A 100-Day Journey to the North

Through the Inside Passage,
over the Chilkoot Trail by portage,
and down the Yukon River to the Bering Sea

Copyright © 1988 - 2024 Ray Jardine

Map

Map (Open with google Earth or CalTopo)

Part 4: Down the Yukon River

Part 4: Down the Yukon River

Summary:

In the initial 62 days of our 3,300 mile sea-kayaking voyage of 1988, we have paddled and sailed our two-person kayak 1,085 miles through the Inside Passage, and portaged it over the Chilkoot Trail. Now on the shore of Lake Lindeman we reassembled the boat, and are ready for our 2,058 mile journey down the Yukon river.

Camp 62, Map

Day 63

June 26, 1988

We were camped near the shore of fresh-water lake Lindeman, elevation 2,150 feet. The lake emptied into the Yukon River, a river that has a mind of its own. Born less than fifteen miles from the ocean, it heads blithely in the wrong direction - coursing over 2,000 miles until finally arriving at the sea.

The wind howled throughout the night, but by morning it had abated just enough. The routine of loading the Tub was so deeply ingrained that we both had the sensation that our hiking interlude had been only imagined. Each item of gear went into its delegated bag, and each bag went to its special place in the boat, and each in the proper sequence. We even attached the same cords as tie downs; the same bow line, and so on. Everything was just as it had been before the portage.

We set off at 6:30 am and paddled out onto the Lake. The motions of paddling were deeply ingrained but the hike had displaced them far out of mind. Gliding over the waters, we felt almost as though we were dreaming.

The wind picked up and we paddled hard to reach the opposite shore, which offered better protection. The chop slapped Sea Tub's hull on the beam, yet not hard enough to lift any dollops onto the spray skirt; although soon we became wet from spray flinging off the windward paddles.

Paddling a big lake was a novel experience. We had trained on Colorado's Boulder Reservoir, but Lindeman Lake was altogether in a different world. We marveled at the grand scenery.

After reaching the far, shore we followed it, running before wind and chop and making what seemed like fantastic speed for our normally sluggish craft. We stopped ashore briefly, then pressed on to the far end of the six-mile long lake, arriving in just over an hour. Nearing the lake's outlet, we paddled hard to reach shore while being drawn into the funnel of the first of the rapids. The warden had told us that one could line a boat down the rapids, but after walking along the shore a short distance, I found that this was not the case. The river's bank was steep-to and lined with alders. A competent river paddeler with a maneuverable boat could have easily made his way through most of it, perhaps pulling out to portage the main rapids, three-quarters of the way through the three-quarter mile long river. But our boat was about as maneuverable as an ocean going freighter, and we weren't in the mood to take any chances.

We unloaded the Tub and hauled it onto the grass, then loaded our packs with most of the gear and began walking the high banks. An hour later we reached the historic settlement of Bennett, and its campground.

One couple was encamped there, and we had a nice chat with them. They too had come over the Chilkoot. The fellow was British and lived in New Zealand, and they were both staying in Vancouver presently. They were waiting to catch a ferry to Carcross.

The old town of Bennett is a deserted railway stop. It's trademark is the old St. Andrews Church, a wooden structure built during the gold rush. Bennett is where most of the Klondikers congregated while awaiting for the ice to break up and allow navigation of Bennett Lake and the Yukon River. Now, not much happens here anymore.

The campers related the story that the previous evening a dead moose had drifted onto shore, drawing mother bear and cub. Bennett's sole human resident, unenamored with bears it seems, came along and spoiled the banquet. A certain commotion ensued; the result being that the bears fled to the hills while the sole resident drug the carcass up the hill and cremated it.

We cashed our things in a campsite fronting Bennett Lake, shouldered our empty packs, and returned to collect the Tub.

We were carrying the kayak out into a clearing, to prepare it for the portage, when Jenny tripped on a rock and went crashing down onto the boat. Fortunately the boat survived unscathed. Jenny banged one of her ribs and bruised her leg and knee, adding to her collection of bruises.

We loaded the remaining gear into our packs, picked up the seventy-five pound kayak and struggled off into the woods. Trees in the wild, we noted at once, do not grow in rows with straight passageways between them. They were not planted with an eye toward carrying a seventeen-foot long by three-foot wide boat through them.

Nevertheless, we reached the trail whereupon we hoisted the boat inverted overhead, our heads into the cockpits, and thus carried it clumsily to our camp at Bennett Lake.

The area was rich in wildlife. Big wildlife. We saw moose tracks that appeared to have been made by a brontosaurus. We also saw bear tracks, and smaller paw prints.

Morning's paddle: 6; Day's hiking: 2 (all inland miles given in statute)

Camp 63, Map

Day 64

June 27, 1988

We rose at 3 and set off at 4:15 am. The sky was perfectly clear and the sea, or rather the lake, was flat calm. The tide hadn't changed one iota during the night, and there was no ground swell rolling in from the far horizon. This was going to be fun.

We set off paddling at an easy pace, bundled in hats, mittens and jackets to ward off the alpine morning chill. Peaks towered all around, showing a timberline only a thousand feet above; so the sensation was that of being quite high - when in fact we were at an elevation of only 2,100 feet.

The tracks of the historic narrow-gauge railroad parallel the shoreline the entire way to Carcross, and we used them for navigation, knowing that they would lead to the town. Nevertheless, we crossed the lake twice to take a more direct line. A following breeze sprang up, and served to boost our speed somewhat and to facilitate the paddling exertions.

We took two breaks at hourly intervals, then pulled in at a small island for a breakfast stop. The sky held clear, and the sun did its feeble best to ameliorate the morning's chill.

We paddled another two hours, while the wind died completely and the water flattened to scarcely a ripple. The water was a beautiful emerald-green color, transparent and very cold. It was truly a wonderful day to make our entry into the Yukon Territory. We exclaimed over and over about the wonderful weather and the grand scenery.

We stopped on a gravel beach for an extended coffee break and Jenny made a batch of popcorn, more as a good excuse to indulge placidly in the superb setting. The sun was out and we exposed our palid skin to its luxurious warmth.

Feeling revived, we paddled another couple of hours then made a stop to inspect an old steam engine with a boiler and belt-drive wheels; and an old, dilapidated wood building alongside. There was nothing around to give a clue as to what the steam engine had powered; no saw dust, no rock dust. Whatever it was, it had long since been removed. Our map showed that this particular place was named Watson. Later, in Carcross, I asked a resident about the old boiler, and was surprised to find that he didn't know what kind of operation had once taken place in Watson.

At the outlet of Bennett Lake we paddled between the pilings of the Carcross footbridge and were swept through at a good clip. We had reached Carcross.

We landed ashore and Jenny went to purchase provisions while I watched the boat. Then we sauntered across the street for a hamburger in the café, and bought a couple of post cards. We made arrangements on the telephone to have funds wired to Whitehorse, then mailed the post cards and rambled across the street for ice cream cones as a final indulgence in the big city, or rather the whistle stop and tourist trap for the occasional overland tour bus.

We jammed our provisions into Sea Tub's crannies and set off across Nares Lake in search of a campsite. Three miles farther on and nearly to Ten-Mile Point, we found a barely suitable spot. This was right at the water's edge, on the gravel bar.

Hours paddled: 10; Day's mileage: 33
Total fresh-water miles: 39

Camp 64, Map

Day 65

June 28, 1988

Our campsite on the beach was not well protected, and when the wind picked up in the early morning, it of course set a chop across the lake. We crawled out of the tent at 4:30 am to find the sky glowing red with a thick band of high cirrus.

We set off at 5:15 am and paddled for 2 hours along the shore of Tagish Lake. We made a shore break and decided to make a small fire to dry some clothing. Here we made a most encouraging discovery: the firewood was so dry that it kindled within seconds. Building a fire in the boreal forest was a snap, and nothing like the arduous task required in the coastal rain forests.

We set off again and paddled to the northern end of Tagish Lake. Here we entered the Tagish River which flowed at a little more than one knot. In a few miles we landed on its western bank and made a camp on a small plateau a few feet above the river. This camp was distinguished by the presence of the nearby Tagish highway, which proved relatively untraveled.

Hours paddled: 6; Day's mileage: 18
Total Fresh-water miles: 57

Camp 65, Map

Day 66

June 29, 1988

We set off at 4 am in a light rain, and soon passed under the Tagish bridge and entered 20-mile long Marsh Lake. After two hours we stopped ashore, then set off again, paddling past a beaver swimming around. Marsh Lake was not particularly suitably named, at least from our perspective. the shore is not marshy. However, some of the western shore is low lying and there are ponds and perhaps expansive inland marshes. On the eastern shore we could see the famous and well plied Alaskan Highway.

After another couple of hours paddling we pulled in behind a prominent point and landed ashore. We found a nice, dry place beneath a couple of Spruce trees that provided shelter against the light rain. We built a fire and set about drying socks, and also made coffee and roasted marshmallows (Jenny's idea).

We set off again, paddling across open water with wind and seas astern and boosting our speed considerably. At the outlet of Marsh Lake we entered the next ongoing river, now designated the Yukon. It was a beautiful setting. Birds were in abundance, and we saw bald eagles, sea gulls, ducks, loons, swallows, wood sandpipers, terns and others.

We paddled along the meandering river, which was a few hundred feet wide and which offered about 2 knots of favorable current. It passed close to the Alaskan Highway, then veered far away. Then several miles farther we passed beneath a highway bridge. The structure was adorned beneath with mud swallow's nests.

We reached the Marsh Lake dam and found that we arrived on the wrong side of the river. Across the way and now out of our reach was a lock for the passing of small boats. We landed ashore and I went ahead on foot to scout the situation. Water flowed over the top of the dam, which acted as a diversion dam; and the river was quite high so that there wasn't much of a drop on the dam's other side. After deliberating, I decided we could paddle right over the top of the dam. The only hazard, and it was a considerable one, was the danger of being snagged on one of the uprights, where the current would have easily smashed the boat. To avoid confusion, we stowed Jenny's paddle on the deck, giving her a free ride. By carefully lining up the boat, I negotiated the causeway without incident.

We paddled downriver, encountering a few boils. It felt good to be finally on the Yukon and to know that we were well on our way. Disappointingly though, the current is not strong here. The river meanders slowly at a speed of two knots or so. Nevertheless, it still imparted quite a boost to our meager paddling speed.

Several miles farther on we pulled out in an area wooded with spruce, and there established camp for the evening. We made a campfire and boiled all our drinking water - taken from the river as we hadn't been able to find a feeder creek.

Hours paddled: 7.5; Day's mileage: 35
Total river miles: 92

Camp 66, Map

Day 67

June 30, 1988

We set off at 5:30 am, hoping to reach the town of Whitehorse in time for a restaurant breakfast, even if it was a late breakfast. A beaver had been whacking its tail at the water's surface directly adjacent our camp, and we knew it was impatient for us to leave. It did so again, as if to bid us an it's-about-time farewell. We saw numerous beaver during the course of the morning, and were the subjects of thorough tail-whacking chastisements all along the way.

A light rain fell intermittently throughout the morning, but we didn't mind, as we were making good progress in the current. The river made an accelerating sharp turn at the entrance to a rock canyon. Before entering, we landed ashore and I scouted downriver. It sped between the narrow walls with just a dash of white water here and there. This was the notorious Miles Canyon, where many stampeders had lost their outfits, and some their very lives. The dangerous rapids had been eliminated however, by the construction of a dam downstream. But our maps were poor, and didn't depict the presence of the dam below.

We whisked through the canyon at what seemed break-neck speed, admiring the basalt walls, which were perhaps ten to twenty feet above high water. At the canyon's outflow we entered Schwatka Lake, passed by the seaplane base harboring a dozen or more float planes, and wondered about the dam-like structure ahead of us.

Approaching cautiously, we found that the structure was indeed a dam. This obstacle meant an unexpected portage and a major setback in my plans for a restaurant breakfast, which now looked more like a restaurant lunch.

We landed on the eastern bank and I scouted the portage. Downriver of the dam the water cascaded mightily, here was the famous Whitehorse rapids. I found that our portage would be half a mile or so.

I returned to the boat and we unloaded the kayak then loaded our packs. Covering the remainder of our gear against the rain, we then lifted the Tub inverted and overhead. Gallumphing along a gravel road then a trail, we soon reached a good put-in spot. Now, I was in a hurry. Jokes about breakfast aside, we needed to reach the bank to collect our draft. The following day would be a national holiday (July First - Canada Day) and the bank would be closed for the next three days. Canada Day, incidentally, is the Canadian day of Independence. Rather like the American Fourth of July. Canada Day paradoxically follows another Canadian holiday, Victoria Day (the Queen's Birthday) by several weeks. There's a touch of humor there to all but the Canadian.

Back at the dam, we jammed the remaining gear into our packs and completed the portage.

The river shot by like a rocket compared to the scant current we had experienced upriver. We set off and immediately found ourselves unaccustomed to such speed. Not anticipating the surge, we nearly piled into a huge standing wave and back eddy, which had tilted half the river like a spinning and tilting ride at a carnival. Paddling frantically to reach safer water, we slammed into a counter current so hard it nearly capsized the Sea Tub. We landed on a gravel bar and drug the boat into the desired channelway, then proceeded gliding along in quieter water, watching the river bed streak past only a foot beneath. This high-speed river kayaking was going to take some getting used to. We were loving it!

We landed ashore beneath the highway bridge, which offered the accommodating shelter from the rain. Nearby lay the old stern wheeler "S.S. Klondike," which now serves as a tourist attraction and a reminder of the many similar vessels that plied the Yukon River around the turn of the century.

Jenny walked into town and telephoned several motels. As usual our requirements were two: relatively low cost and featuring a storehouse or whatever where we could lock the kayak. We settled on the one most appropriate, then paddled another half a mile to reach it. Then we carried our gear one block from the waterfront to the motel, then put the boat into the motel's warehouse.

At first impression, Whitehorse seemed a bit of a strange town; an amalgam of the defunct and the modern, and more defunct than modern. And the commodities there were expensive in the extreme. Drunken Indians wandered about, and these folks were quite different in countenance than those we had seen along the coast to the south. Besides appearances, they seemed less malicious in behavior. Their code of attire is universally the same - that of the fashionable leather-jacketed motorcycle gang-member; hard core bum.

We spent the afternoon running around doing laundry, collecting our money at the bank - made inordinately complicated by our having only one piece of identification each (our drivers licenses) - mailing packages of unneeded items (backpacks and Jenny's mountain boots) back home, and making a trip to the grocery store to provision the next leg of our journey. Grocery bill: $170.00 !! Canadian.

Hours paddled: 7; Morning's mileage: 15
Total river miles: 107

Camp 67,68, Map

Day 68

July 1, 1988

We enjoyed a layover day in Whitehorse. Most of the shops were closed for the holiday. We window shopped and enjoyed a meal in a restaurant.

Day 69

July 2, 1988

We slept in until 5 am, then organized our gear, and found that there was no one at the motel office to let us in to the warehouse to retrieve the Sea Tub. We deemed this a good excuse to delay our departure while we moseyed over to a café and enjoyed a hearty breakfast.

The sun was peering between the expiring clouds as we returned to the motel. The manager was in, and using her keys we unlocked the storage, retrieved the Tub and carried it and gear to the riverfront.

We put in and rode the swift current half a mile, then landed ashore and I waited a few minutes while Jenny ran to the department store for camera film. Two rolls of 36 Kodachrome, with processing, cost a whopping $28.99 Canadian, with an exchange rate of 1.19.

We set off again for what was to be a most enjoyable morning's paddling. Enjoyable that is, except for the offensive odor of raw sewage, bestowed to mother nature by the municipally of Whitehorse. We passed the outlet pipes, and thereafter the stench was extraordinary.

Otherwise, the river journey was reminiscent of our trips down the Yellowstone, and I felt a strong urge to stop at the gravel bars to look for agates.

In Whitehorse we had bought a copy of Yukon Channel Charts by Bruce Batchelor. We followed his drawings and found them most helpful.

The water's color changed from clear to cloudy as we passed by the confluence of the Takhini River.

The river miles passed quickly; by noon we reached the inlet of Lake Laberge. Here we passed by one of many small, low lying sandy islands, this one was a sea gull rookery. The gulls flew around disconcertingly, making a great deal of clamor, understandably threatened by our presence. Ashore we saw several fluffy, gangly chicks. Aside from the gulls, we were seeing several types of birds today, including eagle and osprey.

Paddling Laberge's silty-green colored waters, we turned obliquely left and steered for and paddled hard toward land; toward the Laberge Indian Village, the site of a few log cabins.

We had read many warnings about this lake - reputed as the most hazardous obstacle on the river. Apparently it has claimed many lives. Purportedly, when the wind kicks up, and it often does, a remarkably steep chop can occur abruptly, this threatening to swamp small craft. Perhaps so, I reasoned, but we are reasonably experienced at paddling in rough conditions, and I was not too concerned. However, as we drew near shore I changed my opinion. The coast did not look like an ordinary lake shore, rather that of a sea shore battered by large, storm tossed waves. Unlike the shores of the lakes we had recently paddled, these had been chiseled and hammered by rough seas. From there on we stayed close to shore, as per admonitions.

Continuing along the eastern lake shore, we passed by several Indian camps, and once we paddled past an aluminum skiff - its owner apparently engaged in some inland pursuit. After ten miles of lake paddling we landed ashore and established the evening camp, at 5 pm.

Hours paddled: 8; Day's mileage: 38
Total river miles: 145

Camp 69, Map

Day 70

July 3, 1988

We rose at 4 am and were on our way by 4:45. The lake was calm and the sky clouded. We paddled close to shore for two hours before taking a shore break where we climbed a limestone butte to admire the grand scenery. Oh what an idyllic spot, were it not for the faint odour de la toilette, complements of Whitehorse.

We pressed on, paddling beneath the limestone escarpments which provided nesting for various birds, from eagles to swallows.

The landscape was open and expansive, with about half the terrain covered in spruce and aspen. Our eyes feasted on the flanking hillsides, looking for big game without seeing any. Some of the folks we had met on the Chilkoot complained of the apparent lack of wildlife. People come to Alaska perhaps misinformed, expecting to find it chock-a-block full of big animals. But in truth, the animals are not much in evidence. We gazed ashore by the hour and saw only the occasional tree stump posing as a bear in one's imagination, and white rocks high up in the cliffs imitating goats.

All along the shore of Lake Laberge we found relics of the bygone gold rush era. We saw timbers and old rusty, iron pieces and parts. Once, we came upon a decrepit skiff hull, partially dismembered by the ravages of time but still quite recognizable. We landed here for a closer inspection, and I found that the skiff's lumber had been cut into boards by a circular saw. The saw-cut boards had been fashioned into a boat by hand; cut roughly with a saw and hammered together with ordinary nails. We wondered about the fate of the crew.

Whenever I see a boat, I try to study it to learn something of boat joinery. But this vessel offered little instruction. It seemed that its designer had been as short on time as he was on expertise. The thing had been constructed in supreme haste and without one iota of nautical affection. I would have named her Gold Fever.

Twenty miles into our day, we approached the north end of the lake and passed by a river rafting group. Six or eight people were milling about, breaking camp it appeared, and loading three large inflatables and a skiff equipped with a big outboard motor. These were the first river folks we had seen, and it struck us as odd that they were still at their camp at 11 am. Jenny and I were touring the wilds with a distant goal in mind, while these folks were simply vacationing. Such are the sybaritic pleasures of a guided river trip. No doubt the guides do the most of the cooking, the washing-up, and the nose-wiping. The friendly folks all waved heartily as we went by.

Such excursions fill a need, but their powerful outboards seem out of place in these serene regions of the earth. Although I loathe regulations, I would like to see one requiring that each person paddle his or her own canoe.

We reached the lake's outlet, where the river's current came into play once again. Our speed doubled. This was the beginning of the so-called Thirty-Mile Stretch, purportedly some of the best floating on the river. We paddled through numerous riffles - series of standing waves caused by the flowing water going from laminar to turbulent. The current was indeed swift, and we sped along gleefully while soaking in the luxuriously warm afternoon sunshine that belied the high latitude.

A Peregrine Falcon, the second we have seen, passed directly overhead as it flew over the river. The birds in this section were numerous. The ring-billed sea gulls let us know whenever we approached a small island on which they had their chicks - they screeched and dove at us threateningly. We saw numerous species of ducks, a kestrel, an osprey, a few Bonaparte gulls - readily identifiable by their black heads and white bodies, swifts by the hundred with their cave nests bored into the clay river banks, kingfishers, ravens and a few Bald Eagles.

As we rounded U.S.Bend we saw two human river rats camped ashore. The young men wore dirty old clothes and bore the likeness of a couple of two-weeks-in-the-woods Outward Bound students. Their craft consisted of a strange conglomeration of wooden raft and aluminum canoe. The raft was supported by empty 55-gallon oil drums. On the platform they had pitched a tent. One of they fellows sat on the raft, embracing a guitar on which he hammered out a tune, which was absorbed in the river noise before it reached us. The other fellow stood over a smoldering fire, and waved cheerfully at us.

We pressed on throughout the afternoon, marveling at what seemed our profound speed. The current was so great that it mattered little whether or not we paddled. So as often as not we just sat relaxing, indulging in the luxury of the riverflow and watching the scenery wheel past, while the boat swung this way and that. Racing along at twice our normal speed with the boat going sideways was truly an odd sensation. Instinctually, I kept trying to make the bow point downriver; things just seemed more nautical that way. We took another shore break, and while Jenny cooked dinner of barley stew, I took a short nap stretched out in the warm sun, laying on our life jackets.

We set off once again and mostly drifted another couple of hours, in a sporadic rain. Gusts of wind bore down on us from random directions. The afternoon thunderstorms were building, spatting the occasional thunderclap.

Just upriver of the confluence of the Yukon and Teslin Rivers, we landed ashore and unloaded the boat quickly, just managing to get everything under a sheltering spruce before the onslaught of a heavy downpour. The tent got somewhat wet as we pitched it, but this was of no grave concern, as would have been the case back in the seaside rain forests.

We crawled in for the "night," feeling that the day had been most gratifying. We counted ourselves among the exceptionally fortunate, in being here making this fine trip.

Hours paddled: 12; Day's mileage: 51
Total river miles: 196

Camp 70, Map

Day 71

July 4, 1988

We set off at 5 am and very soon met with the inflow of the Teslin River, which was a bit muddy and seemed larger than the Yukon. So at this point the Yukon more than doubled in size.

We passed Hootalinqua, a couple of old log cabins, then Shipyard Island on which lay an old stern wheeler.

An hour after departing we were coming around a bend when we saw something big swimming across the river ahead. We paddled hard toward it, to see what it was. As we drew near, a big cow moose climbed out of the water. She turned and faced us, eyeing us curiously for a few moments, then trotted off into the dense woods.

A short while later I manned the paddle while Jenny assembled her galley stove and prepared afloat a commendable river breakfast of pancakes, eggs and coffee.

The current was fairly strong and we made excellent progress. By noon we had gone 50 miles, and we were beginning to wonder just how far we could travel in one day. We passed by two groups of river floaters.

Looking for a feeder creek where we could fill our jugs, we finally came to a large one called Walsh Creek. We paddled up the creek, which had little if any current, and in a few hundred yards we landed ashore and spent half an hour filtering drinking water. Back out on the river we paddled on around the bend, only to discover that Walsh Creek in fact connected back with the river - so we had just filled our jugs with polluted Yukon River water. Disgruntled, we pressed on, not drinking any of our recently filtered water.

Coincidentally, today was the 4th of July when we paddled around a bend in the river known as the 4th of July Bend.

We paddled past an old dredge lying on the river bank, then farther on we landed ashore near a place called Erickson's Wood Camp. The sun was shining weakly through high clouds, so we hung out the tent and sleeping bags to dry and struck a campfire to boil and purify a quart of drinking water and a pot of water for coffee.

An hour later we set off again and bowled along downriver, still searching for a good feeder creek. Clarie Creek had visible water but we didn't hustle fast enough to reach it before the current had deftly swept us helplessly past.

At day's mileage 64 Jenny crouched low in the boat and indulged in a short nap. Then while she manned the paddle I crammed myself into the confines of my aft portion of the cockpit for a snooze.

The river is flat, sometimes boiling around some submerged object and sometimes showing a patch of whitewater near the banks. One of us remained vigilant, watching for sweepers. At each bend, centrifugal force tended to drive the boat toward the outside bank where the sweepers lay in wait. Sweepers are bank-side trees which had fallen over, but not quite into the water, their branches often extending menacingly down into the water.

Farther on, we entered the Little Salmon River, which featured transparent water and just enough current to preclude the Yukon contaminating it. We paddled upstream a short ways, then reached over the gunwales and filled our jugs.

A bit farther on we passed by the Indian settlement called Little Salmon Village, where we found three motorized skiffs moored to trees ashore. We saw a few log cabins, and their bizarre little graveyard, fashioned of small and brightly painted houses, each a little larger than a dog house.

A few miles farther on we met a truly surprising sight. We were paddling at a good clip, as we had been most of the way, when at a distance we saw a river craft, unmistakably the raft sporting the blue tent we had passed the previous day. We pulled up close and exchanged greetings with the two fellows, and I asked if they had floated all night. They affirmed that they had, and told us their story: They had been paddling their canoe across the open waters of lake Laberge, and landed on an island where they found the raft, in pieces. So on a whim they decided to put the raft together. They tied their canoe alongside, hoisted a make-shift sail and plied the remaining 20 miles of the lake in 3 days. That explained why they looked so tired when we passed them yesterday. The fact that they had just covered 100 miles in 24 hours floating changed my mind concerning the worthiness of their unlikely vessel. The raft was a framework with wooden floor, under which were 55-gallon drums attached with wire and clamps. Tied alongside was their canoe, and on deck was pitched their tent which left not much room outside the tent. They had a long spruce pole to fend away the shoreline, although the pole was something of an afterthought. It seems they both had gone to sleep in the early portion of the river, and were soon thereafter rudely awakened when the craft slammed into the shore.

The raft was suffering one minor problem, though: two of the drums at one end were leaking, imparting to the craft a pronounced list. In fact, the decks at that end were nearly awash. They carried a spare barrel for just such contingencies, but had broken their pliers so they couldn't make the replacement. I offered them the use of my pliers but they said they would effect repairs in another 40 miles, in Carmacks, which they hoped to reach late the same evening.

We bid them adieu and paddled away, feeling rather like the hare racing the tortoise, knowing it wouldn't be long after we made camp that we would see them pass us by.

Incredibly, it seemed we might make one-hundred miles that day, so we pressed on into the afternoon. Jenny cooked a big pot of spaghetti which we consumed in glaring sunlight, this after enduring two hours of very strong headwinds laced with a bit of rain. We ate quickly, then were beset by a tremendous downpour lasting twenty minutes. The cu-nim drifted away, leaving fair skies overhead. In a dense stand of trees we saw a large bird perched in the top branches: a Horned Owl.

There was no hint of dusk when we landed ashore at 8 pm. We had covered just over 100 miles in one day's paddling.

Hours paddled: 14; Day's mileage: 100
Total river miles: 296

Camp 71, Map

Day 72

July 5, 1988

We set off at 5 am into a dense fog, glad to have the map (Yukon Channel Charts) to help us navigate, as we couldn't see much of where we were going. Here, a road paralleled the high riverbank, and this served to yank our minds back into the 20th century.

We paddled under a bridge and landed ashore at the town of Carmacks. We pulled the boat up onto the muddy bank, tied the bow line to a stout alder bush, secured the spray skirt and hid the paddles in the foliage, then set off afoot to see what Carmacks had to offer the hungry traveler at 7 am.

It wasn't much. But we did find a café next to the convenience store/gas station. The café was open so we went in and found it a bit dark. A few folks were sitting around and we talked to one couple from Prince George here on holiday. The lights were out, we learned, because so was the town's power. Curiously enough, the water supply here was powered by electric pumps. So the water supply was knocked out of commission also. The cook was using a gas stove, though, so we enjoyed a quick breakfast of coffee and hot cakes.

Back at the boat we shoved off and soon paddled past the raft, moored to a tree along the shore. Presumably the occupants were asleep inside the raft's tent.

The river in the vicinity of Carmacks is somewhat in need of Paul Bunyan's straightening services. It wanders around in a most inefficient manner; fortunately, however, we were not trying to get anywhere in particular, but were simply racking-up river miles.

Twenty-two miles out of town we reached the notorious five-Finger Rapids, the only stretch of unavoidable whitewater on the river. While paddling from Whitehorse, one has a lot of time to contemplate the inevitable rapids, and because these are the only rapids, folks perhaps tend to overplay the hazards. The river was quite high with spring runoff, and the higher the water the less severe the rapids. So our conditions would be favorable.

We made every precaution with the kayak and with ourselves: securing loose objects, donning life jackets, removing heavy rubber boots, and even making fast the bailer to the boat with a lanyard. The spray cover, when zipped securely around our upper bodies, imparts a singular feeling of claustrophobia, so we left it half unzipped so that if we should capsize in the rough water we would be able to get out from the boat quickly without having to fumble with the spray cover zippers.

five-Finger Rapids is the result of four big rocks standing in the river, making five channelways between them. The rocks proved easily recognizable from a distance. The highway is nearby, and a walkway leads down to the high rock at the river's edge, and on the platform we saw one person. As we came around the bend, he caught sight of us, and studied us with his field glasses. Perhaps he was myopic because as we drew near and passed directly beneath him no more than forty-feet away, he kept the binoculars trained on us.

Pausing momentarily to raise the rudder to aid our almost non-existent maneuverability, we rode the swift current as it carried us into the rapids. The water sluices through the five channels and we knew to take the right-hand one. Once through the gap, the fast current carried us to the area where the currents converge and collide, and it is here that the water was the most turbulent.

The sudden turbulence bounced us around pretty good, some finding its way onto our laps - this we knew would be inevitable. And after a few quick moments we were safely through.

The river remained a bit lumpy for several miles, then six miles beyond five-Finger Rapids we encountered Rink Rapids. Years ago a channelway had been blasted in the right-hand side (facing downriver). We passed in calm water.

A big cu-nim developed overhead and lashed out with strong headwinds for the next few hours. finding a small spring issuing from the hillside, we stopped to fill the jugs.

We paddled and drifted for several more hours, then while Jenny wielded softly her paddle, I took an hour's sojourn below-decks. I also tried sleeping on the after-deck, but with minimal success. Then while I took the watch, Jenny slouched asleep in her cockpit. Figuring that her snoring was bound to draw a curious moose, I kept a watchful eye to the shoreline. The sun was out, although the cold wind prevented my shedding my parka, but I did manage to dry the tent fly in piecemeal fashion.

Jenny dozed for one-and-half hours, then she cooked dinner: hash brown potatoes with ham and eggs. Cooking in the boat was not as easy as it may seem. Jenny's cockpit had just enough room between her legs for the stove, and she had to balance the cook-pot on it. It was a precarious set-up, and a job that really required at least three hands. But she managed admirably, and spilled only once, as I inadvertently rocked the boat without warning her.

While the potatoes were frying, I spotted a herd of Stone Sheep on a hillside just a short ways above us. We counted twelve sheep, mostly youngsters and ewes. They seemed to be making their way down toward the river bank, and although they noticed us, they didn't seem to mind us passing by.

The afternoon thunderstorm was gathering. We paddled another one-and-half hours until it was obvious that, shortly, we were going to get very wet. Had our spray cover been doing its duties properly, we wouldn't have minded the rain. But it wasn't, and we did. So we pulled ashore and quickly unloaded the boat, lugging everything to the shelter of a spruce tree - in the first onslaught of hail. Rain poured from the heavens, but we remained dry.

Our campsite was in a wonderful spot, overlooking the river on an eight-foot high bank. Our bed was six feet from the bank beneath a couple of nice spruce trees. However, the bank was severely undercut, and we hoped nothing in nature sneezes tonight.

Hours paddled: 11.5; Day's mileage: 78
Total river miles: 374

Camp 72, Map

Day 73

July 6, 1988

We pulled up stakes and set off at 4:45 am. The morning air was chilly and the sky overcast. The current was strong and we made excellent progress.

Still early morning, we stopped at Fort Selkirk, near the junction of the Selkirk and Yukon Rivers. We lifted the bow out onto the cobblestone landing and tied two bow lines to two small alder trees, then wandered up to have a look at the historic settlement.

The fort had been abandoned many years ago, and the government is now in the process of restoring the town as an historical monument. The impression was that the inhabitants of the small community had only recently left. Entering some of the buildings, typically the first thing that caught one's eye was the oversized wood burning stove. These told of bitterly cold winters.

The temperature now is quite cool, but when the sun breaks through the clouds the days can be downright hot. It doesn't seem like we're so far north.

We set off again and paddled in a much larger and siltier river, the Selkirk having emptied its murky waters into ours. Each day the Yukon seems to triple in size, and the many more islands and sandbanks therein make the way more complex.

We passed by a camp with two people sitting before a campfire. Their tent was pitched nearby, and their kayaks were floating, and moored ashore. We could well imagine how they would feel to wake up some morning to find their boats gone, should a floating tree happen by and scrape them away. One's boat is one of one's most valuable possessions out here, and theirs seemed poorly attended. We always carry our boat and lay it on its side near our tent where we can keep an eye on it. Also this way, should a porky decide to sample the wood work we might awaken in time to dissuade him.

On one of the low lying cays we saw a cow moose. It just stood there watching us as we floated past. I took a couple of photographs, but again the lighting wasn't so good. We whish we had a better camera.

We covered 50 miles by noon and it seemed like we could easily make 100, but the river's current was not nearly so strong ahead, and the afternoon thunderstorms assailed us with headwinds and a great deal of rain, so the afternoon's progress was slow.

We passed by another camp with two canoes. We're surprised at the number of river floaters we're seeing. No doubt downriver of Dawson we'll see few other paddlers, but the stretch between Whitehorse and Dawson is quite popular, and with good reason. The Whitehorse sewage offal is a serious drawback, but the only one on this river I can think of. Otherwise it's a fantastic river trip and we're enjoying it immensely.

The day began to drag on a bit so we each had a turn at nap taking, before the rain persuaded us to sit up and pay attention.

Our rain parkas are becoming a bit threadbare and are not so effective at keeping out the pervading water. The spray cover that came with the boat is ineffective. When it rains, we get wet. Even so, being wet is not so serious, and nothing like our experiences of the first month and a half of the trip. The humidity here is low and things dry quickly when the sun reappears.

The sun came out weakly and Jenny fired a batch of popcorn.

We were just finishing eating our snack when a couple of paddlers in a double kayak drew to within 50 yards astern, then stopped paddling. We waited for them to draw near for a chat, but they seemed to be waiting for us to move on, so we pulled away, giving them elbow room. They paced us for half an hour, and eventually I noticed that they actually seemed to be racing us; their blades were swinging and the spray was flying. So - what the heck - we kicked it into high gear and sped away. The last we saw of them they were a tiny dot far astern.

We had 18 miles yet to go to complete a 100-mile day, and we were going well so decided to keep going. This proved to be a bit of a mistake - pushing it so hard for so long because we eventually wore ourselves out.

We must mention something of the wildlife we're seeing along the way. The animals are proving timorous indeed. The land is harsh, and the climate must have a pronounced culling effect, second only to the hunters. Also the dense forest provides excellent hiding and we can only imagine what creatures are lurking in the timber and watching us go by. When we land ashore we find tracks everywhere, moose tracks being the most predominate. These are big and deeply set; telling of the monstrous size of the creature. We find tracks of smaller, pawed animals: beaver, marten and the like. At almost every stop squirrels chatter at us. But no signs of bear.

As we paddle along we often see a beaver swimming along the river bank, and when we draw too near it smashes the water with its flat tail, making a sound similar to that of a cannonball landing nearby - having been fired from somewhere far away. The effect is often quite startling, as intended. Often we paddle beside rocky cliffs and we see nests of sticks, probably belonging to bald eagles. Along the escarpments we see where the harder mud is riddled with holes, hollowed out into nests by Cliff Swallows. We scan the bare portions of the mountains surrounding us; sometimes we catch a glimpse of a Stone Sheep or two, betrayed by their color and movement.

We see many types of birds: sandpipers scurrying along the shore, kingfishers squawking noisily as they fly past, plovers nesting on the mud banks, the delicate little terns, all sorts of ducks, sometimes with their chicks close at hand. We have seen a Long-eared owl and have heard the hoots of other owls in the distance. Anything but shy and quiet, the ravens are quite common and they have easily taken the award for the liveliest personality. We usually spot a few Bald Eagles each day, sometimes on the wing but usually perched on a large piece of driftwood waiting for lunch to come floating by. We've seen a few hawks and falcons but they are very shy indeed. Sometimes we hear the call of coyotes, or wolves.

Toward the end of our long day of paddling, we were beginning to imagine a few bizarre creatures in the distance ahead which were actually only pieces of driftwood. One stick looked exactly like a vervet monkey, at which point I decided we would have no more 100-mile days.

At 8 pm we reached our 100 mile mark and landed ashore on one of the many islands to make camp. I climbed the bank to find that the ground cover was impenetrably thick and consisted mostly of wild rose bushes, riddled with thorns. We spent the next half hour looking for a campsite, landing on various islands, none of which offered even a trace of a campsite.

Throughout the day we had noticed the environment had changed, especially in the last 50 miles. The wonderful campsites among the spruce are here totally absent. The spruce have given way to cottonwoods, and with the cottonwood lies the prickly underbrush.

Desperate for a place to set up the tent, we found a small level spot just a few feet from the river, on the hard mud bank. (Photo below) At least it was handy. We heaved the boat up a few inches so the current wouldn't carry it away, then we pitched the tent and tied the boat's bow line to the tent. The few things we needed we transferred directly from boat to tent: a most efficient operation. It's amazing how much time we usually consume at camp, dawdling around, busying ourselves with camp chores. But tonight there was no dawdling. We were exhausted, and the only thing on our minds was to lie down.

We filtered a couple quarts of water we had collected from a feeder creek earlier in the day, then piled into the tent and fell straight to sleep. It is our custom on every trip to write in the journal about the day's happenings before falling asleep, and because we are so tired at that time of day, a lot of things don't get written about. We're writing this update while floating down the river the following morning.

Hours paddled: 15; Day's mileage: 103
Total river miles: 477

Camp 73, Map

Day 74

July 7, 1988

By mutual agreement the previous evening, we ignored the 4 am alarm and awoke at 6 am. We allowed ourselves the idle luxury of coffee in camp and did a few chores - replacing the clogged water-filter element being one.

We shoved off at 7:30 am. The morning was cloudy with a bit of wind. The air was chilly. We paddled for an hour then Jenny whipped up a breakfast of pancakes, eggs and coffee, and while eating we caught sight of a moose on the bank of one of the islands.

Ahead was a thick fog bank laying over the White River where it joins the Yukon River. The water of the White must have been somewhat warmer than that of the Yukon to cause such a phenomenon.

The fog dissipated shortly downriver of the confluence. The White River is glacially fed and quite silty, hence its name. As the two currents mix, the clarity of the Yukon is lost forevermore. The underwater visibility was now down to a few inches.

In a few more miles we passed the mouth of the Stewart River, then Rudy's Place where we could see a few buildings, one of which was labeled as a store. The store sign welcomed visitors, but the large barking dog threatened the exact opposite. We were not in need of supplies so we kept going, hoping to reach the town of Dawson the following morning.

The river here is phenomenal in both size and complexity. It weaves in braids between myriad islands and gravel bars, and we must be constantly wary for obstructions and snags. Also, the river is so wide and open that we are subjected to the brunt of the wind.

Again, we both took turns napping. We have spent so much time in the kayak now, that it's beginning to feel something like home. When we lie down inside our respective cockpits we feel perfectly secure and almost comfortable - were it not for the contortions required.

We drifted and paddled until 5 pm when we landed ashore, thus ending a lengthy bout with a sea gull, which had been following us for more than a mile. Originally, it stood with a young chick atop a pinnacle near shore, and as we paddled by I whistled at it. At that, it launched into the air and made a strafing run at us, swooping down then veering away, squawking offensively. The bird then flew back to the cliff and landed in a different place. I whistled again and it immediately launched and made another swooping dive, only to land again on the cliff, yet farther away from its chick. This we repeated perhaps eight or 10 times, the strafing dives becoming less aggressive each time. Eventually the bird gave up landing on the cliff and instead took to landing on the water not too far away. We enjoyed watching the bird flying around us, and wondered what it was up to. We spotted a likely landing place and turned from our course to paddle to shore. The sea gull, when it saw us move toward shore, squealed and squawked at us again, and as I stepped ashore it landed atop a nearby spruce tree where it stayed to watch me search out a campsite. Eventually the bird left.

The terrain was not conducive for good camping, being overgrown with underbrush - mostly thorny rose bushes. While Jenny paddled a few yards offshore I walked along the shore until I found a suitable place to pitch the tent. It took me 15 minutes of bashing and uprooting rose bushes with the back of my hatchet to clear a tent space. Here, too, was our first encounter with numerous mosquitoes. For some reason Jenny is practically unaffected; they prefer the smell of my blood and generally leave her alone. Jenny sits outside the tent cooking while I lie in the tent and mosquitoes swarm at the thin netting trying to get at me. Mosquitoes are attracted to hate.

Hours paddled: 9; Day's mileage: 67
Total river miles: 544

Camp 74, Map

Day 75

July 8, 1988

We rose at 4 am and were on our way 45 minutes later. Grey sky and headwinds persisted all morning. We paddled at a good clip, searching for wildlife, but seeing only a few sea gulls. One gull carried on in exactly the same manner as had the one yesterday evening, squawking and swooping at us and landing on the water a short distance ahead.

After two-and-half hours paddling we reached the outskirts of Dawson City, paddled past the mouth of the famous Klondike River, which was spewing clear water into the turgid Yukon. We landed at a small boat dock to which we tied the Sea Tub fore and aft, then with laundry, shower things and trash in hand, we wandered into town. The day was yet early, and the streets were deserted; we sauntered down the middle of the main drag; unpaved and muddy. Dawson is the sort of town where a person can come directly off the river and not be noticed as unusual. Many of the locals appeared to have just come off the river also. They dressed pretty much as we did.

The town's main theme is the gold rush era, and the tourists are made to feel like stampeders. Also, the prices for goods and services were designed appropriately for one coming out of the hills with a big, fat poke. We bought two donuts at $1.25 each, then decided not to sojourn in Canada's land of exorbitant prices any longer than necessary.

The Winnebago set is well represented here as it must be at such stops along the AlCan Highway. These self-deemed hearty travelers surely provide the mainstay of the economy en route.

At the RV Park, we did laundry and took showers. Then feeling slightly more civilized we enjoyed breakfast at one of the cafés, made a quick stop at the grocery store, then called in at some of the shops looking for maps of the river without finding any. Dawson did not appear to be much of an Indian town; we saw no hang-abouts, and there was nothing here to make us want to hang-about either. We were eager to get on with the journey, so we went back to the boat dock, untied the boat, and paddled away down the river.

We passed by the remains of an old stern wheeler which looked like it had been smashed by the ice no less than fifty times. Then we paddled past a couple of fish wheels, the first we've seen, and undoubtedly placed here for the benefit of the passengers of the tour boats. The fish wheel is an amazing device, reputedly invented by white man then used primarily by Indians. It consists of two large baskets opposing each other, affixed to an axle and placed so that the current makes them revolve, scooping into the river with each slow revolution. The baskets are shaped so that any fish swimming upriver runs the risk of being scooped up. As the basket comes up out of the water and begins to invert, a baffle channels any fish to a bin at the side. The machines just sit there and catch fish, powered only by the river's current. The axle's bushings of these units were fashioned crudely of wood, so the two contraptions we passed by were making a lot of squeaking noise, which would seem to have the effect of scaring away the fish.

The river took a dramatic change in character below Dawson. Rather than winding through a myriad of small islands and gravel bars, it now takes a perfectly defined course between parallel banks. Islands are now uncommon. The creeks along the banks provide ample water, easily accessible. Navigation is vastly easier. However, the camping spots are much more limited. At the head of one of the few islands we passed by a group of river paddlers blissfully sun bathing on the shoreline. Two were all brown, two all white. They didn't notice us passing by.

Jenny and I took turns at afternoon napping, then pressed on throughout the afternoon. Thunderclouds developed, and when the headwind became too sharp to paddle against, we lay ahull with the wind broad on the quarter, the river's current dragging us along. Rain pounded down and it wasn't long before we were quite wet. Our raingear and spray cover seem to leak more with the passing of each day. More and more we feel like riding out the rainstorms on terra firma, beneath a spruce.

As we lay ahull at the tail end of the blow, watching the scenery go by, I happened to notice an odd object floating nearby. We see many floating sticks and pieces of wood that look like animals, and which sometimes move in the river's turbulence as if they had life. So increasingly we weren't taking much notice of them. Then I realized that this particular stick was alive. Facing upriver as we were, with our backs to the wind, we paddled a short ways over to the creature and found that it was a red squirrel. It was not moving much, but as we neared it made an effort to swim away, its little legs dog paddling rapidly, but with little effect. Red squirrels are not swimmers, and this one must have fallen into the river accidentally, and had been swept away from shore in the current. How long it had been adrift was unknown, but the water was cold, and given the width of the river, I thought it extremely unlikely that the squirrel would reach shore alive.

We drew the boat alongside and I slid my paddle blade beneath the poor fellow and lifted it out of the water. The blade was slippery, though, and the squirrel slid off and fell back into the water. But with that, it seemed to understand we were friends not foes, so it swam a few feet to the boat and climbed aboard. It crawled over the deck and lay supine on the afterdeck, directly at my back. I was concerned about a possible infestation of fleas which might have all been drowned. And I was also concerned about the squirrel biting me, for these animals can sometimes carry the plague which is transmitted to man. The little guy lay there shivering, and at Jenny's urging I thought about trying to warm it up somehow, but we were drifting downriver fast and I thought the best thing would be to get it ashore so that it might have at least a remote chance of making its way back home.

We paddled to shore expecting the squirrel to leap for dry ground and disappear into the woods. Not so; it seemed perfectly happy recuperating aboard the Sea Tub. Jenny stepped ashore and took a few photographs, then she tried to remove the squirrel using a couple of chunks of bark. The squirrel got the idea it was to go ashore but was loathe to jump back into the water and swim the intervening twelve inches. It was leaning over the gunnel looking at the water dreadfully. And suddenly it scurried across the paddle shaft, slipped again on the blade but regained its balance, then leapt across eight inches of water to a rock. Once on solid ground it scampered across a few more rocks at the shoreline, and then ran to the cover of a small bush. We figured the squirrel would be alright so we left it there and paddled away.

The day was not cold so we knew the little feller would soon warm up, but concerning the relocation, we knew nothing of its ability to cope with that. That it didn't scurry away into the woods suggested apprehension about the unfamiliar territory. It would probably do just fine, and whenever it sees a canoe or kayak paddle past, it will surely remember the kayak that saved its life.

The rain stopped and we dried out a bit and paddled several more miles, but then another batch of moiling cu-nims appeared ominously ahead, negating plans of paddling and floating far into the "night." The nasty weather took the wind out of our sails, so to speak; we decided to make camp before the onslaught of the impending rainstorm. We landed at an island and I climbed the bank, confident we had found an excellent camping place. What I found instead was a thick ground cover of thorny wild rose. Next I searched the shoreline and found a small flat area several feet above the river's height. I deplore camping in sand. The grit gets into everything, and sleeping on sand feels like sleeping on bedrock - it is uncomfortably hard. But it was camp here or paddle on into the rain. Had we possessed good raingear I would have chose the latter without a moment's hesitation. Disgruntled, we set up camp as the rain began.

A few days ago when we had passed the mouth of the White River, the Yukon River had seemed unseasonably high. Green grass and living trees were growing submerged. Since then, the river has been dropping steadily - this discerned by the fresh river marks above our campsite. We could only hope that the river wouldn't rise in the night.

Hours paddled: 8.5; Day's mileage: 73
Total river miles: 617

Day 76

July 9, 1988

We were up at 4, and off at 4:45 am. The sky was gray and the morning air chilly. It wasn't long before we were confronted with a stout headwind. The river flowed quietly, weaving amongst widely spaced cliffs and rock buttresses, or gradually sloped and forested mountainsides. The master artist had splashed liberally the magenta of millions of fireweed blooms on these mountainsides. We enjoy the morning hours for their serenity, despite the headwind. We often see moose this time of morning, as we did this morning - a cow and calf stood motionless, half hid in the willows, watching us glide silently by.

"Let's land and go take pictures of them," Jenny suggested.

"Best not disturb them," I replied. "The cow can be aggressive when protecting her young."

Later on we paddled past a solitary canoeist packing up his camp and not noticing, or at least not letting us know that he noticed us paddling past. But we were out in the middle of the wide river and our boat is a subtle beige color. The camper was wearing a flaming orange colored shirt, which, had one failed to see it, one might have felt its radiance, it was so bright.

The clouds were gathering thicker and darker, and the headwind set upon us again, although not fervently. In the ocean, the harder the headwinds blow, the harder one must paddle to make progress. To the contrary, on the river the harder the wind blows, the more expedient it is not to paddle, but just to let the current do the work. So I asked Jenny to take the watch and I handed her a few bags from my cockpit to stow into hers, then I curled up and lay down in the hold, zipping the spray cover over me to fend off the wind.

A kayak's innards are full of the sounds of river plying. As the water flows over the riverbed below, it constantly drags small pebbles with it. These tumble and slide along and sound something like the popping and cracking of a muffled campfire. The sound was amplified into the boat, which acted in the manner of an acoustic guitar. And the chop slapped against the thin fabric hull, as we passed through boils and bits of ragged turbulence. Jenny's paddle blade sloshed the water with each stroke, and occasionally the boat's framework creaked against itself. These were familiar sounds, and by them I knew that all is well. The boat's easy motion lulled me to sleep.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later I woke to different sounds. The wind had died and I knew that it was time to rise and help Jenny with the paddling.

It was a Saturday morning and we were approaching the small town of Eagle, Alaska, where at the post office we hoped to collect our resupply parcels.

We paddled on throughout the morning, crossing the border from the Yukon Territory into Alaska, and doing so joyfully as we had largely escaped Canada's exorbitant prices and Winnebago-ized towns. Alaska has its share of Winnebago-ized towns also, but we will not be visiting any, as they lie far from the river.

The town of Eagle was heard before it was seen. The sled dogs howled out their pent-up energies, telling the world how they longed for winter when they would again charge out across the frozen reaches of the hinterland. Their high pitched yips and yaps echoed through the valley, sounding more like wolves and coyotes than dogs.

We paddled past the Indian village, strung along the shore. The houses were built of logs and fronted with a few of the characteristically long and slender motorized fishing boats.

Paddling a ways farther we pulled in at the shore of the town proper and Jenny climbed the steep bank to search out the post office. Fifteen minutes later she returned telling of having met a woman named Julie who had taken her to her home and made several telephone calls to find the postmaster. Jenny said that we were to meet him at the post office in fifteen minutes.

We secured the kayak with lines to rocks and trees then wandered into town. A bicyclist intercepted us and asked if we were the ones asking about the post office. John Borg introduced himself as the customs agent and postmaster. As we walked the two blocks to the post office, he said he had lived here in Eagle for 20 years, and answered our questions about life in Eagle. He asked about our trip.

Most people think in abbreviated, quantum chunks. Take distances, for example. While it is considered possible to paddle a kayak a mile or two, it is almost never considered possible to paddle from the state of Washington all the way to Skagway. This we had learned first-hand. And the further we had kayaked, the less we were believed. Once over the Chilkoot Trail we exceeded the bounds of human imagination - period. No one would believe us. On their 18,000 mile Ultimate Canoe Challenge, Verlin Kruger and Steve Landick had experienced the same difficulty on a grander scale, and had eventually printed a map showing their route and handed these out to whoever asked about their trip. In his book "One Incredible Journey," about his and Clinton Waddell's 7,000 mile canoe voyage across the North American continent, Verlin writes; "As we loaded the canoe a man drove up in an automobile. he asked where we were from and where we were going. Early in the journey we enjoyed answering those questions, but now it was becoming a real chore. We had found that there were no easy answers. If we told them the truth without a lengthy explanation, they plainly didn't believe us. Some would clam up and hardly talk to us at this insult to their intelligence; others would just change the subject." To avoid the inevitable disbelief, Jenny and I were now telling people we had begun the trip in Whitehorse.

Nevertheless, when we told this postmaster that we were headed for the Bering Sea, he looked askance and said that we were too late for that. I assured him we paddled fast, but his countenance held that we were grossly underestimating the magnanimity of our undertaking.

We collected our boxes and a few letters, and when I asked what we needed to do in order to clear customs, (we had crossed the international border into Alaska fifteen miles back) he asked to see our IDs. After inspecting our drivers licenses in a cursory fashion, he handed them back without recording any particulars. I asked about any nearby camping grounds, and John extended that he would let us camp along the shore, a quarter mile downriver. Apparently he was something of an overlord hereabouts.

We wandered to the boat-ramp and sat on a bench for half an hour basking in the sunshine and talking with a couple from New Mexico. They were hard into the standard six-week Utah-Tetons-Yellowstone-Canada-Alaska Winnebago Grand Slam. Dawson, they said, was the greatest place they've seen on the whole trip, based primarily on certain events that transpired in Diamond Tooth Gerties Dance Hall. One of the dancers, it seems, had not only sat in this fellow's lap, but had actually cooed in his ear, the time honored ploy guaranteed to excite and to pay. He had fallen for it hook, line and sinker, albeit with the resounding good humor of his wife.

Leaving these amiable folks we walked downriver in search of a campsite. Shortly, we came to the Yukon-Charley Rivers Park Headquarters where outside a ranger stood peering through a telescope. We strolled over to see if the office might sell maps of the river. At our approach, the woman bid us have a look in her telescope, aimed at a Peregrine Falcon perched on a nearby cliff. "Yep, Peregrine Falcon alright," was my analysis.

She invited us into her station where we bought the very maps we had needed, then we enjoyed a lengthy conversation, again about life in Eagle. The ranger woman showed us, on the map, the location of a few cabins along the river maintained by the Park Service for the use by us boaters.

One thing interesting she let slip, or so she made it seem, was the existence of an automatic camera located somewhere downriver, triggered optically by any passing boater. Since when does the Park Service work covertly for the federal intelligence agencies? Since when indeed. And where else had they installed such cameras?

The density of riverside vegetation precluded further wandering, so we abandoned our search for a campsite and preceded instead back to the town, where we went into the café, for a hamburger deluxe each. There we enjoyed an interesting conversation with the waitress about life in Eagle. Whenever we ask, people tell us about the same thing: it's a great place to live, everybody is friendly, and the winters are not bad. It is cold, minus 60 or so, but because the humidity is low the cold is not penetrating. I posed the question about the Indian situation. Understandably, there seems to be a bit of a rift between the Indians and whites. The Indians are said to drink too much and the whites are not real happy that Uncle Sam gives each Indian forty acres of land, a monthly dole, and benefits up the yazoo.

Eagle is the first town we've encountered this summer where the people seem reasonably "there." Talking with them imparted the sensation of talking with some form of intelligence rather than with a preoccupied mentality. The town had a warm ambiance, and we felt good about the place.

We floated the quarter mile downriver and made camp next to a fish wheel lying in a state of neglected disrepair. A couple from Washington drove up, offloaded a big canoe and made ready a float-trip to Circle. The canoe was big, but in comparison the amount of gear going into it readily dwarfed the boat. Nevertheless, the Captain had lashed pontoons alongside. The wife would sit in a over-cushioned seat forward, and the Captain would assume the helm aft, one hand at the control of their mighty, two-horsepower outboard. Between them towered a veritable mountain of gear, covered with a tarp.

By and by we wished them an incredulous bon voyage, then turned to resume sorting through our own bona fide mountain of gear. Then later in the afternoon we wandered back to the store, next to the café, and paid for a long-needed shower each. After the ablutions we visited the café once again for another burger - practically the only thing on the menu although on Wednesdays they dispensed spaghetti.

Hours paddled: 7; Day's mileage: 52
Total river miles: 699

Camp 76, Map

Day 77

July 10, 1988

These nights bereft of night passed quickly; we rose at 4 am, after loosing ourselves to only five hours of sleep. Groggily, we packed the boat and set off at 5. The sky hung grey again, and the morning air was quite chilly. Headwinds varied in strength, and continued unabated throughout the day.

We passed by Calico Bluffs, named perhaps for its different colors. This remarkable cliff is banded like a slice of bacon. Calciferous sediments had been deposited in an ancient seabed. The resulting mass was uplifted by tectonic shift, then this section was neatly sliced open and laid bare by the grinding action of the river. It is said that the oldest fossil ever found came from this cliff. Limestone was formed as billions upon billions of tiny sea creatures fell to the seabed, and over the eons this precipitation solidified under great pressure. So Calico Bluffs is a cross section of an ancient, seemingly misplaced seabed, a dramatic geologic exhibit if ever there was one.

We were expecting at every hand to encounter some of the flotsam from the overloaded canoe that departed our yesterday's camp, and long after we had given up -- after two hours of paddling -- we passed by the expedition in question. Camped ashore, the fellow stood before a tent, one of two tents, peering through binoculars aimed in our direction and tracking our drift. At the moment we happened to be leisurely eating breakfast.

The morning grew quite cold, as a strong headwind laced with the occasional smattering of rain called for reserves within our arm and back muscles. The terrain here does not have a particularly unusual appearance, but a short distance beneath the surface, in some places as shallow as 6 inches, the ground is frozen solid. Because of the permafrost, the spruce trees are in many places quite stunted, sometimes less than 10 feet high. Yet despite their small stature they have the appearance of mature tree. As a result, the apparent disparity confounds the judging of distances. Things afar are usually much closer than they seem. Also, the river basin is opening, and for the first time the mountains sit well back, affording expansive and compelling views into the interior. Jenny remarked summarily, "It feels like we're paddling to the North Pole," and I couldn't disagree.

On two occasions we passed by solo paddlers stationed at their campsites ashore. Each looked out at us, as if longingly. Admittedly the weather wasn't so conducive to paddling, but we felt there was little use remaining at camp when the weather is unsuitable, within reason, of course. The Tub now seemed almost like home, and within it we felt agreeably secure, as much as good sense dictated upon the waters.

After collecting our two resupply boxes the day previous, the boat now lay crammed with three week's provisions. It felt heavy in the water, sluggish and more difficult to paddle. Yet despite the cramped confines, we still managed our turns at napping. When my turn came I handed the various bags that were in my lap to Jenny, then when her turn came, she gave them back. After effecting a brief pit-stop ashore at the two hour mark, we then continued another eight hours without interruption.

The current's assistance was something wonderful, as compared against the incessant ardors extracted by sea kayaking. The river conveyed us along with a will, and we were no longer required to paddle in order to make headway, if we happened to feel like not paddling. River life is easy and enjoyable, and this is a highly recommended trip for anyone with even a modest spirit of adventure - of course that stricture rules out 99% of the earth's 5 billion human population.

As the day wore on the weather began improving, until by late afternoon we were basking in sunshine. We drew near a feeder creek, paddled into it a ways, and topped our bottles. Its water was clear, but showed a tinge of root beer coloring, and was icy cold. The locals have related that the root beer coloring is a leaching from the spruce trees.

Jenny cooked a spaghetti supper in her cramped galley aboard the Sea Tub, then concocted a chocolate mousse for dessert. We had hoped to reach Slaven's Roadhouse - one of the cabins the ranger had ear-marked on our the map. The cabin may have been a boon to the river weary, but we found it out of reach of the typically uninspired, if only just out of reach. At 7 pm we landed ashore on a low lying island, and made camp.

At the time the sun, still quite high in the sky, was blazing hard. Here, we encountered a new problem. Shade was not to be found anywhere, and by then we needed it badly. Exposed to the brunt of the glaring Arctic sun, the tent became, literally, a sweat lodge. At 9 pm the solar radiation became unbearable; we rolled out of the doorway and gleefully splashed into the river.

Hours paddled: 13.5; Day's mileage: 100
Total river miles: 769

We have not quite yet reached the Arctic Circle, but our 500 foot elevation effectively places us farther north, such that the sun does not dip below the horizon. At 11:30 pm we were still quite hot, lying not only in direct sunshine, but also in its oblique reflection, glaring off the water's calm surface only a few feet distant. We learned the lesson well; in case the sun should appear from behind the clouds during the nightless arctic night, we now realized the necessity of encamping behind some shade bearing object.

Camp 77, Map

Day 78

July 11, 1988

Rising at 4 am, we found dew covering everything exposed. The sky was cloudy and patches of ground fog lay lambently over the river. The morning was silent, misty and soul-rendingly beautiful.

We set off at 5 am and paddled in unison for a couple of hours, then throughout the remainder of the morning we took turns napping. The watch-keeper paddled or drifted, as suited his or her fancy.

That day we passed by five or six parties of boaters, each at their camps, and with their canoes or kayaks tied along shore. In each case the people were not in evidence, and we presumed them sleeping in. This is far more popular a paddling trip than we had expected, and justifiably so.

As we glided along the base of one of the many steep bluffs, we watched two Peregrine Falcons engaged in aerial combat, or so it appeared. It was something like a squabbling, screeching tumble through the air, and may have been a mating ritual. We haven't seen much other wildlife along this stretch, as undoubtedly the hunters pursue their noble prey while comfortably seated in their outboard skiffs, and what animals remain along the river front have learned to maintain a low profile. We passed by a few fish camps, a couple of fish wheels tied to shore, and some gill nets extending 20 or 30 feet out from shore. The salmon season is fast approaching, as the King Salmon begin their far-reaching up-river run. We sometimes see a fisherman with his catch, but have seen no evidence of the fish swimming in the water.

Gliding down the river, we passed the last high butte, signaling the beginning of the Yukon Flats - a vast expanse of low-lying terrain where the river becomes unbelievably braided among thousands of interspersing islands. Here the terrain fell away and the big sky opened, revealing sweeping panoramas. Most predominate were the multi-colored clouds hanging low over the far-flung flats.

The islands in the Flats, at least the ones we were seeing thus far, appear similar in character to those we've been passing by the last several hundred miles. The are heavily vegetated with cottonwood, with perhaps some second growth spruce, and some alder and an over-abundance of willow. The understory is the same old thorny wild rose and other even less glamorous bushes. Nevertheless, the sandy or cobblestone river banks offer abundant camping. History has it that the islands and river banks were formerly festooned in big spruce trees, and that the timber met its demise at the hands of the wood choppers supplying fuel for the voracious stern-wheelers, which consumed about one cord of wood per hour. Of course given the harsh conditions, regeneration has been pitifully slow, and the forest has enjoyed little success at making a speedy comeback.

We pulled to shore and landed before the small town of Circle. Jenny withdrew to the store-cafe-post office in hopes of procuring a cardboard box in which we might mail home a quantity of unneeded supplies. We seemed to be traveling at a rate two-and-half times faster than we had planned; this largely because our 1,000 mile stint of sea kayaking seems to have imbued us with a more exuberant frame of mind.

In the torrid heat of the early afternoon, we packed the box and mailed it off. Then a magnanimous squall came charging across the sky and suddenly began dumping rain is sheets. So we retreated to the café where we holed up for an hour.

The people here seemed different from those back at Eagle. The residents of Eagle, at least the ones we had met, seemed fairly relaxed, laid back and easy going. Here the folks seemed more animated, more active. They were wholly into hunting, fishing, gold mining, and that sort of bushy thing. The difference, as I imagined it, is that Circle is just a three-hour drive from Fairbanks, and this a roadhead of major proportions.

Two canoeists, a couple of Swedes, were biding their time at the counter. Their gaudy apparel is what grabbed our attention. One of them wore a holstered, 9mm semi-auto pistol at his right hip. Slung from the same belt and hanging down over his buttocks were a couple of magnum-size Bowie knives, Crocodile Dundee style. As he walked, these swung and banged comically at the back of his legs. The other fellow was dressed much the same, but his pistol was not quite so readily visible. They made quite a sight standing at the café door peering intrepidly outside, waiting for the light rain to stop before venturing out. In effect, they were fully prepared to hurl themselves into the wilderness... just as soon as the rain stopped.

The store sold a few skins of indigenous animals - easily identified as those of red fox and timber wolf. The pelts were indescribably luxurious, but the fact that these beautiful and hapless animals had been slain simply for the taking of their hides was sorrowful.

We talked with the store's proprietor about life here in Circle. The town is powered by a couple of diesel generators and the residents burn fuel oil and some firewood. The fellow showed pictures he'd taken of the sunrise taken at winter solstice, the sunrise and sunset being the same event and lasting for about half an hour. One of his pastimes was to float the river, passing close ashore while hunting for mastodon tusks and bones, which sometimes appear from the frozen cut-banks.

Outside the store stood a jumbo sign welcoming visitors to the town of Circle and relating a few facts about the place. The sign declared this as "road's end - as far north as the public can drive." Downriver from here the towns are serviced largely by air and to a lesser extent by barge. No doubt we have seen the last tourist for awhile.

We set off two hours after we had landed, concurrently the Swedes set off paddling their canoe. I was surprised how swiftly the canoe moved. But Jenny and I kept to the stronger current, taking extra wide the river's bends, while the Swedes short-cut them and in so doing paddled dead water. In an hour they had become indiscernible astern.

We carried detailed topographical map of this stretch of the river, but the river is so bewilderingly complex that the map was of no use. The flats are riddled with dead-water sloughs; some connect back to the river farther on, and some dead end. But gravity sees to it that the river finds its way through. The idea, then, is to read the river's current and follow it.

We kept to the boils, riffles, and turbulence, although these are small. We looked ahead for cut banks indicating stronger current. We stayed away from sand bars and gradually sloping islands formed by deposition, as these indicated still water. We studied the river's surface to the left and the right; sometimes bits of floating wood could be seen passing us by - so we steered toward them. And we kept our eyes ahead, watching our lateral drift. When drift is present, we turn toward it. By doing all this we have found that the river is still moving at a good clip.

Late in the afternoon we passed through a region where the air was pervaded with a pall of smoke from an expansive forest fire - triggered, we had heard, by lightning away to the west.

At 5:30 pm we pulled ashore and established the evening's camp on a willow shaded sand bar. Hopefully we have made good progress today. We don't know specifically on the map where our evening's camp is, but, knowing the distance between towns, when we reach the next one we will compute our day's mileage after the fact, using dead reckoning.

Hours paddled: 10; Day's mileage: 66
Total river miles: 835

Day 79

July 12, 1988

We rose at 4 am to find that the heavy cu-nims of the previous evening had given way, leaving us with a blue sky, which harbored a smattering of high cirrus. The sun shone directly, but despite its warmth we wore rain jackets - as protection against a few mosquitoes that considered us their all-you-can-eat Tuesday morning breakfast special. Speaking of mosquitoes, they have been a problem on only two or three occasions throughout our summer, thus far. At this camp, for example, we probably had three or four bugs within swatting distance at any given time. So far the insect problem has been nothing like we had imagined. Perhaps it has been a bad summer for the insects. During the day, out on the river the insects are altogether absent.

We set off at 5 am into the swift current flowing directly before our campsite. The possible ways to go were immediately innumerable, but we followed the main current and this carried us along at a good clip.

As it rounds a bend, the current tends to spit out any floating object, by centrifugal force. Also, near the ends of long, sweeping cut-banks, floating objects tent to spin out of the current and into swirling eddies. These effects are multiplied 10,000-fold each mile, such that the kayak, if left to itself, would probably take a couple of hundred years to get through the Flats. So always we must paddle toward the faster moving current to the left or to the right.

At the same time, paradoxically, one will invariably find swifter water paddling to the bits of floating wood. These are the few pieces that have thus far avoided the overwhelming probability of being spun ashore.

An hour and a half into our glorious morning, we encountered a thick, low lying fog bank. Entering, the visibility was reduced nearly to nil. We could see nothing but water in the close proximity to the kayak, and soon we lost all sensation of movement. The boiling and rippling of the water was our only means of navigation. But we couldn't paddle because we had no idea in which direction we were moving.

Thus we went for about an hour, listening to the occasional troubled water pass us by to one side or the other as the current babbled past some snag - these telling us our direction of travel. We studied the surrounds vigilantly in case we should be swept down onto a snag which, as we had no idea where the nearest land lay, would put us in a predicament should a branch pierce our the Tub's fabric hull.

At one point we heard the curious sound of an animal approaching, and soon two beaver swam to within 10 feet of the Sea Tub. They showed not the least bit of trepidation, but studied us curiously, then continued along their way.

We spent an hour drifting in the dense fog. We saw blue sky directly overhead, letting us know that the fog was not thick; we could gaze directly at the sun which shone through the fog weakly.

Finally, with relief, we broke out the fog bank, and the hundreds of surrounding islands showed themselves clearly. Another beaver swam to us, dispelling our notion that the two previous beavers had accidentally swam to us in the dense fog.

Truly it was a glorious morning, rich in interesting paddling, grand scenery of the low lying islands, the expansive sky, and the warm radiance of the summer sun that belied the fact that we were now north of the Arctic Circle. Navigating required constant vigilance, depriving us of our usual river catnaps.

Later in the afternoon we passed by Fort Yukon without stopping.

The sky was mostly clear and the evening sun beat upon us relentlessly. We landed ashore in the shade of the riverbank, expressly to get out of the tormenting sun. I laid down on our life jackets, spread on the beach, and fell asleep while Jenny cooked supper. She also disposed of some of our paper trash by burning it.

We did another lengthy stint of paddling, exposed to the brunt of the sun. It seemed ironic that we should encounter our hottest weather above the Arctic Circle.

We searched for a campsite with one priority in mind: shade, and landed ashore at a likely looking spot. Several feet above the river, on a sandy flat patch of ground, I found the imprints of someone having recently camped here. My guess was that they were here no more than a couple days ago. I had selected this place mainly because it was on an island in the middle of the river where the likelihood of a bear visit would be minimal. However, over the prints of the camper's boot tracks were those of a large bear. I decided that perhaps we should look elsewhere for a camping spot.

Shade is an elusive quantity here in the flats. The easiest camping invariably lies at the head of the islands, but these rarely afford the requisite shade. The river bank here is practically out of the question for camping, as it is either overgrown in shrub, or inaccessibly high cut. We paddle along these cut river banks because they embrace the best current, and while doing so we are constantly amazed at how much cutting action of the bank's founding is going on. Passing along any given stretch, the banks are alive with the sound of dirt clumps falling out and splashing into the water - from the little "plops" to big "splashes." Any trees growing along the edge are doomed to topple when they are undercut. So the banks are festered with sweepers, and we must be careful not to draw too near. Once we watched a tree actually falling in a cloud of dust and with a splash. With all this action, the river erodes the islands, and it's a wonder that there are islands remaining. Even though all that cutting and earth moving is going on, there seems to be little change since the USGS maps were made in 1957.

Finally we selected another campsite, and after a cursory search failed to discover any bear tracks. We pitched the tent in the shade of a solitary willow, which offered just enough shade. We were about to get another lesson in arctic camping.

The evening was scorching hot so we stripped and went for a swim. Ironically, our summer's first river swimming was in arctic waters. We crawled into the tent feeling withered from all the paddling in the blazing sun. The tent wasn't exactly cool inside, but if we lay still, it was tolerable.

An hour-and-a-half later I awoke almost swimming in sweat to discover that the sun glared directly through the tent's doorway. We rose, and went for another swim in the river to cool off, then shifted the tent around the bush and into the shade. Prior to today, our camps had been surrounded by mountains, so that we weren't aware of the sun's true course through the arctic sky. I had mistakenly assumed that it followed the normal pattern: rising in the east and setting in the west. Not so.

Here, the sun does not go down; it veers across the sky in an oblique arc. Our shade of the willow tree had veered away, soon leaving us wholly exposed.

In the summer arctic, one is far enough north to look over the earth's pole to see the sun, when it is on the other side of the earth. So at midnight here the sun is due north, and is shining directly on the other side of the world; it is noon in Leningrad and Cape Town. In the wee hours of the morning, our swings eastward, climbing slowly over the horizon. Throughout the morning it swings past east, ever climbing, until at noon it reaches its zenith high in the sky and due south. With the onset of afternoon, the sun commences its westward swing, dipping gradually toward the horizon. It passes through west at around 6 pm, then throughout the evening it dips down toward the horizon and swings north.

So as the night wore on, we soon lost the shade again; but at those wee hours the sun was much lower in the sky and the temperature slowly dropped - while a few mosquitoes bustled about.

Hours paddled: 12; Day's mileage: 76
Total river miles: 911

Camp 79, Map

Day 80

July 13, 1988

We woke at 4 am, and set off groggily 45 minutes later. The morning sky was full of thick, high cirrus.

After two hours of paddling we passed by a Boston whaler moored to a shore-anchored log jam. Its owner was sacked-out directly upon the logs. We had met this fellow briefly in Circle. He had begun his river journey at Marsh Lake and was headed to the Bering Sea. And we had seen him drifting past our camp the previous evening.

Jenny fired up a batch of pancakes for breakfast.

Later, the fellow in the whaler came roaring up behind us and coasted to a stop and offered us each a beer, which graciously we didn't accept. He was in his late forties or so and looked rather grubby as if he hadn't had a shower or done laundry for some time - the outdoorsman's prerogative, or rather imperative. He introduced himself as Jim Shackley from Montana. We exchanged particulars about our respective trips, (stating that we had begun at Lake Lindeman). I mentioned that we were going to make a quick stop in Beaver to obtain drinking water, and Jim said he has been drinking the river water since 30 miles this side of Whitehorse. He said he's used to this sort of thing, having done it all his life. I took this to mean he's floated rivers all his life. No, he explained, although he has spent much of his life on or near water, what he meant was that he had been in the marines for 30 years and was used to drinking all kinds of "dirty, lousy water."

Jim was impressed that we were traveling almost as fast as he was; and considered us surely the fastest paddlers on the river. Most paddlers, he said, average 30 to 40 miles per day. (This is because they don't get going until 11 in the morning.) He said for sure we were setting the paddling speed record for the Yukon River, although we knew otherwise, and we certainly weren't trying to set a record. With his 40 hp engine, Jim traveled at 30 miles per hour, and couldn't quite believe that we had passed his starting place near Marsh Lake only a few days ahead of him.

He was anxious to get moving - "it's too hot whenever I stop."

Jenny and I don't get much of a cooling breeze at our meager cruising speed, so we hadn't noticed it getting hotter whenever we stop.

He fired his engine, rammed the throttle forward, and generated a huge wake which soon led off over the horizon, disappearing around a bend far ahead.

We took turns catnapping while the other paddled. The afternoon was really hot even though the sky carried a layer of broken clouds. We were besieged by one or two persistent horse flies, which when dispatched, new ones would assume their places.

Jenny gingerly crawled off the end of the bow and slid into the river. This boat has become something of our space ship whenever we are away from shore, and Jenny seemed really out of place up on the bow and then actually in the water. But soon she climbed aboard and all was returned to normalcy.

We made a quick stop at the small town of Beaver. It wasn't really a town, at least what we could see from the shore, but just an Indian village. Jenny wandered in to fetch drinking water while I stayed with the boat. An Indian teenager happened by and asked what I was doing. When I said that my wife had gone to collect drinking water, he acted offended. "What's wrong with the river water?" he demanded. We talked for a few minutes, and I found his English and diction impeccable - he seemed to speak with an intelligence that belied the fact that he had not suffered a higher education. I asked if they had tv here, and he replied in disgust yes - disgust because they had only one station, this broadcast from Anchorage. He said his life's ambition was "to go check out the States". But the problem was that he couldn't get out of Beaver. "Some people get out for education," he related, "but I didn't qualify."

Jenny returned, having obtained water from the village's water filtering unit that filters river water. She said there was a sign on the building advising that the water be boiled as a further precaution.

We paddled several more hours, making excruciatingly slow progress, the current here being minimal. Around 7 pm I directed Jenny to get comfortable and take an extended sleep, as I had decided to paddle into the late evening.

The "night" was calm, the paddling quiet and serene. The air was still and a thick layer of altostratus blocked out the sun, making for a comfortable temperature. As the evening wore on the protracted sunset grew more dramatic, lingering for hours on end.

At 11 pm I spotted a Red Fox, so I woke Jenny and we watched it scamper lithely along the river bank. Half an hour later, with Jenny fast asleep, I pulled into a gravel bar after completing more than 100 miles that day. The motion of the boat being pulled ashore woke Jenny, and she peered out to find me standing overhead. That came as something of a shock.

She emerged and together we see-sawed the boat up the beach a foot or so, then set up the tent nearby and tied the boat's bow line to the tent so it could not float away unheralded. This was the first time we camped without unloading the boat, and it sure was a lot easier. The trick was to find a suitable spot on the gravel bar, on the inside of a bend where the current is weak.

Hours paddled: 18; Day's mileage: 102
Total river miles: 1011

During the night we were suddenly awakened by the noise of rapids. It sounded like a tidal bore making its way up the river, and getting louder as it approached. I rose in a near panic, and looked out to see a tug wrestling a barge upriver.

Camp 80, Map

Day 81

July 14, 1988

We slept in a few hours and set off at 7 am, feeling quite tired. Again, the river current was minimal. We tried to keep to the outside of the bends, seeking the better current, and this entailed a great deal of paddling to cross the river at each bend. At 10 am we paddled past a group of canoeists, their tent still standing erect nearby. A strong westerly wind was gathering, setting a chop across the river. Also the air was quite smoky from a couple of huge forest fires in the area. Like enormous atomic bomb plumes, the smoke rose into the cumulo-nimbus clouds they had formed.

We paddled against the headwind and chop for a couple of hours. Then in the distance ahead we saw what appeared to be water being ripped from the river's surface and flung into the air. Appropriately, this was near an area called Windy Bend. We turned and paddled hard for shore, thinking we were about to be hit by an inordinately strong squall. But after assessing the situation we could see it was not water but sand being blown off an expansive sand bank. We landed ashore anyway, and rested our rear ends for 20 minutes, watching the wind driven sand fly out across the river.

We paddled on, hugging the river bank. The water became somewhat rough, but not quite requiring that we don the kayak's spray cover. Even though the wind was strong, the sun beat down on us intensely, making us uncomfortably hot.

After a few hours of paddling hard into the wind while being sun-broiled, we landed ashore just short of Stevens Village. As we lay in the shade resting, Jenny noticed a bear on the opposite side of the slough. It walked into the water and swam across to our side. Once it was out of the water I could see that it was just a black bear. Without pausing, it sauntered away into the forest.

Now 7 pm, the evening sun was so intense that we decided not to set out into it. Instead we pitched the tent in the shade of the bank.

We had seen quite a few different birds today: hawks, eagles, osprey, and 2 magnificent, grey and white birds which flew across the river directly before us and landed on the opposite bank and proceeded to raise a clamor. We didn't recognize them; they were similar to a crane, but not as lanky.

The slow current and persistent headwind accounted for our day's low mileage.

Hours paddled: 10; Day's mileage: 60
Total river miles: 1071

Camp 81, Map

Day 82

July 15, 1988

We rose at 1 am and set off at 1:45. The air was still and quite chilly. We paddled past the sleeping settlement of Steven's Village, spread along the river's edge. We didn't see the main part of the village, hidden behind an island, but we could hear the town's big diesel generator.

We paddled on throughout the wee morning hours in light headwinds, taking turns sleeping. Ahead I could see where the Yukon Flats came to an abrupt end. The river flowed through a gap between two bold headlands - discernable from quite a distance.

Reaching the bluffs, I found that the river changed character dramatically. Now it coursed through a channelway bounded on both sides by mountains.

Later in the morning, I was napping when Jenny woke me to report that she could see the Pipeline bridge ahead. We paddled beneath the pipeline bridge and drew ashore, hoping to obtain drinking water somewhere. The bridge was a space-age looking affair, reflecting technology's proverbial state of the art. It carried the pipeline across the river, and was obviously deemed a sensitive element of national defense, for it was laden with video cameras, proximity sensors, infra-red cut-beam switches, and signs warning to the effect that anyone messing with this bridge would be straightaway be arrested.

We drug the boat up onto a gravel landing and sauntered, water bottles in hands, up a gravel road to a group of pre-fab structures. One bore a large sign: Restaurant. We went inside and found a spacious room set with tables and chairs. A smiling, friendly waitress took our order, and we asked about life here in this remote place. The gravel, pipeline road was open to tourists through here, and for another 100 miles farther on. But the majority of the traffic comprised the trucks servicing the pipeline and the drilling operations at Prudhoe. Our waitress, who had lived here for four years, gave me the same pat reply that every other Alaskan has given to my question "what's it like up here in the winter?" "Not bad." I've asked this question dozens of times and not once have I ever heard anything but "Not bad."

A boy came into the restaurant and commented that it was so smoky outside that he couldn't even see the mountains. By this we knew that there were mountains nearby. An immense fire was burning to the south, 350,000 acres by last report, and the air was pervaded in smoke. Once could look directly at the sun, which appeared as a moon-sized orange ball.

I decided to treat Jenny and myself to the been-out-in-the-boonies-awhile, starving-for-a-good-meal breakfast: steak and eggs, hash browns, toast and coffee, topped off with a big, homemade cinnamon roll, to the tune of... $25.00 for two.

After taking a few photographs of the pipeline, we shoved off into the grayness.

After several more miles we encountered increasingly stiff headwinds, and spent the afternoon straining at the paddles with flashes of spray whipping off each blade as they rose from the water. The Sea Tub rocked and rolled merrily in the chop.

The pipeline road brings an entourage of fishing and river enthusiasts from Fairbanks and points away to the south. This was our last road connecting the mighty river to civilization. Predictably therefore, throughout the day we encountered numerous small craft roaring past, going one direction or the other.

It was salmon season now, and we passed by fish camps, Indian or white, every mile or so. Tied ashore at these camps were skiffs with generous outboard motors. Nearby were the racks of bright red salmon meat drying, and a small house or three. Some of these houses were of logs, but more often they were ramshackle affairs framed crudely with logs, a tin roof, board siding, or often just with a plastic tarp. The fish are taken with the gill nets and with the fish wheels, and the fishing this year is purportedly good. Usually we find the fish wheels de-activated as per Fish and Game regulation limiting the quota. The fishermen will return to their villages when the salmon runs are finished.

Today was bear sighting day. As the salmon begin their run upriver, the bears emerge from the hills. We had been cautioned about landing ashore at the feeder creeks where the bears will likely congregate. We saw 5 bears this afternoon, including a sow with 2 cubs. All were blackies. One of the bears we saw scurried away from shore into the nearby woods, and as we paddled past the spot, we saw the remains of a bout of fish cleaning. No doubt the fishermen provide a lion's share of the blackie's mainstay hereabouts. The fish are many times cleaned on the shore opposite the fish camp, so that is another place for us to avoid. But the blackies, although they are large and powerful, are timid in spirit, at least out in the wilds, and they give us no concern.

As the afternoon wore on, the paddling became more of an ongoing battle of little consequence. Strong winds fought against the river's current, riddling it with standing waves and churning it into a mud-colored turmoil. Within 30 feet of shore, where there was less current, the water was much calmer but it was also plagued with back-eddies. The stronger the wind blew, the closer we were forced near shore, out of the river's current; so our late afternoon's mileage was minimal despite the effort we put into it. Adding to this, the sun was out in full force, glaring oppressively.

When we finally pulled ashore, we did so with a note of defeat. Eager to press on, we waited a couple of hours for the wind to ease, but eventually we gave up, pitched the tent on a sandy terrace and drug the boat up away from the river a short ways. Even though the wind howled, the broiling heat of the sunshine made the inside of the tent like that of an oven. Desperate for shade, we covered the front of the tent with the fly in such a way that the wind could pass through unobstructed.

Hours paddled: 12; Day's mileage: 75
Total river miles: 1146

Camp 82, Map

Day 83

July 16, 1988

We rose at 2 am, and off at 2:45. The wind had died during the night and the water's surface had calmed. The air was again filled with smoke and was chilly. The morning's paddling was routine, another day of passing through Alaska's immense interior. The human mind has but a limited capacity for the concept of vastness. Among the true geniuses are the astronomers. Here where the wilderness stretches away on all sides to forever, we were finding the sco0pe of this open terrain fairly incomprehensible.

The river itself dwarfed us. What a change it has undergone since we first saw it emerge from beneath the snowfields while descending the flanks of Chilkoot Pass.

The sky was full of lenticulars glowing orange and red like the embers of some heavenly campfire. It was a strikingly beautiful sky, but a foreboding one; lenticulars tell of high winds in the not-so-upper atmosphere. Sure enough, headwinds soon set upon us, churning the river into a vast field of ominous white-capped standing waves.

During our trip up the Inside Passage, we had paddled some mighty rough seas, so with this in mind we were determined to tough-it-out today and stay out in the current.

We stayed out about 100 feet from shore, one of us paddling into the stiff headwind and managing the chop while the other slept in his or her stateroom below-decks. And thus we went throughout the morning. At one point Jenny mentioned that we were passing by two canoeists. I rose and looked out, and saw them seated ashore, each in a folding chairs in the shade of the shoreline willows. Their two open canoes had been drug ashore, and they were waiting out the weather. I waved, and they waved in a manner that bid us come ashore for a chat. I waved again to say thanks but we would be getting on. One can only imagine what they must have thought when they first saw a woman solo paddling a double kayak in these rough conditions. There she was, paddling hard and looking very much as if that was normal procedure; suddenly I sat up, gave a wave, then went back down. No, we are not your typical river floaters; we are sea kayakers tempered by a 7-week journey of the Inside Passage. It's all a matter of perspective. A person can get accustomed to almost anything, be it paddling in rough conditions, or wintering in Alaska. But I dare say that someone who, through years of dedicated, single-minded practice, becomes accustomed to watching tv commercials is the more hardened.

But perhaps what followed proved that we were becoming blasé about the hazards of paddling rough water. At one point I made the mistake of crossing the river in the usual 30 knots of headwind. Half way across, I realized that the mistake was of such proportions that I vowed never to repeat it.

Day's end was again spelled by increasingly stronger wind and decreasing enthusiasm on our parts for want of any real forward progress. We landed ashore on an island where we could see the last camping possibility before a stretch of cliffs.

Here, we discovered the carcass of a bear, the stench of which made the area utterly uninhabitable. It was probably a grizzly, but I didn't get close enough to inspect; its color was somewhat lighter than a blackie. The carcass's exposed position led one to suspect that the bear had been shot. The principle difference between a black bear and a grizzly is not so much one of size, mass, and of brute strength, but of temperament. In the Lower 48, black bears thrive wildly, yet the brown bear, or grizzly, has become practically exterminated. This principle could apply to people and to nations. Wrath begets wrath.

We struck out, and a few miles farther on landed ashore again where the beach offered a good place to camp, but we weren't about to endure another scorching ordeal in the tormenting arctic sun, so we reluctantly unloaded the boat, carried everything up the embankment, and made a comfortable camp in the cool forest of spruce and cottonwoods.

We had seen a lot of wildlife throughout the day: opposite the village of Rampart we saw a bear scrounging the riverbank. We spotted two bald eagles, one peregrine, a few sea gulls, and various other water birds. We had seen the tracks of cow and calf moose, and here at camp were a set of jumbo paw tracks set clearly in the sand, these telling of a large Timber wolf. A Red squirrel chattered at us in a scold manner for having pitched our tent beneath its tree.

Hours paddled: 12; Day's mileage: 74
Total river miles: 1220

Camp 83, Map

Day 84

July 17, 1988

We slept in until 5 am, catching up on some needed rest. We carried the Sea Tub and gear down to the river's edge, loaded up, slid the boat into the water and set off at 6 am. The sky was grey and even at this hour headwinds played over the expanse of water. The going was immediately arduous. Nevertheless, Jenny somehow managed to prepare a breakfast of coffee and pancakes. This was a bit of a test in the art of seamanship cookery, as the water was quite choppy.

We passed by a black bear wandering about on a grassy sand bar and we drew near for photographs. Rather than shy away into the woods, it continued running about nervously near the water's edge as if wanting to swim across the river, which at that point was well over half a mile wide. The headwind picked up in earnest and we felt like slaves in a Viking ship, struggling interminably at the oars.

Later in the morning we passed by the Tanana (Tan'-a-nah) Indian village, spread out thinly for a mile along the river bank. Here was the Indian's equivalent of Vancouver Island's "build-a-cabin-on-the-waterfront" mania, but of course the reasoning here was more pragmatic than for mere scenery. From the water comes their livelihood and mainstay: fish. Actually, Uncle Sam provides most of their mainstay, but still the people fish, when they feel like it. Practically every house owner had a boat tied ashore. One of the primary needs for the fishing is to feed their dog population, which assumes mind-boggling proportions. The dogs are staked out, usually along the river bank, and come in units of 15 or 20. They are used to pull winter sleds, although they are not pure-bred Huskies or Malamutes. Most of the dogs ignore us as we paddle past, some eye us demurely without making a sound, and some do a bit of half-hearted yapping. However, in certain instances previously, as we have passed by a fish camp at an early hour when the owners slept, 20 or more dogs would begin yelping and yapping excitedly. No doubt the owner in question slept through the whole pandemonium. But the unusual aspect of the barking was that it was not aggression. The dogs clearly wanted attention.

A mile farther we landed ashore beneath a conspicuous flag pole. To the highly trained observer, the village flag pole means but one thing: post office. We had arrived at the town of Tanana, where resupply boxes awaited, we hoped.

We climbed the bank to find that, indeed, we had landed directly in front of the Tanana Post Office and General Store. A Sunday morning, the town seemed deserted. A sign on the store indicated that it would open at noon, so we waited the half hour, by which time a few venturesome souls were to be seen wandering about.

The proprietor opened the door, and at our inquiry related that the post master would not come and open the post office on our behalf. Having well anticipated this, and having been making much better progress than we had originally projected, at this point we weren't particularly in need of our resupply parcel. So we slipped a note into the mailbox requesting that the parcel be returned to sender, postage guaranteed.

In the well-stocked store we bought a few fresh goods, then Jenny placed a telephone call to her parents. While they talked I read a sign near the telephone, posted by the Health Department. It instructed the locals on the signs, symptoms and treatment of heat prostration. Jenny related her mom had asked if we were having any trouble with the pack ice.

We filled a pair of gallon jugs with drinking water from the store's proprietor. This water came from the fellow's well, and was "unfiltered and hard" (high mineral content). Consolingly, he offered that "city water," available nearby, might be preferable because it is softened. But we cannot stomach this city-softened water, modernized with an army of chemicals bent on defeating those nasty minerals that God included naturally.

Lately, obtaining good drinking water has been a problem. We pass by innumerable creeks, but only rarely are these accessible without going to determined and great lengths. The creeks that feed into the Yukon sometimes do so via sloughs of still water. Some of these are wide open, but most are riddled with overhanging brush and snags. And sometimes the creeks are so darkly root beer colored as to make the prospects of drinking from them repulsive.

We have tried treating the river water, which now resembles liquid mud as much as it does water, and to our discriminating palates also has the savor of mud. It is full of suspended particles of muddy river banks and glacial till, a combination which would put the kidneys of the faint hearted to the test. Left to lie motionless in a container, much of the sediment will settle to the bottom, a process which requires several hours and upon a motionless foundation, such as is not to be found aboard the likes of the Sea Tub. We have tried making coffee with this gravity-treated sludge. It tasted an earthy brew, and with a little imagination we forced it down our unwilling gullets as cafe de la terre. River water run through our filter would promptly clog it, rendering the unit useless. Next time I would bring two filters; one rather course to skim the mud and till, the other, fine to confront any microorganisms. Of course, in the main, the Indians drink the river water as is, as they have for centuries, except in the towns where Uncle Sam has brought them technologically improved (chemicalized) water. Who can rightly say which is the more deleterious?

We shoved off into the teeth of a mild tempest which had me wondering if perhaps the Department of Energy has considered wind farming with a few acres of turbines in the area. From what we've seen, this might be an appropriate location.

The town of Tanana borrows its name from the Tanana River, which conjoins the Yukon here. Second only to the Yukon itself as Alaska's longest river, once again the Yukon's immensity is doubled. Downriver of this mighty confluence the far shore appears miles distant.

As the river has become much more expansive, the increased fetch made our position more susceptible to the effects of the winds. This is one of wind against current - and as the current is minimal from the shore out a hundred feet or so, again we paddled at that distance off, at the distinct edge of the gnarly chop. Typically the wind seemed to calm during the "night," so we decided to land ashore and encamp at 2 pm. We would sleep until the wind died and the water calmed, then would set off again.

Just before we landed, two 40 hp outboard Whalers passed by with a noticeable sense of dispatch. One coasted to a stop just abeam, and the skipper asked the distance to Ruby. He carried an odd cargo consisting primarily of three 55-gallon plastic drums, presumably containing gasoline, and a boy, curled up in the bow. The lad bore that certain countenance suggesting that this illustrious undertaking had not been entirely his idea. The older fellow said that they were going to Emmonak, and when I asserted that so were we, he said maybe he would see us there. But as he jammed the throttle lever forward and his once-again fulminating boat canted sharply upward at the bow, and as the water astern churned into a dizzying white frenzy, I doubted we would be traveling much in their company.

We landed ashore at a place where the bank was low lying and the willows protected a small tent space against the prevailing winds. The sky hung cloud laden and we didn't anticipate any immediate need for shade, so we pitched the tent in the open, see-sawed the boat several feet up the inclined gravel bar and tied the bow line to an overturned tree stump. Jenny prepared a hasty stew, then we retired at the distinguished hour of 4:30 pm, listening to the roar of the wind frenzied waves.

Once inside the tent for the evening, I pulled out my mosquitolator and had a go at the blood thirsty bugs clawing rapaciously at the outside of the mosquito netting. This is a game of revenge. To the uninformed, my mosquitolator might resemble an ordinary rubber band, but here in the wilds it is a weapon, one of far reaching consequences. In school boy fashion I inserted the mosquitolator over one index finger, drew it back, pinched between thumb and index of the other hand, and pointing it at the bug in question, clinging unsuspectingly to the outside of the mosquito netting, I let fly. As in horse shoes and hand grenades, the aim was not so critical. The mosquitolator, being of a mass easily thousands of times greater than that of the diminutive but despicable bug, flew through the air at speed, slammed against the inside of the mosquito netting in the immediate proximity of the target bug, whereupon the minute predator suffered a sudden and unexpected annihilation. This evening I did battle with a voracious batch of gnats. They didn't last long.

Hours paddled: 7; Day's mileage: 34
Total river miles: 1254

Camp 84, Map

Day 85

July 18, 1988

We rose at 9:45 pm - still July 17 - after enjoying but 4 hours of sleep. For the past 3 days a strong headwind during the day had given way to night time calms, so rather than follow the dictates of our internal clocks, we had finally realized the pressing need to harmonize with the river's temperament. We set off at 10:30 pm into a river setting vastly different than the one we had escaped hours earlier. The water, in short, was now flat calm.

We paddled together for an hour, then in turn, one napped while the other wielded the oar. And thus we proceeded throughout the night - not a dark night, rather, a broad daylight night. The sun merely swung through the northern horizon, at times hiding behind mountains and clouds. The nocturnal air had a bite to it, and even while bundled in jackets, the person sleeping was troubled by the chill. So for the first time on the water we broke out a sleeping bag, and this proved indescribably luxurious. The Sea Tub was now even more befitting a floating, miniature home.

The river was as broad as it was slow; often we would find ourselves trapped still water, far from any shore, necessitating we veer away laterally searching for current.

After 12 hours of continuous traveling we passed by the camp of the power boaters who had passed us the previous evening. We passed around the backside of the island on which they were camped, but before we reached the island's downriver terminus they had set off again with a thundering roar. To the depravity of my sanguinely-bloated alter ego, they probably didn't see us.

At the grassy shoreline of another island a black bear foraged, unconcerned at our proximate gawking.

Many miles farther we landed ashore for a quick pit stop. To further ameliorate the utter paucity of circulation in the derrieres, we strolled along the gravel bar for a few minutes, inspecting rocks. We love to search for interesting specimens, and here wished for more time for doing so, for undoubtedly few rock hounds scrounge these vast river banks.

Here was a broad area of lowlands, notably similar in character to the topography of the Yukon Flats, and here we sustained our first genuine encounter with numerous bugs. Little blackflies, some call them gnats, closed in by the droves and swarmed furiously. They were reluctant to venture offshore, but for the next 24 hours, landing ashore was to be a maddening experience. The only saving grace was that they were finicky gourmet eaters, and bit only when they found just the right spot.

The early afternoon headwind sprang forth and we strained at the paddles for interminable hours, while making but slow progress.

At 5 pm we began looking for a campsite. Landing ashore to investigate the first camping prospect, I found a fresh set of grizzly tracks, characterized by the astonishingly deep imprints of paws and those impossibly long toenails. Moving right along, we paddled a few more miles, again bucking the headwind that scooped the chop over the prow, to sweep the deck at every hand.

The second place we inspected was a promising spot nestled within the willows of an island. The sky was cloudless, the sunshine was mighty hot, and by now we needed shade. Landing ashore, though, hoards of besieging gnats drove us straightway back into the boat. We couldn't get away from there fast enough. We both agreed we'd rather spend the night on the river than to deal further with those bugs. And within seconds, strong headwinds out on the river drove the bugs well astern.

Next, we decided to encamp on the windward, breezy, side of an island. Eventually finding a nice place that filled our every requirement, we landed ashore. But once again, things were not as they appeared. The sand beach was indeed sand, but not the kind that could be walked upon. It was quick sand. We couldn't egress from the boat. So again we paddled back out into the river, dog tired and by now fairly dejected.

At that point I'd grown mighty weary of searching in vain for a campsite. Despite our exhaustion I determined that we would just paddle on. I offered that Jenny could lay down and sleep in her cockpit, and this she did, whimpering softly to herself, this for perhaps the third time on the journey. How I wished to comfort her by delivering her ashore to some comfortable camp. But the best I could do was to paddle resolutely onward into the night, or rather, into the lack of night.

An hour later, quite by chance I happened upon a good campsite on the grassy river bank. I landed ashore and Jenny didn't recover from her exhausted stupor until I had drug the boat partway onto the beach. Later, she related thinking that we had gone aground and that I was dragging us off some sand bar. During a hasty inspection of the surrounding area I found fresh bear tracks. They proved those of a black bear, and I was in no mood to be intimidated by a mere blackie.

Eagerly, the bugs thronged about us in an amorphous cloud, and rather than be driven away again, desperately we withdrew and donned bug-proof head nets. These provided instant relief. They were hot to wear and drastically restricted the visibility, but these impediments we counted as a small price.

Entering the tent and hastily zipping closed the netting behind me, I found that I had conveyed perhaps 300 bugs inside with me, riding upon my clothing, despite the fact that I had brushed myself off just before unzipping the fly and lurching inside. For a few moments the buggers continued attacking, but it wasn't long before the tables turned and I commenced a ruthless counterattack. I spent 15 minutes whacking bugs, down to the very last one. Meanwhile, the outer tent walls were covered by their inestimable numbers of eager replacements.

Braving the odds outside, wearing her bug-proof clothing, Jenny cooked a generous pot of macaroni, trying to minimize the gnats' inadvertently peppering the meal. The day's strong sunshine and wind had left us well dehydrated, necessitating our drinking copiously in order to replenish our vital body fluids. such a task is not easy while wearing a head net, but Jenny solved the problem using the water filter tubing, which she used as a straw leading from the water bottle, up through the base of the head net and into her mouth.

Eventually Jenny piled into the tent, bringing with her another legion of bugs. After dispatching these, just over 100 by count, we lay in the tent watching a spider who had won the bonanza. Including the outstretch of its legs, it was about the size of a quarter, and while simply standing on the outer tent wall, it grabbed bugs left, right, and center. The human bait ensconced within was attracting the bugs that could only congregate on the outer tent walls, and the fortunate little spider had come to the smorgasbord our welcome guest. It stood motionless while the innumerable bugs scurried about, putting forth their most magnanimous and frenzied efforts to get the tantalizing blood inside the tent. Whenever one would actually crawl between the spider's legs, it would meet its sudden doom. Rather than eat them on the spot, the spider was packing them into a little doggy bag of a ball, binding them together with a little spider web twine.

By and by a dragonfly made a few passes, then landed on the tent. But for some reason the gnats wouldn't go near it. And so we fell asleep, leaving the ravening insect world to carry on outside.

Hours paddled: 18; Day's mileage: 86
Total river miles: 1340

Camp 85, Map

Day 86

July 19, 1988

Awaking at 12:30 am, we were aghast to find the outer tent walls seething with bugs, milling around in a blood thirsty frenzy, as they had been doing all night. We donned our fashionable bug wear: jackets, head nets, and nylon pants tucked into our boots, then packed up in a flurry of commotion and set off, at 1 am.

The inconspicuously early morning air fairly calm with an occasional volley of headwinds. We took turns, one paddling while the other slept, both wearing head nets all the while.

Day by day the river widens, and its slackening current, at times imperceptible, makes the navigation most difficult. Presently the Yukon is between one and two miles wide. We are just over 200 feet above sea level, so with six or seven hundred miles remaining to the Bering Sea, there is little slope to the river bed. No longer can we find the current by looking at the river banks, which lie too far away. Looking out across the somber grey-brown surface of the impossibly massive and voluminous river, one sees places where the water appears quite still, and others where current exists is its weakest form. One of our better methods of laying the appropriate course was to hunt for floating debris, which for some reason registers the most favorable drift. The debris has come largely out of the Tanana River, quite full when we passed its confluence, so again the Yukon rides unmistakably high on its banks.

At 9:30 am we landed ashore at the small town of Ruby, population about 200. From shore we could see a smattering of dilapidated buildings, and a few newer ones. We wandered around town looking for water to fill our jugs. Why these towns were typically deserted we couldn't imagine. Eventually we found a building that featured not only a spigot for filling water jugs, but washing machines, driers and coin-operated showers. We filled our water jugs and returned to the boat eagerly to collect our shower and laundry things.

After both enjoying a steaming hot shower, Jenny ventured to the store to buy a few munchies. Ruby, it seemed, had it all.

We paddled-napped throughout an afternoon characterized by intermittent and strong headwinds interspersed with calm, buggy periods. We observed yet another pair of Peregrines, monitoring on the wing their cliff-side nest, drooling conspicuously with white bird-lime; and 4 Sandhill cranes that flew directly over the kayak. The river's edge hosted a measure of fishing activity, mostly by automatic fish wheels, which, judging by the abundance of red meat drying at the fish camps, labored with remarkable success.

Jenny cooked dinner afloat, in order to foil any bears, and after enjoying our hash browns and eggs, then washing scrupulously, we landed ashore near an abandoned Indian village named Louden. Here we pitched the tent just a few feet from the river's edge on a sandy terrace, which featured a waist-high cut bank that afforded the sorely needed shade. Crawling speedily into the tent, I brought only about 50 doomed gnats in with me, which, as compared to the several hundred the previous evening, meant that things were improving.

Once inside the tent, with the mosquito net door zipped shut I took my first few swipes at the bugs still attacking me, and as they flew straight into the tent's inner walls while attempting to flee, and suddenly realizing they could not, once again the tables turned in my favor. The batch of tormentors may have been insignificant in the global sense, but how I enjoyed the interlude of cosmic justice so afforded, as the predators suddenly becoming the prey and the carcasses fell to the floor by the dozens, while I established my inviolate domain. How the early Indians and trappers managed to cope in such conditions without the benefit of a mosquito-netted tent defies the imagination, and I could only hope I would never be required to learn their hard ways.

Hours paddled: 15 (?); Day's mileage: 81
Total river miles: 1421

Camp 86, Map

Day 87

July 20, 1988

We rose at 1:45 am, donned bug wear, packed, and set off at 2:15. The morning was again chilly, requiring that we bundle in sweaters and jackets. Feeling fatigued, we each in turn napped for an hour, and each awoke chilled to the bone. As we planned a quick stop at Galena, we didn't bother breaking out the sleeping bag.

We landed amidst dozens of outboard skiffs belonging to the Indian inhabitants of Galena. After tying the Sea Tub with a line ashore, we wandered into town to have a look around. Still early in the morning, the dirt streets were of course deserted. Hoards of blow flies festered about our faces during the abbreviated walking tour. Galena was a disgusting place, really. It reminded one of some dinge-hole town in a Third World country. The most prominent difference was the snow mobiles and a few other high-tech toys in various states of disrepair, lying about in the idle company of all sorts of other junk. Frankly, I've seen cleaner looking city dumps.

Behind the Indian village squats the Galena Air Force Base, and we had a quick look at it. Curiously, the air base was built in an expansive depression not much higher than the river's level. A surprising number of small aircraft stood parked at the base, and a certain amount of aircraft activity was taking place. We saw no one walking around outside, however, and we imagined this as a fairly dreadful place to find oneself stationed. We couldn't get back to the boat fast enough.

Soon we had gained the escape of the river, dressed more appropriately in head nets, which we wore throughout the day. The wind only wafted, so the greedy gnats were constantly and hard upon us. But we found that while wearing the head nets we weren't bothered by them. The gnats rarely bit and didn't sit still for more than a few seconds, so the threat wasn't particularly mortal. They just buzzed around annoyingly, banging into us, getting in our eyes, nose, and ears whenever we weren't wearing the head nets. If the reader can imagine each bug banging into one's face every few seconds, and this multiplied by, say, 50 bugs, then the maddening distraction can perhaps be perceived. No doubt one could get used to it, but I construed the inconvenience as something of an intrusion on my personal privacy. We longed for some fly paper with which to make hat bands. The bugs favored our hats, and if they would bang into the fly paper, then that would spell the end of them. We decided to stop in the next town, Nulato, to see if the store there sold fly paper.

Here the river was about a mile wide on the average, and with the lack of wind and chop we were able to keep far out in mid-channel, where coursed the best current. However, with the shoreline being so distant, ours was the disconcerting illusion of hardly moving.

At Bishop Rock we kept well to the left, after reading in Beth Johnson's book "Yukon Wild" about an awesome hydraulic eddy. What we found was not so terribly awesome. About 75 percent of the river swirled around in an eddy, or rather a huge, lazy whirlpool, but it was nothing dangerous. The water remained perfectly flat and slow moving.

Later, the sky cleared and the day grew quite hot, and just a few miles past the village of Koyukak the river made a sharp bend to the south-southwest. This was something of a milestone for ocean bound travelers of the mighty Yukon. We would be traveling in a southerly direction now for several days. Studying a map of the state, we considered our position most noteworthy, and we found it hard to imagine our having come such a distance from Skagway.

As we rounded the great bend the wind came from astern - practically for the first time since our embarking upon the river. This was a real blessing; a novel and indeed a most welcome occasion.

The day grew so torpid that we could no longer endure the head nets. But the bit of breeze from astern kept the bugs to a minimum. Jenny stripped and gleefully plunged overboard for a swim. As she dove off the Sea Tub's bow, she thrust me backward at a goodly clip, and there in the middle of the mile-wide river she felt a little alarmed to see the boat retreating. But a few strokes of my paddle quickly brought the boat to her rescue, and she slithered onto the bow. Jenny said the water wasn't disturbingly cold, and that she felt as though she was in a big, muddy swimming pool.

Later, traveling upriver a skiff approached, and pulled alongside, Jenny hastily covering herself with her clothes. This was a fair-sized aluminum punt with the indigenously typically hefty outboard, and was absolutely chocked full with sled dogs, and featured a kayak lashed singularly atop some fuel barrels. What Jenny and I have come to term a "pale-face" - i.e. Caucasian Alaskan resident, pallid skinned from having spent so much time indoors - manned the helm. In contrast, his sun-tanned, young woman companion sat on the nearby gunnnel. Seems that the fellow lived in Ruby and fished the river commercially. His pack of dogs numbered 23; "Indian dogs" came the reply to Jenny's question as to what kind they were. Indian dogs, he explained to my question, are part wolf, part Husky, part malamute, and part mongrel thrown in for good measure. The eyes of many were wolf white; all were thick furred and massive. Yet they showed themselves remarkably well mannered and good natured. Packed in almost like sardines, each wore something of a grin on its face, and the atmosphere was one of pure, unadulterated fun. Obviously the dogs enjoyed these boat rides immensely, and who could have blamed them?

The fellow was dark haired and wore a scruffy beard, like most of the pale-faces we've met. Also like most of the Alaskan's we've met, he was friendly but had very little to say, as if the mere company was what mattered the most. Generally, talking with the residents here imparted the sensation that, in some way, the isolation, the long, cold and dark winters, maybe the bugs in the summertime, had something of a dulling effect on one's personality. Arctic torpor, lethargy, mental hibernation almost; a slowing down. But we are not ones to judge; as these interminable days, the untold hours paddling and drifting, with very little social contact, must have done much the same to us.

Nevertheless, we enjoyed a pleasant chat. The young woman, it seemed, had just completed a one-and-half month solo paddle from Dawson to Nulato, where she had apparently met this fellow and decided to accompany him back to Ruby, en route back to her Canadian home. They asked about our trip, and Jenny said that we had begun in Whitehorse. This we imagined as believable, but when the girl asked when we had set out from Whitehorse, and when Jenny said July third, ...they could not believe this whatsoever. This girl glared at us long and hard, blankly, and after a long pause she asked, "You mean June third?" To most folks along the river, Whitehorse, just this side of never-never-land, is where the Yukon River begins; and the distance from there is clearly unfathomable.

After having drifted 15 minutes together downriver, at 4 or 5 miles per hour, fellow prompted that he was low on gas, so he wished us well, started the big engine and within moments left us alone to our paddling. We had enjoyed the human contact, so lacking on this journey.

Several miles farther we reached the town of Nulato and landed ashore amidst the usual fishing skiffs. Jenny went over to two Indian women seated on a moored boat, and asked about a store and a source of drinking water. Following their directions she then proceeded up the river bank and into town. I remained behind to keep an eye on the kayak.

A couple of young lads happened by on their bicycles. One fellow of about 12 was of a most amiable personality; I asked dozens of questions about life here, and in 20 minutes I learned more from him than from all the other Alaskans I've talked with, combined. As a rule, when asked what it's like living here, the person replies "oh, it's not bad." When asked what the winters are like, the person will reply: "not bad." But this uninhibited fellow was loaded with information; and here's some of what I learned:

The snow gets about five feet deep in the winter. The ice covers the river about three feet thick. It gets 50 degrees below, sometimes 60, and often the wind is really strong. The kids have school from 8 am to 3 pm, 5 days a week, and they have three months of summer vacation. He really liked living here in Nulato, although he didn't like going to school much. He liked to go fishing down at the Nulato River and they had a special swimming hole out at the island in the middle of the river. He goes into Fairbanks once or twice a year to visit, but he had no desire to leave Nulato permanently. The population of the town is almost 400, and 100 of those are school kids. They see lots of wildlife. A few days ago, a moose swam across the river and sauntered up onto their beach. The moose was not killed for meat, although quite a few people came out to see it. On a good day a fish wheel will catch 100 fish, sometimes 150. There were a lot of bears in the surrounding area. A slough a few miles downriver is known locally as "the zoo" as there were 10 bears living there, one of which was a grizzly. The bears pretty much stay put when they're around, rather than wander about like vagabonds. There were a few men who could hunt and kill a black bear with a knife and this was regarded as quite a manly feat.

Jenny returned with a bag of groceries and jugs full of water. She said the town was very neat and tidy, and that the people had been friendly and helpful.

As we prepared to leave, the fisherman who owned the boat adjacent to us happened along, and sat down for a chat. An elderly Indian fellow who spoke good English, he had apparently lived here all his life -- as he related not having ever been further downriver than Grayling. He too was amiable, and wished us well as we paddled away. We left the small town feeling good about the place. This was unquestionably the nicest place we've visited yet, although the town of Eagle still gets my vote because its surrounding mountains are the more interesting. Behind this town Nulato, westward, stands a huge expanse of rolling mountains, which rise higher the further back, reaching 1,000 feet and more. In the other direction, across the river to the east, lies an immense flat expanse.

After dutifully paddling a few more hours into the late afternoon, we began looking for a suitable campsite, and at every opportunity were thwarted by the presence of fish camps. Finally we crossed the river and landed at the tail end of Ninemile Island, having just finished eating our spaghetti supper. Again we made camp on the sand just a few feet from the water, dragging the boat up see-saw fashion and tying the bow line to the tent, there being no anchor more substantial close at hand.

Hours paddled: 16; Day's mileage: 78
Total river miles: 1499

Camp 87, Map

Day 88

July 21, 1988

Catching up on a round of much-needed rest, we slept deeply until 5 am. Half an hour after waking, though, we were on our way. The morning air was chilly; the sky aglow with a lingering sunrise. The morning was made expressly for paddling. The breeze was light astern and the bugs were few, so we spent the morning admiring the grand scenery. The hills to the west are covered with an admixture of trees, conifers and deciduous; none very tall. Timberline appears to lie about 600 feet above the river, which would make it some 750 feet above sea level. For some reason we had expected this land to be covered in nothing but tundra, but certainly this is not the case.

We made our usual morning pit stop, this time at the head of an island comprising mainly low lying sand. The sand proved itself hard packed and easy to walk upon; the wind funneled gently downriver and kept the head of this island practically bug free, so here was a pleasant 10 minute stop. Our daily pit stops, incidentally, was our only exigency shoreside, as we could generally carry on with the balance of life within the boat.

Half an hour later we called in at the Indian village of Kaltag, population about 250. Scrambling the riverbank, we sauntered to the small general store and bought a few provisions, then I returned to watch the Tub while Jenny continued to the City Hall building, intent on telephoning the Post Office at Grayling. We now expected to arrive at that town on Sunday, and wanted to arrange to collect our parcel. The post mistress at Grayling, Eleanor, was most helpful and friendly. As her post office closes at noon Saturdays, she offered that if we hadn't arrived by then, she would take our package home with her. She gave Jenny directions to her house, which in a village of 200, were not intricate.

Our purchases at the Kaltag store included a No-Pest Strip, which Jenny then wore throughout the morning, ignominiously atop her hat. The strip's effectiveness proved little more than psychological. We paddled out into the river, then mostly drifted, the sunshine rather too overwhelming in terms of paddling enthusiasm. Supine on the foredeck perfecting her all-over tan, Jenny related her conversation with the Indian woman in the store. According to her this is the nicest time of year. In August they usually receive a lot of rain. Jenny had asked where we could buy some fresh salmon, and the woman related that the King salmon run has finished, and that all of the meat has been dried, as the heat of this month would have spoiled the fish. Soon the Chum salmon would be running, but chum was not considered nearly as good to eat as the King salmon, and is used as dog food.

At 7:30 pm we drew to an extended cut bank, at a place where the bank was terraced with sand ledges that one might be able to climb. After scaling the 6-foot high embankment and clearing an area of fallen cottonwoods, in a flurry of action, while being beset with fervid gnats and a few mosquitoes, Jenny tossed to me the things we would need for the night, including the tent, sleeping bags, drinking water, food bags and clothes bags. Then we made fast the Sea Tub with long lines fore and aft to big cottonwoods, allowing the boat to float at the river's edge. Pitching the tent, we crawled expeditiously inside, zipped the netting doorway secure, and dispatched those attackers who had unwisely pursued.

Hours paddled: 13; Day's mileage: 71
Total river miles: 1570

Camp 88, Map

Day 89

July 22, 1988

Concerned about having left the Tub afloat, we had made a special point to keep it under loose surveillance during the night. Although slight, the chances were conceivable that some gnarly tree root could come floating downriver and snarl the kayak, and yank it free of its moorings, or puncture its frail hull. At 2:15 am, Jenny rose check the boat, waking me. Seeing that the conditions were ideal for paddling, I decided we would set off. Jenny later said that she tried to be very quiet getting up, because she figured if I woke up I'd want to move out.

While packing, we noticed that the gnats had removed themselves elsewhere in the "night", leaving the mosquitoes in their stead.

At 3 am we embarked into a cold morning, upon water somewhat wind-chopped. Yesterday's exposure to the intense sun left us both feeling somewhat bedraggled, and I remarked that indeed, we had apparently discovered the tropic of Arctica. We took turns napping while the other paddled and made our way along, following one bank or the other.

As the season was growing later, and as we were heading south and plying lower latitudes, the nights were becoming somewhat dim, which is not to infer, though, that they were dark, by any means. But as we were settling into the early morning paddling routine and finished organizing the boat, I looked up into the blue-grey sky and spotted something unique: the planet Venus in the eastern sky. The long Arctic summer day was drawing to a close. Seeing the planet reminded us of the earth's circadian rhythm, whereby the daylight rules the day, and darkness and the stars, the night. During an extended journey in the far north, The traveler learns that life here runs by a different timepiece. The Arctic clock chimes but twice a year - once by winter and once by summer; the minutes and hours serving merely to blend languidly one into the other.

The river's current has moderated to four miles, or so, per hour, and accordingly, we seem to be gaining less progress by the day. But also we've been paddling ardently for nearly 3 months, spending an inordinate amount of time on the water most every day, and it seems that our paddling energy was beginning to abate. We were now doing a lot of drifting, even though the current is minimal, because we cannot muster the same gumption we did a few months ago. The endless repetition is only partially responsible, though, while the greater factor is one of diet and nutrition so difficult to maintain on any extended journey. There is another aspect, though. As we near the completion of our journey, we are slowing in order to savor our remaining week at large.

We paddled and drifted continuously throughout the day without taking a shore break. At times the sun beat down unmercifully; at other times a big cumulus would drift overhead and send a cold wind racing across the wide expanse of river, creating boisterous sand storms on the low lying islands and prompting us to put our clothing back on. It was a day largely free of insects, and we saw none, save for one or two people ashore at isolated fish camps.

The interminable sitting in the boat had us discussing the feasibility of setting out on a long hike, perhaps immediately on our return to the Lower 48. How we longed to walk away from the Tub and use our legs, which have done little this summer except to complain bitterly for want of circulation.

At 5:30 pm we landed on the east bank of Alice Island, finding a particularly suitable campsite, shaded on 3 sides by a dense stand of willows growing 10 to 15 feet in height. The late afternoon sun hung quite high in the sky, and the beach was particularly suitable for swimming, so we dug out a bar of soap and a vial of shampoo, and enjoyed a most refreshing bath. In a river of such gargantuan proportions, one doesn't worry about polluting with a bar of soap.

This being the first place in the world we've been able to bathe directly in the water without fouling it, here we made a discovery. Our small bar of soap, which didn't float, slipped from my hand and disappeared into the murky river. We scrounged the bottom downriver a ways, and Jenny recovered it, but a few minutes later she dropped it and we were unable to find it again. This problem is unique to this area. In the Sierras, one would not carry a shotgun as protection from the bears, and one certainly wouldn't be concerned with whether or not one's bar of soap floats, and it's the differences that make a trip interesting.

Hours paddled: 14.5; Day's mileage: 65
Total river miles: 1635

Camp 89, Map

Day 90

July 23, 1988

After an all-too-brief repose we rose at 1 am and set off half an hour later. To the north, astern, the sky was laden ominously with crepuscular stratus, which blocked the dawn. The sky ahead, to the south, stood clear and blue-grey. As I looked up, a faint pin-prick of light caught my attention, but my eyes jerked away and I had to search a long while again to find it. Now in focus I recognized it as a star. It would be Vega, and there must be others. We searched and picked out several. With a casual glance skyward we couldn't see the stars they were so faint, but by piercing the thin veil of dawn we found them one by one until we had counted half a dozen. Altair and Deneb we recognized. Having navigated by them during our global sailing circumnavigation, these stars were old friends.

A northerly wind piping out of the clouds overtook the Tub and sent her scudding ahead, running before the wind and chop. Wind astern was a cherished luxury on this river, even though it was a cold wind that dashed us now and then with a smattering of rain.

Several hours later the clouds dissipated and a warm sun shook free. We each took an hour-and-a-half nap while the other paddled, half-heartedly plying what weak current the river granted.

At 9:30 am we reached the Indian village of Grayling, where our resupply parcel waited at the post office.

We landed ashore, dragged the boat out of the water, and grabbed our empty water bottles. The streets of Grayling were dusty, and lined with ramshackle log houses surrounded with yards littered in discarded junk. The Alaskan pack rat does not throw anything away that might be useful someday. Replacements are hard to come by, expensive, and take a long time coming when ordered. The town appeared deserted, save for the dogs. Arctic Alaskans are fond also of their dogs: each family of any social standing owns at least a dozen of them. But these dogs are unique in their personalities, their characters and intelligence. Chained to posts, they lay quietly as we passed by, looking at us longingly. To them we are not trespassers, but potential attention-givers, it seems. Any one of these dogs would be worthless in the Lower 48. They are too big to feed economically and to give companionship to young children, which they would overwhelm; but mainly they would joyfully greet any burglar. I had the feeling these dogs were merely reflecting the personalities of their owners. Could that account for the huge difference in disposition comparing dogs of the north with those of the states?

We covered the lengths of Grayling's three streets without finding the post office or even a hint of human occupation, so we backtracked and went around into the town's maintenance section, indicated by a few modern buildings. One was the school, another the power station, and finally we found what we were looking for: a building bearing a small sign reading "U.S. Post Office, Grayling Alaska".

We met the post mistress, Eleaner, and she handed us our box, and we posted half a dozen rolls of exposed film. A few days previously Jenny had talked with her on the telephone. And we couldn't help notice her nearly flawless English, which seemed out of character with her distinctly Eskimo (mongoloid) features.

Back at the waterfront we sorted through our supplies, then Jenny walked to the small store, now open, and obtained a stronger cardboard box. This we used to mail most of our supplies back home. We were traveling more than twice as fast as we had anticipated, and the unneeded food sent home would act instead as some of the coming winter's rations.

Back at the store we bought a few fresh goods, then went to the post office again to mail our box. Jenny enjoyed a pleasant conversation with Eleanor, who explained that this town of 200 people seemed deserted because two crews were out fighting fires, and because many families were away at their summer fish camps. She explained that the subsistence fishermen all along the Yukon River are restricted by the Department of Fish and Game as to the days they can fish. It is illegal to fish the waters hereabouts on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays; but there is no quota on the other days. At the river's mouth they do have quotas - and later we were to see why: when the salmon are running, the fishing there is phenomenally productive.

We set off one-hand-half hours after landing, and paddled throughout the afternoon. The wind was from the north, in the direction of a few big fires, so the air was smoke-laden. The smoke made the river appear far wider than it was.

At the store in Grayling we had looked for fly paper, but to no avail. Fly paper affixed to our hats, I reasoned, would have given us an advantage against the infernal gnats that buzzed continually around our heads. There was nothing for it but to improvise. Using the back of Jenny's hat as a test piece, I smeared it liberally with honey, then sat back in my seat to watch the results. One by one the hapless members of the vicious hoard suddenly found themselves adhered in sweet but viscous quicksand. The honey was an instant success, and it wasn't long before we had both greased our hats heavily with the sticky syrup. To our delight, each hat began accumulating a collection of buggy victims. The honey didn't work perfectly, though, because after a protracted struggle most of the gnats managed to free themselves. But by removing our hats every few minutes and gently persuading the little buggers into the quagmire with the nudge of a fingertip, they would find themselves mortally bonded. Even so, the ones that got away did not escape unscathed - often they could be found here or there about the boat, floundering with a great deal of ensludged difficulty. The overall effect however was entirely positive - psychologically if nothing else. Now we at least had a means of dealing with our tormenters.

We paddled past an impressive line of vertical rock cliffs which harbored Peregrine nests. The Peregrine Falcon is a raucous creature, squawking scoldingly at our passing. The bird has a variety of calls, most of which remind one of a bit of old machinery in need of oiling.

If it wasn't falcons screeching at us, it was the sea gulls. These were an ongoing nuisance, and we eventually came to agree that their reputation as pests was well-earned. They raise their young on the low lying sandy and grassy cays that dot the river for most of its length. Should a paddeler approach the brood, the gull will fly out and begin swooping and diving and squawking aggressively. We had no choice but to pass by their territories, and after the first few weeks of gull-chastisement, the bird's antics became rather less amusing. At the risk of offending the preservationists, the sea gulls eventually had me wishing for a sling shot. And today I finally grew so weary of the gulls irate behavior that I actually hurled an empty water bottle at a diving gull. Startled, the bird veered suddenly away. As we retrieved the floating water bottle, I noted that the bird kept its distance, although it continued its infernal squawking.

The long hours seated in the boat were driving my back to distraction. Aspirin mitigates, but it does not ameliorate the problem. How we need to use our bodies, and if we don't, how they rebel.

Feeling tired, we decided to camp early. But in this we were not successful as the fish camps near the small village of Anvik occupied the potential campsites.

Finally at 4:30 pm we landed on low-lying Slim Island. Wading into the dense willows I stomped out a tent site in the thick infertile Horsetail. The mud beach displayed many fox tracks, and the island acted as a sanctuary for sizeable aggregation of mosquitoes. We dragged the boat a short ways up and away from the water, pitched the tent, and I crawled inside to escape the bugs. Jenny remained outside to cook dinner, garbed in mosquito wear and sprayed liberally with repellent.

Hours paddled: 13; Day's mileage: 60
Total river miles: 1695

Camp 90, Map

Day 91

July 24, 1988

Because the lack of sleep had been gradually catching up with us, we allowed ourselves a full night's sleep. And at 6 am we rose to a beautiful, windless morning. The northeastern sky glowed a fiery orange, and the water lay flat calm.

As we drew nearer the river's delta, which the locals call the mouth, the Yukon was widening and slowing. In the slackening current we were finding it increasingly difficult to maintain a respectable day's progress. So today we resolved to change our tactics. We would drift less and paddle as much as possible. We reasoned that as we progressed southward, and drew nearer to the autumnal equinox, our nights would become darker. So we would try to sleep by night and paddle by day.

We paddled in unison, making way across the mile-wide strait to the far bank, searching for the most favorable current and trying to keep ourselves in it. As the day wore on, the sun bore through the pall of smoke in an otherwise cloudless sky, and the temperature began to rise.

Mid morning we were beset by the first hoard of gnats. Not to worry: we popped the top off of the plastic honey-bear bottle and coated our hats as if icing a cake. In a matter of minutes the hoard had adhered itself, en masse, to our honey hats. We paddled on, so pleased with our revengeful tactics that we could hardly contain ourselves. Thus we went for an hour, collecting more gnats until we each had six or seven hundred. But then a complicating factor introduced itself. The intense solar radiation began baking the honey, and causing it to lose its stickiness. The newly arriving bugs began bouncing off the honey with impunity, and we were again besieged by the swarming masses. There was nothing for it but plunge the hats into the river and wash away the old honey, and apply new, much to the demise of the present hoards.

Even though honey was not proving to be the optimum agent, it did have certain redeeming qualities. For one thing, when the bugs were not about, it can be used on the pancakes. It is readily available in the stores. It is water soluble and washes off easily. And it has a pleasant smell. Come to think of it, though, the latter might not have been such a desirable feature in grizzly bear country. On the other hand, it would not work at all in the rain, but then again, one might not need a good honey hat in the rain. Honey changes viscosity with the changing temperature; as the sun glares down the honey slowly begins to run down our hats, dripping off the ends of the brims. Eventually we become something of a sticky mess. To a civilized perspective this might seem like an intolerable state of affairs - to have one's hair stuck with honey, and bits of goo permeating one's shirt. But we deemed it a small price to pay in terms of the wonderful relief provided. As I looked at Jenny's hat coated with honey, speckled with many hundreds of small bugs - the golden honey baked and glistening in the sun - I was reminded of a cake. A cake that was honey baked and sprinkled lavishly with wallnuts, or in this case: "walgnats". And so it was that I dubbed our hats "Honey-Baked Walgnat Hats."

Time for the morning's pit stop, we landed on a sand bar festooned with monstrous tracks of a grizzly bear. The bear wasn't around, or at least it did not make an appearance from out of the thick forest. My posterior was begging for exercise, so Jenny offered to paddle solo a ways while I walked. This proved such a wonderful few minute's diversion that I felt like walking the remainder of the distance to the Bering Sea. But the open stretch of sand bar here was unique; normally the river banks are not practical to walk on, being heavily forested and embrushed in thick understory.

By early afternoon we were paddling sans vestments, save for the honey hats, smack in the middle of a glassy sea. The river was so big we could almost detect the earth's curvature. Looking downriver, the horizon shimmered with heat waves and mirages. We would have liked to go for a swim, but felt we were rather too far from shore should anything go amuck. Clearly, this was not a good place to mess about.

As the afternoon wore on, we met with growing headwinds. They deterred the voracious bugs and cooled our sweltering bodies, but unfortunately they also greatly impeded our forward progress. The chop built and quickly swept across the expanse of open water. We could no longer hold to the area of better current. Instead, we had to veer toward shore and hold close to it. This kept us out of the rougher water and afforded a safe exit to land, should the conditions suddenly deteriorate to unmanageable proportions. As the waters near shore were practically void of current, we found ourselves slogging ahead with great exertion. And unfortunately the sight of nearby land only reminded us that we were making minimal progress.

The wind grew stronger the farther we went, and I could see that the paddling would be far more protected on the other side of the river. By and by, the wind slackened for a few minutes, and this gave us the opportunity to cross to the other bank. We paddled furiously, and as expected we caught the brunt of the wind as it piped up, mid channel.

The river here was well over a mile wide, and going around the outer bank on a 90 degree bend therefore required an additional eight-tenths of a mile's travel. But although the inner bend is that much shorter, it is usually without perceptible current - the inertia of the moving water tends to swing round the bends as wide as possible. We reached the other side near an inner bend, with the wind lashing ever stronger. As the water slows while rounding the inner bend, it deposits some of its silt. Expansive mud flats and shoals are formed, and these soon had us feeling vulnerable. Landing ashore would have meant carrying the boat and gear over uncertain footing (perhaps quicksand) quite a distance to find suitable camping. We were learning that the inner bends were not so favorable as they appeared.

After battling headwinds, chop, and extensive shoaling for an hour, we landed ashore at the first opportunity. This was at 5 pm. Here was an eight-foot high cut bank with a lower terrace littered with deadfalls and driftwood. It afforded just enough high ground on which to beach the boat. We found a bit of climbable ramp formed by a recent cave-in of the bank, and this allowed us to reach high ground. We climbed the bank to look for a camp site, and were greatly relieved to discover that the deciduous trees offered excellent protection from the brunt of the gale. So we brought up the gear we would need for the night's camp, and secured the Tub with lashings to tree roots. By then, though, a hoard of gnats of incredible proportions found us. They, too, were using the shelter of the trees to best advantage. By the time we had pitched the tent, dove inside, and zipped the door shut, we were hacking and snorting from inhaling the damnable things. When they rush into one's mouth and nose--that was irritating, but when they made it all the way into one's sinuses--that was going too far.

Inside the tent we did away with all the tiny winged intruders. I lay in a heap watching incredulously the incomprehensible number of bugs grappling about in mass-hysterics on the tent's netting. Surely, I reasoned, even in such great numbers they could not possibly breach the netting's integrity... could they?

We had been pressing hard throughout the afternoon in an attempt to reach a stand of hills away to the southwest, where we thought we might find a spring or creek of fresh water to replenish our bottles. But the storm had thwarted this plan. So Jenny filled one of the flat, gallon jugs with river water, which the afternoon's wind and chop had made particularly murky with silt. Then she set the jug aside to let gravity settle some of the sludge during the night.

Hours paddled: 11; Day's mileage: 62
Total river miles: 1757

The wind blew furiously throughout the night. We hadn't expected rain, and in the flurry of establishing the bug-infested camp we had not affixed the rain fly as properly as we should have.

Camp 91,92,93, Map

Day 92

July 25, 1988

Jenny awoke, crawled down to the foot of the tent, and asked "How did we sleep through this? Everything is soaking wet down here." The wind had driven the rain through the mosquito netting. After our experiences with British Columbia's coastal liquid sunshine, this was nothing more than a bit of a nuisance. We mopped the water with a small hand-towel after securing the rain fly more properly to keep out the storm. Then we fell back to sleep.

A forced layover day was on the agenda and we spent it napping, reading, cooking pancakes, and writing. Last night's jug of river water had settled out fairly well. The water remained a glacial till grey color, while the mud particles eroded from innumerable cut banks upriver settled to the container's bottom. Against our preferences, we ran the grey water through the filter, knowing the particulates would soon choke it. Anyway, we obtained two quarts of water so pure it wouldn't have looked out of place in a crystal goblet at Maxim's. Granted, the two quarts of glacial till was enough to clog the filter, but we were glad to have something palatable to drink, and the untimely demise of the filter cartridge was not a grave loss because we carried a spare.

We boiled some of the grey, unfiltered water and made pancakes with it--with no noticeable ill effects. The pancakes tasted fine. Later, using more settled water, we back flushed the clogged filter using our bilge pump, and managed to filter another three quarts.

By mid day the wind-driven chop had eroded several feet from our water front. We bestirred ourselves and tore and chopped at the driftwood, clearing a bit of higher ground for the kayak. The tent now lay close to the cut bank's edge, and this allowed us to peer down reassuringly at the Tub. One of the nearby trees, a smaller one, had snapped off at its base in the teeth of last night's storm. And at the present rate of water-front erosion we figured we would soon need to hack out a bit more real estate behind the tent, and retreat a ways.

The weather remained stormy throughout the day. The river boiled in turgid chop, while the great sand bank across the river constantly eroded in a white plume of driven powder. The bugs, thank you, were mostly absent, except for later in the afternoon when they made a momentary debut during a brief lull.

Day 93

July 26, 1988

The storm persisted through the night and we awoke to find conditions much the same as previously. We spent the morning dawdling, eating, sleeping, and acting like beached walruses. Our only hope was that the storm would soon abate.

One of the local critters had by then accepted us on friendly terms. A redback vole skittered out of the brush and made a hasty investigation of our front porch cooking area. Not too surprisingly it found a hearty meal, scattered about and half buried. This was in the form of little crumbs and tidbits of cereal and rice we had inadvertently spilled. And with that we were neighbors. The little vole proved itself remarkably well mannered, for not once did it seize the opportunity of a nibble at a plastic bag or nylon gear bag. It did, however, have the audacity to crawl into our cups from which we had just eaten granola. The vole licked the cups clean, but it also deposited a tiny brown speck as a rather thankless token of acknowledgment. Within a few hours it became almost tame, hardly giving us a thought as we watched at face-close range. The little fellow was cute as could be, and reminded us of a cinnamon brown ball of fur with a rusty brown stripe down its back. It had a fuzzy, half length tail and two beady, coal-black eyes. Soon it would no doubt become educated in the upscale rodents' method of prizing out unwary camper's victuals, so as a contingency we removed our food bags and stowed them in the boat for safer keeping.

By late afternoon the wind mitigated, leaving us in periods of dead calm interspersed with decreasingly severe and frequent blasts of dying fury. The storm finally wore itself out, but by then it was 7 pm and we though it best to get a good night's sleep before setting out.

Day 94

July 27, 1988

We paddled away at 6:30 am into light and variable winds. The sky was laden with a dark scud, and the water was calm--making for a much more productive and enjoyable paddling experience than the one we had endured in this same area three days previously.

Reaching a stand of tall hills we found a small feeder creek. Paddling into it, we examined fresh bear tracks in the mud along the creek's banks. Jenny climbed over the bow and onto a log, and dipped our water bottles into the clear water. And once she was back aboard we continued on, paddling briskly throughout the morning.

Now and then a sea gull flew out to defend its territory, diving and squawking in the usual manner. And along one stretch of beach we saw two bears ambling along. A pair of Sandhill cranes winged their way gracefully across the river before us, squawking loudly with their characteristic raspy chortle. They reminded us of rusty old cuckoo clocks.

During the afternoon the wind piped up. It was not nearly as strong as the previous days, but it did constrain us to steer close ashore where the lack of current made the going all the more arduous. Along the way we watched a number of fishermen whiz by in their outboard skiffs. Once, two fellows pulled up alongside, cut their engine, and drifted with us for 15 or 20 minutes. College-age, they said they lived at Russian Mission during the summers with their families. One of them explained they were "Cheechakos", (Chee-chaw'-kos) here for the summer, planning to head back home to the Lower 48 for the winter to attend college. They related news of severe drought conditions throughout the lower 48, making us feel like we were in another world, paddling a mile-wide river that empties into the sea. Today they were headed upriver to do some logging, and they invited us to stay the night in Russian Mission, saying that we were welcome to stoke up the water heater for a hot showers. With due respects we told them we were keeping rather odd hours, and would probably be stopping there only briefly.

Eventually they fired up their big outboard engine and sped quickly away. Watching them shrink into a mere dot on the horizon, I pondered why we had chosen--in this age of mechanization--to travel by paddle, at no little effort and with but a pittance of speed. I could only remind myself that power boating is for the impatient; for those who have work to do on the water and must do it in good time. As for recreation, after the first few minutes of flying across the water at a great rate of speed the fun gives way to infernal hammering with the engine's roar drowning out nature's more pleasant sounds and nuances. A person at the helm of a power craft in these waters must be constantly on watch for snags and drifting bits of debris and other aberrant navigational hazards. There is little of this for us. In our world the glorious silence is hyphenated only by a raven's caw, the cackling of a pair of Sandhill cranes hiding in the brush somewhere nearby, or the squawking of a falcon winging back and forth across the face of a bluff.

We spend our days watching the scenery glide slowly past, gazing intently at every mountain, each cut bank, and escarpment. To us the river is not an object to be traversed in a hurry. It has become our summer's home; we paddle on it and sleep next to it. In the process it has been enriching our lives ineffably. Not only have we come closer to terms with the flora and fauna it sustains, but each day we have witnessed the wonder of this abundance of water and expanse of this magnificent land. Living enmeshed in the beauty of Nature, we have come to understand more of what it all means to the welfare of mankind.

The intervening hand of man strives constantly to improve upon on Nature's perfection, but this usually has adverse effects on the local ecosystems. This summer, Alaska has seen a highly abnormal amount of electrical storms and these have triggered numerous forest fires - 65 at the last count. So man is out there bombing the fires with fire retardant material by the tons. The material most commonly used is boron. We knew that boron is heavier than water, meaning that it sinks. So we were curious to find the river coated in places with vast patches of a red substance. Even so, we suspected that it was indeed fire retardant material that had leached into the river. A month from now when the fires have subsided naturally and nature has taken its course, tending to itself as it has for millennia, it will have a new element to deal with: fire retardant material covering the hillsides, and polluting streams and rivers. No one knows how long it will take nature to clean up man's mess.

The afternoon wind grew stronger, but we were intent on reaching Russian Mission, so we fought headwinds and rough seas for hours. This proved to no avail, for the store at Russian Mission had closed by the time we arrived at 6:30 pm. So we paddled for another 30 minutes and made camp at 7:15.

The day had been free of bugs, but as the evening wind calmed a batch of mosquitoes and a hoard of no-see-ums set upon us with the usual, ho-hum, vengeance.

The day's paddling exertions had left us a bit jaded and we found it hard to get to sleep. During the night the no-see-ums were so thick outside they made one think twice about going out to the bushes. For this reason we keep the kayak bailer within reach. Even this was to little avail, though, because unzipping the door and reach outside for just a moment was enough to yield one's red blood cells, white corpuscles, and whatever else science has descried in the human vital juices.

Hours paddled: 12.5; Day's mileage: 65
Total river miles: 1822

Camp 94, Map

Day 95

July 28, 1988

We set off at 6:30 am. The morning's weather conditions were calm and the sky was clear. By mid morning a bit of wind freshened from astern and even though the tailwinds seemed to help our progress over the water, they actually hindered progress over the riverbed because they obliged us to hold closer to the shoreline for safety, out of the best river current.

We paddled past the base of several stony crags, most of which provided a nesting site for one or more pair of Peregrines. Although sea gulls were by far the most common winged species we had seen on the river, the second most common could be argued between the ravens and Peregrine falcons. We had seen hundreds of Peregrines, and in the far north they seemed anything but endangered. Globally, the falcons are said to be making a comeback, but they are still listed as endangered. It seems that their numbers had suffered a sharp decline in the last decade, due to the abundance of DDT insecticide. The insect poison has worked its way through the food chain, from foliage onto which it is sprayed, to rodents that eat the foliage, to the birds that prey on the rodents. Thus contaminated, the Peregrine's egg shells become so fragile that they break at the slightest jarring. DDT was banned in many countries years ago, but the falcons migrate to Central America where DDT is said to be used copiously.

Later in the morning I lay down for an hour's nap. When I arose, Jenny told of her paddling past a small village called Ohogamiut. She said that the villagers had gathered for some sort of festive occasion, and about 20 motorboats were neatly lined along the beach. She saw almost as many colorful tents set up among a few log cabins, and estimated that fifty or sixty people were congregating beneath the many tarp-covered porticos. And she heard what sounded like firecrackers a few times.

We proceeded along the coast, running before a strong wind in choppy, following seas. And thus we pressed on into the afternoon. Our lack of small-scale maps precluded taking the best routes among the many islands. Moreover, the wind chop camouflaged the boils, riffles and disturbed water, and this made reading the current impossible. We often found ourselves paddling dead water.

We decided to make camp early, so we landed on a beautiful sand bank across the river--about three miles wide at this particular point--from the village of Marshall. We pitched the tent in the open to take advantage of the breeze, and this mitigated the insect population. Behind camp spread a tall stand of willows that provided the needed shade. Other than the fact that our campsite stood on sand, it had all the right ingredients. Camping within a few feet of the river is easy compared with the difficulties we had endured in rainy British Columbia where the tide necessitated our hauling our dunnagte far uphill. Here we simply dragged the boat a few feet from water's edge, spread the ground sheet on a nearby level spot, and erected the tent. Then we carried a few needed items the few feet from boat to tent, and placed them inside to prevent the tent's blowing away. And come morning, striking camp takes only a few minutes.

The river's temperature is decidedly brisk, but the air is often torrid, so we bathe occasionally. Despite the presence of the tawny sediment we come away surprisingly clean.

And once we are inside the tent, invariably a few small birds will begin to flitter about, scolding us for invading their domain. As long as we remain inside, though, we are accepted as overnight visitors.

Late that evening the wind calmed and the nearby woods pulsated with the infernal hum of insects in their millions. No-seeums, we presumed--the same species hounding with a bloodlust at our door. These became so thick that we felt caged, trapped in our insect-proof tent. The no-seems are much more insidious than the mosquitoes. They do not dawdle. If one square millimeter of skin is exposed, they plunge straight for it and begin feeding ravenously. And worse, their biting imparts no sensation. On one occasion, after a great deal of trepidation Jenny made a quick reach outside for the bailer while I operated the doorway's zipper. In a flash she pulled the bailer inside and I zipped shut the door, and we were aghast to see her bare arm peppered with bugs. We spent the next quarter of an hour smashing the ones we could find. These bugs are sensitive to temperature, daylight, and wind. But unfortunately for us they are not put off by DEET insect repellent. During the day they remain tucked away in the foliage until such time when the conditions are amenable, and by then they seem to have worked up quite an appetite. At least they are present only for a few hours during the late evening. By morning they will have gone.

Hours paddled: 10; Day's mileage: 60
Total river miles: 1880

Camp 95, Map

Day 96

July 29, 1988

We set off at 6 am under a grey, overcast sky that terminated sharply above the eastern horizon in a band of brilliant red. Was it cirrus or smoke? We couldn't tell. At any rate the brisk headwinds didn't make the skies any less portentous.

At one point we approached three large white birds sitting upon the water. As we paddled near to get a closer look they began swimming away, downriver. We paddled harder to catch up, but they proved to be remarkably proficient swimmers. They easily out distanced us. Soon we lost them as salt-grain white dots on the river far ahead. They did not behave like the familiar sea gulls or cranes, and we presumed they were swans. We figured they had not taken flight because they might have had chicks.

The river made a series of gigantic horseshoe bends, which required the better part of the day to negotiate. And as we paddled along one stretch of cut bank, perhaps 50 feet from the shore, we encountered a black bear ambling at the edge of the bank in plain view. We drifted past snapping a few pictures, and the bear stood watching us. It didn't seem at all disquieted. I reasoned that it wasn't about to leap over the cut bank and into the water to attack us, so this was the closest we had approached a bear all summer. It was always a pleasure to see these animals, although we were glad to be in the boat.

Throughout the day the sky remained clear and the sun beamed down onto us unobstructed. Even so, a cold arctic wind kept us bundled in sweaters, parkas, and caps. And we generated a great deal of internal heat, bucking headwinds and chop.

At 4 pm we reached the village of Pilot Station, and landed ashore among several aluminum outboard skiffs. After conversing with a few locals who asked about our trip, we visited the local grocery store. We selected only the basic necessities and grimaced only slightly at the exorbitant prices - for we had become somewhat calloused to the prices by now. One can expect goods to be expensive in such remote places, and we were thankful for what was available.

I asked one fishermen what he thought the weather would do: calm and cloudy was his reply. Within minutes a headwind sprung up from out of nowhere and what clouds had developed during the afternoon soon dissipated. It seemed the weather was as capricious here as anywhere.

We traveled another 12 miles, giving the blades all the gusto our muscles and bones could muster. The ride was rough and the progress minimal, and as time wor on we began wearing out. Eventually we found that we were making almost imperceptible progress along a cut bank. The seas were rough and the stiff headwinds were almost blowing us backward. Still, we pressed on wearily, hoping to come to some sort of a pull-out.

At last we came to a small beach, and as we were landing, the river threw one final volley. A wave caught me off guard and leapt over Sea Tub's gunwale and into the cockpit with a mighty splash. By now we had become lax in our stowing into waterproof bags our clothes worn during the day. Our sweaters and hats and several other items took the brunt of this rogue wave, and received a thorough soaking.

We dragged the boat through deep quagmire and up to higher ground. Then we hung the clothes to dry on the surrounding driftwood and deadfalls. High ground was only two feet above river level, and we were backed by a cut bank some eight feet in height. We didn't feel like climbing it and lugging all our gear up and onto it, so we established camp on the damp sand, knowing we could flee to higher ground in the night if necessary.

The site was tucked away out of the wind in a small bight, and news of our arrival spread quickly. The mosquitoes quickly convened. But mosquitoes, unlike their far more vicious kin, the no-see-ums, are easily daunted by DEET. The simple act of applying the unction about our hands and faces easily dissuaded them.

Once in the tent, ours was a Wrentit's eye view of the river. Laying in our sleeping bags we watched the surf charging in at close range.

The storm intensified, setting the night into a clamor of crashing waves and thrashing tree branches - which we hoped would remain aloft. Anticipating such conditions we had been careful not to camp directly beneath them.

Hours paddled: 12; Day's mileage: 58
Total river miles: 1938

Camp 96, Map

Day 97

July 30, 1988

The wind mitigated during the wee hours and we awoke to a much quieter setting. Thankfully it would not be another forced layover day, as we had feared. Even so, we set off at 5:45 am into a river laced with chop. The wind was working upriver at just that strength to barely permit us to keep far enough out from shore to work the current to advantage, albeit with a great deal of bouncing and splashing. We grappled our way along a long cut-bank, over which hovered a brilliant, full moon. Sea smoke covered much of the river--advection fog resulting from cold air overlying warmer water.

When we rounded a bend mid morning the wind and seas dropped, so we crossed the mile wide waterway and paddled past the village of Pitkas Point. We saw little life save for the usual Indian dogs staked out along the shoreline.

The day quieted and the water glassed, and we paddled along blissfully, observing the abutting hills on the north bank. These hills were devoid of trees in response to the colder, arctic climes. Jenny ignited the stove and made a pot of coffee, then with cuppas each in hand we drifted in silence for a long while, listening to the calls of loons, cranes, ravens, sea gulls, and small chirping shore birds. This expansive area is part of the magnanimous Yukon Delta National Wildlife Refuge.

Suddenly a stiff northerly lashed out across the river, spewing from an indentation in the lowlands and catching us farther offshore than we would have liked. We set to our paddles and began working hard to shoreward, in order to reduce the fetch. Dashed with spray and spume, we felt as if we were negotiating the infamous Gulf of Tehuantepec.

Making our way along the northern bank, pressed in against the barren hills for their protection from the wind, we passed by a few solitary fish camps. These consisted of a few houses of logs or planks, one or two small outbuildings, and usually a polyethylene-tarp covered fish drying rack. Typically, off to one side stood a batch of large white crosses. The family's graveyard was a poignant vestige of those rough-hewn lives passed. What astonishing stories were obviously lost to antiquity here!

The little storm in a teacup dissipated, leaving us again beneath blue skies and on calm water.

A passing skiff slowed and drew alongside, and drifted with us a mile or two. The amiable helmsman was hefty and typically Alaskan in appearance: bearded, ruddy faced, and wearing the standard Alaskan (woolen) shirt. He related having lived in nearby Mountain Village for eight years, and I asked how often he went down to the Lower 48. "There's nothing for me down there" was his reply. I asked how he could afford to live up here considering the expensive prices. "Oh, we don't need what's in the stores, and we hardly ever go in them. I fish two months of the year, and sell the fish to the Japanese (in boats waiting offshore). We go to Anchorage once or twice a year to the warehouses (stores that mail the purchases by parcel post here to the village). Mostly, though, we live off the land."

To feed his sizeable family, he hunted bear, moose, some fowl, and other game. Remarkably, one of the tastiest birds he hunts is swan, which he said thrive in abundance around here. I didn't ask him about the legality of hunting in the Wildlife Refuge, figuring that such hunting must be legal or there would be very few inhabitants hereabouts. But I did tell him that I much preferred perigrin falcon to swan. "No, I'm serious," he said. "The swans are as big as my boy, here." pointing to the eight-year-old lad seated wide-eyed in the bow. Then the big fellow stood, and holding his hand out at head level, as though gripping the neck of an imaginary swan, he said, "When you hold them like this, their feet touch the ground."

He obviously loved it up here. "Sure beats working for a living," he said. "I get to do a lot of fishing and hunting, and in the winter we get to go sledding." Sledding is what Alaskans call snowmobiling. The fellow was Caucasian, and judging by his son's features, his wife was Eskimo. He said that the trip he would really like to do some day is to follow the Kashunuk River, which leads from the vicinity of Pitkas Point and heads southwest amongst myriad lakes and ponds, to eventually reach the Bering Sea. He said there wasn't a great deal of big game in there, but one would see all the bird life imaginable. "This is the best time of year to do such a trip, as a lot of the birds have young and won't fly off."

We parted company with hearty waves and paddled another mile to the town of Mountain Village. Spotting a couple kayaks and tents, we paddled toward shore, and as we drew near their camp two Japanese fellows began snapping pictures of us in rapid fire. We felt like winners in a kayak race.

Landing, we were welcomed by Toma, the adventurer, and Sato, his photographer. Both spoke passable English. Toma was a writer for a prestigious Japanese magazine, which was apparently sponsoring his trip. Sato had been sent along to document the excursion. This was Toma's third year on the river. He had kayaked from Whitehorse to Beaver the first year, from Beaver to Nulato the second, and was doing the stretch from Nulato to Emmonak this season.

They asked about our trip. Invariably, whenever we had tried to communicate the totality of our trip, which was not very often, the person we were talking to became offended. No doubt our story was too tall, and we were taken as either liars or as utterly inept at communication. Not once had we convinced anyone of our story - true though it was. So we had long ago stopped trying. But because Toma was a paddeler, I thought he would understand. I told him we had started near Seattle, and had paddled to here, via the Chilkoot Trail, in nearly three months. "Oh. Where did you put in?" he replied. I tried again in my clearest English: "We started paddling in Washington state. We paddled the Inland Passage 1,000 miles to Skagway, carried the boat over the Chilkoot Pass, put in again at Lindeman Lake, and paddled the Yukon River to here." Toma narrowed his eyes in disdain, then as though to placate us he replied politely: "well, your journey is about over then." As we were near the Bering Sea, this would have been true wherever we had begun.

In the front seat of Toma's Featherlight Kayak would ride Toma's dog, part German Shepherd. At the time, the dog was lying in the shade of the tent, chained to a bush. Jenny went over to pet it and received a gnarling nip. At this, Sato expressed shock, and chastised the dog in a language unintelligible to us. Defending their pet's actions, Sato explained that the dog was Japanese and that he didn't understand English; but that he was a good dog who got along well with the Alaskan dogs except for the occasional fight. The dog was chained because it liked to roam the forest for hours on end. It once brought a bear into camp in hot pursuit, and after that it was duly chained.

In fifteen minutes of conversation these two fellows expended several rolls of film between them, in typical Japanese style. Before we parted company we asked if they would take our picture seated in the kayak. Sato handled my camera as if it were an old friend, firing off a few pictures of us from different angles, and Toma said that Sato was one of the best photographers in Japan. So It was curious that the pictures didn't turn out very well. He had been shooting into the sun.

We had no business to attend to in Mountain Village, so we bid goodbye to our Japanese friends and paddled away. In full sunshine and with a bit of wind astern, we rounded the long, sweeping corner and slowly left behind the last foothill. Ahead lay the vast, low-lying expanse of the Yukon delta.

As the afternoon wore on, the wind grew stronger. So strong that it began whipping sand off the bars and steamrolling waves that pummeled the Tub broad on its port quarter. Paddling along an unbroken bank many miles in length, we looked in vain for a landing. At least, we reasoned, should the conditions deteriorate altogether we should be able to climb the bank and somehow haul the boat out.

Eventually we reached the mouth of the Anuk River and paddled into it, and into calm water. A fisherman's tent stood on the near bank, so we paddled across the slough and landed on the opposite shore, this at 5:30 pm. We emptied the boat, then hoisted it up the two-foot high cut bank, and set it on the eight-foot wide shelf where we would pitch the tent. Behind this stood a six-foot high, old cut bank. I climbed this to have a look around. The terrain that spread away to infinity was flat as a pancake, some of it was vegetated with brush, some in tall grass surrounding bogs or small lakes. Mosquitoes made the place seem even less hospitable. We would camp down on the shelf where the strong wind would deter most of the buggars.

To illustrate the voracity of plant growth, we noticed that others had camped here before us; to prepare their site they had ripped away several small saplings and tossed them aside. The tree roots had held just enough soil to survive, and had extended roots back into the ground. They were growing again! We ripped them out for the second time and tossed them back where they had originally grown, knowing that most would probably survive.

After pitching the tent we waded gingerly into the river for a hasty bath, after which time we dashed into the tent to escape the bugs.

Later, the big Alaskan fellow motored past with a boat-load of kids. They all waved as they proceeded into the slough. Half an hour later they returned, and rounded the corner to head back toward Mountain Village. They were apparently out for a Saturday evening boat ride.

Hours paddled: 12; Day's mileage: 46
Total river miles: 1984

Camp 97, Map

Day 98

July 31, 1988

We rose to find that the wind had nearly calmed, a thick fog had rolled in, and the air was quite chilly. We set off at 6:30 am into a rather foreboding world, paddling within sight of the eastern bank. In an hour the fog lifted, revealing a cloudy sky. The river was so colossal and the land so low lying that the banks on either side faded sharply away to nothing. Our low lying vantage afforded little more than a 360 degree panorama of sky squatting abruptly upon an empty sea that is the mighty Yukon River.

Mid morning we reached a festering of mid-river sand banks laying directly ahead. Unable to determine the appropriate direction to steer, I stood up for a better view. In this way I could see a great deal more of the expanse around us. I saw that we had to return to the eastern shore.

The terrain was void of tall trees, and in fact there were very few bushes. This was the tundra. It was wholly intriguing, so we landed ashore at a place where the undercut river bank had fallen over like a great wave of surf. This platform allowed access to the interior. Standing in 12 inches of water before stepping ashore, Jenny started complaining emphatically that she was sinking. In fact, water had already overflowed into one of her boots. I quickly came and hauled her out of the quagmire.

We lifted the boat just far enough onto the muddy ground so that it would not float away, then climbed up onto the plateau. Tundra and muskeg stretched away for endless miles. The high vista, all of six feet above the water, clearly revealed the way ahead. At our feet, low lying bushes grew in profusion, among them blueberry, salmonberry, and other types of berry. We stooped and inspected the beautiful profusion of growth at close range. it was magnificent.

We paddled on throughout the morning, crossing to Fish Island and then to the western river bank where again we found stands of poplar and willow. The wind was light from the west-southwest; the clouds dissipated; and we made our way along beneath sunny skies. Even though the sun shone brightly, though, the breeze had a chill to it, and kept us bundled in several layers.

Later in the afternoon, a few miles from the village of Emmonak (ee-MON-ik), a small Cessna buzzed us, flew off a ways, made a 180 turn and bore down on us again. This certainly enlivened the repetitious paddling.

We were making way along the northern river bank, looking for the entrance to Kwiguk Pass leading to Emmonak, when suddenly a river skiff zoomed out into the river. We had just found the pass.

Reaching the pass and turning in, and now paddling a smaller branch of the river, we caught our first glimpse of Emmonak. This was indeed a great milestone for our summer's journey. We had been talking about Emmonak for months. Located only 12 miles from the Bering Sea, it was our summer's final village.

A skiff-load of Eskimo youths whizzed by. One boat towed a water skier. Once again we were reminded that the world is full of surprises. Eskimos water skiing? "Well, why not?" Jenny reasoned. "They have the boats for it, and it's a beautiful Sunday afternoon."

We paddled on into town and pulled to shore next to a pale-face mechanic, greasing his hands on the innards of your typical 140 horsepower Eskimo outboard engine. His Eskimo wife was passing the time of day, sitting complacently in the same skiff. They greeted us and answered our questions as to the whereabouts of grocery store, laundry and other buildings. We quickly became friends with Doug and Rita.

We dragged the boat a ways out of the water, fitted the spray cover, and wandered to the grocery store finding it surprisingly well stocked. From there we wandered about town to have a look around, dodging little Japanese three- and four-wheeled vehicles, the principle means of transportation in the summertime. Emmonak is not your typical American style town. Dig into the ground only a short ways and you hit rock-hard permafrost. Twelve inch conduits--insulated water and sewer pipes--connect house to dingy house. Ski Doos and Snow Cats sat around in abundance. We were told that normally the place is a mud hole in the summer, but because it hadn't rained here much we found the streets dusty.

Unable to locate a source of drinking water, we hailed a passing pickup truck, and the fellow drove us to his house. An electronics technician employed to install a VOR at the airport, he had been here two weeks. Inside, his apartment looked like a typical American hovel with the usual carpeted floor and worn out furniture. A pile of peanut shells and an ash tray full of butts occupied a coffee table, while a blaring TV commanded one's full attention. The fellow's roommate was cooking a hamburger, and he greeted us politely. But it seemed like such a miserable place to live, mainly in the light of our summer's quest with its nomadic lifestyle. We went away feeling that we had just left a cage, where the humans are trapped inside even though the doors are not locked.

Back at the kayak we found an old, familiar acquaintance. The tide. It had ebbed and left the Sea Tub nearly high and dry. With the boat loaded we weren't sure we could drag it back into the water. After a struggle, though, we managed to force it out over the slippery, muddy sand.

The mechanic was still working on the engine, and we paused for what proved quite an interesting conversation. We asked him and his wife one question after another. The woman was Eskimo, born in a corral at the village of Old Andreafsky. She didn't know exactly how many brothers and sisters she had, let alone how many cousins, nieces, and nephews. She was far from stupid, but as her husband smiled and affirmed: "the winters are long up here."

To summarize what we learned: Some villagers still go to sea and hunt walrus. Walrus was a mainstay for Rita and her family 30 years ago when she was young. Back then, the men would paddle out in their kayaks, which were just like our's she pointed out. They did a lot of fishing and the kids were told that if they didn't help, they couldn't eat that following winter. When the fish were caught they were salted, hung to dry for three days, then placed in the smoke house for up to three weeks. When a new batch of fish was ready for the smokehouse, the old batch was removed. So the amount of smoked flavor and dryness depended on how long the meat had been in the smoke house. Rita said she like her salmon well smoked and not very oily.

Doug had been in Alaska 30 years. He and Rita had lived in Palmer, outside of Anchorage, for quite some time, and there he had owned a mechanic shop. But the recent depressed economic situation necessitated their looking elsewhere for work. He had found his bonanza here in Emmonak, where there were more mechanical breakdowns in need of repair than he could tend to in a lifetime. I remarked that I found it odd that he was presently out working on a Sunday, and at 6:30 pm at that! "The money is so good I can't pass it up" he related.

Doug's hobby was prospecting, but unfortunately he hadn't had time for that lately. He told us of several sites somewhere nearby--not in the delta--which he was itching to check out. From Doug I learned the following about life hereabouts: Emmonak needs teachers; the pay is $35,000 for first year. The Eskimo and Indians all speak English. They try to teach the native languages in the schools, but the kids aren't interested in learning them. The Eskimos have a restless blood. They can't sit still, and always have to be going somewhere. They travel by boat, skidoo, and even by airplane. There are perhaps eight flights a day into and out of Emmonak, and the flights are loaded mostly with Eskimo passengers. Basketball is the principle sport, and people will travel incredible distances in their boats or snowmobiles to attend or participate in a game. It is not uncommon for people to travel to Bethel, or even Nome for an afternoon basketball game, and return the same night. Alcohol is illegal here but the law has little effect. A bottle of booze on the black market sells for $100.00. The amount of money they make here fishing is astronomical. The Yukon delta has some of the very finest Salmon in the world. The fish that enter here from the ocean must swim a long ways upriver without eating, so they come prepared--fat and succulent. The salmon caught near Emmonak has an eager and ready market. Most of it goes to Japan where it is on the menus at the finest restaurants. Incredibly the fishermen get over $3.00 per pound for their catch. The fish weigh from 50 to well over 100 pounds, so the average fish is worth $200. It is not uncommon for a fisherman to make 30 or 40 thousand dollars in eight hours of fishing. But it is not all profit. In order to fish commercially, one must buy a permit from the Department of Fish and Game. The typical permit costs $15,000, but the price varies depending on location. Some permits cost as much as $100,000. Anyone can buy a permit, and many outsiders fish these waters during the salmon runs. Alaskan banks do not loan money for fishing permits. However, Oregon and Washington banks will. The local Eskimos resent anyone who fishes here seasonally without paying the price by wintering here, as the Eskimo.

Doug went on to explain that TV has had an enormous impact on the culture, and that many of the older people are against it. One of the primary ambitions among the teenagers is to get out of Emmonak and go to Anchorage where they hang out on 4th Street.

Moose hunting is done strictly from the boat in summer and from the ski doo in winter. Unfortunately many moose are killed from airplanes. Charging $2,000 per kill, the moose hunting guides will fly to the animal and land, and the intrepid hunter will simply blast away. The guides are supposed to wait a day after spotting the game from the plane, but Alaska is a big land and the witnesses are few to non-existent.

We reluctantly left these friendly folks and paddled on, for our journey was not yet finished - we had reached the last village, but not the river's end. I paddled another five miles while Jenny cooked dinner, then we made camp by hacking out a niche in the willows.

Our branch of the river soon proved something of a major thoroughfare for the local speed boat champions, the general effect of which was not particularly conducive to good sleep. And protected from the wind, the campsite became alive with the hum of the little winged insects. No-see-ums and mosquitoes bore down upon the tent in a furor. This land belongs to them; they have conquered it and we were the hapless intruders. Man builds astounding computers, sends astronauts to the moon, and does all other manner of things that impresses himself to no end. But he has not been able to conquer the insects, and it's not that he hasn't tried. Millions of people die each year from mosquito-borne diseases - malaria, yellow fever, filariasis and the encephalitides.

During the night, it being August First and supposedly the beginning of the rainy season, rain dutifully began pummeling the tent.

Hours paddled: 11; Day's mileage: 55
Total river miles: 2039

Camp 98, Map

Day 99

August 1, 1988

By mid morning a grey scud and blowing rain had us well entrenched, and with little desire to venture forth we holed up in the tent until late afternoon. By then I had annihilated more than my share of the local mosquito population, My mosquitolator disintegrated from being fired so many times. Nevertheless, I had spares - and I used them. But it seems that smashing bugs on the tent is not such a good idea, I later discovered. The stain and stench required many launderings, and even then it persisted.

A new form of wildlife presented itself, in the form of one big, furry dog. Where it had come from, and how it had found us, I haven't a clue. But when Jenny greeted it, it lept with glee. Now here's the curios part: Jenny happened to be bundled in mosquito garb head to foot. Her body and face were totally covered, such that even on Halloween night she would have sent an unsuspecting person, or even an ordinary dog, into a panic. But not this dog. Perhaps it was accustomed to seeing humans garbed so. It was a typical Indian dog, or in this case Eskimo dog, for Eskimos are not fond of being called Indians and such might be the case with their dogs also. Anyway the dog was part Husky, part Malamute, part wolf and a bit of mongrel thrown in for good measure. Its fur was incredibly rich, thick and obviously ready for the piercing cold of upcoming winter.

The lively mutt was ready to play and to be petted, and we found it obedient nearly to the ridiculous. When commanded to go lay down, it did so without hesitation. From inside the tent I made the mistake of teasing the dog by rubbing my foot in its direction against the mosquito netting. The dog responded with much the same gesture, and it was then that I realized that I don't have claws on my feet. The result was one small rip which may well have thrust us onto the verge of life or death among the insects. A piece of duct tape effected a quick repair, but I realized we could not remain in the company of an animal that could destroy our precious, fragile domicile in one playful pounce.

The weather wasn't clearing much. The sky was grey where it wasn't black; but at least it wasn't letting fly rain at the moment. And it didn't appear that it would soon. So at the unlikely hour of 4:30 pm we packed up and set off. The dog followed us along the shore for miles, swimming out a ways and returning ashore several times. The last we saw if it, it was standing leg-deep in the water watching us with the most forlorn expression imaginable.

Before us lay only a few more miles of the great Yukon River. As we paddled along its final reaches, the land lay lower and the trees grew with less voracity. One had the ominous feeling that the end of the world was near.

The banks became nothing more than barely exposed sand bars and mudflats, and we held to them until, rounding the last bit, we were exposed to the vast expanse of the open ocean. Alaska lay astern. We had achieved our summer's goal. We had reached the Bering Sea. Oddly, it was flat as a mill pond.

Bering Sea, Map

We had heard stories of unsuspecting paddlers finding themselves unable to paddle back to land in the river's outflow, which extends miles seaward. The current was carrying us out at a brisk rate, so we couldn't linger. Now we needed to rescue ourselves back to Alaska. So after snapping a few congratulatory pictures, at 6:30 pm we turned about and began clawing our way back toward terra inferma. We reached the shoreline, and found that, by paddling briskly while holding the shore close--scraping our paddle blades on the muddy bottom occasionally--we made pretty good progress.

We paddled past the carcass of a beluga whale, recently harpooned by the Eskimos and butchered there on the beach. Scavenging sea gulls and ravens were banqueting on the leftovers. The beluga whale is sheet-white in color and about eight to twelve feet in length. It has been a source of food for the indigenous peoples for centuries.

We found a remarkable difference in things observed while paddling upstream, mainly because we now practically clutched the shoreline, staying close where the adverse current was less. Things we hadn't noticed while paddling downriver far out in river's current, now caught our attention. For one thing, trash littered the banks, mostly plastic things floating in the water. Four Sandhill cranes flew directly overhead, as did numerous smaller land birds. The shoreline tundra was laden in little wildflowers - fireweed being the most predominant. Swallows had bored nesting holes in the rather instable river bank, I mused that although the housing security wasn't so great, the dining and views were outrageous.

We pressed on, bucking moderately strong headwinds. The occasional river skiff passed close by. Eskimos whose ancestors had paddled up this river as a matter of course, now stared at us in utter disbelief. Nobody paddles upriver anymore. We weren't of a mind to ask for a tow, and wouldn't have accepted one had we be offered, which we weren't.

At 11 pm, and with the town of Emmonak in sight, we pulled onto a low lying grassy meadow, unloaded, and hauled the boat up. There we pitched the tent, a mere two feet above the water. The tide was not yet high, and we hoped our bank's elevation was enough to keep us from the sea's grasp.

Our arrival sounded the dinner gong. No-see-ums and mosquitoes swarmed to the call. They didn't bother us much because we were dressed in suitable protective clothing head to toe. Soon we were bedded down looking through the mosquito netted doorway at a magnificent crimson and orange midnight sunset. This was to be our summer's last camping in Alaska; and what a glorious, rewarding one it was.

About an hour later a flotilla of high powered skiffs went racing upriver. Half a dozen roared by, almost in formation--mission unknown.

Hours paddled: 6.5; Day's mileage: 17
Total river miles: 2056 statute

Camp 99, Map

Day 100

August 2, 1988

We rose at the leisurely hour of 8 am and donned double layers of pants, thick socks, shirt, sweater, parka, hat, headnet, and lastly rubber boots. On our hands we smeared insect repellent. Then we stepped out into the world of the insect. The tide had risen a foot. We slid the boat into the water, loaded it, and set off. Once away from that meadow, the insects did not follow.

The river was dead calm and the sun hung directly over it. The glare was so powerful that we could not look straight ahead. The current was substantial, but we couldn't hold close the shoreline because of snags lining the cut bank. Even so, after only an hour of vigorous paddling we reached town.

We landed ashore near the fish cannery's barge, stepped out of the kayak for the final time, and embraced. The paddling journey was complete.

Very soon it became apparent that Emmonak's water front was the place for the locals to congregate, and we had nowhere to hide. Doug was the first to appear, arriving upon his three-wheeler. It seems that he and Rita had been expecting us the night before, and wanted to invite us to stay at their place. They had asked the fishermen coming in off the river whether we had been seen, and all had replied to the affirmative. So they were privy to a running commentary of our progress. Had we known they had been expecting us with King Salmon steaks, we would have pushed the remaining two miles. They said they had been out photographing the midnight sunset, waiting for us.

Doug had just finished working on the police car, which he said suffers more than its share of abuse at the hands of unknown local vandals. The newly imposed law enforcement agency has not yet been universally accepted. Slashed tires in the middle of the night were Doug's nemesis; or rather it was the cop who couldn't change his own spare tire.

A few locals happened by, making Eskimo-style entrances. This consisted of driving madly up on their four-wheelers, skidding to a dusty stop, eyeing us silently then leaning over to spit a repulsive black cud of chaw, then looking up and saying "good morning" with a bit of a smirk. There was no malice intended; this was just their way. Their speech sounds as if they are clenching their molars with a stick in the back of their mouth, and I soon found that Doug's information about the Eskimos speaking nothing but English was for some reason incorrect. They spoke Yupik, and they spoke it very adroitly. We found this Eskimo tongue fascinating to listen to. With its hard consonants it is something of a glottal percussion. And it certainly explained their heavy, almost ponderous, accent.

Jenny departed for the laundromat and showers at the village utilities center, despite protests from Doug that we could use both at his place. By and by, Doug returned to work and I began unloading and dismantling the Tub. Various villagers happened by; invariably they would stop to chat and ask where we had begun the trip... how long it had taken... had we seen wildlife... was this our first time in Alaska and what did we think it? Of course I always admitted truthfully that I loved Alaska. Typically the people welcomed me to Alaska, and especially to Emmonak. They were very proud of Alaska and of their Yukon River.

The name Emmonak means black fish; the Yupik pronounce it "ee-MON-ih." One fellow, after hearing of our long haul, considered our feat for a few moments, then replied whimsically, "We would give you a medal, but we don't have any." I think he meant a plaque, or a certificate - and I don't think he was entirely joking. But another fellow was when he chided with a smile that next time we should paddle the full length of the river going upstream.

Jenny returned city-clean and bearing freshly laundered clothes. And she began wiping down the muddy, grungy boat parts. While dismantling the Tub I had made a rather disconcerting discovery. The boat had sustained a major structural failure where the floorboard joins the stern member. The joint had snapped in half, and I later surmised that it had happened as the result of internal stress. The boat's structure compressed it longitudinally and the tensioned hull tended to warp it into the shape of a banana.

Rita happened by on her four-wheeler, and sat for perhaps two hours talking with us while we packed. We asked about her heritage. Long ago, early Russians had intermarried with the Eskimos. Then had come the French, Canadians, Americans, Europeans, and others. As a result Rita is a Yupik Eskimo with French, Swedish, and Russian in her lineage. Dark haired, light brown skin tone, she would not have looked out of place in the Lower 48. She entertained us with stories of her youth. For example, she had grown up being taught to be quiet - as the Russians were listening.

She explained the lingering animosity between Eskimos and Indians. The territorial division lies somewhere west of the village of Russian Mission, and the two races, by mutual agreement, stay away from each other to avoid confrontation.

Rita was presently painting their wooden boat, hoping to get it into the water in a week or two. When finished they would have a means of traveling. The project had been set back on a few occasions due to thievery. This seemed odd to us, as there were dozens of boats lying around with all sorts of loose and inviting objects lying about: things like binoculars and so forth. The place would have been stripped clean by piranhas in the Lower 48.

Both she and Doug had soft hearts for the wayward, and were also socially outgoing - they had practically adopted us on the spot. Now it was Rita's turn to insist we come to their house for a salmon feed. But we had long ago learned that often the very people who have little will give whatever they have. Jenny and I knew they would put on a feast, or several of them, should we give in to their hospitality. And were loathe to deplete their freezer stock.

With a great deal of packing and unpacking, guided by Rita's occasional suggestions and help, we managed to fit our belongings into our four bags, albeit now our four very large and heavy bags. This excluded the paddles and a roll of foam pads. We gave Rita our flat water bottles, as they were expendable and rather bulky to take back with us, and she had expressed an interest in them. We also gave her the shotgun slugs.

After a dedicated and enduring effort Jenny managed to contact the person responsible for outbound plane flights. At the appointed hour, Danny Waska drove by in his pickup and informed us that our flight would be delayed another couple hours. So we wandered about the dusty streets, dodging high speed three and four wheelers every few minutes. We each telephoned our parents to report our success and safety. It was very difficult for both of us to talk to them. They were obviously unable to relate to what we had accomplished in any real way, but at least they were glad to hear from us.

Back at the pile of baggage, Danny drove up and we loaded everything into the back of his truck. After driving the few miles to the air strip we waited an hour, talking with Danny. He was a native of Emmonak, and worked for the airline in the summer and ran his trap line in the winter. He told us that many of the fur bearing animals do not hibernate; they live in dens in the ground beneath the snow, and emerge by day to hunt. He had begun his hunting career as a small boy, helping run the family's trap lines, placing traps at the den entrances, and skinning and stretching the pelts. Mostly they caught fox and beaver, as they do today. When he was of sufficient age he had started a small trap line of his own, and as the years passed and he gained experience, and more importantly as he had learned the territory, he broadened the scope of his line.

The advent of the snowmobile has brought a lot of changes to Eskimo life in the arctic winter. The necessity of running the dog sleds has been largely phased out. We heard people say that feeding a team of dogs is practically a full time occupation.

Emmonak, Map

Headed Home

Eventually our plane, a turbo-powered Cessna, landed and taxied to a stop before our pile of gear. Fortunately there were no other passengers aboard, so the pilot stowed the four aft seats, secured the bulkhead safety net, then helped us load our big and heavy bags. The plane roared down the gravel runway, and as it climbed into the air it afforded us dramatic views of flat, low lying tundra sweeping away in all directions. Green vegetation was interspersed with myriad canals and sloughs, which twisted and made their way aimlessly between lakes and ponds of all sizes and descriptions. As I sat in the co-pilot's seat, the pilot leaned over and shouted over the roar of the engine, asking in jest whether I might be interested in some prime lakeside real estate.

Vast and seemingly desolate though the delta is, however, it is not uninhabited. Here and there little fish camps dotted the region. It seemed so utterly remarkable that anyone would live out here.

Before heading to St. Marys we had to collect a passenger at the small village of Katlig. The pilot lined up on what I finally saw was a seemingly postage-stamp-size air strip. My gut reaction--we couldn't possibly land there--was only reinforced by the pilot's reassuring words, "This is going to be a bit bushy." The word bushy in Alaskan bush pilot lingo does not refer to bushes growing on the runway, at least not the part where the wheels go. Incredibly, the pilot set the plane down with a thump, slammed the brakes, and in a swirl of dust we came to a stop before a group of onlookers who obviously considered our harrowing landing as nothing out of the ordinary.

Our passenger climbed aboard, and after an hair raising takeoff we were airborne again.

The 30-minute flight to St. Marys was unforgettable. The scenery could only be described in slobbering superlatives. The time was nearly 10 pm, and at that hour the golden sunlight sparkled off countless specks and ribbons of water everywhere below. As we approached the town of St. Marys, which is situated near Pitkas Point on the Yukon River, we passed over a group of rolling hills perhaps 500 feet high. On one of these lay a small patch of snow which, according to our pilot, has been melting all summer, diminishing in size, and which in a few more days would be gone.

From St. Marys we boarded a big jet by its rear companionway. We were surprised to find only eight rows of seats, forward of which was a solid bulk head. The majority of the airplane was cargo space, and we passengers were but an afterthought. After taking to wing, we landed for a brief stopover at Aniak, on the Kuskokwim River.

The takeoff from here was noteworthy. On the ground we watched a dramatic sunset - the western sky aglow in orange. As the airplane climbed steeply to 30,000 feet, the sunset reversed itself and became what appeared to be a sunrise. And as we winged southeastward, at 11 pm, the ground beneath faded to darkness, even though we flew in direct sunlight. As we neared the southern realms near Anchorage, our sun eventually set, and we were engulfed in the first darkness we had experienced since crossing the Chilkoot Trail. As we winged our way southward I pensively reflected on Robert Service's poem "The Spell of The Yukon," which expressed our feelings so well:

"There's a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There's a land - oh it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back -
and I will."