After emerging from the tent each morning, I walked across the cobble to the river’s edge. I squatted like a prospector panning gold, scooping handfuls of brisk water into my face. Whether camping near a river, lake or creek, I always bring three handfuls to my face. Then I mumbled a few words of gratitude, spoken in a hush in case one of the other guys heard me talking to myself. Mumbles and mutterings happen more frequently these days.

With my face dripping, I’m fully awake. I look up at the surrounding phalanx of silent mountains, and quietly say “thank you” several times.This was my recent practice when five other men and I paddled the Hart River, just below the Arctic Circle in the northern Yukon Territory.

Most of us had paddled remote rivers together but not all of us. Two Canadians and four Americans made up the crew. Our average age was 72.8333 years old. While hair color tends towards a hoary frost, collectively we are aged kids.

After the daily baptism, my internal compass guided me to the morning campfire where the other river worshippers were gathered in an incomplete circle of camp chairs for communal muttering and coffee. The wafting of tear-inducing campfire smoke always kept the circle broken.

After being transported on a highway for over five hours and then flown further north via a Turbo Otter on floats, we were blissfully far from the din of civilization and the cacophony of social ills, dysfunction, politics . . . oops, I’m being redundant. 

During its two-hundred mile flow, the Hart River passes beneath two mountain ranges: the Werneckes and the Ogilvies.  These steep slopes stunned us with sediments of tan, gray, maroon and black hues.  Rounding each serpentine river bend, a new peak would show itself.  I was dizzied by the height of the spires and blurted out a hearty “Wow!” From the canoe next to me I heard “Holy Smokes!” From the third canoe came a duet of “Oh my God!” and “Holy shit!”  

After a day of riding the river’s fast current, our chairs reunited in a ragged circle after the tents were set up. With a campfire calling us to order we had a  celebratory nip as we reflected on the day. 

There was the cow moose standing in the river, just a few canoe lengths from us as we floated by.  With her ears laid back, hair bristling on her back and grunting displeasures she refused to run. She likely had a calf hidden in the riparian willows. 

We talked about the ease of a grizzly clambering up the steep bank as we shot through a small rapids next to the bear.  We wondered about the curious, lone buff-colored wolf that seemed as curious about us as we were about it. We were giddy as kids when we recalled the train of haystack waves in a Class III rapids that reminded us that we are never too old to be in the thick of it. 

We talked about maturing into senior citizens with the woes of hearing loss, more frequent peeing, reflecting more frequently about the days of yesteryear.  We discussed the advantages of pee bottles kept in the tent.  With such a vessel there is no need to crawl out of the tent, unsteadily stand up and ascertain where you were and then hope you were not peeing on the tent or someone’s camp chair and then crawling back into the tent and into the sleeping bag. As we shared feelings about social media and our changing bodies, we were in full agreement that out here, far from any roads, emergency support, and hospitals the real accident would be to die in bed.

We lamented the loss of wild places and critical thinking. How could we as a species be so ignorant about how our actions contribute to the whittling away of natural systems that allow us to live? 

Flickering campfire flames captured each of our gazes and carried us back decades. It was no surprise that memories were released of past cars we owned as young men. We also covered pranks of yesteryear as well as favorite old rock and roll tunes. Sadly most of us could not sing more than one or two lines. Awkward teen remembrances brought quiet, knowing chuckles. 

One of the guys asked, “Have you guys ever had sex in a canoe?” There were a few more chuckles while half of our circle confirmed that they had indeed had sex in a canoe. We moved on to football before anyone requested details of trysts in a canoe.

With happy hour completed, it was time for supper to be prepared. Each of us rose out of our camp chairs. A couple went on a wood gathering foray. One worked on supper while another fetched river water to filter for drinking. One strolled towards a willow thicket to pee. As he walked, I overheard him mumbling to himself, “Sex in a canoe?” There was a pause and he concluded, “I guess it’s never too late to explore a new frontier.”