STORIES on CANOESKI

CanoeSki Paddlers Follow in the Footsteps of Famous Canadian Explorer David Thompson

David Thompson Voyageur Trek

In August 2007, a rendezvous took place at an obscure but significant historical spot along the South Saskatchewan River. It involved paddlers, archaeologists, historians and local community folk meeting and learning more about an ancient Hudson's Bay fur trade post and it's tragic story. The paddlers, following in the historic wake of David Thompson, famous explorer and map maker, visited and camped near the fort site while en route on a river journey from Batoche to St. Louis. On board the canoeing flotilla were Candace Savage, an accomplished Saskatoon author, and Courtney Milne, a local master photographer on assignment with Canadian Geographic magazine. The March 2008 issue featured their fascinating presentation of the trip events - Paddling like Prairie Voyageurs.

Read the Canadian Geographic Story Weekend Voyageurs (PDF format).
All material in the PDF is copyright 2008 by Candace Savage, Courtney Milne (http://www.courtneymilne.com) and Canadian Geographic Enterprises (http://www.canadiangeographic.ca).

STORIES on CANOESKI

The April 11, 2007 Travel section of the Globe and Mail featured a story on women's outdoor adventure travel. Writer Zosia Bielski profiled the CanoeSki Women & Waves Churchill River canoe trip as the lead to her story. Read on for her impressions of how women are shaping the adventure travel market.

Waves of relaxation on the CanoeSki Women & Waves canoe tour

Special to The Globe and Mail

There she goes

From rugged adventure trips to girly indulgences, women are shaping the travel industry with their economic clout and irrepressible desire to get out there, ZOSIA BIELSKI writes

Several things distinguish Cliff Speer's annual canoe trip along the mighty Churchill River: there is the onboard massage therapist kneading tired shoulders; the guest musician reciting haiku and filling the northern Saskatchewan air with guitar noodling; and the fact the five-day, women-only trip consistently outperforms all of Speer's other ventures at CanoeSki, the outdoor adventure company he founded 18 years ago.

CanoeSki's Women and Waves expedition is but one example of a tourism industry stirring to meet the needs of women. Whether they're married, divorced, widowed or empty nesters, mothers or daughters, overworked or retired, women are fuelling tremendous growth in the travel market.

According to an Adventure Travel Trade Association survey conducted last fall, 52 per cent of adventure travellers are now women. The survey of 157 tour operators from 35 countries also found the average age is 45.

This echoes the findings of Gutsy Traveller, a website created by women's travel expert Marybeth Bond. "The average adventure traveller is not a 28-year-old male," she writes, "but a 47-year-old female. And she wears a size 12 dress."

The business travel market is also experiencing a rapid demographic shift. According to British Airways, the number of women travelling on business has doubled in the past five years.

On Monday, American Airlines launched Women Travelers Connected, a section of its website that allows women to share tips on business and holiday travel.

And high-end hoteliers are responding with secure, women-only floors, as well as mini-bars stocked with pantyhose.

The number of women-only travel companies is skyrocketing: Bond cites a 230-per-cent increase in the past six years.

"[In 1994], there was talk in the press about how unique it was to see women going off on canoe trips together, leaving their makeup kits and hair gels behind, testing themselves against the elements and having the time of their lives," says Evelyn Hannon. That year, the Torontonian launched Journeywoman, an online travel resource where women sound off on everything from loneliness on the road to travelling with children.

Hannon says the majority of established tour companies "paid little attention to the female market," but eventually "even the most established companies had to take notice of the surge and began adding one or two active holidays for 'women-only' into their catalogues."

Kira Zack of G.A.P Adventures says her company's trips now "skew slightly higher with female clients," even though all remain co-ed. Zack has also witnessed the proliferation of "soft" activities, with extreme adventures such as heli-skiing giving way to trekking and safaris.

Today's female-only tour operators cater to like-minded women seeking camaraderie, self-realization and fun in exotic and challenging locales. Many of them are run by women.

"You've got a lot of women who have kept themselves in shape that are in their 40s, 50s and 60s that have the time and the money to get away and travel. But not everybody in their social circle is interested in what they want to do," says Debra Asberry. When she was 12 years old, Asberry obsessed about whitewater rafting through the Grand Canyon. "Staring 40 in the face," she had yet to do it. Once her family and friends declined, it became a case of stay home or go solo.

Instead, Asberry, a former competitive swimmer, started Women Travelling Together, a Maryland-based tour operator for women who had shelved their plans while waiting for the perfect travel companion. To celebrate the company's 10th anniversary, Asberry is running a nine-day rafting expedition through the Grand Canyon in July.

"Women just really enjoy the company of other women. Sharing the excitement of getting to Everest base camp or the peak of Kilimanjaro is the draw," says Marian Marbury, chief executive of Adventures in Good Company. The Baltimore-based operator runs tours through Nepal, Africa, Europe, Canada and the United States. The current itinerary includes hiking the Swiss Alps and trekking through Bhutan. Since launching her women-only group in 1999, Marbury has watched business grow 300 per cent.

The most obvious hurdle for women is still safety, particularly where solo travel is concerned.

Zack of G.A.P Adventures urges her female clients to consult Her Own Way: A Woman's Guide to Safe and Successful Travel, published by Foreign Affairs and International Trade Canada. The online guide offers measured advice on everything from culture shock and dress sense to travelling while pregnant and avoiding harassment.

Safety is becoming less of an issue for those who can afford it. The last four years have seen a surge of high-end hoteliers offering secured floors for women.

Dubai's Jumeirah Emirates Tower Hotel became the first hotel in the Middle East to feature a women-only floor, billing a $60 surcharge.

In February, the Fleming Hotel became one of Hong Kong's first hotels to create a dedicated women's floor. The floral-themed rooms in "Her Space" also treat clients to more frivolous perks: yoga mats, jewellery boxes, facial steamers, exclusive toiletries from L'Occitane, as well as essentials women tend to forget, like sanitary napkins and the all-important emery board.

Grange City in East London even offers its clients pantyhose in the mini-bar.

Recently, corporations have taken note of female adventure travellers. The Outdoor Industry Association, a Colorado-based trade group, gives retailers tips on tapping the market. In a marketing supplement called "Beyond Pink Thinking: Positioning Your Brand to Effectively Reach Women," the group urges outdoor apparel retailers to stop patronizing women with pink marketing campaigns when what they really need are quality athletic supplies fitted to their bodies.

Still, the surge of women travelling is about more than goods and purchasing power, as Asberry happily points out.

"When we get into our 40s, we've already collected the baubles of life. We have a car, we have a house, we have a husband, we have children. And we start asking those bigger questions, like where do I fit into the world and what do I really want out of life. It's an awakening time. That's really when we see women starting to travel."

Pack your bags

Foreign Affairs and International Trade Canada: Her Own Way: A Woman's Guide to Safe and Successful Travel, 1-800-267-8376 or 613-944-4000, http://www.voyage.gc.ca/main/pubs/her_own_way-en.asp

Journeywoman: 416-929-7654, http://www.journeywoman.com

Women Traveling Together: 410-956-5250; http://www.women-traveling.com

Adventures in Good Company: 1-877-439-4042, http://www.adventuresingoodcompany.com

Women and Waves: 306-653-5693, http://www.canoeski.com/womanschallenge

Women's Quest: 303-545-9295, http://www.womensquest.com

The Gutsy Traveler: http://www.marybethbond.com

G.A.P Adventures: http://www.gapadventures.com, 1-800-708-7761

STORIES ON CANOESKI

STORIES on CANOESKI

Saskatoon Star Phoenix , 25 Sept. 2004

Women & Waves

Story and photos by Amy Jo Ehman

Rules are meant to be broken, right? So when Cliff says, “Don’t stop in Prince Albert ,” we have to stop.

So we pull off the highway at the government-run beverage store to purchase a box called “Entre-Lacs” (which seems appropriate since we’re on our way to the lake country north of Lac La Ronge) and a bottle of blueberry liqueur that goes nicely with tea.

Then we swing into Tim Horton’s for coffees and discover that we’ve locked ourselves out of the van. This is a problem, because how are we going to explain that to Cliff if we weren’t supposed to stop?

Then someone discovers the back door of the van is unlocked, and skinny Patricia climbs over top of the life jackets and food barrels and overstuffed, rubberized, water-proof backpacks and unlocks the doors from the inside.

So now we’re heading north again and Cliff need never know, because no one’s going to tell him, right?

Day 1

Gail and Karen paddling the Churchill River

I’ve been on canoe trips before, but never one like this. Previous canoe trips have been “independent” ventures with my husband and with friends, for which we are responsible for our own gear, food, maps, and if we get lost, that’s our fault, too.

But this is an “organized” trip by an eco-tour company called CanoeSki, operated by Cliff Speer of Saskatoon . Cliff does all the prep work, so all I have to do is show up with my personal gear in a waterproof pack. No worrying – Did I bring enough food? Did we pack the matches? Did anyone bring a corkscrew?

Here’s another big difference: We’re all women. The trip is called Women and Waves, and we’re ten gals heading into a wilderness of gentle waves and soft breezes on the Churchill River system. Our cook is a woman. Our guide is a woman. Our masseur is a woman. (Yes, in his wisdom, Cliff has engaged a masseur.) As the van pulls away with its trailer of canoes, Cliff is a fading memory waving good bye from the sidewalk.

Pat, our driver and cook, tells us that on a similar canoe trip, the women unhitched their bras as soon as they hit the city limits, but we are not renegades of that calibre. Patricia takes out her knitting, Sonja gives her first massage, and we launch into a discussion of our favourite books.

North of Prince Albert, we stop at a roadside picnic area for lunch. Due to vandalism, all the picnic tables have been removed. We sit on the one remaining bench beside the highway, while a couple of jays make darting stabs at our sandwiches. We also see a heron glide overhead, and later, back in the van, we glimpse a bear at the edge of the forest.

There is always a risk of running into a bear while camping in the north. Our guide, Hilary, puts it this way: The first day, the bear is scared and stays away. The second day, he gets curious and watches from a distance. The third day, he gets brave enough to come snooping around. How prophetic that would prove to be. But I get ahead of myself...

Bears were not our big concern that first night in the campground at Wadin Bay . No, our biggest problem was the guys in the next campsite, who sat up talking loudly and chopping firewood well into the wee hours of the morning. Donna “the enforcer” marched across the road and threatened to call the cops on her cell phone. Luckily, they didn’t ask if she had a cell phone, because she didn’t, and she wasn’t sure there would be service up there in the wilderness anyway.

The next morning, after half a night’s sleep, we were all pretty proud of Donna, and it’s too bad she had to take the brunt of that bear... but I get ahead of myself again.

Day 2

I have been assigned to paddle stern. This is a big deal for me. Whenever I canoe with my husband, he takes the stern (the back of the canoe) because he’s stronger and heavier than I am, and because the stern person has the great responsibility of steering the canoe.

When Cliff tells me that I will be assigned to the stern, I have to be honest with him. Yes, I have canoed these waters before, but I haven’t paddled stern since I was 12 years old at Camp Monahan .

“My husband always paddles stern,” I say.

“Well,” says Cliff, “That’s the whole point of this trip. He won’t be there.”

I accept the challenge. But this new responsibility comes with a cost. Stern paddlers must employ the J-Stroke and the Sweep, two steering techniques that awaken muscles in the shoulders and back which have long resigned themselves to inactivity.

When we say, “My muscles are screaming,” we must mean something like a dog-whistle scream, so high-pitched that it can’t be heard by human ears. Because if you could have heard my muscles by the end of that day, it would have been deafening.

We set off from Missinipi (an hour north of La Ronge) across Otter Lake , and I slowly get the hang of the J-Stroke. It’s easy for a novice to give too much J, and then compensate with too much Sweep, causing the canoe to zigzag like a sail boat tacking in the wind. That’s okay if you’re the only canoe in the water, but we were five canoes travelling together, zigging and zagging through each other’s wakes.

It was inevitable that I would run into another boat. Paula, a nurse from Australia , was in the stern. She yells, “Fair bump. Play on,” which we learn is something sportsmanlike you shout while playing Auzzie rules Football. It becomes my motto, at least until I master the J-Stroke.

Late that afternoon, we dock on a large island with two small inukshuk welcoming us from the rocks. We set up our tents in the forest and pop open the box of Entre-Lacs. Sitting on the rocks over looking the lake, sipping a tin cup of wine, Sonja works out the kinks in my back.

The minute she touches me, the silent scream in my muscles is involuntarily released through my vocal chords. I give a wail that echoes farther than the call of the loon, and no doubt scares away any bear with the slightest curiosity in our home away from home.

Day 3

Sonja helps Hilary with the "downward dog"

I am doing the “Downward Dog” when I spy the blueberries. We are standing in a circle in the forest, and Sonja is taking us through some morning stretches and yoga positions. With my face low to the ground, I notice there are wild blueberries growing in the forest floor all around us. They are dusky purple and much smaller than grocery-store blueberries and as it turns out, they are also much tastier.

In addition to the blueberries, we also pick wild raspberries and mix them into our muesli and scatter them onto Cliff’s carrot cake with cream cheese icing.

We set off on a day trip up Rattler Bay to see the red rock paintings. Unfortunately, we get a little lost. Not a lot lost, because we couldn’t be that far off course, but suddenly the little islands and forested bays do not match those on the map. It’s really easy to get lost when the landscape is so uniform, especially if it’s cloudy and you can’t use the sun to tell which way is which.

It might be cliché to say that when lost, women are more likely than men to ask directions, but at that moment, asking directions is exactly what was called for. But where? We’re floating in the middle of a great wilderness. As if on cue, a motorboat comes putzing around the point and docks at a fishing cabin nestled in the trees. We paddle over and ask directions.

The guy nods the way he has just come. Before long, we’re paddling through the bay into the narrow channel of the Stewart River , where someone has drawn pictures on the face of a rock with red pigment. Some of the images are hard to decipher, but we can clearly see a caribou and a beaver, and something that looks like a carrying pouch with tassels.

Since these paintings aren’t signed and dated, it’s impossible to know who made them, when or why. I know from reading anthropology that Stone Age people all over the world painted pictures of animals on rock faces with red pigments, often in beautiful but less-travelled places like hidden caves and scenic hilltops. And the narrow channel of the Stewart River , lined with reeds and lily pads, is definitely scenic.

But there is no place to dock. We tie the canoes together like a raft and eat our picnic lunch on the water alongside the rock art. Every one of Cliff’s meals is meticulously organized and comes with a menu, notes to the cook and plastic containers labeled with masking tape. “Margarine for breakfast” “Syrup for pancakes” “Cookies. Two each”

Even the eggs in the carton are marked U and C for Uncooked and Cooked. We take those marked C and make egg salad sandwiches, and after our allotted two cookies for dessert, we each take another one to a chorus of, “Don’t tell Cliff.”

Day 4

Robertson Falls

Today’s day trip took us to the pretty Robertson Falls . It was a hard paddle there and back, and we were all looking forward to relaxing before suppertime. A swim. A massage. A nap. Unfortunately, that bear had other plans for us.

While we were away, a bear ransacked our camp. A plastic food barrel was popped open, and Donna’s tent was slivered by a claw and dragged into the forest.

It’s not like we weren’t taking precautions. We were very careful not to attract the wildlife. No food was kept in the tents, and even our toothpaste and hand lotion were packed into a food barrel. But just as Hilary predicted – the bear got brave on the third day.

“He’ll be back,” she says. “We have to go.”

And so, banishing all thoughts of R & R, we break camp. Within 29 minutes flat, we’re loaded and back on the water. After an hour of paddling into a brilliant sunset, we pull up to an island looking for a “Vacant” sign. Well, it had been vacated recently, but the maid hadn’t cleaned up yet. The campsite was littered with garbage including an opened package of bologna, a case of empties and the remains of fresh fish.

Hilary mutters a curse toward the fisher-persons who left the place in such a mess, and decries the government for getting rid of the Conservation Officers who deter such behaviour. We all agree to write angry letters to the Minister of the Environment, and after we learn that Karen is married to an MLA, we decide to write to him, too.

(I have not yet written my letters, so perhaps this could suffice...)

Eventually, we find a nice camp. In the dying light, Pat cooks the final of Cliff’s gourmet camp meals, lentil stew with rotini and pecan tarts. We try to sing campfire songs, but the best lyrics we can muster are, “Put another log on the fire, cook me up some bacon and some beans...”

Hilary working on firewood

The moment the sun sets, the mosquitoes attack like the Mongol hordes. We put green leaves on the fire to create smoke. I open my mouth for a sip of hot tea and take a direct hit by a kamikaze mosquito in the back of the throat. Time for bed, our last night of the trip.

I drift off with those memorable lyrics in my head, “Ain’t I gonna take you fishing with me some day? Well, a man can’t love a woman more than that...”

Day 5

Since we canoed so unexpectedly last night, we have less distance to travel today – which means we have more time to go shopping. I know this is a female thing, because whenever I’ve been north with my husband, we rarely have time to stop and shop. Shopping is not on Cliff’s itinerary, either. But then, neither was that bear.

In Missinipi, I buy a birch bark basket at the Churchill River Canoe Outfitters. It’s made by a boy named Thompson from Grandmother Bay , who learned the craft from his grandma. We also visit a fabulous art gallery in a house overlooking the bay.

In La Ronge, we stop at Robertson’s Trading Company, a curious mix of grocery store, traditional handcrafts and furs. The Robertsons are independent fur buyers, but they also support the local artisans by buying and selling their wares. It alone is worth a trip to La Ronge.

It’s a long weary drive back to Saskatoon , and I must admit I’m feeling a little homesick. After four nights with the gals, I’m missing my husband – and my own bed – in a big way. When I call him from Cliff’s place, the phone is busy, so Patricia gives me a ride home. When I walk in the door, he looks up surprised from his supper of pork and beans in front of the TV.

“Oh, it’s you...” he says bewildered. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

Reprinted courtesy of The Star Phoenix, Saskatoon , Saskatchewan

STORIES ON CANOESKI

National Post - July 21, 2001
by Cleo Paskal

It is a land of time.
At once very new and oh, so old. Formed by violent tectonic activity between 1.8 and 3.2 billion years ago. Gouged by glaciers that melted about 12,000 years ago. Slowly eroded and smoothed by churning rivers. Clothed in old growth forests made up of stunted trees that have taken hundreds of years to claw enough nutrients out of the rocky landscape to grow a few feet tall. It is dramatic, and beautiful and the heart of Canada. It is Northern Saskatchewan.

Listen with Your Eyes
Stories Told by Pictographs

Tim Jones doing photographic color analysis
on the "Universal Pictograph"

Mr. Jones, who has literally written the book on the topic, (The Aboriginal Rock Paintings of the Churchill River), lights up. Using the scientists' skill for understatement, he proclaims, "This is an exceptional site." To prove his point, he singles out one particularly complex painting. "I call it the Universal Pictograph. It has geometric forms, a human, a thunderbird; in total around six elements in one little space. I think it is the most interesting one in the Shield."

I am barely listening. My eyes are riveted to the pictographs. They are small, sharp and clear. Yet, every here and there are splashes of paint adding a human touch. One little composition looks to me exactly like a Viking with a beer in one hand, a fish in the other and a jet flying overhead. I later learn my Viking is probably a shaman and the jet is likely a peace pipe. Clearly, I am missing some context. I know with what they are made - red ochre pigments mixed with fish bladder fixative - result in a range of hues from chocolate brown to purple. A brush is used to apply the mixture to the rock face - preferably south-facing, so the surface will not be covered with moss. Yes, I know with what they are made. I just don't why, when, by whom or how. And, it seems, no one else does either.

Once we burn through all our rolls of film and make it back to camp, Mr. Jones gives us a bit more information. Sort of. "We really aren't sure what they are," he explains, while our buffalo stew and bannock warm on the fire. "It is art standing in space. If you can't dig around it, how do you know what was going on at the time? Are they maps, territorial markers, visions, sites used by shamans during rituals, even art for art's sake? This is not crude art. To paint on this rock (granite) is very difficult. We are talking about artists instead of regular folks. We also know that the best trout fishing is often near rock art. Is it a coincidence? Who knows? There are at least six to eight theories."

"You can't learn everything from one site; you have to piece it together. There are approximately 70 rock art sites in Saskatchewan. There are rumours of more but you never know. Much of the north has never been properly surveyed. It is all hit and miss. And there are 700 other sites elsewhere in the Shield territory [northwest Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Ontario, and Quebec]. Since the Churchill River system was a major trading route, it features the largest concentration of sites."

"We aren't even sure when they were painted. One rock painting in Quebec was dated at 2000 years old. But there is another site about 80 kilometres from here that has a rifle depicted in it. Some paintings have been retouched and added to. Maybe they were changed the next day, maybe much later. If [the creators] had more consideration for us they would have painted daily life!"

Mr. Jones says pictographs are finally starting to get more attention from the archaeological community. "It used to be that, if you couldn't dig it up, it was of no interest to archaeologists. Many assumed rock art offered too little data. They used it on the covers of archaeological publications and that was about it. But 20 to 30 years from now, with the blossoming of varying approaches [developments in cave art research in Europe, shamanic studies, etc.], we will have new levels of meaning."

What First Nations people think of the pictographs is not sought after. Only a half dozen people have been working on it in the last 30 years. I have talked to Elders and others about what they understand of the history. A lot of them suggest a connection with shamanic practices and vision quest sites. But there is reluctance on the part of Aboriginal people to talk about the religious significance of the pictographs.

There are still one or two sites in Saskatchewan where, out of respect, people leave offerings to the spirits. "A lot of it is still a mystery. And even if we saw a shaman draw it in front of us and explain it, it is doubtful that we could understand it. It is not simply pictures of animals they kill. It is more metaphysical. I think our understanding of rock art is moving into a new phase, away from simple-minded interpretations. I approach them with respect, curiosity and awe. I enjoy coming here every time. It is my special place."

STORIES ON CANOESKI

Monterey Herald July 28, 1996
California, U.S.A.
by Genevieve Rowles

---

A loon heralds the day. Another loon answers. Their haunting calls float over the lake, touch the spot where I sit watching the new day stir, creep into the tent where 10-year-old Amy still sleeps.

As though in response to a prompter unseen in the bush, the show begins. A beaver swimming laps close to shore trails a silver wake. Farther out a jackfish jumps, then another, creating softly pooling ripples. As if on cue, a pair of loons shimmies across the lake's surface in an elegant dance. Slender sheets of spray cascade against the golding sun, each drop a glittering jewel.

A chorus line of seven fledglings, wings extended,
mimic their elders in a dance as old as the lake,
one of North America's premier
loon breeding grounds.

We are on a Family Voyageurs canoe trip. Yesterday, 11 of us - three leaders, three parents, five children - paddled bright red and yellow canoes across the lake. Pulling our canoes ashore, we broke out tents and sleeping bags, setting up camp on a lip of lake-edged meadow backed by dense boreal forest.

Backcountry canoeing guide Cliff Speer, naturalist Cameron O'Bertos and assistant Cheryl Newton lost no time in teaching us safe canoeing practices and paddling strokes. Three days hence we will retrace our wake across the lake, executing fairly creditable power strokes, draws, sweeps and J-strokes.

"No food in tents," ordered Speer as he explained the basics of tent camping in the Canadian wilderness, where black bears are a real possibility. "We'll hang the food in trees away from camp. Keep your tent screen closed against mosquitoes. The bush is your bathroom. You'll find bearberry and ground cranberry makes for a soft bed."

A sound sleep having proved Speer right, we balance coffee cups and plates around a blazing campfire. Grilled northern pike, freshly caught by 12-year-old Jason's father, Robert, tastes mild, almost nutty. Fruit salad with yogurt, and scones spread with wild chokecherry and cranberry jam complete the feast.

Between bites, we plan the day's activities. No structured adventure trip, this. Speer feels that kids and parents have more fun when they can tailor activities to their interests. We split up. Some choose to pick up some tips on compass navigation under Speer's tutorship. Amy and 8-year-old Alana remain in camp, splashing in the shallow water, pretending to be loons. The rest of us join O'Bertos on a nature walk, exploring the ground covers, flowers and shrubs thriving in sun-splotched gloom under jackpines draped with lichen called old man's beard.

I fall into line behind O'Bertos. Our squat dome tents disappear, as though behind a thick green curtain. We are alone in the bush, trailing with heads down. The spongy moss feels like a deep-piled carpet under my feet. "Boreal forests see little use today, but are ecologically hospitable, " says O'Bertos, explaining that Native Canadians have long used forest plants for food and medicine. They make drinks from rose hips and sarsaparilla roots, tobacco and a thickening agent from kinnikinick (bearberry). Buffalo berries foam and behave like gelatin. Wild gooseberries, currants, and saskatoons are plentiful.

Not all forest plants are benign. Common vetches include the edible licorice and the poisonous sweet pea. From a point where the Spruce River and Anglin Lake conjoin in a carpet of yellow pond lilies, O'Bertos points to a plant resembling Queen Anne's lace. "That's water hemlock. It's so poisonous that if you touch the plant and later touch food and eat it, you can go into shock." He stoops to pick sprigs of wild mint. Come nightfall, he will steep it in water and offer the tea all around. Delicious.

We examine a beaver-chewed, white-barked poplar log. A birch tree bearing bear claw marks soon proves all too prophetic. O'Bertos stops beside an orange flower resembling a dwarfed tiger lily. We gaze down at it as he explains that the protected Western Red Lily is the official Saskatchewan floral emblem.

A snuffling sound severs the silence. Our heads snap up. Not 100 feet away, two bear cubs scramble up a tree. Mama bear, snorting an angry warning, clambers after them. "She can't hang there long, then she's after us. Let's go," urges O'Bertos. Mama's snorts follow us nearly all the way to camp.

Afternoon finds us paddling up the reedy cattail-fringed Spruce River, a waterway frequented by moose, beaver, deer and otters. The primeval North wraps us in its seductive thrall. We portage over a beaver dam resembling an untidy pile of sticks. A clutch of baby grebes trails mom like obedient bathtub toys. High in the tallest trees, nesting bald eagles resemble puffs of cotton wool.

The evening is as leisurely as bush time, when life slows to a flower-smelling pace. Some of us chop salad veggies while Speer cooks a savory stew over the campfire. Fragrant apple crisp made with dried crabapples from Speer's own garden, bakes in a reflector oven. Replete, we paddle to a secluded bay. A beaver slaps his tail on the water, playing counterpoint to the ever-present loon calls. A beacon-bright star pierces the darkening sky. A full moon casts a soft light, guiding us back to camp.

Later, we sit close to the campfire sipping mint tea, singing silly songs, and telling ghost stories. The fire is a bright oasis in a darkling wilderness where mosquitoes whine and night creatures prowl on silent feet.



Our sleeping bags are cozy against the cool northern night. But instead of falling asleep, Amy voices a concern that must figure in all our thoughts.

"Mom, will that bear come get us?"
"No," I reply, hoping to sound convincing. "Bears are as afraid of us as we are of them. She and her cubs are miles away from here by now."
"Were the cubs cute?" asks Amy. She drifts off as peacefully as though she was in her own bed in far-away Oregon.

So went our three days of wilderness canoeing and camping under the capable leadership of Cliff Speer, a resourceful and personable guide committed to the responsible stewardship of the wilderness. Hopefully, we left only footprints. But we took memories.

STORIES ON CANOESKI

Kathi Diamant is an adventuring freelance journalist with a base in Seattle, Washington. Travel writing is only one of the many facets of reporting that this journey woman is involved in. We're delighted to be publishing her story!

Eighteen women, nine canoes...
"Never seen anything like it," the grizzled, white-haired man said, scratching his chin. Eighteen women had just unloaded nine canoes into the Churchill River at Missinipe in northern Saskatchewan. He watched in amazement as we put on rain gear and life preservers.

"I don't like canoes. Too unsteady," he offered. "Never seen a bunch of women go out there alone. You're gonna get rained on, you know."

We knew. All morning as we drove north on the gravelroad from Wadin Bay, we watched the big Saskatchewan sky grow darker and more ominous. As we got into our canoes at Missinipe, and paddled toward Grandmother Bay, thunder rumbled ahead. Bravely, we paddled on.

We were the first all-women canoe expedition organized by Canoe Ski Discovery Co. The fully licensed and insured eco-adventure tour company has been guiding, outfitting and instructing wilderness-oriented programs in the Churchill River area since 1989. Owner Cliff Speer, a former schoolteacher and certified instructor, did not expect the response to his first women-only canoe challenge.

"I thought we'd have four or five participants, maybe," Speer admits. "But we filled up nine canoes quickly, and there were seven women standing by on the waiting list."

We would learn to paddle, portage, navigate by map and compass. We would help with camp cooking and learn environmental ethics. We would retrace the historic (and mostly unchanged) routes of the legendary voyageurs of the 17th century and ancient indigenous travelers.

The all-women canoe expedition represented another major "first" for Speer. It would be the first trip he did not personally guide: "I had to give up control. It made me very nervous, but I knew Sarah Lee could do the job."

Canoe instruction and wilderness safety briefings took place at Wadin Bay on the first day. We were to keep the plastic-encased maps of our route and the safety whistles with us at all times. Two short whistle blasts for attention, one long blast for "Help!" Dangers included, but were not limited to, black bear encounters, canoe capsizing and getting lost.

Most of us were novices. Those who had canoed before had done so with husbands. Canoeing with men, I was informed, is different from canoeing with women.

"Men tend to overcompensate for the women," our leader agreed. "Men generally sit in the stern and do the steering. They carry the canoe during portages. Men usually gather the firewood, pitch the tent, do the heavy work on a trip like this."

The reality of traveling without men was daunting to many of the women, who ranged in age from early 20s to mid-50s. The paddling distance was more than 25 miles, with three portages. There were no telephones. Camping was primitive. We were on our own.

We did get rained on. It was the end of August, but the nights were cold. The wind howled and the loons cried eerily at night.

But the sun shone through the clouds every day. On the second day, after setting up camp on a tiny, mossy island, we saw a double rainbow amid a spectacular sunset.

STORIES ON CANOESKI

Cliff Speer opts every time for the wilderness and the peace of Northern Saskatchewan's back country. The world of commerce has little attraction for Speer if he can't participate in the pristine beauty of the outdoors. He realized that about himself back in 1989. That's when he moved from a position in the commercial insurance industry to start CanoeSki Discovery, an outdoors adventure business.

It's in the planning and participation of canoe trips and ski tours across the province's north that Speer finds his true pulse. The financial rewards are not great, but as he says, there's more to life than money. "Let's face it, if I wanted to get rich, I wouldn't be in this business. All I know is that I enjoy getting out of bed in the morning." After university he had become a school teacher in his native Manitoba, sticking it out for about 3 years before finally throwing away his chalk. "I think teaching is an unappreciated profession where you end up performing as a glorified babysitter."

While Speer might be skeptical about the educational system, his concerns about one particular area of education are high. He feels knowledge among Canadians about Canada's wilderness is sorely lacking. Those concerns are of high priority in the tours he organizes into the north. Whether paddling a canoe on a quiet lake or skiing a forest trail, Speer's groups are treated to his knowledge of natural history and local folklore. As a nationally certified canoeing and cross-country skiing instructor he is a good source of technical information for his clients. He conducts classes in both sports in conjunction with his regular tour programs.

With three and four-day ski trips into Nistowiak Falls, north of La Ronge, as well as ski trips to Waskesiu and Whitetail Resort near North Battleford, Speer plans a busy winter. However, the warmer excitement starts this summer for canoeing enthusiasts with trips to a number of northern destinations including the Churchill River system. One of the new additions to his portfolio of adventure trips this summer is an 11-day canoe trip down the Clearwater River in early July.

"The scenery is spectacular throughout the wilderness park and we are taking enough time to soak out all the
urban cares of the participants."

If Speer has any urban cares left in his own psyche it doesn't show. "I'm doing what I want to do and I guess in this day and age that's a luxury." He says he enjoys sharing his skills and knowledge with people who appreciate physical exercise and the outdoors. And while the financial remuneration from his business might not be high, his sense of wonder at the scope and beauty of Saskatchewan's wilderness is a big part of his paycheque.

STORIES ON CANOESKI

STANLEY MISSION - Morning in this historic settlement breaks early with the chorus of sled dogs anchored to their posts on the shores of the bay. Crossing that frozen bay was the first order of the day for our group of 12 cross-country skiers. It was to be the first stage in that day's 16-kilometre trip to the cabin at Nistowiak Falls, five hours away.

The offer had been tempting - three days of cross-country skiing in northern Saskatchewan. However, getting in shape for what looked to be a 50-kilometre trip with a 15-kilogram pack was a little less than alluring. But with the commitment made, practice regimens were set up and the drawn-out process of getting "in shape", reluctantly got underway.

For a couple of weeks, equipped with a backpack of books for ballast, trails were blazed across city-side ski routes. As unknown and unheard-of muscles developed and made themselves felt, the load of literary heavyweights gradually increased. The progression from thin detective novels to thick dictionaries was a gentle process, and I knew the time had arrived when my pack swallowed a massive Saskatchewan history work and a book of Canadian quotations.

However, the hard work of getting ready for the trip was forgotten on the drive north. The evening over La Ronge settled like the closing curtain on a Wagner opera. The same avalanche of northern lights and bright stars that looked down from the heavens had provided a backdrop for hunters and trappers for centuries. It was somehow fitting that in our own small way, our group of skiers was about to become part of that history as well.

A hundred kilometres north of La Ronge, Stanley Mission faces the wilderness.
This was our starting point.

Escorted by a couple of the town's dogs that had slipped their moorings, 12 of us, including group leader Cliff Speer, headed east across the ice into the cold sunshine. Speer has organized similar ski trips for the past four years. A veteran of northern travel, he has canoed and skied the pristine landscape in this part of the country.

As we hit the first of the hills and headed into the forest, Speer was like a wagon boss on the old Oregon Trail. Every 20 minutes or so he would ski towards the end of the line and wait for the last of the stragglers, informing them of any tricky hills that might be coming up around the bend.

It wasn't totally necessary because the whoops or yells penetrating the thick forest betrayed areas where some of the less experienced skiers were having problems.

The steepness of the hill could be measured by the time from the start of the whoop to the inglorious finale. It was rather like dropping a stone into a well to measure its depth.

After more than five hours of skiing, which included a half-hour lunch break, we made our night's destination at Nistowiak Falls. It was a sight that took away the fatigue of the day. The chilling waters of Lac La Ronge emptying into the Churchill River system created its own dramatics of ice and condensation at the Falls. The rush of water against the rocks, as the current of the Rapid River sped by, was reminiscent of an express train tearing by the group of cabins in the trees.


The two days of camp life were spent skiing the trails to a trapper's cabin and an old abandoned mine. The mine built and abandoned in the early '50's, bore silent testimony to the hopes of an earlier age. The roofless metal structure housing the snow-covered rusting machinery, and the open pit where the ore had been removed were all that was left. The dense bush was slowly, but relentlessly covering someone's dreams.

While Speer could be counted on to produce duct tape to bandage a broken ski pole or a screwdriver to fix a loose binding, he was just as imaginative with cooking pots. King of the kitchen, his home made moose stew and fish chowder filled a lot of empty space created by the skiing exercise. By the end of the trip Speer's familiar figure, headlamp strapped to his forehead in the dimly lit cabin and churning away with a spoon mixing a mess of whole wheat bannock, would be a scene etched in memory.

While the food was great and the company hit it off well in the tight confines of the cabin, skiing was the main reason we were there. It just turned out that cross-country skiing involves a lot more than equipment and style. It means northern lights, fast-flowing rapids, metre-thick ice, and the occasional jackpine to hug when things get a little too fast on the trail.

It also means that you can sometimes learn more from
carrying books than from reading them.

STORIES BY CANOESKI

A canoe means different things to different people. But one thing most canoeists would agree on is how canoeing contributes to their sense of well being. There is an almost indefinable connection that a canoeist makes between mind, body and environment during the course of a canoe outing. This interplay of nature and the human psyche occurs in any self-propelled outdoor pursuit, but the nature of canoeing magnifies the process several-fold. Why is this?

My experience with canoeing leads me to believe that part of the answer lies in the vehicle itself.

The canoe is
the quintessential eco-vehicle.

If you think of its roots, the canoe, in its original incarnation was an Aboriginal transport vehicle crafted from all natural materials found in the boreal environment. It was marvellously engineered to transport its creators through that environment leaving not a trace of its passage. It was, and still is, powered by renewable, non-polluting energy.

This heritage denotes an earlier way of life connected to the earth in a real and elemental way. On a utility level, the canoe was the most efficient, and often the only way of travelling through vast tracts of otherwise inaccessible wilderness. On an esoteric level, the canoe can still provide, by virtue of its heritage, that primal connection with the natural environment that the human spirit needs.

The other part of the answer lies in where the canoe can take you. There are untracked places that only a canoe can get to. And usually these quiet, wild places abound with natural wonders and have a charm that is addictive and all absorbing. Like no other vehicle, the canoe can transport you to another dimension.

If you are open to Nature in this dimension, you can have both an earthly and an otherworldly experience at the same time. This communion with the very best of Nature, on its terms, is the essence of canoeing - and sustenance for the soul…

If you haven't partaken of this "soul food", you are being shortchanged. Your Canadian birthright entitles you to experience our common canoeing heritage and lay claim to its personal rewards. If you need help with canoeing and camping paraphernalia, paddling know-how and wilderness logistics - call CanoeSki Discovery Company at (306) 653-5693, or check into www.canoeski.com.

We specialize in getting people started on the path to paddler's paradise.

STORIES BY CANOESKI

Paddle Quest
- Canada's Best Canoe Routes
Edited by Alister Thomas, published in 2000 by Boston Mills Press.
Reprinted by permission.
Available from the Canadian Recreational Canoeing Association (http://www.crca.ca)

I Knew I Was On Home Territory
But I Felt Like I Had Been
Transported Into an Alien Land.

Such was my encounter with the exotic landscape of the William River. This "otherworldly" impression was created by the immense sand dunes bordering the final quarter of the river's 200 kilometre navigable reach. "Marvellous is the word for the great sand dunes of northern Saskatchewan and adjacent Alberta. Viewed in the dazzling light of long summer days, they seem an enchanted landscape - a portion of Arabia magically transported to the boreal forest and displayed along the south shore of blue Lake Athabasca," says Canadian ecologist Stan Rowe in his book, Home Place: Essays on Ecology.

The Athabasca Sand Dunes Provincial Wilderness Park contains the world's largest northerly sand dunes, some of which are 30 metres high. The park is situated on the south shore of Lake Athabasca, in the northwest corner of Saskatchewan, not too far from the Northwest Territories border. The William River, which flows through the western portion of the park and empties into Lake Athabasca, takes in the Athabasca region's largest dune field (about 17,000 hectares), about half the active sand surface in the park.

For wilderness canoeists, the seemingly contradictory elements of water, desert and forest are pleasantly bewildering. But the surreal experience of the William River is more than gigantic sand dunes. A unique ecosystem has developed in the windblown sediments of the former glacial lake that covered the region about 9000 years ago. Sixty species of plants that inhabit the dunes are considered rare; ten species are so rare that they exist nowhere else in the world. They're called endemics. They gave me the feeling that I was travelling in a very special place - treading on hallowed ground.

Our party of six Saskatchewan paddlers launched into the supernatural world of the William River via Hale Lake, about 60 kilometres downstream of the river's headwaters. La Loche Airways provided floatplane transport from its base in the Aboriginal community 650 kilometres northwest of Saskatoon. Apart from a few blackflies and a relocation to avoid disturbing a nest of bald eagles, our camping time on Hale Lake was uneventful.

At the outlet of Hale Lake, the William River is a small, winding, willow-bordered stream with an easy-going gradient and a few riffles here and there. Beautiful pink and mauve blossoms of bog laurel line the banks. By midday the streambed had flattened and presented us with a major boulder garden. A quick scouting from shore revealed a narrow passage through the obstruction.

Moving on, we wound our way through more "gardens." Most of the rapids in the upper reaches demand precise manoeuvring. It seemed like a mythical ice age stonethrower had peppered the river bottom with an impressive rock arsenal. Our group paddled Kevlar and ABS canoes which withstood the bump and grind of the Athabasca sandstone fairly well. Very few of the rapids are marked on the topo maps, so we had to keep our eyes and ears well tuned to the river's signals.

The William is wild and remote, with very little evidence of other travellers. But there were a couple of exceptions. On the third day we stopped at a nice beach where, in mid-June at 59 degrees north latitude, we swam without shivering. Backed by a sandy pine-clad ridge with a view of distant boulder-strewn eskers, this beach had attracted others long ago. There were remains of rusted pails and domestic utensils at a very old cabin site. A few kilometres downstream we came across more recent evidence of an abandoned diamond drill camp. This blotch on the landscape is a relic of the uranium exploration industry and is to be rehabilitated, according to Saskatchewan Environment and Resource Management.

Campsites abound along the river. Riverbank sandstone ledges are backed by sand lichen-covered ridges, while open jack pine stands create a naturally groomed, park-like atmosphere. One such site could be described as northern savannah, complete with low ground cover and widely spaced groupings of pine trees. Such were our campsites before reaching the dunes. After that, camping on the dunes was always an option, but one that we avoided, since we could get sandblasted if the wind got rowdy.

By day four, we were close to the junction of the William and Carswell rivers. En route we passed a federal water surveys monitoring station. Important data from this little building determines whether you canoe the river, or push, pull or drag through it. Because of its shallow, bouldery bottom, most "official" reports conclude that the William is not canoeable. A lot of the time it isn't. Fortunately for us, the flow was almost double the 14-year average. Even with that margin of comfort, a few inches less would have made progress much more complicated.

The Carswell River junction marks a demanding stretch of whitewater. After the Carswell rapids, we make our way toward the giant William dunes. Expectations rise. So far, apart from sandy shoreline ridges and golden beaches here and there, the William hasn't revealed what awaits downstream. But as we round a bend, suddenly, smack in front of us stands a 15-metre-high wall of fine, golden Athabasca sand, blocking off the river and transcending the surrounding landscape. Climbing to the top of our first sand dune, we are treated to a strange, unearthly scene - expansive, undulating fields of sand and gravel, with huge dunes beckoning in the distance. We will be treated to many variations of this theme for the next three days.

After running a few more rapids and lifting over a major ledge spanning the entire river, we reach the highest dunes - rising about 30 to 40 metres from the river. We climb up the closest one to view the surroundings. Another fabulous view, with immense dune fields stretching to the northwest. To the east, the river cuts off the marching sands. Then on the other side of the river, a spruce and pine forest extends to the horizon. The contrast is stunning. Endless fields of golden sand, a winding band of blue and white water, a carpet of green foliage - the juxtaposition is unearthly.

The overall sensory impact of the dunes is overpowering. But certain parts of this desert environment are vulnerable to heedless visitors, especially the desert pavements. These fragile gravel plains exist between major dunes. They are formed when the wind lifts the lighter surface material, leaving a thin layer of closely spaced, sandblasted pebbles covering the remaining sand. Disturbances to the delicate sand-gravel balance can apparently take years for nature to restore.

As we moved downriver the dunes got bigger, and so did the sandstone ledges and the boulders on the river bottom. The river picks up groundwater discharged from the dunes, and the increased flow makes the rapids more pushy. A major obstacle loomed on the river horizon. An extended series of falls is marked on the map, but it is actually several ledges on an S-bend, forcing our first portage of the trip. Scouting this section involves climbing up to a high point on the sand dunes to get a bird's-eye view downstream. The sight is awesome. A half-kilometre of whitewater stretches to the next bend, with giant dunes sitting on the horizon.

Our scramble over the dunes brought us to a spot where a dune face was slowly, relentlessly burying the living forest. It looked devastating, but it is part of a process that occurs throughout the active "sandscape." On the flipside, exhumation may occur eventually. As the sand moves on, buried trees are unearthed and left standing like forlorn phantoms in the desert.

On our last day on the river we saw fresh bear, moose and wolf tracks crisscrossing the beach where we landed. We expected an evening visitor, but none appeared. The next morning I photographed a moose in the river.

Bird life on the dunes is not prolific. Bald eagles are evident occasionally. I have a photo of an osprey touching down on her nest and, in the braided section of the river, I captured a sandhill crane lifting off a sandbar.

I was able to spot eight of the ten endemics inhabiting the Athabasca Sand Dunes.

Other rare plants also inject spurts of color into the monochrome sandscape. We found moss campion, a small, purple-petalled alpine cushion plant, on an expansive gravel plain. Here the little pimples of purple perched on the plain were slowly building up their "pincushion" mounds by trapping windblown sand.

About 20 kilometres from the mouth of the William, after a rush through a maze of gigantic boulders, the river flattens out and turns into a braided stream with intertwining channels and shifting sandbars. At water level, this final portion of the river is not spectacular, but from the air it is absolutely dazzling. The rust-tinted water reflects hues of gold and copper of varying intensity off the changing sand bottom. Saskatoon photographer Courtney Milne eloquently records his impression of this aerial abstraction in his photoessay "Witness to the William," in the March 1993 issue of Photo Digest: "When I did witness the William from above, the evergreens that bordered the water were still identifiable, yet the sand pattern took on the quality of another world - just for an instant - then to be plucked back into the reality of the moment. The result was the outrageous condition of simultaneous belief and disbelief, while gazing at the best of nature's art."

We skirted the broad, expansive delta at the mouth of the William where the river drops its load of 3000 tons of sand a day into Lake Athabasca. We were able to slip down a side stream that quickly shot us out to the lake. Our trip continued for 100 kilometres eastward along the south shore of Lake Athabasca to the mouth of the MacFarlane River. Upstream, the river opens into a picturesque lake. We camped here to await our floatplane pickup.

The William is a special place whose attractions can't be duplicated
anywhere else in the world.

It deserves special respect from visitors: respect for its wild and remote character; respect for its unparalleled beauty; respect for its unique, surreal charm; and above all, a deep respect for its fragile environment.