Mackenzie Mountains

Canol ATV Adventure: The Unbeaten Trail

Online Editors — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 09:37:39 -0500

We figured we would have better luck fixing our sunken quad near Stan’s fly-in hunting camp. Towing the swamped machine back up the trail was definitely not a trip highlight for me. We kept our eyes peeled for the sow grizzly and cubs we ran into the day before.

Debora, Stan’s wife, let us rummage through their tool shed. I found a star key that fit our oil drain and soon several quarts of water poured from the machine.

Stan and Jesse, one of Stan’s guides, landed in a bush plane and walked over to see if they could help. Jesse, believe it or not, has a history racing quads in the Baja desert and his father is a mechanic. With a sat. phone call to his father we rolled the quad, shook it, and watched the water rain from the crankcase.

Jesse and I changed the oil and managed to force the oil filter socket on. It was the right size after all. Before I put the dried spark plug back in, I turned the key a few times and uneasily watched water rocket up and out. The spark plug in its rightful place, she fired up. A couple gallons of water shot out of the exhaust.

I high fived Jesse so hard my hand still hurts.  With a near disaster averted, Stan invited us into his cabin for dinner. His wife Debora stacked our plates high with Dall sheep steaks and fresh vegetables, then we moved on to generous servings of homemade pie and cookies, all prepared on the wood stove. The food was delicious; several steps up from the freeze-dried food and instant oats Mike and I had been gnawing on for three weeks. I joked that we dunked the quad on purpose in hopes it would get us a meal.

Around the dinner table we listened to successful caribou and sheep hunting stories. Stan shared a few Canol miss-adventure stories he heard from other passersby’s. “This trails not for quads” he said. “Only horses or on foot, everyone who brings quads or trucks in here has problems”.   We camped at the Equi again that night after spending three hours looking for a safe place to cross. It was frustrating; the opposite bank was only about 40 feet away, so close, yet so far. By morning the water had dropped and we were mobile again, pushing for the divide as Charlie made his way from Whitehorse to rendezvous with us.

Through Caribou Pass the weather was sunny but cold. Then winds blew strongly as we rode across a high plateau nearing the trailhead. Water levels in the rivers were more manageable than on our way in, and thankfully, we rode across them with relative ease.

After a minimal amount of winching, a handful of river crossings, and ten hours of consistent riding, Mike and I finally met up with Charlie. We sat around his fire to soak in the warmth while we enjoyed some food and a celebratory beer or two. 

Looking back on the trip I thought about the things I could have done differently. I don’t think you could find a more practical way to learn what works and what doesn’t on a quad trip. It was tough no doubt about it, as tough a quad trip as you can find anywhere. There is no uncertainty that Mike and I had a couple near disasters, but at the end of the day we dealt with them and made it further than most. We even tried crossing the Twitya under conditions that would have turned most riders back immediately.

We gave it our all and went for something no one has done: complete the Canol by quad, without fuel or food drops. We didn’t make it all the way, but it was far from a failure. The Canol Trail is still there, waiting for another attempt – the unbeaten trail.

Canol Trail ATV Adventure: Sunk!

Sarah Smith — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 11:54:47 -0500

Turning around is never easy.

The day after we called off the rest of the trip, we ferried our quads over the manageable braid in the Twitya. We winched the quads up that same dug-out hillside and started down the same trail that took us two previous weeks to cover.

The following day, after stopping in to see Stan Simpson and the gang at Ram Head Outfitters, we were at the Ekwi River.

We had crossed it on the way in, but now it was deeper and faster from the rain. The water was clear, too, deceivingly clear, as I soon found out. Mike was walking out of a patch of spruce, shovel in hand, all the camera gear on his quad. I was at the crossing, my bike running. “I’m going for it,” I said.

I drove in without worry, but the deep water and strong current quickly floated the quad. I was turned right around, pointed down river, my quad an unstable boat. I tried to turn out of it, up a bank that was way too steep, and the current grabbed the quad and rolled it. The engine cut out and the cold water hit me with a shock. I swam out of the machine’s way as the current forced it down river.

I looked over and saw Mike swimming toward me. He grabbed a length of rope, tied it to the swamped quad, and anchored it to a willow stump. The quad secured, Mike and I cut the ropes that tied my gear and gas down and threw our bags and fuel up on the bank. I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to right the quad from its side.

We crossed back to Mike’s quad, un-spooled the winch and attached a carabineer. I crossed back, dove under the water, under the quad, and attached the biner to my hitch.

When Mike started the winch the quad wanted to roll over with the current. I jumped onto the hood to stabilize it and soon we had it to shore. There the discouragement only compounded: we had apparently lost the Allen key to drain the oil; the oil filter wrench was the wrong size. Our tools lacked in every respect.

Beaten, but not broken, we planned to tow the quads back to Stan’s place in the morning.

That night we walked our food extra far from the tent. Just before I sunk the quad, 200 yards up the trail, Mike spotted three yearling grizzlies -- he nearly hit them, running the quad fast in the open country. The last thing we needed now was Mama Bear nosing around.

Canol Trail ATV Adventure: Sunk!

Sarah Smith — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 10:37:23 -0500

Turning around is never easy.

The following day, after stopping in to see Stan Simpson and the gang at Ram Head Outfitters, we were at the Ekwi River.

We had crossed it on the way in, but now it was deeper and faster from the rain. The water was clear, too, deceivingly clear, as I soon found out. Mike was walking out of a patch of spruce, shovel in hand, all the camera gear on his quad. I was at the crossing, my bike running. “I’m going for it,” I said.

We crossed back to Mike’s quad, un-spooled the winch and attached a carabineer. I crossed back, dove under the water, under the quad, and attached the biner to my hitch.

Beaten, but not broken, we planned to tow the quads back to Stan’s place in the morning.

Canol Trail ATV Adventure: Two Sides of the River

Online Editors — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 16:59:00 -0500

We tried to get across the Twitya River for five days. Five days of rain. Five days of swollen water. Five days of frustration.

Camped on a gravel bar, and with the water rising, we worked and waited and swam back and forth against the roaring current more times they we remember. We watched the rain failing. We watched the gravel bar get smaller.

After our first failed ferry attempt, Mike and I spent the night on opposite sides of the river. Mike swam across that afternoon with one end of the ferry line--the other end secured to my quad. The current drag on the rope was so strong that Mike couldn’t work it up the river to our desired anchor point. He found an alternative, but by the time we were ready to set sail night had fallen.

In the dark I sent the first quad into the river. The ferry angle was off. This is how it should have worked:

Instead the line held the raft and quad in the middle of the Twitya. I grabbed a spruce pole and jumped in the river. I tried to pole the raft over to no avail. The current and line held the raft in place like concrete boots. I attached a towline, swam back to shore, and pulled the raft back to my side with the other quad.

“Can’t do it! The ferry angle is off!” I yelled across the river. Mike was in no mood to swim back in the current, in the cold, in the dark. Who can blame him? With just a lighter and Leatherman he spent the night in the rain, next to a small survival fire.

The next morning, after breakfast, I swam across the river with food and gear. We rigged a four-to-one pulley system further up river and managed to get the rope to a better anchor spot. The river drag on the line was unbelievable. Something we didn’t expect, the force staggering.

I swam back to secure the new ferry line to the raft. My plan was to pull the rope straight with my quad. What I didn’t notice was the rope pinched between two logs of the raft. When I drove the quad and line up the gravel bar the line rubbed and snapped. At this moment in my mind, the trip was over. It was the proverbial nail in the coffin. The rain kept coming. The water kept rising. Swimming the river was killing the both of us.

Success on this trip was tied to water levels. We knew this going in. Shortly after the line snapped, outfitter Stan Simpson landed his helicopter on the beach. It was like a messenger from the heavens touching down in the middle of nowhere. He told Mike under the whirl of chopper blades that he’d never seen anyone even attempt to cross with water this high. Mike and I debated going forward or turning back. We guessed at least ten days to get to Norman Wells, if we could ever get across the Twitya, and five to get back to Whitehorse.

In both directions there were rivers. The second and third largest, after the Twitya, were unknown - and between us and Normal Wells. To steam forward would mean facing them with all this rain and all this high water.

Mike wanted to press on. We both did. Then didn't. Then did. Then didn't. He left the decision to me. In my mind, time and rainfall just wouldn’t allow it.

That evening Mike and I swam back across the Twitya for the final time. We swam the river toward Whitehorse.

Canol Trail ATV Adventure: How (Not) to Cross a Cold, Deep, Fast River

Online Editors — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 16:53:02 -0500

An Editor’s Note From Tim Romano: As a fisherman and whitewater-rescue trained individual watching snippets of the Canol adventure have made me cringe at times. Not just for the sheer brutality of the trip, but there are a few instances when safety precautions in or near the water are not adequate. To the viewers of this specific episode: You should know to never, ever try what you're about to see unless it's a do or die situation, which for the two on this trip it nearly was. Some things to consider:

- Crossing a river without a PFD is dangerous when you're near help. When you’re days away from rescue, this could spell disaster.

- When "pendulum swinging" the raft, Jim wraps his hand around the rope and walks to boat down. Please don't do this. Anchor the boat to a tree or rock and let it swing. Bad things happen when you're holding onto hundreds of pounds being pulled by the force of rushing water.

- You see them cross a deep, powerful river with a backpack on and a rope tied to it. First, never cross a river with your pack on and around your shoulders. Take it off and put it above your head or swim with it next to you. Should you fall and a piece of the backpack gets stuck in the rocks or a piece of wood there is a high potential for drowning. It's very, very difficult to get out of. Additionally, a rope attached to the pack presents more dangers. Not only do you have a pack that can get stuck, you also have 100+ feet of material that can wedge anywhere in the river bottom or woody debris. If that happens, it will knock off your feet and the force of the water will hold you down.

We found ourselves on the banks of the Twitya River, rain coming down, a stiff cold wind on our backs, the quads parked on a gangly looking bundle of sticks we were calling a ‘raft,’ surrounded by a blue inflatable donut that the thriftiest river guide in Whitehorse had decommissioned to sell at a black market price.

We had to cross the river. Morale was not high.

The river split into two braids, a long gravel bar between them. Our plan was to rig a pendulum ferry by attaching a main line to the raft, swimming a braid, and then securing the line on the opposite shore. The current and the side-wash on the boat should – note the ‘should’ – swing the raft/quad boat to the opposite bank.

There wasn’t much of anything on the gravel bar for securing a line. Jim swam the narrow river channel in his dry suit, let some slack off the line, then held on. The raft went. Then it kept going. And going. Jim stripped line moving down the shore. Watching this all through the Canon viewfinder, I wondered if the helicopter evac would take us right out of there, or drop a new quad on the other side of the river. This was the easy braid.

The raft beached on a spit of gravel further down the bank, 200 yards from our landing beach, but close enough. Jim deflated the raft and road the Polaris onto dry land, quite happy – celebrating with a fist in the air – that we were one quarter of the way there. The second quad went as well as the first and a few hours after sunrise we were half way there. Suddenly, to me, it actually all seemed possible.

The second braid was bigger, deeper, colder and faster. We hadn’t planned on transporting the raft from one side of the gravel bar to the other. This involved breaking it down and rebuilding it. As I didn’t have a dry suit, I was going to swim the first braid, grab the ferry line, then swim the second. We jettisoned that plan like so many Canol Trail trailers and I walked the first braid to help Jim rebuild the raft.

Two hours later, we were ready. I stripped down. Without a dry suit, when crossing a cold river, the best way is naked, but with the cameras rolling I thought I’d spare you that. Clothing creates drag, can snag, and you want it dry on the other side. Taking Jim’s advice on double dry-bagging my clothes, I made a pack, threw in a knife, lighter, camera equipment and tied on our ferry line.

Sure, the water on the first braid was cold. But toes and ankles and legs don’t know cold like chest and neck and head. On this second deep, fast, braid I went in to my knees then sat right down. When the river water came up over my shoulders then, yes, it was cold – knock your breath out cold.

To jump right into cold deep water is to tempt death. In icy water the body contracts. The wind escapes. Involuntarily you gasp for air. Underwater, this is very, very bad news. Sitting securely, head out of water, it’s just plain bad – bad but easily survivalable. Heck, some people do it for fun.

Sitting there in that cold bath I let everything adjust. I walked in till the water was at my chest. The force of that current was simply amazing. That power stands as truly the only scary thing that happened on the whole Canol trip. All I remember thinking is This better f***ing work! Then I pushed off.

Canol Trail ATV Adventure: Two Sides of the River

Sarah Smith — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 11:36:13 -0500

We tried to get across the Twitya River for five days. Five days of rain. Five days of swollen water. Five days of frustration.

In the dark I sent the first quad into the river. The ferry angle was off. This is how it should have worked:

Mike wanted to press on. We both did. Then didn't. Then did. Then didn't. He left the decision to me. In my mind, time and rainfall just wouldn’t allow it.

That evening Mike and I swam back across the Twitya for the final time. We swam the river toward Whitehorse.

Canol Trail ATV Adventure: How (Not) to Cross a Cold, Deep, Fast River

Dave_Maccar — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 09:19:45 -0500

We had to cross the river. Morale was not high.

Canol Trail ATV Adventurer: The Coffee Head

Sarah Smith — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 10:44:00 -0500

When Jim and I were planning our Northwest Territories Adventure, he said he’d cover the food. When I asked about coffee, he mentioned something about grinds in a Nalgene bottle and instant creamer.

My stomach turned.

You see, I have a coffee problem. It takes a cup just to get me out of bed. By midday a pot is gone. In a pinch I’ll pack a frappuccino up a treestand. Duck hunting I carry a thermos as big as my leg. And like most coffee obsessives, I’m a terrible snob. I’ll happily drink dishwater brew in a diner at 2 a.m., but first thing in the morning its Organic Nicaraguan French Roast from my local importer.

I know, I know... Please don’t hate me.

So cowboy coffee of Folgers and river water? I’d do better without food.

I knew what kind of beans I was going to bring*, but how to make coffee--a lot of coffee--in the middle of nowhere? Car camping I like the old-fashioned campfire percolator. Backpacking I have a stainless mug that’s also a French press. This trip, however, demanded something more. Coffee would be a precious luxury, and Jim also drinks a cup in the morning, so I’d need to brew quantity.

Surfing the InterWeb I stumbled on the GSI 50 ounce Java Press. It looked more like a pitcher for Kool Aid you’d see at a kindergartners’ birthday party. I worried, too, if 50 ounces was enough, and whether the foam insulation sleeve would insulate anything at all, let alone 205-degree water. When it arrived in the office it seemed so flimsy I figured I could break it with thought. But it arrived three days before my flight north, so with a little fear inside that I was trusting a month of coffee drinking to 14.6 ounces of plastic and foam, I was off.

My fears proved unfounded. This trip, unlike anything I’ve ever done, destroyed, trashed, broke and busted gear--from ATVs to guns, clothing, food barrels and GPS units. Everything broke. Yet the Java Press held tough. The handle did snap off, but I can pardon it that after the abuse we put it through. The insulation worked, but didn’t really have too. Soon as the coffee was ready we emptied it into two big Stanley mugs. The Java Press’s light weight proved a virtue when our trailers evaporated from under us. Its bulk wasn’t an issue as we packed the coffee, creamer and other foodstuffs into its canister body. I’d take the Java Press on another backcountry adventure in a heartbeat. I just hope that between now and then they come out with an 80-ounce model.

*For this trip I went with a 40-ounce bag of Berkley and Jensen 100 Percent Kenya AA. It’s remarkably good for the price, with rather light berry notes. It’s an ethereal cup, airy--one you can easily drink all day, and not relive through acidic stomach acrobatics if you fail to eat breakfast, lunch, or even dinner.

Canol Trail ATV Adventurer: Big River

Sarah Smith — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 15:39:40 -0500

It took us a week to finally find the banks of the Twitya River, but with all the breakdowns, hang-ups and dead ends along the way, it seemed so much longer.

We managed to catch a few fish on our way. The catch was almost exclusively arctic grayling, with a Dolly Varden or two thrown in the mix, on No. 1 Mepps spinners. They made fine dinners, crisped in a pan or over the fire. Much needed energy, it would turn out, for tackling the Twitya.

We spent a day camped beside the big river, fishing mostly, and scouting the best way to bring the quads down the steep bank to the water’s edge. It was one of the best weather days of the trip. Mike and I swam across the river twice. The current was fierce, the water cold, but in the 70 degree sun we were quickly warmed. Even Mike, without a dry suit, in nothing but shorts and Five Finger shoes, didn’t seem to mind the frigid water.

That would soon change.

Day Two on the Twitya’s banks the weather shifted. The stiff wind and drizzling rain we’d been accustomed too started back. We cut logs, built our raft, broke camp and packed gear. Despite the repair job, my trailer was toast, so we did a carefully picking through the tools, taking only what seemed essential.

As we winched the last quad down the steep embankment to the water’s edge, the sun had set for restless three hours of darkness. Mike and I made a fire on the beach and took catnaps on the sand. With the sunrise would be our true test: the mighty Twitya River.

Canol Trail ATV Adventure: The Gong Show

Sarah Smith — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 15:33:58 -0500

From The Urban Dictionary:

Gong Show noun

1. An event marred by confusion, ineptitude and shenanigans.

2. The term gong show is widely used in the hockey locker rooms across Canada. It has become the nickname of many out-of-control young men.

Shortly after repairing my trailer we had an unprecedented host of bad luck. The winch going, O.K. The trailers breaking, fine. But to run a spell of the winch breaking (again) two blown tires, a temporarily lost bag (not tied down properly), ditching an ATV--in a ditch--twice, a busted hitch, and getting stuck in a swamp, then in the muskeg, then in another swamp; it was almost too much.

Almost. We always talked about this trip, in the planning stages, as a learning experience. Hard as some of it was in the moment, we were learning concrete lessons on tires, winches and terrain, and the invaluable lessons of never taking oneself too seriously. Was the whole trip marred with confusion, ineptitude and shenanigans? No, not really. But there were moments, even--one could argue--a three-day spat of them, which we documented in the above video. Whether we made 10 miles or 10 feet, we kept on riding. "To the Twitya or bust," became our slogan.