Yesterday, not just yesterday, but the last three days have been a success.

Now all that is left is to tie together the missing pieces – the pieces that I wasn’t sure would be possible in the first place.

I’ll be starting the day where the hopes of eight voyageurs were dashed and spirits broken last Monday – at Beaver River, Bridge 2 – where the ‘long portage’ really started. My goal, tie together as many of the missing pieces as possible, to join the 2006 route together with the short portage and fully retrace the historic trade route, is nearly complete. All that remains – two short but potentially difficult sections.

I have returned to the second Beaver River bridge where six days ago: I had my kayak loaded, where I had guarded the mountain of gear, and to the point where hopes had been dashed about paddling the historic trade route.

I had already paddled upstream through the marsh on my quest to find the lost paddlers. I knew I could get part way, but how much of the route was really unnavigable? I set out to discover this. I was prepared to be beaten, as had my intrepid prerunners a few days earlier.

Returning to the marsh where I had been accompanied by black terns six days earlier, I began to paddle. The few pieces of rubbish I had seen, a plastic milk carton, a candy wrapper and piece of paper were absent this time. Had they floated downstream to the next beaver dam or perhaps settled to the river bottom?

It was good being back on a familiar river. The terns still scolded me – wish I could find a nest. The pair of American widgeon was still sitting on the same muskrat mound. It was almost like being home. The river soon narrowed to less than three metres. The corners were becoming more difficult to negotiate. On the hairpin corners the bow would touch the grass ahead while the stern brushed the sedges behind. How long were the canoes used by the fur traders? I could grasp the vegetation on the inside of the corner. How much narrower will this river become? Will the bends be tighter? This is work!

I arrived at my first beaver dam – a cute little dam constructed of small willow twigs. There were no large logs in this dam. It raised the river just a few centimeters. A relief. The determined, furry engineers had dredged out an opening below the dam just large enough to allow sidling the kayak up next to the dam for a quick crossing. I continued on, another beaver dam – smaller then the last. Paddling hard I easily slid over the crest of the small obstruction. This was great. There was merely a trickle of water flowing over these dams.

Another beaver dam. This one composed of typical beaver logs. The river changed character on the backwater side of the dam. A shimmering green frosting - duckweed. A narrow channel between the shoreline shrubbery – so narrow that it was difficult to use my 230 centimetre paddle, but not impassable. The water behind the dam flooded out through the thicket.

It was becoming eerie.

I continued.

A small line of sticks perpendicular to the channel. Was this another beaver dam? I paddled over it. The heavy spot, me, at the centre of the boat, rubbed on the mound. The patch of water spread further or was it my horizon was becoming more limited?

In the midst of this thicket I encountered an obstacle. I couldn’t turn. I was tangled in the brush. My rudder was hung up – not in the water but in its undeployed position, resting on the stern of the kayak. I reversed and moved forward again. Still an obstacle ahead. Another beaver dam. I struggled with lengthy sticks lying in the water. I battled with the shrubs growing in the channel. Eventually I was able to sidle myself to the beaver dam for the next crossing.

As I stood on the dam I could see a light area on the horizon. Hopes rose – maybe it will get better. There was more water on the up-streamside of the dam and a little more room to maneuver the boat. I battled my way towards the light spot. It was a pipeline crossing. Paddling was easy. I made good time – for 100 metres – but now faced an obstacle worse than a beaver dam. A line of debris left in the channel when the pipeline corridor was cleared.

Was I going to be defeated - not by the beavers, not by the river, not by the brush, but by an obstacle created by industrial development? I paddled back and forth looking at the mess, looking for a weak spot in the barrier. It didn’t look good. I was considering dragging my kayak east along the pipeline corridor, a kilometer up to the highway when I noticed a thin zone in the debris. I paddled into the mess, broke out branches and twigs, then paddled a little further – beating on the barrier with my paddle blade. Before long I had tunneled through the anthropomorphic mound.

I was now in a jungle – a movie set, paddling through green water, up a narrow channel, so narrow I couldn’t use my paddle and so overgrown I was often chest-to-deck with my kayak seeking cover behind the Pelican box holding my camera to the deck. My hat was repeatedly ripped from my head. Sticks were breaking from the brush, filling my kayak with kindling and seeking to fill any void in my clothes. By the handful, I’d grab and toss the invading sticks back towards the water only to be battered by more. The deck lines, rudder lines and bow lines were all drooping with green weeds thrown at us by the river. There was no turning back now. I couldn’t turn around. Going forward was only slightly better in that my eyes faced forward so I could see some of what was going to attack next. Something is tickling my leg! I jumped. I looked. Inside the kayak, a stick was brushing against my leg.

It happened again. I looked. A spider. A LARGE SPIDER! I brushed the fell’r away, grabbed a handful of sticks, hopefully with spider, and tossed him overboard. All that was needed to complete the set was dry ice to add mist and perhaps a few blood sucking mosquitoes or vampire bats.

No, there were NO mosquitoes buzzing in my ears or piercing my skin. I was thankful they hadn’t yet penetrated this thicket.

Where am I? I hadn’t a clue. The sun was still more-or-less behind me so I was still creeping in the right direction.

From behind me, “Beep, beep, beep . . .”

What was that?

I was startled out of my haunted mindset.

The GPS.

“Poor coverage, press enter to acknowledge.”

I really was lost or maybe not. Loaded onto the GPS were topographic maps for this section of the Beaver River. The maps were relatively accurate. Noting my position I discovered the River was about 150 feet to my right. I worked my way towards the indicated channel. The situation improved marginally. Progress was again possible towards my destination. I struggled and meandered through the jungle.

My huge paddle was useless. All I was doing was tangling it in the brushy mess. I broke it down into two pieces, tied one to the kayak deck and continued using the other half. Still I struggled. I tied the other half to the deck as well, paddling with my hands until I could reach sturdy handholds, willow bushes. I’d maneuver the bow of the kayak until pointing towards an opening, and then push myself forward into a narrow corridor ahead. As soon as free of the handholds I’d again lower myself chest to chest with the kayak deck, hold onto my hat and glide through the haunted passage until being scraped to a halt.

One obstacle stopped the movement more abruptly then the others. I peered up over my shield, the Pelican Case. A beaver dam, a huge beaver dam. How did I miss that? Well I didn’t really, but thought it was just a tangle of sticks. I thought turning the tight, hairpin corners of the Beaver River channel was difficult an hour ago. Now those corners would have been welcomed.

I wiggled my way up, bow to the beaver dam.

There was absolutely no way I was going to be able to turn and sidle up to this dam!

Wait, there is a log, no it’s two, jutting out of the beaver dam. I think they’ll just reach my cockpit. I worked over to the log and figured out how to brace my paddle against a beaver, gnawed stump just a little ways further from the kayak.

This might work!

Carefully, I slithered and teetered my way out of the cockpit. Right now I’m wishing I had one of those recreational kayaks with a larger cockpit, but no I’ll do with what I have. One leg ventured out and onto the log.

It sank. I teetered more precariously – one leg out of the kayak, flailing for a foothold. Finally it located the second long. It was secure. Gingerly, I stood up, one foot on a slippery log, the other in a tipsy kayak. Now two feet on the slippery log and I tenuously tiptoed my way along the balance beam towards the beaver dam.

Look at that open water. I can paddle that!

This was the longest dam I had encountered. It sinuously wound and twisted across the valley – perhaps 130 metres long. I drug the kayak over the crest of the dam, sat down on the deck and treated myself to a snack. While sitting there I noticed a large patch of smashed grass. It looked like canoes had been drug over the dam about 20 metres from where I sat. They had followed the most open area of water above the beaver dam. Where they crossed there was almost no water just windfall. They had stopped.

Was this as far as the group had made it last Monday?

Open water, I put my paddle back together and paddled onward. Dipping my paddle blade into the water I was astonished to see it parting a thick cloud of red, freshwater invertebrates. This pond was teaming with life.

The GPS indicated 4/10ths of a mile to the highway bridge. It was only half that distance to the point where I hoped to take out. After crossing the last beaver dam I was confident the route was possible and now determined to achieve the end. Paddling on, I soon encountered tangles nearly as bad as I had just experienced. The paddle was again useless. It was back to hands and pushing from vegetation.

How did the group get through here with canoes? Lying chest-to-chest with my kayak I was struggling and was likely showing less above the water’s surface than an unloaded canoe. They had been sitting as much as a metre higher than I was in the kayak.

I found a channel to follow, a good channel. It was still impossible to use the paddle but the trees were perfect for pushing, pulling and gliding. I noticed the water was starting to really stink. The forbs along the shore had the most luxuriant foliage I had seen along the River. Yuck, this is the outflow from Field Lake – then I consoled myself – no, it can’t be, Field Lake doesn’t drain into the Beaver River. I made good time through the jungle. Then it happened. The thicket returned. The branches over the channel were vicious. Every time I tried to get through they’d grab hold and push me hence I came.

This can’t be the channel. I consulted the GPS. I was way off course. Disheartened I backed out of my channel. I was ready to start bashing through the thicket blanketing the edges of the Beaver River channel again.

Wait, I thought!

Field Lake.

Township Road 662.

How far is it to the Road?

Again, consulting the GPS I measured the distance. 550 feet. If I follow the channel north I should be just a couple hundred feet from the road in the low spot between Field Lake and the Beaver River. Tom said that in high water years Field Lake floods over its south edge through the meadow and over the road.

If that is the case that stinky, black water that I was in could be from Field Lake.

Was this channel the terminus of the actual, historic trade route, the end of the short portage!

I was exuberant!

With vigor I pushed and pulled myself back into the stinky channel, breaking branches and splashing smelly water over myself. I crashed through the brambles that had tossed me backwards a few minutes earlier. The channel continued. I pulled myself to the end. The stench increased. The channel ended. I looked up. Light, a clearing just a short distance ahead – an open forest. 294 feet to go.

Two hundred ninety-four feet to the Road!

I’m here!

I sprang from my kayak, grabbed the camera and started the shutter clicking. How did I get through that tangle of branches? Even after breaking through it, it looked impenetrable!

It only took a few minutes of dragging my kayak through the aspen forest, over a few windblown trees before I was on the Road.

The route is possible!

What is left?

Just 2.7 kilometres distance as the crow flies. I was ready to finish.

Back to Bridge 2 again. The shuttle drivers, my parents, had done some scouting while I was battling the Beaver. There was a power line about 100 metres south of the Bridge. It went down to the River and would be an excellent portage route around the thicket we had looked at a week earlier. From there it looked like clear paddling. It also looked like clear paddling from Bridge 3 back up the River.

I was optimistic again. This could be done. After crawling under a couple barbed wire fences it was a clear path to the River along the power line corridor. It was wet and tussocky so I drug the kayak over the grass to the river. At the river I was delighted to find a wide, flat stretch of water. Once into the boat I was pushed off the shore. I paddled up to examine the stretch of River I had bypassed. It looked impenetrable – worse than what I had done earlier in the day. Instead of dead branches hanging over the river, it was a living, springy, resilient mass of vegetation. I turned around and paddled downstream, waving at my dad standing on the bank, then slipped around a river’s bend.

“I should be at the next bridge in an hour or so.”

Rounding the next bend I encountered a beaver dam growing cattails. Working through the cattails, where a doe and fawn were flushed out, I was able to lower the boat to the next level and continue. I skimmed over another beaver dam. In just a few minutes I had covered half the distance to Bridge 3. This was going to be a breeze. The river opened up into a wetland. The channel was still easily identifiable but covered in duckweed. There was a pond off to my west with black terns and Bonaparte’s gulls skimming the surface. Marsh wrens squeaked from the cattails and yellow-headed blackbirds scolded from above. Red-wing blackbirds, as all along the river, serenaded my movements. It was a magnificent wetland. Yellow bladderwort was in full bloom. This was paradise – except for the unsuspecting invertebrates being lured to close to the bladderworts – becoming trapped and used as supplemental nitrogen for the floating flower garden. I decided to stop and enjoy the wetland for a while.

Realizing I had a scheduled pickup at the next bridge I started paddling again. Once back in the channel I was easily plying the duckweed, but wait, where did the channel go?

Cattails. I worked my way around the barrier and found more open water. More cattails. It looks like I can paddle east and get around the barrier.

Nope, more cattails.

The GPS recorded my route, straight lines with backtracks, circles and loops but I did finally make it through.

GPS, where is the river? The map indicated it was on the other side of the valley. I paddled back and snuck around the first cattail barrier I had encountered, then worked back into the channel. Great, clear paddling again. Rounding the next grove of cattails I found myself sailing into a spectacular open lake. The map suggested there was an outlet at the south end. Cruising to the appropriate location I was again confronted by a wall of cattails.

An impenetrable wall.

Maybe I can paddle down the other side of the valley, so again, I worked my way back to where I had just been. There was also supposed to a river channel there. I couldn’t find the channel. However, along the shore the cattails weren’t as thick. It allowed me to continue working my way south. Watching the map, I noticed there was supposed to be another lake next to me but all I could see was a giant wall of cattails. I kept paddling south, but encountered a barbed wire fence. I stopped, decided I had two alternatives: 1) go to shore and climb a tree to see if the Beaver River was visible anywhere on the horizon or 2) attempt to slip through the cattails and hope my map was correct. I chose number 2, backtracking up the passage I’d just come down until I found a bit of an opening to the east. It was time to maneuver myself around, then with all the strength I could muster paddle forward hoping to slide as far through the cattails as possible.

It worked. I was in the middle of the cattails, dry-docked, sitting on a mass of dry cattail foliage. I couldn’t even find water beneath me when I exploratorily probed the mat with my hand, but there was water all around.

It was my own private island.

I’ll just push with my paddle. The paddle sank, disappearing into the marsh coming back wet. I was sitting on a mat of dry cattail, floating above the water. I reached forward, grabbed green cattails with both hands and pulled. I ended up with two hands full of green, fresh cattail. At least I’d have food for a while – strip off the outer leaves and eat the soft, cucumber tasting core.

I slowly inched my way forward by jerking my hips until I could reach the next cattail.

I pulled.

It held.

I slid forward. The cattails were parted by the bow showing another beautiful, open lake. A little more effort and I was again floating peacefully across a lake. I headed to the furthest reach of the lake hoping to discover the outlet. I snuck out between a few cattails, scraped on a barbed wire fence and again found the river channel.

Finally, I could see the Bridge. Then I paddled past a large beaver lodge – one more dam to cross. Sure enough – 100 metres later I found another large beaver dam. I slid in beside it amid a chorus of sharp, shrill shrieks.

What is that?

I looked down the river to see four heads pointed my direction, yelling at me.

My first thought – “Beavers don’t sound like that. Wonder what got into these beavers, No other beavers have behaved like this.”

These aren’t beavers!

Seals, the heads look like seals!

“Come on Hardy, this isn’t seal habitat.”

Suddenly it hit, “Otters…. River Otters…. Four River Otters!”

I sat there and watched, camera poised before me but not being used. Finally I grabbed the camera and the otters were gone, at least invisible but still suggesting they didn’t appreciate their visitor. Eventually one otter ventured from the shoreline vegetation. I was able to whistle it towards me to an appropriate distance to take an otter dot portrait.

Excitement over, I clambered down my last beaver dam and paddled towards the road. I was almost there when encountering a fork in the river, four choices, all seeming to head the right direction. I chose one, the one appearing the most direct. In a couple minutes I had looped around, arriving back where I started. At least I knew which two not to take this time. Still three to choose from, but one went back to the cattails – I wasn’t going there. I chose the next most likely path. Within a couple minutes I arrived at Bridge 3 – paddling under the bridge I tied the knot, connecting today’s exploration with Thursday’s start point.

My journey was over. The upper Beaver River trade route is still, for the most part navigable. Thinking it could be done in 1½ days with loaded canoes was overly optimistic, but with appropriate time it can be paddled.

A first had been accomplished; a kayak navigation of the upper Beaver River fur trade route. I felt better; I had made the right suggestion a week earlier about the condition of the river.

What happened to the rest of the group? The previous Tuesday we watched them paddle from the leech rich Amisk River onto the Beaver River and disappear around the bend below Misty Meadows Ranch. They learned that Environment Canada didn’t know how long the Beaver River was. Measuring the distance on their maps they found the River was about 200 kilometres longer then recorded. Instead of paddling a leisurely 30 to 40 kilometres a day, they were striving for 70 kilometres a day. The unfortunate experience of having to portage nearly 60 kilometres of river may have allowed them to stay on schedule.

Segment 4: 6 hours

Hardy Delafield, Jr.

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