolutely depend on each other and that when things go bad we will hold up. We learned about our ability to act in stressful situations and to maintain composure and act rationally. These are all things that can be read about, but a person can’t understand how they function in such a situation until they are confronted with it.
To all critics of our trip I would like to remind them that many of kayaking’s pioneers learned through wild misadventures. I would also like to remind those critics that have never been in a comparable situation that they probably don’t understand how stressful the events that took place were and that they are most likely incapable of passing effective or accurate judgment towards us. Such events renew a person’s respect for the river and the forces associated with it. Never have I been humbled in such a profound way. While on the Magpie I felt infinitely weak and powerless in the face of nature. We were not out there solely for the adrenaline rush of riding rapids. Instead it was my goal to experience one of the few remaining truly wild places in North America in as complete a way as possible. Running a difficult rapid requires the paddler to become in touch with the river and to use its power as effectively as possible to be allowed through. The rapids are not conquered as some suggest. The exact opposite effect was had on all of us. We left the trip feeling as though we had used our skills effectively enough to be allowed to pass through the land, but it was clear that each rapid and the vast scale of the land was capable of killing the best of us. Such feelings were heightened by the accident that occurred. The judgment skills that we learned from this trip exceed those obtained in an entire season of regular boating.
In retrospect there are many “what ifs” and “should haves” associated with the whole trip. To start with it does seem that our timing of the run was flawed. All accounts suggested that the spring of 2000 was particularly dry and the river was still flowing at very high level despite this. Perhaps in a normal or wet spring our problems would have been compounded even more. We should have listened to the advice given to us and planned the trip later in July or even August. However, there was a major advantage of the mid June date. We beat black fly and mosquito season, which any traveler of northern Canada knows is not insignificant. With this in mind I would actually suggest planning a trip for mid June if the river’s difficulty and water level were known to be acceptable. I would not hesitate to run the Magpie at a similar level again. The difference would come in the way the paddling was conducted.
A much more conservative approach than that exhibited by our team was necessary to safely travel this or any other river in such a remote location. Although we were concerned with completing the trip in the ten days we had allotted, our pace along the West Branch was dangerously fast. Several times on the second day I found myself running things that most certainly deserved careful scouting. From what I knew of the maps it would have been very wise to pull to shore just above the site of the swims and lost boat. A scout of the entire stretch would have revealed that the best course of action would have been a full scale portage, much like the one that took place anyways. At this point time was not an issue as we were already past the spot we had marked as a suitable campsite for the day. In all reality we could have set up camp were the accident occurred and spent the afternoon scouting this section of rapids in detail. We knew from the maps that this was by far the steepest piece of river, but we chose not to treat it with proper respect until it was to late. Part of the problem was that we became caught up in the rhythm that had developed. We had been moving quickly both days and figured that the way we had dealt with the rest of the river would work here. Now we know better. An hour or two sacrificed while scouting would have prevented our problem and ended up saving, if not time, the integrity of the trip. A critical error was made by Ryan when he choose to blindly chase Mike’s boat downstream. This led him into unscouted class V water and resulted in his swimming. Another lost boat would have been disastrous. Also, we should have better communicated to Galen to prevent him from running the drop where Mike swam. This would have prevented that swim as well. Three lost boats would have been totally unacceptable and would have resulted in me having to make a solo paddle out.
After having thought about things it also seems as though we should have devoted much more time to finding Mike’s boat. Although we searched the rapids immediately downstream of the swim everything seemed pretty quick and confused. Our group was widely scattered and we continued to move downstream. Our thoughts were that the boat would flush through the rapids and we were anxious to intercept it in the flat stretches downstream. Perhaps it would have been more prudent to conduct a coordinated search of the rapids in the several kilometers of rapids just downstream of the swim. With that said it must be realized that the drops around the area where the boat disappeared were big class V and I honestly feel that the boat was sunk or stuffed into a boulder sieve. I still can’t help thinking that it may have eddied out somewhere and was missed by us in our urge to head downstream.
Despite the faults, I do think that we did a remarkable job of recollecting as much as possible and competing the trip. We were able to get Mike out to the lake in a speedy and efficient way that prevented what would have been an otherwise miserable walk. Leaving Mike alone was justifiable because he was in a stable condition and nothing, with the rare exception of an odd black bear, was going to cause harm at the cabin. Having three on the lower river was much safer than two, as it provided a greater margin for rescue and more contingency plans in the event of more swims or lost gear. Walking out from the river would truly have been a superhuman feat, one that I would never want to attempt. The terrain is rugged beyond description and we were ill prepared for a hiking expedition. The river is the only reasonable route out of the wilderness in this area, which puts an even greater premium on conservative river running. Lost gear is simply unacceptable as it equates to stranding yourself in the wilderness. The greatest care most be given to avoiding running rapids blindly and to scouting with meticulous care. Portages must be considered a major part of any such trip and boaters should not be discouraged by this activity.
On future trips we will not make the same mistakes twice. Everyday I think about returning to Quebec to run more of its great rivers. A lifetime could be spent exploring the rivers on the North shore of the Saint Lawrence and we are all planning to head back to the region soon. This trip has prepared us for future kayaking expeditions to nearly any location. The conditions we faced were comparable to many seen on longer and more committing rivers. I wouldn’t trade this trip for anything in the world.