The Rupert River.  Dozens of bay trippers have traveled this waterway in Northern Quebec above the Arctic Divide.  It has guided them through lakes and rapids, across portages and over magnificent drops to the brackish waters of James Bay.  When speaking of the Rupert, the adjectives and descriptors which often precede the name include mighty, amazing, powerful, incredibly powerful and sometimes scary.  But for those who have paddled red canoes down this spectacular river, no qualifiers can do it justice, and memories of exhilarating rapids and astounding scenery can easily be called upon years and decades later.

Unfortunately, the fate of this river, which is so much a part of Wabun's history, appears bleak.  Massive plans to divert the Rupert are well in the works.  Conservative estimates say that the volume of water will be reduced by 60%, while 80% - 90% is more likely.  Knowing this, the ten of us set out with an added sense that this would be a special summer as the clock on the river is ticking.

On the shores of Lac Waconichi, a scant 600-mile drive from Temagami, we left Jim and Nibby and our brethren in the other Section 'A' group, and excitedly began our adventure.  The preseason part of the trip takes us north, through Waconichi and Baie du Poste where we pass the native reservation of Mistassini and then up Abatagush Bay.  It was during this stretch where a favorable tailwind inspired us to hoist the mast and fly and set sail.  For ten miles we skimmed the water, trying every possible configuration and logistical maneuvering to reach maximum speed.  Just when our bungeed vessel could not be improved any further, the wind really started to blow.  Frantically, down came the mast and sail, we debungeed and fled to the shore to seek shelter.  After a few hours of waiting and an exciting paddle to the site, we were the audience to one of the most powerful storms that I have seen in the north.  Blasting-shifting winds, fat rain and hail bombarded us as we huddled under the fly.  But . . . in typical bay trip fashion, 45 minutes later we were treated to a postcard sunset of scarlet and purple rays dancing through the trees and off the water.

Lake Mistassini, the largest lake in the province of Quebec awaited us.  In the past, sections had been forced to wait in excess of three days for the winds to be calm enough for a crossing.  This year the wind seemed to have blown herself out the night before as we were given a glassy lake and calm breezes to reach the other shore.

This marks the end of preseason and is the point where the real trip begins, for we are now a short paddle from the headwaters of the Rupert River on which we would spend the next thirty days.

I imagine that now would be a good time to introduce you to the cast that took part in this six-week production of ours.

Mikael: The literary captain of the section. Mikael would borrow a 200-page book, and the following night would ask if anyone else had any books he could read.

Scott: My bowman from Worcester, MA.  Scott loved to ask questions, some of which, at times, seemed rather obscure.  My favorite was, 'Dude, wouldn't it be like wicked weird if there were dinosaurs on the portages and campsites with us?  To which the only possible response was, "why yes Scott, that would be weird."

Steve: Steve arrived at Wabun with plans to be a Chippy staff, however, an unforeseen event left us needing to fill a slot at the last minute.  Steve already had a bay trip under his belt, and enthusiastically accepted the invitation to join the group.

Doepping:  I think that his first name is Jon, but for the past six weeks he has simply been 'Doepping,' our giant spectacled bowman.

Michael: Despite his size, Mike proved that his heart is larger than his mighty muscles; unfortunately Mike also proved that his voice is more powerful than both.

William: Also known as the 'staff killer' as Will was the first camper to beat a member of the staff in the nightly routine of shooting for plate rinsing.  The glory was short lived however as William traveled a steep downward spiral from that point on.

Stewart: Oh Stew . . . where do I begin?  Your joy of carrying the 'K'?  Your hair? Or your wonderful moustache?  There are so many choices . . . I think that I will just move on.

Richard: Our resident Roger Ebert whose cinematic knowledge eclipsed that of the entire section.  But, it was also Rich who offered one of the more memorable quotes of the summer, after a tough day of shooting rapids.  'The really hard rapids are easy, it is just that the easy ones are so hard.'  I am still trying to figure that one out.

That is the cast, led by the world traveling philosopher Shaughn, and yours truly, the old man of the section, Jason.  Well, now that we have covered the participants in this play, the theme was fire and water. 

As we made our way across Mistassini, great plumes of smoke could be seen 15-20 miles north of us.  The next day we encountered it for real.  As we bushed a site on an island one-mile shy from the start of the Rupert, we found ourselves looking north and west and seeing nothing but burning forest.  For the next week, we made our way down the river with smoke occasionally stinging our eyes and ash falling around our canoes.  On one day, the smoke was so thick that we almost needed flashlights on the campsite... it was 3:00 in the afternoon.

We soon turned west which gave us a brief respite from the blaze.  Paddling next to green hillsides with fresh air gave us hope that the worst was behind us.  A few days later as we were approaching Mesgouez Rapids (one of the most scenic and marvelous stretches on the trip(the fire returned.  With several campsites charred, we bushed a sight late, actually hoping that the rain would continue and help extinguish the remaining flames.  At this point in the trip, the forest fires had become almost routine and while they provided a great deal of excitement and nervousness, particularly for the staff, at no point was our personal health or safety compromised.  While several of our campsites were completely blackened, we did observe one of the stranger phenomena of the fires.  Most of our portages through this terrain were singed, however for some wonderful, fortuitous reason, the trails were never burnt.  Like Dorothy walking down the yellow brick road, we would find ourselves with wannigans, packs and canoes trekking through land, which was totally black, but for the mossy-green or pine-needle-orange pathway which would be laid out in front of us.  I think this was Mother Nature's gift, her little truce for the hardships she had caused.

The lower Rupert is unlike any other section of water on the bay trips.  The streams and creeks that have flowed into the Rupert for the past three weeks have created a river whose power is profound.  Daily, we would encounter rapids and falls so grand that all we could do was stop and stare, trying to take in what was in front of our eyes.

One particular rapid, which epitomizes the power of this river, is the second rapid of the 'Fours,' which provides for one of the most incredible views of whitewater that can possibly be seen.  This thunderous rapid and those following led us all the way to the reservation of Waskaganish.  As always, my dear friend Roy Hester, with whom the last four Rupert bay trip members have stayed, was waiting for us.  Unfortunately, Roy's family had planned a vacation for the time that we were staying there, so . . . Roy did what any pure-of-heart man would do, he handed over the keys to his house to 10 dirty, stinky canoe trippers who had just been in the bush for 5-weeks.  The thing is, is that this was not a surprise. This man and his family have consistently amazed me with their generosity, kindness and warmth.  I know that I am a better person because I have Roy Hester as a friend.

On the second day in our castle, we were joined by the other section 'A', who had spent the first half of the summer traveling a northern route before entering the Rupert.  They too enjoyed the comforts of Hotel Hester before we all embarked on a long and quite interesting bus ride, with our chauffeur Gil, back to the home-waters of Temagami.

A crowd of nearly 60 gathered last night regaling each other with stories of the past 6-weeks.  Each memory sparking further recollections of moose, rapids, campsites, portages and relationships.  As the visitors paddled through the starlit waters, we sat around the fire recalling specific lines that were taken on shots, the sights seen and the efforts exerted in the past 41 days.

As I said before, the clock on the Rupert is ticking.  Standing next to the rapid on the second of the 'Fours,' I could not help but think of what this would look like with only 30% of the water trickling down.  And more so, how anyone can look Roy Hester in the eye and tell him that the artery, which has supplied him, his family and his ancestors with life for centuries, can now be reduced to dollar signs and decimal points.

In 1998, after leading a group of six campers down the Rupert with McKenzie Grant, I wrote:

"We encounter, and are humbled by the water.  Rapids, such as the Gorge, Mesgouez, Oatmeal Falls, the Fours, Cat Rapids, and Plum Pudding . . . Rapids, where the derivations of the names are quite often a mystery but whose power is very much known.  Having the opportunity to stand next to one of these allows for a very strange sensation that is rather difficult to describe.  There is the obvious raw power that transforms smooth black water into a frothing white mixture that spits and explodes into the air. Yet once this feeling of awe has begun to subside, a different view is experienced.  It is one that is calming.  There is a distinct pattern in which the water flows.  A pattern which has remained the same since the glaciers carved these spectacles out of the earth. It is this powerful serenity that causes the eyes to fixate on a particular stack, or cellar, or ledge and trace the current as it travels this maze in an endless cycle.  It is the equivalent to a fire, the way the flames dance and curl around the wood only to dissipate in the air above.  So does the water choose its channels and navigate around the rocks to the safety of the calm below. There is the wonderful knowledge that there will not be any variation in the thunderous sound, nor the mist in the air, nor the waters path to the bay or lake below, the next time it is visited whether it be in twelve months or twelve years.'

     Unfortunately, in twelve years the river might look quite different.  Whatever the outcome may be, I feel very fortunate to have witnessed and been part of the river.  Ten years ago to this day, almost to this hour, I sat right over there and listened to John Hinchman read the log from the 1992 Rupert season, my first bay trip.  And it has been my distinct privilege and pleasure to have been able to live on the Rupert again with these eight guys, and truly hope that Wabun sections will have the opportunity to experience this waterway in the future."