Red Deer River Journey - Part Thirteen

Undiscovered Country

“Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it.” - Confucius

 

A herd of pronghorn near Buffalo, Alberta

After the park, the terrain opened up into flatter prairie grassland and right on cue, I saw a pronghorn making its way down to the river for a drink. Pronghorn are true prairie animals. They can see for miles with their large eyes and can run like the wind at the first sign of danger. Besides humans, they have no natural predators. I have heard it said that they have evolved to evade bigger faster predators than exist today. They certainly are prehistoric looking and, unlike deer and other ungulates, they evolved here in the New World along with horses. Horses mysteriously died out in the Americas and only survived in Asia and Europe. It wasn’t until the Spanish reintroduced them back to North America in the 1500’s, that these two fleet footed species were reunited. Up until then, the people of this land were forced to use dogs as beasts of burden. The Nitsitapii or Blackfoot people welcomed the use of horses for transport, pack animals, hunting and warfare and they were reportedly superb riders. The return of the horse allowed their people to dominate this region for hundreds of years.

 I was traveling through an ever changing landscape which changed briefly back to a steep-walled badlands canyon once again before opening out into more open and beautiful, green rolling hills. This scenic area, after the Jenner Bridge, was a surprise to me. I was entering the section of the river that I knew the least about. Things were about to get less scenic and more difficult to travel.

I had already encountered a couple of sandbars earlier on. Only one was really a nuisance. Before Dinosaur Provincial Park I got away from the main channel at a convoluted bend in the river and had some difficulty getting back into the current. I had to cut the engine and lift my motor out of the water, then push and paddle my way off of the sand. This could be quite exhausting and more than a little frustrating. Anyone watching would have certainly heard me cursing.

The section of the river that I was upon contained many small islands that split the slowing waters of the river into two or more branches. If you went the wrong way around an island you could land in trouble or on wider spots you could easily lose the main channel, which would wind back and forth across the river. I was learning to read the slow muddy water, but it was more difficult to do if the wind picked up at all. Several times I was fooled by a breeze which would obscure a section of the water. Sandbars certainly slowed me down for the rest of my trip. A lot of the time I would slow the motor right down while I poled my way downstream or across the weak current looking for the main channel. If it got too shallow I would have to lift the motor up to the shallow water position. If it got worse, I would have to shut down and lift the propeller right out. Once in a while I would get hung up in the mud.

Even with the obstacles, the traveling was still quite pleasant on the water, but life along the bank was getting to be considerably less pleasant, due to my introduction to a previously unimagined denizen of this sandy region - the “Sand Fly”. Mosquitoes could be wicked enough, but if one wore enough clothing and covered themselves with deet, they were tolerable. Apparently sand flies have never heard about deet. In fact they sometimes seemed to relish it. They would get in my face, in my ears and up my nose and bite, too. On the open water it was fine and the wind easily kept them in check, but if you got too close to the banks and gods forbid if you got stuck there in the sand, they could be completely miserable. For this reason I kept moving along this stretch, unless I absolutely needed to stop. There weren’t as many places to stop as were available earlier on, because the banks were usually three to five feet high and sloped steeply into the water. This was due to the soft and sandy nature of the soil. The only spots that appeared flat and easy to beach upon were often found to be quicksand.

 In some places there were bushes overhanging the banks. At one point a thunderstorm (the first of this year’s trip) threatened and I pulled my boat under some of these bushes, tied up and ate my lunch and waited for the rain to pass. Most of the property in this region is grazing land for herds of cattle, but I also began to see pumps for irrigation and I could see some bright yellow fields of Canola.

It was sunset when I reached the Buffalo Bridge. My map indicated that there were boat launches on the north and south banks near the bridge, as well as a campground on the north side of the river. I went over to the north bank, but it was steep with no way to drag the boat out of the river. I tied the boat up and determined that the campsites were on the other side of the road, some distance from my boat. I decided to check out the boat launch on the south side of the river. I hopped into the boat, fired up the motor and about half way across the river I beached on a sand bar. I was really stuck. I pushed and pushed (and swore!) until I finally got clear of the sand. I was just getting to the boat launch when a big water truck pulled up. Its operator hooked up its hose and started filling the tank. There was no way I wanted to camp next to that racket all night, so I headed downstream looking for a place to pull out. I wasn’t finding anything and it was starting to really get dark - I was in trouble now. I had to make a quick decision so I swung the boat around and headed back to the boat launch - water trucks be damned!

By the time I got back it was almost totally dark. I beached the boat and quickly setup my tent, air mattress and sleeping gear. I ate one of the least delicious meals of the trip. I was too tired to cook. Another water truck pulled up and I checked with the operator to make sure my boat wasn’t in his way. He warned me that he and another truck would be going all night long. They were hauling water for a drilling rig and those things run twenty-four hours a day. At that point I was too tired to care. I had been on the river for over fourteen hours and I slept like a baby until morning. 

 I woke up the next morning to the sound of water trucks coming and going. I had breakfast and tore down camp. I couldn’t wait to get back on the river and away from this less than ideal camping spot. If it wasn’t water trucks, it was a noisy generator or pump across the river going constantly. The driver of the truck did wish me luck on my trip, however.

 

I spotted a threatened leopard frog as I got into the boat and cast off. Leopard frog populations have greatly diminished in the last few decades. I remember them as being common, in my youth. As I walked along the bank of Calgary’s Fish Creek, (in the early 70’s before it became a provincial park) dozens of leopard frogs would jump into the creek. I’ve heard speculation about their decline being due to everything from pollution, disease or climate change. Apparently amphibians are in decline in most of the world today.

Something caught my eye shortly after I set off that morning. A stick ...or no, a rattlesnake was winding across the river. It appeared to be coming towards me, but changed course and instead swam behind my boat. I expected him to slither up onto the bank, but the snake turned and began to head downstream parallel to shore, perhaps looking for a juicy leopard frog. I have vague recollections of seeing rattlesnakes crossing the South Saskatchewan River, when I was still a very young English boy and my family was suddenly transplanted to the flat prairie lands of Western Saskatchewan. This was the first one I had seen since that time. After that, I certainly looked a little closer at any floating sticks along the river.

There were plenty of sandbars to be avoided that day, but my eyes were growing accustomed to finding the winding, deep channel and discerning the current of the river. I wasn’t accustomed to reading the water on a larger and slow flowing river. My experience was in fishing, canoeing and fording the faster streams of the mountains and foothills. Even the waters near my parkland home are many times faster than the river was at this point in my voyage, and its character was totally foreign to me.

The going was slower, but I didn’t mind. I passed by farms and ranches, waterfowl and deer. Traveling the river was becoming second nature to me now. I had my doubts about having to listen to my noisy Mercury outboard for hours at a time, but I was growing accustomed to the comforting sound of my trusty motor propelling me slowly toward my destination and the completion of my long journey. I figured about three more days would just about do it.

I captured some video of an owl that took shelter under the Bindloss Bridge, as I drifted beneath its steel trestles. I stopped at the camping area just east of the bridge. It was another not so beautiful spot, but it was as far as I wanted to travel that day. I set up my tent on what little grass I could find, in an area which vehicle use had stripped away most of the ground cover. Next to a dilapidated looking picnic table was a large can marked “transmission fluid” along with some empty oil containers and other junk. My beloved sand flies were fairly thick, but not overwhelming while I made my supper.

I walked around the campsite and picnic area. Except for the spot where I had beached my boat, it wasn’t too bad. There were bushes and low poplars providing cover for deer. Every once in a while I could hear a rattlesnake going off in the undergrowth. I watched the ground carefully as I walked to the bridge to check for a cell phone signal.

I looked at the landscape around the bridge and it struck me that this place was like the "end of the Earth". Scrubby looking sage bushes protruded from the sandy soil, which was also dotted by cactus - who’s only saving grace was their pretty yellow and pink blossoms. Even this wasteland had a quiet beauty of its own. I found that I was beginning to appreciate prairie landscapes more than I had at one time in my life. Perhaps the love of the prairie environs is an acquired taste. It is certainly a peaceful place and to my surprise, it is filled with a great diversity of life and a variety of landscapes. One just has to open their eyes and take the time to really experience this vast region.

As I retired to bed that night I could hear the sound of rain on my tent. I have always found that sound somehow comforting and I quickly fell into a deep sleep.

Red Deer River Journey - Part Twelve

Dinosaur Park

 
 
 

I had been on the river for twelve hours when I reached the boat launch and I was annoyed to find that the campsites were a bit of a haul up a road and across a footbridge. I proceeded to relay most of my gear from the boat over to my camp. A lady, who was waiting for her friends to arrive from their evening paddle, warned me about the rattlesnakes that had come out onto the manicured grass near the boat launch to soak up the warmth of the setting sun. By the time I finished setting up camp and had dinner, it was dark and I retired to the comfort of my inflatable bed.

It was another lovely prairie morning when I awoke the next day. Despite my annoyance at the distance from the boat launch, I found that my campsite was a good one. The golden rays of the sun peered through the shade of the many large poplars and into my camp, which backed onto little Sandhill Creek. The poplar grove and its small creek are perfect habitat for birds such as cedar waxwings, robins, yellow warblers and goldfinch. The call of the many mourning doves could be heard throughout the long hot day. Mule deer and their fawns were everywhere, as were the cottontail rabbits.

Old cottonwood poplar near the river

I had only visited the park a couple of times previously (both times during the autumn months). Even in October I had found that it was an interesting place and now (in late June) the badland park was surprisingly full of life. I spent much of the day shooting video of the flora and fauna as well as the stark landscape of the area. Many cacti were beginning to bloom and they added color and beauty to the landscape of gray bentonite clays, sandstone and ironstone. Most of the wildflowers were in bloom. Brown thrashers flitted in and out of the thick brush along the Cottonwood Trail with its several hundred year old trees. The mosquitoes were fairly thick so I made sure that I had plenty of deet. Near the end of the day I found myself worn out from the mosquitoes and the intense heat, but I had a really enjoyable time. The available showers were definitely a bonus for sweaty, deet-covered campers.

Dinosaur Provincial Park has been designated as a World Heritage Site by the United Nations due to it having one of the highest densities of dinosaur fossils in the world. For this reason most of the park is off limits to visitors except for tours which run daily into the restricted areas. The field office of the Royal Tyrrell Museum is located in the park and there are many active digs going on every summer. What long hot work that must be!

I also made a pilgrimage to one of the (perhaps) lesser known attractions. I visited the cabin of one our early pioneers and perhaps one of the greatest cowboys ever to ride a horse. John Ware began his life as a slave in South Carolina. After emancipation he went to Texas where he learned to rope and ride. He arrived in Alberta with the first herds of cattle and went on to become his own man, respected by his fellow cowhands and dudes alike. He homesteaded his first ranch in the Sheep River area of the foothills country, with which I am well acquainted. Later he moved to this part of Alberta with his wife and children and built a cabin next to the Red Deer River. After a flood destroyed his home he built this second cabin a couple of miles away from the river. There is a picture of him removing logs for this home from the Red Deer River, with a team of horses, in the archives of the Glenbow Museum. The cabin was later moved to its current location in Dinosaur Provincial Park

Ware was well known for his horsemanship. My favorite story is the one about him riding a bronco over a cliff and landing in a river still mounted firmly on the horse’s back. Ironically he was killed when his horse tripped and rolled on him while he was out riding with his son, near this area. His funeral was one of the largest ever held in nearby Calgary and was an indication of the respect he commanded in the Southern Alberta community. He is buried in Calgary’s Union Cemetery.

His famous “four 9’s” brand marked the gateway leading to the cabin and I was able to go inside and view some of the displays and talk to a woman (who was a volunteer interpreter) while she worked her spinning wheel. We talked about John Ware and when I told her how I thought his death was both sad and ironic, she pointed out that he was doing what he loved the most that day - riding his favorite horse with his beloved son and that perhaps it wasn’t such a sad end after all. Obviously she had thought about this before. I bought a copy of Grant MacEwan’s book, “John Ware’s Cow Country” from her and thanked her for her wisdom.

I had a cunning plan for the next morning. I dismantled my camp, shuttled all my belongings down to the boat launch and drained out and loaded up my boat. Only then did I have a shower and buy some ice for my cooler before I set out. By the time I got back in the boat I was already hot and the ice was beginning to melt, but this procedure did help a little bit. It would be a long while before I could have my next shower.

It was great to be back on the river again. Midstream did seem to be a lot cooler than onshore and the mosquitoes didn’t bother me nearly as much. The first stretch of the river was quite scenic and passed through the remainder of the Provincial Park and Deadlodge Canyon. The canyon is said to be named for the many deadlodges of Blackfoot people that died in a smallpox epidemic in this area in 1796. 

Red Deer River Journey - Part Eleven

Return to the River

 “The journey is the reward.” - Chinese proverb

 

The Li'l Titanic

There was a lot less planning for the second half of my journey than there was for the first half and a lot less time to get ready, but the logistics were much simpler. I would put in at East Coulee and I didn’t plan on taking my boat out until Estuary, Saskatchewan. It took a little bit of work to load up the boat at the start of the trip, but the weather was good and the water high. Soon I was off again. This time I had the sound of my small Mercury outboard to endure, but I soon got used to its reassuring drone. I stopped to talk with my wife at the boat launch in Dorothy. Everything seemed all right. I originally wasn’t sure how well my little boat would fare on the river, but it was going along very well. I talked to a couple of gentlemen who were pulling their large raft out of the river after traveling for a couple of days. One of them was eighty years old and he looked fit and tanned. I hope that I am still able to have little adventures of my own when I reach my golden years. Then it was off again as I waved good-bye to my wife. She was heading back home and would be returning to her job while I attempted to complete my journey.

I traveled downstream for a few hours through the familiar looking badlands. It was feeling very much like that first evening of canoeing near Sundre. I had a big stupid grin on my face and found it exhilarating to be back on the river again. There were many beaver on the river that day, along with ducks and their progeny. I passed a rookery of great blue herons and saw some common terns. At certain points I would cut my motor and just let the current pull me slowly downstream. It was getting near sunset so I pulled over to the side of the river to a perfect bench, on which I made camp.

I made supper on my little Coleman Peak1 stove and watched the gorgeous prairie sunset before I retired to my tent. All was right in my world except for a beaver that(every time he surfaced during the night) saw my tent and whacked the water with his tail in the customary manner and caused me to awaken. Just as I was dozing off again, the beaver would slap its tail and startle me back from the edge of sleep. This was repeated ad nauseam. Apparently my ideal camping spot was also a preferred spot for a certain beaver to sit and chew on his favorite food - tender willow sprouts. After an hour or so the annoying rodent moved on and I fell into a sound sleep.

 

The next morning I reviewed my maps and realized that I was just upstream from Finnegan Ferry. I packed up my gear and headed downstream and past the ferry to a section of the river that I was completely unfamiliar with.

Gradually the river emerged from an enclosed badlands valley to an open landscape of rolling hills followed by flat grassland. Most of this area looked to be uncultivated and probably appears today much as it has for hundreds if not thousands of years. You may think that this isn’t unusual, but very little of the prairie environment has survived the last hundred and fifty years.

When the first Europeans arrived in this part of North America, the irreversible natural decline of this vast area began and it has continued to devolve ever since. There are only a few small isolated pockets that even resemble the original landscape. Fortunately for me, many of these spots are along the Red Deer River valley. I have always liked to imagine what this vast ecosystem would have been like before my people arrived in this land and this journey was affording me a small glimpse of that ancient place. Even if the reality of a wild Red Deer River valley has disappeared with the passing of time, the river still cuts a ribbon of unspoiled territory (which holds the aura of a true wilderness) through a sea of progress and cultivation. As I traveled these waters, my line of sight revealed the forgotten soul of a land that hasn’t existed since the passing of the buffalo and the displacement of its aboriginal peoples.

The sun was beating down again on that day and I had learned from my first attempt at traveling the river to cover up my skin with sunscreen and clothing. There was very little insect activity and mosquitoes were conspicuously absent. I was having another great day out and enjoying every minute of it. There seemed to be little activity by the inhabitants of the river valley -- probably due to the heat. How does the old saying go? “Mad dogs and Englishmen....”

In the early afternoon I passed under the Highway 36 Bridge and began to see the layers of clay and steeper walls of the badlands valley reappearing ahead of me. After a bend in the river which turned it due south, I saw an unexpected sight. Downstream from my boat, three large figures appeared from the brush and dived noisily into the cool waters just upstream from Three Owl Island. The moose appeared to be having a wonderful time as they frolicked about, totally oblivious to my looming presence. I positioned myself in the water so that I was directly upstream from them and cut my motor and drifted slowly toward them. I began to shoot video as I drew closer. There appeared to be a bull, a cow and a yearling calf. Soon I was getting too close for their comfort and they emerged from the river -- first the calf, then the bull and finally the cow. They ran back into the brush and left no sign of their presence, but for trails of wet clay near the bank. I felt slightly guilty for my intrusion into what was an obviously enjoyable interlude, on a hot afternoon.

This isn’t the type of environment that most people envision when they think of these largest members of the deer family. I remember once, when I was talking to a visitor (an avid outdoorsman) from New Brunswick about the local moose population. He gave me an incredulous look and asked pointedly, “Where would a moose go around here?” His experience was one of hunting them in thick boreal forest and that was a paradigm that he imagined was true everywhere. Moose do live, and thrive in open prairie environments and these three were a perfect example of that.

I started up the motor and continued downstream into the deepening valley which swung east again and continued to get more spectacular at every turn. When I passed Steveville Bridge, I noticed a couple of families were putting their canoes into the river for an evening paddle to my day’s destination - Dinosaur Provincial Park. I was confident that the channel was deep as it curved around the right hand side of Coyote Island so I opened up my small outboard motor and cruised toward the Sandhill Creek boat launch. I planned to stay an entire day at Dinosaur Provincial Park and then to set off again on the next morning.

Red Deer River Journey - Interlude

Interlude

“People travel to wonder at the height of the mountains, at the huge waves of the seas, at the long course of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars, and yet they pass by themselves without wondering.” - St. Augustine

The months that followed my return home were tumultuous indeed. I was somewhat happy with what I had accomplished, but it also felt like I needed to complete my journey. That was looking more and more like that would never happen due to one fact… The day that I returned the canoe to the rental shop, I felt a pain in my right buttocks and down my right leg. It was sciatica and it would have repercussions over the next year of my life.

Sciatica is one of those things that you actually have to go through in order to understand what exquisite pain it can inflict on someone. The only way I can explain it, is to compare it with a bad toothache and not favorably so. Now imagine that instead of a tooth, it is your whole leg that is in intense pain. To make a long story short, my condition became worse and worse until I could no longer walk or even stand for more than a few seconds. I was off work for months that winter and I couldn’t do much besides lie on the couch, swallow painkillers, drink rum and Coke and watch TV. I was extremely depressed and my journey down the Red Deer River was far from my thoughts. It was many months before I got any better, but after Christmas I started to feel a bit more mobile. I nursed my back and tried to walk as much as possible, but even getting around the block was quite a chore. Many times I would cut my walks short and limp home in pain and frustration. I have always considered myself lucky to be blessed with good health and this was probably the worst episode in my entire life.

The fact was that my journey had contributed greatly to my ailment. I was able to see my M.R.I. many months later. Viewing them, it was immediately obvious what was causing me so much difficulty. I had a herniated lower disk and it had a bulge ( it was more like a tongue) that extended out, touching my spinal cord and irritating my sciatic nerve. Ignoring my pain and carrying a heavy pack had caused my already torn disk to herniate and canoeing for days on end only exacerbated the problem.

By March, however I was back at work and already thinking about returning to the river to continue my journey. I talked about it to my friends, but they just looked at me with stunned disbelief. “You must be kidding!” At the time I was only half serious. It did seem hard to believe.

When it came down to it, I still felt like I was on my journey. This ailment was only part of my passage. It only served to strengthen my resolve. An old friend of mine would have said this was “character building”. That was a running joke between us. When the river got high again in June, I would be on my way if I could help it at all. Some compromises would have to be made, though. I decided that the only way I was going to make it was by taking my small flat bottomed boat, which I had named “’Lil Titanic”, powered by my little 5 hp Mercury outboard. A nice high backed seat, for back support would also be needed.

In June, I was test running my outboard in the back yard and my neighbor asked me what I was up to. When I told him that I was going back to the river, he just said, “You’re determined to screw up your back!” I was feeling good though and with a little help and planning, I believed I could make it. So, on June 26, 2004, my wife and I loaded up the truck and set out to the Red Deer River valley (at East Coulee) for the second part of my journey.

Three months of lying on my couch added some pounds, but I felt I was ready to return to the Red Deer River
photo courtesy Len Yandeau

Red Deer River Journey - Part Ten

Drumheller

“The everyday kindness of the back roads more than makes up for the acts of greed in the headlines.” - Charles Kuralt

 

prickly pear cactus

Drumheller was once a coal mining community and still remains a business hub in this region. It supports the agriculture and booming oil and gas industries, as well as being what has become a major tourist destination. This section of the valley is what most Albertans and visitors picture when they think of the Red Deer River. Tourists descend into the valley on highway nine and visit the famous “Hoodoos” and Royal Tyrrell Museum.

I began searching for a place where I could beach my canoe, while I drifted through town. I spotted a potential boat launch next to a motel and I pulled in and tied up my canoe. It turned out to be part of a privately owned oilfield company’s property, but it was the last possible place I could have stopped, so I walked through the yard and over to the hotel. After I checked into my room, I began the arduous task of unloading all of my goods from the canoe and transporting them through the yard of the oilfield company, up the street and over to my hotel room. It was hot and tiresome work and I noticed people watching me and wondering what on earth I was up to. Finally it was down to the canoe and this was the part I was dreading the most. I planned on lifting the canoe over my head and portaging it over to the hotel. This was something I hadn’t attempted to do since I was in Sundre and I was a lot more tired by this point.

Finally someone came over from the oilfield company to ask me what I was up to. I explained my circumstances to him. He told me to wait by the canoe and said he would be back in a little bit. After several minutes he reappeared, driving a tractor/forklift. He lifted my canoe out of the river and carried it across the yard and over to the front of his business, where he allowed me to chain it to his sign. I thanked him for his help and went back to my room and crashed onto the bed in a heap.

One of the greatest surprises for me was the generosity of my friends and many strangers that I had met along the way. Even though my journey down the Red Deer River was a solo effort, I would have never managed to get very far without the help of others. I found total strangers were constantly wishing me luck, giving me words of encouragement and helping me along the way. This is one of the main lessons that I learned from my trip. There are a lot of good people in the world. It’s something I had forgotten and this regained belief has affected my outlook ever since. I did expect to learn some things from my adventure, but perhaps this was the most important thing of all.

I spent the next day taking it easy and wandering around Drumheller. The place was packed with tourists. Children paddled in the fountains next to the world’s largest Tyrannosaurus Rex, trying to beat the heat. It’s impossible to escape the ubiquitous dinosaurs. Their statues litter the sidewalks and most of the businesses have a depiction of, or a name referring to the prehistoric beasts. I even saw a “Dalmatian-osaurus” in front of the fire hall. Perhaps it’s overkill, but I think most Drumheller residents regard the prehistoric theme in a spirit of fun.

The Last Day

“A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Pin cushion cactus in bloom

A good friend arrived from Calgary to canoe the next stretch of the river with me. We sat up late into that warm summer’s evening, talking and drinking next to the water. The next day, with the help of a taxicab, we arranged to canoe from Newcastle Beach downstream to East Coulee. Circumstances dictated that this would be the last day of my journey. We had an enjoyable time as we canoed together out of Drumheller, under the footbridge at Rosedale and past the hoodoos.

 

The hoodoos are formed when the umbrella of a hard cap rock protects the softer clay underneath it from the forces of erosion. Other than Lake Louise, these mushroom shaped formations are probably the most photographed scene in the Province of Alberta. This small area is one of the most well known and heavily visited spots in the prairies.

My friend caught her first goldeye on the way to our destination. I should have brought her with me the whole way. She really knew how to paddle and was very energetic. Soon enough we could see the Atlas Coal Mine on the south bank and we knew we were drawing close to the East Coulee bridge. We hauled the Prospector out of the river and put it on top of her Jeep Cherokee and we were off. My trip was over. Or so I thought at the time...

Red Deer River Journey - Part Nine

Doubt in the Badlands

“We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts we make the world.” - Buddha

The next day began like a lot of days on the river. The sky was clear and blue and it was already warm as I made my way downstream towards the Starland Bridge. One thing made me feel happy that day. I had a slight tailwind. Someone had warned me that when they canoed on the Red Deer River, years before, they had a constant headwind, no matter which direction they were paddling and I had experienced the same thing. From Sundre onward, facing north, south or east there was almost always a headwind. Something like that can wear a man down, especially when you are paddling by yourself. It means that you dare not take a break from paddling or you may be set off course. It was getting worse as I tired and the current lessened with each mile. On this fine day however, I actually had a tailwind and I was damned glad of it.

You may detect a note of sourness creeping into my story at this point. I only want to convey the true nature of my journey. Like all journeys there are highs and lows. Traveling towards my destination definitely agreed with me. There were many times along the journey that I found I actually knew what I was doing and traveling this way came so naturally to me that I wondered where my knowledge, confidence and strength had come from. It certainly wasn’t from anything that I experienced in my everyday life. I had gone on plenty of day hikes and backpack trips, but none of my trips had lasted more than a few days. My canoe trips were all of the day trip variety, with companions who shared both the experience and the work. It had been over fifteen years since I had even dipped a paddle in the water. What had made me think that I could complete a voyage of such magnitude?

I thought back to that first day. My back was sore and I had taken painkillers just to be able to walk properly -- never mind carrying a heavy pack and video camera. I was worried when the Skoki Lodge driver looked at me with a disapproving frown, while we attempted to hoist my pack onto the roof of the shuttle bus that would carry us up the service road to the trail head. “Sure is a heavy pack you got there!”

I was worried after a few hundred metres, when I had to stop to rest as all the other Skoki Lodge hikers disappeared from sight. Was I making a big mistake? I still had eight hundred kilometres ahead of me with god-knows-what challenges and I was already tired after just a few steps! Somehow I made it through that day, crossing over two high mountain passes and felt stronger at the end of the day than I had at the beginning.

Now here I was, after weeks of effort and hundreds of kilometres and I was beginning to realize something. There was no way I was ever going to reach my destination at the confluence of the Red Deer and South Saskatchewan Rivers in the time I had available. I was beginning to tire both physically and mentally. The river was slowing at this point and the water level seemed to be getting lower as well. Being alone, except for brief conversations with total strangers, was starting to get old. There are times when I have found that being alone with one’s own thoughts is not only desirable, but necessary. There are other times that the diversion of meaningless conversation, along with the noise and activities of the surrounding world, help to drown out that inner voice and one is glad of them. I decided that I would aim for Drumheller that day, check into a motel, have a nice hot shower and a restaurant meal and think things over.

Piccadilly Circus(London)
My life could have been very different...

As I approached the next crossing (the Munson Bridge), I was reminded of something that had occurred on that highway, just west of the river valley. It was April of 2001 and the snow had melted from the fields leaving them a golden brown. I was hurtling down the road in my little car, as I did on so many of my working days. Just two days earlier, I had been riding The Tube in Central London. I was on my way back to my North London hotel after a football match. We were all jammed on a train --thousands of us. My face was jammed in someone’s armpit. I could barely move. It was hot. A woman got onboard with her crying newborn baby... My car got to a high point on the road and I pulled over to the side, got out and looked around me. Amber, empty fields stretched from horizon to horizon. The sky seemed to go on forever that day. I could not see one other person. The stark contrast of those two days in April have stuck with me ever since and given me an appreciation for the life that I have, compared to the life I might have had.

A lone coyote on the prairie near my home

After the Munson Bridge, the next major human landmark was the Bleriot Ferry. It was busy shuttling vehicles back and forth across the river. It certainly was larger and more modern looking than the cable ferry I remember from my childhood. Over thirty years had passed since I was last at this spot. I waited until it had stopped briefly on the south bank, then I paddled by and waved back at the ferryman. It was a gorgeous day and the wind at my back allowed me to appreciate it all the more. The river turned from the southerly direction I had been traveling since the Great Bend, back to the east. I paddled past Nacmine and some nice riverside houses and into the heart of the Town of Drumheller.

Red Deer River Journey - Part Eight

From Parkland to Prairie

“Nature is not human hearted.” - Lao-Tzu

Blooming prickly pear cactus in Dry Island Buffalo Jump Provincial Park

The next morning, I was off down the river as usual. It was a Saturday, so plenty of people were out canoeing this popular stretch of the river. From Trenville, the next major stop is the MacKenzie Crossing, which was busy with canoeists, campers and fishermen out to catch some goldeye or possibly a pike or walleye. Some of the walleye in this section of the Red Deer can get very large. The largest one I’ve encountered was twenty-nine inches long. Goldeye are more common. They arrive from downstream in late May and can be voracious through June and into July. They were a favorite meal for the members of the Palliser Expedition.

“Burnham, intent on the search for gold, wanted to see if there was any to be found in the Red Deer River. Palliser told him that he feared the geology of the country would not admit of there being any, but went along with him and Paul. They washed and panned for a considerable time, they found no gold, but they did get a couple of gold-eyes as well as a beaver for dinner.” 1

As I continued heading southward, the valley began to deepen and to look more like the badlands that most Albertans are familiar with. I was approaching a place with which I was very familiar.

 
I parked my canoe at the boat launch of one of my favorite parks. Dry Island Buffalo Jump Provincial Park is both biologically and geologically diverse and is situated on the transition zone between parkland and prairie regions. The valley at this point is two hundred metres deep and contains several distinct levels.



Western wood lily in badland coulee within the park

The north side of the park is fairly typical of a badlands environment, but with some surprises. There is the riparian zone at the lowest level, containing tall grass and willow. On the edge of the riparian zone are some cottonwoods. The next level is a mixture of grassland, bentonite clay and stands of balsam poplar and aspen. Greasewood and cactus dot the harshest parts of the landscape. In June/July there are a multitude of flowers in bloom - including the cactus. More sheltered spots have the beautiful wood lily on display. The typical badlands clays, layered in lighter and darker bands, rise up from this level to that of the surrounding prairie. Also on the north side of the park is the “Dry Island” - a plateau that rises above the surrounding badlands. At its flat summit is a sample of the natural fescues that dominated the surrounding prairie before cultivation. The isolation of the Dry Island serves to preserve these unspoiled natural grasses.

On the north facing slopes and in the many coulees that intersect the badlands there are stands of white spruce. On many a hot afternoon, I have found myself seeking out the cooler shelter of one of the coulees, while I take a break for lunch or simply to get out of the overpowering heat that builds up in this valley. When one looks around themselves in these coulees, they could almost believe that they were in the rocky mountain foothills. This provincial park certainly is a place of contrasts.

On the south side of the park the landscape is different again. It still contains some of the badland’s characteristics, but less so. The land rises more suddenly from the river to a “step” about a hundred metres above the valley bottom. On this level there are aspen, white spruce, willow and dogwood. There is also a stand of paper birch, which is at the southern limit of its range in this province. This is a favored spot for porcupine. There are many mule deer in this area and their trails are every where. There are also some surprises in this knob and kettle terrain. Many hidden ponds and marshes dot this section of the park. They contain boreal chorus and wood frogs. They also provide an attraction for the moose. Of course, the park’s many coyotes can be heard, especially near dusk. Their lonely cries echoing across the valley usually draw a chorus of responses from their kindred animals.

 

The western edge of this level is contained by sheer sandstone cliffs that rise up to the grade of the surrounding prairie. Prairie falcons nest on these cliffs and can be viewed as they hunt and defend their territory. One section of the escarpment was used as a buffalo jump by aboriginal peoples intermittently over a ten thousand year period. The bones of the bison can be found in the soils below the jump. The view from the top of the escarpment is superb. Many times in the spring, I have stood atop these cliffs and watched groups of bald eagles coming from the south, following along the valley on to their northern destinations. I have watched a bull moose in rut during an early winter snow storm, laboring under the heavy weight of its huge antlers. I have seen flocks of turkey vultures flying next to and falcons soaring below this vantage point. Richardson’s ground squirrels (“gophers” to most of us) and badgers live in these uplands and once I came upon a porcupine whose only way to protect itself in this exposed position was to place its head out over the cliffs while it showed me its spiny backside. One spring, in defense of its territory, a mountain bluebird attacked the side mirror of my truck. I returned to the cliff top parking lot to find my driver’s side door covered with droppings and the angry bird still crashing repeatedly into its own reflection.

I had lunch near the boat launch (sandwiches again!) and set off downstream. This time I had a lot of company on the river. Several groups of canoeists were traveling alongside me. A small group made up of two young men and their bikini clad girlfriends, floating along in a motley collection of tubes and dinghies, braved the stretch from the buffalo jump to Tolman Bridge. I’m sure that this stretch of the river was longer than they expected and it was made even more difficult to traverse due to a particularly strong headwind. The scantily clad tubers had few supplies or alternate clothing, but they did have plenty of beer. I was a bit concerned about their safety, but my worries seemed to be for nothing, because I saw them much later in the day, laughing and frolicking in the river.

At one point I got fed up and pulled my canoe up onto the bank to rest and curse the raging headwind. After a little nap, the wind died down a bit and I set off again. As I passed under the Tolman Bridge, I waved at some of the folks that I had chatted with at the buffalo jump and continued on for another hour or two into a more opened bottomed section of the valley. I found a site along the bank, near the opening to a narrow coulee and set up a makeshift camp.

 

A sudden storm during supper almost spells disaster

I was considering sleeping under the stars and not bothering with setting up the tent, but when I looked northward, toward Tolman Bridge, there were black clouds forming and moving eastward across the sky. I was famished so I quickly set up my tent, threw everything inside except my stove and cooking utensils and began cooking supper. The angry looking clouds were moving closer and I realized that my dinner preparations had become a race against time. Supper was almost ready and it looked like I would have enough time. A bit of rain wouldn’t be that much of a problem after all, on such a hot day. Suddenly a huge gust of north wind blew my tent and its contents right on top of me. It was a miracle that my stove didn’t catch the whole works on fire. In my haste to set up camp, I had neglected to peg my tent down. I instinctively grabbed the tent and threw it down. I unzipped the doorway and jumped inside, hoping my weight would hold everything down. I reached outside and shut off my trusty Coleman stove, grabbed my (now ready) pasta supper and sat on the edge of my air mattress, watching the rain and the lightning bolts. After five minutes, the storm moved on and the sun reappeared. It was once again, a still, warm summer evening as I reflected on this typical prairie weather.

I was in the prairies now. I had left the parkland region that morning, somewhere near the buffalo jump. There was not really a clear demarcation, but this was definitely prairie. The rest of my journey would be through some version of this vast region and I wasn’t even half way through my trip. I was feeling a little tired and lonely as I retired to my sleeping bag that night.