RIVER OF DREAMS in the Northwest Territories

The revered, capricious South Nahanni speaks through raw natural beauty

High above the earth, I make my acquaintance with the fabled South Nahanni River, as there are no roads out here. From the float plane window, I spot her meandering through, just like rivers on the plains do.

Older than the surrounding mountains, she dug her bed in the land, carving the deepest canyons in Canada, then creating Náilicho, also known as Virginia Falls, almost twice the height of Niagara Falls.

Her strength overcomes me already. I feel small before this unbridled creature I will come to know well over the next few days.

The Twin Otter, our float plane, departed from Fort Simpson in the Northwest Territories, soaring over an endless expanse of boreal plains, lakes and muskeg, yielding to the rugged folds of the Mackenzie Mountains, where the Nahanni finds her source. She courses over a whopping 565 kilometres, transforming from a clear stream to a large, siltladen river flowing with grey-green waters.

Established in 1976, the Nahanni National Park Reserve (whose traditional name is Naha Dehé) now encompasses roughly 30,000 square kilometres, grazing the Yukon border. An average of only 900 park visitors per year come to this UNESCO World Heritage site. A third arrive on day trips for a glimpse of Náilicho; others stay longer, with a handful scaling the granite peaks known as the Cirque of the Unclimbables, and twothirds paddling down the river.

We touch down, upstream of the falls, dumbstruck by the view. “Remember, if you’re paddling, you’re going the wrong way!” hollers the pilot before leaving us. For as independent as the Nahanni is, she is also generous. Her current transports canoers from her headwaters, although the vast majority start their 200kilometre trip at the foot of the falls.

The river is capricious, her mood ranging from calm to fierce; only paddlers with whitewater skills can master her intermediate Class 3 rapids. Capsizing would mean a long, cold swim. Beginners opt for a tamer section or seek out an organized expedition.

About three in five visitors travelling down the Nahanni use a licensed outfitter, such as Canadian River Expeditions and Nahanni River Adventures. Our guide, Joel Hibbard, who owns the business with his family, has braved these waters more than 40 times — we are in good hands.

“The Nahanni is more than a wilderness river. Its history draws people to it,” he says.

This history extends beyond the rock it is etched in. Over a dozen mysterious deaths and disappearances have made the Nahanni legendary. A famous example is that of the McLeod brothers, two gold prospectors whose headless bodies were discovered here in 1908. This macabre story is the origin of such place names as Funeral Range, Headless Creek and Deadmen Valley.

Most importantly, however, this is the Dene people’s homeland and has been their hunting grounds for over 10,000 years. Náilicho means “big water falling” in Dene — a clear understatement.

The creature quickly establishes her power over me, reverberating through my being. Roaring through the strangling cliffs and torn asunder by a stubborn, projecting rock stack, she gouges into Fourth Canyon in a violent torrent of almost 100 metres.

This canyon is the first of a series. Or rather, the last, since explorers, who lacked the luxury of a float plane to reach their destination, named the canyons as they navigated upstream.

Helmets and life jackets adjusted, we throw one last glance at the falls behind … and to the rapids ahead! A roller coaster of rising waves and icy sprays unleashes my adrenalin, as our canoes and rafts careen downstream under the beating sun. Flanking the river are five kilometres of cliffs and hoodoos in shades of ochre, yellow, grey and pink. The Fourth Canyon, also known as Painted Canyon, proudly wears its title.

Fresh moose and bear prints mark each campsite, reminding us that we are not alone. Wildlife abounds in the park, with wolves, grizzlies, caribous, Dall sheep, beavers and countless birds. In the late 1800s, following a long winter hunting season, the Mountain Dene would coast along the river in moose skin boats to trade furs.

In a valley of overlapping hills and eroded banks, my paddle grazes and strokes the calm waters, as our canoe gently drifts ahead. At Flat River junction, the water seems to fizz. The guide instructs me to bring the grip of my paddle to my ear, amplifying the whisper of sediments hitting the blade … the Nahanni sings!

If Fourth Canyon is the most intense with its rapids, then the Third, a 40kilometre dent in the Funeral Range, appears gentler due to its brittle rock. The slopes lean forth, their shale, sandstone and limestone strata sinking into the river, save for at a few exceptional spots, such as the Gate. Here, the river loses half its width and hairpins into a ravine graced by a pinnacle, Pulpit Rock. Scrambling over 400 metres, we admire her creations from atop, speechless.

Through looming clouds and lingering smoke from forest fires, we approach Second Canyon, which fractures Headless Range, spanning a length of 15 kilometres. Our boats, minuscule red dots on the water amid the vast landscape, are dwarfed by its giant walls.

First Canyon is the crowning jewel of all four. Its limestone and hard dolomite walls ripple upward, climbing to more than 1,000 metres. Pinnacles and arches tower over terraces harbouring spruces, which have sprouted against all odds and now stand tall.

This kingdom of karst landforms, produced by water seeping through the limestone, is home to sinkholes, grooves, bridges, labyrinths and the Grotte Valerie, a cave system which boasts nearly two kilometres of tunnels and one of the world’s finest ice-caves.

We bid farewell to First Canyon, following our hike to Lafferty Creek, a secondary canyon where we passed through an increasingly narrow passage, forcing us to wade and swim through the icy pools dotting its polished floor.

Thankfully, the water temperature is more inviting in the Kraus Hot Springs, named after Mary and Gus, pioneers who resided in this barren land from 1940 to 1971. We bask in the warm sulphur water, despite the cold drizzle, the pungent smell and the floating algae.

Every evening, Joel’s team treats us to veritable feasts, cooked over fireboxes. Chatter and laughter permeate the night air until finally, we shuffle into our tents, though the sky is still bright above the 60th parallel. At sunrise, when melancholic skies sombre my mood, cinnamon buns freshly baked in a Dutch oven or eggs Benedict lift my spirits.

In the lowland valley’s braided channels of the Splits, the Nahanni is merciless. She shaves away the banks, snatching aspens or spruces ruthlessly, leaving them dead in the water, now reduced to hazards for daydreaming paddlers.

Bison lumber across the river; we hear them huffing and puffing during a rare quiet moment aboard. The silence continues as we approach the Nahanni Butte settlement, where the river lazily disgorges into the Liard, marking the end of our journey together. The tranquility is broken only by the approaching motorboat, wresting me out of my reverie, tearing me away from the creature’s embrace.