Men's Journal, May 1998

North America's White-Hot River

When Brian McCutcheon first flew over the Klinaklini River in October 1996, he felt like a 49er discovering his first big nugget. For years, McCutcheon, owner of Vancouver-based outfitter, Rivers, Oceans, and Mountains, had been staring at a map of British Columbia, wondering why none of his intrepid colleagues mentioned this labyrinthine blue line--the way it snaked around the fir-lined base of western Canada's tallest mountains, touched the icefields of several immense glaciers, and then plummeted some 2200 feet into a 60-mile long Pacific coast fjord like a Disneyesque dream ride. It seemed too good to be true. A 100-mile whitewater run through incredibly diverse terrain, right here in his own backyard, yet no other outfitter had heard of it?

"I was giddy," says the none-too-shy McCutcheon. "Looking down at a river that was never run before, but could easily attain legendary stature like the Tat, the Zambezi, or the Bio-Bio." Yet, McCutcheon is quick to add, that unlike these lengthy and remote journeys--the glacial float of the Tat, Zambezi's safari-crawl, or the adrenaline-pumping drops of the Andean Bio-Bio, the Klinaklini is only a week-long trip and is easily accessible from Vancouver. And unlike the more popular overnight jaunts in the States--the Colorado, the Snake, the Middle Fork of the Salmon--the Klinaklini is virgin territory with no other people on the river. Your welcoming party consists of resident grizzlies, brown bears, wolves, lynx, marten, mink, and moose.

As he choppered over the Klinaklini with his buddy, Craig Murray, owner of Nimmo Bay, an exclusive heli-fishing venture in nearby Port McNeill, the dull line on a map quickly came to life as a rip-roaring waterway, more white than blue. Starting at the river's source, Klinaklini Lake, a small body of water ringed by a crown of 8,000-foot peaks, McCutcheon and Murray snaked above the frothy water, whizzing past mountainous flanks of spruce, pine and firs until this green carpet reached its apogee at 13,180-foot Mt. Waddington, the tallest peak in British Columbia.

Then came the catch. Near midpoint, the river started to narrow dramatically and the duo were soon hovering above the 20-mile long Klinaklini Canyon. There was no way any guide with a semblance of sanity would navigate this tight chute, four feet across in sections. If your raft bounced off one of the many boulders that call the canyon home, the rapids would careen you into a sheet of rock a la Wile E. Coyote. As Waddington faded into backdrop and the duo approached Act II of this three-act thriller, the sloping ice beds of Klinaklini Glacier, a disheartened McCutcheon became even more frustrated with the thought of the impassable canyon. He had faced failure on numerous exploratory trips throughout North America, Australia, and New Zealand trying to find the ultimate rafting experience, but none of those rivers had the striking variety of landscape the Klinaklini offered.

That's when he got the Big Idea. He turned to Murray and said, "How about a joint venture?" A second later, Murray responded. "Deal," he said. Not only would Murray fly guests, their gear, and the rafts over the treacherous canyon, but he would bring them to the top of Waddington for lunch and then drop them off at one of the blue-ice caves of the Klinaklini Glacier where they would spend the night. McCutcheon was ecstatic, but remarkably, the best was yet to come. Klinaklini's glacial runoff tumbles downward into Knight Inlet, a mesmerizing fjord whose water flows into Queen Charlotte Strait and the Pacific. It's the perfect climax to any three-act play.

"If you had to compare the scenery of the Klinaklini to the world's renowned rivers," says McCutcheon, "the first third of the trip is similar to the high-alpine runs in Idaho, the middle portion resembles the iceberg-strewn Tat, and the finale, gliding into Knight Inlet, has no equal."

Indeed, what the duo found inspired them to lead the most exciting first descent in North America since Sobek went down Alaska's Tatshenshini in 1978. McCutcheon and his guides successfully tested the waters last July and then invited me to ride with them on their first commercial descent a month later. Accompanying me was the lanky owner, four guides, and the clientele--a group of avid fishermen from Missouri, their wives, and families. The highlight reel started as soon as we boarded a sea plane in Vancouver and flew ninety minutes to the mouth of the Klinaklini. The flight was a serious wake-up call for this New England boy, reminding me of the vast upheaval of land they call nature in this part of the world. Towering serrated ridges that could shred the plane like paper sloped down to murky glacial rivers. In between, valleys of snow looked like thick foam atop a cup of cappuccino, but was so dense it could have been stucco. It is angry uninhabited terrain that dares you to step into all its chaos.

At Klinaklini Lake, we divvy up and almost instantaneously hit Class IV and V drops that swallow the raft and then spit us out like watermelon seeds. We cruise for two hours before making camp for the night. That evening, after dining on risotto and smoked salmon (Rivers & Oceans spares no expenses, bringing along ten coolers stuffed with lamb, prawns, prime rib, salmon, scotch, beer, wine, chairs, even a makeshift shower), McCutcheon states that B.C. might stand for British Columbia, but it also stands for serious Bear Country. "There are less than a thousand grizzlies in the lower states," he says, "and every one of them lives in a park. There are 12,000-plus grizzlies in British Columbia alone and most of them are wild." In typical McCutcheon fashion, he ends with a gag.

"Two guys sitting on a log see this bear at the top of a hill. Foaming at the mouth, the bear starts to sprint toward the men. One of the guys frantically puts on his sneakers while the other one says, 'What are you doing? You can't outrun a bear.' 'Nope,' he says, 'but I can outrun you.'"

Even with the aid of a helicopter, first descents down any river often go awry. "The unexpected is expected to happen," says Richard Bangs, founder of Sobek and author of River Gods, a collection of essays on thirteen first descents. "In fact, it's probably almost a disappointment on a first descent if it's too clean. Without mishaps, there's no adventure."

Bangs would have been happy to see our first Class V drop on the second day. A month prior, McCutcheon and his guides could not run these rapids because the water level was too high, making it a Class VI. The water level had lowered so McCutcheon gave us the go-ahead. We fly over the first rapid and almost instantaneously find ourselves being sucked underneath it. "Over left!" our guide, Rex, belts out and I nose-dive into a small section of the raft that's already been filled by a 225-pound real estate broker named Kevin. "Paddle hard!" is the next command and Kevin and I desperately try to paddle, but the self-bailing raft is filling up as we slowly sink farther into a hole underneath the spray of water. We're on the edge of a toilet bowl that never stops flushing. I can barely move under the weight of the rising water and Kevin is now sitting on me. "Throw the rope!" Rex yells and Kevin throws a line from the front of the boat to McCutcheon who's standing on shore. He pulls us out of the hole and we continue on our exploratory venture. Since we're the first rafters to survive the drop, we get to name it. We call it Jenny's Hole, for the woman in the back of the raft who banged her head against the cooler as we tried desperately not to slip farther into the great abyss.

The third day is a relaxed Class II float to Trump Lake, accompanied by trumpeter swans, herons, and the occasional bald eagle. We have lunch on a sand spit, bordered by unscathed forest that climbs through the clouds to a white pinnacle. The scale and remoteness of this landscape is intimidating.

On Day Four, our helicopter arrives early to escort us through the canyon. The pilot sweeps down over the whitewater, zipping over the narrow walls as we curve around each bend. We throw our headphones on, listen to Mozart, and climb higher and higher into the clear blue sky. Soon, we hover above the peak of Waddington, then dip down to the bases of Klinaklini and Silverthrone glaciers, blinded by impregnable white fortresses of ice and snow. We find the blue-ice caves and call it a night, surrounded by an almost translucent azure, comparable to the color of the Pacific around a French Polynesian motu.

Day five, we leave the Klinaklini behind and hike into the bush through a web of lichen-covered Douglas firs. Bear tracks are ubiquitous, forming an intricate network of trails and littered branches. At the top of the hillside, we walk back toward the canyon and watch the churning water thrust against the walls.

The last day is the finest. As the river narrows, the high peaks slope closer and closer to its shores. Then we finally reach the fjord, Knight Inlet, where, on both sides, sheer cliffs plummet into the wide-open water. Entering this large passage from the tight Klinaklini, I could have been a newborn leaving the womb. Seals play hide-and-seek with the rafts, eagles fly overhead, and the water is as clear as Perrier.

Near the take-out, young kids hook salmon with very little effort and talk about the grizzlies that were here last night. I never spotted a bear. It didn't matter. Years to come, when this voyage rolls off adventurers' tongues as quickly and easily as the Zambezi, I'll take great pleasure in telling my grandchildren of the incredible adversity I had to overcome to be the first commercial passenger to triumphantly run the Klinaklini.

Price of the weeklong trips is $4950 (American) from Vancouver. Call 877/271-7626 for reservations or visit www.roamtheworld.ca.