Jan 2002

Mudjatic River 2001

Mudjatic in Cree means Deer, and so in the vernacular of northern Saskatchewan we were really on the river of the deer. But we were in the homeland of the Dene, not the Cree, and I’m not sure what they call the river. Beginning this story with a meandering sentence like that is only fitting considering the nature of this river. Never have we been on anything with as many twists and turns as the Mudjatic. In one spot, after a kilometer paddle around an ox-bow section, we were within 50 yards of where we entered the bend! And there were lots and lots of sections like that for the entire 200 km.

We flew into and started at the South end of Cree Lake paddling up a little stream called the Brustad. A short portage put us on the Gwilliam River and headed toward the Height-o-land Portage that separates the rivers that flow north to the Arctic and the South flowing rivers drained by the mighty Churchill River to Hudson’s Bay. The entire 4th of July was spent portaging the Height-o-land portage. Three miles of questionable trail and three small lakes makes for a full day. The portage ends at a dead end oxbow on the Mudjatic, in a field of buck-brush and Fireweed. Except for the telltale fire ring of a winter camp, one could never tell that the object had been achieved.

The Mudjatic meanders south to the Churchill River through beautiful, pristine, clear blue northern lakes, with acres of white sand beaches and sublime camping spots. It’s the river in between these pearls that becomes the barbed wire on which they are strung. A quarter km is a long straight stretch on the Mudjatic; no place for long straight tracking canoes. At the start we wished we had a hinge in the center of our 17-footer.

There are multiple sets of rapids. Some you can run, some you can’t, and with a three week hike facing the party that loses its transportation, we elected to carry if there was ever a question.

There were bears all over. One came running into camp following a fellow camper on a potty break. "Bear Bangers" wouldn’t drive him off. Only the shotgun would do that, and then he only ran 50 feet into the brush and continued to stalk us! We were leaving anyway, so letting him "win" seemed the best solution.

We came out on the Churchill not far down stream from Leaf Rapids. While looking for the start of the portage our Canadian companion stated, "this is it all right— can tell by the Pin Cherries. They’re not native to Saskatchewan. They came here in the Fort Garry {Winnipeg} Pemmican the fur trade Voyageurs lived on. Those old guys would relieve themselves at the start of a carry and you find Pin Cherries on all the old routes."

Leaf Rapids is a mile-long boulder bed. The option is to either pole up stream or portage. We made the portage first thing in the morning after camping in the Pin Cherries the night before. Immediately after Leaf comes Drum Rapids, a series of four rapids that must be either lined or portaged. The third set is the dandy of the bunch. There’s a big cross erected in the center of the run commemorating all the lost souls that have died here since Peter Pond came up here in the mid 1700’s. Number Three is a Class V with a portage on the left side when ascending..

We had already lined up two sets of rapids and were actually looking forward to the portage around the third set as a chance to get out of the river and take a break. Three of us rested while our fourth walked the trail to scout it out. He was gone for quite a while. His report was our old friend Brother Bear was also using the portage and seemed indisposed to sharing. The river was low and the only other choice to walking the portage in pairs, with one partner toting a load and the other toting the shotgun, was to line up Drum #3 on the right side where some heavy boulders marked the shore and would give reasonable footing. We saw five different bears on this trip, all of them inquisitive, and being this close to the end of the line, lining seemed like a good option.

After ferrying across the apron at the base of Drum #3, itself a good class three, we started up the right side, skipping from rock to rock and trying to keep the canoe in close. We were the second canoe; there would be no one below to catch us if we got into trouble.

I was looking up stream for my next step when I heard my partner yelp. My end had drifted out away from the bank and into the maelstrom. The bow was rolling in from the pressure of the line in my hand and there was no way that I was strong enough to pull it back in against the pressure of the mighty Churchill. I had to let go. I’m not sure what happened next, but I was in the water, moving fast past the hull of our trusty canoe that had "swapped" ends and now had its stern pointing up stream while being held fast by my erstwhile mate. My bow line was streaming out downstream, floating atop the foam. I caught a glimpse of it , and the big old cross, while trying to figure out how I was going to get my feet pointed downstream before entering that crushing channel filled with Volkswagen sized rocks. I made a grab for the painter, and caught the last foot of line in a death grip. My good wife played us both, me and the fully loaded canoe, like a fish on a line, and swung us into the shore.

There were a few quiet moments when we realized just how near a thing that had been. Close encounters with the Great Mystery are sobering. The lesson of course, in life and canoeing, is picking the right partner, and in this instance, I had made a life-saving choice.

Our take out at Patunak, a small Dene reserve at the end of the road, was only a two hour upstream paddle away, and we were in well before dark. Our friends from Regina, have a saying; "If you’re bound to hang, you’re not going to drown." I guess I’d better start picking out a rope.

If you need more information about this route, costs and flight information give me a call.

Al Gustaveson,
Building Director