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Aerial view of the Klinaklini.
(Photo: All Canada Photos / Alamy Stock )
Aerial view of the Klinaklini.
Aerial view of the Klinaklini. (All Canada Photos / Alamy Stock )

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Paddling One of the Most Hazardous, Remote Rivers in the World

For years, Chuck Thompson dreamed of picking some random spot on the map of British Columbia and plunging in for an adventure. He got all he could handle and more on the Klinaklini River, a Class V rager that cuts through heavily forested wilderness north of Mount Waddington. In fact, he's lucky he got out alive.

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They don't even ask for ID at the Port hardy airport. I听just give the woman at the counter my name and she prints my ticket, no further questions.听

There鈥檚 no security check. No body scanner, either. This means my Dasani water bottle and nail clippers, not to mention the two knives in my daypack, will get on the plane with me. Did someone slip Canada a couple of Xanax while no one was watching?

It鈥檚 a promising start. Here on the north end of Vancouver Island, the trials of what Joseph Conrad once called 鈥渢he hazardous enterprise of living鈥 already feel distant.听

Which basically means everything is going according to plan.

If you fly up the Inside Passage between Seattle and Juneau and look inland as the Alaska Airlines 737 is cruising north of Vancouver Island, you鈥檒l see an untouched horizon of serrated peaks, alpine valleys, electric blue glacial tarns, twisting river narrows, and what other颅wise appears to be the most uninhabited, unspoiled territory imaginable. Do that flight as many times as I have鈥擨 grew up in southeast Alaska鈥攁nd at some point you鈥檒l wonder: What鈥檚 down there? How do I get to it? And once I do, how am I supposed to traverse that lonely wilderness and come out the other side?

As it happens, there are answers to these questions. After decades of fascination from above, and a recent burst of research that included rambling phone conversations with 颅every Tom, Dick, Bob, and Doug who has a gnarly B.C. story to tell, I鈥檝e 颅finally found a way to experience what may be the least visited world-class backcountry in North America.


The most dramatic way to explore British Columbia鈥檚 central coast is to paddle the Klinaklini River, a 125-mile ribbon of white颅water that runs on a northeast-southwest diagonal through the Coast Range, from B.C.鈥檚 central plateau to the Pacific Ocean. It鈥檚 an otherworldly passage where peak flows can reach 4,500 cubic feet per second.

In addition to miles of pushy rapids, the Klinaklini runs through gargantuan mountain scenery (including B.C.鈥檚 highest peak, , at 13,186 feet), hanging glaciers, and watery chicanes, as well as grizzly, moose, mountain goat, eagle, and salmon habitat. It finishes alongside orcas and First Nations villages, the river dumping into wide Knight Inlet.

The Klinaklini was part of the region鈥檚 fabled grease trail, a network of overland routes that connected inland native communities with coastal tribes who prospered by harvesting eulachon, a small smelt fish rendered into a prized cooking oil and used for trading.听

Through this ruthless wilderness, coastal natives marched with huge caribou- and moose-hide packs filled with eulachon to trade for meat and furs. Eulachon were (and, during rare good years, still are) harvested in heavy quantities up and down the coast, especially in the lower estuaries of the Klinaklini.听

Paul Mick's Footage of the Klinaklini Trip

This highlight reel offers a glimpse of just how intense the Klinaklini can be听

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Although it runs through one of the most spectacular landscapes in the world鈥攖he Coast Range stood in for the Himalayas in 鈥攖here are no settlements along the river, making it ideal for those weary of the set-up-an-account-first mandate of modern times. Paddling the thing is such a hazardous and logistically heavy effort that almost 颅nobody does it.听

鈥淔loat the Grand Canyon and on any given day you鈥檒l be doing the trip alongside 200 other people,鈥 says Brian McCutcheon, owner of the B.C.-based adventure company Rivers, Oceans, and Mountains. 鈥淥n the Klinaklini, maybe 200 people total have done the trip. Ever.鈥 In 1997, the Canadian adventurer, now 53, led the first known rafting expedition down its length.

鈥淲e took two rafts, a crew of guides, and a French chef and ran it,鈥 McCutcheon says. 鈥淲e had no idea what was around every corner.鈥
Sometimes called Canuck Norris鈥攜ou can see a little physical resemblance鈥擬cCutcheon has since guided every known commercial trip but one down the river. Eighteen by his count.

Klinaklini Glacier.
Klinaklini Glacier. (Neil Rabinowitz)

鈥淭he Klinaklini is one of the best river trips on the planet,鈥 McCutcheon e-mailed me in the winter of 2015. 鈥淚t鈥檚 got Tatshen颅shini mountain and glacier scenery with 颅Futa-like whitewater and Yangtze-like conse颅quences. Best of all, there鈥檚 no one else there. I鈥檓 doing a trip in July. Let me know if you want in.鈥

At six-foot-five and 235 pounds, McCutcheon has the kind of deceptively athletic build you get in the woods, not the gym. Hair the color of an old dirt road. Salt and pepper stubble. Hands that have tied and untied a million knots. He鈥檚 most himself in a flannel shirt, a down vest, lightweight outdoor pants, and river sandals. 鈥淐lassic lumbersexual鈥 is how he describes the look.

One reason McCutcheon keeps running this daredevil trip is that he鈥檚 convinced we鈥檙e all becoming pussies鈥攈is word, used a lot鈥攁nd he鈥檚 not the type to take bad news lying down.

The bottom is dropping out of the adventure-guiding market, he tells me.

鈥淜ids don鈥檛 want to come out and do this stuff,鈥 he grumbles. 鈥淭he two biggest questions we get from people coming to my lodge are 鈥楧o your tents have en suite bathrooms?鈥 and 鈥楧o you have Wi-Fi?鈥 鈥


鈥淔loat the Grand Canyon and on any given day you鈥檒l be doing the trip alongside 200 other people,鈥 says river guide听Brian听McCutcheon. 鈥淥n the听Klinaklini, maybe 200 people total have done the trip. Ever.鈥

On July 5, 2015, we fly from a small settlement at Nimpo Lake to the put-in at Schilling Lake鈥攚hich doesn鈥檛 appear on most maps鈥攊n a 1949 Canadian-built de Havilland Beaver. Serial number 55. That means it was the 55th one ever made.听

According to its owner-pilot, Duncan Stewart, another of the typically ramble-tamble older guys you meet in this corner of the world, it鈥檚 the longest-serving Beaver in operation.

鈥淲e know how to build 鈥檈m in Canada,鈥 Duncan says.听

鈥淲e just don鈥檛 know how to sell 鈥檈m,鈥 McCutcheon adds.

The put-in is a watery blip on the gums of B.C.鈥檚 flat central plateau, which provides access to the toothy Coast Range.

This is everyone鈥檚 first chance to size up the expedition party: nine people, including McCutcheon, stalwart Canadian river guide Mark Trueman, and Maranda Stopol, our safety and scout kayaker.听

Trueman brings an irresistible enthusi颅asm to the proceedings with his home颅steader beard, bashed-out front tooth (the result of an errant oar handle), and unstoppable drive. He鈥檚 the kind of guy who鈥檇 carry you, your broken leg, and your lacerated kidney out of the wilderness after fighting off a bear with a cedar branch, then apologize for not getting you to the doctor fast enough.听

Mark Trueman.
Mark Trueman. (Chuck Thompson)

Maranda is an experienced river guide and kayaker from Idaho who鈥檚 currently a college听student in B.C. She鈥檒l paddle up and down the river assessing rapids ahead of our two rafts鈥18-foot, center-mounted, paddle-assist boats that weigh about 1,800 pounds each with gear.听

I鈥檒l be in Trueman鈥檚 raft, along with John and Cole Vangel, a father-son duo from Southern California. John is a fit corporate attorney. Cole is a beefy 20-year-old with long brown hair that hangs across his eyes. McCutcheon tells me he鈥檚 a physics prodigy at a university on the West Coast known for its super-bright student body.听

In McCutcheon鈥檚 raft are Blair French and Paul Mick, a veteran paddler couple in their mid-thirties from Kelowna, the third-largest town in B.C. Paul is an ear, nose, and throat surgeon. Blair spent his childhood in Hope, B.C., where the immortal Rambo movie was shot.

The last figure is, without doubt, the most startling any of us have ever encountered on a high-consequences backcountry expedition.

Before we all got here, Mc颅Cutch颅eon had walked me through the roster of paddlers, briefly mentioning 鈥渁 wealthy widow who鈥檚 big on adventure trips.鈥 I鈥檇 imagined one of those wiry dynamos in their mid-颅sixties who look primed to challenge the senior record for crossing the 颅English Channel.听

Instead, Jean Hollands dodders out of the Beaver, appearing not a day under 80, brittle as an egg, unsteady as the Indonesian stock market.听

What this Hummel figurine is doing on a trip like this is anybody鈥檚 guess, but there鈥檚 no time for awkward questions. Once the whine of the Beaver鈥檚 engine has faded into the cloudless sky, we鈥檙e put to work rigging the boats.

鈥淪ay goodbye to civilization,鈥 McCutcheon says.


We鈥檙e rafting through a flooded forest鈥攐ne with a raging current going into it. Ever driven a minivan at 20 miles per hour through dense woods, then tossed the steering wheel out the window? Me neither, but I think this is what it would be like.

For the first couple of miles on day one, it feels like we鈥檙e paddling through a big-budget Molson鈥檚 ad. Snow-crested granite spires and bright blue glaciers provide the background scenery.

The first major challenge, about four miles from the put-in, is a Class V rapid dubbed Little Drop of Horrors. (It was christened by McCutcheon, who named most of the features on the river.) It鈥檚 a satanic shard of whitewater that combines everything in a policy writer鈥檚 nightmare鈥攁 steep, narrow plunge, barely submerged rocks, pushy rip currents, swirling eddies, frothing rapids, and the disposition of an injured wolverine.听

McCutcheon鈥檚 boat goes first. It glides through the initial bumps before nose-颅diving into a yawning hole. The raft tacos into an almost perfect V before launching completely out of the water. In the rear, packed between gear 颅boxes and dry bags as tightly as 颅McCutcheon can wedge her, is Jean. Her head pitches forward, then jerks back in a way you normally associate with wide receivers getting nailed on pass routes across the middle.

With a lot of shouting from Canuck Norris鈥斺淏ack-paddle! Back-paddle! Hold on! Hold the fuck on!鈥濃攈e and the Blair-Paul paddle pros steady the raft, which disappears safely around a bend.

Our turn next. We bounce through the ferocious hole in good shape but get tossed violently by a standing wave and end up barreling headlong into a set of submerged logs on the far bank. While we鈥檙e high-centered atop the mini logjam, the river hits us broadside, twisting the raft perpendicular to the current. We start to tilt鈥攆ive degrees, ten, fifteen鈥攗ntil the right side of the boat is sagging beneath the waterline.听

鈥淟eft over! Left over! Left over!鈥 Trueman shouts. Cole and I clamber atop stacks of gear like a pair of rheumatic chimps.听

It works. With our weight shifted and Trueman and John leaning as far out from the edge as they can, the boat levels and we鈥檙e able to push off the logs. Hurling himself at his double oars, Trueman pivots the raft. We bounce off a rock, then careen backward into an alder thicket on the bank.听

A flurry of branches rips across the boat at head level. My new 鈥渞iver ready鈥 sunglasses snap in half. Cole takes the worst of it, picking up a set of bright red slashes across his cheek and neck. It鈥檚 a spooky moment. When those branches slap you at ramming speed, they can flip you out of the boat quick as a hiccup.听

鈥淣ow that鈥檚 a classic class-five B.C. rapid!鈥 Trueman shouts as John, Cole, and I struggle to regain equilibrium.


McCutcheon (center) approaching a rapid called Nobody Move.
McCutcheon (center) approaching a rapid called Nobody Move. (Chuck Thompson)

In camp, all the chatter focuses on our shared survival. Cole keeps talking about how he was totally in the water when we颅 颅nearly capsized. John says he figured we were all goners when he saw his son鈥檚 water bottle floating downstream. For the first time, we interact as a group instead of a collection of strangers.

The campfire confessional leads to the Jean Story. Born in the UK, she survived the Blitz as a schoolgirl during World War II and emigrated to Canada in 1973. The slow pace of provincial Canadians shocked her on arrival, and it鈥檚 still a point of exasperation. Her first job was as a project director at an electronics firm, where she earned a reputation for being a hard-ass.听

鈥淥ne day another manager came up to me and said, 鈥榊ou know what you are, Jean?鈥 鈥 she tells us, somewhat proudly. 鈥 鈥榊ou鈥檙e a pushy limey broad!鈥

鈥淚 said, 鈥榃ell, that鈥檚 exactly right. Thank you.鈥 鈥

In Canada, Jean became a kayaker. Fanatical. The sport gave her an appreciation for nature she鈥檇 never had. Other than her two children, rivers became her passion.
Now, with a failing body but a strong spirit, she鈥檚 after 鈥渙ne last grand adventure.鈥 The KK is it鈥攕he鈥檚 had this river in the back of her mind since she saw it on TV in the late 1990s. Like it or not, we鈥檙e to be her last accomplices and helpmeets.听
Jean might be pushy, but she鈥檚 also clever. In the space of an hour, she鈥檚 gone from quietly resented appendage to the source of communal purpose. One and all seem united in seeing to it that this gritty old bird gets a final feather in her cap.听


(Robert Harkness )

As we find out on day two, butchering through virgin wilderness isn鈥檛 just difficult. It鈥檚 often boring. At regular intervals, the KK is blocked by massive logjams and epic blowdowns. We鈥檙e forced to beach the rafts and watch from shore while McCutcheon clears the way, using a portable Stihl MH-170 chainsaw with a 16-inch bar.听

For those 颅unfamiliar with chainsaw specs, the MH-170 is the kind of tool you might deploy to prune branches from the apple tree in your backyard. McCutcheon some颅how uses this humble implement to cut fallen century-old pine trees in half.听

The process usually takes a couple of hours. While the group roasts in the sun on a river bank, McCutcheon wades into waist-deep currents or straps himself to the same log he鈥檚 cutting, buzzing away, precariously balanced above the menacing current.

鈥淏rian鈥檚 great talent is the ability to muster people to follow him on these big, preposterous expeditions,鈥 Trueman tells me while we watch. 鈥淗e鈥檚 so charismatic, I have to check myself from time to time and remember to ask, 鈥業s this really a good idea?鈥 鈥

I ask why we鈥檙e encountering so many logjams.听

鈥淎s a result of a late-season snowfall and a very hot spring, we鈥檝e had extremely high water through here this year,鈥 he says. 鈥淭here are also thousands of weak trees along the shore diseased by pine beetles.鈥

Now, in an unseasonably hot summer, the water level is low, exposing obstacles, debris, and gravel bars you normally wouldn鈥檛 see.听

鈥淎ll the downed logs are forcing the river to divert, creating new channels everywhere,鈥 Trueman says. 鈥淭his is a completely different river from the one we last ran in 2012.鈥澨


鈥淲e鈥檙e going to run this stretch of rapids to where that fork is,鈥 McCutcheon shouts above a roaring wave train. We鈥檙e standing on a sandbar listening and looking. 鈥淩ight after it, we鈥檙e going to eddy out on the right bank.鈥

It鈥檚 around 1 P.M. With the morning鈥檚 chainsawing done, we鈥檝e encountered a听peculiar bend in the river鈥攁 wide, fast channel veering left off the main flow. There鈥檚 no way to tell where it leads.听

鈥淲hatever happens, do not miss that right bank eddy!鈥 McCutcheon commands. 鈥淒o not go left. The results could be fatal to the expedition.鈥

We get back in the rafts. McCutcheon鈥檚 rocks up and down through the rapids and makes the right bank eddy without 颅difficulty. Behind him, we set off with a confident stroke. Halfway through I sense that we鈥檝e paddled too far left to make the eddy.听

Trueman nearly pops a vein with his 鈥淗ard left!鈥 bellowing. It doesn鈥檛 help. We boomerang off a downed log and 颅careen sideways into the dreaded left channel, which quickly widens into something that looks like Louisiana swamp. Before, I hadn鈥檛 understood what McCutcheon was so freaked out about. Now I do. We鈥檙e rafting through a flooded forest鈥攐ne with a raging current going into it. Ever driven a minivan at 20 miles per hour through dense woods, then tossed the steering wheel out the window? Me neither, but I think this is what it would be like.

Trueman pilots us into what looks like the safest spot鈥攁 small logjam pushed up against a stand of rotted trees. The idea is to get us stabilized on something before we crash into a tree, break a few limbs, and capsize.听
But the log pile is no haven. As soon as we鈥檝e lurched to a stop against it, the current turns us broadside and lifts us onto the logs. We鈥檙e wrapped on the pile; water begins bucketing into the raft.

The next few minutes are complicated and, for anyone interested in sizing up river-guide skills, remarkable. Trueman leaps into the current and secures the raft to a tree with a line. McCutcheon鈥攚ho鈥檚 run after us like a boar through the dense woods鈥攃rawls over from the opposite shore, across the tops of more downed logs, and tosses us 颅another line. Pulling the ropes against each, we stabilize the raft and eventually tie up on an almost nonexistent bank.听
Unfortunately, there鈥檚 no feasible direction to go. Plowing forward in a 1,800-pound raft in whitewater through a flooded 颅forest is suicide.

The dense, brushy woods along the riverbank are nearly impassable. No way to horse an 18-foot boat through them.听

The only option looks to be the way we came in鈥攚hich means backing out against current that a 125-horsepower motor would have trouble bucking. Four guys with plastic paddles have no chance fighting it. Instead, we鈥檒l walk the boat upriver along the shallow bank.听

It seems like an OK plan. Except that, in 30 minutes, we manage to coax the boat all of 20 yards. The decision is made to lighten the load and then retrieve it later. Stacking dozens of bags and boxes of gear in the swampy woods takes another hour.

Pulling the empty raft against the river is still a Fitzcarraldo effort. The bank is a vile thicket of alder, poplar, cedar, spruce, pine, cottonwood, willow, devil鈥檚 club, and berry bushes. Several times, Trueman and I drop into holes in the river. We sink up to our shoulders, frantically grasping for handfuls of slippery branches.听

鈥淭his is not what I signed up for,鈥 Cole grumbles. 鈥淲hy are we doing this?鈥

鈥淒on鈥檛 worry, we have a sat phone, we can always call in a helicopter,鈥 John says, apparently forgetting that his son is an academic savant gifted with keen observational powers.

鈥淲here the hell would a helicopter land? It can鈥檛 land here,鈥 Cole shoots back.听

A revised plan is formed. Instead of grinding all the way back upstream, we鈥檒l draggle the raft another 20 yards or so upriver. This will put us in position to make a long-odds attempt to paddle across a shallow section. Make it and theoretically we鈥檒l shoot through the flood zone into another mystery 颅channel that appears to be flowing in the general 颅direction of the main river.听

I鈥檝e paddled against a lot of tough currents in my life, but the desperation behind this upriver slog adds to my appreciation of the survival instinct. Or maybe I鈥檓 just good at taking orders, since Trueman is issuing them like the skipper on a Viking slaver.听

鈥淔ight it! Fight it!鈥 he bellows 鈥淚f we hit that logjam, push off it as hard as you can! Chuck, stick your paddle out. Break it on that sonofabitch if you have to!鈥

There鈥檚 no need for that. Trueman digs an oar deep into the water, finds a miracle seam in the current, and swoops us into the new channel. A quarter-mile later, we spot the rest of our party back on the main river颅bank, waving to us like they just solved global warming.听

After a five-hour detour through hell and high water, we鈥檙e back on the main river.


McCutcheon chainsawing.
McCutcheon chainsawing. (Chuck Thompson)

In places, the river is calm and we鈥檙e able to beach up for sandwiches, stretching, and conversation鈥攄uring which things like the provenance of Cole鈥檚 overall skittishness are revealed.听

At age 11, on his and John鈥檚 second father-son raft trip, on California鈥檚 Tuolumne River, Cole鈥檚 boat flipped in a rapid. He went into the water, lost contact with the craft, and ended up submerged for about 15 terrifying seconds.听

Cole and John persevered, and Cole has grown to enjoy river trips, but that initial terror left a scar. The KK is the most ambitious expedition Cole and John have undertaken; the memory of the Tuolumne is always under the surface.听

McCutcheon nods and confesses that, on previous trips through Little Drop of Horrors, his groups have flipped two rafts. Neither he nor Trueman were at the helm, but veteran, trusted guides were.听

The worst capsized almost instantly, with six people going under, two for an uncomfortably long time. No one died or was seri颅ously hurt, but there was a long moment when it was unclear who was coming up and who wasn鈥檛.听

鈥淒on never ran another trip with us 颅after that,鈥 Brian tells the group. 鈥淗e was a great guide, 15 years experience, perfect record. It wasn鈥檛 a guide error, but just the idea of being responsible for killing a group of people shook him up.鈥


After a couple of moments听recovering his breath, Cole lifts his head, stares into my eyes, and, through long threads of drool, croaks, 鈥淣o more whitewater. No more whitewater.鈥 It鈥檚 a haunting epitaph for the trip.

Nobody Move, a rapid we do at the start of day three, is a monster Class V. Its primary features are a six-foot drop at the end of a rocky approach, followed by a 100-yard, boulder-strewn whitewater wave train that ends with a bone-clanging ten-foot drop into a flushing hole.

鈥淭his is one of the most dangerous parts of the river,鈥 McCutcheon tells us as we inspect the run from atop a rock outcropping. 鈥淪trap your PFDs down tight.鈥

His group goes first. When the raft 颅plunges into the bottom of the hole, it folds almost in half. Jean, sitting amid stacks of cargo in the rear right position, pitches forward, then whiplashes back like a crash dummy. Somehow she stays in the boat.听

Our raft鈥攖he one that seems to be bearing the brunt of misfortune鈥攕ails through the main drop with unex颅pected ease.

鈥淲e鈥檙e getting the hang of this!鈥 I shout at John as we click paddles high-five style. Behind us, though, there鈥檚 theater.

鈥淲e鈥檝e got a swimmer! Cole鈥檚 in the 颅water!鈥 Trueman cries.

On most rapids, the fold and subsequent retraction of the rubber raft rocks the back more violently than the front. After our bow had barreled through Nobody Move, the stern kicked out of the water at a steep angle, pitching Cole from the boat like a beanbag.

鈥淏ack-paddle! Back-颅paddle!鈥 Trueman yells.

It鈥檚 impossible to halt our momentum, but we go for it anyway. We can鈥檛 stop our 颅descent, but if we can slow it, Cole will have a better chance of reaching the raft.

In a roil of whitewater, his head pops up 15 feet behind the boat. He keeps disap颅pearing beneath the waterline, then bobbing up again. Each time he resurfaces, he coughs up water.

At the stern, rescue kit in hand, Trueman barks commands, steers the raft, and shouts encouragement to everybody. But the current is vicious. Caught in some invisible rip, Cole shoots like a Ping-Pong ball past Trueman鈥檚 outstretched 颅paddle and goes underwater. When he resurfaces, he鈥檚 swirling next to my side of the raft.听

Leaning out, I try to guide his hand onto the raft鈥檚 perimeter line. Our fingertips brush, but Cole is in a washing machine, and we can鈥檛 close the loop. He slips back into whitewater.听

I flip my paddle around and extend the grip end as far as I can. Cole manages to grab the handle.听

Got him! The adrenaline-fueled elation of this moment is as profound as anything I鈥檝e experienced in the outdoors. I really believed this kid was going to drown.听

But the fright has apparently sent every twitchy nerve in my body straight to my right arm. I yank way too hard, and Cole鈥檚 hand slips off the handle.听

Two seconds from salvation, it鈥檚 as if some river monster has grabbed his ankle. He鈥檚 pulled straight down. I watch as his head goes under the raft, trapping him squarely beneath 1,800-plus pounds of rubber.听

鈥淗e鈥檒l come up, he鈥檒l come up!鈥 Trueman shouts.

Three seconds? Four? Five? Impossible to say. But when Cole pops back up鈥斅璫oughing, sputtering鈥攈e鈥檚 only a foot from me. I grab his PFD at the shoulder straps and hurl my body back into the boat. The wetsuit鈥檚 buoyancy works in Cole鈥檚 favor. He鈥檚 a big guy鈥190 pounds鈥攂ut the top half of his body slides easily over the raft, and he lands in my lap like an exhausted halibut.听

After a couple of moments coughing out water and recovering his breath, Cole lifts his head, stares into my eyes, and, through long threads of drool, croaks, 鈥淣o more whitewater. No more whitewater.鈥 It鈥檚 a haunting epitaph for the trip.


With the Cole episode leaving everyone unsettled, it seems like fate when, an hour 颅later, our 颅progress is halted again. Two or three hundred logs, assorted rocks, brush, and detritus have collected in a broad swath across a wide section of river. No one wants to say the word out loud, but we鈥檙e looking at a 颅mother of a portage to get past this, and 颅everybody knows it.听

There鈥檚 no way Jean is walking across a wet logjam, so McCutcheon gets the show started by fireman-颅carrying her. Twice he skitters on the slick bark and nearly falls over. Jean鈥檚 body sags against his shoulders like a sack of rice.
鈥淔orget the portage, if he drops her we鈥檒l be dealing with a much more grave issue,鈥 Blair says to me. 鈥淟ike an actual grave.鈥

For five hours, we move a couple thousand pounds of equipment, piece by piece, from both boats. With no sure footing, everyone teeters along with the careful steps of a newborn fawn. We grind out an ad hoc path to a shallow side channel that skirts the logjam and dribbles its way back to the river.听

Once the rafts have been completely emptied and derigged, it takes six people to heave each one across the logjam.

For all the physical exertion, the emotional setbacks are the biggest toll. For me, the hardest moment of the trip comes when Maranda, sent ahead to scout for camping spots, returns with the news that yet another logjam is blocking the river just downstream.听

鈥淪cariest scout of my life,鈥 she adds helpfully. 鈥淭wilight closing in and bear and wolf tracks everywhere. Anyone have some repellent handy? I鈥檝e never been so chewed up by mosquitoes.鈥

The reaction to Maranda鈥檚 鈥渢his ain鈥檛 over yet鈥 bombshell is severe. At the end of the beastly portage, some of the group had posed for a photo, arms raised in triumph. By the looks on their faces now, you鈥檇 think everyone had just drawn the middle seat on a red-eye to Caracas. Even the irrepressible Trueman falls silent.听

鈥淚f you guys are discussing a refund for the trip, fuck off!鈥 McCutcheon shouts cheerfully from his raft, attempting to inject levity into the proceedings.听

No one laughs. Not because they really want a refund, but because they鈥檙e too physically shot and crushed by disappointment to respond.


That night, after we set up camp on a gravel bar scouted by Maranda, McCutcheon wanders into the bushes with his sat phone. Thirty minutes later he gathers the troops.

鈥淥K, here鈥檚 the plan,鈥 he says. 鈥淎 helicopter is gonna come in here tomorrow at noon to take us out of here.鈥 There鈥檚 not even a whimper of resistance.

鈥淲e鈥檒l fly up to camp at the Klinaklini Glacier and continue the trip from there,鈥 McCutcheon says.听

The airlift will effectively knock out the day-four itinerary鈥攁bout 30 river miles鈥攁nd drop us within a few hours, by paddle, to trip鈥檚 end at Knight Inlet. So far we鈥檝e covered about 20 miles. In three days.听

The helo pickup isn鈥檛 a rescue so much as an abdication. The B.C. wilderness is wild and mighty, and this time it has beaten us. Pushing ahead would be just short of lunacy.听

鈥淥f all the trips we鈥檝e done on this river, this is by far the hardest,鈥 Trueman tells me the next day while we wait for the distant whoomp of rotors. 鈥淭his trip is on the verge of commercial viability. That鈥檚 why we鈥檙e the only ones who run it. And that鈥檚 because Brian has a huge sack. He鈥檚 willing to take the risks and take people out to do this stuff 颅because he believes in it.鈥

It鈥檚 true, but even McCutcheon鈥檚 tolerance for risk has a limit.

鈥淚鈥檓 dealing with a real liability issue here,鈥 McCutcheon says. 鈥淛esus Christ, Jean is 82! She told me she was 72. I have it in writing. When I saw her come doddering off the plane I thought, You鈥檙e 72? No goddamn way.鈥

When I ask Jean about this later, she allows that there may have been a mistake made on a personal information form, but she鈥檇听never intentionally mislead McCutcheon or anyone else about 鈥渟uch a silly thing.鈥

鈥淚鈥檓 not worried about her suing me,鈥 McCutcheon tells me on the river. 鈥淪he鈥檚 a tough old Brit. She told me yesterday, 鈥楤rian, if I die out here, that鈥檚 OK.鈥 I said, 鈥楯ean, it鈥檚 not you I鈥檓 worried about. I鈥檓 worried about your family coming after me.鈥 鈥

When all three guides are out of earshot, and the group is sitting around our piles of staged gear, I follow up on McCutcheon鈥檚 earlier joke and ask if anyone has actually considered asking for a refund.听

鈥淣ot at all,鈥 says Dr. Paul. 鈥淵ou understand the risks on a trip like this and assume things won鈥檛 go as planned. This is an expedition on a river no one鈥檚 seen in three years. Anyway, the trip isn鈥檛 over yet.鈥


Jean Hollands.
Jean Hollands. (Chuck Thompson)

Being taken off the river is frustrating. Everyone regrets not being able to complete a mission they鈥檝e been prep颅-ping so long to do.

On another level, it鈥檚 a relief. Two days of hiking in the high alpine around our new camp at the terminal moraine of the Klina颅klini Glacier is a tonic. An ocean of mountain peaks spreads across a limitless horizon. Between each one are pools of deep purple, neon blue, glacial-silt green, rusty copper鈥攖he mineral composition left behind by ancient glaciers gives each its unique hue.听

On the last morning, Jean and I are the first paddlers up. McCutcheon is at the mess table making coffee.

鈥淗ow are you this morning, Jean?鈥 he asks.

鈥淲ell, my knees are a bit stiff, but otherwise I鈥檓 fine.鈥

鈥淎t your age, it鈥檚 a triumph just not waking up a stiff.鈥

Jean chuckles indulgently.听

McCutcheon鈥檚 got a ton of these. What do you get when you cross an insomniac, a dyslexic, and a philosopher? A guy who lies awake all night wondering if there really is a dog.

Despite the recuperative days at the glacier, and McCutcheon鈥檚 jocular chatter, the grim-faced gang breaks camp for the final push as if preparing for an amphibious invasion.听

Some of this has to do with the weather. The afternoon before, when it was 97 degrees, we鈥檇 swum beneath a waterfall. This morning it鈥檚 a marrow-thickening 46, and the sky looks like a piece of old meat.听

Last day blues, I think. Trip鈥檚 almost over. No one wants to get back to work, overdue bills, the a-hole neighbors who keep letting their dog take a dump in my yard鈥

鈥淲as that a raindrop?鈥 Blair asks, squinting at the ashen sky.


Below the terminus of the Klinaklini Glacier, heavy wind and rain descend, and the river picks up speed. Furious rapids twist and boil.听

Perhaps 鈥渂oil鈥 isn鈥檛 the best description of water that鈥檚 almost 100 percent glacial runoff. But it does burn when the first bathtub-size torrents of icy greetings slam you in the face.

鈥淲ow, I鈥檝e never seen the rapids so high here!鈥 Trueman cries.

McCutcheon estimates the waves at 20 feet from crest to bottom. Our rafts are a little more than 18 feet long. We start riding the waves. If this sounds fun to you, it鈥檚 not.听

These are the spookiest rapids yet. Not just because your body clenches against the nut-shriveling glacier water with each rude slap, but because the force actually pushes you backward. You have to lean into them to avoid being unseated.

鈥淚t鈥檚 all gradient,鈥 McCutcheon explains. 鈥淥ver eight kilometers, we鈥檙e dropping several hundred feet. And the water is full of silt with all the glacial rock flour pounding in there. That鈥檚 why it feels like a punch when it hits you.鈥

The guides call these 鈥済lacial facials鈥 or 鈥渘asal douches.鈥 I call it four hours of reliving the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. This is how long we have to paddle to reach Knight Inlet for our rendezvous with the pickup boat, which at the moment is feeling more like a rescue vessel.听

鈥淎nyone feeling hypothermic?鈥 Trueman asks.

We鈥檙e all busy suppressing the shivering instinct. Does that count?听

Ahead of us, Jean is rammed down as far into the floor of the boat as McCutcheon can force her, popsicled into immobility. Her face is a death mask.

Before we鈥檇 set off this morning, she鈥檇 given Blair her e-mail address, along with the e-mail address of a friend of hers.听

鈥淭hat way, if you contact me and don鈥檛 get a reply, she can let you know if I鈥檓 dead or not,鈥 she told him.

We round a bend to find McCutcheon鈥檚 boat beached. He鈥檚 lashing Maranda鈥檚 bright red kayak to the top of his raft. She stands beside him, her hands clenched in front of her like baby pterodactyl claws. In her kayak, she鈥檚 been taking the most punishment in the KK ice bath. She climbs into the back of our raft with a gutsy expression and forces her fingers around a paddle.听

As we set off again, Trueman begins cackling like an incoherent hyena. John wants to know what鈥檚 so funny.

鈥淭his whole thing, this entire experience!鈥 he shrieks, beard swinging in the breeze. 鈥淵ou didn鈥檛 think the KK was going to let us finish this trip without a slap on the back of the head, did you?鈥

We smell the ocean before we see it. A shift in the wind carries a briny tang over the top of the riverine air. Off our bow, a curious seal trains its glossy black eyes on the raft.

Through a mist of low clouds and beating rain, a blue and white speck bobs on the surface of the water. After hoisting aboard a group of frozen paddlers who have just endured three hours of Arctic-blast conditions, the first thing the boat鈥檚 captain thinks to do is reach into his cooler and shove a cold beer into each of our frozen paws.听

We all make polite efforts to partake, but by the time anyone can get halfway through a can, we鈥檝e fallen asleep in the boat鈥檚 warm, steamy cabin.


鈥淚鈥檓 the last expedition company running multi-day river trips in B.C.,鈥 McCutcheon tells me later. 鈥淚鈥檓 the youngest of the old guys who do this stuff. This place is one of the last bastions of this type of trip.鈥

After the KK group鈥檚 goodbye on the public dock in Vancouver Island鈥檚 Port McNeill, I spend a couple of weeks driving around B.C. On the way home, I detour to McCutcheon鈥檚 Bear Camp headquarters near Chilko Lake to return some gear.

I鈥檓 lucky to find him in a rare sitting mood.听

鈥淒ay river-rafting has become so orchestrated, it鈥檚 like Disneyland,鈥 he says, hitting a now familiar theme. 鈥淏us leaves at 8:30. Stop for snack at 10:30. Lunch at 12:30. Back by 4 p.m.鈥

Given his pessimism about the adventure market, I ask about the viability of future runs down the Klinaklini.听

鈥淭he reality is that this was not a profitable trip,鈥 he says. 鈥淭his KK trip was definitely the most challenging we鈥檝e done.鈥

Did he think twice about having us airlifted out of trouble?

鈥淭he concern I had was, the way our luck had been going, it鈥檚 almost for certain we鈥檇 have needed it at some point. The province has been sequestering helis for forest fires, so you take the machine when you can get it. That was my thinking.鈥

Inevitably, the talk turns to Jean.

鈥淚 gotta admit, it鈥檚 pretty ballsy to come out here at her age,鈥 McCutcheon says. 鈥淔rom my perspective it鈥檚 terrifying, but it鈥檚 also pretty cool.

鈥淪he said as much to me afterward. She said, 鈥楤rian, it鈥檚 not my job anymore to worry about how old I am.鈥 鈥

Jean has already sent an e-mail to the group, so we open that up. It鈥檚 a witty and touching thank-you note that ends on a line that鈥檚 as apt an explanation for running this river as any of us are likely to write.

鈥淚t was the best trip (expedition? suicide mission?) of my life,鈥 she writes. 鈥淏ut the best part is that when I returned home, my piled-up mail included a missive from UK Pensions asking me to prove that I was still alive.鈥 Was there any doubt?鈥

Chuck Thompson is the author听of five books, including Smile When You鈥檙e Lying and Better Off Without 鈥橢m.