Three Rivers Lodge Canada: Three Rivers Lodge Labrador Canada

My Terrifying Experience at Three Rivers Lodge Labrador Canada

I just wanted to go fishing but ended up feeling I might die when my guide got us lost for 6 hours in the extreme Labrador wilderness......

I was invited to go on a fly fishing adventure by two friends, John and Harriet, veterans of fly fishing for decades. The Three Rivers Lodge is located 147 miles northeast of Wabush, Canada. Wabush is east of Hudson Bay and north of Maine. The town exists only because of the huge iron ore mines that have been developed there. I was not able to grasp the extreme wilderness that I was entering into until we made the flight….I mean flights. Philadelphia to Toronto to Montreal to Quebec to Sept Iles to Wabush. The flight from Sept Iles to Wabush began to open my eyes. There was nothing but flat ground covered with fir trees and lakes. Lake after lake…there were thousands. No roads, no railroads, no buildings, no signs of any civilization and then all of the sudden there was Wabush. Upon arrival we were taken to the Two Seasons Hotel in town where we spent the night. The next morning we were to leave at 8:45am on the “Otter”, a ten passenger seaplane. The departure time came and went as we waited for a “weather window”. The window did not appear until 2pm. We then started our hour plane ride to the Three Rivers Lodge. The wilderness truly revealed itself on this flight. Flying at a lower altitude, the terrain was no longer a green blur. I could see the detail of the forest, lakes, shores, streams, vegetation….miles and miles and miles. Again, no sign of any civilization until an hour passed and we saw the red roofs of the buildings at Three Rivers Lodge. The lake landing was smoother than an airport. The lodge buildings are built on wood foundations that tend to move as the ground below them thaws. The winters are so harsh that having footings below the frost level is impossible. So the buildings move as evidenced by the constant creaking and many broken windows.

We quickly got settled and went out into boats for a little late afternoon fishing. Anthony was my guide, an experienced fly fisherman, with a heavy Newfoundland accent. We went out for some pike but mainly to loosen up for the next days adventure. I quickly caught a 14” pike and actually had him take my picture. He laughed at my wish to photograph such a small fish, but I told him this was the first of many to come. Returning to the lodge, I asked Anthony if he would be my guide tomorrow and he said probably not, as Kevin, the operator, assigns everyone in the morning.

The morning soon came and I was to go out to Max Run with John and Harriet. Anthony was to be John and Harriet’s guide and Ron was assigned to me. We were loaded onto the “Beaver”, a six person seaplane with all the gear, including the guides backpack and high powered rifle to protect us from bears. The flight was thirty minutes, landing in another lake then taxing to the shore. Within minutes we were unloaded and the plane was in the air for it return to the lodge. As I waited for the group to get settled I took out my trusty compass and saw that the lake and stream were running north south. I was thinking to myself how nice it would be to have a map and know exactly where we were at. John suggested I start fishing at the first pool on the stream and he and Harriet would move up stream. This was great as I need a wider area to loosen up my casting. A half hour went by with no luck so Ron decided we needed to move up stream. We arrived to learn that Harriet had just caught a huge brook trout within minutes of her start. Pictures were taken and it seemed that it was to be an exciting day. Ron wanted to move up further and talked it over with Anthony. They decided that we would meet back along this stream at noon for lunch.

Moving up stream meant hiking along the stream through the woods. There are no paths or any sign that a human being had been there. The terrain is spongy with many rocky holes so it is essential to watch where you place each foot. Looking down constantly I soon noticed a significant amount of bear shit and said to myself, this is why we brought the gun. After ten minutes Ron decided we were to cross the stream to the other side. Wading up to my waste, I got to use my new wading staff for the first time. It worked very well as a balance to the rushing water pushing me down stream. We hiked a ways on the other side, stopping periodically to cast in selected pools. I was only getting small trout to take interest in my flies so we moved up further, then turning east onto another tributary that fed into our original stream. We followed this up, finding different pools and catching four trout along the way.

Ron announced that it was time to return to the group for lunch. I pulled my line in and fixed my rod for the walk back. Ron started to walk into the woods instead of along the stream. Though apprehensive, I didn’t say anything because I figured since we walked south on the stream and then east on the smaller tributary, he was cutting through the woods on an angle to make the walk shorter. I plodded along all the time trying to keep up with Ron’s fast pace. This was my first time with a guide. It was exciting and maybe a little anxiety provoking, not to be “in charge” for a change. We walked for a half hour when I had a brief sense that we were veering too far northeast. I called to Ron and mentioned my concern but he confidently responded not to worry, that we would be there soon. Another half hour went by and I again expressed my concern and he responded that he was following the sound of the rapids in the stream. I must admit that I did not hear those rapids but again relented to the professional’s opinion. I was the newbee, even when considering the other guests, all of whom were doing this for 30+ years.

Two hours into this trek I told Ron I had to stop. I was truly scared at that point and expressed that to Ron. My concern again was met with confidence and a rationale that I struggled to counter with a strong argument. My only hold on direction was knowing that when I got off the plane the stream was running south to north. I know we turned left, in an easterly direction. I asked Ron about my theory, showing him my compass and the northeasterly direction we were heading. He wanted to explore just a little further as he thought we were close. At that point, I was overheated and sweating profusely with the four layers of clothing I wore to prepare for the cold stream and air. My top set of wool socks had bunched up to the top of my boot. The terrain of moist Caribou moss sucked at every step I took making the hike that much more taxing.

Another half hour passed and Ron revealed to me that he wears two hearing aids and may not actually been hearing the rapids but just the wind blowing through the trees. As a quiet panic sets into my soul he also revealed that he left the satellite phone back with the lunch bag along with the rifle to protect us from bears. In the discussion about the SAT phone he tells me that his GPS broke last week and he was unable to get it fixed. The terror grew at that point as I understood that Ron had no idea where we were or what direction to head. I finally convinced him to turn, though I was as unsure having no points of reference to base any decision. The wilderness looked the same in every direction. Trees and moss. Trees and moss.

Hours passed and there was no sign of anything other than wilderness until suddenly I spotted a large round rock. It was right in the middle of the flat, dense, mucky forest. Next to the rock was a dead tree. I was able to shimmy up the tree with my boots on the rock. I remember being so thankful for the hex screws I bought at Moorestown Hardware. I had screwed these into the bottom of my wader boots for added traction. My friend John had suggested this might come in handy walking in streams where the rocks were so slippery. The boots gripped the rock and I made my way to the top. Once there, I spotted my first sign of water and had my first glimmer of hope.

I took a compass reading to where I spotted the water and followed that successfully. We reached the water in another half hour and I just collapsed. I could not walk another step. As we rested Ron decided that the stream was just around the next cove. He suggested I stay there and he would come back for me. I told him there was no way he was leaving me alone. I again hauled my ass up and followed. His next idea took us across a stream that rose to my chest. My jacket pockets filled with water but the second wading belt that John gave me the night before, kept the water out of my waders. I kept looking at my compass telling Ron that this cannot be the right direction. My argument was not strongly based….more of a gut at that point. We finally came to a point where there was nowhere to go. The forest was so thick it was not passable. Ron finally gave up and admitted he had no idea where we were. After again expressing my terror, he agreed to walk back to a large rock outcropping. He suggested that we build a fire there to signal the plane but soon revealed that all his matches were wet. We laid on the rock for a long time. The black flies became so thick that it was hard to see through the bug netting over my hat. Ron turns to me and said, I am really glad you have a red jacket. Gilles, the pilot, might be able to spot red from the air. I remembered seeing the red roofs of the lodge buildings and agreed with him. While sitting on the rock I started taking inventory of my fishing vest. In my top pocket,, I found the head lamp that I had pulled out of my camping gear at home. Though darkness was still several hours a way it was another ray of hope.

We laid on the rock, for what seemed an eternity when all of a sudden we spotted smoke rising out of the woods, miles to the west of us. I screamed with excitement and we set out toward the smoke. There was no direct route. The water was endless coves that required us to walk round and round. Ron kept wanting to leave the sight of the water but I would not go. Soon the smoke stopped but I still had the direction from my compass. I decided to use my whistle. Making short, staccato bursts using all my breath left in my lungs… over and over… left me gasping for air. We walked and walked waiting for some sign. The vacuum made by the sopping ground pulling at my boots was draining the last bit of energy from my body. Hopelessness was starting to set in again when I heard the whistle. Harriet was mimicking my sound. It was faint and its direction was hard to discern, but what incredible excitement. There was a gunshot whose sound then made our direction more clear. The whistling continued, back and forth. We left the water’s edge and ventured through the forest following the whistle. We walked but now with real hope. Soon we were able to hear a voice, yelling. The forest ended and across a large body of water I saw my friends, John and Harriet and the other guide, Anthony. I fell to the ground, now 6 hours into our trek, unable to move. The guides decided that there would be no more hiking. Anthony radioed the plane and told them our location. It suddenly appeared and I crawled on board. Gilles, the pilot, taxied across the lake to pick up the others. As they came on board the emotion poured out of my body. Not able to speak or lift my head we flew back to the lodge and landed safely.

I was able to make my way to my cabin where my friends helped me remove my waders and gear. That is when the cramps started. All through the evening my legs became like painful rocks. I realized that not knowing if or when I was to be found, I had stopped drinking water. The layers of clothing and extreme exercise drained my body of fluids. But I made it to dinner where I heard the other side of the story.

Harriet described how the two men left to search for us when we were 2 ½ hours late returning. Anthony asked if she had ever fired a rifle before which she responded, not since I was 16. After a brief lesson and instructions to shoot the bear if it passes the tree line the men set out in search. Harriet also described a whistle that she kept with her from her days of playground monitoring. That night we reflected on the small things that made differences…an extra wading belt, a red jacket, hex screws from the hardware store, a compass and a couple whistles.

After a day of recovery, I struggled with the idea of going back into the wilderness. When I learned that the management had assigned me to the SAME GUIDE, my decision was made for me. I packed my gear and got on the next plane to Wabush.