NORTHERN SASKATCHEWAN'S MacFARLANE RIVER

by Dave Bober

Remote canoe trips usually begin with hours of map dreaming and the frustrating search for suitable tripping partners. But for once, the river gods were smiling - a chance acquaintance and three long-distance telephone calls in twenty minutes brought strangers together for a two week whitewater trip on northern Saskatchewan's MacFarlane River.

	- Dave Bober

So here we were, Daryl Sexsmith, my regular tripping partner of several years, and myself driving north towards LaLoche in late June with two unfamiliar faces: Bill Jeffery and Roger Devine. These other guys seemed O.K. - our eccentric fascination with wilderness travel was an immediate bond and all mouths were running full blast in high pear, flush with the anticipation and excitement of our route. But the truth be known, the real clincher for my participation in this trip had been my wife who didn't raise a whisper of objection; "You'd better do it Dave, or you'll be impossible to live with if you don't go!"

In a few minutes the painful part, laying down our bucks with LaLoche Air Service, was over and it was time to fly the 170 kilometres into Lisgar Lake. It was a turbulent ride in the Cessna 185 and several times we had to remind ourselves that there was nothing, in our stomachs but butterflies. The pilot thought otherwise and handed each of us a doggie bag, but I am proud to say that with effort we managed to hold our own.

Twice we flew over the Clearwater, a Heritage River that is becoming a popular whitewater run. Our pilot had a little difficulty in locating our destination; the view below was a regular jig saw puzzle of small lakes and interconnected streams, but luckily we had Bill's 50,000 topographic map, and finally figured it out after circling for fifteen minutes, landing at the northeast end of Lisgar Lake about 7:30 pm. The plane left for the balance of our crew and Daryl and I set up camp on a carpet of moss, preparing supper and soaking up the remoteness of this jack pine wilderness. A thunderstorm rolled in with gusty winds and we were relieved when the pilot returned about 10:00 with Bill and Roger. Then the plane was gone again and the four of us were alone with the summer solstice, weary from the highway miles and expectation that precedes all journeys into the unknown, not to mention the risks of traveling with untried companions. On this last item we need not have lost any sleep, for I've yet to paddle with a more compatible crew.

The MacFarlane rises about 50 km north of Cree Lake, running 300 km almost due north through the Athabasca sandstone geological formation. Just before emptying into Lake Athabasca, the river cuts through the cast side of the unique Athabasca Sand Dunes, a world all of its own. The entire region is uninhabited and virtually un-travelled today, offering the wilderness seeker some of the most isolated canoe country below the 60th parallel.

There was something exhilarating about paddling a river without a written record from previous travellers, and I found myself engrossed in a Huck Finn fantasy of peril and adventure. But I do take offense at those who claim a first or whatever descent of a river, as the Indians have done them all. George Bihun, a friendly conservation officer from Uranium City, shared a Geological Survey map dated 1932 indicating old native routes that included some phenomenally long portages. Bill has personally talked to several, now elderly, Dene hunters, who endured portages of 10 to 25 km to access this area many years ago - it's a shame their exploits have never been recorded.

Armed with 50,000-scale topographic maps, we almost felt like we were cheating until arriving at a location north of Lazenby Lake where the river had a mind of its own, defying the map in three spots. Actually, we had an easy day running a number of fast shallow rapids and absorbing the solitude of the pine-covered hills. By days' end we knew we would make a team, our apprehension drained by the challenge of the river.

The next several days the MacFarlane picked up volume and we enjoyed some exciting runs in long class II and III rapids. We made good progress but always took the time to observe the wildlife around us, including a large bear that did not seem the least interested in our presence until we approached too closely; then suddenly we were paddling away like crazy. Fortunately, bruin decided to expend his energies on a handy beaver house and we paddled on for a few miles, swapping stories of previous bear encounters.

Eagles, ducks, and geese with their new broods also kept us entertained as well as a pair of trumpeter swans that reappeared several times. We made our first portage around a small falls above Brudell Lake, named for a trapper who lived there in the 1930s. A fascinating read on this part of Saskatchewan is the intriguing book "North to Cree Lake" by A.L. Karras. Below Brudell we scouted a heavier rapid that Bill and Roger ran, while Daryl and I portaged a faint trail laced with lovely pink lady slipper flowers.

Day three was our day of discovery. Between two rapids and below an overhanging rock face, Bill spotted three native pictographs, red line figures in the shape of a triangle that may have indicated a travel itinerary. This artwork of antiquity substantiates the existence of a native route of travel between Lake Athabasca and the Churchill River, via the MacFarlane River. This discovery was particularly rewarding in that there appears to be no written record of pictographs existing that far north.

The second find of the day was of lesser significance but still the cause of much speculation: the bleached skeleton of an old homemade canoe hanging up in a jack pine and two very short, hand-carved spruce paddles leaning against the trunk. A few rusted stove pipes, some beaver hoops of willow, and a few axe-cut poles gave evidence that this had been a trapper's camp. The temptation to carry the paddles out as souvenirs seemed inappropriate, and there they will remain until consumed by forest fire or time.

With hills rising to over one hundred metres above the river, it hardly seemed possible that we were cruising through so-called "flat" Saskatchewan. A favourite activity after supper was an evening climb up a high hill for a sunset panorama of sky, river, and endless pine-covered hills in every direction, that brought on a feeling of minuteness and yet a closeness to the Creator of it all. Some huge depressions in the fragile reindeer moss invoked images of the "Sasquatch", but we wandered on unharmed by beast and unhindered by the complexities of life on these remote highland vistas.

A spectacular three-split falls was our reward on our fifth day, an open sky cathedral of primeval beauty where the wild lady slippers grew in profusion. With warm sunshine on our backs, a gentle breeze, and hardly an insect to disturb the tranquility, it was like we had already arrived. It always amazes me how close you can get to wildlife in a canoe. Downwind, we approached a bull moose contentedly munching on young willow branches, totally unaware of our presence only four metres away. Another time we snuck up on a moose napping in the river with only his nose sticking out - man, did he come out of the water like a torpedo!

Soon we passed the mouth of the Snare River and now had some well-written trip notes from an expedition the previous summer, a group that, we learned later, was led by Bob Dannert from Minnesota. At every river constriction there was a rapid even though our topo maps indicated nothing. Most rapids were long and bouldery, and we ran them by scouting from the canoe and eddy-hopping our way down. The shoreline did not readily lend itself to lining and I doubt that portages exist, except those kept open by game. The water level was obviously very high as evidenced by drowned-out willows; running the MacFarlane in low water conditions would be a tough go, requiring considerably more time and effort.

Scenic camps and level tent sites were almost always easy to locate on pine-covered beaches that reminded us that we were, indeed, traveling through the Kingdom of Sand. One evening after a heavy-duty spaghetti supper, we were relaxing over a cup of tea when Bill (sometimes referred to as "Binocular Bill") spotted a moving something in the water. Before I could mutter "I don't see nothin', "Bill and Roger were rushing for their canoe with utterances of "Bear! Let's head him off before he hits camp". I was totally amazed at how fast a bear can swim upstream, and bruin landed on a sand spit a couple hundred metres above camp before the canoe could intercept him.

When the boys returned slightly alarmed, I was still unperturbed and remarked "Never mind - he is just heading back up river." But with a keen sense of smell the bear was coming on strong for pasta, even through we scrupulously clean up after every meal. Although the bear did not charge right in for dessert, his determined pace put little fear into us, and suddenly Daryl and I were blowing our whistles and ordering him to go elsewhere. He really was a big fella! All our hubbub did nothing to discourage him and as he approached to within fifty metres in the thin jack pines, Bill, our fearless leader, grabbed a large stick and lunged at the intruder. But Mr. Bear just stood his ground, although I don't recall him growling or actively displaying overt aggression. When Bill put down his feeble weapon and said, "We're outta here," we did not argue and in ten minutes flat we evacuated camp, rolling sleeping bags and clothing up inside the tents, and just throwing everything into the boats. All the while, the bear kept a silent watch on us from thirty to forty metres, and when we had gained the safety of the river, we stopped to look back over our shoulders. Sure enough, the bear was sitting on the river bank where we had been reclining only minutes before, finishing Bill's cup of tea (the only item we forgot) and, if I'm not mistaken, with a grin on his face.

In retrospect, we were very fortunate that the bear did not visit us an hour later as it would have been dark and we certainly would have lost some grub. As it was, we made our getaway at dusk, negotiating two rapids in near darkness with nothing tied in. Our alternative camp was pitched at midnight, the thick young forest silhouetted by a full moon rising high in the June sky. Strange to say, bearish thoughts did not disturb my sleep and I drifted off with the sound of a gentle breeze in the pines.

The next day we were sped on our way by good current and some long, easy rapids, and then, by the wind which afforded us an opportunity to sail as we neared Davey Lake. Our island campsite, a "Shangri-La" with a lovely sand beach was blessed by the absence of biting insects, and we thoroughly enjoyed the lingering evening, leisurely swimming in the surprisingly warm water.

A vicious but short-lived squall hit just before dawn, rousing all of us from slumber to check the security of our gear. Fortunately the wind abated as suddenly as it had risen and we had an ideal 14-kilometre crossing of Davey Lake the next morning, lunching near an active eagle's nest along Gunthrie Bav. At another location the ever-curious Bill actually checked out an abandoned eagle's nest and found that a man could comfortably curl up inside of it.

Nearing the river mouth, some old cabins caught our attention and as we peeked inside the door of the first dirt-covered hut, we hurriedly withdrew as an agitated mother merganser flew off her nest of eight eggs. This point between the north shore of Davey Lake and the MacFarlane River is obviously a perennial favourite of the Chipeweyans from Fond du Lac; the natives probably access this area by snowmobiling across Lake Athabasca and the Great Sand Dunes.

- Dave Bober

The next three days were canyon days as we worked our day down the final kilometres of the MacFarlane River towards immense Athabasca Lake, one of the last large lakes in our province still inaccessible by road. The Upper Gorge drops 40 metres in about three kilometres, necessitating a one kilometre long portage on river right along five to ten metre high canyon walls. The humidity was oppressive and for once the black flies came out in full force for blood, causing us to hurry across the fairly easy carry - through semi-open jack pine. Numerous ledges and a five-metre falls kept the river roaring and camp was pitched on the canyon rim at a spot where we could access the water by dragging the canoes over the cliff.

It had been a tiresome day and we were pooped from the exertion and the heat. Hopefully, no roving bears would trouble us, for the noise of the intruder would have been obliterated by the thunder of the gorge. A large toad greeted us the next morning while we loaded the boats and gladly posed for his picture. Running the balance of the rapids in the canyon, we were forced to ferry across the strong current several times to locate the deep water channel - our river had grown from a benign stream to a formidable opponent.

Then it was 28 km of smooth cruising, the monotony broken by the appearance of two moose and several eagles. In late afternoon we reached the Big One, the Middle Canyon of the MacFarlane. Scouting the west side of the canyon for about three kilometres, our topo maps came alive as the river plunged down nine contour lines in five kilometres of rugged, pristine beauty! Sheer canyon walls rise 10 to 18 metres high and the 80-metre drop pounds itself out in almost countless ledges and four sets of falls up to 12 metres high. In some places huge pieces of cliff have fallen or detached themselves from the main canyon wall, creating all sorts of weird crevices and interesting overhangs. Bill remarked that this canyon reminded him of the Dubawnt in the N.W.T., albeit with a lesser volume of water. By late evening we had completed our scouting and had formulated a plan of action for the next morning.

Ferrying across a very strong current, we camped on river right on a high sandy bank. Our enthusiasm for this lovely spot was somewhat dampened by fresh bear dung and the inevitable apprehension of our upcoming day with the Big One. Ferrying back across to the west side in the morning, we began our descent into the canyon with a feeling of elation, yet tempered by respect for the river. Hugging the west shore for three-fourths of a kilometre, we kept all eyes peeled for the exact spot where we would take out just above the first impassable ledge. Don't worry - we didn't miss it! Then it was time to put our plan into action: crawl up through a narrow crevice and manhandle the canoes and packs up the canyon walls with a rope. Adrenalin did the trick and soon we were safely on top; the last squeeze through that ominous crevice was a relief, even for a little guy like me. The three-kilometre portage through recent burn was strenuous work but not as bad as we had envisioned the evening before. For some reason "apprehension" is usually worse than "reality". The awesome Middle Canyon is an Indian Reserve - "Sacred Land and Thunder Water".

Taking a long break at the bottom of the bushwhack portage, we recuperated with a heavy mid afternoon lunch and a cool submersion in a jacuzzi-like boil that helped relax sore muscles and aching backs. Although evening was at hand, we were anxious to have a little extra time to explore the Sand Dunes and so shoved off into the Lower Canyon, maneuvering constantly in the five kilometres of heavy water. Taking a small side channel on river right we were able to avoid some of the bigger stuff, surprising a busy beaver and catching a glimpse of the first majestic Sand dune as we regained the main channel. At last the whitewater was behind us and we glided across a small roundish lake, bordered on two sides by high, almost barren dunes, that mark the eastern limit of the Great Athabasca Sand Dunes.

	- Dave Bober

By 9:00 pm we were camped at a superb site on the north end of the little lake and all agreed it had been one very long hard day of wilderness travel. This small unnamed lake was an ideal pick-Lip spot for a float plane, as opposed to the wind-tossed South shore of Athabasca, five kilometres north at the delta of the MacFarlane. In the lingering calm of twilight, the muffled roar of the lower canyons could still be heard in the distance, but we smiled at the prospect of a leisurely time exploring the dunes on foot the following day.

The sweet sleep of success had a tranquilizing effect and I awoke with a start by the splashing of water but it was only Bill going for his morning dip. At 59 degrees latitude the water was much warmer than expected, and the weatherman had certainly been generous to us with warm sunny days and only an odd shower, a stark contrast to some northern trips.

The Dunes were a delight and it was amazing how fast they heated up in the early July heat. A hike over the dune fields was like a walk on an alien planet and we thoroughly enjoyed the vistas from these, the most northerly dunes in the world. Individual dunes reach 1500 metres long with heights up to 30 metres, some of the largest dunes in North America. This region is geologically and biologically unique with a number of Plants that are found nowhere else on earth. The Saskatchewan government has recently set aside the entire area as a wilderness reserve, but this status could be threatened if road construction is allowed to access the dunes from the south.

Moose, bear, and some huge timber wolf tracks were evident on our walks above camp, and from a high dune we caught sight of the huge expanse of Lake Athahasca, glittering in the evening Sun. The dune fields in the immediate vicinity were interspersed by spruce and pine-covered ridges, an eerie and exotic land where the ever-shifting sands are either smothering plants and trees by burying them or building up solid formations firm enough to support new plant growth.

Crawling into the tents for our last night we reflected on the wonders of the river and the fragility of these remarkable dune lands. Our hope is that this unique ecosystem will remain unspoiled and wild far into the future. The Cessna arrived on cue the next morning for the 320 kilometre flight South. Bill and Roger went first, allowing Daryl and I to savour the dunes for a few hours longer. Then it was our turn to wing South over the vast wilderness of northern Saskatchewan. And next time I'll remember to bring Gravol tablets.

READ STORIES:

Otherside River Narrative about a tiny river in the Athabasca Sand Basin.

Churchill River Narrative about a mighty river that flows west to east across north-central Saskatchewan.

Nipekamew River Narrative about a beautiful river flowing north on the Boreal Plain into the south end of Lac La Ronge.

Athabasca Sand Dunes Narrative about the vast expanses of rolling sand on Saskatchewan's Boreal Shield.

Links Have your own Saskatchewan wilderness adventure... visit our adventure and ecotourism links.