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HITTING A WALL: John Grace at the Forest Kerr Hyroelectric Project site. At right, Grace shoots video as Erik Boomer and the author approach the gateway gorge to the greater Forest Kerr Canyon section of the Iskut River. The crew dubbed the gorge Bourquin Canyon after Iskut river-runner and conservation advocate Jim Bourquin. Photos by Sarah McNair-Landry
SACRILEGE
Opening—and closing—one of expedition paddling’s last great un-run sections By Todd Wells
W
e rounded a sharp bend and suddenly found ourselves staring into a narrow gorge. The nearly sheer basalt walls constricted the river into a gap less than 30 feet wide, where waves and boils crashed together, shooting spouts of water high into the air. We didn’t have to communicate; it was all instinct. The three of us sprinted to the closest eddy and began scouting what we thought was Forest Kerr Canyon. Until now, I’d only heard stories of the great, un-run canyon section of the Iskut River. In 2009, Erik Boomer and John Grace had successfully descended the upper reaches of the Iskut with Matt Wilson, Fred Coriell, Mike McGee, Jason Hale and Jay Moffatt. A handful of rafters had completed the lower section, but the mystique of this central crux to the Iskut—the Stikine River’s biggest tributary—only grew after the 2009 crew reported what they’d seen from mining roads: one of the most chaotic and turbulent gorges any of those seasoned paddlers had ever laid eyes on. The Iskut, bolstered to more than 20,000 cfs at its confluence with Forest Kerr Creek, plunged through the narrow gap between Mt. Edziza and the Coast Mountains to the south. Assessing the river’s power, the crew chose not to attempt the descent at such high water. Last August, Boomer asked me if I’d join him and Grace to explore the Sacred Headwaters nether-region of northern B.C., where the Stikine, Nass, and Skeena rivers originate. I’d answered a similar call from Boomer two years before, which led to my first trip down the Grand Canyon of the Stikine along with the late Jeff West. That trip, we paddled it back-to-back, on two-day and one-day descents. It fixed my course
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on northern expedition paddling and initiated my infatuation with the rivers of the Sacred Headwaters. This time, we spent three days on the Stikine, followed by exploratory runs of the Tanzilla (which ended in a box canyon full of river-wide sieves) and the Tuya (where we discovered a handful of wild Class V drops above the river’s confluence with the Stikine). We saved the grand finale, Forest Kerr Canyon, for last. We planned to paddle the Ningunsaw River into the silty brown Iskut, tackle the canyon, and then continue into the Stikine and all the way out to the Pacific Ocean, after six days and a hundred miles of paddling. Now, having caught an eddy and scaled the canyon wall, we peered into the abyss, studying the unending chaos of waves, holes, whirlpools, and boils. It was like nothing I had ever seen. I stood in awe of the explosive dance. Scurrying down the rim, we found an outlook near the bottom of the canyon. Turning downstream, we spotted something even more unbelievable: a bright yellow crane towering seven stories high, swinging its arm above the treetops. We knew that construction had begun on the Forest Kerr Dam. We’d made countless phone calls, reviewed project plans and carried with us detailed maps of the site. But I had pictured nothing like this. Deeming the canyon too dangerous to paddle we shouldered our loaded boats and began portaging downstream, toward the crane. I lay down to catch my last peaceful breath on the soft forest floor, covered in spongy moss and fluorescent yellow and orange mushrooms bursting to life, and stared up between old-growth cedars at the darkening sky.
As we continued on our bushwhack toward the crane, a thin film of dust began covering the lush plant life. A road crept in from the left. The outlines of cement trucks blurred through the trees. After 20 more minutes of hiking, there was no more forest. Cliffs to our right dropped 200 feet down to the river. Ahead and to our left, workers and trucks buzzed in every direction. We considered camping there and waiting for nightfall to cross through the construction site, but having interacted with only friendly and caring Canadians over the previous two weeks, decided to poke around. We stashed our boats and paraded out into the thick of it: dozens of trucks hauling cement, rebar, and tools, even more laborers welding, pounding and grinding on the concrete behemoth taking shape below. Men worked in a massive cavity blasted 50 feet deep into the bedrock.
Sparks flew, generators buzzed. We waved to a few workers, but no one said hello or even acknowledged us. Just as we were heading back to our boats, a Dodge pickup driven by a gray-haired man in a hardhat and safety vest screeched to a halt in front of us. “Get in the truck,” he demanded. “All of you. You’re not supposed to be here.” Not wanting to make matters worse, we complied. Every kilometer down the gravel road, the driver would announce his position over the CB radio as we passed huge trucks hauling the other direction. Seventeen kilometers later we found ourselves at the work camp—dozens of double-wide trailers connected in a maze of steel and tin—stopping at what looked like an office before a sign that read “AltaGas — Forest Kerr Hydroelectric Project.” Almost an hour later, a tall man in blue jeans and a T-shirt, obviously the boss, met us on the deck. “I want you guys to know that I got woke up in the middle of my sleep for this,” he declared. “What the hell are you guys doing here? There’s plenty of other good rivers in B.C. Why’d you have to come here?” We asked if we could just get on the river and finish our trip. He wouldn’t have any of it. “We can’t let you go downstream,” he told us. “If we let you go back on the river, it’d be a liability for us. Here’s what we’re gonna do: We’re gonna put you up in our rooms here tonight. You can eat here
this evening, but tomorrow morning we’re driving you off our property and dropping you off at Highway 37.” We reasoned with him, then pleaded and begged. But the boss wouldn’t budge. There was nothing more we could do. We loaded up on cafeteria meatloaf and retired to our sleeping quarters, still in shock. What just happened? Last night, I had fallen asleep to a roaring fire under a blanket of stars on an island in the middle of a braided river, one of the most remote in British Columbia, waking to the ringing call of thrushes before loading my kayak. Suddenly, I was flushing a toilet, settling into my white-walled, one-man room with nothing more than a clean-sheeted twin bed, TV and florescent lamp. We woke up regretting that we hadn’t snuck out to continue our trip. Escorted from the camp and away from our dream of paddling the Forest Kerr Canyon, a kind Tahltan man, native to the Iskut watershed, drove us back to Highway 37 and to our car. Our trip was over. The stunned disbelief eventually wore off. But I can’t stop thinking of the unknown canyon, the miles upon miles of wild and remote river that await below. Will we, or anyone, ever run the Iskut? The thought of returning to descend the mighty Forest Kerr Canyon keeps me awake each night.
This fall, Wells, 21, plans to return to the Sacred Headwaters.
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