"The land should not be called New Land, being composed of stones and horrible rugged rocks…. I did not see one cartload of earth and yet I landed in many places… there is nothing but moss and short, stunted shrub. I am rather inclined to believe that this is the land God gave to Cain."
Jacques Cartier, 1534
Labrador. Desolate, cruel, unforgiving and beautiful. The first, and also the last, frontier in North America.
This is a trip report, albeit an old one, of a journey on the Kanairiktok (can air ik toc) River in Labrador. In Inuktitut, the river’s name means “the place with straight trees good for tent poles”. It was an unknown river of raging whitewater, narrow gorges and falls, set in an isolated, barren landscape. To say I was nervous about this river trip would be an understatement; I was scared shitless!
The report is divided into chapters or sections, to separate the preparation from the trip itself and then again for the ending or epilogue which is just the anti climactic journey home. My reasoning for this is so the reader could skip whatever parts that do not hold any interest.
But first, the necessary legalese of a disclaimer:
WARNING !!
ALL INDIVIDUALS USING, REFERRING TO, TALKING ABOUT, OR THINKING ABOUT THIS TRIP REPORT MUST READ THIS FIRST!!!
This inaccurate trip report is based on dim recollections, half-baked guesses, gossip, blind speculation, and outright lies. In NO WAY does it tell the full story. You would probably be better off just trying to find your own way down the river, than you would be if you used information gathered from this report. But that statement in no way implies that I am in any way responsible if you don't use the information I give you here, and something bad happens anyway.
If you paddle, especially paddling a river, you may die or be seriously injured. And the longer you paddle the greater your risk of bad luck, which may or may not be compounded by hubris catching up to you. This is true whether you are experienced or not, trained or not, and equipped or not, though training, experience and equipment may help. It's a fact, paddling is extremely dangerous. If you don't like it, stay at home. You really shouldn't be doing it anyway. There are any number of unobvious, extremely and unusually dangerous conditions existing on and around the river and shore, and elsewhere. I probably don't know about any specific hazard, but even if I do, don't expect this report or its author to try to warn you. You're on your own.
We won't even begin to discuss rapids. If you are thinking of traveling here for the express purpose of running rapids, do us all a favor: Just take a nice nap in the fast lane of a truck route. But be advised that, if you do, I am in no way responsible for the consequences of that, either.
Nature is unpredictable and unsafe. Rivers are dangerous. Many books have been written about these dangers, and there's no way I can even list them all here, let alone discuss how to reduce risk from these dangers. Read the books.
Real dangers are present even on portages. Portages are not sidewalks, and folks have died and been seriously injured even on sidewalks when they have tripped on cracked concrete, plunged into meter boxes with missing covers, been mugged, hit by cars, had pianos fall on them... portages can be, and are, steep, slippery and dangerous. Some portages in the area are only maintained by caribou, which have little regard for human life or human safety, or any humans whatsoever. In summary, portages are unsafe, period. Live with it or stay away.
You may get lost. You probably WILL get lost. The chances of getting lost multiply geometrically after the sun goes down, due to poor visibility. The sun goes down at least once a day in these areas (even in Antarctica, depending on how you define 'day'). Not to say that you won't get lost during daylight hours. In either event, carry a flashlight, extra bulb and batteries, compass, GPS, maps, food, water, matches and first aid supplies at all times. My advising you of this does not mean there are not other things you should be carrying. Carry them as well, and know how to use them. I am not responsible for the consequences if you fail to heed this advice. In fact, I am not responsible for the consequences even if you DO heed this neither advice, nor am I responsible if you carry so much stuff along that you end up moving so slowly that you die of starvation. Tough luck.
Weather can be dangerous, regardless of the forecast. Be prepared with extra clothing, including rain gear. Hypothermia, heat stroke, dehydration, frostbite, lightning, ice and snow, runoff from rainstorms, flashfloods, etc. can kill you. Rain can turn easy paddling into a deathtrap and can drown you if you're looking up into the sky with your mouth open.
Rescue services are not provided by anyone near these rivers, and may not be available quickly or at all. In fact, if anything really serious happens to you in these areas, you'll probably be dead before word ever reaches civilization. Also, if you decide to participate in a rescue of some other unfortunate, that's your choice. Don't do it unless you are willing to assume all risks, and don't blame me when it goes bad and you end up getting yourself sued in the process.
I promise you nothing. I won't even try to warn you about any dangerous or hazardous condition, whether I know about it or not. If I do decide to warn you about something, that doesn't mean I will try to warn you about anything else. I may have done things in those areas that are unwise and dangerous. I probably did, but I don't remember. Sorry, I'm neither competent nor responsible. This report gives you bad advice. Don't listen. Or do listen. It's your choice, but you face the consequences either way, whatever they may be.
In short, PADDLE AT YOUR OWN RISK. If you, or your heirs, relatives, dependents or others known or unknown to you, your partner or your partners heirs, relatives, dependents, or others known or unknown to you OR your partner, are the slimy kind of lawyer-touting parasites who would try to sue the author of a report; if you can't take responsibility for your own decisions, knowledge, route finding and plain dumb bad luck, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE stay far far away from these routes and those areas, give up paddling, and die of some completely natural, painful, and slowly progressive disease.
Thank you, paddle safe, and have fun!
The players:
Rob, who has, or had been, my paddling partner on many occasions. Good canoeing skills combined with the strength of young age and toughness when it counts. Probably the best whitewater skills out of the group.
Jim, a relative newcomer to our group, although we had paddled with him for 400K the previous summer. Possessed of a laid back and carefree attitude, along with a head the size of a bread box, but able to go the last mile without complaining.
Paul, that would be me. The oldest of the group and probably the least qualified in the skills required.
Although we were all friends and knew each others likes, dislikes and abilities, we also knew that sometimes on a trip of this length there may be differences in opinions leading to a stalemate and arguments. Opinions on where to camp, which rapids to run and which to portage and even important stuff like what to have for lunch. Someone had to be delegated to weigh all the facts and make a decision, keeping in mind all the fragile egos involved and what was actually best for the team; a group leader so to speak. The other two picked me.
Chapter 1
Preparation, Anticipation, Trepidation
As most of our trips did, this one started out as just a simple email sometime in the winter. Rob was the first to mention it and I imagine Jim and I ran to the net to explore maps of this river we had never hear of. Internet research turned up very little and what did appear was not to my liking. The one trip report for this river was very vague about what to expect, especially about the gorge on the upper part.
The gorge worried me. The only reference I could find was about someone spending two days patching a canoe after a mishap with rocks. Topo maps showed very steep banks up to 150M in height and 60K in length. The only thing I knew for sure was that once in, there was no way out except at the far end. I was starting to get nervous.
A passage from a book written well after our trip has this to say: “During a helicopter over flight, it was clear that the Kanairiktok 10K upriver from Sipiskan Lake could be paddled, but above that, appeared to be a continuous rapid from the headwaters.”
The maps also showed forty five sets of rapids and four major waterfalls. Our maps were 1:150,000 so we all knew there would be plenty more whitewater than what was shown. No wonder I was nervous!
Original plans called for two tandem canoes and four paddlers. We managed to find the fourth member after an internet request.
Preparation and planning proceeded through the winter and spring and then into the summer. A jump off date in early August was selected to coincide with vacation schedules and also to avoid the blackfly season.
Our plans evolved, as we all knew they would, over the course of the spring, and a local outing to ensure compatibility. The fourth prospective member of the team backed out due to time restraints so we were left with just three. That would mean three of us in solo canoes. This only compounded my nervousness. I was not very good soloing my canoe, a sixteen footer. Rob took me out a few times for instruction and advice and I did learn a bit.
The Route
This was supposed to be a canoe trip but the actual river portion turned out to be the shortest; in straight line length, compared to all the other methods of travel.
We would drive to Goose Bay, Labrador, fly by charter aircraft to our put in, paddle 375K on the river and north on the coast a bit, and then board the costal ferry back to Goose Bay, ending with another long drive home.
The road portion was about 2,200k one way, the flight 170 air miles, the ferry about 575k. Considering the fuel used by all the means of travel, it was a very ecologically unfriendly trip.
We would not be paddling the entire river. We all had jobs; well, at least Jim and I did, Rob is a teacher. Total time away from home would be three weeks, leaving about two weeks for the river, so we had to cut some of it out. A careful study of the maps revealed a series of small ponds connected to the upper river by a meandering creek.
One pond seemed large enough to land a float plane and this was confirmed by the charter company after a few faxes. Distance from the pond to the river was 10K so we allowed the remainder of our flight day for this portion. By landing in the pond we would cut out about 100K of river travel, leaving what we thought was plenty of time for the remainder.
The Gear
Jim and Rob would be paddling Swift Dumoine’s and I would take my old faithful Mad River Freedom. These were classified as sixteen foot boats but mine came in at only fifteen and half, perfect for nesting inside one of the Dumoine’s.
After much discussion, and my belligerent insistence, all the boats were outfitted with spray skirts.
Jim went all out and had one custom made to fit either solo or tandem paddlers. An acquaintance who owns an industrial sewing business made mine, set up only for solo. Rob made his own out of an old tarp and duct tape. It didn’t look like it would deflect much water and lived up to all our expectations. Jim and I also added flotation bags. I figured I would need all the help I could get; compared to others, I did not think my solo paddling skills were all that great.
Because Jim lived in a different city, we simplified our food as much as possible. Rather than have an all encompassing menu, each person was responsible for six breakfasts, lunches and suppers. We would be at the mercy of the other guy’s tastes. Our buffer for unexpected delays was built in; the expected time on the water was only fourteen days.
Fishing was expected to supplement our food supply. A magazine article about great speckled trout fishing was the reason Rob started talking about this river in the first place.
Newfoundland and Labrador have a couple of archaic, and what we considered unfair, regulations about non resident fishermen. It seems that, even with a visitors fishing licence, a full time local guide is required when further than 1K from any road. Or maybe it is further than 1 mile. Whatever; it was totally out of the question. Sounded like a make work project to us. The other two were the fishermen and decided not to bother with anything. It wasn’t likely we were going to run into anyone, much less a conservation officer.
As the start date approached, preparations seemed to speed up; food was assembled and packed, a rack made for my truck, supplies for the trip selected, maps copied and laminated plus all that other gear for an isolated trip.
For three weeks we watched the Labrador weather on a daily basis. Daytime highs averaged eight to ten degrees with a constant rain; down to freezing with sleet at night. Our clothing reflected the anticipated weather; long poly pro underwear, parkas, toques, gloves, heavy pants, paddling jackets, rain gear and wetsuits for the salt water portion of the trip. We expected to be cold and wet most of the time, huddling close to a fire to keep warm.
Our packs carried eighteen days of food for each person, safety supplies, PLB and all that gear needed for an isolated trip. In other words, we were loaded heavy.
A day before departure Rob and I packed all our supplies in the truck, nested the canoes and secured them to the rack.
Departure or D day started quietly. I picked up Rob at his house and we were off to Jim’s place in Orillia. After packing Jim’s gear we had a light lunch in his back yard then start the long drive to Goose Bay.
After getting on the 401 we made good time, cruising at 110 KPH. The rolling hills of Ontario flew past, endless lines of orchards and fields of grain. There was no difference in the crops when we crossed the border into Quebec, only the language on the signs changed. A stop was made at a tourist information place so we can pick up some a few road maps and have a pee break, then we motor on towards Montreal and Quebec City.
Somehow, and it must have been difficult to do, I got us lost near Quebec City and we end up off the freeway and downtown. After half an hour of cursing French signs and Quebec driving habits we are able to get out of town on the correct highway heading towards Tadoussac and Baie Comeau.
Large overhead lights on the freeway keep the darkness outside our field of vision when dusk turns to night, and driving is easy, at least until the four lanes end. Numerous villages break the monotony along the coast, the St. Laurence visible to our right.
The flat costal plain slowly transforms from gentle hills to steep slopes and narrow defiles, twisting and turning, leading us up and down and always heading east. The villages we pass through are old and crowd the highway up to the sidewalk. We joke that if someone opened a house door we would take it off with the front fender.
The highway abruptly ends at the Saguenay River where the ferry waits to take us across the Tadossac Fijord. Our timing is perfect; we drive on and depart almost immediately. The ferry ride is only about fifteen minutes and I appreciate the chance to get out and stretch my legs. It is only a short respite before we are on the road again. I am getting tired.

Dawn is breaking when we enter Baie Comeau and our stomachs are telling us it is time to eat. We pull in at a prospective greasy spoon and wait half an hour for the establishment to open before we can order breakfast.
After breakfast I curl up on the back seat and try to sleep, having been awake for twenty four hours and driving for most of that, while the other two get us out of town and driving north on highway 389.
Dozing on a small seat while sliding from side to side and sometimes to the front is actually quite refreshing. Jim must be driving like a maniac ‘cause I seem to be all over the place.
On the approach to Manic 5 we stop on the shoulder and take a few pictures from a couple kilometres away. Even at that distance it is a huge and amazing structure. Its size is even more impressive when we are directly underneath, crossing the bridge.

The road is monotonous but the sights are amazing; miles and miles of boreal forest, swamps, rivers, hills and mountains. The hills are sometimes frightening with warning signs posted of upcoming grades of 14%. That doesn’t seem like much until you are going down one of those twisting stretches, it feels like the seatbelt is the only thing holding you from hitting the windshield.
Somewhere in the midst of this wilderness, a paved section of road appears, complete with curbs and sidewalks. It is the remains of Gagnon, an abandoned mining town.
It too passes as we continue the trek north.
The sun is out and shining brightly, tunes are playing and we are in a good mood even though we are all tired.
A sign announcing the 52nd Parallel whizzes by, then a couple of large concrete silos appear on the horizon so we drive right up to the base and explore a bit. These are the remains of a mine at Fire Lake.
When we reach the Labrador Plateau, the difference is actually discernable as the hills flatten out somewhat. The paved road is good and we make excellent time, the kilometres fly by. There is a gravel section around the railway tracks and mine at Fremont where we have to slow down, then changes back to pavement.
A large blue sign beckons so we stop the truck and take a picture of us standing underneath. Welcome to Newfoundland and Labrador!

The difference in the road is obvious, like a line painted across the pavement, as we enter the province. The road is still good, just a bit coarser.
We pull in to Labrador City and find a mall with a Timmies. We are stopped only long enough for coffee and fuel then get lost trying to get out of town. The road, Highway 500, twists and turns for the first while then straightens out when the major water bodies are passed. This is the Trans Labrador Highway that leads from Labrador City to Goose Bay. Other than Churchill Falls, it is utterly deserted. No towns, houses, gas stations or help. There are signs at either end warning of the distance to the next fuel stop.
It is a rough road of coarse gravel with washouts and large potholes. The truck takes a pounding in some sections. Clouds of dust follow us and blind the driver when we meet the rare oncoming traffic.

A few hours of uneventful driving bring us to the town of Churchill Falls and we decide to check out the generating station. An abrupt about turn is made when we see the armed security at the gate because we don’t want them to see the couple cans of open beer we are drinking.
We do stop at the first tower where the cables go over the river gorge and take a couple of pictures before continuing, next stop is Goose Bay.
Dusk falls and a rain begins, turning to a downpour after dark. Our speed decreases considerably. Water covers the road in places and hides some big holes that we hit hard and have to stop to re tie the canoes.
We know we are getting close to the Goose when the descent from the plateau starts; the hills are once again very steep.
The sign announcing Goose Bay is passed at the stroke of midnight, thirty six hours after leaving Orillia.
I am driving again and get a little PO’d when the others cannot navigate me around the little town. I’m cranky and tired but my bad mood disappears when we find an all night restaurant and gorge on some greasy food.
Our plans are messed up a bit, we had planned on just driving directly to the charter company but now we have arrived a full eight hours ahead of schedule and have to find someplace to sleep.
We cannot find a hotel and after driving around town for a bit decide to pitch the tent on the lawn of the town offices, the ones across the street from the old military jet on the pedestal. The rain has let up somewhat and we sleep ok for a couple of hours.
Morning is overcast and cold, just as we expected and we pack the gear and head to the airplane base to see if we can leave early. Our scheduled departure is noon but the dispatcher calls the pilot who says he will be available after breakfast. We have enough time for a quick meal and then unload all our gear on the dock beside the plane. It is a Turbo Otter so there is an abundance of room for just the three of us.
I have a quick meeting with the pilot and dispatcher confirming our drop off point on their large wall map before loading the plane.
Sunshine is trying to peek out from the clouds and a brisk wind picks up as we load he gear.

The canoes are tied to both sets of struts, the pilot checking all the ropes and knots. He seems very professional and experienced. Our gear hardly makes a dent in the large cargo area behind the seats. There are a couple of laughs from the ground crew when the PFD’s are tossed in, something to effect of “the only one’s that wear them ‘tings is those that want their bodies found”. Great. My stomach is already churning from nervousness and the greasy eggs and bacon from breakfast. The others don’t seem near as tense as I am or maybe they can just hide it better.
Before we know it we are packed and sitting in our seats. I am in the co pilot’s seat with headphones on and can talk to the pilot but not the others. Mike, the pilot, goes through his checklist, flipping switches and reading gauges then starts up the engine. It is very loud. The ground crew pushes us away from the dock and we taxi to the center of Lake Melville, Mike talking to me the whole time. My answers are mostly single words; I’m too scared to talk much.
Mike says “here we go” as he pushes the throttle forward. Our journey has begun.
The prop blast kicked up spray as the turbo roared to full power. G forces push me back into the seat as we accelerate rapidly. Pontoons slapping on the chop shook the entire plane, diminishing as we picked up speed. Suddenly the shaking stopped as we rose off the water and circled, gaining altitude in a slow climb to the north. The view is amazing; boreal forest, swamps, rivers and snow capped mountains. Visibility is almost endless, not a cloud in the sky and the sun is beating down.
Mike starts telling me about the woman who went up our way a few weeks ago, trying to retrace the Hubbard expedition and how she had to call for a rescue just a couple of days ago.
I’m starting to calm down now and can actually manage a couple of questions of my own, mostly about the landscape and prominent mountains. Mike has thirty two years experience flying in Labrador so I figured he would have some information about the terrain and river we would be paddling. My stomach actually lurched a bit and I am once more sent into an anxious state by his reply to my question of how many times he has been in this area. He turned to look me directly in the eye, peering over the tops of his aviator glasses, and in that delightful Newfoundland accent, all he says is "ain't nobody come up here".
We find our river and follow it northwest, looking at all the white water we will have to negotiate, and then find the creek that will take us to the landing spot. The pond is reached in seconds; or so it seems anyway. From two hundred feet, we can see that the pond is a mass of submerged rocks, making a landing impossible. We circle and look for an alternative that is still connected somehow to the original creek and river. We keep circling, map out on my knee, covering ground quickly in just a few short minutes. Another is too shallow, the next too small. Finally, one is spotted that the pilot thinks he can put down in, and the decision is made - land here! As he stands the plane on its wing and circles in, I am surprised to see the Smallwood Reservoir only a couple K to the west. Where the hell are we?
Mike puts the plane down and is completely stopped in seconds. He cannot get to shore so us three paddlers get out on the pontoons and release the canoes, then separate mine from Rob’s. Mike does not shut down the engine; he needs it twice to get us back to the center of the pond. The gear is tossed out randomly, into any canoe that is handy. A last quick check of the cargo area, I thank Mike and shake his hand then climb into my canoe and paddle away. Mike turns and takes off just as we reach shore.

We are standing on shore; gear piled haphazardly around us, craning our necks back as the plane circles back and Mike makes his obligatory wing wave, then vanishes over the tops of the spruce trees. The engine sound slowly fades then disappears altogether.
We are very alone.