The rushing water of this bold river beckoned our canoes yet again about halfway through our two weeks on the water. It seems every whitewater runner is faced with a critical challenge, and this was our moment. The river reeled its dangerous head in our direction on this particular morning. Two small islands split the fierce current at the rapids downstream from Hell’s Gate where Wrigley Creek spews into the river. The force of the current collides on the far side of the islands and forms wicked whirlpools, known to suck down vessels and bodies.

The whirlpool incident was typical of the bold grandeur gripping this land, where seething whitewater rips through ragged mountains and spectacular wilderness inspires the soul. High in the Northwest Territories’ Mackenzie Mountains near the border of the Yukon Territory in Canada, this World Heritage river begins its torrid flow; eventually draining into the lowlands of the Liard River and tundra of the Arctic watershed. Cutting through some of Canada’s most forbidding terrain, the river is preceded by its reputation: decapitated skeletons, explorers disappearing into valleys and gorges―Funeral Range, Deadmen Valley and Headless Creek. The legends of missing bodies and murdered prospectors echo the canyon walls and whisper through rugged stands of coniferous trees. Stories of survival and determination beckon the adventurous spirit within. It’s the excitement and mystique of the dangerous river―the South Nahanni.

The legacy of Albert Faille exemplifies the mystique of the river and the mountains. The subject of a Canadian National Film Board documentary, it is said this man discovered a map carved in a tree and spent the rest of his life boating upstream prospecting for gold in search of the mother lode, until he died in the 1970s. Brothers Frank and Willie McLeod started searching for gold in 1905 on the tributaries of the Flat River flowing into Nahanni, and three years later at the head of a valley separating two canyons the decapitated skeletons of the brothers were found tied to a tree. And so goes the ominous reputation of the South Nahanni River, along with its treacherous water.

This canoe trip is pure heaven for whitewater and wilderness addicts―which can also be done through guided tours in canoes, kayaks or rafting―but we were on our own anticipating the thrill as we loaded our gear and two weeks of food into the Twin Otter propeller plane. Gord and myself were joined on this trip by new friends who shared our appetite for wilderness adventure. There was the father and son team of Dwight and Jason, along with the slightly reserved Bryant and our jocular storyteller Jack. We made a congenial mix of characters; evident as we all marvelled at the view on our flight above the etched peaks like children on a school field trip.

We packed the canoes and quickly pushed off onto the river, which was just above normal water levels. In less than an hour we entered the boundary of the remote national park; beaching at the Rabbitkettle Lake portage and walking to the warden’s cabin to register and get the low-down on the river’s more prominent rapids. We then paddled downstream another few miles and selected our first campsite. All along the Nahanni there are several ideal camping spots. Islands, large gravel bars and a sandy shoreline provide comfortable sites with an abundance of driftwood for fuel. The river is clean and cold, but somewhat murky because of the silt runoff. It is advisable to let the water stand before drinking to avoid a gritty aftertaste, but once cleared the glacier water is more than refreshing. We set up camp and enjoyed a meal of fresh food, immediately adopting an amiable attitude.

Our first night on the Nahanni a few weeks after the summer solstice brought new meaning to the land of the midnight sun. The seemingly endless sunset stretched around the horizon, spread through the valley and peered around a mountainside. A pale light lingers throughout the summer evenings, never reaching pitch darkness. I stood on the shore of the river under the lingering sunset and absorbed the energy of the land; imagining the rewards ahead. We were entranced by the mystique of Nahanni from the cobble beach of that first campsite. The purity of the land and the pristine force of nature’s wild domain cut deep to our hearts. We were young and full of vigor, adventurous and enthusiastic. The spirit of the land instantly cast its magical spell.

The next morning we canoed only a few miles down to an alluvial fan of boulders, rocks and sand; deposited by creeks flowing into Nahanni at peak runoff. We grounded our canoes, packed a lunch and hiked up the creek bed. Our destination was the hidden glacial lakes tucked into a gorge. Many creeks along the river carve gorges and canyons into the mountains: charming rock configurations, small waterfalls spouting from mountainsides, and cliffs of shale and rock. Our ascent was a fairly strenuous climb lasting into the evening, but we were rejuvenated with a taste of clear and cold mountain water. The clean lake water or spurting cascade pouring down from icy glaciers, quenches the palate like nothing else. We eventually returned to camp considerably sore and exhausted. After supper we quickly fell asleep under a continuous rainfall which lasted all night.

A couple of days above Virginia Falls was next on the menu. Gord and I hiked to the headwaters, then down to the foot of the falls. We spent the remainder of the afternoon climbing the cliffs of the south shore, overlooking the waterfall gorge. The mighty surge of the falls is eminently powerful; worthy of extended appreciation. We could not take enough photographs of the marvellous sight, but nary a picture could capture its essence. My mind flutters in the ethereal pulsations of nature’s omnipotent forces, as I was moved to enter in the campground log book―the river is nice too. 

The first canyon downriver of Virginia Falls presents relentless standing waves crammed between the steep rock walls, and over 10 miles of virtually consecutive rapids. We set sail in the shadow of the waterfall with the rushing anthem of fast water sounding Nahanni’s battle cry. Gord and I pounded through the first few sets of standing waves successfully; shouting and howling with excitement. We sliced along the north side of the canyon, nicely avoiding some churning haystacks. But as we turned a crucial bend in the channel and attempted to cross over on starboard, the whitewater swells confronted us. There was no avoiding this barrage of standing waves. Headlong we knifed into the chaos; crashing through walls of foaming water and bracing for dips and bumps.

It was exhilarating. With the spray of whitewater in my face, I savoured the adventure of the dangerous river. We continued to blast through standing waves and swells for several miles, until we stopped on a gravel bar to recount the thrill. My body was tingling: we had survived Nahanni’s famous canyon of steep painted limestone cliffs and wild whitewater. But the adventure was not over.

We all managed to navigate the rapids successfully and found our campsite for the night just downriver. It was the most intense day of chuting whitewater on our voyage, as we splashed through exciting yet grueling stretches of wild rapids. We basked in the glory of our adventurous day well past the hour of the midnight sun. Around the campfire that night there was nothing but rambunctious conversation of rapids and riffles. We celebrated with a blazing campfire and later aurora borealis joined the dancing flames with a display of coloured light in the night sky.

The following day we all survived the whirlpools at Wrigley Creek, but not without a buzz of healthy fear and respect as we continued to paddle on our journey. The next canyon features Pulpit Rock: a majestic outcropping and rock face at a snake in the river, amazingly without rapids in a narrow channel. The campsite at this location, known as The Gate, is perfectly situated under forest cover at the base of a mountain. We went swimming that afternoon and fished the creek flowing into the river. A catch of arctic grayling fed the group that night.

The next day we climbed the precarious side of the cliff several hundred feet high; daring to perch on small outcroppings and gaze at the steep view down to the river. We heaved a large flat rock over the edge and counted the elapsed time until the rock slapped into the water with the sound of a blast. Once again the wild and rugged land of Nahanni seemed to grip our souls as we gaped at the mighty river from the top of the cliff face. Finally we launched in the afternoon and paddled the short distance to Big Bend between two canyons along Nahanni.

The camp was set up and we cooked a small feast, which was devoured as usual. Gord and I packed the food boxes while Jason and Dwight soaped up the dishes. The campsite included a platform raised between three trees for our convenience. It was late on our wilderness trip and without any threatening incidents, perhaps my cohorts were getting a little over confident if not lazy. No one was particularly keen on helping me cache the food for the night. But I insisted, partly because of backcountry instinct and especially because of the bear tracks in the sand. It was a good thing I insisted, as Jack would emphasize later that evening.

We were maintaining a decent pace of about 30-to-40 miles on the river every day, and so sleeping came easy in the land of the midnight sun. It was just before dawn when some rustling in the nearby trees awakened me. It was a bear; nothing new in this territory. I did not sense any urgency to move from my sleeping bag. I know a grizzly is dangerous, but there is no reason to provoke a bear. I decided it was best to fall back asleep. However, Jason and Dwight began shouting at Jack from inside their tent. He was the man with the rifle. We all stumbled out of our tents in the pale night air; Jack with his pants on backwards and a rifle in his hands. But it was too faint outside for him to be shooting at anything.

“Where’s that damn clip?” he murmured as he stammered into the brisk northern evening. A small landslide of gravel and dirt shuffled down a ridge near our campsite. The commotion chased away the bear, which was a good thing since the bullets were cached with the food.

The current is not as powerful as the river begins to meander into the lowlands, not to mention that the mosquitoes seem to increase in size and numbers. We stopped at the remote village Nahanni Butte and chatted with a house builder and a moose hunter before completing our last leg beyond the confluence of Nahanni and Liard River.

The mystique of Nahanni was behind us, but our memories are in place forever. Just before departing the waterway we met with a trapper and Northwest Territories resident, Edwin Lindberg, who was a good friend of the late Albert Faille―the legend in Nahanni history who searched the mountains for gold. It is Faille’s words that stand for the spirit of Nahanni: “Let it stay wild, the way it is.”

Updated August 6, 2023