Canoeing the River of Golden Dreams

The splendor of the Whistler Blackcomb Mountains has been a backdrop to the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics for more than a week. I visited these mountains once, and like some of the Winter Olympics’ athletes, I experienced both frustration and victory.

In August 2001, our family went on a trip to Whistler Village in British Columbia, Canada, high up in the Canadian Rockies, a beautiful and pristine part of this planet. Whistler is at about 2,000-feet elevation but many of the surrounding mountains are above 7,000 feet.

During this vacation, my son, Justin (age 12), and I decided we would take a canoe trip down the advertised “River of Golden Dreams.” Justin told me he was a canoeing “expert” based on his many years of training and experience at summer camp. The river, really a stream, is about three miles long. It runs between two lakes: Alta Lake and Green Lake in the Whistler Valley. Canoeing the river was no problem; getting to the river was.

The morning of the venture we rented a canoe and were trucked by the canoe rental shop to the launch point on Lake Alta. Because most of the property around Lake Alta is privately owned, the public boating ramp, from which we set out, was not too close to the mouth of the river. In fact, set at the southern end of Lake Alta, the launch area was about as far away from the river as could be.

Looking out across the lake, I asked the canoe guy, “Where’s the river?” He said that if I looked very hard to the other end of the lake, where all those sailboats are moored, there, to the left of the sailboats would be a tall, dense stand of cattails and bulrushes. “The mouth of the river is right in there,” he said. “Just keep paddling right into the bulrushes,” he said, “you can’t miss it.” Well, I squinted and estimated the distance to the cattails and bulrushes to be about two miles, maybe more.

So, Justin and I set sail, so to speak. It took only a few minutes to get to the open area of the lake which is where we picked up a gusty headwind. We paddled vigorously but we were not making any progress. Every time I looked out to the right side of the lake, where I had established a large white residence as our benchmark, it was still sitting right there.

I now knew why we were the only canoeists on the lake that morning.

After twenty more minutes of paddling Justin began to complain that he was tired. My canoeing “expert” was not in very good shape.

Regardless, to make progress it was heads-down paddling, literally. However, each time our paddling got uncoordinated, which was often, the canoe would turn broadside to the wind, which would push us back yards (well, since we were in Canada, meters). Still, out to the right was our benchmark, the white residence, which by now seemed more like a magnet than a reference point.

Still, we kept paddling. Finally, after more than an hour, with maybe a quarter mile to go to the bulrushes, Justin said he wanted to switch places and move to the back of the canoe. So we switched places in the canoe.

It was apparent after only a few minutes that paddling in this configuration was a mistake. I think this is when the muscle cramps began to take over my hands. My fingers were in extreme pain and permanently locked in a curled grip around the canoe paddle. I could barely switch the paddle from hand to hand.

By now, I am vehemently cursing the lake and the wind; the canoe guy who knew what we were up against but never told us; and exhorting Justin to paddle harder as we were almost there! My last vile outburst of profanity occurred just as we got to the 10-feet tall stand of dense reeds and bulrushes at the mouth of the river.

Now, smoothly and effortlessly paddling a canoe out of the reeds and in a direction opposite to ours came a gentleman and his lady fair; she in the front of the canoe, he in the back. A handsome couple right off the cover of an LL Bean catalog with all their stylish outdoor clothing and hats and boots.

I can tell by their countenance and their need to avoid eye contact that they have heard my latest protracted outburst of profanity. Our canoes, drifting in opposite directions and surrounded by the heavy aquatic growth, come within inches of each other due to Justin’s inability, and mine, to properly steer or paddle the damned thing.

Now, with our canoes side-by-side, not even a foot apart, the lady, hesitantly, says, “May I offer a suggestion?” “Please,” I answer, “I’m begging you!” She says, “The more powerful paddler should be in the back of the canoe, not the front.”

Damn, I knew that! I politely thanked her and Justin and I switched positions once again, but not until the LL-Bean couple were out of site. This delay in reversing our positions was meant to spare the couple from tipping over their canoe while laughing at us as Justin, maneuvering under my spread legs as I straddled the canoe gunwales, smashed his head into, well, you know where. My physical reaction to this inevitable accident was pretty much the same as those you see on “America’s Funniest Home Videos” – clutch and drop. Still, we did not tip over.

Finally, with the nightmare of the struggle across Lake Alta behind us, we started down the River of Golden Dreams.

It was smooth sailing as we were swept along by a slow, gentle current; all we had to do was maneuver the canoe. We saw exciting wildlife set in beautiful scenery; the cramps in my hands and fingers went away; and my son and I settled down and enjoyed the best part of the experience.

It was a day I shall never forget.