By Jim Baird

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.
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By Michael R. Shea

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.

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By Jim Baird

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. 

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By Jim Baird

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.
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By Jim Baird

Anytime we asked anyone back in Whitehorse about the weather, they had one word: wet. We launched this epic ATV adventure at the tail end of the wettest summer anyone up North could seem to remember.

It rained as we prepped our gear in town. It rained as we moved down the Canol Road to the trailhead. It rained when our ATVs finally touched trail dirt and it kept on raining. With three rivers to cross and dozens of ancillary creeks, water levels quickly became our No. one concern.
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By Michael R. Shea

Day two of our quad travel and we crossed over the territorial border, from the Yukon into the Northwest Territories. A wildlife check station marked the political divide—a small cabin, a few squat trailers and dozens of fuel drums scattered in the yard.

It rained on and off since our plane landed in Whitehorse. Summer hasn’t been this wet in years, said Charlie McLaren, our ride to the trailhead. We woke up our first morning in the bush to what sounded like rain. The sky was gray when we crawled outside the tent, but it wasn’t wet. Peeling back the tent fly we found the source of all that pitter-patter: thousands and thousands of mosquitoes stabbing at the nylon. 
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