Day 8. Wed. July 20. (starting at 57°05’17” N, 76°15’29” W)

On which the route begins to bare its teeth.

10:30 PM        57°07’36” N, 76°04’17” W

Today was a real adventure of a day.

I woke up to fog again, but not so thick this time. It was calm, I could see maybe 200 meters, and I figured the winding route through these narrow ponds should be manageable if I stayed attentive to landmarks and compass bearings. The map is smarter than I am, I repeated to myself. I set out warily.

I paddled cautiously, checking the map, anticipating every island and point before it emerged from the mist and looking for additional reference points that might confirm my position.   

After a good 90 minutes of careful navigation, I reached my first portage. It was daunting, and in retrospect one of the most formidable of the entire trip.

It was a steep hill more than 30 meters high with no easy route up. I climbed up to scout, navigating slippery rocks and marshy stretches, and after I found the least dangerous way down the other side — another steep section that would require care — I got bewildered in the fog. Thankfully I had my map, compass and InReach on my person. Once I got my bearings and found the boat again, I was careful and split my gear into three carries. By the time I got back on the water, I realized the entire portage, perhaps 300m as the black guillemot flies, had demanded nearly four hours. And my paddling gloves were nowhere to be found. It was lunchtime and I was already tired after going all of 4.5 km from last night’s campsite.

I snarfed down a quick lunch near a patch of snow, donned my spare paddling gloves, launched and started paddling. I attempted to make some time by moving as steadily as I could through the lifting fog. The route was blessedly obvious through these narrow ponds, which have steep, rocky valley walls as backdrop.

After wending my way another 9 km, I heard the unmistakable sound of whitewater ahead. For a few minutes, I held hopes for a respite of downstream travel, but those hopes got dashed. Widely separated words on my map, words I had paid scant attention to while planning, indicate I am on the Riviere Biscarat. And it’s flowing right at me.

My route led up a lengthy, narrow C1 rapid that has tall, forbidding brush on both banks. The water was running far too quickly for me to consider attaining up it, and anyways it’s a good 500m long — I’d exhaust myself trying. I was tired and my mood wavered.

I pulled in to shore on the left and sat filtering water, collecting my thoughts for a few minutes as a foot-long, impossibly thin black aquatic worm turned pirouettes in the shallows nearby. I could see no workable way forward other than by hopping from rock to damp rock up the left bank, lining the boat as I went. The rocks on this bank ended abruptly halfway up the rapid, and I was obliged to ferry across the current to the right bank, where luckily there were enough boulders to finish lining the rest of the way. I got back in my kayak, pleased and relieved that I didn’t injure myself. The ascent took about an hour.

By the time the rapid was behind me, it was late afternoon. I pushed myself a couple more miles and came upon a welcoming flat peninsula that was clearly an old Inuit site: Tent rings were all over the place. Exhaustion convinced me to make camp.

It was chilly in the slow dusk, but the wind was calm. After a trail shower and dinner, I stood on the bank sipping tea, looking back toward the rapid I negotiated, then looking ahead to another noisy spot I could make out a few hundred meters up. Another rapid. That will begin my morning tomorrow, I thought.

Despite my weariness following another 18-hour day, I am elated underneath. I am still concerned about the schedule, but I am making progress. And I am here, in this place I have been trying to reach for years.

I gaze out across the water for a few more precious minutes, enjoying the stillness and solitude. Then it’s time to sleep so I can get up and go again.