I can barely keep my eyes open. The joy of adventure is forgotten. It’s the promise of real sleep that keeps us doggedly stroking away.
TWO-AND-A-HALF HOURS LATER, The “Good morning” trill of a volunteer comes too soon. I sit but can’t summon the motivation for anything more. Exhaustion-induced euphoria has evaporated. It’s cold. Aches have stiffened. Even more disheartening, it’s still raining. Geoff buries his face in the wall of the tent. We both ask if the other wants to continue. “We’d wake people and they’d get angry, they’d
want to fight us,” longtime Kirkman Creek volunteer Greg Spenner told us later. “Others were confused—they didn’t know where they were, or why they were there.” We know why we’re here. It’s just 150 kilometers
to Dawson, nine more map pages. There’s nothing to do but paddle. We pull on damp clothes, pack
40 | Canoeroots
up soaked gear and push off under a grey sky. Though it’s just a fraction of the distance, the
final section of the race is the crux for many. Exhaustion, slow current and navigating islands and gravel bars as the river widens takes its toll. I can barely keep my eyes open. The joy of adventure is forgotten; it’s the promise of real sleep that keeps us doggedly stroking away. River curves stretch for mind-bending miles; we
chase current only to have it seemingly disappear. I have a rushing sound in my ears and the visual sensation of starring in a stop motion film. Geoff is downing Advil to battle seizing muscles. We round a bend just before the 60-Mile checkpoint, the last of the race, and come face to face with a headwind so strong, whitecaps form as the river
reverses on itself. Everything is loud and bright and astonishingly hard. I’m not sure whether to laugh or weep. Just keep paddling. When we finally spot the modest rooftops of
Dawson, I feel kinship with the stampeders who must have seen a similar sight and felt the relief of respite at the end of a hard journey. There are cheers and a horn marking our arrival. We feel strong and weak, powerful and vulnerable. It’s the first canoe trip where I’m happy to
reach the take-out. It’s Saturday at 7:09 p.m. Our official finishing time is 69 hours. We had started paddling Wednesday at noon. We’re in 39th place of 58 teams. We hug, kiss and high-five. We are so done.
WITH ITS PAINTED BUILDING facades and dusty roads, Dawson has succeeded in appearing pleasantly trapped in 1898. Amongst the RVers and period-costume-wearing tourist office employees, the paddlers are easy to spot. Fascinating is the
PHOTO: HARRY KERN
PHOTO: KAYDI PYETTE
PHOTO: HARRY KERN
PHOTO: ELISE GIORDANO
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