Day 2 Torch River A 14 hour day on the river calls for a full eight hours of sleep at the very least. When you spend the waking hours worshipping the sun, you tend to hunker down very well. I know I have entered R.E.M sleep when I awake in cold sweats of hallucinations. For reasons unknown I awoke in the middle of the night to the thought that my dog had ceased to breathe. As it turned out though, he was comfortably making himself my pillow, a far cry from an urn atop a mantle. I awoke this Friday morning to the smell of Joe cooking homegrown, straight from the farm into the smoke house bacon. Once I caught that whiff of salted pork fat, it did not take me long to rise from my slumber. After sticking some grits to our ribs we spent a lazy morning outlining our plans for the trip. It was beginning to look as if we were making far worse time than I had anticipated. If we were to continue our escapades of sleeping in, we would not make it to the vehicle on time to make it back to work the next week. With this at the back of our minds we set forth to see what kind of miles we could put on the river. Today our path would take us northeast deep into the provincial forest, where trails are only accessible by all-terrain vehicles. As we would reach the northern tip of the river, two fairly large creeks would add to the flow and the Torch would then begin to head south, back into the agricultural forest fringe. The map showed rapids on the southern leg but we were fairly unconcerned, after all we were piloting the unsinkable. At the end of the south leg we would reach the green bridge on the super grid just north of Love. Between us and the bridge though lay virtually untainted wilderness. With the barley flowing and the wind in our sail, we set forth. In typical rustic undertaking fashion, we quickly turned our paddling into floating and threw caution to the river. If she wanted to swallow us whole, we would be willing partners. Rearrangements of luggage and the positioning of a lawn chair atop the middle boat would make a suitable crow’s nest for this self-proclaimed captain and cook of the afternoon. I would allow us a river picnic. Spam wraps, complete with mustard, mayo and chickpeas. What more could hungry men possibly want. With bellies full, we faced full frontal, the winds of relaxation. We began sailing to worlds known only to those who dare tread upon dreams. As we drifted downriver we began more and more to allow ourselves to be placed under its spell. White tailed deer became fearless of our craft as the ravens circled above, anticipating a free meal. Those with wandering minds tend to neglect danger. Upturned logs, lodged in the sandy bottom, casualties of last year’s flood, performed slow sad waltzes for the eyes of the pirates. The leaves of the trembling aspen and the balsam poplar danced effortlessly under the guidance of a North West wind. Down and down we went, circling the creek on high, floating fearlessly and demanding divinity. Meanwhile the foreboding chorus of the white throated sparrow occupied the recesses of our sanity. A calf elk, briefly separated from its mother, stood waist deep in the shallows, staring at us in bewilderment, a mere paddle length away from joining our tattered company. Jaws dropped, we cut silence as silver tipped droplets of water retreated down its coat, back to the water from whence they came. At the familiar grunt of its mother, the beast leaped up, back onto shore, leaving us with new found respect for the wilderness and all her children. We were a ragged bunch, and I could feel the eyes of the forest; watching, waiting, and anticipating our next move, for only it knew what would lie ahead. We continued on our relaxation quest, once again putting our trust in the river. We were floating in endless circles, slowly making our way down at the whim of the current. Brett and Barry had fallen asleep, while the rest of us challenged consciousness amongst the stillness of the spruce. It was somewhere between four and six o clock when Brett finally woke from his slumber. “Grab your paddles,” he says, “I think the river is upset with us.” As we rounded the next bend, I began to see what Brett was speaking of. My face flushed with anxiety, I grabbed my laminated bent shaft paddle and began to dig in. Nothing to worry about yet, just avoid the rocks and the unsinkable ship will steer itself. We paddled around one particularly large hump backed whale of a rock. As we passed it we slowly turned our heads in its direction, eyes wild with the fears of “What If’s”. If we had hit that, things would have turned sour. As we turned back around we were faced with our next decision. Rocks, giant can openers, were jutting up in the middle of the river, threatening our safety; it was time to choose left or right. As we struggled to make a decision, the current dragged us to the right. We would have to round the rock, and then steer left again quickly to avoid an overhanging tree. We successfully passed the rocks but as we neared the tree it was becoming evident that we were not going to steer around the looming branches. With the speed of the rapids we smashed our sail right into the birch. Lines became tangled and the proverbial shit started to hit the fan. As the left guyline wrapped itself in the tree we became thoroughly stuck. The speed of the river then whipped us around ninety degrees and left the starboard side open to the power of the water. The river quickly found its way into the bottom of the boat as the men began to scream and the dogs started to entertain the idea of fear. Normally we all have relatively large knives at our quick disposal but with the hot temperatures, most of us had stripped down to our underwear. It became a mad rush to find the hatchet before the overhanging branch could wrestle us down to Davey’s locker. Just as I was starting to weigh my options of abandoning ship, Brett located a bowie knife. With his quick thinking we made a hasty attempt at dismantling the sail. He cut the guy lines and laid down the sail towards the back of the boat. If things had taken any longer, it would have been a very sad, very sorry walk out of mosquito country. We became free of the tree but were now floating down the rapids backwards. With all paddles pulling we managed to swing it around just in time to avoid more can openers. As we looked down river, it was becoming very obvious that things were not about to slow down. Eyes began searching for bail buckets while arms became tense as our minds tried to convince them of the strain they were about to take battling the upcoming waters. I sacrificed my premade ceaser. It would have to be made into a bail bucket, a sad day indeed. As we bailed and paddled we began searching for a shore to hit in order to regroup. The only problem being the river had decided not to slow down. My self, usually somewhat of an informal leader of the group had begun to lose my shit. I was in full on panic mode. I looked to my left, hoping to gain some confidence through the wisdom of Brett. The only words I could hear coming from Brett’s mouth, the other informal leader, was “this is fucked.” Usually Brett and I harbour no fears and are able to guide us through just about anything. Today though, the crew would be solely in his hands, and these were not confident appendages. After what seemed like an eternity, we spotted a sandy shore ahead. Steering the ship we lodged it in with all the speed our paddles could muster, praying that the nose of our raft would stick in. As we crashed ashore, John jumped out, rope in hand and held tight. We could finally regroup. When I was certain we had thoroughly beached the ship I climbed ashore and sat down. My breathe, heavy with fear, was not of the calming variety. It would take some serious convincing to get me back into that boat for the rest of the evening. I was no longer in the right frame of mind to tackle any life threating issues. Joe, noticing I was visibly upset, began doling out menial tasks for me to accomplish. By doing so I was able to subside my anxiety, I would become official boat bailer. I swear it took us twenty minutes to bail that thing. Between that and the total dismantling of the sail, I had a little bit of time to get my wits about me. First though, I needed a walk to clear my thoughts. “I’m going for a stroll.” Secretly I was trying to find the perfect campsite that no one would be able to turn down. “Don’t go far Jeff, stay where we can see you.” Clearly they were worried about me. As I struggled forward, deeply concentrating on the thought of left foot after right foot, my heart rate came down from that of a vole imprisoned by a large tom cat, to that of a jack rabbit being chased down by a grey hound. Things were starting to round themselves into normality, although normality was taking its sweet fucking time... As I walked towards the next bend along the beach, a familiar sight took hold of my eye, it was the slender stalk and the purple flower of the onion. But what was it doing out here? I held the onion in calculated distrust. Then I remembered from my book learning days that the north is home to the wild onion. I grabbed a handful and sunk my teeth into the flesh of the stalk. Instantly my mood improved. The boys would have to share in my delight. I sauntered down the beach with a wry smile and as I reached the safety of my friends, I handed out their individual presents. Gifts from Jeff, beacons of hope, team bonding at its best, when most needed. I did not find that campsite I was looking for… but with a couple more deep breaths, I could be convinced to man the battle stations once again. This is where John took charge. Passing me my life jacket, preserver of my existence, he informed me that it was time to get back into the boat and that everything would be just fine. I decided to pull out the map, with a UTM coordinate from Barry’s GPS I concluded that we were roughly five miles from the green bridge north of love, an hour and a half paddling at the most. Two great realizations came from this moment. A) I could still read a map. B) We were not far from civilization. We would survive. After all the gear was haphazardly strapped in once again, we pushed onward. The next hour and a half would take full concentration in order not to sink our Titanic. With our cold dose of reality behind us, we were now far more leery of the possibilities of what lay ahead. For our standards, things went fairly well for the next little while. There were certainly our panicked moments and an almost constant effort to bail water as the river jumped over the gunnels in defiance of our challenge to her, but I could not see panic on the faces of the dogs, and that did a world of calm for me. After one particularly hairy set of rapids, we rounded a bend and came face to face with a fence, a farm yard and a large barn. We were coming back into agricultural land. Soon enough we would be at the green bridge. Rejoicing would have to wait though. We did not have ample time to celebrate this achievement as we were quickly faced with the quickest water that had challenged us all weekend. We raced down the river with the speed of an osprey. As we dodged boulders the size of Volkswagen beetles, we began to pass more buildings. A cabin, a teepee, all whizzed by in excitement. The river began to swing left, and all 6 men began digging in, stopping

the river from tossing its contempt at us. We took the left turn and there in front of us stood the green bridge, not 500meters away. However in between the green bridge and as far past it as we could see lay the underbelly of the Torch river. The river turned white with the frothing sprays of pristine water challenged by million year old granite. The next stretch would take quick thinking and fast reacting. We decided to hug the right shore in order to be close to the safety of hard ground and to look for a suitable landing point. However with our speed a suitable landing spot just might prove impossible. About halfway to the bridge we spotted a small outcropping of sand on the shore. If we made a quick turn to attempt and beach the boat we just might make it. However someone at the front would have to jump out, grab the rope and hold on for dear life because the momentum of this river would be certain to carry the boat with it. As we neared the chosen spot, John grabbed the rope, anticipating the crash into the beach. The other five dug in with the skill of Vikings but it would not be enough. John jumped ashore simultaneous with our crash and dug in his heels. The back end of the boat swung around like the pendulum of a grandfather clock and john’s feet began slipping down into the turmoil. Quickly I sprung from my seat, clambering across the three boats. I reached john just as the water began to reach his upper body to sweep him away with the boats. With a foothold on a large branch I was able to grab John long enough for him to regain his footing and help with the task at hand. We had beached the boat, but we still had a ways to go. As we sat there safely on land, we realized the equal peril that haunted the sandy woods. The mosquitos were just as scary as the river. We made a quick survey of our options. No good path by land presented itself, we would have to get back into the river and make hay for a newly sighted landing spot this side of the green bridge. With our boat now backwards in the water, we would have to swing it around just in time to smash over the boulders not ten feet from where we had landed. The two inside paddlers would have to hold the boat as the rest regained their composure. Brett the rear inside paddler would have to brace us into shore as his front partner Barry dug into the water. Brett held on tight to our craft as Barry let go and the river swung us around once again to face full frontal the assault of the Torch. As soon as Brett jumped back into the boat we smashed the next set of rocks. We began to pick up speed as we neared our destination. There, kitty corner to the bridge on the south side, sat a small launching point… or in our case a landing zone. The taste of the end lingered strongly on our lips. As we cruised towards safety, it became quickly apparent that we were in need of slowing down. If we continued this speed we would blow right past it, and beyond this point, lay white water as far as they eye could see. With everyone back paddling we managed to slow down just in time to spot the rock that lay between us and the shore. We would have to brace ourselves and ride right over it, sending out prayers that we would have enough moment to roll over top. We hit it with a smash, leaving aluminum and blue plastic to forever garnish the sharp edges of the rock. As the boulder reached the middle of the ship I figured we were about to triangle the canoe, but just as I thought we were going to grenade, the water pushed us past and we skimmed the shoreline with the front of our craft. John jumped out with the rope and held on. We were back, back to the world of man, the world of safety and responsibility. Unfortunately we were also back to the world of mosquitos. It would take some time, but we would set up camp and sleep, sleep our worries away. *Note the dents in the canoe pictures