Day 17. Fri. July 29, 7AM (57°36’22” N, 73°46’32” W)

In which our protagonist gets to go downhill.

I slept late. I am beyond beat, but I am still trying to make 58 km today. This is more than my all-time paddling distance record for a single day, but I’m hoping the Leaf’s legendary current will help me. At the end of today’s paddle, if it works out, will be people and my food drop.

10PM    57°54’40” N, 72°58’40” W

What a day. This trip is unquestionably the biggest adventure I’ve undertaken in decades.

The 18 km leading up to the Welcome Rapids were flat and uneventful. Approaching the rapid, its sound is unmistakable, especially after so much silence for so long. The landscape changes character as you approach; what was a rocky and steep valley widens out, and there is even a bit of forest for the first time in days. This entire trip has been above the northern tree limit for the most part. Isolated copses, few and far between, are all I remember seeing.

Just above the rapids sits a tiny low island that L&L suggest as a potential campsite. It would fit a single tent, maybe two. There is also a section of beach nearby on the north bank. I remember thinking, If I had more money and sense, I’d charter a float plane with a group and let the pilot drop us there.

The Welcome Rapids are two separate bits of whitewater, each with very different character. The first is manageable, and it presented what I came to realize was a typical rapid on the Leaf: waves crossing the current from multiple directions, making navigation into an exercise of paying attention everywhere at once. It was choppy and exhilarating, but not a problem as long as you bring complete focus.

The second section was tougher, one of the most intimidating on the entire river to tired, worried yours truly. I had pressed my luck many times up until this point and decided not to do so on the Leaf’s first real whitewater obstacle. One look at the loud, curling wave that begins it and I quickly decided to try to sneak down the left side, which was a boneyard but far less nerve-inducing. I’m sure I left some plastic on the rocks, and once or twice I had to get out and drag briefly, but the sneak worked.

After Welcome Rapids, the river immediately returns to its previous lake-like state for another good stretch. No current again. The sun was beating down on me and I was starting to nod off as I paddled, looking for Pointe Charley, a well-known sandy spot at 273 km with a sign indicating its name. I eventually passed it but was pressed for time and did not stop, though I did see the sign. (I think I did, at least. The lettering was facing away from the water.) Apparently the Lodge team has placed a few signs along the river for their own navigational benefit. I spotted at least two others down the river.

Welcome Rapids is apparently the farthest point up the river the Lodge’s jet boats can attain. Years prior, L&L saw one of these boats immediately below the rapids, so I started to keep an eye and ear open. I had yet to discover that their fishing season would not begin for another several days. This pleased me, as I really wanted the river to myself, as pristine and primal as I could have it. I got my wish.

At km 269, the Leaf starts to flow in earnest. Just a few swifts and R1’s at first, and at that point I was simply grateful that there was, at last, a current. I committed to this trip fully aware that I’d be traveling for many tiring days before I got any appreciable gravity assist, but by the time I got to the first swift, it was more than just an intellectual abstraction. It was a complicated group of emotions that set in: relief that I was moving faster, nervousness that I was alone, confidence based on reports of the rapids’ overall manageability, worry that I’d make some foolish error. And — joy. At last I was physically on this river that I’d been eyeing for years. Fortune willing, I was going to run the whole thing.

As I passed the mouth of the Nedlouc at km 261, my nerves came back as I approached the first named rapid, “The Long Slide” — just a series of swifts, according to the chart, but stretching for several km. The reason for its name is immediately apparent. It’s where I felt the river became the train ride I’d read described in a previous trip report.

The Long Slide is a continuous downslope that, like many sections of the Leaf, feels much more relaxed than I’d expected. The river ranges from 100m to 200m wide here, and from mid-current the banks are far enough away that I didn’t get a good sense of my speed until I saw rocks beneath my hull. Enormous boulders, larger than American cars, rush by at astonishing rates. The deceptively lazy feeling of drifting past the far-off banks has a stark contrast with the reality of the rocks and water. It’s disorienting.

The river is often deep, and in many spots, such as this rapid, the massive stones hardly cause a ripple. The danger, of course, is that there are exceptions. And you come upon them fast. I quickly learned that many rocks barely break the surface, and if you don’t see them coming, you won’t have time to maneuver away.

The challenge to this river, for the most part, lies in spotting obstacles far downstream and being immediately decisive about them. I told myself, Do not hesitate — find your line and commit to it hard. It always served me well.

After the slide came a more serious rapid — a dramatic S-turn of typical multi-directional chop. I was fixated on navigating, but from what I remember, the banks were formidably rocky and offered nowhere to land. This was the first rapid I ran where I was worried about wiping out. I made it down without incident, however, and by the bottom I started to feel like I might be getting the hang of the Leaf.

I was also starting to get tired. At this point it was late in the day. Up ahead, however, was my destination: The Leaf River Lodge.

The lodge’s numerous white buildings are unmistakable, and as I approached, they were also utterly silent. I saw no one as I paddled up to the sandy shore next to the small harbor. I stood up, removed my helmet, life jacket and ailing sprayskirt, and walked up the dirt path, feeling like a visitor from another planet. Still wearing my bright red drysuit and carrying my orange Camelback like an oxygen supply, I probably looked like one.

After a few nerve-inducing minutes during which I thought I might have come upon a ghost town, I spotted a half-open doorway. I called out in French and English as I approached, hoping not to surprise the ghosts. Fortunately, behind the door was Jerome, the first human I’d seen in 17 days.

Jerome was not as surprised as I’d expected; he had heard from Louis that a kayaker might be coming through at some point. This encouraged me.

We set out to search for Louis. This took a while. Apparently he had brought in a new four-wheeler for the season and was test-driving it around the lodge’s sizable grounds. Getting chauffeured around on the back of Jerome’s ATV was a strange experience after so many days alone. I held on tightly.

Louis eventually turned up, and he smiled as I introduced myself. He had been concerned that I might not make it for any number of reasons. I didn’t mention I’d had the same thought at more than a few moments along the way.

“I’m glad you got here OK,” he said. “But I’m afraid I have bad news — your food bag didn’t.”

I maintained my composure as best I could. Being around people made it easier. On some level I knew I’d survive, but I didn’t want to starve myself while running rapids. Nor did I want to abort the rest of the trip. And I certainly didn’t want to admit how demoralizing it was.

Fortunately, Louis didn’t need to be told how much a lost food cache would mean to a wilderness traveler. Though he lives in Lévis (across the river from Quebec City) most of the year, from his talk he apparently has been taking trips all over northern Quebec his entire life. No surprise there, as his father, Alain, had built the lodge to begin with. (A bend in the river is called “Alain’s Rapid” on the map; Alain had to help rescue some cadets who wiped out there in their canoes years before.)

Louis put me at ease with his infectious smile and relaxed demeanor. He proved to be a consummate host. After we spent a few minutes discussing my package loss — evidently it got held up in customs — he said he’d find a way to help me. “For now, go get some dinner and we’ll figure it out,” he said.

After I took advantage of the lodge’s hot showers, Jerome took me to the dining hall, which has several long tables and a sizable kitchen. Louis had hired a full-time chef to prepare meals for his clientele, but for the moment, his staffers were the only people around, and in the fridge there were leftovers from their evening meal. I sat and talked with Jerome, who was astonished to watch me put away two full plates of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and carrots followed by two slices of cheesecake. Out of sheer politeness, I stopped myself from accepting any offers of more.

In my own youth, I had been legendary in my family for my appetite. Now here I was, making an energetic guy thirty years my junior do double takes. I wondered just how much of a caloric deficit I’d been operating on.

I followed Jerome back to the work crew’s bunk room, where there was a spot for me to sleep indoors. Within half an hour, the generator powered down, and we settled into darkness.

Late at night, I got up to relieve myself, something I rarely do after sundown when the mosquitoes begin swarming. Tonight, from this tiny outpost of civilization, would be the one night I would see the stars. As I made my way along a raised wooden walkway, I looked up to see the aurora borealis glowing faintly overhead. I heard a wolf howl in the distance. The hordes were flying at me, but I reminded myself to take a moment to appreciate this respite from my adventure, this vacation from my vacation.