A 7,500 km canoe journey across a vast portion of the United States, linking the Pacific Ocean at Astoria, Oregon, to the Atlantic Ocean at Key Largo, Florida. A 190-day expedition through a country of remarkable beauty.
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Coursing Through America
From April 28 to November 4, 2018, I completed a transcontinental journey across much of the United States by canoe, connecting the Pacific Ocean at Astoria, Oregon, to the Atlantic Ocean at Key Largo, Florida. This experience gave me a unique perspective on the country and its people, explored almost entirely through its waterways. Throughout the expedition, I paddled alongside different teammates and also traveled a portion of the Gulf of Mexico solo.
From April 28 to November 4, 2018, I completed a transcontinental journey across much of the United States by canoe, connecting the Pacific Ocean at Astoria, Oregon, to the Atlantic Ocean at Key Largo, Florida. This experience gave me a unique perspective on the country and its people, explored almost entirely through its waterways. Throughout the expedition, I paddled alongside different teammates and also traveled a portion of the Gulf of Mexico solo.
Crossing the Canadian–American Border
Two days before the start of the expedition, I felt a deep sense of relief after successfully clearing U.S. customs. During a lengthy 90-minute interview with a customs officer, I began to worry that I might be denied entry, and that the time, effort, and financial resources invested in the project could be lost. For an hour and a half, a stranger held my dream in his hands, with the authority to determine its outcome.
I had requested permission to remain in the United States for seven months, but I was granted a six-month stay. Within minutes, my decision was made: I would find a way to complete the expedition within that timeframe.
I embarked on this adventure with a sense of lightness and great excitement. For me, the first day of any expedition is always the most memorable, as it represents the culmination of extensive preparation, personal sacrifices, and the realization of a long-held dream.
I am deeply grateful for the support we received from Ryan Heck, whom I initially knew only through Instagram. Ryan generously transported a significant portion of our gear, along with food and essential equipment, to Astoria. He was also present at our departure, capturing photographs that documented the beginning of our journey.
Columbia River
This journey began on the shores of the Pacific Ocean in Oregon. From there, we paddled upstream along the Columbia River for nearly 315 miles (500 kms), contending with strong currents. Along the way, we completed portages around four major hydroelectric dams before reaching the city of Burbank, Washington.
The first seven days on the Columbia River were particularly demanding and served as a humbling introduction to the expedition. Canoeing upstream during spring flood conditions, contending with daily tidal shifts that often peaked midday, facing persistent strong winds, and managing a shortage of suitable campsites due to elevated water levels all underscored the immense power of the river—something I had initially underestimated. I cannot recall another time when I had to paddle with such sustained intensity. Despite these challenges, we maintained a daily distance of 22 to 25 miles (35 to 40 kms) and were fortunate to avoid rain. Physically, the effort was taxing; my hands became covered in blisters. Yet, the Columbia River Gorge revealed extraordinary natural beauty, with its dense forests and striking mountain landscapes leaving a lasting impression.
On the twelfth day, at approximately 6:00 p.m., we began searching for a campsite along the river. With water levels nearly eight feet above normal, the usual beaches were submerged, leaving only tall grass along the banks. After unloading our equipment, we climbed to higher ground. It was at that moment that I was struck by a sudden sense of unease, accompanied by an unexpected surge of anxiety.
Venomous Rattlesnake and the Snake River
I asked my teammate to stop making noise, but she did not hear me. I repeated my request more firmly, raising my voice slightly. At the time, I was standing on small tree trunks when I distinctly heard the unmistakable sound of a venomous rattlesnake. I took a brief moment to locate it, followed by the sudden realization that I had been standing directly on it. Startled, I quickly stepped aside.
With growing concern, I carefully examined my ankles and calves—there were no signs of a bite. On that day, fate was on my side. I had come dangerously close to death, an experience that left me with a profound sense of unease.
By day fourteen, the increasingly arid climate had dramatically transformed the landscape, revealing vast mountainous and desert scenery of striking beauty. Lush green vegetation had given way to terrain dominated by cacti, evoking the atmosphere of a classic Western film.
We then canoed upstream along the Snake River, covering approximately 140 miles (225 kms). Rich in history and set within a semi-arid environment, the river offered breathtaking panoramas. These moments of natural beauty provided a welcome respite from the demanding and rugged nomadic lifestyle we endured throughout the journey. After portaging around four additional hydroelectric dams, we continued navigating toward the town of Lewiston, Idaho.
Rocky Mountains
Between Lewiston, Idaho, and Helena, Montana, we faced the formidable challenge of a 375-mile (600-kilometre) portage across the Rocky Mountains. This demanding stretch tested our physical endurance as we pushed through persistent muscle pain and fatigue. Despite the difficulty, we were continually rewarded with breathtaking scenery, surrounded by towering peaks and the winding Lochsa River.
Our two-day stop in Lewiston allowed us to recover physically and witness our story being shared on local television and in the newspaper. We were warmly received by the community and, for a brief moment, became local celebrities. As we began the portage, many passing drivers offered encouragement—some waved, others stopped to speak with us, take photos, or offer financial support. Their kindness gave us renewed energy, helping us push through the intense strain on our calves and feet.
Before beginning this long crossing, I visited the Nimiipuu (Nez Perce) First Nations community to respectfully request permission to travel across their lands. During our portage, an elder met with us and performed a traditional prayer to offer protection for our journey through the mountains. This moment carried deep meaning and set the tone for the days ahead.
Initially, I had planned to complete the portage using bicycles equipped with trailer carts for the canoe and our gear. However, given my lack of experience in mountainous terrain, I quickly realized that managing such a heavy load would not be safe. There was also something profoundly meaningful about crossing the Continental Divide on foot. The long hours walking provided space for reflection and meditation.
What became a ten-day journey—half of the initially anticipated twenty days—forced me to confront my own limits. On the first day, as I lifted my 75-pound pack and began pushing the fully loaded canoe, I felt a wave of doubt. I do not consider myself an athlete; aside from occasional hikes, I had little experience with such sustained physical exertion. Yet, step by step, we continued forward.
During this leg of the journey, we relied on two canoe carts from WCK, which allowed us to conserve energy while still progressing steadily. However, when the shoulder along Highway 12 disappeared, we made the decision to accept rides until it resumed further ahead. Safety became our primary concern—not only for ourselves but also for others. We were uncomfortable with the idea that local drivers might endanger themselves to avoid us on a road heavily used by logging trucks. In total, we covered approximately 50% of this portage by vehicle, made possible through the generosity of Thomas Edward Eier.
Throughout Idaho and Montana, we were immersed in landscapes of remarkable beauty. Clear, fast-moving rivers surged with the energy of spring runoff, while endless mountain ranges—many still capped with snow—stretched across the horizon. Along the way, we encountered numerous cowboys, adding a sense of authenticity and adventure to the experience.
The day before reaching the summit, the weather deteriorated significantly. We were met with hail and snow, and conditions quickly became severe. With my hands numbed by the cold, even the simple act of pushing the canoe became a strenuous task.
As spring set in, the changing season brought not only milder temperatures but also increased wildlife activity. In Montana, we remained constantly vigilant for both black bears and grizzly bears, which emerge during this time to hunt and fish. At night, the thin fabric of our Exped tent offered only a limited sense of protection against the surrounding wilderness. Although we did not encounter any bears directly, it is likely that some observed us from a distance.
During the portage, we had the privilege of meeting Norm Miller and his partner. Norm is widely regarded as a living legend—an encyclopedic source of knowledge on major canoe expeditions across the U.S.. His expertise on the Missouri River, in particular, is unparalleled. It was a true honor to meet him.
Upon reaching Helena, Montana, we were graciously hosted by Will Garvin, whose kindness and hospitality provided us with a much-needed respite. The two days we spent there allowed us to recover and reflect on what we had accomplished.
Missouri River
We then navigated the legendary Missouri River for nearly 2,250 miles (3,600 kilometres). With the advantage of the current, we were carried steadily downstream, allowing us to increase our daily distance as we progressed toward our final destination. On our longest day, we covered an impressive 163 kilometres (101 miles).
Along this stretch, numerous First Nations communities are located near the Missouri River. I was eager to learn more about their ways of life, hoping to deepen our understanding of the diverse cultures and environments connected to the river. For over 12,000 years, Indigenous peoples have relied on the Missouri River and its tributaries as vital sources of sustenance and transportation.
Portaging around the 14 hydroelectric dams along the river tested our endurance once again. Along the way, we encountered many generous individuals whose support became an integral part of our journey.
While paddling across Lake Sakakawea in North Dakota, we had the privilege of being hosted by a true local legend, Peggy Hellandsaas. She welcomed us with remarkable warmth and generosity, providing us with a small cabin where we could rest and recover. She prepared a hearty meal for us and shared her knowledge of the region’s history, enriching our experience of the area. Our stay coincided with Independence Day celebrations, and witnessing the fireworks was truly unforgettable. Peggy’s kindness and hospitality made this stop one of the most memorable moments of our journey.
The lower Missouri River valley exposed us to severe weather conditions, including violent storms and even a tornado. This period coincided with peak tornado season in the United States, particularly in Montana, North Dakota, and South Dakota. While several powerful storms narrowly missed us, other paddlers ahead were not as fortunate. They faced extreme conditions—high winds, heavy rain, hail, lightning, and damaged equipment.
Canoeing nearly the entire length of the Missouri River also meant traveling through a corridor rich in history. Each bend in the river seemed to echo the journeys of those who came before us—Indigenous peoples who relied on these waters for millennia, as well as early explorers, and members of expeditions such as Lewis and Clark, who navigated these same currents in the early nineteenth century. Remnants of this past remain visible along the riverbanks, from historic settlements to traces of former trading routes. Moving steadily downstream, we became acutely aware that our journey was part of a much longer human story, shaped by exploration, survival, and the enduring relationship between people and this powerful river.
Mississippi River
Upon reaching the city of St. Louis, we took a well-deserved, albeit brief, three-day rest at the home of Mike "Big Muddy" Clark. After this short reprieve, our initial plan was to continue along the Ohio, Tennessee, and Tombigbee Rivers for approximately 750 miles (1,200 kilometres), ultimately reaching Mobile Bay on the Gulf of Mexico.
However, following extensive discussions with experienced paddlers from the United States, I decided to revise the route and instead continue downstream along the Mississippi River toward the city of New Orleans. This alternative proved to be an exceptional experience. The river’s vast sandbanks allowed for camping on expansive beaches each night, and, somewhat unexpectedly, navigation was relatively straightforward. Sharing the waterway with towboats and barges required caution, but it was manageable and became a natural part of the journey.
Canoeing the Mississippi River meant following one of the most iconic waterways in North America, a river deeply embedded in the continent’s history and imagination. From its confluence with the Missouri, the Mississippi has long served as a vital artery for Indigenous nations, traders, and settlers. Paddling its waters evokes the legacy of figures such as Mark Twain, whose writings immortalized the river, as well as the journeys of early French voyageurs and later expeditions that shaped the expansion of the United States. The river carries a powerful sense of scale and continuity—its broad channels, constant currents, and heavy barge traffic create an environment that is both humbling and demanding.
While paddling the Mississippi River, we had the privilege of stopping in Memphis to meet Dale "Greybeard" Sanders, a true legend in the paddling community. At the age of 87, Sanders became the oldest person to paddle the entire Mississippi River from source to sea, earning a Guinness World Records title for this extraordinary achievement. His journey stands as a powerful testament to perseverance, resilience, and a lifelong spirit of adventure. Beyond his accomplishments, he proved to be an exceptionally kind and generous host, welcoming us warmly and taking great care of us during our stay. Meeting him was one of the most memorable moments of the entire journey, and his example remains a profound source of inspiration.
After months of determined and demanding paddling, we finally reached the Gulf of Mexico via the Atchafalaya River. It was my first experience navigating bayous, surrounded by alligators and bald cypress trees—an environment both unique and captivating. This marked the end of the journey for my companions, Jim Emmanuel, a retired firefighter from Montana, and Park Neff, a Baptist pastor from Mississippi.
We then had a truck ride to New Orleans, where we were generously hosted by Brian Markey for a well-earned three-day rest. From that point onward, I continued alone for the final leg of this remarkable adventure. With each stroke, I took in the vastness and beauty of the Gulf of Mexico. Evenings were defined by striking sunsets that gave way to expansive, star-filled skies, creating moments of quiet reflection.
At the same time, the environment demanded constant vigilance. I remained mindful of potential dangers, including encounters with wildlife such as sharks, snakes, spiders, alligators, wild boars, and ticks. With hurricane season at its peak, I was continually reminded of the power and unpredictability of nature, and the importance of respecting it at all times.
Gulf of Mexico
Shortly after I began paddling along the Gulf of Mexico, the weather forecast became increasingly concerning. With severe conditions approaching, I made the decision to pause my journey in Biloxi, as it did not feel safe to continue alone under such circumstances. I was graciously welcomed by William Ladnier and his two daughters, Juliana and Aubrey, whose kindness and hospitality provided both comfort and security during this time. Staying with them proved to be a truly memorable experience. They even offered me the opportunity to sleep aboard their big boat, which added a unique and enjoyable dimension to my stay. William, Juliana, and Aubrey were exceptionally generous and warm-hearted, and their support left a lasting impression that I will always remember.
Hurricane Michael
On October 10, I was in Panama City when Category 5 Hurricane Michael made landfall, with peak winds reaching 160 mph (250 km/h). It was one of the most powerful hurricanes ever to strike the United States. For approximately fifteen minutes, I genuinely feared for my life as the storm unleashed its full force. The devastation was immense, with many lives lost and entire communities left in ruin. The following morning, the reality of the destruction was difficult to comprehend—it felt almost unreal.
I would like to express my deep gratitude to David Erdman and his family, who drove 90 minutes to pick me up in Apalachicola and welcomed me into their home two days before the hurricane struck. Their generosity and hospitality likely saved my life.
Since the beginning of this expedition, I had consistently experienced the kindness, generosity, and warmth of people across the United States. In the aftermath of the storm, I felt a strong desire to give back and remained for ten days to assist in recovery efforts. To avoid paddling through the most heavily affected areas, I traveled by truck from Panama City to Palm Harbor, where I was hosted by Mark Dierking and his family.
Returning to the canoe proved to be unexpectedly difficult. It took time for me to recognize that I was experiencing symptoms consistent with post-traumatic stress. Around the same period, I also developed a heightened fear of sharks, particularly after several close encounters near my canoe. I did not feel as confident or resilient as before.
Key Largo
On November 4, 2018, at 9:13 a.m., this extraordinary journey came to an end on the shores of Key Largo, in the Florida Keys, after paddling through the Everglades alongside my teammate Scott Hite, navigating waters inhabited by crocodiles. There could not have been a more peaceful and fitting place to conclude what had become the adventure of a lifetime—4,700 miles (7500 kms) from where it all began seven months earlier. After a few days of rest and reflection at Florida Bay Outfitters, I returned home to Montreal, carrying with me a wealth of experiences, vivid memories, and stories that will remain with me for the rest of my life.
Conclusion
With the completion of the Coursing Through America expedition, a significant chapter of my life came to a close. It was a chapter I had carefully envisioned and developed over many months, shaping a project that once existed only as a dream. Returning home marked the beginning of a long period of recovery, both physically and mentally. Reintegrating into everyday life proved to be a considerable challenge, as I was psychologically exhausted and my thoughts remained deeply immersed in the intensity of the journey.
I move closer to a sense of fulfillment with each new adventure. For me, canoeing represents a form of reflection—an opportunity to slow down, to observe, and to appreciate the richness of the natural world. Crossing a country that was not my own required constant adaptation to unfamiliar environments and realities. Nature revealed itself in many forms: at times calm and generous, at others powerful and unpredictable, demanding respect at all times. The United States offered an extraordinary diversity of landscapes—oceans, gulfs, rivers, lakes, reservoirs, beaches, mountains, deserts, plains, mangroves and bayous.
Equally meaningful were the many encounters I experienced along the way. The people I met demonstrated exceptional kindness and generosity, welcoming me with a level of hospitality that often felt familial. These individuals—true “river angels”—left an enduring impression, and the memories we shared will remain with me for a lifetime. Such experiences have strengthened my faith in humanity. For me, there is no more meaningful way to discover a country than by following its waterways. These journeys create opportunities for extraordinary encounters and, above all, allow me to feel deeply alive.
This expedition was the result of more than eighteen months of planning and dreaming. It would not have been possible without the support of my sponsors, the river angels, the people who paddled alongside me, and my family. Their encouragement and generosity transformed an ambitious idea into a life-changing reality.
Post-Expedition Depression
During the winter that followed my expedition, I found myself profoundly disconnected. I felt a deep sense of sadness and a longing for life on the water. Returning home, I had the impression of re-entering a world that no longer fully resembled me. Life on the edge—living simply, traveling by canoe—had, in many ways, become my true environment. I often say that I move closer to fulfillment one adventure at a time, and in its absence, something felt missing.
Some refer to this experience as “post-expedition blues.” However, I believe the more accurate term is post-expedition depression. It is a difficult reality to acknowledge openly. In a culture where people tend to present only the best versions of themselves—particularly on social media—it is uncommon to admit, “I am struggling.” For my part, I have never wanted to project the image of a superhero or an invulnerable adventurer.
Over time, I came to accept the inevitability of this emotional aftermath. For a long period, I avoided confronting it, even within myself. Yet, many adventurers experience similar feelings, though the subject remains largely unspoken. There is a persistent stigma, and as a result, many choose silence over vulnerability, perhaps fearing how they will be perceived.
Adventurers are often viewed as resilient, fearless, and unwavering—individuals capable of overcoming extraordinary challenges. After my early expeditions, I found myself trying to conform, at least in part, to that image. Eventually, I realized that this perception did not reflect my reality. Strength also lies in acknowledging one’s limits.
Euphoria and Exhaustion
At the end of each expedition, I find myself caught between two opposing states: the euphoria of accomplishment and a deep physical and mental exhaustion. One of the most common questions I am asked is, “What’s next?” Yet, for me, the journey does not end upon arrival. The return home is an integral part of the expedition—and often the most difficult phase. It is far more complex to navigate than planning, enduring storms, or managing challenges in the field. What follows is often a profound sense of emptiness.
The winter of 2019 in Montreal felt especially long, grey, and cold. I found comfort in solitude, without expecting others to fully understand what I was experiencing. Friends offered support with the best intentions, yet the depth of this emotional state can be difficult to convey. It is not simply sadness, but something more elusive and difficult to articulate. I often questioned myself: after returning to loved ones, comfort, and stability, why did I still feel this way? Ultimately, I found that dreaming and beginning to plan a future expedition helped me move forward.
When one spends extended periods living in a canoe, sleeping in a tent, and relying on the natural world as a home, it gradually becomes part of one’s identity.
