Walking the Line

We left Stan’s and set off into the valley of the Godlin River. The road was overgrown and crowded with trees, but the walking was easy and the weather was in our favour.

We made one false turn crossing a broad washout, where we failed to pick up the road on the other side and went downhill instead of up. We paid for our impatience with a tiring two-hour bushwhack through spongy hummock and stream beds until we spotted a fallen telephone pole high up a desolate hillside and regained the trail. Lesson learned: when in doubt, drop the packs and scout the far side of any washouts.

Despite the detour, our two days through the Godlin River valley were some of the most enjoyable of the trip. Hemmed in by mountain ridges that sweated tributaries into the river’s burgeoning flow, the valley reverberated with the sheer majesty of the wild North. We had two nights of perfect riverside camping on broad boulder and sand beds. We sat by a driftwood fire and skipped water-polished stones across the surging river, our day’s work at an end, with nothing to look forward to but more of the same.

Nights sank a chill into the valleys, but wrapped in my warm sleeping bag I didn’t notice, and the sound of stones tumbling down the riverbed quickly faded away.

The honeymoon was bound to end. Beyond the Godlin, the Canol turned tough. After slogging through swamp and close brush, up and over a low range, we reached the infamous Twitya River at the end of what had already been the most grueling day so far. The river flowed fast and muddy, a sickly grey from its clay banks.

This was the make-or-break challenge we’d been brooding over from the start. Cold, hungry and exhausted, I looked with reluctance at this river that had defeated so many.

“Do we do it now or wait until morning?” Colin asked.

“I don’t want to think about that first thing in the morning,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I don’t want to think about it all night tonight either.”

We carefully stowed everything that needed to be stowed in dry bags, strapped on our river shoes, and then took turns blowing up a boating tube from Canadian Tire. It looked cheerful and out of place, hinting at lakeside BBQs and long weekends rather than swift icy rivers in the northern barrens. I hoped that it would float beneath the weight of two 30-kilogram packs.

We lashed our bags to the tube and peeled off layers of clothing, down to shorts and T-shirts. We set the tube carefully in the water and took a step forward. The current grabbed it and tried to tug it from our grasp.

“You ready?” Colin said. “Let’s walk at the same time, one on each side.” We began to shuffle forward, fighting against the surge. “One more step….”

The bottom dropped out and the river tore us from the shore.

“Go back!” Colin yelled.

“Swim!” I shouted back. It was too late for second thoughts.

I clung to the rope with the desperate knowledge that to let go was to lose our food, maps, tent and dry clothing. I pulled with the other arm, gasping spasmodically from the searing cold, unable to catch a breath. After what seemed an eternity, I looked downriver. We were still in the middle. I thought for sure we’d be swept away.

I swung myself around to the back, grabbed on with both hands, and kicked for all I was worth. When I was beginning to think that I could kick no more I heard Colin yell, “I can touch bottom.” We waded the rest of the way to shore and heaved the raft onto the rocks. The cold bite of the wind brought a different kind of misery. Teeth chattering, I struggled with numb fingers to undo the ropes while Colin checked the Twitya’s other braid to ensure that we wouldn’t have to swim again in the morning.

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