by Craig Oliver
I established the practice, soon an annual ritual, of polling friends and likely candidates every fall to solicit interest in an expedition for the following summer. In the early years most of us were single, with good jobs that allowed for the expense of state-of-the-art gear and the cost of commercial flights to a jumping-off point in the north, followed by private charters to some remote destination in the High Arctic.
Just as mountain climbers keep a list of iconic peaks so too did we compile a catalogue of desirable rivers. Winter evenings were spent searching maps, looking for an obscure waterway that no one else had heard of, measuring its vertical drop, judging its velocity, and discovering the waterfalls or other obstacles that would require portage. During a reunion a few weeks before spring, we chose that year’s river from among the collective wish list. There was little room for debate over when to go: Depending on latitude, we had only a narrow window of decent weather between mid-July and mid-August. We then assigned or reconfirmed the logistical duties and arranged ourselves in paddling pairs.
Tim Kotcheff and I were a smooth-operating duo by the mid-seventies and naturally formed up one of the canoes. With Tim and his faulty hearing in the bow and I with my poor eyesight in the stern, we were dubbed the “Affirmative Action Canoe.” I was able to hear big water ahead, and shortly after Tim would be able to see it and then direct me where to steer. Early on, Tim became our acknowledged river master, always careful and cautious but ready to take calculated risks. As his family was in the restaurant business, he also assumed the role of one of two head chefs in the party. I took on responsibility for the pre-dinner happy hour, pouring out two carefully measured rum daiquiris per man per night under watchful eyes.
Among the early joiners was Peter Stollery, then a Member of Parliament for Toronto Spadina and later a senator. Peter is the most physically brave person I have ever met, the man you want to be next to in the trench during the tumult of battle, though not necessarily afterwards. He is the guy who will win the Victoria Cross posthumously.
Ted Johnson was executive assistant to Prime Minister Trudeau when I first met him, and he soon assumed a leadership role in navigation, knowing more than any of us about compass directions, canoe repair, and the emergency radio. He and I did much of the advance work, canvassing northern outfitters for canoes to rent and booking aircraft and hotel rooms. Ted was our official historian as well, a keeper of detailed notes, and a student of Arctic history and geography, researching the relevant explorers’ journals. On the Back River, we had nightly readings about the lost Franklin expedition and ended the trip at Starvation Cove on the Arctic coast within sight of the permanent pack ice that trapped Franklin’s two ships forever.
David Silcox was an author and a nationally respected arts bureaucrat. I was doubtful when his name first arose. We had never met and I had in mind the stereotype of a retiring and limp-wristed Prufrock. Instead, along came a fellow built like a truck driver and just as down to earth, resolute, and strong. While others were considering what to do, David simply did it. He shared the head-chef hat with Tim.
John Godfrey was the trip intellectual and philosopher. A university professor when I first knew him, he later became a distinguished Liberal MP from Toronto and a member of Paul Martin’s Cabinet. He insisted we devote attention to our intellectual as well as physical nourishment and proposed that we plan a list of topics for campfire conversation, along with a reading program. But he was no wimp. In fact he was unflappable under the most trying circumstances.
In a serious wreck on the Korok River in 1982, John’s canoe went down for good. Having managed to survive a swim down a series of cascading ledges, he came ashore on the other side of the river. We could see him yelling from the far bank but could not make out his meaning above the incessant roar of the water. Thinking he might be hurt, I waded out as far as I dared to catch his words. “Time for a group photo!” he bellowed. The resulting picture shows five men lined up in front and a tiny figure waving in the far background.
Every group has to have its contrarian and we loved ours. Bill Williams was the camp doctor, an outstanding cardiologist with Ottawa’s Heart Institute. With penetrating intelligence, Bill tested our diagnoses of conditions on the rivers and often chose his own path through a rapid rather than follow the lead canoe. In medicine or in river travel, I never found cause to doubt his judgment.
Eddie Goldenberg is famous as the lifetime shadow of Jean Chrétien, serving him as friend and adviser in good times and bad. Eddie’s approach to wilderness travel was simple: Go slow and above all take no unnecessary chances—the same strategic advice he gave Chrétien for years. As for his skill as a canoeist, it must be said Eddie often had more heart than talent. For keen insight and understanding of his fellow paddlers, though, he could not be matched.
Robert Fowler was a rising mandarin in the Foreign Affairs Department when he joined the group; later he would serve as foreign policy adviser to three prime ministers: Trudeau, Turner, and Mulroney. After distinguished performance in other top public service posts, he became Canada’s longest-serving ambassador to the United Nations and went on to do important work for Canada and the United Nations internationally. In 2008, Bob emerged alive and feisty after five months as the hostage of al Qaeda kidnappers in Niger. His survival was no surprise to those of us who had witnessed his tenacity on so many northern forays.
Denis Harvey was a much-admired news executive, one-time editor-in-chief of the Toronto Star, and later the head of CBC English television, though a blunt-speaking and demanding boss. An active life as an amateur athlete had led Denis to multiple surgeries and so many artificial body parts that we called him the “Bionic Paddler,” yet his steel knees did not keep him from several hardship trips.
Lawyer and later Liberal Cabinet minister Allan Rock was always a great asset with his unshakeable good humour and concern for the needs of others. There was a strict rule that, no matter how bad the weather or the circumstances, he who drew duty for the dishes did them alone, allowing others to look after their personal affairs after the evening camp. At the end of one of the worst days I can recall—a dangerous paddle in high winds across a lake so broad the shoreline could not be seen—that night’s dirty dishes fell to me. It was wet and cold and the insects were merciless. Everyone disappeared into their tents, leaving me with pots, pans, plates, and utensils from what had been a greasy meal of several courses. Everyone, that is, but Allan. I warned him that when his turn came I would not return the favour. Canoe rules are a brutal business. To my great relief, Allan scrubbed away by my side and would not quit until I could fall exhausted into my sleeping bag.
Every time we had a trip where events went against us, John Macfarlane swore never to come again. But every season when the roll call was taken, he was there. In professional life, John was a magazine editor and publisher, at one time also a book publisher and broadcasting executive. On our trips, he was the camp sophisticate, assistant chef, and Tastevin, who took seriously his assignment of choosing the correct wines and providing a printed daily menu.
And what menus they were. The gorp-and-granola set in the Wilderness Canoe Association has often criticized our group for its high-living cuisine on the rivers. But there is no reason why canoeists on a long trip have to eat farty freeze-dries unless they regard privation as part of the sport. The canoe is designed to carry freight and there can never be too much good food and wine except on a portage. The idea was to plan the trip so that each day’s meals were prepared and packed in advance and the heaviest food and canned goods eaten before the toughest overland treks.
We transported a reinforced cardboard box designed by chefs Kotcheff and Silcox. It contained layered compartments to provide insulation, with a block of dry ice on the lowest level. Since in the Arctic the nights were cool and the days seldom really warm, fresh meats, even ice cream, could be preserved for up to twelve days. Typical dinner fare was that of August 1, 1990, two weeks into that year’s trip on Melville Peninsula: Smoked Salmon w
ith One Beer Each, Grilled New York Strip Steak and Mushrooms, Pan-fried New Potatoes, Caesar Salad, and a 1985 California Central Coast Pinot Noir.
A few others joined us when they could, among them Bill Fox, the witty communications director for Brian Mulroney, and Quebec author and CBC French news executive Jean Pelletier, son of Gérard Pelletier, one of the “three wise men” brought from Quebec to Ottawa by Lester Pearson. Trudeau Cabinet ministers Judd Buchanan and Hugh Faulkner were occasional companions.
In 1975, we did the Pelly River in the Yukon; in 1976, the Missinaibi near Chapleau, Ontario. The next year we went to the Northwest Territories and the Snare River; in 1978, it was the Noatak River in Alaska. The summer of 1979 found us on the Hanbury and Thelon rivers, back in the Northwest Territories, and in 1980 we paddled the Hood.
All of us shared either politics or journalism, and lively, uninhibited debate was never lacking. Only twice did a disagreement between individuals result in a permanent fracture: One was a searing argument over the Middle East that deteriorated into personal insult, and the other erupted over the choice of a campsite after a miserable fourteen hours of paddling—a testament to the gruelling conditions that could warp otherwise reasonable minds.
Most of us were in our early thirties when we started out and of course we had long discussions about women, the focus of which shifted over the years from opportunistic sex to relationship survival to ultimate resignation or enviable contentment. We shared private thoughts and fears in a way that is possible only when a bond of absolute trust and loyalty has been tested and found firm. On the worst days, when everything that could go wrong did, John Macfarlane was fond of declaring, “the Huns may throw everything they’ve got at us, but we can take it!” That comment brought to mind Shakespeare’s Henry V and his salute to his “band of brothers” before the Battle of Agincourt. A stretch, perhaps, but a sentiment that came close to my feelings for our own happy few.
On any river, a cardinal rule of survival is that every canoe is responsible for the canoe behind it. If a craft is lost from sight around a bend, one must stop paddling or even pull over until the follower reappears. The brigade moves at the speed of the slowest canoe, preventing the convoy from becoming too strung out and its members losing contact.
This practice was faithfully observed except on one occasion: on the Nahanni, which I traversed for a second time in 1978. When we reached our agreed-upon nighttime camp spot, one canoe was missing. Judd Buchanan, then the federal minister of Indian Affairs, and his canoe partner, John Gow, were nowhere to be seen. As the leader of that expedition, I felt wholly negligent, but my concern was allayed by the knowledge that Gow was the ultimate survivor.
An experienced mountaineer and former president of the Association of Canadian Mountain Guides, Gow was famous for an incident that had taken place in Alberta a few years earlier. He was a passenger in a light plane searching out a location for a new helicopter ski resort in high-mountain wilderness when the aircraft hit a treetop and crashed. The pilot and a second passenger were killed. While awaiting rescue, Gow knew he should set the plane afire to attract searchers, but he could not bring himself to immolate the bodies of two old friends.
When help failed to arrive, Gow walked in deep snow and freezing temperatures for a week until, close to death, he stumbled into a campsite. His head injuries required plastic surgery and he lost both legs below the knee. Gow later joked that he carried personal insurance against bears as a result: Should a grizzly threaten, Gow intended to throw the bear his artificial foot. That would convince the animal that he and his companions were not worth eating.
Nonetheless, standing watch on the sandbank and gazing upriver into the midnight sun for much of the night, I was gripped by a terrible foreboding. By morning, I was sick with worry and guilt. I tried to paddle upstream to look for the two men, but the powerful Nahanni current made any serious progress impossible. What to do? David Silcox and I decided to head downriver and find help while the remaining six stayed behind in case the lost men showed up.
By pure happenstance, Silcox and I came upon a powered raft, property of the Parks Department, hidden in a cove. We commandeered it and headed back upriver. We found Gow and Buchanan just breaking camp about ten miles above us, in fine form except for mild hangovers. They had made a frying pan out of green boughs, cooked up bacon and toast, and finished a forty-ouncer of Scotch. Despair vanished with the morning mist, replaced by exhilaration. I was even able to join in the laughs when Gow accused me of being the lost one for having sailed past the camp location we’d agreed upon as our destination. Lesson learned.
On these outings, encounters with our fellow men were rare but always memorable. On the Yukon River in 1975, Tim and I had pulled ashore to make necessary use of the great outdoors when we noticed a long-neglected, lopsided log cabin in the woods. Curious about its story, we toured the premises, which still held a store of pots and dishes and boasted tattered chintz curtains. Perhaps a hunter or two had used the cabin during the season, but it had obviously not been permanently occupied for many years. When I idly pulled up a loose floorboard, I found beneath it a bundle of letters—as many as a hundred.
They were a man’s love letters, dating from the years following the gold rush to the First World War—nothing steamy, just simple declarations of obvious affection in a somewhat-stilted Victorian style. The notes held the details of the writer’s daily life, his poor health, and his abiding regard for his female friend and former companion. They were all signed by Herb and addressed to the postmaster in a long-abandoned gold rush town on the river near Dawson City. However, the postmaster was clearly a postmistress. The letters referred to her work carrying the territorial mail on foot and by dogsled up and down the river. I considered taking some of the most affecting correspondence with us, but thought better of it. Too much like grave robbing.
But I did note the name of the intended recipient on the off chance she might still be alive sixty years later. I asked after her at the museum in Dawson. Sure enough, she was living at her home on the outskirts of town. When we arrived at the small, neat house, we found that a faded white cross was nailed to the door. An old gal with a sharp, lively eye opened the door a crack. We told her our story and were invited in for tea. As she made for the kitchen, she laid the old single-shot pistol she’d been carrying on the sideboard.
The cross on the door was in honour of Herb, who had been dead for years. No other man ever courted this woman. He had come up from Seattle in the years after the stampede when many people were still taking out enough gold to make a living. She and Herb had been together for a few years, but the easy handmining went dry and he moved south. She never saw him again, nor forgot him.
We were paddling the Snare River in the Northwest Territories in 1977 when we came upon a man in a vague brown uniform sitting on the river’s edge, his back turned to us while he studied a cluster of log buildings that might have been hit by a tornado. We shouted a greeting and he swung around, startled, a semi-automatic rifle cradled in his arm.
Hungry grizzly bears whose normal seasonal diet of caribou had been affected by a recent decimation of the herds had besieged this tiny Dogrib village. The evidence of the animals’ strength was astonishing. The bears had torn the roofs off sturdily built log homes. In the wrecked storehouse, five-pound cans of food were flattened and punctured clean through by the bears’ teeth. The footprint of one beast, captured in spilt flour, was a foot and a half in breadth.
Something was clearly wrong with these animals, since grizzlies are usually shy creatures. The game warden was waiting to kill them if, as expected, they returned. Yet he himself was an odd character. From Florida originally, he was a naturalized Canadian who had served two tours as a Green Beret in Vietnam. No doubt he had seen a lot of death there, and now he was here, killing grizzlies alone. Clearly this was a man who had come to the end of the continent to escape something. The encounter led to later reflection that there are hungry bears inside man
y of us too, their savage appetites making demands that are hard to resist, regardless of the consequences.
In 1979, I invited Pierre Trudeau to join us for a three-week trip down the Hanbury and Thelon rivers in the central Barren Lands. Trudeau was smarting from the first defeat of his political career at the hands of Joe Clark, and I thought he might find solace and distraction in those lovely and remote rivers. He was an experienced paddler and we had no qualms about his abilities, though his well-known cool demeanour and recent public setback gave some of us pause as to the quality of his company.
Trudeau and I had a mutual friend in Eric Morse, a much-admired guru to generations of wilderness canoeists, whom I had met when I moved to Ottawa in 1974. Morse was in his seventies then, but still tripping with his wife, Pamela. He was a serious scholar of northern travel, paddling, researching, and writing books on the canoe routes of Arctic explorers and fur trade voyageurs. The son of a colonial administrator in India, Eric had an Old World charm combined with a sharp wit. I spent many delightful hours with him at his habitant-style home—canoe in the front yard—in the Gatineau Hills north of Ottawa and on a number of Ontario rivers.
For twenty years, Eric led a group of close friends, most of them senior public servants, on Arctic canoe trips. When he was justice minister, Trudeau joined one expedition on a voyage down the Coppermine River. It was at a party at the Morse home that I approached the uncharacteristically subdued former prime minister with the suggestion that he get away from the political scene for a time and come canoeing with us. He was intrigued when I proposed that he team up with Jean Pelletier, son of his oldest friend, Gérard, and he soon accepted.
Trudeau asked for no special treatment, nor did he receive any. There was no security detail and no retinue of assistants, and he seemed happy to be free of both. However, it was not possible to forget whom we were travelling with. At every airport on flights from Ottawa to Yellowknife, Trudeau was received like a rock star.
