(Host) Commentator Willem Lange reminisces about an epic canoe trip full of unpleasant surprises and the company of stalwart old friends.
(Lange) Eight of us had just finished a 270-mile-long river north of Hudson Bay and reached salt water to an unpleasant surprise: 48-foot tides. We camped in a bay partly protected from the wind. The rocks were slippery, and the tent sites wet.
We had two days left to paddle to the Inuit village of Tasiujaq. But it was storming– a regular nor-easter. We decided to try it.
Carrying the canoes below high tide line, we loaded them with all our gear. Pretty soon, here came the ocean, and we were on our way. For a while the boulders in the bay protected us. Then we hit open water, and could feel what we were up against.
Each stroke yielded six inches of progress, while half a pint of water slopped in. There was nowhere up ahead where we might pull in. There was no way we could keep going.
We’d just passed a tiny break in the rocks. So we turned back to that, landed one by one, and passed the gear and boats up the broken cliff above. Then we perched miserably in the cold rain and sat down to wait for conditions to improve.
They didn’t. The incoming tide chased us fifty feet up the cliff. We found a cleft in the rocks, somewhat sheltered from the wind, and clambered into that. Some were able to sit; others stood or leaned against rocks. Eric found the cooking fly, and we draped it over our heads. That was a little better.
Someone passed up the stove and dug out some kielbasa and powdered soup. We used some of our precious fresh water, and with the stove sitting in my lap, I brewed up enough soup to give each man at least a cup. But once the stove was stowed away, there we were. The wind was worse than ever, and we were getting really cold.
Now it may not sound like it, but that was a great river and a terrific experience. We had a week of headwinds. When we camped, we were plagued by the bloodthirstiest black flies we’d ever seen. But the rapids had been exciting and satisfying; and the novelty of salmon, bearded seals, and the incredible tides had us gaping with surprise.
But the best moments of that trip were the worst: those hours spent up in that rocky nook the size of a taxicab up on end. Eight men, all different, each solid as rock. Old friends who’d done this sort of thing before. Rarely have I been so aware of the power in a group, and never more than during the last desperate half hour in the cold, wet crack in the rock. Like a fire that dries its own fuel, each of us drew upon the others and found himself stronger. It was a great day.
This is Willem Lange up in Etna, New Hampshire, dreaming of storms and good friends.
Willem Lange is a contractor, writer and storyteller who lives in Etna, New Hampshire. He spoke to us from our studio in Norwich.