It
began with a gut-churning sensation that warned of a digestive revolt.
Something to do with fuel fumes, turbulence and an inability to keep my
nose plugged for well over an hour.
Cam Drinnan of Black Sheep Aviation peered back at the sight of his wretching passengers. With a hint of disgust, he muttered aloud to nobody in particular, "Looks like a MASH unit back there."
Perhaps our Snake River trip got off to an inauspicious start, but the next ten days were glorious.
Most Yukoners have heard about 'The Snake', but few are fortunate to be able to visit. Among paddlers, the Yukon's Snake River is a dream destination--a Holy Grail among northern rivers.
Cam Drinnan of Black Sheep Aviation peered back at the sight of his wretching passengers. With a hint of disgust, he muttered aloud to nobody in particular, "Looks like a MASH unit back there."
Perhaps our Snake River trip got off to an inauspicious start, but the next ten days were glorious.
Most Yukoners have heard about 'The Snake', but few are fortunate to be able to visit. Among paddlers, the Yukon's Snake River is a dream destination--a Holy Grail among northern rivers.
The
Snake begins as a shimmering ribbon of clear water flowing north out of
the Mackenzie Mountains. It gains velocity and volume over several hundred
kilometres before it merges downstream with a powerhouse of a river, the
mighty Peel. Here in the headwaters, with snowcapped peaks rimming the
viewscape and lush broad valleys leading in all directions, the largesse
of the Snake manages to seem intimate and enchanting.
The Snake River lies at the core of an extraordinary triangle of wilderness that straddles both sides of the Yukon/NWT border--a roadless landscape in excess of 150,000 km2 bounded by the Dempster Highway, the Canol Road and the Mackenzie River. For paddlers from southern Canada, the U.S. and overseas, the Snake and its sister rivers--the Wind and the Bonnet-Plume--offer the kind of wilderness experience no longer possible elsewhere on the continent.
Ours was a different Snake trip--we left our canoe at home. We tagged along with a group of paddling friends, but when they took to the river we would hoist our backpacks and hike. We took it slow and explored the divine hiking in the river's upper reaches. Our journey from Duo Lakes to Reptile Creek spread out over a week what most paddlers cover in a day or two.
The weather followed a predictable pattern. Warm, sunny days were punctuated each afternoon by cloud buildup and the onset of thunder squalls. One day a spontaneous hailstorm pelted our tents with pea-sized pellets of ice. Another day ominous clouds parted as if tiptoeing around our camp, leaving us dry and awestruck by brilliant rainbows arching across the Snake.
We concluded that canoe-supported hiking is an unsung, highly indulgent way of traveling. Though we hauled heavy packs, much of our food came from generous paddling companions who doled out meals like Swiss fondue, Mexican casserole and an impressive Middle Eastern spread. For river paddlers accustomed to the cookery of long trips, it might not have seemed that extravagant. But as backcountry hikers resigned to consuming endless amounts of pasta, eating international cuisine on one of the world's wildest rivers was a highlight.
After a week we reluctantly left the river and waved goodbye to our friends who continued downriver to the Peel. We joined one of several horse trails traversing the valley-corridors thick with a jumble of wolf, moose and bear tracks.
The Snake River lies at the core of an extraordinary triangle of wilderness that straddles both sides of the Yukon/NWT border--a roadless landscape in excess of 150,000 km2 bounded by the Dempster Highway, the Canol Road and the Mackenzie River. For paddlers from southern Canada, the U.S. and overseas, the Snake and its sister rivers--the Wind and the Bonnet-Plume--offer the kind of wilderness experience no longer possible elsewhere on the continent.
Ours was a different Snake trip--we left our canoe at home. We tagged along with a group of paddling friends, but when they took to the river we would hoist our backpacks and hike. We took it slow and explored the divine hiking in the river's upper reaches. Our journey from Duo Lakes to Reptile Creek spread out over a week what most paddlers cover in a day or two.
The weather followed a predictable pattern. Warm, sunny days were punctuated each afternoon by cloud buildup and the onset of thunder squalls. One day a spontaneous hailstorm pelted our tents with pea-sized pellets of ice. Another day ominous clouds parted as if tiptoeing around our camp, leaving us dry and awestruck by brilliant rainbows arching across the Snake.
We concluded that canoe-supported hiking is an unsung, highly indulgent way of traveling. Though we hauled heavy packs, much of our food came from generous paddling companions who doled out meals like Swiss fondue, Mexican casserole and an impressive Middle Eastern spread. For river paddlers accustomed to the cookery of long trips, it might not have seemed that extravagant. But as backcountry hikers resigned to consuming endless amounts of pasta, eating international cuisine on one of the world's wildest rivers was a highlight.
After a week we reluctantly left the river and waved goodbye to our friends who continued downriver to the Peel. We joined one of several horse trails traversing the valley-corridors thick with a jumble of wolf, moose and bear tracks.
One morning I flew with Chris Widrig in his immaculate Super Cub. We took off at dawn and flew north in a wide arc around the Mount MacDonald range. The Snake River valley was still draped in darkness, and we seemed just a few wingspans from the ridges. The topography was puzzling-angular rock faces gave way to benign green flanks, hoodoos jutted into the sky and deep canyons melted into the valley.
Banking around the north end of the range, Widrig pointed to a creek gorge, "I wouldn't take my horses through there, but it's hikeable--you could do a circuit."
We were already scheming a return to these mountains, and he was eager to point out good hiking routes and scenic spots. This is his expansive backyard, an area he knows intimately and watches closely.
I spent the rest of the day retracing the flight in my mind, trying to picture the black-tipped peaks and hanging glaciers, the sheer walls stained with red, silver and ochre.
One
morning we set off for a hike, stopping frequently to enjoy the showy
lousewort and other blooms in the rock and scree. Approaching the summit
we enjoyed the vista below, but noted a hastening buildup of dark thunderclouds
bearing down on the peak.
Azure lakes behind the mountain beckoned for a photo, and I started to open the metal tripod. "Zzzzttt," went the tripod, charged with atmospheric electricity. With no desire to be a mountaintop conduit for a show of St. Elmo's Fire, we scrambled partway down, grounding the tripod as we went.
Suddenly the hair on my limbs stiffened. "I feel the electricity," I said out loud, and two seconds later lightning and thunder crashed around us. Huge pellets of rain began to fall. We ducked into a gully, the storm spilled around the mountain, and we picked our way down to the camp.
"I was wondering how you were doing up there," asked Widrig. He'd been eyeing the storm. "How was your hike?"
I grinned, thinking back on our ten days in the Snake. "Electrifying."
Azure lakes behind the mountain beckoned for a photo, and I started to open the metal tripod. "Zzzzttt," went the tripod, charged with atmospheric electricity. With no desire to be a mountaintop conduit for a show of St. Elmo's Fire, we scrambled partway down, grounding the tripod as we went.
Suddenly the hair on my limbs stiffened. "I feel the electricity," I said out loud, and two seconds later lightning and thunder crashed around us. Huge pellets of rain began to fall. We ducked into a gully, the storm spilled around the mountain, and we picked our way down to the camp.
"I was wondering how you were doing up there," asked Widrig. He'd been eyeing the storm. "How was your hike?"
I grinned, thinking back on our ten days in the Snake. "Electrifying."