The gurgling underwater acoustics soothe my frustration only momentarily—after all, the idea is to stay in the raft. If we were to flip on the Nahanni, the only crowds that would greet us when (if?) we resurfaced would be a group of grizzly bears eager to help themselves to our stash of Mountain House meals and Probars, and maybe even a Jones/Goodman snack.
It was the summer of ’06, and my buddy Hank Jones and I were training on the New River in West Virginia for an expedition in Canada’s Northwest Territories. Yet here we were, swimming through the end of the Double Z, a Class V rapid … again. Although the ensuing cheers from the scores along the shore were great, both of us knew we needed to get it right.
A few summers in the Northwest Territories’ Mackenzie Mountains—home to the legendary Cirque of the Unclimbables and the seldom-visited Vampire Peaks—left Hank and I wanting something more than the standard helicopter-ride approach into the wilderness climbing area. We wanted to establish a big route by fair means. We knew of folks who had hiked into the Cirque from Tungsten, a weeklong journey. Our plan was to drive to the Yukon, raft into the area on the Little and South Nahanni Rivers, hike up into the Vampire Peaks, and establish the first free-climbing route on the 3,000-foot east face of the hulking massif known as the Phoenix, then continue past the wall to the unclimbed summit, hike back to the river, and paddle out. Simple.
Three weeks, two blown transmissions, 3,400 miles and 144 gallons of petrol after our West Virginia training exploits, Hank and I stood at the edge of a swollen riverbank in the Yukon, looking at the scattered debris that used to be a bridge. We had a 90-pound 10-foot raft, paddles, 70 pounds of food, 40 pounds of climbing gear, 30 pounds of camping equipment, and around 12 pounds of clothing per person, not to mention 15 pounds of camera gear and other miscellaneous items. How in the hell were we going to cross the river and drive the remaining 25 miles to the headwaters of the Little Nahanni River?
I grabbed our emergency phone and called our friend Warren Lafauve, owner/operator of the Inconnu Lodge fishing resort, and Kluane Airways. He uses a Hughes 500 helicopter (think Magnum PI) and a Dehavilland Beaver floatplane to transport most of the adventure seekers around these parts.
Ah Pat, good to hear from ya. I thought maybe you retired or got married since we didn’t see ya up here last year, eh?
I explained our predicament and he responded by mentioning that the “shack” at the fuel depot needed a new roof, and the dirt airstrip had a bunch of potholes. He knows Hank and I all too well. We had just enough money to get us back to the States, and flights into the Cirque run upward of $3,000 per person.
The smell of the fuel depot was a familiar but unwelcomed scent as Hank and I pulled into the Inconnu Lodge. We worked our asses off for a week, putting up fresh tar and shingles on the fuel depot shack and running the backhoe on the airfield to accrue enough grunt capital for a shuttle flight to the headwaters.
I’ll be flying quite a bit with some geologists around the Vamps, maybe we can get you some beer later on, eh?
He cackled, shook his head, and waved goodbye. The chopper disappeared and the heap of cluttered gear was the only reminder of the reality outside this wilderness. In a way I felt like the mission had already failed. The whole reason for this trip was to NOT use air support. But my spirits quickly lifted as we readied the raft.
The Little Nahanni is a Class IV river that flows northwest for 55 miles (about 100 clicks south of the Arctic Circle) before its confluence with the mighty South Nahanni. The first section is shallow, meandering flat water and we paddled for nine hours our first day, covering more than 20 miles. Twenty hours of good light make it easy to cover a lot of ground.
On the second day, we paddled for 10 hours in cold, rainy weather, covering 35 miles of frigid class IV whitewater, only leaving the boat once to run around and try to warm up. After a broken paddle and a great show from some ostentatious moose, we met the confluence of the Little and South Nahanni Rivers, where the fast-moving crystal water quickly gave way to a wide, slow moving green river. We set up camp and built a fire on a dreamy sandbar, super stoked with the day’s progress.
The next day, we floated for eight hours and only 10 miles to the Vampire Peaks drainage. We stopped at an old abandoned pioneer cabin, looking for some rumored hot springs. We found nothing but man-eating mosquitoes.
As fate would have it, Warren was flying around while we prepared for our 8-mile approach to the Phoenix. He landed his tiny helicopter next to our sandbar camp.
Mind you, that hike will take you days. The chopper ride might take 15 minutes, eh?
I looked at Hank, and we just shrugged our shoulders. Rather than spending the better part of two days shuttling our gear up the horribly steep drainage, we gathered a few more days worth of food, hung our raft and extra food in the tallest aspen tree, and jumped into the chopper. Twenty minutes later we were circling the Phoenix. Warren buzzed in close to give us a bird’s-eye view of the wall.
We set up base camp near the edge of a massive boulder field, a 35-minute hike from the Phoenix. After checking lines with our spotting scope, we sorted our gear, hoping the next couple days would remain clear enough for some climbing.
Hank and I woke up to thunder. We cursed the horrid weather, played cards, read books, and went on short hikes in between the torrents. After 10 days in the tent, we attempted a ridge climb on the west side of the Phoenix Massif. Given the saturated condition of the wall, the ridge was an obvious climbing objective. Hank and I climbed the steep, fractured rock for several thousand feet only to be shut down just short of the summit by a 100-foot ice wall we couldn’t see from below. Having no ice gear, we had to accept defeat.
Then we turned around. Our options for descent were grim at best: the ascent route was not safe to rappel down, and to either side of our tabletop ledge we saw rotten, steep sections with stacks of rope-cutters peppering the two-thousand-foot walls. No sooner than settling on the “safest” route, Mr. Warren Lafauve buzzed overhead in his chopper. He had two passengers with him, and Hank and I gingerly waved him in for a pickup. He hovered for a moment then flew away. I mournfully uncoiled our ropes and was about to throw them down, when Hank yelled.
Pat! He is landing at our camp … The passengers are getting out. Dude, he is coming back up!
Warren balanced the edge of one skid on our tiny perch, kicked open the door, and frantically motioned for us to get in. Five minutes later, we were all looking up at the ominous feature, laughing at what could have been our fate. Warren glanced at us and admitted, I am scared of heights, mind you. If the chopper would have stalled I would have been stuck up there with you two crazy fools!
This summer, we will attempt another light, fast, and sustainable journey. There will be four of us, so we can get more gear and food to our new objectives in the Cirque of the Unclimbables. We will drive only bio-fueled and waste-vegetable-oil-fueled cars, and we’ll select our gear based on durability and environmentally friendly factors. And this time, folks, it’ll be by fair means. Seriously.
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Tags: climbing, expeditions, paddling
