1971: 38 Days Through Untouched Wilderness
The group of adventurers from Darrow Camp have adopted the Petit-Mécatina river in honor of two members of the group, who sadly passed away in October 2023: David Mack and Dr. Richard Bookman.
Author's Note (Rick Rocamora) – A heartfelt thank you to Kim Mitchell for reviewing the text, to Dave Boyer for the group photo that brought back so many memories, and to both of them for their comments included here and their longtime friendship.
During the summer of 1971, a group of 15 young men, accompanied by a dog named Leroy, paddled and poled up the Temiscamie River and its tributaries to Coldwater Lake in northern Quebec. They crossed the « Height of Lands » and descended the Mistassini River near Lake Saint-Jean, covering more than 550 km in 38 days through untouched wilderness.
A First on Quebec’s Rivers
I was the leader of this group. It was the first time someone from Darrow Camp paddled in Quebec and took this route.
« I now live in China. I have no photos, no maps, no travel journals to remind me of these events. I have only my memories. Perhaps memory is the only reality that exists, and that reality is the memories I describe here.»
The "Height of Land" in northern Quebec is the place where water divides—flowing south toward the St. Lawrence River and the Atlantic Ocean on one side, and west toward Hudson Bay on the other. Not far from this point, water also flows north toward Ungava Bay and the Arctic Ocean. On the map, it is a remote and unknown place, the heart of the wilderness, the source of rivers and of our dreams. We wanted to reach the source to test ourselves. Then, we wanted to descend a new river to a new destination.
Dave Boyer and I, accompanied by my dog Leroy, arrived at Les Biches at the end of June 1971. We met with George Darrow and reviewed the findings from our May scouting trip on the Témiscamie River. It was the height of summer in Maine—so comfortable after our cold and lonely journey through the Quebec spring. We met Kim Mitchell, who would be the third trip leader. We then participated in a staff training session led by George. The staff took a training trip to Machias Lake and returned in just a few days. Back in 1969, this had been a very long journey, but this time, we completed it in record time!
Diligent Physical Preparation Before the Expedition
Our "campers" arrived, and our group was now complete (15 members in our team). We trained intensively, focusing on making everyone comfortable with pole canoes. At the time, most Darrow trips included only a minimal number of pole canoes. We came up with the idea of organizing races, which resulted in more than one of us ending up in the lake. We also practiced portaging to build our strength. We knew this trip would involve many portages, and some of them would be long.
George and John Houghton transported us to northern Quebec. It was an exciting time. John Houghton was incredibly supportive, and George had a charismatic personality. They both inspired us all! We arrived in Saint-Félicien, on Lake Saint-Jean, around midday on the second day. Boyer and I had already met the Ranger stationed there. Back in May, he had asked us to return with our group. However, when we arrived in late June, I think he had forgotten the name of the Mistassini team.
The Beginning of the Adventure
I led George, followed by our entire group with long hair and dressed in the ’60s fashion of the time, and in George’s words, “we really freaked him out, Rock.” We were briefed on the current conditions and continued our journey north through the Chibougamau reserve, where we camped for the night.
We arrived at the Témiscamie River in the early afternoon. The weather was clear and warm. We loaded our canoes into the river. A group from the floatplane base came down to watch us pack, including the infamous cook from our previous adventures. Not wanting any trouble, we said our goodbyes and aimed to paddle upriver as quickly as possible. The water was much lower and warmer now that the spring runoff had passed. Later in the afternoon, we reached the abandoned airstrip and camped just below the first rapids. That night marked the first of many frisbee games on the Témiscamie River. Our group was divided between frisbee players, fishermen, and storytellers.
The next morning, we set out and tested our paddling skills for the first time. Most of us managed to paddle up the initial rapids without having to leave the canoes. Some, however, had to get into the water to help the canoes over the break. The water was much warmer than it had been in the spring. The river widened into what seemed like a vast lake. The sky was a clear, brilliant blue, and in the distance, we noticed what looked like a moving log. As we paddled closer, we realized it was a bear swimming across the river. We were thrilled to see a bear on our very first day. Suddenly, Leroy leaped out of the canoe to chase it, and luckily, I caught him in midair. I have no idea what a little beagle would have done with such a big bear!
It took us about four days to paddle up the Témiscamie. We took a side trip to visit the cache that Boyer and I had found in the spring during our scouting trip, tied to trees along a side stream. We camped on sandbanks along the river, fished, swam, and played frisbee.
[…] We finally arrived at the campsite at the start of the long portage to Lake Barbara. We knew it would be tough—and it was. We spent most of the next day carrying our gear. It took us three trips to get everything across the portage. Only by the end of the journey were we able to reduce it to two trips per portage. The boulder field was extremely challenging, and we were afraid someone might fall and break a leg. That afternoon, one of our fly fishermen, Walt, went down to the river flowing out of Lake Barbara and caught a large brook trout in the middle of the rapids using a Royal Coachman fly. We were just beginning to understand the fishing patterns. The brook trout had positioned itself in the most turbulent part of the river—how could it even stay there? Walt’s success triggered a rush of fishermen to the river.
[…] We arrived at the Témiscamie River in the early afternoon. The weather was clear and warm. We loaded our canoes into the river. A group from the floatplane base came down to watch us pack, including the infamous cook from our previous adventures. Not wanting any trouble, we said our goodbyes and aimed to paddle upriver as quickly as possible. The water was much lower and warmer now that the spring runoff had passed. Later in the afternoon, we reached the abandoned airstrip and camped just below the first rapids. That night marked the first of many frisbee games on the Témiscamie River. Our group was divided between frisbee players, fishermen, and storytellers.
Lake Témiscamie was breathtaking. The water level was much lower than in the spring. We stopped for lunch on rocks that hadn’t been visible in mid-spring when the lake was much higher. We had our usual meal—peanut butter, jelly, and bannock. The day started off hot, and we were all feeling a bit grumpy. Despite that, the journey was progressing well in terms of timing.
The group had become quite close-knit and was working well together. I was concerned that we might have too much time for the distance we needed to cover. At the same time, I worried that we didn’t know what lay ahead and that we might actually need all that time. I was always calculating for the unexpected. We considered taking an exploratory trip to Petit Lac Témiscamie—it looked so appealing on the map—but the consensus was clear: keep moving forward, reach Coldwater Lake…
Heading to Coldwater Lake
The group had become quite close-knit and was working well together. I was concerned that we might have too much time for the distance we needed to cover. At the same time, I worried that we didn’t know what lay ahead and that we might actually need all that time. I was constantly calculating for the unexpected. We considered taking an exploratory trip to Petit Lac Témiscamie, which looked so appealing on the map, but the consensus was clear: keep moving forward and reach Coldwater Lake…
[…] Without much difficulty, we found Coldwater Lake Stream at the end of a bay on Lake Témiscamie. I looked back at the line of six canoes behind me—I looked back often and counted—one, two, three (with Kim at the back), four, five, six (with Boyer at the back). We were all there. We had planned for four days to paddle upriver to Coldwater Lake. I think we managed it in three. The waterway was stunning—narrow, crystal-clear, interrupted by various stretches of rapids, waterfalls, and fast-moving water. We were surrounded by high hills and could only see as far as the next bend.
The group handled the poles very well, and when we didn’t have the strength to push the canoes through the rapids with them, we jumped out and pulled them upstream. Eventually, we would reach an impassable spot and have to portage. We always managed to find the portage trails. Most of them weren’t too long. No one had been up there before us that season. We were the first!
And to better make us feel that we were approaching a diabolical place, a magnificent white wolf made the hairs on our backs stand up as it stared at us intensely from the beach where it was 25 meters from us. It is at this moment that we hear a distant rumble. This is what we will call “the canyon door”. You get there! The river suddenly cuts between the mountains and narrows to 50 meters. It first undergoes a drop of 5 meters followed by a long R IV-V. The flow is impressive! It’s brewing!
As we had planned when developing the itinerary, we will camp there and, on a 5-day hiking trip, we will admire this canyon. Afterwards, we will retrace our steps a little and take a siding route already marked before leaving even if this extends us by 60 km.
This was true wilderness. We had no idea exactly where we were—we only knew that we had to keep moving upstream. It was breathtaking. We camped on the high banks overlooking the waterway. The forest was in various stages of recovery after natural wildfires. At times, we struggled to find good firewood, as the old forest had decomposed after the fire, and the new growth consisted only of living trees.
In these burned areas, sphagnum moss reached up to our knees. We had daily showers, and when the sun broke through, the rain shimmered on the moss in a spectrum of rainbow colors. The blackflies were relentless during the day, while the mosquitoes took over at dusk to torment us. Along the way, Boyer—our minstrel guitarist—and the various poets in our group composed the Coldwater Lake Blues to commemorate our experience.
« I will never forget the insects on Coldwater Lake Stream. You have to experience it to believe it.»
On the last day of our journey, the terrain began to change. The high banks disappeared, the waterway deepened, and the surrounding land turned into marshland. The weather was also shifting, and we knew a big storm was approaching. We sensed we were close to Coldwater Lake. We searched for it at every bend, and finally, there it was. By then, the sky was gray, and rain was falling. A mist hovered over the lake. We were near the top of the land, close to the source of all the rivers. Everything was flat—there were no hills around the lake, and we couldn’t see very far across it. Near the spot where the stream flowed out of the lake, we spotted a sandy beach.
That’s where we set up our camp and stayed for several days while it rained, waiting for the arrival of a plane that was supposed to come and meet us.
We dug a large hole in the sand and built an oven to cook beans all day. We were wet and soaked, and it turned out to be an excellent dinner. Fishing was poor at this end of the lake because the water was shallow. But we had accomplished so much—we had made it to Coldwater Lake! It was a significant goal for us, and we were in the middle of nowhere.
« Do you remember the bear skeleton at our first campsite on Coldwater Lake and how human-like it looked? You didn’t mention Leroy’s important work in maintaining peace among the campers—Leroy was the only member of the group allowed to clean the pots, which eliminated any temptation and any possibility of dissent within the group. »
The Path to the Mistassini
I had hoped the weather would clear before we had to leave, but it didn’t. It rained for several days. We broke camp in the rain and paddled off in search of the Coldwater Lake portage that would lead us through a series of small ponds and eventually to the Mistassini River. We guessed the location on the map and headed in that direction. The weather worsened during our trek, turning into a cold, pounding rain. Everyone was soaked, and most of our gear was drenched. We found the portage in the pouring rain and fog. We had planned to meet the plane the next day, roughly at the same location. That night, we all endured a cold, miserable sleep.
The next morning, the rain had stopped, and we knew the weather was going to improve. It was cold, and mist hovered over the very still and smooth lake. As we prepared breakfast, we looked out at the water and noticed that its surface was covered in dimples. Was it still raining? Suddenly, we realized it was some kind of insect hatch or fishing activity. Everyone grabbed their fishing rods and rushed to the lake. Soon, cheers erupted as everyone started catching big lake trout.
I had heard that this lake offered excellent fishing, but we had been discouraged by our experience at the other end. The cold rain must have lowered the surface temperature, causing the trout to swarm in search of food—and some of them ended up on our plates.
« I remember it well—we estimated that we caught and ate 60 pounds of lake trout that day on Coldwater Lake. We cut them into steaks, coated them in flour, and fried them in our precious vegetable oil. You were always worried that we might run out of oil, flour, or something else, but that night, you weren’t holding back. I’ve never eaten so much fish in my life, and never a fish so delicious. »
In the afternoon, the sky cleared, and the weather turned beautiful—we were sure the plane would arrive with our mail and maybe some chocolate bars or other treats. George and I had decided to carry all our food for the 38-day journey and not rely on an air resupply, just in case the plane didn’t come. We were near the height of land and far from everything. We heard a plane, but we were disappointed to see it fly over us and land somewhere else. Several other planes passed by that day and seemed like they were about to land nearby. It was a good thing we hadn’t counted on the plane for supplies—because it didn’t arrive on the scheduled day!
We decided to move forward, portage to the next lake, and find our way to the Mistassini River. The map showed a series of small ponds connecting the two river systems. As we paddled down one of these ponds, we suddenly heard the sound of a plane. It circled around and landed near us—it was our plane! After all, we hadn’t been forgotten! We handed them our mail, and in return, they gave us mail and chocolate bars.
Everyone was happy! I had written a long letter to George and Janie describing the journey. I wonder what their concerns were. They had great confidence in us. We named our lake Candy Bar Lake.
We reached the last of the ponds and could see a small hill in the distance. Based on the topographic maps, I was almost certain that the Mistassini River flowed at the foot of that hill. Would this be the shortest route? Would it follow higher ground and avoid the marshy terrain? Whenever we started thinking this way, we always had more success. In the end, André found the portage—I believe there was an old rusty can on a stick marking the way.
The Long-Awaited Arrival at the Gates of the Mistassini
We carried our gear, and there it was—the Mistassini River, truly there. We had found our way! All our dreams had come true! At this point, the river flowed steadily. Rivers have their own identity—no two are alike. The water here had a slight cedar tint, unlike the crystal-clear waters of the Témiscamie. We camped in a clearing along the portage by the river. I set up my tent and went back to studying my maps. I had studied them every day for the past year in preparation for this journey. We had planned for about three weeks to travel the 200 miles and descend the 800 feet of this river. and I realized that we had plenty of time, but I was worried about the rapids and other challenges that lay ahead.
We set off the next day to begin our journey down the river. We could hardly believe it—after days of paddling upstream, we were finally going downstream. The upper Mistassini is a beautiful river, winding gently through a larch forest with rocky outcrops along the water. Around midday, we stopped for lunch on a rock overlooking the river. It was a peaceful, pastoral setting. We held a Quaker meeting there. We then continued down the river, navigating the smaller rapids and planning to portage anything that seemed too dangerous. We were completely alone—this was our wilderness!
It rained that night, and the next morning, we woke up to a cold, clear blue sky. We packed up and continued our journey down the river. The character of the river was changing. The rapids were becoming steeper, and the water level was high due to the recent rains. The river had risen into the alders, making it difficult to get out and scout the rapids.
« I remember there was frost on the morning of the last day of July, which the journal also mentions. It was a challenging trip in terms of weather. »
We arrived at a waterfall and examined it carefully. We had decided that this was not meant to be a whitewater canoeing trip, even though several of us were very skilled paddlers and whitewater enthusiasts. We couldn’t afford to risk losing our food, our gear, or—worse—our canoes, which were our only means of getting out of the wilderness. We had no radio with us, only a flare gun. We always wore our life jackets. We agreed that if a portage was available, we would take it. If we chose to run a rapid, I would go first alone. The other canoes would remain upstream, and no matter what happened to me, the rest of the canoes would not run the rapid until they heard my whistle. In the worst-case scenario, we would only lose one canoe…
I ran through the narrow chute but ended up too far into the standing waves, and we were swamped. I kept the canoe upright while tossing gear onto the banks as we were carried downstream by the river. My bow partner and I eventually managed to bring the canoe to shore, and I think we only lost a spare life jacket and one of my fishing rods.
Fortunately, that was the only canoe swamping we experienced during the entire trip. I went back upstream and discussed with Kim and Boyer how to navigate the rapid safely.
I stood on a critical rock to signal the other canoes to take a turn and avoid the high standing waves. Everyone made it through without incident..
« Another thing comes to mind. After you and Dave Crawford were swamped in the upper Mistassini, I remember you pointing out that when it happened, both of you ignored the training we had been taught to 'stay with the canoe' because you both instinctively knew that you had to dive to save the food packs at all costs. »
More dams? We can do better!
Several rivers are still threatened by the construction of hydroelectric power plants.
We had said that the Mistassini River wouldn’t be a whitewater trip—but it was! We had to navigate countless rapids. The water was high, and in many places, so were the standing waves. We were extremely cautious, carefully scouting each rapid. We never ran a rapid without inspecting it all the way through. If it looked too challenging, we searched for a portage. We quickly learned which rapids had portage trails and which ones didn’t.
If we couldn’t find a portage, even when we knew there had to be one, we would send groups along both riverbanks. Then, we would walk inland and eventually circle back upstream. Often, we would stumble onto a portage trail and follow it until it emerged back at the river. Leroy was a great help to us.
A Turbulent Journey
We started noticing signs of another group on the portage trails—footprints, fresh blazes, fallen brush, recent campfires, or bits of trash. Someone was ahead of us! How was that possible? It had taken us more than three weeks to get here, and we hadn’t seen a single person. The portage to the Mistassini River hadn’t been used this season. Could it have been those planes that flew over us on our last day at Coldwater Lake?
The river had now become vast and powerful! The map showed that we were entering a section with many hatched markings on the far side of the river—an indication of dangerous rapids. I had never seen rapids this big before. So much water was concentrated in a narrow passage, cascading over massive boulder fields—with towering hills on either side of the river.
We reached one of the rapids and began searching for the portage. We knew we wouldn’t be running this one. One team was on one side of the river, and I was on the other. We watched in awe as the water thundered through the rapids. Using hand signals, we indicated to the other group that we had found the portage on our side of the river. Suddenly, Leroy leaped into the river, swimming toward the other side to be with the other group. He had no fear when it came to water and was always excited about every activity. We were all safe—but Leroy was being pulled into the cauldron.
We frantically called for him to come back, but there was no way for him to cross the river. I knew we were going to lose him this time—he had already had too many close calls, from the cook in the spring to the bear and all the other times he had wandered off. But maybe, in the only rational moment of his 12-year life, he hesitated. He turned around and swam back to shore. Leroy, dog of the North, you made it back to our shores. We were so relieved when we pulled him out of the water.
We arrived at another massive rapid. We knew there was no way through, but we couldn’t find the portage. It had rained for at least part of the day, and the water was extremely high—the usual take-out points were often underwater. We kept searching but still couldn’t locate the portage. I decided that we would line the canoes halfway down the right bank of the river. I knew it was a bad idea. I was truly worried that a canoe might get pulled into the river, costing us not just the canoe but, worse, possibly a few lives.
I looked upstream and counted—one, two, three, four, five, and six canoes, with campers standing knee-deep in the water, holding the painters, preparing to line the canoes. I knew we couldn’t keep lining them—this would be a huge mistake. There had to be a portage somewhere, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Then, I looked across the river and noticed a spot where the alders had been bent and a few fresh axe cuts.
That was the portage—just a few hundred meters away, across a dangerous river, but it was there! I considered trying to ferry the canoes across the top of the rapids, but I knew it wasn’t safe—we would be swept into the whitewater. So, we paddled our canoes back upstream. Once we reached calmer water, we crossed the river, then lined the canoes down to the portage on the left bank. The trail had been carved out by the group ahead of us. The original portage entrance was underwater farther downstream, and this was an extension of the trail. For once, I was glad that someone had been ahead of us.
That day, we covered only about 2 or 3 miles, and it took us 12 hours. Just a few days earlier, I had thought we had too much time—now, I was afraid we wouldn’t have enough. More than anything, I was scared of losing someone. It worried me deeply. It was my responsibility to get everyone out of here in one piece. What if we lost our gear—or worse? Our tents were set up along the portage trail, directly above the most treacherous part of the rapids. The roar of the water was so loud that I couldn’t sleep. I spent most of the night worrying about the safety of our group.
I've heard that every wilderness journey has a defining moment—the critical part of the trip where success and failure, safety and danger, hang in the balance. This was that moment for me. Over the years, on other wilderness expeditions, I’ve experienced similar moments. I remember them all—but I remember this day in 1971 most vividly.
« When we were camping on the left bank of the river, our tents spread along the portage trail, we could hear the roar of the 25-foot falls that kept you awake all night. »
Around midnight, we noticed the northern lights beginning to glow. What followed was the most spectacular aurora display I have ever seen to this day—shimmering sheets of green, red, yellow, and white light erupting from all sides of the sky, not just the north, and converging at the zenith. We woke up the entire group to watch in silence.
The river became gentle again. It widened, and the rapids were easy. Towering mountains surrounded us. I pushed the group forward because I didn’t know what other challenges lay ahead. The next major landmark on our odyssey was the 50-foot waterfall marked on the map. We arrived in the afternoon. You always know when you're approaching a big waterfall—you don’t hear it at first, as the sound is downstream, but you can see it in the landscape. The river slows down, becoming very deep, and you can feel it coming. We found the portage—it was in an obvious spot.
We knew the other group had passed through recently. Kim and I walked the trail to decide where we wanted to camp. When we reached the end, at the base of the falls—a beautiful cascade—we saw another group of canoeists, clearly from another canoe camp. Who were these intruders who had stolen our wilderness?
« If I remember correctly, Mazola read the Darrow brochure and planned a copycat trip. The reason Mazola sent his group to the upper Mistassini was that, shortly after our journey began, the Mistassini Reserve was closed to canoeists by the Quebec government. Mazola was then forced to pay Fecteau for the costly trip across the heights and out of the Mistassini Reserve.»
We waited until noon, then portaged around the falls and camped there for several days, giving Mazola enough time to get ahead of us. We wanted true wilderness. And we felt a bit cheated because they had arrived by plane and had stolen it from us.
We then paddled toward our next major landmark: the 100-foot falls. The forest was transitioning from spruce to tamarack—and now, more and more deciduous trees. The river was changing too—more mature, wider, slower, not as wild. We studied the map. Logic told us the portage should be on the right side. But no matter how hard we searched, we never found it. I later learned that it was discovered a few years after our trip—it was probably farther upstream than where we had been looking.
There was a very short portage around the left side of the falls. The take-out point was extremely close to the edge of the falls, clearly used by others before us, followed by an almost vertical descent over slippery cliffs. That was the route we took. We had to use the canoe painters to help lower the canoes down the steep trail. At one point, André lost his footing while carrying a heavy pack and ended up dropping it onto the riverbank below—but at least he didn’t fall himself. By the end of this ordeal, we rewarded ourselves with a double chocolate bar break. Everyone had earned it!
We crossed the giant pool at the base of the falls and camped on a sandy beach that had clearly been well-used over the years. My initial judgment—that we had plenty of time—proved to be correct. We stayed at the falls for several days, taking time to relax and enjoy the moment.
I had heard there was another portage just below the falls, and sure enough, we found the short trail around the smaller cascades. We then paddled to another portage—the very spot I had been in 1965. From here, I knew the rest of the river. We had made it safely. The dangerous rapids and waterfalls were behind us. We still had about 70 miles of river ahead, but there were no more portages.
We camped for two nights in a fire warden’s cabin by the river. I knew it as the Swan Lake fire warden outpost. Back in 1965, two young and very lonely rangers had lived there for the summer. By 1971, it was unoccupied—except for the two nights we spent there. We hiked the trail up to the Swan Lake fire tower. I had considered carrying a canoe up there and staying at Swan Lake—but everyone was too exhausted.
« Do you remember the foolish decision by the trip leaders to spend the night in the fire warden’s cabin, and the family of mice that ran over our sleeping bags all night?...»
We just wanted to walk into Girardville and meet our transport. By the time we reached the lower part of the river, the water level had dropped even further. Later, someone asked me how we had managed to paddle down the river with the water so low—but all I could remember was how high and terrifying it had been in the upper stretches after all those rains. We passed the shallow riffles where the Shamagua River flows into the Mistassini.
A Journey Coming to an End
That night, we camped in the Laurentides Park, north of Quebec City. In the middle of the night, we heard the sound of a terrible car crash on the road. Kim, Boyer, and I rushed out to see if we could help. A group of people had gathered around a man who had been thrown onto the road, blood coming from his mouth. He was unconscious, his breathing irregular. Kim—the fearless Kim—kept him alive with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation until the ambulance arrived. We stood in shock as the paramedics lifted his body—without proper support, making his condition even more precarious. The journey was over. We had done it—a trip I had dreamed of for so many years! But what do you do after achieving your dream? What’s left? What comes next?
I had a few long conversations with Janie. She was such a wonderful and caring person. Darrow Camp meant so much to me. I loved George, and I loved Janie. Summer was over, and my college years had come to an end. George drove me into town, and as we rounded Coffin’s Point, I looked back at the place that had shaped so many of my experiences. That night’s accident still haunted me—the convulsions, the way they carelessly tossed him into the ambulance. That wasn’t how we had been trained in first aid.
The next night, we arrived at Grand Lake. We camped a few miles from The Birches, at the nearest landing. We were exhausted. Kim, Dave, and I laid our sleeping bags on a ground tarp and slept under the stars. It was late summer in Maine, and the night was cold. Leroy slept close to our bags. In the middle of the night, Boyer saw a skunk walk right across our sleeping bags. Luckily, Leroy was completely wiped out and slept through the whole thing—a good thing, or we would have all been sprayed! We paddled back to Darrow Camp. We cleaned our gear and prepared to say our goodbyes. I was physically and mentally exhausted. Everyone had made it through the journey safely.
We had found the route and crossed vast wilderness. I knew it would be a long time before I would see it again—if ever. In town, we said our goodbyes. Larry Foglia drove a group of us back to civilization. I had to begin my new job as an electrical engineer.
I had no idea of the many new adventures that awaited me—I only wondered if I would ever do something as meaningful as this journey again in my life.
The Fondation Rivières would like to thank Rick Rocamora for sharing the text and photos of his story about the Mistassini and Témiscamie rivers.
The group of adventurers from Darrow Camp have adopted the Petit-Mécatina river in honor of two members of the group, who sadly passed away in October 2023: David Mack and Dr. Richard Bookman.
Text et photos : Rick Rocamora
