In my mid-thirties, I was in pretty good shape from walking six kilometres every day, so I eagerly accepted my brother’s challenge to take a 22 km canoe trip along with eight friends and four other canoes, down Harry’s River in western Newfoundland. The mighty river, renowned for its salmon fishing, didn’t have much water in it during August, so I figured it would be a relaxing way to spend a warm summer day. Of native decent, I knew my ancestors would most likely have taken this trip in a heavy birch bark canoe. Traversing the river in an aluminum canoe had to be a breeze. The five canoes would make the trip in one day.

A little anxious at first, since I’d only been in a canoe a couple of times in my entire life, I was nevertheless excited about the trip. Besides, my brother had navigated the river many times, and I trusted him implicitly. Looking out over the majestic river, I really couldn’t foresee any problems, other than getting wet from time to time. Ah! Naivety is bliss!

Loading our gear into the canoes, we layered our clothing to accommodate weather conditions and accidental spills into the chilly water. My brother suggested the best place for me would be in the front of the canoe facing forward so that he could tell me when, and how hard to row. It made perfect sense to me! I didn’t discover until we were near the end of the trip that my brother was evil incarnate!

At last we were ready! Stepping into the ankle deep water, the swiftness of the current surprised me with a gurgling sound as the cool water gripped my ankles. Pushing the canoe out into the river until the water was thigh deep, we climbed in. Each team headed quickly downstream, canoes carried swiftly along on the powerful current. A kilometre downriver, we came upon what my brother called “a chute.” Of course I had no idea what a chute was until I heard the hiss of the rapids and saw the river ahead of us suddenly drop about seven feet.

“Just sit tight sis, and hold on,” my brother yelled above the roar of the rapids. But as the nose of the canoe edged out over the top of the waterfall, I was sure we were going to capsize, so I did what my survival instinct told me to. I jumped out. Of course my quick exit caused the canoe to become unbalanced, and the next thing I knew I was underwater with my life-jacket on, my back against a huge boulder, the canoe coming straight for me. Surfacing quickly, I heard my brother shout, “Get away from the front of the canoe. Now!”

I managed to push myself away from the boulder just as the canoe hit it. Apparently an aluminum canoe filled with water weighs about 500 pounds, and would have crushed me had I not moved out of the way in time. A person “can” drown while wearing a life-jacket, because the rapid current pushing me against that rock was very difficult to escape. Bruised and shaken, I sat on the shore watching my brother empty the water out of the canoe, righting it once again.

More than a little perturbed at him for not telling me about it in the first place, “Just how many chutes are we going to have to run today, and just what was I supposed to do?” Recognizing my fear, he gently replied if I hadn’t jumped out, the canoe would simply have shot over the edge and landed smoothly in the water below. It would have been an uneventful, but exhilarating ride. It was my inexperience with how a canoe behaves in a river that led to our mishap, so I accepted that, determined to move forward. I’d never make it through the next 21 kilometres if I didn’t.

The sun was beginning to warm my aching body, soothe my mind and dry my wet clothing as I resumed my position once again in the bow of the canoe.

The current carried us along for a while until the water became too shallow for the canoe. “We’ll have to get out and walk a little until the water gets deep enough again,” my brother said. The water was ankle-deep but fast and the rocks beneath the surface very slippery; it was inevitable I was going for another dunk. Sure enough out went my feet and I landed on my backside in the cold water. Laughing at my sudden dunking, his feet went out from under him and my brother hit the water with a huge splash. Laughter expelled the tension I was feeling at being black and blue and not quarter of the way through the trip yet.

“We might as well stop for lunch, since it’s close to noon; we’ll dry off before moving on.” Pulling the canoe closer to the riverbank, we sat on the soft green grass waiting for the rest of our group. After 15 minutes, one canoe finally showed up. “Where is everyone,” my brother asked. “We’re the only ones coming I’m afraid,” said Dennis, “two teams gave up before the chute, and one team gave up after they got through the chute.” So our group of 10 was now down to four people and two canoes. After lunch we planned to stick together for the remainder of the trip, just in case there were any more mishaps.

Sitting in the warm sunshine, gazing at the sparkling water of Harry’s River, I reflected on the familiar history of the mighty river. My father fished this river all of his life, as did his father and grandfather before him. It was a spiritual experience for me to be in a place that was such a big part of my father’s life. Recalling some of the fishing stories I’d heard as a child, stories of the big salmon that were caught and of course the bigger ones that got away, to my complete astonishment a huge salmon jumped out of the water right in front of me.

After a hearty lunch of sandwiches, fruit and bottled water, we carefully picked up every single thing we brought with us, so as not to leave a footprint in the pristine forest.

From my perch in the bow of the canoe I marvelled at how clean the forest was along the riverbank. Once in a while a salmon leapt out of the water, glistening silver in the mid-afternoon sun. There was an overpowering feeling of being one with nature! It was an emotional rollercoaster, and at that moment I never wanted the trip to end. Until my brother said, “Okay we’ve got one more chute coming up, but it’s not as big as the last one.” I was suddenly chilled to the bone in the heat of the summer day.

“What exactly do you mean by not a big one?” I asked. “Never mind, just let me know when we get there because I’m getting out of the canoe before we start through it. I’ll meet you at the bottom.” My brother laughed, but promised to tell me when we got close to the chute. It was about half an hour later when the river changed again. I could hear the hiss and knew what was coming. We stopped a short distance from the top of the chute, and I waded to the shore in fast-moving, thigh deep water. My brother waited until I picked my way to the bottom of the drop before starting through the chute.

It really wasn’t much of a drop, and he skillfully guided the canoe over the edge, landing with a gentle splash in the pool below. The canoe behind him also navigated the chute without a problem. I felt kind of silly, but the huge black and blue bumps on my legs, arms and head were solemn reminders of the nightmare chute number one had been.

A short time later we came upon a fairly deep salmon pool. The water was warm and inviting and crystal clear. Deciding this would be a great chance to swim and take a break before we finished our trip, we jumped in. It was by far the most refreshing swim I’ve ever had. Impossible to swim against the current, it was wonderful to float through the pool with no effort whatsoever. Once again I was reminded of the natural beauty of the river and the forest that surrounded it.

After our swim we finished off the sandwiches and fruit. Exhausted but elated, for a moment I thought how great it would be to do this again some day. However my throbbing legs and arms quickly brought me back to reality. It was a extraordinary experience, but I seriously doubted I’d ever do it again.

Back in the canoe, we continued our trek. The river became wider, and it seemed a lot faster. My brother said, “Better start rowing harder now. We want to get straight through without going sideways.” I began rowing with all my might, beads of sweat rolling down my face with my exertion. I’d inquire about the perils of going sideways later, for now I just wanted to get to the end of the journey and go home. My muscles screamed to give up and stop torturing my body, but I didn’t want us going sideways, so I paddled harder. In a little while we glided smoothly into a calmer pool. Turning around to ask my brother if it was okay to stop rowing, I was stunned at what I found.

Reclining against the back of the canoe, arms crossed, feet stretched out it occurred to me my brother had been relaxing the entire time I’d been paddling like a mad woman. At my indignant look he burst into gales of laughter and to my surprise, I quickly joined him. What a fool I’d been for not looking back much sooner!

Laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down my cheeks, I simply had to ask. “How many times during this trip did you make me row like the devil, while you sat back and enjoyed the ride? No, don’t tell me because if I can summon the strength I’ll hit you with this oar.”

The sun was sinking low in the sky and the enormity of the day was rapidly catching up with me when we finally rounded the last bend. My entire body was in agony and I realized I couldn’t have done another five minutes in that canoe. Pulling into the shore,” You’re a trooper sis; now you go on home and I’ll look after everything here.” He didn’t have to say it twice. Jumping out of the canoe, I headed to the car where my son was waiting to drive me back to town.

Standing in the hot shower, cuts and bruises stinging, a panicky feeling began welling up inside me. To my dismay uncontrollable sobs wracked my body as I sank to the shower floor. This is complete physical exhaustion I thought, trying to imagine what it would feel like to be lost for days in the wilderness; to be pushed to the very edge of human endurance; to take on nature alone. There weren’t even any dreams in the 10 hours of sleep that followed my adventure.

Miss Adventure I’m not, but the sense of euphoria at having taken on nature and feeling her heartbeat right next to mine, far outweighed every trial I endured on that 22 km learning curve. I carried a great number of life lessons away from that trip, most importantly an even greater respect for the awesome power and beauty of nature.

Would I do it again? Not in a million years! But I’ll carry the memory of those 22 kms with me for the rest of my life.

Submitted By: Nancy Crossman