Known for its hot, sunny beaches, Thailand is an idyllic travel destination for most of the year. During the three-month monsoon from July to September however, tourists run for cover. As copious amounts of rain falls, streams, creeks and rivers swell creating the ideal conditions for a kayaking trip.

Most tourists go to Thailand for its rich history of Buddhism, agriculture and dynasty. As a kayaking destination, it’s still in its infancy and the abundance of steady, virgin whitewater makes it appealing. The underdeveloped paddling scene offers an element of exploration— as long as you are willing to put in some effort to seek out the runs, you will be rewarded.

STARTING THE ADVENTURE

Our adventure started the moment we stepped off the plane in Bangkok. We made it our mission to get out of Bangkok as quickly as possible with plans to return later in our trip once we grew more accustomed to traveling in Thailand. For the moment, we focused on making our way north to Chiang Mai, home to the country’s best whitewater. There’s a direct train that takes passengers across the 750-kilometer stretch of jungle and countryside to Chiang Mai but our group of four hired a rental car. We craved the freedom to explore the rivers and falls along the road north.

Finding a quality rental car in Bangkok was easy; the hard part was getting it out of the city. Traffic signs are written in Thai and we shared the road intimately with thousands of bicycles, mopeds and tuk-tuks—moped taxis. I felt confident navigating my way through Bangkok’s narrow, congested side streets, my passengers with their heads out the windows making sure I didn’t run anyone over. Then I merged onto the highway. The congestion didn’t disperse. Instead, still more cars and mopeds packed even closer together and moved at a much quicker pace. The blood finally returned to my fingertips when I loosened my white-knuckle grip 20 kilometers outside the city.

UNDERSTANDING NAMTOK

As we made our way north, our time and budget allowed us to chase the great white namtok—the Thai term for waterfall. With the motivation to get off the beaten path and a penchant for mischief, it wasn’t hard to get sidetracked for a couple of days.

We quickly developed a love-hate relationship with the signs the Thai people have erected to celebrate their beloved falls. A road sign marks almost every drop in the country. After passing a handful, we finally decided to turn off the highway in search of a runnable waterfall.

We followed the signs to an obscure trailhead and down a path. The beauty of the trail was overshadowed by the soupy midday humidity. Still we excitedly ran the final 100 meters to the water’s edge. Only a few of the dozens of signs we followed gave any more information than the waterfall’s name, so it took us a moment to realize that the shallow brook trickling onto a pile of rocks in front of us was the main attraction.

With no well-established source for river beta and our elementary command of the Thai language, we were skunked more then once. However, failures like this were always quickly forgotten. Every beautiful drop, big and small, is hidden away in a jungle paradise.

EXPLORING CHIANG MAI

Chiang Mai is a great base for paddlers looking to spend an extended period in the area as it’s central to a good deal of the known boating in northern Thailand. The city itself was built in 1292, complete with surrounding moat and defensive wall to keep out the encroaching Mongol empire. Nowadays, it acts as the northern hub for commerce, tourism, and religion. We settled into our cheap rooms. At 200 Baht per night—just six bucks—the place was no Hilton, but offered a satisfactory place to sleep and beat overnighting in the car.

On good information from a friend, we made our way to the Siam River Adventures Center in downtown Chiang Mai. We were met by the lovely and hospitable owner Lah, who quickly set us up with a shuttle to the top of the river. The last leg of our route was by elephant, kayaks and all.

Travelers visiting Thailand on a shorter trip wanting to pack in as much paddling as possible will find everything they need in Chiang Mai. Like most kayaking destinations in and around the equator, flow is very dependant on rainfall. Luckily, it comes down in bucket- loads this time of year. Even during dry spells, though, there is still one really good option close by. The commercially rafted Mae Tang River—technical and boulder-strewn in low water and raging big-volume in high water— is just north of the city.

Chiang Mai also has plenty to do during time off the water. We took time to explore some of the city’s 300 Buddhist temples, indulging in the amazing cuisine and immersing ourselves in the vibrant Thai culture.

UNPADDLED WHITEWATER AND LOCAL AUTHORITIES

We spent much of our time hunting unpaddled whitewater, but when the big rains came, it was impossible to resist the known quality runs within a couple hours’ drive of Chiang Mai. Our first stop was the Mae Pan waterfall located in Doi Intatnon National Park.

After hurrying our boats and gear down the short trail to the falls, we quickly roped our kayaks to the top of the drop. I found myself sitting above a gorgeous horizon line, blasted by the mist from the thunderous 100-meter falls in the backdrop. We ran the 15-meter Mae Pan Falls and regrouped for high fives and hugs in the pool below before paddling the section’s remaining rapids. Energized from the morning’s session we quickly headed to the neighboring, equally spectacular Mae Klang River to round off an awesome day of paddling.

The region is teeming with other amazing pool and drop sets that would certainly be classics if anybody really paddled there. We hit the Mae Sa, a river that feels like a waterslide amusement park. Its put-in is at the Queen Sirikit Botanical Gardens, with boofs and slides past greenhouses, around bam- boo huts and through dangling jungle vegetation. Elephants trudge along the banks as the river passes through the Mae Sa Elephant Camp, eventually winding its way into the national park ending at the Mae Sa waterfall.

The Mae Sa run ends in a picture-perfect, six-meter drop. Park rangers stopped us moments before we could huck the drop, afraid we would be washed over the falls to our death. After some failed negotiating, they politely escorted us out of the park and back to our car, cutting the day short by one rapid.

Unable to explain our intent and that we are a group of experienced, capable and safe boaters, we decided on an it’s-easier-to-beg-forgiveness-than-ask-for-permission tactic. On some occasions we were able to persuade the rangers to let us back on the water, but a smile and double thumbs up only got us so far. Many of the park rangers carry machine guns, which made the whole begging for forgiveness thing a little dicey.

THE PERFECT WHITEWATER DESTINATION

Thailand offers lots of options for those with a bit more time on their hands looking to diversify their trip. Paddlers often jump the border into Laos to try one of that country’s many multi-day runs through undisturbed rainforest. Away from the whitewater, travelers flock south to the renowned warm, sandy beaches of Phuket Island where they kick back and relax, enjoy some world-class snorkeling, scuba diving and bumming around the beach. Those not into relaxing can join the 30,000 revelers who gather at Koh Phangan for the epic full moon parties that happen every 28 days.

Whatever your schedule, save at least a day or two before heading back to the airport to enjoy the circus that is Bangkok. It is an experience in and of itself. We hung out on the Khao San Road strip, the epicenter of tourist activity. With plenty of good restaurants and bars, and more cheap street vendors than you can shake a stick at, we explored a different kind of jungle. The nightlife wasn’t too bad either.

Thailand is much more than your standard kayaking destination. Rivers unfrequented by paddlers, more than enough spectacular attainable waterfalls and warm hospitality make it a perfect whitewater destination. Our trip was as much about the culture, cuisine and countryside as it was kayaking and we weren’t disappointed. When monsoon is listed as the reason, I now know to ignore the “When not to go” section of my guidebook. 

This article first appeared in the Spring 2013 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.

Doug Ammons on Jeff West

The first time I had personal contact with Jeff West, he emailed me, asking about the Grand Canyon of the Stikine. At first I didn’t realize whom the letter was from, because it had the tone of a 12-year-old boy bubbling with enthusiasm about his dreams. There was an exclamation point at the end of every sentence.

September 2012: Stikine River, BC

On September 8, 42-year-old Jeff West joined Stikine pioneer Doug Ammons for a run of the Grand Canyon of the Stikine. Ammons was heli-evaced after taking a nasty swim at Pass/Fail rapid. After ensuring Ammons’ safety, West completed the remaining 70 percent of the canyon on his own.

This was West’s second trip to the unrivaled 52-mile section of high-volume, class V+ Sti- kine, following his 2010 expedition with Todd Wells and Erik Boomer. That trip saw the trio complete a single-day descent by kayak. Ammons was the first to complete a solo run over three days in 1992.

September 10, two days after his descent with Ammons, West set out alone to attempt the first solo one-day run of the Stikine. His last words to Ammons were, “Just think of all that amazing whitewater in there. I can’t believe I’m about to have the privilege

to run it.” Then he paddled off into the rain.

Three hours after he started, another expedition spotted him portaging Site Zed, the crux rapid of the Stikine and a third of the way through the canyon. West failed to make the takeout by nightfall.

The following day, the Dease Lake Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment received a report that West’s body had been found floating in an eddy about a mile above Wolftrack Rapid, entering the final third of the canyon.

Fellow paddlers supported his decision to undertake the solo single-day run, trusting West’s judgment and strength as a kayaker. Unusual features due to the water level were also reported. Because West was alone, it remains unclear exactly what happened on the river that day. 

Tributes and Memories from Friends and Fellow Paddlers

JOE JACOBI
Olympic gold medalist and current CEO of USA Canoe/ Kayak was a student of West’s.

“In 2006, Jeff helped certify me to become an American Canoe Association instructor. Coming in, I felt the clinic was somewhat of a formality for me but Jeff challenged my ideas and helped me to see instructional concept from a new perspective. Those four days learning from Jeff six years ago put me on a path of innovation and creativity in instruction that I still carry forward today in promoting the sport.”

KAT LEVITT
Kat Levitt became friends with West in the late ‘90s, spending countless days together on the Ocoee.

“My first season on the Ocoee, Jeff convinced me I was ready to paddle the Green. Mostly, I think he wanted me to drive there in my SUV. As broke raft guides, our trip was doubtful. We rummaged through our cars and the Ace couch for money. I hit the jackpot, finding a $50 savings bond in my glove box. I cashed it in, filled the tank and off we went. I survived my run, wearing flip-flops and no elbow pads. That night, we ate burritos and ice cream cones, and watched Godzilla at the dollar cinema. I’ve never felt more alive.”

TODD WELLS
Top expedition boater Todd Wells first paddled with West on the Stikine in 2010.

“Paddling the Stikine had been on Jeff ’s bucket list for a long time and all summer he had been doing attainments on the Ocoee and laps on the Green with a 35-pound dumbbell strapped inside his kayak. Erik Boomer was the third member of our team and would be leading our way. Jeff had been one of Boomer’s main mentors growing up, taking him on his first trip down the Grand Canyon, and Boomer had been one of mine, teaching me the fundamentals of kayaking throughout my teenage years.

“When we finally put on the river, every rapid felt bigger and more ex- citing than the last. At Site Zed, we decided to portage the top of the rapid and run the ABC Line down the bottom portion. Boomer wanted to take photos, so it was now up to Jeff and I to navigate our way downstream.

Jeff led the charge, peeling out of a small eddy with powerful forward strokes. I followed close behind. We were each other’s only means of safety. I’d never before felt as happy and satisfied as I did when I got to the bottom of Site Zed with Jeff, and I think he felt a similar sensation.

“The day after we took off the river, we explored some tributaries and somehow decided that the following day we were going to attempt a one-day decent of the Stikine. Boomer and I slept through our 5:30 alarm, but Jeff, already in his paddling gear, was quick to wake us up and get us on our way. We put on the river before six surrounded by an eerie fog. When the sun came up we paddled through Entry Falls and started our daylong adventure. That day on the Stikine was the best single day of paddling I’ve ever had. I was glad to share it with Jeff and it’s a memory that will last forever.”

DAVID LEVITT
Longtime friend and fellow creeker, David Levitt logged three vertical-mile-in-a-day runs with West.

“Parked at 10,000 feet and surrounded by snow, our water bottles were freezing into solid blocks of ice. Snug in zero bags, wearing our boating layers and enveloped in total darkness, we awakened to the sounds of pounding on the truck window. It was not going to stop until we emerged and geared up. Jeff was awake and ready to start paddling. In a matter of moments, folded peanut butter sandwiches were stuffed into mouths. Boats were being dragged down the trail before daylight began to break.

“On the water, it was understood that quick glances over the shoulder while we stayed in the flow were the norm. We didn’t race, but paddled the flats and rested in the rapids, making well-timed strokes as needed. We watched each other’s backs, but did not eddy out without a clear purpose or need. There was no stopping for a drink or snack. Water and food were on the shuttle. In the case of something really big, like Stairway to Heaven on Bear, the leader would float for a moment to check that the guy behind him was in control at the bottom. Then into the next drop we headed. There were few words at those times, but Jeff ’s ideas and strategy were behind it all. He motivated, inspired, encouraged, and sometimes demanded things of us. He was our coach, mentor, teammate and friend.”

CHRIS TOWNSEND
West and Chris Townsend first got to know one another on a 1999 trip down the Grand Canyon of the Colorado.

“Jeff West and I traveled the southeast and abroad experiencing the best the natural world has to offer. Jeff was already a world-class kayaker when we met. However, over the years I watched him develop every ounce of physical and mental ability. I have never seen an athlete push himself as hard as Jeff West. In the last two years of his life, he left most of us behind; we simply could not keep up with him.

“After his first successful decent of the Stikine, he started paddling alone more frequently. Many of his paddling friends took phone calls from Jeff while he was on Bear Creek. He was having such a good time, he had to share it with someone.

“The most interesting observation about Jeff may have been his lack of desire for notoriety. He very rarely acknowledged any of his accomplishments and when people brought them up, he was dismissive. He would much rather be talking about his next mission.”

This article first appeared in the Spring 2013 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.

• A cricket’s ears are located just below the knees on its front legs.
• The higher the temperature, the faster a cricket chirps. Estimate the temperature in Fahrenheit by counting the number of chirps in 15 seconds and adding 37.
• Jiminy Cricket was inspired by the Talking Cricket from the original Pinnochio book on which the Walt Disney movie was based. In the book, Pinnochio kills the cricket shortly after meeting him because he doesn’t like what the cricket has to say. A fine conscience he turned out to be.
• Male crickets chirp by rubbing the top of one wing against teeth that run along the bottom of the other. Female crickets do not chirp.
• In 1939, England played South Africa the longest cricket match ever—it lasted 14 days and ended in a tie.
• Crickets are a symbol of good luck, wisdom and prosperity in Chinese, Japanese and Native American folklore.
• Buddy Holly’s back up band was called The Crickets.
• The practice of eating bugs is called entomophagy. Crickets are considered a tasty treat in many cultures and are an excellent source of protein, iron and calcium.
• Despite having wings, crickets rarely fly.

This article first appeared in the Spring 2013 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.

Whether mountain biking is your middle name or something you’ve discovered in middle-age, trail riding is a fun-for-the-whole-family activity that puts a spin on weekend camping. From behind the bars, kids will find navigating trails a new adventure. This go-to guide will help you choose the bikes, trails and gear to suit even the littlest rippers.

BIKE FIT: THINK LITE

Kids learn more quickly and enjoy riding more when they’re on well-designed, well-built bikes. Most major bike manufacturers, such as Specialized, Trek, Rocky Mountain and Norco, now offer decent kids’ bikes in 16-inch, 20-inch and 24-inch wheel sizes. Designers take height, weight, proportions and strength of kids into consideration. Being able to apply the brakes and shift the gears with smaller hands is key to enjoying the experience and being able to trail ride as a family. 

“When you’re choosing bikes for kids, weight is the biggest factor,” suggests Duncan Beard, bike guru and bike racer from Fresh Air Experience bike shop. Lighter bikes are simply easier to pedal and allow kids more control, which is especially important if you’re heading over the hills and far away.

As a guideline, Beard recommends bikes weigh no more than a third of a child’s weight. “If your kid is less than 100 pounds, their bike shouldn’t weigh more than 30 pounds.” He encourages parents to forgo shocks for kids under 10 years old to save weight. 

This, however, is easier said than done, found Canoeroots publisher Scott MacGregor. “The best kids bikes we could find weighed more than our adult-sized bikes. It hardly seems fair.” Frame size isn’t as much of a factor as the rest of the bike’s components. “There is a big difference between department store bikes and good quality, $500 kids’ mountain bikes,” says MacGregor, “but it’s still a far cry from what’s standard on a $1,500 adult mountain bike.” If you’re really serious about setting up your kids with lighter weight bikes, MacGregor suggests looking at racing BMX models or starting with an aluminum-framed mountain bike and making a hobby out of upgrading parts. 

It seems like a no-brainer, but Beard also advocates for selecting a bike that fits. “If you get a bike that you hope they’ll grow into, it will be hard for them to ride it and enjoy it now,” he says. 

Well-made bikes are worth the initial investment. They come with components that operate more smoothly and require less maintenance than anything from Walmart—think more riding and less tinkering with shifters and brakes. A good new bike will last to be handed down through siblings or can be sold or traded when the time comes to upsize. 

PUMP UP FOR TRAILS

Kids deal with frustration and fatigue differently depending on their endurance, ability and temperament. Figure out how fast, how far and how long your kids are ready to bike by taking interesting rides close to home. A few of these will help you plan realistic weekend adventures. With kids, distance is often less of a factor than time in the saddle. On days when there’s heat, rain, steep hills or bugs, assume that part of your children’s stamina will be spent on coping with their environment. 

It’s up to parents to keep an arsenal of distractions, diversions and motivation in their pack pocket to dole out and keep spirits high. Try sing-a-longs, games, snacks or exciting destinations along the way—anything to avoid hearing, “How much further?” 

Every child is different of course, but experienced kids around the age of six are usually able to last about 45 minutes on their own, over gentle terrain. Double that if they’re riding behind you on a trail-a-bike. For many experienced 10-year-olds, an hour and a half on their own bike is no problem. Almost everyone prefers a loop to the repetitiveness of an out-and-back route. 

“Most adults want to set goals, in terms of distance, time or effort and that’s not going to work with kids,” says Lee McCormack of Boulder, Colorado, author of Teaching Mountain Bike Skills. “The terrain shouldn’t be threatening at all,” he advises for newbie kids. “We want to imprint positive experiences, so keep it very mellow.” He adds that completely flat trails aren’t ideal because kids love to coast down hills, instead, opt for moderate grade, simple open track, with some rocks to make things interesting. 

McCormack is a father of twin three-year-old girls. He got his kids started on Strider bikes when they were just 18 months old. “They just chewed on them at first, but when they were two, they wanted to ride them.” McCormack advocates pump tracks—mini, circular, off-road routes that take riders over bumps and through tight corners and can even fit inside a backyard. “Parents don’t want to give up riding but can’t take their kids on a three-hour, cross country, Type A mission,” says McCormack. “Pump tracks are the answer. They’re a great place to hang out and there’s a huge benefit in terms of athleticism and fitness.”

Pump tracks are like a low-key BMX track from the ‘80s and they’re springing up in municipal parks everywhere. There’s probably one near you. Before hitting the trails, laps at a pump track can help your kids learn to corner on berms and pedal hard up steep rollers. No one gets left behind at the pump track and kids can stop for a snack or play whenever they want.

SMOOTH, FLOWING TRAILS ENCOURAGE ENW RIDERS

Now that there’s a trail the whole family can enjoy, trailbuilder Ted Ferguson has noticed a huge increase in the number of ski families out mountain biking at Mont Ste-Marie, north of the city of Gatineau, Quebec. 

“The very first trail the other dads and I built goes straight down a steep hill. It’s pretty advanced,” laughs Ferguson who obtained a grant to build a five-kilometer beginner mountain bike loop. “If a family is looking to mountain bike, trail conditions are an absolute priority. Rooty, swampy, rocky or too steep isn’t fun for a lot of young kids, especially if they’re just getting into biking.” Everything is to scale. Two-inch roots and rocks we roll over are a much bigger deal on a bike with small 20-inch wheels, he says.

In order to make the trail fun for kids and beginner riders while still offering challenges for advanced riders, Ferguson and trail builders across the country are making smooth trails and adding berms at every turn. 

“You need flow and fun. Challenging, but not too challenging,” says Ferguson who carries his younger son’s bike up hills to hook the boy on downhill thrills. “The berms turn the trail into a roller coaster that kids love. And it creates a beautiful, fluid sensation for experienced riders,” he adds. 

FUEL UP

Food that’s filling and delicious and stays appetizing after being jostled in a backpack works best. Hard-boiled eggs, hummus and veggies, apples, wraps and treats like cookies or granola bars will be favorites.

Don’t overthink your food selection, whatever you would usually bring on a hike works on a bike ride. Avoid energy goos or fancy sports bars that are marketed to endurance athletes. Many of these products contain caffeine as a performance-enhancing ingredient and are not appropriate for the younger set.

BIKE BASE CAMPING

The perfect bike weekend campsite offers lots of opportunities for the kids to relax and play. If you’re staying in a campground, choose a site close to a beach, a big soccer field, a playground with a fun set of monkey bars or any other interesting features. Especially after using a lot of balance and control on the bike, kids need to let loose and play in the evening. 

Choosing a campsite close to the trails means adults can take turns hanging out with the kids and heading out for their own quick, intense trail rides. 

Don’t put the bikes away after the trail ride. Riding the paths around the campground may be even more fun for them. “We set boundaries, remind them of cars, hand them walkie talkies and they’re gone,” says MacGregor. “Riding a bike is the closest to real freedom a kid can get.”

Kathleen Wilker and her family are avid cyclists. In 2010 Kathleen was awarded the City of Ottawa’s Bruce Timmermans Award for cycling education and promotion.

This article first appeared in the Spring 2013 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.

It’s July 22, 2012. I’m only halfway there, carrying the canoe up a three-kilometer-long, 1,500-foot-high portage. A storm of black flies keeps me company and have bludgeoned me to the point where the protective shirt wrapped around my head is soaked in blood. The temperature in the windless Poungasse Valley has crept to 30 degrees Celcius and sweat mixes with blood, running in a pink stream down my chest. We’re trying to crawl out of this chasm to reach the expansive Labrador Plateau. “Shoot when it’s hard,” they say. It’s showtime.

I drop the canoe on the tundra, pull the camera out of the case strapped to my chest and go to work. First, a close-up zoom and comment on my beaten face and the general situation. Next, run ahead 20 meters to set up the camera on a tripod for a third-person perspective of the carry. Finally, flip the canoe back on my head, grab my little point-of-view (POV) camera and turn the lens to my face before continuing to march uphill past the tripod. Drop the canoe again, pack up the camera gear, pop the canoe up and carry on with the journey.

Doubling back down the mountainside I meet up with Todd. He’s been seized with heatstroke and is on the verge of puking. Of course the camera comes out. I interview him about how he feels, then set up the tent so he can escape the black flies, hydrate and sleep off his condition. He drops into the shelter and immediately conks out for three hours. I tell the camera what’s happening and then film his passed-out body from an aesthetic angle shot through the tent screen that initially focuses on him before fading to a foreground of no-see-um mesh. I put away the electronics, grab a couple of bags and start back up to the canoe. So goes day three of a 620-kilometer, 21-day expedition and film production through Nunatsiavut and Nunavik with my friend Todd McGowan.

As an adventure filmmaker, this is just a typical day juggling the duties of director, videographer, editor, producer, expedition leader, camp cook and sherpa. Working within this creative box, I try to create intimate portraits of the landscapes I pass through. With national broadcasts of my past three productions, I’ve managed to scrape along from one project to the next.

To avoid burnout, I take an occasional break from filming. In 2010, I completed a canoe trip to Hudson Bay without my cameras and it was bliss (read an account of this trip in Canoeroots, spring 2012, www.canoerootsmag.com/0040). I basked in the experiential simplicity of that adventure—just a friend, a canoe and the boreal forest. Then I struggled with committing to film my next adventure. 

I knew that I wanted to use film to show the interconnectedness of life in Labrador, but the all-consuming process of shooting a layered, broadcast-worthy movie about a tough expedition is like adding the logistical complexity of a third person to the canoe. In terms of energy and effort, it’s like bringing a toddler along. On the other hand, films I’ve made in the past have always been deeply rewarding. The tug of war in my mind didn’t end until the morning we left Vancouver for Goose Bay. The third person was coming. 

Labrador is a vast region, the most eastern part of Canada’s mainland, and home to more caribou than people. North of its southern towns there are no connecting roads and the only way up is by plane or ferry. 

With our canoe on board, we take the MV Northern Ranger on a two-day voyage along the coast to its terminus at the Inuit village of Nain. This community is my only chance to get the Inuit perspective of the land. Nain is the capital of Nunatsiavut, the Inuit region that comprises northern Labrador.

Filmmaking is a journey that parallels the canoe trip—you have an idea of where you want to go but never know exactly what, or who, is around the next corner. Unknown twists and turns are where adventure and inspiration arise. Likewise, the camera and the canoe are powerful tools if you have a purpose and mission. Both invite local populations to share ideas and stories they otherwise wouldn’t tell. I immediately begin hunting for relevant interview subjects.

Sarah Leo is the recently elected President of Nunatsiavut. I ask her about the area we’re to canoe through. She laughs heartily and says, “That’s not an area people go in the summertime—partly because of the difficult access…but mostly because of the flies.” I’ll use this quote in the narration of our buggy portage up the Poungasse a few days later. One interview down.

From Nain, it’s 238 thick kilometers to the George River in Nunavik and after speaking with Leo, I want to know if the rest of the locals think what we’re doing is rational, mad or somewhere in between. In a grassy field along the shoreline, I interview Johannes Lamp, an experienced hunter and local politician. He encourages and discourages me at the same time. “It will be difficult…but if you are determined, I think you can make it.” A nice bit of narration to lay over the portage footage, I think. In just a few hours I’ve managed to grab the local commentary I need to give context to the first leg of the film. 

Though the Inuit and Innu have been roaming these lands for millennia, British explorer Hesketh Prichard is the only known person to have crossed over the Labrador Plateau from Nain by canoe. He paddled—then abandoned his canoe and hiked—a route north of ours over a hundred years ago. Back in Vancouver, I’d looked at the maps and crafted a route that I thought made more sense than Prichard’s. Here’s hoping. 

On July 29th, Todd and I huddle behind a monolith on the shore of a large, unnamed lake while we wait for a heavy head wind to ease off. That’s the thing with the Labrador Plateau, it’s either windy or it’s buggy. Though it’s pleasantly bug-free behind this hunk of rock, we’re just sitting. 

Progress has been slow since we crested the Poungasse and gazed across the Plateau’s moonscape of rock and heather. Many of the rivers and lakes shown on our maps are severely shallow, boulder-choked and unnavigable. As a result, we’ve had to be content with dragging slowly over the tundra with short spurts of paddling across small lakes. Averaging only 12 kilometers or so per day, it’s been a grind. 

The wind across the Plateau doesn’t make it practical to carry the canoe so I’ve had to drag it overland with a line harnessed to my PFD. In the past week I’ve shot every conceivable dragging angle possible, to the point where the leading candidate for the film’s title is Dragging my Canoe across Nunatsiavut: A Fool’s Journey.

Groping for a fresh perspective, I pull out the rubber mosquito mask I’ve made for this trip. I slip it over my head and strip down to my briefs. Having recently filmed super close-ups of mosquitoes and their natural movements as they crawl over various parts of my body, I begin filming a sequence where I crawl, mosquito-like, around the tundra that will fade into a shot of a mosquito doing the same in the film.

On a deeper level, I want this film to illustrate the interconnectedness of all living things in the region—this scene will bridge the gap between man, mosquito and everything in between. The Inuit spoke of this connection during my interviews in Nain—though it’s unlikely they foresaw it this way. 

Finally released by the Plateau several days later, we paddle into the crystal clear, brook trout-laden Natikamaukau River. This waterway is a privilege to descend as very few, if any, people have done so before. The Natikamaukau is 22 kilometers long and drops 400 feet from its source, snaking through water-smoothed rock slots down a deep valley framed by high, barren ridges roamed by caribou and black bear. It eventually spills into the oft-travelled George River, which we’ll ride north to our finish in Ungava Bay. 

Todd is waiting with the canoe at the top of a class III rapid while I set up a fisheye lens on a bluff to get an overhead view of the run. Mounted on the back of the canoe is the POV camera set up on a three-link boom called a Magic Arm so both of us are in the shot. Often used as a lighting mount in studio work, the arm is the perfect device for shooting canoe films as it can be clamped anywhere and at any angle on the gunwales or thwarts. Having at least two unique perspectives of the same rapid is key to making a dynamic sequence. I don’t portage back up rapids to re-do shots so this is a one-shot deal.

I give Todd the signal, press record and scramble over the rocks, bash through the shore alder, splash through the shallows and hop into the canoe. With the POV camera rolling, I tuck into the spraydeck and we’re off.

The canoe slips into the current and we engage the river. I forget that I’m filming and enjoy the moment as a series of standing waves crash over Todd in the bow. We side-slip a series of pillow rocks before peeling safely into an eddy behind a large boulder.

After a bit of euphoric hooting and hollering, I hop out, scramble up the embankment and run 100 meters back to the still-running camera. In my mind I can already see how I’ll cut the scene when I get home. Surrounded by the barren splendor of Nunavik it dawns on me that this is a pretty good office—and I’m glad the third person came with us on our journey. As film and trip draw closer to conclusion and destination, I realize as both a filmmaker and adventurer, I couldn’t ask for anything more than this.

Frank Wolf is an adventurer and filmmaker who specializes in environmental documentaries. He lives in Vancouver.

This article first appeared in the Spring 2013 issue of Canoeroots Magazine.