I
n 2002, we flew in to run the main Stein and gazed down at the North Stein: whitewater, and lots of it. It looked incredibly steep from the air and dropped right to the main Stein only two kilometres below the normal put-in at Stein Lake. It also originated closer to the main highway between Lillooet and Pemberton. Maybe, we thought, there was a logging road that led
If the North Stein could be completed, you would get two rivers for less than the price of one.
to or near its headwaters that started from the high- way.
This sparked a curiosity that would stay with us for the whole trip. If the North Stein could be successfully completed, it would open up an alternate and much cheaper access route to this amazing drainage. Also, you would get two rivers for less than the price of one. The dry season of fall was soon upon us. With no boating to be found in the area, scouting out new runs was the only way to satisfy Lytton local Braden Fandrich’s kayaking urges. The North Stein was still itching at his mind. Borrowing a four-wheeler, he went out to find a way to access the North Stein by vehicle. To his amazement and excitement, he found an old overgrown logging road off the main highway from Lillooet that eventually led to the backside of the North Stein drainage. From here it would only be about a 10-kilometre hike up and over a pass into the North Stein itself.
nly having a single scout from an airplane isn’t usually your best plan of action for dropping into an unknown, steep waterway, but we were in for the adventure. Our crew was lean and mean, fast and furi- ous: Braden—smooth Canadian all-arounder; myself— a yank known for getting a bit dangerous at times but coming out sparkling clean; and Corey Boux (pro-
O
With our boats packed for four days, the drive into the unknown began.
nounced like “bucks”)—Canadian glamour huckster. It was late July and the river levels in the area were per- fect for an undertaking like this, not raging high but not back-jarring low either.
With our boats packed for four days, 80-plus pounds, the drive into the unknown began. Thick brush scraping down on both sides of my 4x4 left only a small portion of the windshield that could be seen through. The last person on this road must have been Braden the year before on his quad. And before that who knows. The road seemed to end many times but
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we pushed on hoping to get as close to the base of the mountain pass as possible. We finally arrived at a point where the road ended
for sure. Immediately after getting out of the truck we were swarmed by hungry mosquitoes. They followed us for the entire hike to the put-in, some seven kilome- tres later. Our bodies sweated profusely, to the delight of the mosquitoes, from heaving our loaded boats on makeshift backpacks up and over the summit, and having to wear all our underlayers for protection from the bugs. For the next few days a blind person could have read random sentences on our bodies from all the bites.
Even in a fog of mosquitoes, we couldn’t help but
relish the majesty of the environment. When doing the main Stein we only saw this alpine beauty from the seat of the plane. But while on this hike we were immersed in it. An enormous green, glacier-carved valley surrounded us. The spring water we drank tast- ed like the lips of an angel. It flowed directly out of the ice fields above. The hike went from steep, boul- der-strewn uphill to the top of the pass, to a flat, mossy valley, to a steep tree-covered downhill, which, much to our surprise, ended at our put-in. Whether the hike to the put-in took three or five hours was beyond recollection. We were on river time, and now that time had finally come. We were all thank- ful to see enough water to float on. Now we could gain refuge in our drytops from the onslaught of mosqui- toes.
N
ow the real adventure begins. What was this creek to hold? How steep was it at river level?
Would we portage more than paddle? Could we portage when we had to? How many days would it take us? Did we have enough food? We drifted around the first bend, ready for whatever the creek was to throw at us. The North Stein flows 12 kilometres before reaching the main Stein. After the hike it was nice to not have to contend with pounding class V but to just lay back, relax and enjoy the surroundings. The rest of that first day we just slowly drifted 10 kilometres through amaz- ing scenery and a few logjams. We remembered from the flight the year before that once the action started it didn’t stop until the river ended. We camped at the first major slide we came to, which marked the begin- ning of the slanted, white-filled river that would take us straight to the Stein itself. With about an hour left of daylight we cooked dinner, talked shit, and counted our mosquito bites. Tomorrow would be our day of reckoning, the mystery of the North Stein unravelled.
W
aking up to quality whitewater, an entire day in fact, is why I thank my mother for giving me
life. It is hard to imagine an entire day, dawn ‘til dusk, of sensational whitewater, but this is what we found ourselves immersed in on day two of our journey—two kilometres dropping 900 feet each. These two kilome- tres on the North Stein were, as Boux put it, “the best creek I have paddled in B.C.”—a granitic paradise much like California, but with the consistency of Norway.
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