The green canoe before it went under – a casualty of whitewater hubris.Megan Weatherston
Sometimes things don't go as planned – and those moments often make for the best stories. Tripping columns offer readers a chance to share their wild adventures.
There it was. The green canoe rested underwater, wrapped rather gracefully around a large pillow rock. Water pounded over top of it.
At least it wasn't our canoe, I thought, just a little bit smugly.
How did we get here? My dad and I had signed up for five guided days on the Dumoine River in Quebec, a chance to spend time together without everyday distractions. It's a trip we had been talking about for years. There were six of us on the trip, three canoes and our guide paddling on her own.
But now, as I watched the water bow the sunken canoe, I contemplated the scenario. Our family was expecting Dad and me home that evening. We did not have a phone. And the previous occupant of the green canoe was threatening to walk out of the woods alone. Our guide had spent two hours in various states of duress trying to cajole the canoe from its watery grave. We were supposed to paddle out that afternoon but were now down one canoe and up two canoe-less women. The math wasn't good.
It was probably remarkable this hadn't happened earlier. We had been dumped five days earlier after a treacherous three-hour van ride along boulder-strewn back roads. One of our self-assured tripmates claimed to be an expert and was fitted head to toe in bug gear. (Funnily enough, it was her canoe now stuck underwater.) While my dad and I had plenty of flat-water experience, whitewater was something totally different. Regardless, we set off, my dad in back and I, the power up front. The exhilaration of getting down those first rapids left us soaked and elated. With each set of rapids, we got a little better. The adrenalin kicked in as we scouted and then crested and we picked our way down each run. The sense of accomplishment had us hooting and beaming. It was, simply put, an amazing experience.
Until the expert dumped her green canoe, and it got stuck between the rocks and the forces of fast-moving water. We were 10 kilometres from the end of our trip and, literally, up the creek without a canoe.
Eventually, we piled the extra ladies in our canoe and their gear in the other. My dad and I paddled six long hours and even ran another set of rapids – which wasn't easy with the extra passengers. Eventually, we crossed the Ottawa River in the dark, head lamps illuminating our way, and made it home.
The green canoe, however, was a casualty of whitewater hubris.
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