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JOHN SCHWIEDER PHOTOGRAPHER 907.229.5047 Photography from Americas Wildest Places Copyright Notice All images are protected by copyright law. Do not copy, download or otherwise use photographs.
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LOST SOULS IN CANADA
I stand at the confluence of 2 rivers deep in the Northern Canadian
wilderness. Before me, the river that brought me here now, the raucous Little
Nahanni, flowing out of the Selwyn Mountains near the border of the Yukon and
Northwest Territories. I’ve come to explore this little traveled whitewater
tributary, to spend time in the rare company of loneliness, and in celebration
of a spirited young man who had come to paddle the river before me.
I’d been here before, 2 years earlier in 1999. A friend and I paddled the main
river, the famous South Nahanni. A glance over my shoulder, thru the willows,
I can see the familiar river now, its waters higher and muddier now from rains
in the headwaters.
We’d considered the Little Nahanni then but the idea of paddling class 3 and 4
rapids, in a heavily loaded canoe, and with no other boats along, was more
than we wanted. We sat, eating lunch wondering, as you are wont at a
crossroads, what lie up the road not taken.
The water flowing by our feet hinted of canyon walls it had rushed under,
eddies it had circulated through and the animals whose feet it had washed the
earth from as they moved along its banks. The river offered no hint though of
the human mystery unfolding on its river stage; a kayak overturned and stuck
under an overhanging willow 30 miles upstream of where we sat, and of the
young man who’d set out alone a month earlier.
Two days later we reached Rabbit-kettle Lake and the backcountry Nahanni park
ranger station just as a twin Otter floatplane landed on the lake. Out stepped
a serious faced Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer looking rather
uncomfortable in this wilderness. He told us of a missing paddler. We assured
him we’d seen no other people or gear on the river. The Mountie pressed on
with his investigative style of questioning, perhaps hoping to deny with what
seemed the inevitable but unspoken outcome of anyone who turns up missing in a
wilderness as profound as this. By then end of our journey the boat had been
found but the paddler, 19 year old William Sommer, had not been and was
presumed drowned.
“It’s hardly unusual for a young man to be drawn to a pursuit considered
reckless by his elders”. In his classic exploratory, ‘Into the Wild’
author John Krakaur cogitates on the reasons enigmatic solo
adventurers venture far from hearth and kin, from Everett Ruess a wandering
soul who disappeared in the American Southwest in the 1930’s, to a host of
more contemporary characters who went into the wild but didn’t make it ‘out of
the wild’. Young men like Krakaur’s main character Christopher McCandless who
with a ”focus on the inner
country of their own souls” may display a “staggering paucity of common
sense”. McCandless had wandered into the Alaskan bush in a quest more to
understand his own soul than that of the wilderness surrounding him. In the
end his underestimation of the realities of surviving in an unforgiving
environment contributed to his demise.
Over a year had passed since the accident but I hadn’t been able to shake the
story. And during the winter I began to feel a tug. The Little Nahanni and
William were tugging me, tugging me North again. For I, too, had been a seeker
of solitude in Canada and Alaska, the holy grail of boondocks.
Cracking the dusty journal from my own first Yukon adventure twenty years
earlier –the same age as William- I read, “Nervous at the final procedures
before the river, feelings very much the same as other trips I take by myself.
My hands shook.” The three guys
I’d hitched a ride with stood and watched as I pumped up an inflatable kayak,
tossed a backpack in and prepared to shove off on a six hundred mile journey
thru the Yukon into Alaska. I had to admit I’d never paddled a kayak before
and I didn’t own a life jacket. I assured them though; I’d be fine. I could
feel the weight of their heads shaking as I zigzagged my way downriver and out
of site.
On May 12, 1999, with dreams of mountains, rivers, caribou and bears, 19 year
old William Sommer loaded his kayak on top and steered his Volkswagen Rabbit
down the road leading away from his parents’ home in rural Southern Ontario.
He stuck his arm out the window and waved a last goodbye as he disappeared
over the hill on his way West.
“What he wanted to do,” explains his brother, “was to figure out what he
wanted to do,” to have some time to reflect on his life and where he wanted to
go. Just a year out of high school, William had worked for a short time at an
auto plant, then with his brother’s construction company -long enough to save
money for his trip. William recognized there were non-tangible aspects to his
life; he was a spiritual young man who went to church every Sundays and
frequently engaged in study of the bible. But he also seemed to question the
depth and consistency of his faith, his relationship with and worthiness
before God. The trip would be a chance to gauge his direction and beliefs with
a fresh perspective.
The youngest of 7 and still
living at home, William was very close to his parents. The thought of him
leaving caused them pain; they knew things would never be the same again. But
they knew he needed this trip, it would serve as rite of passage, and they
would not hinder.
His journey would be over 3 months long. William traveled through the wilder
western provinces of Alberta and British Columbia then north along the lush
coastal rainforests and finally, into the Yukon. Immediately this land felt
different. William writes in his journal; “The trees tell the story of the
brutality of the winter. They stand smaller but erect, like old men whose
wisdom shines through their bright eyes”.
He continued north thru the Yukon along the dusty Dempster Highway to the end
of the road where land ends and the Arctic Ocean begins. William spent time
with local and natives learning more about the people of the north and
himself. Gone more than 2 months now, he felt ready for the ultimate phase of
the trip, 3 weeks alone on the famous South Nahanni River.
He’d learned of the South Nahanni -called the best canoe trip on earth by
venerable Canadian canoeist Bill Mason- from National Geographic. 350 miles
long and part of a World Heritage Site, the river begins as a clear water
stream flowing first through whitewater-smoothed granite boulders gaining
strength rapidly, then thundering over Virginia falls –twice the height of
Niagara- before carving limestone and dolomite canyons -the deepest in Canada.
Finally the river splits and braids to emerge exhausted into the Liard River
on its way to the Mackenzie and finally the Arctic Ocean. William wanted a
taste of the North and He knew the South Nahanni would grant him that.
Most paddlers begin their South Nahanni journey at the end, Fort Simpson,
Northwest Territories, a town of about 1300 people set where the Liard River
joins the Mackenzie. Canoes are strapped onto the floats of small bush planes
for the 2-3 hour flight to various river access points. William must have been
shocked when, with about a hundred dollars in his pocket, the flight services
told him it would cost around 2,000 Canadian dollars to fly in. He checked in
at the Nahanni Park Headquarters where he talked with a young ranger named
Sharon Weaver. They discussed other ways to reach the South Nahanni River
without an expensive flight. A tributary called the Little Nahanni stood out
as the only way William could reach the river. He could drive to the end of a
road put his kayak in at Flat Lakes, and paddle his way to the bigger river.
But the Little Nahanni is a whitewater river -the ranger pointed out.
Recognizing he was alone and did not appear prepared for the difficulty of
this endeavor, Weaver tried to dissuade this determined young adventurer.
Sensing she was getting nowhere, Weaver summoned Nahanni Park superintendent
Chuck Blyth to bolster her arguments. Blyth talked to William and thought he
had convinced him not to go. William left, saying he would think about it.
But, with little whitewater experience and a bigger kayak better suited for
touring easy rivers and lakes and no specialized protective equipment such as
a helmet or warm paddling clothes, William decided to attempt the Little
Nahanni anyway.
The headwaters of the Little Nahanni River form in the steep mountainsides of
the Selwyn Mountains near the Yukon / Northwest Territories border. A glance
at the map gives the sense of remoteness. Few individual mountains have names,
but the ranges do: The Logan, Selwyn and Mackenzie Mountains, the Backbone,
Sapper and Ragged Ranges. Tucked in the South East corner of the map, upon
close inspection, you notice a road, the end of the road to be exact, and it’s
this road that draws the few people who think they might want to paddle the
Little Nahanni River.
The Nahanni Range road was built as an access to the tungsten mines in the
mountains near the headwaters of the river. The mines were abandoned in the
mid 1980’s and what’s left of the gravel road has not been maintained. Even if
the road is passable you’re looking at a one-way shuttle of 700 miles, more
than half on dirt roads.
Then there’s the river. With over 50 miles of challenging rapids, and
crystalline water, all in a sublime mountain setting, the Little Nahanni would
be as popular as the Middle Fork of the Salmon. But clear up here, 2000 miles
North of the US – Canada border, logistics are too complicated and expensive
for most to justify paddling only the Little Nahanni. Paddlers really only
view it as an access to the main river. After a little research though, most
paddlers decide to bypass the tempting tributary and just pay the money for a
flight directly into the main river. Consequently years go by when no one
paddles the tributary; more that 2 descents in a given year starts to sound
crowded.
On July 24th William turned his car off the gravel Campbell Highway at Miners
Junction and onto the Nahanni Range Road. He managed to navigate the old VW
Rabbit nearly a hundred miles before being stopped at a huge washout where a
river cut the road away. The water was waist high. It was mid July, after the
usual early summer peak but recent rains had added volume making the river to
high to drive a car across. William built a sleigh and loaded his kayak on
top. He leaned into the ropes and his load did not budge. He realized he would
not reach his goal, his “river of pure water”. A rainbow glowed its warmth
against a gray sky. William prayed, asking for help that he should continue,
prepared to give up his dream if no help was offered. Whether by divine
intervention or earthly interference, a four-wheel drive truck appeared and
began to cross the creek. William waved the vehicle down, for five bucks he
hitched a ride across.
At about 3:00 that afternoon William shoved off from the shore at the SE end
of Flat Lake, the headwaters of the Little Nahanni. He would have paddled past
a few old, uninhabited cabins on the left shore and thru the rocky shallows
connecting the lakes. 3 miles of lake paddling would bring him to the outlet
and the beginning of the river.
The stream begins in the reeds at the northwest end of the second Flat Lake.
Almost immediately there are shallow rapids requiring precise maneuvering
between boulders, but the rivers power is still developing. After about 6
miles things start to gel. The river gradient is noticeably steeper; it’s
harder to see clear lines thru the rapids and the obstacles: rocks, boat
flipping holes, and big waves, in time to avoid them all. The rapids in this
stretch are considered class 3. There are harder sections of whitewater and
longer canyons on down the river but this would be very challenging water in a
heavily laden touring kayak.
That first evening William camped along the Little Nahanni River and he wrote
about his first day on the river. “3-4 foot waves swept the maps off the deck
of the boat. The maps got spit out of the foam and floated straight to me.” He
took this as a promise that God would continue to protect him. William took
the next day, Sunday, off from paddling. The last line of Williams journal
–found intact, in his boat after more than a month in the water- reads; “Even
if something does happen to me, I am sure that in life and death, God with be
the Father and I will be his son and without the will of my heavenly Father
not a hair can fall from my head.”
William Sommer is presumed to have drowned the next day, July 26th
1999 in the rapids of the Little Nahanni, just his third day on the river,
approximately 15 miles from his put in. His boat was found stuck, upside down,
under willow branches along the shore, then a life jacket and part of a tent
on a gravel bar a short ways downstream. William’s body was never found.
It’s hard to ignore William’s literal interpretation of providence; that no
harm could come to him without it being Gods will. A biblical proverb asks;
“How can we understand the road we travel? It is the Lord who directs ones
steps”, but is balanced by the story of Jesus being cajoled by the devil into
jumping off a high temple to be saved by angels, to which Jesus responds ‘Do
not test the Lord’. Providence is perhaps better utilized to help us
understand and accept that we cannot control all aspects of life rather than
an as absolution from personal responsibility in decision-making. Williams
more literal interpretation was likely a youthfully temporary construal.
Perhaps Williams father says it best: “To us he was more than just an
adventurer who had a misfortune…when you read this you may think he was a
foolish boy and in a way he was. He was really persistent, but he was not
careless or reckless. He did not easily give up once he had put his mind to
it. He was 19 years old and boys that age often think that they are
invincible.”
Less obvious is the common element of momentum in backcountry accidents. Where
-regardless of age- desire, expectations and seemingly small events and
decisions, stack up to a house of cards, so easily seen from uninvolved
perspective but impossibly simple for those deeply invested to recognize.
William’s dream river was the South Nahanni, a river he likely could have
paddled safely alone, and not the more difficult river he saw as his only way
to achieve his goal.
Facing a loss most can only imagine, William’s parents have drawn strength
from their faith in God and exhibit amazing grace thought they miss their son
dearly. I was interested in details of Williams journey: what type of boat did
he have, how much experience, what type of clothing and protective equipment?
His parents had seemingly never considered these more tangible aspects of the
accident, and suddenly I realized why; none of that mattered. They had lost a
son; no lifejacket, kayaking classes or philosophical discussion could change
that now.
I check my GPS. I’m about a mile
and a half above where the boat was found and glad to be in a maneuverable
whitewater kayak. The slots between the rocks are narrow and quick turns help
avoid hitting them. A small island appears in the river. Boulders line the
shore between a few tall pines and basketball-sized cobble near the water. At
high water some water goes right, but now the only route is left. A horizon
line approaches. I back-paddle giving more time to scout a clear passage to
the bottom of the rapid. Only the tops of rocks, waves and hydraulic holes are
visible due to the steepness of the gradient. My kayak bumps and bounces down
through the holes and off a few rocks. A feeling covered me like a blanket;
suddenly I knew this was the rapid where he lost it. He must have flipped his
boat here and went for a swim. It was terrible to imagine him flipping in the
rapid; the cold shock of the water, trying to keep his head up, or maybe
getting knocked out by a rock.
A few days before my own trip, I sat in the Archives office in Whitehorse
sifting through old newspapers from 2 years earlier when William was on the
river. I came across the first articles I’d seen about the accident and I read
a passage. Williams father had quoted from the bible; “…those that seek me
early shall find me.” Which of course was a reference to youthful death. But I
suddenly wondered that I might find William’s body. It’s extremely difficult
to do an exhaustive search from the air and few if any parties had paddled the
river since the accident. Though this thought came as a shock because I’d not
considered the possibility, actually, I welcomed the idea. If I could tell his
parents I’d found him, I knew that would contribute to their, perhaps as yet
incomplete, sense of closure.
The river remains swift and rocky punctuated with an occasional easier class 3
rapid. I came to a sharp bend where trees and branches had formed a logjam on
the left. I knew, without looking at the GPS, that this is where William’s
boat was found. I made camp just below the spot, across the river from a
spring flowing from a brown and black crumbling cliff. The river here was
still very clear and about 30 feet wide. I spent a few hours searching the
area and found the exact coordinates. The search party had apparently pulled
the boat a few hundred yards up into the trees above high water. Sparse pine
forest was mixed with thick carpets of moss and lichen, but no boat. The RCMP
had come back to the site -I would later discover- and helicoptered the boat
and other belongings out to Ft. Simpson.
It is evening as sit on the riverbank. There is a hypnotic quality to the
river now. The light weakens and settles on undulating current. There are no
rocks to break the water’s slippery surface and it looks like oil flowing
downstream. I realize I’m exhausted. Searching for William and a few fitful
nights imagining my own river disaster: being swept downstream, out of my
boat, or grizzlies wandering up the bank by my camp had left me drained.
Tomorrow comes Crooked Canyon, the longest stretch of whitewater on the Little
Nahanni. The river will gain in size and in power but remain clear. The
current then slows for a while. Large trees have fallen from eroding banks to
bob up and down in the relentless current, in one place falling from both
sides blocking passage on the river.
The next day will bring the hardest single rapid on the river; scant
information says class five. I won’t paddle class five alone but something
tells me the decision won’t be that simple.
I wasn’t disappointed. Scrutinizing the map for suggestion of exactly where
the cataract might be, I got out more than once too early. The rapid was
intimidating as it thundered through impassible holes. It was as hard as
anything I’d paddled; it wouldn’t be wise to attempt it alone. By the time I’d
walked to the bottom of the rapid and back to my kayak bluebird weather and
emerald water had seduced me. I jumped in and snapped the spray skirt. What if
I don’t make it? Am I tempting fate, just as William had before me? These
thoughts raced across my mind. I did not indulge them for long. It felt good
to make the commitment and I smiled as the first wave slapped my face.
Smaller friendlier rapids waited farther downstream in shady canyons, deep
green eddies offered the chance to slow down and ponder the scenery. The
Little Nahanni continues its rushed meeting with the South Nahanni. The
canyons open up and miles of rapids lie around right corners lined by alpine
mountainsides that reach from snow slide remnants up to rocky summits. Then
it’s finished. The smaller river enters the South Nahanni valley, taking the
last bend or two recompose before converging with its more mature sibling.
At the confluence I make camp. I’ve been lucky with the weather. It’s hot
enough to take a bath in the icy river. The sand burns my bare feet and I seek
shade for a nap. Finally in the evening, the air begins to cool. I start a
fire to keep the bugs away and for company; it doesn’t seem so lonely now.
I realize my own reasons for traveling alone are simple. I don’t expect solo
journeys to somehow make the rest of life clear or even slow inner wanderings,
it’s enough to allow the wilderness around me to surround me, to reach a level
of intimacy that can only be shared by 2: the wilderness and me.
In the morning I pack the boat. It’s sixty miles on the South Nahanni, an easy
2 days, the river swollen and murky from upstream rains, to my floatplane
pickup before the Park boundary. I slide into the kayak, no need for a drysuit
today; it’s warm and only swift water ahead. I pick up the paddle and then
pause for a last look up the Little Nahanni. With a shove off the riverbank
and a few strong strokes, I give myself, along with the Little Nahanni, along
with William, to the river of his dreams, the mighty South Nahanni.
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