All reports indicated a swift river below Whitehorse. A swift river, to a whitewater paddler like me, means a current of 10 miles per hour or so. To a canoeist, I would learn, “swift” means something considerably slower. And the Yukon is primarily a canoeist’s river. Before reaching Lake Laberge, Lisa and I had already used the motor, and some of our limited fuel supply.

Brimming fuel cans were hardly a concern our first night out. Rain on a leaky tent was. The storm passed. We sponged up the puddles inside our shelter and got a fire going. Welcome to the Yukon.

Lake Laberge was glorious glass. I feel silly complaining about how slowly it passed, because I would later meet someone who paddled a packraft across those still waters. It took him 3 days. We did it in about 5 hours, our loaded boat plowing a fat wake and unable to get on plane.

The Yukon below Lake Laberge is a jewel—clear opalescent water snaking through a gentle canyon of spruce and aspen. This part of the river is so different from the rest that locals call it the “Thirty-mile River.” It’s 30 dreamy miles until reaching the big silty Teslin River—the true hydrologic upper Yukon.

We drifted and rowed the “Thirty-mile,” calculating our rate of travel at barely 5 m.p.h. With over 350 miles to reach Dawson City, and Lisa’s scheduled flight in 7.5 days, five miles per hour would not suffice. Lisa went to start the motor. “This fuel can feels light,” she said, “where is the rest of the gas?” I stammered, “Ummm. Well…” With such a “swift” river ahead, I only brought enough gas to get across the lake. It would be long days of rowing until we reached Carmacks, a crossroads where there was sure to be a gas station, right?