39

That morning, when Faille’s guests took their coffees over to the Flat, there was nothing but a few chunks of ice bobbing past.

“Looks darned peaceful after yesterday, don’t it?” said Faille.

The men lifted Faille’s 18-foot freighter canoe from its winter resting place where it lay flipped over on blocks, the dead engine, paddles, poles and gas cans stored beneath.

“We could wait a day or two,” said Kraus. “I’ve been on rivers before, but nothing like the Nahanni from what I’ve heard.”

“Let’s go as far as the Nahanni, anyway,” said Clark. “We can check for Bill and Joe, just in case they floated down that far.”

Zenchuk agreed. “I hate to think that the rest of the boys are drinking beer, comparing nuggets and telling lies at Whittington’s while we’re up here chewing on moose.”

Faille’s canoe held his dogs, pelts, engine, gas cans and personal outfit, with room for at least one other man and his gear. There was little freeboard, so he put Clark, the lightest of them all, in the stern. The raft carried everyone else, with all their gear and Zenchuk’s dogs.

The five men on the raft each had a pole. Their feet were in the water most of the time, the raft dipping and wallowing when they moved to pole away from the riverbanks and large rocks.

By noon they were 30 miles away, pulling up to the right at Zenchuk’s camp, just above the boiling but ice-free outflow of the Caribou River. They unloaded the raft, glad to see the last of it, and dragged Zenchuk’s 30-foot scow to the river. While it was being loaded, Zenchuk put the outboard in place and started it, but shut it off once it was running smoothly. He figured on using it only in emergencies, his gas supply being down to what little was in the tank. Kraus turned some of Zenchuk’s 50 pounds of flour into biscuits.

Then they were on their way again. By mid-afternoon they were at the mouth of the Flat. The South Nahanni, they could see up ahead, was carrying large slabs of ice, but with lots of open water between. The shore ice, however, was still solid, so getting off the river was going to be difficult.

Pulling into the south bank of the Flat, well back from the swifter current of the Nahanni, they clambered onshore to check for Mulholland and Eppler. There was no sign of recent occupancy around Faille’s old cabin, but not far away, on a gravel bench farther off the river, they saw fresh cuttings and the signs of a campfire.

“These weren’t here when we came through last September,” said Zenchuk.

“We camped up there,” Lomar agreed, pointing.

Back at the boats, Faille asked, “Do you want to do a few more miles?”

“There’s still some hours of light,” said Clark. “Let’s keep going.”

“What about that shore ice?” asked Kraus.

Clark frowned, then said, “How about if you guys give Albert and me a few minutes to get ahead. If you see us heading off the river, follow our example. Albert can look out for any trouble and find the best way to shore.”

“We have to find eddies behind points of rock, or log piles at the head of gravel bars,” said Faille. “They’ll get us into calm water. Any creeks coming in will be ice-free, and that’s our best chance to get off.”

The others wanted to keep going, so Faille and Clark pushed the canoe out into the current. As soon as they swung south into the South Nahanni, Vandaele, Campbell, Kraus, Zenchuk and Lomar followed in the scow.

“Harry, you got good eyesight for distances,” said Campbell. “You keep your eye on Albert.”

Plying his paddle to help keep the scow straight in the water, Vandaele fixed his eyes on the distant figure of Faille, who regularly stood up to gaze downriver. How the hell does he do that? Vandaele wondered. They were making at least 20 miles per hour, and the current was forcefully jerking and bouncing the scow around. The canoe would be even less stable.

By dusk, it seemed their gamble was paying off; they were through the Third and Second canyons and out into Deadmen Valley, just above the Meilleur River. Faille intended to put in there and check First Canyon from the cliffs the following morning. He and Clark were working their paddles hard, trying to get closer to shore. Suddenly there was a dam ahead, a solid wall of blue ice and piled blocks that extended clear across the river. Standing up, Faille saw to his horror a whirlpool, a hundred feet in diameter, between him and the ice wall. Kneeling again, he stroked frantically, Clark following his example, trying to skirt the whirlpool, hoping to pick up enough speed to spin out of it. They flew around once, paddles flailing the water, but dropped in three feet.

Behind them, Vandaele saw Faille and Clark turn a full circle and drop so that only the tops of their heads were visible.

“Pull for shore!” he shouted.

Zenchuk fiddled with the outboard and started yanking on the rope while the rest dug frantically with their paddles. Just as they reached the edge of the whirlpool, the centre of the ice dam broke with a thundering crack, and the pool burped up. Faille and Clark suddenly appeared again, now behind Zenchuk’s scow and facing upstream. The scow shot through the widening gap in the ice dam, Zenchuk still jerking on the rope.

With a series of explosions, the ice from the dam broke off, slabs 20 and 30 feet across and two feet thick above the water wallowing madly and crashing into one another. But the Meilleur River delta, up ahead, was clear. They aimed for it, Faille and Clark slowly pulling ahead. When they broke out of the ice and drove their bows up on a gravel bank, Faille and Vandaele jumped out of the canoe and scow respectively, holding the bow ropes. Then, with Vandaele and Faille pulling, and the others pushing off the shore and paddling, they worked their way up into the Meilleur River to a quiet beach protected by an eddy.

Vandaele tied the scow to a willow bush and went screaming into the trees, jumping and cartwheeling. The rest staggered onto land and stood or sat down on scattered boulders, stunned silent. They needed no discussion about staying. Not a word was said. They’d survived because of luck and luck only.