The following is an excerp from an email I wrote to a friend describing my May 14-15 2005 canoe trip from Fairbanks to the village of Nenana. While this excerp presents the trip as if it were taken by only my friend Gene and I, In reality Gene's son Anthony, another friend also named Gene and his son also accompanied me. Perhaps I will add to it in the future to make a more complete record of the trip:
It was the best of times. It was the worst of times........well. O'k, it wasn't really the BEST nor the WORST but it did have some of each extreme as any good adventure should. The day prior to our departure I informed my friend Gene that I was not going to go if it is raining. He accepts this statement with a grunt implying that I am a sissy for making such an assertion but I know he is secretly relieved. Many years ago Gene, my then 6 year old son and I had embarked on a similar expedition but ignored the bellowing rain gods. That trip involved great misery, a near child sacrifice, hauling a canoe and 20 tons of supplies up a cliff, and almost a helicopter rescue, but I diverge from the topic at hand.
This time, the rain gods hide behind sunny skies and unseasonably warm temperatures at our departure. As I scramble around getting my stuff together before leaving, my wife asks me if I packed any sun screen. I know that I have not but wanting no further delay I make some unintelligible mumbling as I often do in such situations and run out the door. The first few hours are great and it feels wonderful to be riding the mysterious currents again. The Tanana river is fed by glaciers living in the mountains to the south and the river has carved out a hundred mile wide valley in which the city of Fairbanks lies nestled. The water is moving along at a good clip, about 5 knots, but when we are in the middle and no longer have a close visual reference to land, it seems we were floating atop a placid lake. Occasionally we find ourselves traveling one of the river's narrower braids and then we notice the swiftness of our progress and need to take a little care in avoiding obstacles. As the day drifts on the sun is a relentless companion. It is odd to feel like a basted turkey while surrounded by 35 degree ice water. The glaciers birthing the river pulverize the granite mountains in their labor so the waters carry a heavy load of silt and run the color of skim milk. The silt particles slide along our canoe like rosin on a violin bow, playing a constant, barely audible river song. The sun scorches my winter pale flesh and cracks my lips.
"Damn...why didn't I take my wife's advice and bring some sun-screen? Oh well, be a friend and hand me another beer, will ya Gene?"
The above statement pretty much sums up our first day on the water. We see a half a dozen bald eagles, drink several cold beers and let the river provide its musical accompaniment to our many stories of old. At about 5PM we come across a flock of Trumpeter swans sunning themselves on a gravel bar. We pull our canoe up on the rocks across from them and set up camp. There are some tracks which we can not identify in the sand near our camp. Straight lines of track run directly from the surrounding brush to the water. No distinct footprints can be seen in the tracks because the drag marks of a rough haired body obscure them. Gene thinks they are maybe the marks of a porcupine or wolverine, I think maybe a beaver dragging brush to the river but there is no sign of beaver gnawing on nearby trees. There are also tracks left by moose and a lone wolf. There are no human or bear tracks, always a nice omission from a campsite. We start a fire of driftwood and soon are enjoying New York steaks smothered in mushrooms, onions and roasted red peppers and washing it down with river cold Guinness. Life is good!
That night, lying in my tent I sense the approaching rains. The skies are dusky with twilight as the birch leaves begin to rustle under a breeze........................
There is more to the story of course, but I am afraid I am out of time to write about it. The rain gods found us of course, and the next day was quite the opposite of the first. A head-wind buffeted our canoe with no remorse. The temperature lolled around the 40 degree mark, and conflicting currents formed whirlpools where the river braids came together, causing some consternation among the occupants in our canoe. We made it to our destination with no real mishaps. Gene suffered mild hypothermia which was accentuated when he performed a perfect backward swan-dive into the river while dismounting the canoe. ( his legs were stiff with cold and unexpectedly malfunctioned when needing them the most) Even the bad weather couldn't ruin the day. At one point we drifted by some tall cliffs and were engulfed for a time by hundreds of iridescent bank swallows performing a great show of acrobatics. At the village of Nenana we found comfort in eating a Monderosa burger at the traditional road house.
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