So this is what adventure looks like.

A storm raged overhead as I sheltered under my overturned canoe on the shore of the Yukon’s Lake Laberge. Watching lightning stab down at the surrounding hills in the gloom, I shivered.

Only three days into a five-week solo canoe trip down the Yukon River and I was already at the mercy of the elements, gusts of wind sending sheets of rain to pound against the hull. Against the howling wind, I clung to the gunwales of my only means of return to civilization.

I’m not the first to have come to the Yukon River for a taste of adventure. In 1898, news of a massive gold strike in the Klondike Valley swept the world and some 30,000 men raced to Canada’s Yukon Territory. Doctors called the fever “klondicitis.” After hiking heavy packs over the dangerous Chilkoot and White Pass to the headwaters of the Yukon River, prospectors built rafts and boats to float, pole and paddle their way to collect certain fortune. Gold lay thick in the creek beds, it was said. For most, the dream proved elusive. 

Hearing the story as a boy, klondicitis hit me hard. I never shook off its romantic beckoning. Each summer I escaped my government job in the nation’s capital to paddle remote areas, but still the Klondike haunted me. And that’s how I found myself lying under my canoe, waiting for the storm to pass.

Warnings

My river journey began in Whitehorse, the capital of the Yukon, with warnings. In full flood, the Yukon River was carrying up to 40 percent more water volume than past years. Entire trees were caught up in the floodwaters, making for dangerous paddling companions. Often considered one of the more accessible northern rivers because it’s reachable by road and has few rapids, the Yukon River during the summer of 2012 was a whole different beast. 

My heavily-laden 17-foot Nova Craft set off into strong current from a quiet eddy in town. My goal was to trace the gold rush to the Klondike Valley, then paddle to the Arctic Circle, 1,300 kilometers away. Paddling away from Whitehorse, almost immediately I was immersed in wilderness. That first night I set up my tent within sight of rotting paddlewheeler wharf pilings on the “marge of Lake Laberge,” a place made famous by Robert Service’s 1907 poem The Cremation of Sam McGee. 

Lake Laberge is a widening of the river north of Whitehorse, 54 kilometres long and a dangerous and unpredictable lake for any canoeist. More than a few Klondike paddlewheelers, a popular means for traveling the river in the 19th century, rest on the bottom, victims of sudden storms, high winds and waves, which can whip up in minutes. 

Chased all morning and afternoon by a storm, I was caught 30 kilometers down the lake. Already pitching and rolling when a grey wave swept over my stern, I headed for the nearby shore. And that’s where I stayed, sheltered under my canoe and then huddled in my tent, for two wet days. 

Released from the clutches of the storm, I had my sights set on a ghost town at the northern reach of Lake Laberge. Eight hours of hard paddling found me, exhausted, setting up my tent beside a lonesome paddlewheeler, its ribs protruding from the gravel like a prehistoric skeleton. Close by, the remains of a telegraph station slowly composted into history. Klondike miners didn’t go north as pioneers to settle the land. Interested only in striking it rich, most left within a year of their arrival, pushed south by the hard winter and disillusioned with the promise of gold. Their log cabins illustrate the hard lives they led: dirt floors, windows improvised from whiskey bottles or tanned moose hides and a solitary stove to keep the cold at bay. Most of these ghost towns have disappeared into the black spruce forests, but their bones are still there for those who look.

Exploring

Hootalinqua, where the Yukon meets the Teslin River, is a beautiful ghost town. Its name means “running against the mountains” in reference to the fast and narrow section I’d just paddled. A North-West Mounted Police post, telegraph station, solitary trapper’s cabin and log store are all that remain. A narrow path, guarded only by swarms of mosquitoes, leads through the forest to a rocky lookout. Nearby, the paddlewheeler Evelyn still stands upright—though tilting—on supports where dockside workers abandoned her 100 years ago. Deep in the wilderness, ravens and hummingbirds perch on her sagging bow and stern.

Constant vigilance is a necessity for any wilderness paddler. From its headwaters in British Columbia, the Yukon River carves a circuitous 3,100-kilometer path through the wilderness to the Bering Sea, making it the 10th longest river in the world. Moose, caribou, wolverine, bear and eagles are often more common than people along its banks. With a year-round frigid water temperature, hypothermia is a serious concern. Rapids, whirlpools and sweepers pose navigational challenges. In its flood conditions, logjams forced furious paddling to find a clear and safe path and submerged logs were a constant danger; getting rammed by one would certainly have capsized me.

The challenges of Canada’s north attract adventurers from around the world. More than 300,000 people visit the Yukon each year, says tourism spokesperson Jim Kemshead. One in five of those are adventure enthusiasts. “The Yukon has a landmass the same size as California but whereas California has a population of 38 million, the Yukon is populated with 36,000 people. This makes for great expanses of pristine wilderness.”

At Carmacks, a small riverside town named after one of the original Klondike gold miners, I met a German couple kayaking from Whitehorse to Eagle, Alaska, with their young son and husky dog. A wolf had stalked their husky at Selwyn, a remote ghost town, they told me. Englishman, Eddy Hely, was another freedom-loving paddler traveling downriver. At 32 years old, Hely travels the world seeking adventures, working when money supplies run dry. It’s not an uncommon story for travelers along the Yukon.

Klondike Gold

Three weeks in, I arrived at Dawson City, nestled deep in the Klondike Valley at the confluence of the Yukon and Klondike rivers. I resupplied and took a few days off. I spent a day on a palaeontology dig organized by Dr. Grant Zazula of the Yukon government who researches the prehistoric animals, including mammoths, scimitar cats, camels and nine-foot-long beavers, that roamed the area before the last ice age. I uncovered a 30,000-year-old buffalo horn and jawbone, complete with several teeth.

Most paddlers end their trip at Dawson, which retains its frontier, gold-rush feel. Called the Paris of the North when its population ballooned to 40,000 in 1898, today little over a thousand people call it home year-round. Its dirt-packed streets, old-fashioned street-side facades and employees dressed in period costume are at odds with the bustling RVs and tourists. Though only 4,000 men struck gold in the Klondike during its hey-day, today a handful of hardened prospectors still try their luck in the rivers nearby. 

If Dawson was the heart of the Klondike Gold Rush, then the Yukon River was the artery that fed it. Few prospectors followed the river past Dawson; fewer still to Fort Yukon, my final destination. Saying goodbye to Dawson and my Klondike quest, I took to the river. Warned of a wild ride ahead, anticipation spiked as I nosed the canoe into the strong current. Due to the flood conditions, I’d been clocking speeds up to 18 kilometers per hour and couldn’t imagine going faster. 

With the river unrolling before me—endless kilometers of spectacular mountain beauty—it was easy to see how the area captured the imagination of so many artists—writers Jack London, Robert Service and Pierre Burton, most famously. Signs of the gold rush dried up as skeletons of paddlewheelers disappeared from the shore. Past the granite marker at the Yukon-Alaskan border and several hard paddling days from the Arctic Circle, the river enters a vast swampland of islands called Yukon Flats, a major North American breeding ground for cranes, geese and ducks. The shoreline flattened, swallowing all recognizable landforms. Because the river tears down these islands and gravel bars as quickly as it builds them, my GPS was of no help. Lost in a 230-square-kilometer area of the braided river, at least I could be sure that as long as I was on the river, I was inching closer to the Bering Sea. With an ample reserve of food, I was far from panicked. Before turning in that night, a pair of sand-hill cranes silently drifted past my campsite in the gathering dusk. Then a pair of wolves howled in the distance. Bliss.

The following day, after covering almost 1,300 kilometers, I hauled my canoe out of the current at the Alaskan village of Fort Yukon perched just above the Arctic Circle. This was the finish line. After five weeks of paddling the Yukon River in flood conditions—taking more than 133,100 paddle strokes—my case of klondicitis is worse than ever. But unlike the prospectors before me, I know I’ll be back. 

If You Go…

Essentials for paddling the Yukon River

When to Go

Travel mid-June to take advantage of the daylight hours and experience the most of the midnight sun. On the summer solstice, June 21, travelers and locals alike meet on top of the Dome, a massive hill overlooking the river and Dawson City, to watch the sun dip below the mountains and rise again only a couple hours later. Or, paddle in July and time your arrival with the Dawson City Music Festival, a truly unique, grassroots event with world-class music (dcmf.com). August sees cooler temperatures, shorter days and fewer bugs. 

Where to Paddle

Most long-distance paddlers on the Yukon River start in Whitehorse and take out 460 miles and two weeks later in Dawson City. Shorten your trip by half by starting or ending in the town of Carmacks. Alternately, shorten your trip but not your route by participating in the Yukon River Quest, the world’s longest annual canoe and kayak race that spans the full distance from Whitehorse to Dawson City but takes place over five days—winners regularly cross the finish line in under 42 hours. yukonriverquest.com. 

Weather Concerns

“If you don’t like the weather, wait an hour” is a common saying in the Yukon. It’s unpredictable at best. Though temperatures can spike to 30 degrees Celsius and higher during summer months, a daily temperature of 18 degrees Celsius is average during the summer, dropping close to zero at night. Snow along the Yukon River is possible at any time of year. 

Don’t Forget

This wilderness journey takes place in the heart of grizzly bear country. Bear spray and an emergency communications device are musts. Don’t forget an eye mask to ensure you get some sleep. 

Outfitters and Guided Tours

Up North Adventures | upnorthadventures.com

Kanoe People | kanoepeople.com

Sea to Sky Expeditions | seatoskyexpeditions.com

Pathways Canada | canoe-yukon.com

Cabin Fever Adventures | cabinfeveradventures.com

Allen Macartney is an experienced wilderness paddler, writer and photographer. His expedition was sponsored by the Royal Canadian Geographical Society.

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

Before having children, my wife and I spent just about every weekend exploring lakes and rivers by boat or canoe. Simply satisfying our angling habit had been demanding enough, but launching onto the stormy seas of parenthood created the sort of change and challenge that really rocked the boat. Thirteen-hour days on the water were suddenly no longer an option.

Even so, a young family doesn’t mean your rods and reels have to collect dust in the garage. Instil a passion for fishing in your young children and be rewarded with fun family excursions for years to come. Our girls are now in their mid-teens with infinitely more important distractions than fishing, but we still manage to spend time together on the water catching fish and having fun. As a parent, you can’t ask for much more than that. Create a life-long passion for fishing and nurture your angler from the cradle to the boat with these hard-earned pearls of advice.

Never Too Young 

Armed with a properly fitted PFD, a child is never too young to get out on the water. “I was about two years old when I started fishing with my dad,” says Gord Ellis, an outdoor writer, fisherman and father of two. “My boys were barely walking when they’d join us in the boat.” Ellis adds that they didn’t do much fishing at first, but being on the water became second nature to them and they get excited for each and every fishing trip now. 

A Rod of Their Own

A small spinning reel and three-foot rod is a great starter unit. Stay away from commercial kids-specific rod and reel combos that are more flash than function, can be frustrating to use and prone to breaking. Hand-me-down spinning reels paired with ice fishing rods were a solution for my girls. Like me, you’ll learn the hard way that pre-schoolers often simply let go of their fishing rods when they’re distracted. During the early stages of rod wielding, tying a string from the boat to the rod is a wise precaution. Ellis notes that his kids had a better experience with higher-quality gear and recognized quality early on. “By age six the boys started eyeing up my best jigging rods,” he says. Not until you’re older, Junior!

Choose Your Weapon

Like most adults, I was reluctant to let my daughters choose their own lures because I felt more qualified to select a presentation that would help them catch fish. I was quickly cured of this conceit when my three-year-old insisted on hooking her jig with the strangest looking soft plastic bait in my tackle box. While my wife and I used live minnows, my daughter worked a monstrosity called a “twin tailed skirted grub.” After she caught three walleye to our zero, I vowed never to doubt my daughters’ angling instincts. I still make general suggestions but I open my tackle box and let my girls choose their own lures. Often, I’m surprised and enlightened as to what works. 

Fish Where There’s Fish, Dummy

Children like catching fish more than fishing so go for the sure thing whenever possible. While hard-core anglers enjoy the search, youngsters are much happier casting off a point or into a pool at the base of rapids and experiencing instant gratification. Appreciating the subtleties of finding fish in challenging waters comes later.

Warm and Dry

Weather often doesn’t cooperate and an uncomfortable kid will not be receptive to the joys of angling. On the flipside, kids are surprisingly ambivalent to foul weather when they’re prepared for it. First on the list for angler Jamie Robinson is warm clothing and quality raingear for his son and daughter. 

“Thinking back, I’m surprised at some of the miserable weather we’ve been out in,” he says adding that when the kids are warm and dry there’s no complaining. Living in Northern Ontario, Robinson errs on the side of caution for his excursions, packing hats, mittens and warm jackets even in summer. “It’s nothing to see us in July in snow suits in the boat,” he jokes.

Bring Distractions

Even at the best fishing spots the bite is not always on and “I’m bored” can become an unpleasant soundtrack for the day. Robinson always brings snacks and books to occupy his kids during slow periods in the boat but draws the line at video games and electronics—kids get enough of that at home. It’s easier to keep excitable children entertained while fishing from shore than within the cramped quarters of a canoe as more distractions are at hand. For my girls, hot weather equals swimming, even if the fish are biting. Often, I’m pleasantly surprised that the walleye continue to bite in spite of the shrieking and thrashing limbs.

Pull Their Weight

While it’s tempting for parents to do everything ourselves, when kids assist with the duties that surround the trip they have an investment in the outing. As pre-schoolers, my daughters would pack their own snacks and help catch minnows and leeches for bait. Their experience has evolved to the point that my oldest can now back the boat and trailer into the water for me and my youngest can clean and fillet fish. Not only has involving them made them feel like an integral part of the adventure, but now they’re confident, capable and a big help.

Go One on One

With the whole family on board, a small craft can get cramped and hectic. The one-child-to-one-parent dynamic provides a great learning environment for kids and more time with a line in the water for parents. Young anglers love the undivided attention and mom or dad will have fewer snags and tangles to deal with. One-on-one provides the perfect opportunity to teach essentials like safe casting practices. Hint: Kids should always announce their casts. 

Learn When to Pull the Plug

Don’t let children push you around with early requests to leave but learn to recognise when your child has had enough. Better to have a shortened day on the water than imprint a bad experience. Whenever we couldn’t convince our daughters that boating and fishing was the most fun they could be having, we would head to shore, consistent with our pledge never to force fishing. 

While nurturing young anglers takes adaptation and even sacrifice, for parents who love angling and the outdoors, the investment is worthwhile, to be repaid with years of rewarding family adventures. 

An avid angler and camper, James Smedley’s life revolves around the outdoors. He has earned more than 30 U.S. and Canadian national awards for writing and photography.

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

Last summer, I happened across a magazine article, lyrically penned and lavishly illustrated, extolling a perfect day of living large in the great outdoors. To my delight, the piece centered on a weekend canoe trip in a region of northwoodsy lakes and rivers I knew well. Digging deeper into the story, it soon became apparent that this was definitely unlike any paddling getaway that I’ve ever been on.

In the accompanying dreamy photographs, the GQ-ready paddler, complete with Brad Pitt’s dashing good looks and a perfect two days worth of stubble, was seated ramrod straight, sans PFD, in the stern of a classic wood-stripper canoe. The boat, with its classic lines and warm-hued natural wood finish, was stunning. Nearly as stunning as the statuesque bow paddler, an übersexy blonde attired in a sports bra and knockout tights, again, no PFD, who I swear I’ve seen gracing the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. 

In between the lavish images of the two beautiful models who just happened to be sitting in a canoe, the article waxed poetically about the glorious morning sun casting itself over the sky-blue waters and the sweet-smelling wilderness air. It rambled on about the sensual, hypnotic motion of the sleek canoe gliding over the mirror-calm surface, the enchanting yodeling of a pair of courting loons and the picture-perfect campsite under tall white pines awaiting day’s end.

Well, jolly good for Brad and Gisele, I say. For the rest of us Average Joe and Jane Bagadonuts who canoe in the real world instead of Never Never Land, all this pabulum was a bit much. 

In 35 years of dinking around in canoes, I’ve had my share of memorable days on the water. Though I have to admit, not one of them was ever shared with a supermodel and not a single person has ever mistaken me or any of my paddling buddies for Brad Pitt.

Some of my most vivid remembrances from canoe trips past have not been of days when life was blissful, beautiful and perfect, but rather those imperfect days. Days when canoeing was more about fearsome storms, chilling capsizes and portages from hell. 

Sadly to say, my canoeing-related misadventures are not isolated events, but I’m glad of them all. Even now, years later, these wayward recollections still make me grin in a puckered-brow, I-can’t-believe-this-happened-to-me kind of way.

By now I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’ll never have an angel as a paddling partner, other than my wife, and I’ve been told I look a lot more like Larry David than any GQ coverboy.

Truth be told, canoeing as often as I do, I’m bound to have more of those indelible imperfect days. After all, shit happens, which only makes me appreciate it even more when everything does go right. Besides, for the paddlers I know, mishaps make better stories.

Larry Rice’s most recent imperfect day involved a sand-blasting, tent-flattening, all-night windstorm in the Lower Canyons of the Rio Grande in Big Bend, Texas.

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