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< November/December 2004
	First Descents
Operation: Chukotka Dunbar Hardy

The two-page fax from Becky’s uncle struck us with disbelief. As she read it, her voice peaked in delight. It was an invitation to assess the rivers of Chukotka, Russia. “Where the hell is Chukotka?” we asked each other. We quickly got out the atlas, images of whitewater filling our imaginations.

In an attempt to diversify, the Chukotka Trading Co., owned by Igor Ivanov and managed by Anatoly ‘Tony’ Krashakov, was interested in tourism with a focus on rafting. But they didn’t know if their local rivers were suitable for it. So they contacted Uncle Ed, and Uncle Ed, knowing of his niece Becky’s adventurous spirit, relayed the fax. Next thing you know we were on our way to a place we knew nothing about.

As the visa and itinerary correspondence went back and forth, we determined these guys were Russian businessmen with little outdoor, much less paddling, experience. We would be the experts to assess the area’s whitewater; they’d handle the in-country expenses and logistics.

Our translator, Tony, met us in Moscow, where our boats and gear miraculously arrived, before showing us the sites for a couple of days. After our visas and permits were finally arranged, we hopped on a nine-hour flight to Anadyr, Chukotka, the whole while force-fed Russian drinking songs by the passengers in front of us. A cold and biting wind greeted us, the feeling of an early winter hanging heavily in the gray September air. Our first reaction: This did not seem like a place to go paddling—too cold and too bleak. There were no trees and no mountains. We were north of the Arctic Circle and felt cut off from the modern world.

After two days in the depressingly flat and dirty city of Anadyr, we loaded our boats into an oil-stained,19-passenger army helicopter to fly to Evekignot. Chukotka is two-thirds the size of Alaska with 10 times more reindeer than people. The flight over open tundra illustrated its vastness. From our base in the more pleasant ocean-side town of Evekignot, we finally flew toward the mountains with our faces pressed against the windows eagerly scouting everything below. The flatlands grew into rolling hills that finally grew into the 8,000-foot-high Chukotsky Mountains. We scouted numerous braided rivers in the flats, and a few possible whitewater sections higher up, but everything looked rocky and shallow.

Days of scouting revealed that the rivers weren’t ideal for rafting. They were too small higher up, and the middle sections were too short before dumping onto the flats. The riverbeds’ rocks also weren’t big enough to form meaningful rapids. With low water and less than ideal topography, we narrowed our search to the middle sections of the Amguema River and its tributaries, the Chanatal and Evergyren.

We had assembled a support team of two pilots, one mechanic, one translator, the boss, Igor, and two Russian army scouts. The Russians supported the helicopter scouting, curious to learn more about their own country. The tundra made looking and landing easy, and some days we flew up to six hours scouting. During breaks, the Russians busted out their fishing rods, catching an endless supply of Arctic char and grayling.

We saw our first real whitewater when flying over the Chanatal River. It looked low and straightforward, but a shallow walled canyon offered hope for more whitewater downstream. We flew back upstream and landed on the open tundra—it was time to suit up. The rapids were straightforward Class III, but allowed us to finally get wet. The Russian support team cheered as we caught eddies and surfed—they had never seen anyone paddle a whitewater kayak. Then we continued downstream to the next rapids, the helicopter following our progress overhead and then picking us up to skip the flatwater sections and drop us at the next whitewater.

It was helicopter-assisted kayaking at its finest, but there was something seriously lacking: whitewater. We never paddled anything above Class III and never found the multi-day section that could be marketed. With snow falling on us one evening, we also realized the paddling season here is short. So instead of rapids, we settled for reindeer. On our last day in the helicopter, we found a nomadic reindeer herder’s camp, Chukchi natives who lived on reindeer meat and used the hides for clothing and shelter. Their dependence on reindeers forced them to travel nomadically, just as the reindeer did. Landing in their primitive camp, we were met by 15 stoic herders, their wrinkled and worn faces speaking volumes about their hard life on the open tundra.

They invited us into one of their reindeer hide homes and offered tea and hair-covered reindeer meat. Strips of meat hung from the rafters and hides covered the floor. A smoldering fire in the middle of the yurt, called a yaranga, filled the inside with smoke. We talked to them through our Russian translator, who spoke to a Chukchi woman, who then translated into Chukchi. We were two languages removed from our native tongue.

And that’s about how far removed we were from the language of whitewater as well. As we flew back to our base, above a herd of almost 10,000 reindeer, we realized that maybe the land was better suited for reindeer than river running after all. It’s certainly not the rivers that stand out from our trip, but the landscape, the native people and their culture. Paddling was simply our excuse for being there and discovering the wonders of a place we couldn’t find on a map.

—Dunbar Hardy is the co-owner of Tarkio Kayak Adventures (www.teamtarkio.com) based out of Missoula, Mont.