When Nova Scotia’s largest river, the Shubenacadie (the “Shube”), encounters the rush of tidal water flowing in from the Bay of Fundy, bore is not the word that comes to mind. Yet the world’s largest tides, reversing into the very rivers that feed them, are called exactly that: tidal bores. It is a true tidal wave (not to be confused with a tsunami), as the leading wave swallows sandbars and marshes in a matter of minutes, leaving a turbulent trail of waves and rapids in its wake.
There are few places in the world where you can experience this phenomenon, much less hop on a high-powered Zodiac to play in it like a theme-park ride. Once a day, rafting companies along the low, shallow banks of the Shube gather clients for the incoming bore, which can bring waves as high as five metres rumbling over the muddy sandbars before harmlessly levelling out.
It’s a crisp June morning when I arrive at Tidal Bore Rafting’s HQ. Depending on the tide and moon cycle, the bore’s size can be classified as mild, medium, or extreme. I’ve enjoyed the thrill of Class 5 whitewater rafting before (including the world’s highest commercial vertical drop, in New Zealand), and so I look forward to today’s extreme conditions. The 72-kilometre-long river is brackish and brown, a stream of chocolate milk running through minty green forests and farmland. I’m advised not to wear anything I care too deeply about, and I’m handed a rainsuit, a life jacket, and a pair of old shoes.
Surf Tidal Bores
The tidal bore on New Brunswick’s Petitcodiac River has also been creating waves. Two Californian surfers set a North American record, riding a single wave for 29 kilometres. With hazardous rocks and rough conditions, only experienced lunatics need apply.
Our group makes its way to the riverbank, the water running calmly about six metres below the jetty. We squish over thick mud, hop into the Zodiac, and introduce ourselves. I’m with a couple from Halifax, and we’re guided by a young pilot named Gillian, who swaps out as a ski instructor in the river’s off-season. She pilots the Zodiac upriver, and with the high-tide line clearly marked on the riverbank way above our heads, my imagination starts to run riot. I picture a massive tidal wave, 20 metres high, rushing down the valley and drowning everything in its path, like those water horses conjured by Arwen in The Lord of the Rings. Gillian is less concerned, pointing out the first of many bald eagles that have gathered along the Shube in high concentrations to feed on sea and river fish caught in the tides. It’s the reason the area is home to the highest nesting concentration of bald eagles on North America’s east coast.
Under their watchful eagle eyes, the Zodiac hums along with the current, passing the site of a huge mudslide that took a few trees with it. We’re a little early and so we berth on a sandbar, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the bore, occupying our time by submerging our shins in sinking sand. Ten minutes later, Gillian points upriver. In the distance, a harmless white wave approaches. It seems innocent enough, not nearly as extreme as I had imagined. Gillian guns the Zodiac to meet the wave, which we ramp over and then turn back, surfing on its crest. Within minutes the wave will swallow the sandbars and begin its rise to the tide line, high on the cliffs above our heads. The Zodiac pulls out, racing farther upstream. “Are you ready, guys?” Gillian yells. What she knows, and what we don’t, is that as the high tide hits sandbars and slopes, the rush of water gets churned up like a boiling soup.
After zooting up the relatively calm side of the river, Gillian makes a hard left and we drop in like unprepared potatoes. Bang! Ow! Wow! Whee! Bang! There’s not much else we can say as the Zodiac dips and crests through the rapids, lurching our feet in the air, landing us hard with a thud. Keeping our mouths shut is actually a smart idea, as the Shube’s muddy water drenches the boat, eager to spoon us with mouthfuls. The rapids are cold, invigorating, and relentless. When they peter out, Gillian repeats the process, skirting the soup close to the shore before turning in for another thrill ride.
Earlier, we had passed a rock formation known as Anthony’s Point, which looked like a large boot sitting far above our heads. Now it is completely submerged. We hit the soup again, and again, a concentrated and sustained dose of rapids you just can’t find on traditional whitewater adventures. My knees take a beating from the drops as we get pummelled from all sides, almost losing a shipmate at one point. However, with no rocks to worry about, should you fall overboard, it’s a relatively safe affair for the boat to find you and haul you back on board. We ride the waves until the riverbanks widen and the bore wears itself out, conveniently close to the jetty we left two hours ago. I can barely recognize its wooden steps, floating above a raging river where before they sat on metres of mud.
A hot shower later, we exchange high-fives and wide smiles, proud recipients of a true Canadian adventure you just can’t find anywhere else. Despite its modern usage, the word bore comes from Old Norse, meaning “swell” — a word that applies both literally and figuratively to this bucket list adventure.
START HERE: canadianbucketlist.com/tidalbore