Canoeing on the Athabasca

Without much ado the summer has come to an end. Oh, I know: there are still ten days of August left, and we will be eating meals out on the deck for a while to come, we will be hot, looking for shade – but there is no mistaking the signs. For the last few days already the air had a tinge of fall, and today, with a high temperature of 13, the frost advisory issued by Environment Canada for our region seems entirely appropriate. 

This is what I wrote two days ago, and thankfully the frost stayed away, the air has warmed up again. The feeling of fall, however, persists. There is no going back now, not for this year.

Harvest is in full swing in the garden and has started in the fields, so the busy season is upon us. The summer, however, was filled with wonderful outdoor experiences, so that I was scrambling to catch up with house and garden chores during the few days between trips. 
I will try to write about a couple of them, starting with the latest, hopefully working my way backward from there. With field work in progress, however, I'm not sure how much of this will actually happen.

Last weekend we gathered for our annual multi-family canoe trip, a tradition for more than thirty years. The constellation changes slightly from year to year, depending on who can make it and whose German visitors are interested in coming along. This year we were 18 adults and two two-and-a-half year olds, our granddaughter Pippa and Walter and Marj’s grandson Tristan. It was twenty-eight years ago this year that their dads came along for the first time, one just over two, the other not quite two. It’s hard to believe that we are into a new generation already. 

For the kids’ sake we had planned to canoe on the Red Deer River, well suited because of its slower flow and warm water inviting to swim. The weather forecast, however, was not favourable for that area: thundershowers the first night with rain amounts between 10 and 15mm, a high of 12 to 14 Celsius for the second day with intermittent rain – not the kind of weather that would make it an enjoyable trip. Pretty much at the last minute, early Saturday morning, we decided to revise our plans and switch to the Athabasca instead, since the forecast was considerably better for our area. As several times before we chose the section from Blueridge to Ft. Assiniboine, about 60km, easily achievable in three days. 

Our ‘local’ river, the Pembina, is already very low, which is not unusual for this time of year, but the Athabasca still has plenty of water. It is, for the most part, easy to manoeuvre in this section, as long as one pays attention in the two or three spots with a little rougher water. The first of these came soon after we started around three-thirty in the afternoon and proved to be a problem for one of the boats. Distracted, perhaps, and not taking the river serious enough the father-and-son team got hung up in a log jam so badly that they ended up losing their boat. Most of us had left before them and didn’t realize what had happened until we got word from the two boats that had departed later, like them, and we were all relieved to hear that they weren’t seriously hurt. A motor boat– a very rare sight on this stretch - turning up by chance just at the right time took them back to the starting point. Needless to say they couldn’t continue, and we were all somewhat sobered for a while. Accidents can happen, obviously, but in many cases they are preventable, as this would have been. 

Photo courtesy of Magnus von Rennenkampff

We found a nice camping spot early enough in the evening to give the small kids time to enjoy playing in the sand and rocks and the fishermen among us opportunity to supplement our evening meal. Food is always plentiful on our canoe trips: everybody is assigned a meal or part of a meal, and with pork chops and chicken thighs, fresh roasted corn and salad we weren’t lacking anything. The only thing lacking we’ve had too much of on other trips were the mosquitoes: dry years definitely have their advantages as well.

 

Photo courtesy of Magnus von Rennenkampff

While the weather forecast for this region had been more favourable we were pretty sure we wouldn’t get away completely without rain. We were lucky, however: we got a brief shower during this first night, but nothing too serious.

Saturday morning dawned pearly grey and cool. I was the first one up and, with the aid of a few dry spruce branches, managed to coerce the embers back into a crackling fire. Driftwood was plentiful nearby; to me, it is by far the most efficient and best smelling kind of wood for a canoe trip campfire. I love these early mornings when the mist rises over the water and the only sound is the babbling of the water hurrying by. 

Fortified by a great breakfast consisting of porridge, scrambled eggs with chives and onions and bacon we finally were on our way again around eleven. The river widened evermore, and for a while the so far fast flow slowed down to no more than walking speed, if that. We didn’t mind; much of our time on the river is usually spent floating. Every once in a while a bald eagle slowly winged overhead, a calm adult sometimes joined by a more vociferous youngster in adolescent plumage. A mule deer buck swam to shore while we were drifting by, and a young moose came to the river to drink, paying little attention to the flotilla of canoes gathered to watch him. Cattle, too, showed up between the trees from time to time, sleek and shiny from their summer pasture. A couple of lovingly restored cabins bore evidence that other people enjoy the river as well, but we didn’t meet a single soul.

All day it had been overcast and cool, maybe 15 degrees Celsius maximum, with no danger of getting sunburn. Once we had set up our tents at the edge of the forest on a high embankment, however, the sky started to clear. By the time our sumptuous supper of pork chops, potatoes and onions baked in foil in the fire, and cucumber salad (with cucumbers from Magnus and Courtney’s and our garden) ended the sun was setting across the river. It was cooler than the night before, so we all huddled close to the fire.

 Scanning the sky for constellations I recognized (by now the stars were out in full force) I noticed a certain brightness in the east. We puzzled over its origin: Edmonton was too far away, and it was not quite the right direction either, and we couldn’t think of any other town that might be the originator. Soon there was no question what we were looking at. The bright spot stretched out sideways and upward, and within fifteen minutes the northern lights were starting to grow. For the next hour and a half we were witness to one of the most amazing, if not the most amazing, aurora borealis I have ever seen. The whole sky was ablaze with light spiralling upwards, colours ranging from yellow to pink to green, constantly in motion. When it seemed to die down in one direction it flamed with renewed vigour in another part of the sky. What a gift! 

Aurora Borealis photos courtesy of Magnus von Rennenkampff

The last morning sparkled with dew, the rising sun showing up cup-shaped spider webs for the artworks they are. 

Again it paid being up early. Johann and I were down by the canoes when I noticed a black head emerging from the water beside a small island not too far from our shore. A cow? I wondered. I had heard some mooing in the distance earlier. No, definitely not a cow. A moose, maybe? Nah, too dark. The rest of the body emerged from the water, and soon a magnificent black bear was outlined against the light coloured sand of the island, a scant 500m upstream. It was a huge animal! I scrambled up the hill to the campsite and shouted, “There’s a bear!” Impossible to let an opportunity pass to see one – at a safe enough distance. It didn’t occur to me at all that I might rouse someone from sleep with what must have sounded like an alarming call. Soon most of us were lined up on the shoreline and watched the bear cross to the far shore, first walking in the shallow water, later swimming, struggling with the strong current. He was carried quite a ways downstream until he gained land pretty much across from us. He ambled out of the water, hesitated for a moment and shook the water from his pelt like a dog. Then he turned to look at us, in astonishment, it seemed, and disappeared in the dense bush.

Unfortunately my camera’s zoom wasn’t strong enough to get a good picture, and everybody else was still too stunned and too busy watching to even attempt to take a photo, but it won’t take a picture for me to remember this amazing sight.

We packed up, made sure the fire was completely extinguished, and were on our way. Only about three or four hours were left, and we were in no hurry, floating leisurely on the river that must be more than half a mile wide at times. There are no more islands to divide the flow, unlike the beginning of the trip where we had agreed to stay to the right whenever we encountered islands so that we didn’t get separated on the famous ‘Five Mile Island’ – not that we were sure where it started. 

The sun was warm enough to finally shed jackets and long pants, but at noon a wall of clouds looming in the west quickly caught up with us. We scrambled to get our rain gear out of the packs before we got soaked completely, but once we were clad in ponchos, rain jackets and garbage bags I found it quite enjoyable to watch the drops hitting the water. It was a warm rain, after all, and the hillside at the next bend was bathed in sunshine all the while. 

 This happened a few more times, but by the time we reached the mouth of the Freeman river, our get-out point at the bridge near Ft. Assiniboine, the clouds had receded for good. 

Apart from the ominous beginning it was another wonderful trip with more than the usual share of Mother Nature's special gifts.