Late summer Canoeing

(photo by John Overell)
With a wallop of good luck and a bit of effort, we finally got ourselves on the river.

We spent several blissful hours today canoeing the Klondike river, one of the many tributaries of the Yukon river. Known primarily as the namesake of the Klondike Gold Rush, the Klondike flows into the Yukon river at Dawson City.

It was at the confluence of these rivers that the Tr'ondëk Hwëch'in, People of the River, had an ancestral fishing camp. The english language name Klondike is in fact a mispronunciation of the word Tr'ondëk and means 'hammer rock river'.

The river winds through valleys of boreal birch forest, spruce groves and dredge piles – unceasing reminders of Dawson's gold mining past. Its waters are clear and often one could look down into the depths to see the river rocks gliding by – silent and dreamlike, and seemingly discordant with the dramatic late summer colours. Idyllic but sometimes mischeivous, the river's pace is uninterrupted and continuous – like a pleasant trot on a sunny day.

I have dreams of coming here to this river in winter; each time I return, I try to imagine its frozen choppy surfaces, gleaming ice, snow crusted banks and stark trees. I hear that one can feel the ice shift sometimes or hear it creak groan and crack as it flows underneath – this too I would like to experience. The sense of danger looms – but in an exciting, keep-you-on-your-toes way and there's comfort in the knowledge that the Yukon River and Dawson lie not too far ahead.

Where the Klondike meets the Yukon, the land itself appears innocuous. For a very long time the area was a site of salmon harvest, hunting preparation and meeting place for families. At another time, it became a site of ill repute, better known as Lousetown – another throwback to the Gold Rush days. Now it has recovered/regenerated a sense of youthful serenity. As we drift into the slow lazy flow of the Yukon, there is the most incredible sound sensation: similar to onions sautéing in a frying pan, or being inside a coke can, the silt of the Yukon river makes an audible sizzle as it rubs against the canoe's exterior.

By the water, one can view the metamorphosis of the two rivers. A visible line between the murky, drab olive brown of the Yukon and the translucent jade-like Klondike appears, varying the width of each riverband daily. And as we drift closer to Dawson, it's the sound of industry and transport that breaks the spell: helicoptors, cars, ferry and heavy machinery – vast reminders of the differences that lie between millennia of Trondëk Hwëch'in river use, and our current methods of coming north. -Cara