, Québec raises the bar. High. That’s because the best ski vacations are never about one thing—they’re about putting everything together in one unforgettable experience. It all starts with great snow, of course, and that means high-quality natural and man-made snow, as well as opportunities to ski both untouched powder and premium groomed trails. Québec has it all, plus plenty of opportunities for night skiing, so you can extend the fun well after dark. For skiers who want to maximize their time on the slopes, the extensive night-skiing infrastructure at resorts across the region makes the “days” here as long as you want.

But great snow is just the start. The province is home to some of the most spectacular ski areas on the eastern side of the Rockies. “Breathtaking” gets overused a lot to describe scenery, but that’s exactly what you get in Québec: blended views of the St. Lawrence River and sweeping mountains at resorts in Charlevoix and just outside of Québec City, picturesque mountains in the Laurentians, and big vistas of Memphremagog Lake in the Eastern Townships. The combination of mountains above and water below creates stunning backdrops for cruising groomers and après-ski fun.

It gets better. With more than 70 resorts and a wide range of activities, there’s something for everybody. Have a family with diverse passions for winter fun? No problem. The Québec region offers plenty of options, including snowshoeing, alpine tobogganing, skating, tubing, cross-country and backcountry skiing, and fat biking. And when it’s time to relax—everyone needs to rest the legs eventually—Québec ski areas keep the fun going with unique après-ski experiences and top-notch dining. Thanks to the resorts’ proximity to urban areas, you can find everything from gourmet local foods and drinks to outdoor bonfires and a wide range of music.

Offering easy access—Eastern Townships Resort is 4.5 hours from Boston and seven hours from New York City by car—it’s a convenient destination for East Coast families because you don’t need to book travel far in advance. Accommodations range from deluxe hotels with in-house spas to more casual ski lodges, so there’s something for everyone. Bonus: The favorable exchange rate between the Canadian and U.S. dollar makes Québec ski vacations a smart choice.

Here’s where and how to enjoy the best of Québec ski culture across the province.

Québec City

The Best of Both Worlds: Winter Sports + Urban CultureĚý

If you’re looking for a winter vacation that’s part skiing and part cultural experience, the are for you. Because of the city’s proximity to the mountains—from downtown, you can be on skis in 20 minutes—it’s easy to enjoy the best of both worlds. Spend the day in the mountains, where you’ll find some of the best snow in the East, with consistent snowfall from December to March and world-class snowmaking equipment at many resorts. After a day on the slopes, the city becomes your après-ski playground. Explore Québec City’s European charm and rich culture. Indulge in delicious local cuisine. And if you’re up for it, the region’s affordable night skiing might entice you to head out for round two. Here’s where you can get in on the action.

Stoneham

Just 20 minutes from Québec City, this resort makes getting into the mountains a breeze. And the skiing is as good as the access. With 43 runs, 1,131 feet of vert, and access to the slopes day and night, will keep skiers of all levels entertained.

Best For: Easy access—from the city to the slopes in under 30 minutes

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Le Relais

Featuring approachable terrain, proximity to the city, and affordable lift access, is the perfect resort for families. Enjoy 33 groomed runs (28 are lit for night skiing) and three snow parks, plus a dedicated area for beginners to practice.

Best For: Family-friendly skiing

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Mont-Sainte-Anne

If you want more of a big mountain feel, delivers. Part of the Laurentian Mountains and peaking at 2,634 feet, this resort gives skiers a taste of Québec’s more rugged terrain without straying too far from city amenities.

Best For: Big mountain feel within less than an hour’s drive of the city

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Charlevoix

Big Views of World-Class Terrain and the St. Lawrence River

Just an hour outside of Québec City, the is known for calendar-worthy landscapes that are unlike any other part of the province, thanks to a meteorite impact more than 400 million years ago. Today, the mountainous landscape is defined by unique geographical formations that are part of the resulting crater. Not only are the peaks surrounding the valley jaw-dropping, but they’re also prime terrain for skiing. Twin mountains, Le Massif de Charlevoix and Mont Grand-Fonds, offer stunning views of the St. Lawrence River and prominent mountain views. But that’s not where the winter beauty ends.

Le Massif de Charlevoix

Ski Canada’s highest vertical drop east of the Rockies at . With an average snowfall of 254 inches, this resort is a true winter wonderland with convenient on-site accommodations. Explore 53 groomed trails and off-piste terrain galore (more than 400 acres). Or venture into the adjacent backcountry for even more on-the-snow fun. At night, the resort comes alive with DJ sets, live music, and exhilarating night sledding.

Best For: The full ski resort experience

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Mont Grand-Fonds

Enjoy a mix of skiing and other on-the-snow adventures at . In addition to plenty of downhill groomers, off-piste skiing, and a new state-of-the-art chairlift, the resort offers more than 85 miles of cross-country trails, 25 miles of snowshoeing trails, and a snowmobile area for a full winter-wonderland experience.

Best For: Multisport days and a family atmosphere

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The Laurentians

Endless Choices for Skiing Different Resorts and Terrain

Located about one hour from Montréal and three hours from Québec City by car, are the heart of Québec’s mountains, where you’ll find the highest concentration of ski resorts in the province and unmatched terrain and scenery. Here, visitors can immerse themselves in endless opportunities for winter adventures, including some of the best night skiing in the region. When the day (or night) adventure is over, you’ll still find all of the après-ski, fine dining, wellness activities, and other amenities that make for an amazing ski vacation.

Tremblant

Voted one of the best mountains in the east by SKI readers for many years, the world-renowned may already have a spot on your must-ski list. Here, skiers of all levels can challenge themselves to explore new terrain. Ski all day, then drift down into the picturesque village to explore Tremblant’s eclectic selection of après-ski spots and restaurants. The pedestrian village, with its charming mix of cobblestone pathways, welcoming bars and restaurants, and more, sets the stage for enjoying an extended après-après-ski evening.

Best For: A classic mountain resort and ski village experience

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Sommet Saint-Sauveur

As the first resort to open and one of the last to close in Québec each winter, is known for squeezing as much fun as possible into the ski season. And the maximalist mentality doesn’t stop when the sun goes down. The resort offers one of the largest night-skiing areas in the country.

Best For: Maximizing your ski experience

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Mont Blanc

From beginner runs to double diamonds, promises on-the-snow fun for the whole family. Explore a variety of terrain, including groomers, glades, moguls, and more. Check out the resort’s new night-skiing offerings, and when you’re ready for a break, you don’t have to stray far. Mont Blanc offers plenty of slopeside après-ski options.

Best For: An exciting mix of family-friendly terrain

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Eastern Townships

Terrain and Night Life for Everybody

For the skiers who want to sample a bit of everything, Québec’s —about 90 minutes from Montréal and less than three hours from Québec City—offer a huge variety of terrain, plus après-ski options that are equally diverse. From wide-open mountain glades to massive amounts of lit terrain for night skiing to the highest summit in the region, the Eastern Township ski areas will keep skiers of all abilities entertained. And you really can ski it all: just grab a L’EST GO card, which grants access to all four regional resorts, and you can hop around to accommodate whatever you’re in the mood for. After you’ve had your fill, wind down with a visit to a spa or enjoy delicious local cuisine.

Bromont, Montagne d’Expériences

Beginners and seasoned skiers alike will find reasons to love . Explore 144 trails spread over seven mountainsides for endless skiing fun during the day. At night, Bromont’s 104 lit trails are a focal point of this resort’s ski culture. Then head to the newly renovated Bistro Bar for a festive après scene.

Best For: A wide variety of terrain

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Owl’s Head

Not many resorts can promise groomers with panoramic lake views. The combo makes a perfect getaway for families, as you get accessible and fun terrain paired with some of the region’s most scenic ski runs overlooking Lake Memphremagog. For après-ski, the vibe is all about unwinding. Kick off your ski boots and grab a drink in the resort’s newly renovated ski chalet. Or head to the spa for the ultimate après R&R. Tucked away in a beautiful natural setting in the forest, Spa Bolton is a unique part of any Eastern Township ski trip.

Best For: Family-friendly skiing with a side of amazing views and relaxation

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Mont Sutton

Skiers who love cruising through the trees should head to , where glade skiing reigns supreme. And that’s just the start for tree lovers. You can also enjoy the forested terrain on nearby cross-country and snowshoe trails. Off the trails, the resort’s peaceful, nature-forward character remains a common thread through the area’s ski culture and local businesses.

Best For: Glade skiing and getting away from it all

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Mont-Orford

At more than 2,788 feet, is the highest ski mountain in the Eastern Townships. The resort’s 62 ski trails and 18 glades are located in the heart of Parc national du Mont-Orford, one of 24 national parks in Québec. From the foot of the mountain, access the park’s snow-covered trails, where you can trade downhill skis for cross-country skis or snowshoes.

Best For: Skiers who love a mix of downhill and cross-country

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It’s no secret: Québec is a winter wonderland waiting to be explored. Whether you’re looking to relax and unwind or embark on an adrenaline-filled getaway, its four unique ski regions and 12 picturesque resorts leave plenty of room for winter vacation—your way.

mission is to promote the destination. We are proud to highlight this magnificent land, its creative culture, and authentic experiences and to encourage people from near or far to discover Québec as never before. It’s a place you will fall in love with at first sight.

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There were already plenty of reasons to visit the region of QuĂ©bec: boating and wildlife-spotting on the St. Lawrence River, a slew of hiking and biking trails, natural beauty galore, local food, and much more. Now you can add sustainable travel to that list. A new zero-emissions train between and Baie-Saint-Paul in Charlevoix gives eco-conscious travelers a better way to visit these must-see regions. Here’s how and why to use the first-of-its-kind railway to plan a more sustainable trip to QuĂ©bec this summer.Ěý

Why Charlevoix?

How’s this for an origin story? The Charlevoix region’s unique topography was shaped by a meteorite that collided with Earth roughly 400 million years ago, leaving behind a 33-mile (54-kilometer) crater that is still visible today. If that geologic feature isn’t enough of a draw, many visitors also report feeling a particular magnetism and heightened energy at the site.Ěý

Regardless, you’re guaranteed to feel drawn to the stunning landscapes and scenic byways with panoramic views. You could fill a vacation with outdoor adventures, but of course there’s much more in Charlevoix. The local cuisine (imagine farm-to-table dishes with a European influence) and warm welcome are highlights of any visit. Because Charlevoix is only an hour north of Québec City, it’s easily accessible for international visitors. We recommend before catching the Train de Charlevoix to the next part of your adventure.

The Train de Charlevoix

For a scenic and sustainable way to travel between Québec City and Charlevoix, book a ticket on the . This privately owned railway is piloting a zero-emissions passenger train using Alstom’s Coradia iLint train, which is powered by green hydrogen—a clean, renewable energy source derived from splitting water molecules to create a renewable source of hydrogen power. While this green hydrogen power has been utilized in European transportation since 2018, this train is the first of its kind in the Western Hemisphere.

Aside from being a sustainable option for transportation, the Train de Charlevoix is an incredibly scenic way to travel the region. The 2.5-hour route runs along the St. Lawrence River, offering breathtaking mountain and river views between Parc de la Chute-Montmorency, located a mere 15 minutes from Old QuĂ©bec and the city of Baie-Saint-Paul. Fun fact: The railroad is owned by Daniel Gauthier, co-founder of Cirque du Soleil, so it’s no wonder the scenic ride feels like a show in itself.Ěý

The eco-conscious train operates from June 17 through September 30. Traveling outside of the summer service schedule? Charlevoix offers throughout the region.

Culture, Outdoors, and Cuisine

To experience arts and culture in Charlevoix, stop in Baie-Saint-Paul. Known as the birthplace of Cirque du Soleil, this charming city continues to foster creativity. Stroll Saint-Jean-Baptiste Street, where stilt walkers and fire eaters once performed. Today you’ll find an array of art galleries, boutiques, and artisans. Although the acclaimed circus arts troupe no longer performs in its hometown, you can catch a brand new show, , held in La Malbaie from August to October.

The area surrounding Baie-Saint-Paul is a hot spot for outdoor recreation. Get into nature with a hike in Charlevoix. With more than 340-miles (550 kilometers) of hiking trails in the region, there’s plenty of room to explore. Baie-Saint-Paul is also within proximity to , which has a variety of mountain biking trails for every skill level. And if you want a thrill, experience mountain views in on the scenic via ferrata route.Ěý

Want to sample local flavors? The Charlevoix food scene revolves around high-quality local ingredients. Everyone from local farmers to restaurateurs has a certain savoir-faire when it comes to sustainable food, and those values come across in the menus you’ll see throughout the region. Get the full Charlevoix culinary experience on the , which guides epicureans to the best food and drink in the region.

Nearby Québec City

A trip to Charlevoix wouldn’t be complete without a few days in Québec City. Visitors can experience the history and charm of Europe right in North America. Tour —a UNESCO World Heritage treasure and the only fortified city north of Mexico in the Western Hemisphere. Practice your French with friendly bilingual locals. Take your taste buds on a mouthwatering culinary journey inspired by the city’s French and Indigenous roots. Or explore , including Parc de la Chute-Montmorency and its 272-foot (83-meter) waterfall, or Parc national de la Jacques-Cartier, home to one of the province’s most beautiful glacial valleys.

Operated by Réseau Charlevoix, the vision of sustainable, eco-friendly development builds partnerships and drives local economic and social spin-offs. Their goal is to offer alternate, safe, respectful public transit and a unique experience in tourism—a spectacular one, in fact—between and coastal towns and villages.

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Just over an hour east of Quebec City lies Le Massif de Charlevoix—Quebec’s newest lift-accessed bike park. With 800 meters of elevation to play with, Le Massif de Charlevoix already has a strong baseline of trails to ride. Christina already had the pleasure of sampling some of the goods last fall, but this time brought Jason along to show him around. Follow the two as they make their way down Le Massif’s network blind.

Mountain biking with Christina Chappetta, and no shortage of views on the way up Bus Jaune.

Sometimes you just need to stop and soak it all in… before dropping in.

Histoire Sans Fin or The Never Ending Story is the best bang for your buck on the mountain. With endless corners, rollers, and flow this one is a must-hit.

Once you’re warmed up, Whipette is a great trail to get a bit more airtime with larger jumps and rollers.

Gros Boeuf is a double black tech trail that features steep rolls and tight switchbacks.

Basilic, which is essentially a downhill pumptrack, is an insanely fun way to end a lap. In the distance, you can see the under construction Club Med, but the resort is now fully open and welcoming guests.

Bonsoir, Le Massif.

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There’s real adventure out there. You just need to know where to look. We asked our editors and writers for their all-time favorite drives—and tips on how to pack as much riding, paddling, climbing, and running into them as possible.

Lake Superior Circumnavigation

Miles: 1,300
Activities: Kayaking, wreck diving, mountain biking

Bring a bike, because there’s plenty of riding in hubs like Ontario’s and Copper Harbor, Michigan, as you circle the greatest of the Great Lakes. Begin your trip in Duluth, Minnesota, on the lake’s far southwestern corner, where hundreds of miles of flowy, technical, purpose-built singletrack parallels the 26-mile-long city and offers views of Superior. On the lake’s northwestern shore, Ontario’s receives fewer than 15,000 visitors annually, and even fewer attempt its challenging 37-mile Coastal Hiking Trail. Experienced divers can explore hundreds of shipwrecks preserved by Superior’s famously frigid water, including the Bermuda, a 150-foot schooner that sank in 1870 near Michigan’s . Finish your epic seven-to-ten-day circuit by paddling Wisconsin’s Apostle Island National Lakeshore, a 21-isle archipelago just a few dozen miles east of where you started.

Pro Tip: Camp within a stone’s throw of the water at any of the dozens of state, provincial, and national parks that line the lake. —Stephanie Pearson

Great Basin National Park to Lake Tahoe, Nevada

Miles: 400
Activities: ­Hiking, hot springs, petroglyphs

Despite its nickname, U.S. 50——is never boring. Start in eastern Nevada at . (That way you can finish the trip with a well-earned dip in Lake Tahoe.) From its 4.6-mile round-trip , you can take in the park’s Wheeler Peak Glacier, one of the southernmost ice fields in the country. (It’s predicted to disappear in as little as 20 years.) Stop off in Ely, 66 miles west of the park, to play a few hands of blackjack at , a prohibition-era gambling hall that, at six stories, was once the state’s tallest building. From there it’s a 125-mile drive to the hiking, camping, and rock art at Hickison Petroglyph Recreation Area. The road-weary will enjoy a soak and the stunning views of the Toiyabe Range at before making the final push for Carson City. Once you arrive at Lake Tahoe, detour from Highway 50 and take Highway 28 north to swim at Skunk Harbor, Whale Beach, or Secret Cove (if public nudity isn’t your thing, avoid the last one).

Pro Tip: Get gas whenever you see it, and pack plenty of water. —Ruben Kimmelman

Miami to Key West, Florida

Miles: 171
Activities: ­Saltwater fly-fishing, reef diving, conch fritters

The drive from Miami International Airport to Key West makes for a bona fide tropical road trip, with dozens of state parks, wildlife sanctuaries, and plenty of roadside seafood shacks. Get out of the city fast, stopping only to load up on conch fritters at Alabama Jacks on County Road 905A. Once you cross the sound to North Key Largo, hike under the sea grape trees and mahogany mistletoes of . After switching over to famed Route 1, snorkel among the angelfish at and dive to a Spanish shipwreck at Cannon Beach. , in the village of Islamorada, has bounced back from 2017’s Hurricane Irma with $25 million in restorations and renovations, and it’s still one of the region’s best base camps from which to prowl the backwater flats for snook, bonefish, and tarpon. Once you’ve caught your limit, it’s on to Key West and mile marker zero. Connect with the folks at Southernmost Sailing School, who can show you your bowline from your clove hitch and take you out to see the dolphins.

Pro Tip: US-1 Radio gives you traffic, island news, and lots of classic rock. —Tim Neville

Bentonville to Mount Magazine State Park, Arkansas

Miles: 211
Activities: ­Paddling, climbing, leaf peeping

Pack a trail bike, a canoe, and a pair of hiking shoes for this tour of America’s most overlooked mountain range: the Ozarks. Start by exploring Bentonville, home to Walmart, the world-class , and hundreds of miles of the best mountain biking between the Appalachians and the Rockies. From there, it’s just an hour drive east on U.S. 62 to funky Eureka Springs for a dose of classic Victorian structures, hip art galleries, and the Thorncrown Chapel, an architectural gem of soaring glass and timber set in the surrounding woodland. Veer south to Scenic Byway 7 and head for the Ěýto float easy rapids below its 500-foot-tall limestone bluffs. Climbers should make a detour to nearby Horseshoe Canyon, a dude ranch with over 400 established routes and the site of the 24 Hours of Horseshoe Hell climbing competition, held every autumn. After crossing the Arkansas River, it’s a short jaunt east to the Ouachita Mountains and hang gliding, backpacking, and camping at Mount Magazine State Park.

Pro Tip: The park lodge sits atop the state’s highest point (from $218). —Nicholas Hunt

Carlsbad, New Mexico, to Buena Vista, Colorado

Miles: 635
Activities: Sand sledding, peak bagging, summer skiing

Skip the overcrowded Carlsbad Caverns National Park in favor of New Mexico’s rugged , which has remote trails that wind through cacti, agaves, and soaptree yuccas. Then it’s 140 miles north through Lincoln National Forest to the gypsum dunes of . It’s too hot in summer to camp, but there are six miles of trail for trekking and plenty of sand for sledding. Join up with U.S. 285, your route for the rest of the journey, and head north to Santa Fe and the ample hiking and biking in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Range. End the day with a soak at , a southwestern take on a classic Japanese onsen. Continuing north, be sure to climb the gentle volcanic slopes of San Antonio Mountain immediately off the highway on the New Mexico side of the state border, then hit up Calvillo’s restaurant in Alamosa, 50 miles farther north, for amazing Colorado-style huevos. şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Salida, click into your backcountry skis for a late-season skin up Monarch Ski Area, or ride the 36-mile for some of the best singletrack in the country. Then just 25 miles north of Salida, you’ll find the small town of Buena Vista, a prime location for bagging fourteeners and kayaking the Arkansas River. Stop by Brown Dog Coffee for a strong brew: you’ll need it to get up Colorado’s highest peak, nearby 14,440-foot Mount Elbert.

Pro Tip: Don’t miss the homemade malted milk balls at New Mexico’s retro Clines Corners truck stop. —Axie Navas

Great Smoky Mountains National Park to Boone, North Carolina

Miles: 193
Activities: Paddleboarding, trekking, boiled peanuts

It would take two weeks to do justice to the Blue Ridge Parkway, a 469-mile, two-lane byway with endless Appalachian views and easy access to some of the South’s best adventures, but you can knock out its stunning North Carolina section in a handful of days. First up? Trekking to LeConte Lodge, a hike-to backcountry inn that sits at 6,400 feet in the heart of Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Be sure to stop and enjoy the 80-foot cascades along the Rainbow Falls Trail as you head out. From there, follow the parkway into Asheville to paddleboard or fly-fish the mellow French Broad River before sipping a few pints at some of the city’s 30 craft breweries. If you have the legs, the region is home to some of the best singletrack in the East, like the jump-heavy in the Bent Creek Experimental Forest. From town, head north past 6,684-foot Mount Mitchell—the tallest peak east of the Mississippi—to the Roan Highlands, where the Appalachian Trail crosses a series of treeless peaks covered with native grasses. Knock out the 5.5-mile hike along the trail to the , an old barn with a sleeping loft that’s a favorite of through-hikers.

Pro Tip: Look for roadside stands selling boiled peanuts, a southern delicacy, on the country roads just off the Blue Ridge Parkway. ­—­Graham Averill

Quebec City to Saguenay Fjord and Back

Miles: 448
Activities: Tubing, via ferratas, cycle touring

With its hilltop châteaus and charming old-world-style streets, is a worthy road trip, but it’s even better as a jumping-off point for a 450-mile lollipop-shaped route through the province’s intense glacial-carved topography. Head north on Quebec 175 to Saguenay, population 145,949, stopping along the way to rent a tube and float among the hardwoods lining the calmer sections of the Jacques-Cartier River that cuts through 260-square-mile . Then it’s on to the showstopper—the road-and-ferry loop known as the , a 187-mile lap around the beluga whale-filled waters and 1,000-foot-high granite walls of Saguenay Fjord. Three via ferratas race along the cliffs in the 123-square-mile Saguenay Fjords National Park, including La Grande Dalle, a 656-foot-high ramble across a gigantic vertical slab. Before heading back to Quebec City, stop at the Parc Aventures Cap Jaseux campground, on the fjord’s northern bank, to cast for Atlantic salmon, and spend the night in the camp’s 20-foot-diameter glass dome tucked among the pines high over the water (from $198).

Pro Tip: The Route du Fjord makes for a spectacular bike tour, too. —T.N.

Fayetteville to Snowshoe, West Virginia

Miles: 256
Activities: Rafting, climbing, bluegrass

West Virginia has some of the wildest terrain in the mid-Atlantic, and this 256-mile trek takes it all in. Start in the paddling haven of Fayetteville, a mile away from the New River Gorge. Rafting season on the Class II–V New River runs from early spring through fall, but the best whitewater can be found in autumn on the Gauley River, one of the toughest commercially rafted waterways in the country. North of Fayetteville, Dolly Sods Wilderness Area is full of red spruce, cold creeks, and massive views of the Allegheny Mountains. Grab a pint at and a room at the , which has complimentary afternoon libations. Drive south and sign up for a two-day trad-climbing course with Seneca Rocks Climbing School, or tackle the multi-pitch routes that rise several hundred feet from the valley floor on distinctive rock fins on your own. Cap off the journey at Snowshoe Mountain Resort’s lift-served bike park, which will host a World Cup Downhill race this summer.

Pro Tip: The Purple Fiddle, in the town of Thomas, attracts some of the best touring bluegrass musicians in the country. —G.A.

Glacier National Park, Montana, to Jackson, Wyoming

Miles: 476
Activities: Car camping, day hiking, hot springs

Sometimes called the National Parks Highway, U.S. 89 runs due south from the Canadian border to Flagstaff, Arizona. But if you’ve only got a week, start at the icy peaks of northern Montana and end at the boiling waters and mountains of Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks. The trailhead for the 11.8-mile —which will treat you to alpine meadows and views of the Livingston Range—is just off Going-to-the-Sun Road in Glacier. Buffalo Joe’s Eatery and Saloon, in Dupuyer, has amazing burgers and a friendly eight-room motel around back. Wake up and hike the Watchable Wildlife Trail at the nearby Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Ranch, where there’s a good chance you’ll spot elk and golden eagles. After that, you can fish for big browns on the Missouri River. The town of White Sulphur Springs is your midway point. Make a pit stop at its hot springs, or plan your trip for July’s rootsy . From there, it’s on to Yellowstone and the Tetons, both of which need no introduction.

Pro Tip: Join a guided dinosaur dig at the Two Medicine Dinosaur Center in Bynum, Montana. —Charlie Ebbers

Fernie to Revelstoke, British Columbia

Miles: 378
Activities: Mountain biking, craft beer, small towns

Let the hordes have western British Columbia— in the east are loaded with hundreds of miles of new, empty singletrack, lift-served bike parks, and hip, blue-collar mountain towns. Kick off the trip in Fernie, in far southeastern B.C., and earn a free beer and a medal from Fernie Brewing by completing the , where you’ll attempt to bag three of Fernie’s toughest peaks by foot or bike in just 24 hours. Then head northwest to Bootleg Mountain, outside Kimberley, where a handful of downhill trails like Atlas Shrugged and NIMBY offer up to 2,000 feet of descent. From there, it’s on to , one of the best bike parks east of Whistler, Radium Hot Springs, at least 124 miles of cross-country trails overlooking Golden, and the high-alpine biking in Revelstoke, where its namesake resort will open its first gondola-served trail this summer. Finish up by heading south on B.C. Highway 23 toward Naksup and use your all-wheel-drive vehicle and sturdy hiking boots to reach the rugged Halfway River hot springs, a 40-minute drive north of town.

Pro Tip: Kimberley Centex Market looks like a gas station (and it is), but it also has the best coffee and cold-pressed juice in the province. —G.A.

Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota, to Badlands National Park, South Dakota

Miles: 550
Activities: Fly-fishing, wildlife, history

If you think the Dakotas are only for flying over, you’re dead wrong. This 550-mile meandering drive winds from the grasslands and canyons of North Dakota’s Theodore Roosevelt National Park to the state’s southern twin and the buttes and spires of . Start by mountain biking the Maah Daah Hey Trail, 144 miles of rugged singletrack, river crossings, and precipitous ridge climbs just outside South Billings. Across the border, Custer State Park has herds of bison, and rainbow trout lurk in nearby Spearfish Creek, a cold-water fishery just off the road in the Black Hills. Take a break from the sun and explore a few of the 147-plus miles of mapped caverns in Wind Cave National Park, before ending your journey at the 60-foot-tall mugs of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Roosevelt at Mount Rushmore.

Pro Tip: Got kids? Stay the night in a brand-new, impressively plush covered wagon at the Wagons at Rushmore Shadows, which includes a cowboy hot-dog dinner served around a fire (from $154). —S.P.

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Packrafting isn’t exactlyĚýnew. Small, portable rubber rafts have been used in expeditions since the mid-1800s. But there’s been a spike of interest in the durable one-person crafts that can be carried in your backpack. The American Packrafting Association reports that 76 percent of its members picked up the hobby in the past five years, and outfitters from Alaska to Montenegro are tapping into the trend with guided trips that involve hiking to and rafting down some of the world’s most remote waterways. If you’re looking to really get away, sign up for a trip or get equipped with the knowledge and supplies you’ll need to plan your own excursions. Here’s where to start.

Wrangell-St. Elias National Park

Alaska

Being able to travel by water opens up Alaska’s vast stretches of untouched wilderness. offers two-day courses in Wrangell-St. Elias National Park, an expanse of jagged peaks larger than Switzerland, that’ll teach you skills such as trip planning, river-running strategies, and self-rescue. If you’d rather have a guide lead the way, book a half-day, full-day, or weeklong trip, and you’ll hike to a glacial lake and run mellow Class II rapids while someone else takes care of the logistics (from $130).

Magpie River

Quebec, Canada

On this guided 12-day trip with , you’ll fly by helicopter from Sept-Îles, Quebec, into a remote northern forest before spending three days backpacking, rappelling, and orienteering through trail-free wilderness to Lake Magpie, the source of the famed Magpie River. From there, you’ll paddle your craft more than 100 miles down Class III and Class IV rapids to the Atlantic Ocean, catching brook trout for dinner along the way ($4,486).

Grand Canyon National Park

Arizona

Thanks to packrafts, you can combine a world-class Grand Canyon backpacking journey with a jaunt down the river. has a six-day rim-to-rim trip where you’ll hike into the canyon via the North Bass Trail, paddle across the Colorado River, then ascend the South Bass Trail. The $1,775 price tag includes all your camping and paddling gear and meals, plus transportation to and from Flagstaff, Arizona.

Saattut

Greenland

Gabriel Gersch is a 31-year-old adventurer who guided in Alaska’s Brooks Range before launching , a wilderness travel company that hosts expeditions across Europe. He bought his first packraft in 2010 and has undertaken trips through some of the world’s wildest mountain ranges from Patagonia to Pakistan. Gersch offers custom-made trips and logistical support for planning your own outing, coordinating details like budgeting, permitting, and food supplies. But the coolest thing about Gersch is that, for a relatively affordable fee, he’ll let you join him on his own adventures. This summer and early fall, he’s leading passages across Greenland (from $3,402).

Tara River Canyon

Montenegro

To truly experience the Montenegro’s Tara River Canyon, one of the longest and deepest gorges in Europe, you’ll have to take to the water. On this weeklong expedition from , you’ll explore the 74-mile canyon through the mountains of Durmitor National Park, as well as the Morača River and Bosnia’s Neretva River. The $721 trip includes transportation and guides, but not food, lodging, or gear. You’ll have to pitch a tent or stay in the hotels and bungalows along the river. Most camps have food available, or pack your own.

Snake and Hoback Rivers

Jackson, Wyoming

Want to go off the grid in the Tetons? will rent you pretty much everything you need, including tents, backpacks, crampons, ultralight cookware, and, yes, packrafts. This summer, the company has teamed up with Rendezvous River Sports and the American Packrafting Association to offer guided trips on the area’s Snake and Hoback rivers. It’s also teaching two-day clinics that cover essentials skills like swiftwater rescue, paddling techniques, and river navigation.

Fiordland National Park

New Zealand

is New Zealand’s only packrafting guide company, and it specializes in tours of the South Island’s Fiordland National Park. The company’s day trips will see you paddling the Waiau River and hiking the renowned Kepler Track (from $202). Longer trips will take you deeper, covering up to 93 miles of rugged wilderness, crossing alpine lakes and camping on sandy beaches and isolated islands. Or you can sign up for a safety and skills course and head out on your own for as long as your heart desires.

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“Say, do any of you have extra underwear?” asked Rob Stevens, looking like a miserable Santa in his sodden red woollens and fluffy white beard, as he inspected our replica 18th-century bateau. His lisp was a bit more pronounced than usual, so I knew he was upset. “They need to be 100 percent cotton.”

The bateau was overturned on the bank of Quebec’s raging Chaudière River—which basically means “boiling cauldron” in French—and Rob, the 62-year-old boatbuilder who’d constructed it, was charged with the emergency repairs. The riverbed had shredded our boat’s bottom like so much Gruyère. Even worse were the see-through gaps where rocks and water had ripped out the caulking.

I peeled off my long wool underwear, tottering a bit on the rocky shore, and slipped out of my green tartan boxers. They were my favorite pair—and apparently the only cotton ones at hand.

“Oh, those are nice,” Rob said admiringly. “Now tear them into long strips. About this wide.” He held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

I readily sacrificed my skivvies because the damage was my fault. The day before, I’d safely guided us down 30 miles of fast-moving water, but late in the afternoon, just as I was beginning to realize that I was tired and couldn’t see all that well, I had failed to slip our 417-pound craft past a pour-over that didn’t end up having enough water pouring over it. I could point out that my bowman, a young filmmaker named Wilder Nicholson, did not have a paddle, because Ben Schott, our resident whitewater expert, who was sitting just inches in front of me in the stern, had grabbed it for himself. But that would be unseemly.

Just as I’d screamed â€Âٳ󾱾±ľ±ľ±łŮłŮłŮ!” and swung the stern almost far enough around, Ben helpfully added, “We’re not going to make it!” Indeed, the bottom stuck on that boulder as if it were covered with grippy tape. Our bow swung upstream, and the 22-foot boat filled with angry brown water.

Thankfully, it wasn’t our first swamping—more like our 20th. The four of us somewhat calmly sat there until the weight of the water simultaneously freed us from our captor and submerged the boat. Ben swam off to retrieve a few items that had swirled away in the current, and Wilder and I kicked, stroked, and willed the sunken vessel to shore. It was like trying to eddy out a submerged pickup truck, especially with Rob hanging onto the bateau as if it were a giant PFD.

With another set of boat-destroying rapids just downstream, a narrow eddy was our only hope. Perhaps a bit callously, I yelled at Rob, “Let go, goddammit! You’re dragging us back into the current. Let. Go. Of. The. Boat!” He didn’t.

Later, after we’d made it to shore and I was bent over huffing and puffing, Rob asked, “What the hell were you talking about, let go of the boat? Are you insane? The boat was the only thing keeping me alive! I don’t know, Hodding. I’ve never seen this side of you before. I’m not sure I trust you.”

I’m a fanboyĚýof Benedict Arnold—yes, that Benedict Arnold, the traitor who makes the folks in today’s Russia investigation look like they were playing tiddlywinks—and it’s all because of his part in the 1775 campaign to take Quebec from the British. Essentially, it was a daring two-pronged attack by the Continental Army to take the fight for American independence to King George’s troops up in Canada. One prong, the supposed main one, led by General Richard Montgomery, would travel the comparatively reasonable route up Lake Champlain and then down the Saint Lawrence River to the fortified ramparts of Quebec City, which sits on a promontory overlooking the river. The other, led by Arnold, a colonel already known for boldness, would take 1,100 men over the seemingly impossible backwoods Native American trade route. If they succeeded, they would arrive in total secrecy.

In late September, Arnold and his men sailed roughly 40 miles up the tidal stretches of Maine’s Kennebec River, where they disembarked at present-day Pittston and switched to 220 wooden bateaux. Hastily built, the 22-foot flat-bottomed boats leaked worse than an old man’s bladder and were prone to capsizing in novice hands (and nearly all the men were novices). Each bateau carried 1,000 pounds of gear, including 45 days of rations. The soldiers would spend the next seven weeks pushing, poling, dragging, and carrying these loads up a 100-mile stretch of the Kennebec, over a 13-mile trail called the Great Carrying Place, then 40 miles up the Dead River, and through a dozen miles of bogs in an area called the Chain of Ponds before crossing the high-elevation mark, the Height of Land, between the Kennebec and Chaudière river basins.

This was all before they headed downstream on the Chaudière, 115 miles of whitewater that empties into the Saint Lawrence near Quebec City. By then the expedition had lost most of the boats and provisions to a hurricane—and hundreds of soldiers to desertion. The rapids of the Chaudière quickly destroyed the remaining boats, and the barefoot, frostbitten, starving soldiers suffered mightily as they stumbled toward Quebec City, arriving on November 14.

Despite this Sisyphean trial, Arnold’s men beat Montgomery’s to Quebec and had to twiddle their thumbs for more than a month outside the city walls. When Montgomery finally arrived and they all attacked on the night of December 31, it was a near instant disaster. Montgomery was killed at the outset, and Arnold was gravely wounded in the leg. The vast majority of the American soldiers were wounded or captured.

While the campaign to sack Quebec was an unmitigated failure, the approach journey is still considered one of the greatest American military expeditions of all time. Arnold’s contemporaries termed him America’s Hannibal (as in elephants over the Alps, not human liver, fava beans, and a nice Chianti). “The guy was a real badass,” says Nathaniel Philbrick, author of . “In the moment of battle, there was no one else quite like him. He was like a comet.”

Last spring, I finally decided that it was Arnold ho! time. I had wanted to retrace the expedition for decades, ever since I’d read Kenneth Roberts’s Arundel, the classic novel about the campaign, published in 1930, in which Arnold comes off as a swashbuckling leader of men and the expedition an oddly appealing trial in pain and misery. I was 54 and had put it off far too long.

I did some quick figuring. Arnold had 1,100 men and 220 boats. Three soldiers manned each boat in the water, while two or three huffed it on shore. I should be fine with one bateau and two friends, with a few more to rotate in when needed. Arnold had taken 51 days; I figured we could do it in 35. I gathered a couple of old lightin’out buddies: John Abbott, 52, the director of outdoor programs at the University of Vermont, and Rob Stevens, 62, who had constructed a replica Viking ship that the three of us sailed from Greenland to Newfoundland in the summers of 1997 and ’98. To lower our median age—Arnold was 34, and most of his soldiers were in their early twenties—we snagged Ben Schott, 36, a Vermont-based whitewater guide who has run the Grand Canyon six times, and Wilder Nicholson, 24, an environmental filmmaker from Maine.

Then we turned to the bateau. Maine loggers were still using the craft well into the 20th century; with its long-stemmed, high-sided bow and stern, it’s the best thing for navigating New England’s rivers with a good-size payload. Yet most Arnold expedition aficionados agree that it was the wrong boat to use: heavy, clumsy, and, in Arnold’s case, too leaky.

Undeterred, we stuck with the bateau because, despite the criticism, it was the river workhorse of its day and the only practical boat Arnold could have used. Indeed, we would prove it was the right craft by being the first fools to get one all the way to Quebec!

By July we had a set of boatbuilding plans, thanks to Maine’s Arnold Expedition Historical Society, and enough money, courtesy of Kickstarter, to begin construction. Arnold’s boatbuilder, Reuben Colburn, had completed his fleet in two weeks. Not by coincidence, no matter how much I nagged, Rob couldn’t start on our one measly bateau until September 10, about two weeks before the September 26 departure date.

A week into the build—in a boatyard along the downtown waterfront in Bath, Maine—I was sorely wishing I’d persuaded Rob to start sooner. The long, one-inch-thick planks didn’t fit together tightly no matter how much Rob and my son, Angus, and I bent and clamped them. As soon as we’d nailed something into place, Rob would say, “That’s gonna leak!” Even so, our bateau was starting to look like an Arnold bateau, with her wide pine boards, naturally curved bracing (using maple knees from trees I’d cut in my backyard), and rosehead nails we “clinched” into place, hammering each one in and then bending the sharp end back on itself, like a preindustrial staple. We filled in the gaping seams with long strips of oakum, pouring heated tar over the cotton caulking for good measure.

Besides the gaps, the only troubling thing came when, one afternoon, Rob offhandedly revealed that he’d had a heart attack in the past year. Then, a day or two before our scheduled departure, as we ate burritos next to a pile of wood shavings, he also let me know he had a defibrillator.

“Are you going to die?” I asked, slightly hopeful, since it would result in a splashier story.

“Nah, I don’t think so. Anyway, there’s no place I’d rather do it.”

When we tested our bateau on Saturday, September 23, she leaked like a sieve. But leaky wooden boats are commonplace in Maine, and those of us in the know stood around, hands in our pockets, telling each other, “She’ll swell up.” After all, we still had three days.

Meanwhile, my desire to re-create the expedition didn’t stop at the bateau, so I busied myself gathering up appropriate stores. My wife, Lisa, and our friend Jen Iott, a sailmaker, were hurriedly sewing together the wool period outfits—gorgeous billowy shirts and sturdy drop-front pants—that I was going to make my friends wear. I’d also been soaking 15 pounds of pork in water salty enough to float a raw egg. Salted pork was an Arnold expedition staple—until they lost most of their provisions on the Dead River.

When launch day arrived three days later, we all met at the boatyard. Ben, who I hadn’t met before, looked pale and tense, despite resembling an overgrown merry woodsman, with his bushy beard and long hair.

“Have you seen the bateau?” I asked excitedly. “She’s been swelling up the past three days.”

“Yep,” Ben said slowly as we walked toward the dock.

She was underwater. No amount of swelling could have sealed the slots we found when we hauled her out. Undeterred, we trailered the boat up to Pittston to launch. As 40 or so friends and strangers milled about helping and watching, we added strike plates (protective wooden battens) to the bow and stern, drove in more caulking, and poured even more melted tar over every visible gap.

The original expedition had also been forced to wait for last-minute repairs. Arnold’s diary, September 28: “The whole Detachment marched, except Scott, McCobbs and Williams Companies, who are detained for Battoes to be mended.”

“I think this is as good as we can do right now,” I announced. “We just need to launch and get going.” That’s when Rob told me he couldn’t join us for a few days (which would turn into weeks), and Ben, who I thought was leaving the next day to wrap up other work, said his mom was coming to get him wherever we camped that night.

The men were already deserting, and we hadn’t even begun.

A bald eagleĚýsoared overhead as we finally shoved off at 4 p.m.—Wilder, Ben, and John each taking an oar while I steered. The boat still leaked, but it was more manageable after somebody at the launch tossed us a plastic bilge pump. Yet when we tried to row, water was still pouring in with each stroke of an oar. So we paddled. It was a warm, summery afternoon, and the tide was with us. By 6 p.m. we’d covered five miles and were about four miles south of Fort Western, in present-day Augusta, where Arnold would split his army into four divisions to depart on four separate days.

On the edge of a hayfield, we sent John to ask at a nearby farmhouse for permission to camp. John has a way of talking through sticky situations—like trespassing—and he returned half an hour later bearing six beers. “After I told them we’re retracing the Arnold expedition, Brian and Judy threw out the welcome mat,” he said. “They’re bringing down fresh tomatoes and a crock of baked beans. Boys, following Benedict Arnold’s trail is definitely going to have its benefits!”

A cool fog had lifted by the time we set out the next day, and when a southerly breeze kicked in, we rigged a light nylon tarp as a sail by tying its corners to a pair of ten-foot poles. Instantly, we doubled our speed to two knots! The river was wide and quiet and the sailing an unexpected bonus. By early afternoon, we’d left the tidal section and come into some small rapids under a trestle at the northern end of Augusta. Unable to see directly in front, on account of the sail-tarp, we immediately ran aground and had to spend the next two hours alternately sailing and dragging the boat. The current beat at our legs, knocking us off our feet. This was just as it had been for Arnold. One of his soldiers wrote in a journal, “Proceeded up the river and found the water shoal, which caused a rapid current, and we were obliged often to get out and wade, pulling the boat after us.”

We were looking for a place to camp when we saw a man in a cowboy hat standing upriver, staring in our direction.

“Donna, come on down. It’s them,” he yelled out to his wife. “I’m Orland Bean,” he called down to us when we were close enough to talk. “You and I corresponded by e-mail. Donna and I stopped here thinking this might be a good place for you to camp tonight. Not much else around, and it’s good high ground. We know the landowner, and he’s said no problem.”

We’d find this kind of help again and again on our journey. People who lived along Arnold’s route were deeply invested in its history and would become an integral part of our adventure, saving our butts numerous times. It was Orland, for example, who followed our progress up the river for the first week, magically appearing on the banks at dusk to guide us into a campsite he’d scouted as we spent our days laboring at the oars and trudging through the water.

More disconcerting than the shoals or the current was how effortlessly Wilder steered. When John manned the stern oar, it looked like he was suffering from hemorrhoids. Every muscle straining, he’d turn purply red and sputter for minutes at a time until I doubled over in laughter. I wasn’t much better.

“Don’t you just want to kill him?” I asked as Wilder sat smiling in the stern, holding the oar with only his thumb and index finger.

“I’m in awe,” John responded. Wilder was like the bald eagles we kept seeing soaring low over us—grace in motion. They were in command of this waterway.

We were not, which was made obvious when we encountered Ticonic Falls on September 30, day five. As we pulled ashore below the remnants of Fort Halifax—a colonial outpost already in disuse when Arnold passed through—we could see a wall of water pouring over a 40-foot drop. There was no way the three of us—oh, ye deserters!—could get Batty, as we now called her, up that. But after scouting the steep portage from a nearby bridge, Wilder turned positively giddy. “I really think we should go for it! We can do it!”

We unloaded our gear and started carrying the bateau up the dry side of the fall. We made it two feet. Maybe. Our next strategy worked better: by setting a log under the bow and lifting the stern, we rolled the boat up another ten feet. Whoa! After three hours, we’d made it two-thirds of the way. As we stood gasping for breath, two guys named Tony and Mike clambered down the rocks to have a beer and watch the falls.

“Just needed to get out of the house,” one explained. But then he asked, “Need some help?”

With their assistance, we finished in under 30 minutes. Sadly, there were two more dams upstream. Without going into details, let’s just say we may have had my wife bring up some 21st-century assistance, possibly a trailer.

After that our numbers dwindled to two, as Wilder left for a couple weeks for a film shoot. John and I struggled upstream as signs of civilization dropped away. Besides the sound of nearby highways and the occasional sawmill, we could have been 200 years back in time. Beavers slapped their tails at us, and giant sturgeon, recently revived in the Kennebec, leaped high in the air. Day by day, we caught up with the pace of the Arnold expedition, and when we reached the end of the Kennebec, on October 7, we were ahead of all but one of the divisions.

So, after unloading just yards from where the Arnold expedition had also left the Kennebec, we were onto the next phase of our journey: the Great Carrying Place, the 13-mile uphill portage.

The GreatĚýCarrying Place: such a sweet, unassuming name, I almost forgot we’d have to lug our bateau up the height of the Empire State Building. Almost. This had been a soul-crushing leg for the Arnold fellows. The first five miles included a 1,000-foot elevation gain up faint singletrack used by Wabanaki traders. An advance party spent days cutting trees to widen the trail for the bateaux; the portage itself took a week. “The army was now much fatigued,” recorded the expedition surgeon, Isaac Senter, on October 14, “being obliged to carry all the batteaus, barrels of provisions, warlike stores, &c., over their backs through a most terrible piece of woods conceivable. Sometimes in the mud knee deep, then over ledgy hills…”

In our planning, Ben and John and I had often declared that the Great Carry would be impossible. However, with it now upon us, I determined that we should do it the right way, under our own power. This was one of the areas that had claimed the Arnold campaign’s place in history—we couldn’t give up without trying!

Thankfully, Rob had returned, and while Ben and John discussed our obvious need for a trailer, I whispered to Rob that he had to help convince them otherwise.

“Yes sir, Mr. Carter. Right away, sir,” Rob responded. “Of course we can do it. They’re just being big babies.” Rob is a big believer in brute force.

I gently began the pep talk. “Listen, we’re going to portage the entire 13 miles without using a fucking trailer and that’s that. No more whining.”

“Guys, this is nothing,” Rob jumped in. “Remember, the Viet Cong carried half a ton down treacherous, impossible mountain-jungle trails on their tiny bicycles! And when their tires went flat,” he said, clearly improvising now, “they repaired the inner tubes with frog skins that they had to go out and catch themselves.”

Ben, recovering first, rose to the bait: “I guess they were more badass than us.”

“No,” Rob said, beaming. “They were a lot more badass!”

We started lugging the boat uphill, rolling it on birch logs that Ben had cut from a standing dead tree. Luckily, we had arranged for some help through this stretch from our spouses. With Rob’s wife, Allison, and Lisa and another friend, we were able to move the boat up a one-lane dirt road. As we pushed, a log would roll out behind the stern and a runner would grab it and hurry to set it at the front. After six hours, 500 vertical feet, and 1.4 miles in the rain and mud, we left the boat on the side of the road and trudged back to our camp.

The portage was five days of pain and misery, but it was also simple. Yes, you got covered in bruises. Your muscles and joints ached like the heart of a lovesick teen. Hands turned raw and swollen. But you had one clear mission: keep moving forward. That’s all that mattered. When is life so beautifully simple? Strain. Push. Pull. Lift. Run. Moan. Again and again.

In an October 13 letter to George Washington, Arnold praised his soldiers’ conduct while explaining their slow pace. “We have been obliged to force up against a very rapid stream, where you would have taken the men for amphibious animals, as they were [a] great part of the time under water; add to this the great fatigue in portage, you will think I have pushed the men as fast as could possibly have been. The officers, volunteers and privates have in general acted with the greatest spirit and industry.”

Midafternoon on October 13, we reached Flagstaff Lake. Back in Arnold’s day, the portage trail met the shallow, slow-moving Dead River at this spot. But now, thanks to a massive dam built in 1949, this section is a large, clear body of water surrounded by mountains. Every bit of shorefront was tastefully decorated with driftwood and red foliage.

Despite the late hour, we shoved off from the southeast coastline, mostly protected from a 20-knot southerly wind. But within minutes we were awash in a whitecapping torrent. Water poured into Batty like she was the SS Minnow, so I steered for the leeward side of a nearby peninsula. The shore was studded with big rocks, but it was too late and dangerous to find another spot.

“Guess we won’t be doing much sleeping tonight,” Ben said. Rob had planned to leave us again here, and he immediately tromped through the woods to rendezvous with Allison at a nearby road. Attempting to make the best of our situation, I suggested we try the Ziploc of pecan-pie-flavored martinis that a family had given us during the Great Carry. Maybe the booze would help make things a little less miserable.

The martinis ended up working a bit too well, and we made the unanimous (sort of) decision to cross the thing at night. We folded the tarp into a triangular shape to improve our angle of sail and shoved off after sunset for a moonlit crossing.

The bateau flew through the cresting swell. Ben, constantly attempting to pump the bilge dry, would yell, “I’m pumping. Still pumping!” Every few minutes, I’d have to remind him that the end of the bilge hose actually needed to be overboard, and he’d add, “I’m really drunk!” The wind repeatedly landed the sail in the water. Even so, we covered seven miles by midnight. It was only in the morning light, when we saw how strewn the lake was with tiny rock islands, ledges, and unseen obstacles, that we realized what a miracle it had been.

Now we were on the Dead proper, and the river was initially slow and deep, meaning we could make decent time upstream. Even better, we found Mr. Arnold Trail himself, Kenny Wing. He and his dad, who started the Arnold Expedition Historical Society with friends, had found nearly every Arnold artifact between Flagstaff and the Canadian border: hundreds of musket balls, ax heads, knives, utensils, and clinched bateau nails. Kenny let us camp on his land, hauled our gear, bushwhacked trails, and dragooned volunteers. I can still picture his 89-year-old mother running beside us carrying a log on one of our many portages.

The Dead was the same as it had always been: serpentine and narrow, with endless shallows followed by startling dark depths created by the river’s many industrious beavers. At times it was less than 20 feet across and only a few inches deep. We bashed both ourselves and Batty on the rocky bottom as we pushed and pulled endlessly.

This 30-mile segment made everything that had come before seem like a guided, store-bought adventure. When the sun dropped behind the trees, we felt the cold deep inside our shivering bodies. Our wet clothing would freeze solid during the night, and in the morning we’d pour boiling water into our neoprene boots before we put them on. Our hands swelled and our joints were so abused that they ache now, months later.

Arnold’s men were hit by a hurricane on this stretch. The river rose eight feet, destroying most of the bateaux and their provisions. Almost immediately afterward, some 300 to 450 men (accounts vary), including sick and injured soldiers and an entire division led by Lieutenant Colonel Roger Enos, deserted and turned back for civilization, taking a majority of the expedition’s remaining food supplies. Enos’s division had trailed far behind and, in retrospect, their quitting seems almost inevitable.

We kept going, however, and on our fifth day on the Dead we reached its end, at the Chain of Ponds Dam. Rob was standing on the dam yelling, “I don’t like you guys! You sent all my stuff back!” (This was true. His stuff weighed at least 60 pounds.) But seeing him was good timing, since John would be going home in a couple of days. He had told his wife that he’d be gone a month, and time was up.

Through the 12-mile Chain of Ponds, Kenny led us on portages over unbroken wooded ground that followed Arnold’s route exactly. We even carried Batty right over a spot where Kenny and his dad had discovered a series of nails laid out in the shape of a bateau. Arnold, out in front and already on the banks of the raging Chaudière, had ordered all the bateaux left behind. “The oppression of carrying them was becoming absolutely intolerable,” one soldier wrote. “With inexpressible joy we dropt those grievous burthens.”

We crossed Arnold Pond, the last in the chain, on October 23. The remaining mile to the Canadian border, over the Height of Land, was fairly easy work: Orland Bean had brought a canoe trailer for us to push-pull Batty to the Arnold River, a few miles into Quebec. People stopped. Cheered. One man gave us three cans of Coors.

Arnold and his men had a much rougher time here, on account of groups getting lost, much boggier land, tattered clothing, snow and ice, and starvation. By now the troops had resorted to eating hair grease, shoe leather, candle wicks, and, eventually, the remaining camp dogs.

“They ate every bit of him,” the owner of one reported, “not excepting his entrails.… They collected the bones and carried them to be pounded up, and to make broth for another meal.” But, like us, the party was eventually assisted by friendly Quebecois. Arnold had sped down the Chaudière in a canoe in search of a settlement and finally found one near present-day Saint-Georges. Eighteen Quebecois, sympathetic to the rebel cause and paid by Arnold, delivered five oxen, two horses, two sheep, and eleven barrels of flour to the hungry men.

After slogging through the shallow Arnold River for two days, crossing Lake Mégantic, and then rolling Batty on logs through the town of Lac-Mégantic, we reached the Chaudière, the penultimate leg of our adventure, on October 25. Heavy rains had swollen the river overnight, covering rocks and ledges with just enough milky-brown water to make avoiding them difficult. Ben steered while I took to the bow, and Rob stayed in the middle. It didn’t go well. We’d avoid a shallow boulder, I’d scream, “Looks good now!” and then we’d slam to a halt. The boat would heel to one side, swamp, and then submerge and float free. We’d scramble to an eddy, unload our gear, drain the boat, and head off again.

We were waiting for a break in the rapids to cross to the other side, where we had agreed to meet Wilder after his two weeks away. At some point, Rob yelled over the roar of the water, “What are we doing, Hodding? A half-hour ago you said we’d cross the river and stop, but you still aren’t doing it!” We ferried across right after that, swamping on the way, and made camp in the rain on the side of a hill. There was no level ground, and by this point neither Ben nor Rob was really speaking to me. But at least Wilder found us hours later, in the dark.

Our time on the Chaudière was filled with running rapids, lining the boat past rapid-choked narrows, or paddling in rapidly moving flatwater. The river rose another six feet, and as we sped past rolling hills of farmland, one would have called it bucolic if not for the smothering odor of cattle dung.

Many, many swampings later, on October 31, we left the Chaudière for good, only a few miles from where the Arnold expedition started marching the 25 miles to the Saint Lawrence. We were a week ahead of their pace, after our brisk descent of the Chaudière. Wanting Batty to make the entire trip, and down to only three able-bodied men, we opted to rent a U-Haul to reach Lévis, a town on the south side of the Saint Lawrence, just downstream from Quebec City. Arnold spent almost a week at Point Lévis, then a small community with a mill owner who was sympathetic to the Americans, gathering canoes and waiting for a night that they might slip past British forces.

On the night of November 13, Arnold gave the go-ahead to cross. To transport 500 soldiers, however, they had to make three trips and sneak past two warships. One of the canoes broke apart midstream, and the swamped soldiers had to be dragged, holding onto other canoes, to shore.

Arnold had accomplished the impossible simply in reaching the city’s walls. Afterward, Washington wrote to him, “It is not the power of any man to command success, but you have done more—you have deserved it.”

It was Washington’s fondness for Arnold, in fact, that made his eventual betrayal cut so deep—that, plus his outrageous successes after the failed attack. Arnold went on to lay siege to Quebec (forcing the British to divert thousands of soldiers to the Saint Lawrence), whip the British on Lake Champlain, and ensure the American victory at the Battle of Saratoga, which convinced France to side with the colonies. Where he didn’t fare so well was politically. In 1780, feeling (correctly) besmirched by cunning fellow officers and politicians, and under the spell of his Tory wife, he hatched a plan to hand the Hudson River fort of West Point over to the Brits. Due only to a few last-minute mishaps did his plan fail, and he slipped away moments before being caught by Washington himself. Arnold went on to fight for the British and eventually retired to England, somewhat of an outcast. He died of edema in London on June 14, 1801.

Like Arnold, we had to wait in Lévis for clear weather and reinforcements—in our case, John and our families. Wilder occupied himself by making a full-size wool flag like the one New England flew during the revolution, and I bought a five-foot-long toy wooden musket. Forty days after we left Pittston, on November 4, we were at last ready to conquer the city.

The tide, ebbing from the west, was supposed to turn at 1:30 p.m., but by 2:45 the water was still rushing downstream. We were southeast of the city ramparts, but we decided to try to ferry across anyway, spurred on by celebratory shots of rum. We rowed for nearly an hour just to stay in place right by the LĂ©vis ferry terminal, putting our lackluster performance on full display. After the tide finally slackened, we crossed over and tucked into a cove, just below the cliffs that housed the citadel.

We were in Quebec City at last! On shore, we hugged each other and then marched up the citadel’s back steps to raise our flag. Of course, since the steps rose hundreds of feet and we’d had more rum than we should have, we had to pause a time or two. However, before the sun set, we stood proudly on those storied walls in full Benedict Arnold expedition re-creation regalia. We took in our success and then turned around and mooned the Canadian barracks to spur the British (or at least any British-speaking soldiers) to come out and fight. None were brave enough to appear—or, more likely, they didn’t know we were there. Whatever. Unlike Arnold, we had won the day. A bateau had made it to Quebec.

Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah!

Contributing editor W. Hodding Carter (Instagram: ) is the author of Ěýand other books.

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In Early May, Quebec’s Mistassini River is still full of ice. Muscled up with spring runoff and stained almost black by tannins from tundra far to the north, the eddies are swirling, acre-wide slurries. Underneath a highway bridge in the town of Dolbeau-Mistassini, 40,000 cubic feet per second—almost half the flow of Niagara Falls—rush through a narrow gap and then plunge over a jagged line of granite bedrock ribs. Oceanic waves, some more than ten feet high and 70 feet wide, rise and break, and the river implodes into churning pits of whitewater known simply as Bridge Rapid. Normally, no one here pays the rapid much mind—it’s just another thunderous falls in this broad, waterlogged province—but today there is a spectacle brewing.

Cars and vans topped with crayon-colored kayaks are parked along the road, and a dozen boaters in helmets and drysuits line the bridge, studying the maelstrom. Motorists slow to see what’s happening, and eventually a small crowd forms. The kayakers are in town for the third edition of the world’s toughest whitewater competition, the 2014 , a grueling two-week, six-event contest designed to anoint the world’s best all-around paddler.

Bridge Rapid is too dangerous even for the Grand Prix—at this flow, it’s one of the biggest in the world—but that fact hasn’t deterred roughly half the field from considering a run at it. Today is not an official stage, and the only thing at stake is prime footage. While the paddlers huddle on the bridge for an hour, discussing tactics and routes and ratcheting up courage, the Grand Prix’s photographers and videographers fiddle with their camera gear.

Eventually, 28-year-old is ready to run probe. “Mind if I go first?” he calls to Spaniard , who is also preparing to put in. “I’m not trying to be tough. I just don’t want to have to watch any carnage before I go.” Serrasolses nods, and a few minutes later Gragtmans launches from shore in his nine-foot plastic expedition kayak. He crosses the eddy and turns into the current as the Grand Prix media team sends drones into the air. He is whisked with astonishing speed down the broad, foam-streaked tongue toward the erupting chaos below. Within seconds he appears as a tiny water bug skittering between exploding waves twice his height.

Where the river churns against a rock island, he is swept left and lines up a hydraulic big enough to flip a tugboat. He charges into the maw and disappears. After ten anxious seconds, he pops up downstream of the hole and rolls upright. Gragtmans gives the OK. It’s on.

After a few more successful runs, a commotion arises as two of the youngest competitors, 20-year-old and 21-year-old Dane Jackson, paddle their tiny carbon-fiber freestyle kayaks toward an enormous 12-foot-tall wave at the top of the rapid. It would be ideal for surfing if it weren’t located directly above the deadly rapid. Grady slides smoothly into the pocket and begins throwing air screws, the sport’s most spectacular trick—an inverted flip in which the kayak spins on its axis like a spiraling football. Next up is Jackson, two-time defending Grand Prix champion and son of Eric Jackson, the most decorated paddler of all time and the owner of . His air screws are even bigger. Again and again he spirals his kayak clean above the river and splashes down in perfect control. “That’s probably the burliest wave ever surfed,” says one awestruck competitor on the bridge.

Then the unthinkable happens. Jackson accidentally drops his paddle. It flashes into the foam pile behind him and is gone. The crowd freezes. Jackson leans forward over his deck and begins furiously hand-paddling toward the eddy. He can’t quite make it and is swept downstream toward the pounding ledge holes. He leans his whole body against one churning wave after another, the tiny kayak flicking back and forth. Somehow he wills his way around the fatal ledges, and in a few seconds he sloshes safely into an eddy at the base of the falls, arriving just before his paddle.

Everyone is astounded. “That’s the most progressive thing I’ve seen in kayaking,” fellow competitor Rush Sturges, at 30 one of the sport’s elder statesmen, says while shaking his head.

At the Whitewater Grand Prix, the days off can be just as important as the stages. Taking inspiration from events like mountain biking’s , held annually in a remote spot not likely to attract many spectators, the Grand Prix’s main objective is to create videos of elite athletes competing in the most dramatic and demanding settings. Whether or not the footage is captured during an official stage makes no difference to founder Patrick Camblin, 32, a former professional kayaker who grew up on the banks of Canada’s Ottawa River. Most athletes wear at least one GoPro, and a media team accompanies them whenever they hit the water. Every few days, Camblin and company , where the clips have become some of the most popular whitewater segments of all time.

Editing video into the wee hours every night is only part of the challenge. During the day, Camblin must also choreograph a nimble, guerrilla-style operation and oversee all the judges, timekeepers, and safety procedures. By design the Grand Prix has no set locations, and while the scoring criteria vary from event to event, the freestyle stages are all about who can throw the biggest, most technical tricks and the downriver stages are either timed or head-to-head races. All the rivers are within a day’s drive of Quebec City, but where the caravan of staff, volunteers, and 35 competitors—28 men and seven women—end up is dictated entirely by the water levels, which change daily at this time of year, depending on rainfall, temperatures, and snowpack.

For the three races in the 2014 edition, Camblin hopes to cue up Class V rapids that few, if any, of the competitors have even seen. For the three freestyle stages, the optimum water level occurs when a targeted river wave—features with names like Detonator and Black Mass—is at its steepest. Most freestyle competitions are technical affairs with little risk. “At the Grand Prix,” Sturges points out, “even the freestyle is scary.” The waves are often so fast and twitchy that many people struggle to even catch them. And getting flushed from one can be dangerous. During the 2011 event, while the athletes were practicing on an Ottawa River wave called Gladiator, a recreational paddler had to be resuscitated after drowning in a hydraulic just a few yards downstream from the venue.

Between stages the competitors may opt to lie low and recuperate or, as they did that day at the Mistassini’s Bridge Rapid, attempt to cure their hangovers by paddling one of the world’s most fearsome stretches of whitewater. “When you get a group of hard chargers like these together,” says Sturges, who has notched dozens of first descents around the world, “the vibe is contagious. Everyone kicks their game up to the next level.”

The next level is what the sport desperately needs if it’s going to rebound. According to the research firm Leisure Trends Group, whitewater kayaking hit its peak in 2002, with 3.9 million paddlers. By 2004, that number had fallen by half, and it’s stayed there ever since. Meanwhile, whitewater-kayak sales have been stagnant for more than a decade.

[quote]“It's the hardest stuff anyone's ever competed on,” says Shane Benedict, cofounder of Liquidlogic Kayaks. “I hope they're prepared for the worst.”[/quote]

During the sport’s heyday, whitewater competitions were booming and top pros like Eric Jackson made as much as six figures from sponsors. “We called it the golden gravy train,” says Lisa Kincaid, a former professional kayaker who is now the marketing manager at , which makes paddle-sport accessories. Elite paddlers mounted ever more challenging expeditions to remote mountain gorges in places like Madagascar and Tibet; others chased notoriety by seeing who could huck the highest waterfall. By 2009, when Tyler Bradt , he landed on Good Morning America—but barely made a cent for his harrowing stunt. The massive SUV marketing budgets and booming kayak sales that helped fuel the sport’s brief ascension had disappeared, and the larger paddling companies had already begun shifting the bulk of their resources toward more accessible activities like kayak fishing, recreational kayaking, and stand-up paddleboarding.

“It’s not surprising,” says Brad Ludden, one of the most successful paddlers from the early 2000s. “Kayaking is a hard sport to learn, can be scary as hell, and takes place mostly on remote mountain rivers. The consumer base is never going to be huge.”

Camblin acknowledges as much, but he’s convinced it could be a lot bigger if the competitions were more entertaining. “They’re boring to watch and boring to compete in,” he says. Last year’s was held on a knee-high wave on North Carolina’s Nantahala River that wouldn’t give a drunk inner-tuber pause, Camblin notes, much less “inspire a 15-year-old kid to share the footage on social media.”

Figuring out how to do that hasn’t been easy. Even with nearly every one of the world’s top paddlers committed to this year’s event, Camblin failed to convince a single whitewater company to sign on as a cash sponsor. Once again there is no prize money.

When I stopped by his hotel room one night a few stages into the competition, Camblin and his two video editors, Matt Baker and Andrew Pollock, were way behind on their production goals despite some very late nights. They’d posted just one recap video and one course preview. All three were bent over their glowing 27-inch Macs, while two other staff members sat on the rumpled beds working on competition scoring sheets.

At the two prior Grand Prix events, Camblin had a staff of six paid videographers and editors. “This year,” says Camblin, who is laconic and heavy lidded even when rested, “I’m relying on two friends who will help me for free.” Heading into this year’s event, Camblin was $80,000 in debt, largely from financing the first two Grand Prix events himself—including paying for three-quarters of the competitors’ room, board, and transportation. (In 2014, he covered these expenses for only half the paddlers.) To save money, he recently moved back in with his parents and gave up his old beater car.

“If I can pull off one more of these,” Camblin told me before the event, “I think companies will see it as a proven concept and worth investing in.”

It’s not a far-fetched idea. NBC Sports recently made deals with Red Bull Rampage and GoPro Mountain Games to air recaps of the events. A couple of months before the 2014 Grand Prix, GoPro swooped in as a pilot sponsor, writing a big enough check that Camblin thinks the event will break even. “We signed on because there was so much content availability,” says Gregg DiLeo, a GoPro marketing manager who handles whitewater. “We really like getting involved in core events.”

The first time most of the competitors see the Shawinigan, the site of the second downriver race, they’re suffering the aftermath of a bender in Montreal, where a good chunk of the field had been clubbing until closing time following the boatercross event. It’s a gray, 40-degree day, with winter road sand still not swept from the streets. The course looks brutal. Brown, frothing snowmelt plunges over three successive rock-strewn falls. There’s no safe route at all down the right half of the middle falls, a 30-foot-high jaw of broken rock. Worse for morale is the fact that many of the racers arrive just as finds himself in serious trouble.

Troutman, the 2009 world freestyle kayak champ and husband of Emily Jackson, Dane’s sister, is a 26-year old Canadian with the ebullient personality of a camp counselor. He isn’t hungover but still makes a terrible mistake. On his first practice lap, he chooses to run the low-head dam above the first falls. The dam does have a safe passage—a six-foot-wide notch where the current pushes straight through. Unfortunately, Troutman misses it by a few feet and plops sideways into the deep, deadly seam.

The hydraulics below low-head dams, which are designed so that water flows over the top, can be impossible for a boat or a body to escape, and there is panic from the competitors and race staff onshore. Many paddlers have died in similar circumstances. Knowing this, Troutman doesn’t try to paddle out of it—instead he wet exits and dives as far away from the dam as possible. Amazingly, he escapes, but he’s now being swept downstream toward the three punishing falls. With windmilling strokes, he makes the shore just at the top lip, crawling to his feet on the slippery boulders. He watches as his kayak is dragged down the rapid and crumpled by submerged rocks.

[quote]When not paddling, they're editing and posting GoPro clips, learning to fly drones, or giving each other mullets in the parking lot.[/quote]

The crowd lets out a collective sigh. “That’s terrible,” Sturges says. “That’s the Grand Prix,” another competitor replies. Everyone nods, their faces slack and rubbery with fear. But soon enough it’s back to business. Some go suit up for their own runs while a few of the men turn their attention back to their phones, swiping away on Tinder, as they do whenever there’s a lull in the action.

At the inaugural Grand Prix, eight kayakers swam during the first time trial. In 2012, when the event was held in Chile, there were broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder, and Olympic slalom paddler Mike Dawson spent two days in intensive care with a lung infection after he nearly drowned in a sieve. That same year, Chilean was pinned in his kayak under a submerged log and struggled to keep his head above water for nine terrifying minutes before another racer rescued him. After just two stages at the current Grand Prix, two competitors have dropped out with shoulder injuries and one is paddling with a broken finger. “It’s the hardest stuff anyone’s ever competed on,” says Shane Benedict, cofounder of . “I hope they’re prepared for the worst.”

Spooked by Troutman’s close call, the field votes to nix the first falls from the course, eliminating the risk of being swept down the unrunnable side of the subsequent rapid. When the time trial begins, racers are released from shore in two-minute intervals. They careen down the rock-strewn rapid like pachinko balls, bashing through curtains of spray and trying to keep their kayaks pointed straight off a sheer 20-foot drop. After fighting through a sticky hydraulic at the base, sometimes upside down, they sprint toward the next falls, a chunky 25-footer squeezed between broken rock ledges, and ended with a 50-yard sprint to the finish line.

One racer bounces onto his head halfway down the reef but rolls up quickly and keeps sprinting. Another flops over the falls backward. It starts to rain, and I find myself standing next to racer Joel Kowalski’s mother, one of just a handful of spectators. We watch as the paddle is ripped from one woman’s hands in the middle of the rapid. She bails out of her boat, and it plunges over the 20-foot falls alongside her. “That wasn’t very good, was it?” Joel’s mom says. According to my tally, it’s the sixth swim of the Grand Prix so far.

Only Dane Jackson makes the course look easy. In addition to his previous two Grand Prix victories, he also won the 2013 World Freestyle Kayak Championships and made the podium in three other disciplines—squirt boating, C-1, and open canoe, which would be like Shaun White winning a gold medal in the snowboarding superpipe and then clicking into skis and medalling in moguls and skiercross at the same Olympics.

“He is hands down the best kayaker in the world right now,” says Sturges. “He’s superhuman.” By all accounts, he has that rare combination of innate talent and unflagging dedication to his craft. Most of the competitors made four or five practice laps on the Shawinigan course, but Jackson estimates he logged over 20—so many that he cracked his boat. Where the Shawinigan’s rocky course makes most racers’ strokes choppy and violent, like they’re in a fistfight, Jackson’s are fluid, and his kayak scythes downstream like it’s on rails. He easily wins the stage, moving into first place in the men’s standings.

Later that evening, in the motel’s generic conference room, it’s Troutman who’s leading the field, exuberantly organizing a drinking game called Rage Cage. I can’t follow the rules, which include Ping-Pong balls and stacks of cups rotating around the table, and do my best to blend in and avoid having to drink the King’s Cup, a nasty mix of vodka and Coors Light.

While most of the competitors are here, Camblin is absent, as are the three Ph.D. students (geomorphology, physics, and parasitology). There are a few ironic mustaches and mullets, but the aesthetic is more goofy than hipster. , one of the top men in the field, frequently wears a Mexican wool poncho, while Jackson plods around in a pair of puffy slippers fashioned to look like giant cans of Molson.

Although the party goes past 2 A.M. and the group consumes about ten cases of beer and several bottles of vodka, it’s a pretty tame gathering by Grand Prix standards. At the Chilean event, Sturges, who in addition to producing eight kayak flicks has released a pair of hip-hop albums, freestyled on stage at the host resort until forced off by the management and was then kicked out entirely for juggling beer mugs—poorly—on the dance floor, breaking several. In 2011, in Dobleau-Mistassini, a competitor trapped a skunk he’d found wandering around outside and tossed it into a room where a dozen people were hanging out drinking.

By this point, the competitors have settled into a fairly predictable rhythm: heavy drinking at night followed by woozy morning carpools, first to get coffee and egg sandwiches at the nearest Tim Horton’s, then to a parking lot beside one of the province’s flood-swollen rivers, where Camblin delivers the day’s briefing. Depending on the stage, they’ll either stomp through a slippery wet gorge, scouting every square foot of the frightening race rapids, or huddle up wet and steaming around a smoky campfire beside some thundering wave. Other times they’ll help with safety, as they did at a freestyle stage held at the Black Mass wave, taking turns raising a flag whenever a car-trunk-size chunk of ice was heading toward a surfing kayaker.

To save money, most of the competitors share vehicles and cram four to a room. They cook “gypsy stir-fry” on Coleman two-burners on their doorsteps, at one point using ingredients salvaged from Troutman’s garbage. When not paddling, they’re editing and posting their own GoPro clips, learning to fly drones, or giving each other mullets in the parking lot. Wherever they go, there’s always an airplane crash of damp gear—yellow GoreTex drysuits, blue personal flotation devices, and black neoprene spray skirts—hanging from every available hook, railing, and ledge.

A few days after the Rage Cage party, the inside of Camblin’s hotel room also looks like something exploded. There are Red Bull and Pabst Blue Ribbon cans everywhere, and for some reason they’ve set up the ironing board. They’re still a few stages behind schedule, but when they post new videos online, the clips quickly rack up a few thousand hits. People are definitely following, though the viewership isn’t as high as in previous years. (“That’s because I didn’t have someone whose job it is to spray the stuff all over the Internet,” Camblin will tell me later.) “Surprisingly,” he says, “GoPro is still happy with us even with our glacial posting pace.”

For the most part, everyone else is happy, too. There has been the usual grumbling about some of the scoring and timing organization. One racer feels she would have won the boatercross if the finish-line rules had been explained more accurately, and another complained that the big-trick guidelines changed in the middle of the competition. But most buy into the overall concept of creating great footage and are happy enough to follow Camblin around frozen, soggy Quebec for two weeks, taking huge risks for the cameras.

“The credibility he has among kayakers is incredible,” says Ryan Bailey, who is covering the event for kayaking pub and is one of the organizers of the sport’s other new pinnacle event, Idaho’s race. “I don’t think anyone else could pull this off.”

[quote]Lots of them didn't want to run the rapid at all. Two weeks of fear, competition, and crowded cars and hotel rooms have ground them down.[/quote]

The problem, of course, is finding more sponsors to sign on. “Paddling companies have told me that they are not interested in working with the Grand Prix due to how critical Patrick is of other events,” says Eric Jackson, who pulled out of this year’s event following the first stage after voicing his discontent with the scoring system. As Bailey acknowledges, “Patrick is definitely more of an artist than a salesman.”

Even if Camblin were the world’s best pitchman, he might have trouble getting his own struggling industry on board. “It’s a price issue for us,” says Liquidlogic’s Benedict. “I love the Grand Prix concept, but we don’t have a sponsorship budget.” A few months after the 2014 Grand Prix, in an effort to streamline costs, Liquidlogic decided to shift to a direct-to-consumer model. Last December, the Payette River Games, which has offered the biggest purse left for whitewater kayakers, announced that it is cutting the kayaking events in lieu of stand-up paddleboarding. “We have really enjoyed doing our best to promote and expand the sport of whitewater kayaking over the past four years,” event organizer Mark Pickard said in a press release. “But we’ve decided not to underwrite the expense of hosting another kayak event.”

The most notorious rapids are defined by what lurks below their surface, unseen. There are drops that have been run safely hundreds of times, and then one day some variable conspires to hold a body in the rocks below. Others, like the one at the crux of the final racecourse on the Basse Cache River, do strange, violent things to a kayak on seemingly every run. The best kayakers possess an ability to divine a river’s intentions and to negotiate, by timing and force, a course through. But none of them can plan for what they can’t see.

At its crux, the 50-foot-wide Basse Cache slumps into a 20-foot-deep cleft against the right wall. The racers all want to run left, across the grain and over a ten-foot shelf of galloping whitewater, but so far every one of them gets subsumed trying to do so. They reemerge as many as five unnerving seconds later, one with knuckles bloodied, another with his paddle snapped in half, and a third with his helmet cracked.

Lots of them didn’t want to run the rapid at all. Two weeks of fear, competition, and crowded cars and hotel rooms have ground them down, and now they’re faced with a river too high to run, let alone race.

“I’ll walk away,” Adriene Levknecht, an intense 26-year old paramedic from Greenville, North Carolina, calls out to other female racers scouting the river. “I’ll just start driving south.” They cluster in a knot, discussing whether to hold their course on an easier section or to race at all. Mutiny is in the air.

Camblin is confident that the flow will drop to reasonable levels overnight. “The alpha guys will step up,” he says. “There will be a race, and it doesn’t matter if they don’t all run it.”

The next morning, the flow has subsided but is still too high for a pair of very dangerous rapids downstream. Camblin decides to shorten the course and posts a squad of volunteers below the finish line to fish out swimmers before they’re swept downriver. “If you swim, we let your boat go,” Camblin says at the briefing. “No chasing equipment.”

During the race several do swim, their spray skirts imploded by the big drop. Each is pulled ashore by ropes thrown by rescuers, but several boats are swept around the corner. The women ultimately do race, charging through the sluicing gorge with steely resolve. Eventually, the mood lightens and the Basse Cache slalom becomes competition at its best—skillful, difficult, and spirited. A cluster of spectators gather along the big rapid, and some skinny girls wearing backpacks full of Red Bull show up from Quebec City and pass out free cans.

The timing isn’t announced during the race, but the top finishers are obvious because there are only three clean runs. The first is Garcia. The second is Sturges. In the short history of the Grand Prix, Sturges has never won a stage, and it feels like he’s due. But no one is surprised when, on the final run of the Grand Prix, Jackson flashes across the chaotic ramp, plops cleanly into the pool, and beats Sturges’s time by a few fractions of a second, once again winning the Grand Prix.

At the closing party that night in Quebec City, Troutman dances on the bar, the Ph.D. students are once again notably absent, and one of the volunteer staffers manages to get a Tinder match to show up. It appears to be going well—other than the fact that I hear her say that all the kayakers, even the women, smell like mildew. At one point, Sturges pulls me outside to perform one of his newest songs, rapping over beats he plays on his iPhone. He’s not as good at hip-hop as he is at paddling, and the lyrics are a little earnest for my taste, but his rhymes are layered and complex.

Camblin sits mostly to one side, wearing his usual flat-brimmed cap and sipping on a whiskey and water. He looks sleepy but happy. At the awards ceremony, he had deflected most of the thanks, even making Bailey announce the winners. He also somehow managed to skip the official post-event group photo. He’s got a long way to go, with the last two videos as yet untouched, but he’s satisfied that the event went off well.

He talks about taking the next Grand Prix to Nepal and says he’s been figuring out how to hold a future stage in the Niagara Gorge, a massive Class V run below the falls that’s currently illegal to paddle. Toward the end of the evening, Sturges does handstand push-ups on a table beside the dance floor, which is packed with sweaty kayakers, and when I see the staffer leave with his Tinder date, I think it’s probably time for me to call it a night, too. I scan the bar for Camblin, hoping to say goodbye, but apparently he’s already slipped out the door.

Frederick Reimers is a former editor at Paddler and Canoe & Kayak magazines. This is his first feature for şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř.

A full gallery of images from the Whitewater Grand Prix.Ěý

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Whitewater competitions aren’t—typically—spectator friendly. They’re usually held at locations convenient to pedestrians, meaning relatively flat sections with a few fun waves. , for example, were held on a burbling river with hip-high waves. It had about as much verve as a dressage competition.

Enter the Whitewater Grand Prix, happening this week in eastern Canada. The third edition of the two-week long competition has together for a six-stage competition at the peak of the spring runoff, when rivers are at their most explosive. The events are split between dangerous downriver races on flooding waterways, and freestyle competitions on double-overhead breaking waves—all in remote, fearsome, seldom-paddled locations.

“Ninety percent of kayakers wouldn’t touch any of these venues,” says event organizer Patrick Camblin, “but we need spots like this to showcase the best paddling.” Already, four competitors have dropped out with injuries, two kayaks have been destroyed, and one competitor was nearly swept to his death over an un-runnable 70-foot falls.

https://player.vimeo.com/video/93571261

Camblin’s strategy for the event is similar to mountain biking’s , the high-flying fat-tire spectacle that’s produced a handful of jaw-dropping viral videos. At the WWGP, the idea is similar: Film the carnage action, edit it well, and watch the Internet go wild. The big difference is that there’s no prize money. Camblin hopes the event gets enough attention to change that in the future. For now, he and a handful of friends have stuffed themselves into two-bed motel rooms in northern Quebec, chugged Red Bull, and . All pro-bono. Such is the effort to create the Next Big Thing in whitewater paddling. Check out the .

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The 10 Best Canadian şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍřs

How do you pick an adventure in a country as big and boundless as Canada? We asked our favorite nomads to reveal the greatest hidden paddling, biking, and hiking spots, from Nova Scotia to the Northwest Territories.

• Mountain-Bike Quebec
• Paddle Ontario’s Missinaibi
• Climb B.C’s Okanagan Valley
• Sea Kayak B.C.’s Clayoquot Sound
• Trek Alberta’s Willmore Wilderness
• Ride Nova Scotia’s Tidal Bore
• Northern Exposure

The Best Canadian şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍřs: Mountain-Bike Quebec

Easy cranking

Canada’s tourism department sells British Columbia as the World’s Best Mountain-Biking Destination. They might be right, but I’ll be in Quebec. With hardwood forests, steep fjordlands, and 17th-century cities, the province has European culture and rugged terrain. Plus, it’s just a 90-minute flight from New York City. Three summers ago, I spent a week riding half a dozen trail systems on a west-to-east road trip through Quebec with a group of B.C. mountain-bike junkies. We started with downhill laps an hour east of Montreal at , a 1,263-foot peak with three chairlifts, 19 downhill trails, and no crowds. Then it was twisting, technical singletrack through the rolling hills of Coaticook Gorge and beginner banked turns at a limestone canyon called Vallée Bras du Nord. But the choicest rides were on the 100 miles of cross-country trails at , a bike-friendly ski resort 45 minutes from Quebec City. An hour after finishing the nine-mile Le Ruissea Rouge loop, I was sipping beer at a bar with views of the Saint Lawrence River on one side and 400-year-old ramparts on the other. Try finding that in B.C.

GET THERE: Fly to Quebec City and set up shop at the at Ski Bromont (doubles, US$177). Get your bikes at the mountains’ rental shops (US$60 per day at Ski Bromont; US$116 at Mont-Sainte-Anne).

The Best Canadian şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍřs: Paddle Ontario’s Missinaibi

High water

Of the 50 sets of rapids studding the Missinaibi River’s 350-mile route, only two absolutely must be portaged. The rest are fun Class II–III affairs, which is what makes the Missinaibi one of the world’s best canoe trips: it’s tough to find that many moderate rapids all in one place. A centuries-old trade route between Lake Superior and James Bay, the Missinaibi cuts through thick birch and spruce forest, rimmed with granite bedrock that makes for clean, level campsites. One July, I led a group of teens down the river for a canoe camp, and we spent a day hauled out at one of those mandatory portages. Thunder-house Falls is a spectacular three-tiered maelstrom and an ideal place to lay over for a few days, listen to the falls’ roar, and yank walleye out of the water below. Which is what we were doing when a camper ran up shouting that one of our canoes had floated away and another one was about to. The river had flash-flooded overnight. I waded nipples deep into the swollen current and dragged one escapee back to shore. We loaded the remaining boats to the gunwales and wobbled downstream in search of the other. Then, slowly spinning in a wide eddy just a few hundred yards above the nasty, appropriately named Hell’s Gate gorge, there was our missing green canoe, upside down but intact. It being summer camp, we celebrated that night by hog-tying a camper to a tree. (Sorry, Will.)

GET THERE: You can paddle the entire 350-mile route from Missinaibi Lake to Moosonee in 20 days—or split the trip in half by putting in at Mattice, where the river is crossed by the Trans-Canada Highway. Rent boats from in Chapleau (US$240 per week), which also offers shuttles. At Moosonee, load your canoes into a boxcar on the train—there are no roads here—and head to Cochrane, where your shuttle awaits (US$60 plus US$100 for the shuttle).

The Best Canadian şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍřs: Climb B.C.’s Okanagan Valley

Sweet sidetrack

One time a couple lady friends and I had this great idea to drive my two-seater pickup with all of our climbing gear from Santa Fe to Alaska, each of us taking turns riding in back. We never even got close, and the reason wasn’t because we waited until September to roll out or because the Mounties at the Canadian border ransacked our dirtbag-mobile for several hours. The problem was British Columbia. It stopped us as if we’d run into a rock wall, which wasn’t too far off. Just 40 miles north of Oroville, Washington, the gneissic goodness of the Skaha Bluffs poured through the windshield, and we mashed the brakes. How could we not linger here in the hot Okanagan Valley, where more than 650 sport routes soar over the pines? A few days later, with knuckles sore from so many crimpers, we packed up and hopped in with a plan to gun it 1,400 miles north to Haines. Instead we drove 160 miles the wrong way to Revelstoke, where the intermediate crags below a gorgeous 5.10 roof at the Begbie Bluffs area kept us occupied for days. In more than two weeks on the road, we never got farther than four hours north of the U.S. border. We all learned something valuable about planning Alaska road trips, though: if B.C. is in the way, you should probably take a plane.

GET THERE: Fly to Kelowna and drive an hour south. In Okanagan, book a lakeside campsite at the (US$45). In Revelstoke, crash at the (US$90) and climb the Raptor Wall at Begbie Bluffs, just south of town. For guides, call .

The Best Canadian şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍřs: Sea-Kayak B.C.’s Clayoquot Sound

Fire islands

Reaching Clayoquot (klak-wot) Sound, one of the woolier sea-kayaking destinations in North America, requires a two-hour ferry ride from the city of Vancouver to Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island, a 130-mile drive west to the end of the Pacific Rim Highway, and a willingness to launch your craft into a storm-lashed archipelago crowded only with killer whales. The draw: 236,000 square miles of watery wilderness. Some 30 miles from the put-in at Tofino are shoreline hot springs—a perfect camp spot. Of course, that doesn’t mean the paddling is easy, as I learned on my debut trip to Clayoquot back in high school. It turns out that following the windward side of the islands, instead of the tame inland passage, means surf landings and long, exposed crossings. Fog can arise even in July, and strong currents slow the progress of those unacquainted with local tides—like me and my three buddies. We never made it to the hot springs: a squall blew in and stranded us on Vargas Island for three days. To pass the time, we built a driftwood fire large enough to divert passing tanker ships. (Hey, we were 17.) Recently, I asked my friend Tim what he remembered about the trip. “I still have nightmares about the awesomeness of that fire,” he said. “Had it not been absolutely pouring rain, we would have surely lit up the entire island. It was freaking beautiful.”

GET THERE: Plan your trip with Sea Kayaking Barkley and Clayoquot Sounds, by Mary Ann Snowden. Tofino provides the essentials: groceries at the and boats and charts from (US$40 per day for kayaks, including paddles, flares, PFD, sprayskirt). For a deluxe, all-inclusive version of the Clayoquot experience, take a 30-minute boat ride from Tofino to the spectacular kayak-equipped (US$4,800 for three nights).

The Best Canadian şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍřs: Trek Alberta’s Willmore Wilderness

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