Rowing the Northwest Passage: Adventure, Fear, and Awe in a Rising Sea

Kevin Vallely

Greystone Books (2017)

[Editor's note: Traversing the Northwest Passage using only human power in a single season was something that adventurer Kevin Vallely always wanted to do. No one had ever done it before. He chatted with a friend about the idea in 1997, but at that time it was impossible. Even during the summer, the Northwest Passage didn’t open up for long enough to accommodate such a journey.



Fast forward a few years. To the great shock of climate scientists, Arctic sea ice had dramatically declined. It meant Vallely’s dream of journeying the Northwest Passage was suddenly possible. In 2013, Vallely and three other Vancouverites set off in the Arctic Joule, a 25-foot rowing pod, to undertake the 3,000 kilometre journey.



Vallely chronicles the adventure in an upcoming book, ‘Rowing the Northwest Passage,’ which tells of storms, the rapidly changing Arctic, and their experience with climate change deniers. Here’s a passage from a chapter of the book on “The Beaches of the Dolphin and Union Strait,” which lies between the Northwest Territories and Nunavut. There, the team battled a wild wind.]

The sharp snapping of the flags on our boat — we have two of them, one Canadian and one Irish, suspended from the antenna by our cabin door — sound like whips snapping in the air and indicate a very strong wind, likely gusting over 35 knots. We notice on our navigation screen that we’re moving; the wind is pushing the Arctic Joule so hard that we’re dragging our anchor across the ocean floor and we’re forced to deploy our backup anchor to stop ourselves. It’s disturbing to think that our single anchor can’t resist this wind, and a relief when the second one works, holding us fast until the wind dies.

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Frank and I begin rowing in earnest again in the calm, but we don’t realize our windstorm is only taking a deeper, more powerful breath before it unloads its full fury. Soon thundering gusts begin to strafe us and we’re forced to stop again. We drop both anchors in anticipation of what’s coming and head back into the cabin to wait it out.

“This wind is crazy!” I say to Frank as I shut the hatch door behind me. “This is the strongest wind we’ve felt so far.”

Denis is staring at the navigation screen mounted on the inside cabin wall. He looks alarmed. “We’re moving out, guys. You should toss the second anchor.”

“We already have,” Frank says. Denis taps the screen. “Look, you can see our line. We’re being pushed straight out. This isn’t good.”

The onboard GPS, which traces our movement on the display screen, shows clearly that we’re moving out to sea. It’s just a few yards a minute, but we’re moving nonetheless. The farther out we’re pushed, the deeper the water gets. Our second anchor has only 60 feet of line before it loses purchase.

“If we lose that anchor,” Frank says, “there’ll be no stopping us. We’re going straight out to the pack.”

Sea ice still sits a short distance off shore; being pushed into it would be disastrous.

Getting caught in the icy maelstrom outside the cabin is a nightmare none of us want to consider; our boat would likely be destroyed. Our depth gauge indicated 35 feet when we anchored a short time ago. We now watch the screen as that number increases like a rocket countdown in reverse, with 60 feet spelling catastrophe.

... 45feet...

... 46feet...

... 47feet...

The wind has built into a furious gale, more powerful than anything we’ve experienced on this expedition; it must be gusting at over 40 knots. The boat is being tossed around like a cork and we’re slipping fast.

... 48feet...

... 49feet...

... 50feet...

We throw our sea anchor to slow the movement, but it’s of little help. Three anchors and we’re still not holding ground. We’re powerless against this push.

... 51feet...

... 52feet...

... 53feet...

Sometimes in adventures, at moments like this, the only thing separating a good outcome from a really bad one is blind luck. Today we’re served a heaping scoop of it.

“It’s stopped,” Paul says, scrambling out on deck with a flummoxed look on his face. “It’s crazy-like.”

The wind has completely stopped, as if someone flipped a switch off.

“Christ, let’s get to shore before it starts again!” I scream. Paul and Denis jump into the rowing stations while Frank and I haul the two ground anchors as fast as we can. I scramble off the bow and retrieve the sea anchor.

“We’re good, guys,” I yell to Paul and Denis when the sea anchor is out of the water. “Go, go, go!”

They haven’t rowed more than 50 strokes before the wind switch is flipped back on. Paul and Denis row like men possessed.

“We can do this, guys. Keep it going, guys. You’re looking great.”

I’m their eyes now, squeezed between them on deck, manning the steering wheel and ensuring we hold a straight line. In a strong wind like this, the bow wants to slip to one side or the other and throw the boat broadside. Someone has to steer constantly, which a rower can’t do without stopping rowing.

“One hundred metres to go, guys,” I lie, encouraging them to pull harder than I think they can. They can’t see where the shore is, and we’re still a lot farther out than I tell them, but they’re fighting this thing through... somehow.

Weeks of hard rowing are paying off. Paul and Denis are keeping the tempo up, showing no sign of tiring. We claw ever closer to shore.

“Seventy-five metres out, guys, seventy-five metres out!” I scream truthfully now.

A large swell pushes the Arctic Joule up hard onto the rocky beach.

“I don’t know how you guys did it, but you did it!” I scream, hitting them both hard on their shoulders as I leap off the boat.

Excerpted from ‘Rowing the Northwest Passage: Adventure, Fear, and Awe in a Rising Sea,’ by Kevin Vallely, published September 2017 by Greystone Books. Condensed and reproduced with permission from the publisher.