An 80-year-old canoeist’s indefatigable spirit flows high and strong on Ontario’s mighty Magnetawan River and beyond. Words & photo: Colin Field.
“I just can’t sleep in a tent anymore,” said my buddy. He was getting older. Crawling around on the ground was too much hassle, so he was done with it. Then another friend proudly proclaimed, “I’m never sleeping in a tent again.” She got rid of her tent and bought an RV.
These are my peers. We’re not that old, are we?
Anytime I wonder if I’m too old to do something, I remember paddling the Lower Magnetawan River in 2018. I had my usual buildup of pre-trip jitters: I worried about throwing my back out, wondered if I was strong enough to carry everything, pondered the integrity of my aging gear. The river has a mean reputation. The motto among paddlers is: “Everyone swims on the Magnetawan.”
One of my tripmates was 80 years old. At first, Christopher Hope seemed like a liability. He looked his age, with thin grey hair and sunken eyes. He was slow. He couldn’t carry his heavy pack and he often held his paddle incorrectly. Plus, he was new to whitewater paddling—he was using this trip as a training run for an arctic Coppermine River expedition in six weeks.
The river has a mean reputation. The motto among paddlers is: “Everyone swims on the Magnetawan.”
With record-high water levels, everything on the Magnetawan was more intimidating than usual. But the old man wasn’t concerned. He insisted on sterning the canoe—the more difficult of the two canoe positions—because he wanted to improve.
The river’s prophecy came true that year; we all swam sections of the Magnetawan. The hotshot Black Feather guides floated downstream beside their capsized boats. I swam multiple times, my canoe so full of water my gear just floated away. Hope went for a swim too, but his enthusiasm couldn’t be squashed.
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“Show me some Class V rapids! I want to swim them,” he claimed as he emerged, sopping wet from the frigid waters onto the river bank. “It’s the only way to learn!”
As we got to know Hope, it became obvious he was an exceptional man. He’d climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, trekked to Everest Base Camp, scuba-dived through shipwrecks and windsurfed seemingly everywhere. Not once did he complain about sleeping on the ground. He didn’t complain about the bugs, either. In fact, he didn’t complain about anything. Respecting this elder was easy.
“Show me some Class V rapids! I want to swim them,” he claimed as he emerged, sopping wet from the frigid waters onto the river bank.
Sure, he was the weakest paddler on the trip, but we all looked up to him. We helped when we could. We carried his pack, helped him over difficult terrain, offered paddling tips and patiently waited for him. Spending time with him was an honour.
I haven’t seen him since that trip ended. I tried to call him last week, but his phone was out of service. Turns out he passed away in the summer of 2023. Christopher Hope went for a swim in the ocean near West Vancouver and never returned. He was 85.
I was saddened to hear the news, but I continue to find inspiration in how he lived his life, right up to that very last breath. He never gave up. And it’s because of Christopher Hope that I am certain about one thing in my life: Getting rid of my tent is not an option.
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