Day 4: Crossing the Mackenzie

Up at 6, launched by 0745. "Better, but needs improving," Dick said as they moved out, first down the small stream to the Bouvier River, then down the Bouvier to the Mackenzie River. Then they paddled clear across the Mackenzie, carrying an unwelcome troupe of stream-side mosquitoes. The river is about 1.5 miles (2 km) wide where they first crossed the Mackenzie River, which may like sound much but it is, considering weather changes. In the hour or so for a crossing, the weather can change from calm to violent thunderstorms.

The Mackenzie was perfectly smooth, reflecting clouds, blue sky, a low-flying flock of Canadian geese and brown bluffs. They had a world to themselves. Two motor boats on Day 1 and no one since then. Work pressures dropped away; now sun, wind and river rhythms shaped their lives. A snatch of poetry occurred:

The mind lets go of its moorings, one by one, and begins to lose you.

The two stopped for lunch about 11:15, but neither cared to sit down during the 40 minutes. The paddling life is hard on rear ends.

The wind picked up; big, dark clouds formed overhead, but still the sun shone. Their laundry, spread out on the canoe, was largely dry.

An Arctic Loon paddled by.

They recrossed the river, because Dick read the map wrong and thought they were close to Fort Simpson. (Actually, they had miles to go.) Luckily, they crossed with almost no wind, although the sky was full of threatening clouds.

A large river, the Red Knife, poured its spring runoff into the Mackenzie, and threatened to push the canoe far into the Mackenzie. So they crabbed their way across the Red Knife, turning the bow into the Red Knife to maintain course.

"I think that's an eagle sitting on the bank," April said, looking two hundred yards ahead.

"No, it's just a rock," Dick said about the time the bald eagle took off.

About 2100 they started looking for a dry camp spot amongst the muskeg. Their tent needed a dry area about 5 feet by 9 feet (1.5 x 2.7 m). Not much, but hard to come by. They stopped three times to measure likely spots before they found one — up Skull Creek. Dick cleared the area of "six million logs."


Their campsite by Skull Creek.

There was no safe place in the dense forest to build a fire, so they ate a cold meal in the tent — a bad practice in bear country, but the best they could do. The tent was a sweltering 85 degrees F (29 C) when they first pitched it. But by the time their mosquito coil had done its job, and they could take off hot bug jackets, the temperature had dropped to 78 F (26 C). They finished recording-in-journal chores, map reading and locating position. Then rested on their sleeping bags, and looked up at the forest canopy through the four tent windows.

They had paddled ten and a half hours that day. Dick was bone tired. April was pretty tuckered out, too, although she had not paddled nearly as much. As they started to drift off to sleep about 2300, a woodpecker moved to a tree just over the tent, and started drilling. A beaver smacked his tail like gunfire beside their canoe. Neither animal kept the pair awake long.

Miles traveled: 20 (32 km)

Position at end of day: N 61-12-35, W 119-27-35