Babine River Rafting: Six Days in British Columbia’s Grizzly Country

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Experience six days of Babine River rafting in British Columbia, with Class IV rapids, grizzly bears, wilderness camping, and a grandfather-grandson adventure.

Keaton sprinted along the Babine’s shoreline, chasing a runaway raft, when he rounded a bend and came face-to-face with the biggest grizzly he’d ever seen, close enough to hear it breathing. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then the bear melted back into the trees, and Keaton let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Just another day in the office,” he said afterward. But the quiver in his voice told a different story.

When I booked this trip, I hadn’t imagined the closest grizzly encounter would happen to our head guide, not me. I’d pictured myself holding my breath. But that was the thing about six days of Babine River rafting: the story rarely went the way I expected, especially where my grandson was concerned.

Why I Took My Grandson Rafting on the Babine River

Ten years into retirement, I was searching for an adventure to awaken my spirit. I craved something wild and breathtaking to share with others—not the typical resorts and cruises with endless buffets, but where the raw and the roadless met, and nature set the pace. As a photographer, I wanted landscapes and wildlife worth hauling every ounce of camera gear into the backcountry for.

I found both in the ‘6-Day River of Grizzlies Rafting Expedition’, run by Canadian Outback Rafting. The expedition ran through the Babine River Corridor Provincial Park in northern British Columbia: 80 miles (129 kilometers) of Babine River rafting through territory shared with the Gitxsan and Wet’suwet’en First Nations, and home to more than 100 grizzlies. Before I could reconsider, I clicked “Book Now.”

The next decision was harder. Who to bring along? My mind immediately went to my grandson Mason, just shy of 16, a kid with a lifelong love of camping. When I asked, he answered instantly: “Of course I want to go. When do we leave?”

Friends and acquaintances I invited turned me down, presumably spooked by the prospect of bears. But I was resolute. In my estimation, a guided expedition with seasoned professionals posed less risk than most of the highway commutes I’d survived, and inaction carried risks, too: letting fear decide what I, at 70, could or couldn’t do.

Still, I worried. I’d already run Class IV rapids; Mason had done only a handful of gentle day floats and easy overnighters. I was less concerned about the water than about the bears. In recent years, low water levels had suspended rafting on the Babine, leaving grizzlies with no recent memory of people passing through. Nobody could say whether they’d charge, hold their ground, or retreat. Mason, for his part, didn’t seem to worry at all; when I raised the issue, he shrugged and said the guides would know what to do.

That gap between us, his easy trust against my engineer’s habit of tallying every risk, set the tone for everything that followed. More than once, I wondered whether I was the one who needed to relax. This wasn’t a theme park with a safety net bolted under every ride; it was unspoiled wilderness, where even a minor mishap could carry real consequences. I wanted Mason to understand that going in, and not learn it the hard way.

Beginning Our Babine River Rafting Expedition

Assembling in Smithers

The trip began in mid-August 2025 at the Babine River Counting Fence, about one kilometer downstream from Nilkitkwa Lake, and ended at the Gitxsan village of Hazelton. Access to the park was via a narrow logging road. The park’s remoteness offered an unmatched opportunity to experience untouched nature. No highways flanked the river, no neon signs flickered on the horizon, and no RVs dotted the landscape. Here, the forest grew thick and wild; the wind was its messenger and the river its lifeblood. Grizzlies were the apex predator, and everything in this corridor answered to them.

The expedition included seven rafters — four Americans and three Canadians — and three guides: Keaton, our head guide, and his assistants, Mila and Josh. Among the rafters was Sean, a Hollywood stuntman with stories of hobnobbing with A-list actors; Justine, a journalist whose parents helped co-found Greenpeace Canada; Walt, an octogenarian who had rafted numerous rivers across North America; Bob, a physical therapist; R.J., a devoted beer enthusiast; Mason, a high school student; and me, an engineer. We all came from different backgrounds but shared a love for adventure.

After introductions, the guides handed out tents, sleeping bags, helmets, wetsuits, and rain gear. Keaton told us to get some rest. Ready or not, we would be leaving at the crack of dawn.

Gearing Up

At the launch site the next morning, rangers checked our permits and stressed vigilance while in grizzly territory. Without the required bear deterrents, entry into the park was a “no-go.” We assembled three rafts: two for supplies and one for us. As we headed to the river, Keaton gave a final rundown and a safety briefing.

Comic relief came as we slipped into our wetsuits. Zipped into sleek black neoprene, the suits performed a kind of magic on our physiques: the men suddenly looked like matinee idols, the women like triathletes, and my own reflection promised an athleticism I hadn’t earned in years. It was, we agreed, nothing short of a wetsuit nip-and-tuck, until we peeled them off again and reality reasserted itself.

Once we launched, there was no shortcut out. Rain followed us for six straight days, drumming on tents, soaking gear, settling into our bones. The isolation had a physical weight I hadn’t expected: no cell signal, no way to change plans once the river carried us away. If there was an emergency, the only way out was by a helicopter call-out.

Whitewater Rapids and Wilderness Camping on the Babine

Paddle, Paddle, Stop

Keaton set our pace before we’d even cleared the first bend: “Paddle, paddle, stop.”

The chant became our metronome for six days, punctuated by a sharper call whenever a rapid quickened—”Get down!”—the signal to stop paddling, lean in, tuck our heads, and grip the nearest safety line.

With every pull of the paddles, my thoughts soon drifted to the frontiersmen who’d worked these same waters ages before us with nothing but willpower and hand-carved paddles. They were at the mercy of weather and wilderness in a way we, with our wash-and-wear clothing, GPS, and satellite phone, never quite were.

Suddenly, a rogue wave struck the raft’s port side. Cold water shocked my body, shaking me out of my reverie and back to the present. Paddle, focus, paddle hard—no more daydreaming. Early strokes were frantic. Paddles collided. Timing failed. Gradually, we synchronized. Soon, our raft moved swiftly across the water with purpose, powered not just by the strength of seven individuals but by a unified team.

Bald eagles tracked us most mornings, folding their wings to plunge talons-first for salmon in the shallows, then flying on ahead as if leading the way. One eagle passed close enough that I heard the air moving through its feathers. It was a sound I had never heard before.

Signs in the Dirt

On Day 3, Keaton led us on a detour to a fossil site he had read up on. Wading a rain-swollen side stream that pulled at our knees, we gripped a rope line against the current—one slip could carry us into the raging Babine just downstream. Once safely across and after navigating a slippery shoreline, we found what we’d come to see under a low rock overhang: the pressed outlines of ferns and leaves, left eons ago. Walt, our octogenarian rafting veteran, sprawled on his back next to the rest of us, studying them like makeshift paleontologists. For a few short minutes, nobody talked about bears.

That evening, we noticed a network of animal trails near our camp and found piles of dark, oval scat that looked like store-bought ‘Raisinets’. Justine, who seemed to know something about everything in the “wild”, identified it as elk scat. They were bigger than deer droppings but smaller than moose droppings. It was a small detail, but it stayed with me: on the Babine, you are never the only one leaving tracks.

Our conversation kept circling back to hazards, too—not just bears, but vegetation like Devil’s Club and Stinging Nettle. “Whatever you do, don’t touch either of them,” Justine warned. “You’ll wish you hadn’t.” I gave both a wide berth for the rest of the trip.

Life at Camp

Camp life became its own ritual. At the end of each day, we all pitched in to unload the rafts and pitch our tents, along with a large nylon rain cover strung over what became our breakfast-and-dinner spot—lunch was always eaten in the open, mid-paddle.

Every morning we broke it all down again and loaded the gear back onto the rafts, ready for another day on the water.

For a trip this remote, meals were a small miracle, plentiful and varied enough to satisfy carnivores and vegetarians alike. Hot chocolate and coffee were always available, and for those craving a special boost, Baileys Irish Cream was always a warm companion. R.J., our resident beer enthusiast, kept a running commentary on the merits of whatever he was drinking that evening—mainly Kokanee beer.

The food, the refreshments, and the discussions that followed were something we looked forward to after each day on the water.

Grizzly Bears and Salmon Along the Babine River

The Babine is one of British Columbia’s most important salmon rivers, and that abundance is exactly why this corridor holds one of the province’s densest grizzly populations. Bears converge on the water each summer and fall to fatten up on the salmon before winter. Rafting here meant traveling daily through the middle of that relationship: bald eagles diving for fish overhead, bear trails and scat crossing our own, salmon finning visibly in the shallows. Nothing about it felt staged or curated for visitors; the wildlife was there because the river feeds it, on a schedule that had nothing to do with our rafting season.

Keeping seven paying guests safe around the numerous grizzly bears known to wander the area took skill. Before every blind bend, Keaton and one of his assistant guides went ashore first to scout for bears, then waved the rafts through. Bear spray and a bear banger rode in every kit. Each night, every scrap of food, even the toothpaste, went into sealed containers lashed to the rafts. Nothing scented ever came near a tent. It became so routine that by the third day, nobody needed reminding. The guides’ quiet, practiced competence, built over seasons of rafting in British Columbia’s wildest areas, let the rest of us watch the wildlife instead of fearing it.

Two Generations, One River: Grizzlies and Whitewater

Grizzly Falls

Day 4 opened with actual sunlight, a rare enough event to feel like an occasion. A short walk from camp led us to a small waterfall; its mist hanging in the air like morning fog. Sean and I briefly considered using it as a shower, but slippery rocks and a swift current quickly changed our minds. Nearby, we found large, fibrous scat that could only have come from one animal—a bear. It was fresh enough that nobody needed telling to be alert. We named the spot Grizzly Falls. Soon enough, we were back on the water. Keaton warned us that a series of Class IV rapids lay just ahead.

The Sow and Her Cub

The first rapid, Grizzly Drop, forced the river through a narrow canyon. Keaton and Josh scouted the shoreline for hazards before we ran it, then burst into calmer water on the other side—where a massive grizzly sow stood fishing near the shore, her yearling cub close behind. She dove, surfaced empty-jawed, dove again, and came up with a salmon clamped tight in her jaws before she caught our scent and vanished into the brush, cub in tow.

We had finally seen our first grizzly bears. They stilled us. The sow was enormous, muscular, intimidating, and completely at home in her world; her cub alternated between awkward playfulness and rapt attention to its mother’s every move. Watching them, I realized the wilderness here was neither cruel nor kind. It was simply timeless, raw, and beautiful. For its inhabitants, each day was a gift—one day the hunters, the next, the hunted.

Farther downstream, at a rapid nicknamed Sphincter 1 (aptly named, as it turned out), white water exploded across the raft and drenched us again. “One wave completely drenched me,” Sean said afterward, “sending me from cold to ice cold, before I settled back to cold again.”

In the shallows beyond, we spotted a second mother and cub. The sow noticed us, and within seconds, wheeled around and scrambled up a steep gravel slope, glancing back repeatedly to make sure her cub kept pace. We passed in respectful silence.

Too Close for Comfort

Not all the trip’s excitement came from bears. At the next rapid, Sphincter 2, Keaton pulled ashore to scout the route. This time, Mila jumped from her raft into what she assumed was shallow water to help. It wasn’t. Losing her grip on the raft’s safety line, Mila let the current drag the raft into deeper water.

Josh sprinted along the shore with a rope line to help Mila; Keaton ran downstream to try to intercept the runaway raft. Mila swam hard and hauled herself back aboard before the current could carry it any farther. As Keaton rounded a bend during the chase, he came within striking distance of a grizzly. Surprised by the sudden encounter, the bear turned and disappeared into the bushes. Keaton never said whether the bear stood up and roared or if he later needed a change of clothes, but from the way he later spoke of the encounter, it was clear it was too close for comfort.

I watched Mason take it all in with a calm I hadn’t expected. That was true for most of the trip. I’d braced myself to spend six days worrying about my grandson in grizzly country. Instead, I watched him grow steadier by the day: mastering the frantic rhythm of Class IV rapids, landing backflips off the raft that put mine to shame, and trading jokes with guides twice his age. Somewhere in that week, the boy who once needed watching on a campout became someone I could trust on a Class IV river.

The Final Miles: Rafting to Hazelton

The Last Miles

On Day 5, the water was calmer and, for once, we had real sunshine during lunch. Sean took a nap on the warm rocks while Josh and Mason showed off doing backflips from the bow of the raft. That evening, camping on a sandy island, Mason, Keaton, and I took one last swim in the cold river.

That evening, during the on-again, off-again rain, it finally stopped long enough for us to see a real sunset and a beaver slap its tail on the water before disappearing with a branch in its mouth. Tired and ready for rest, we crawled into our sleeping bags.

By the final morning, my muscles ached every time I squeezed into my wetsuit, and Mason confessed he was dreaming of a real bed. He joked that he sometimes felt like a contestant on the TV show ‘Alone’, tempted to “tap out” by using the satellite phone. But he never did, and neither did any of us.

Soon the Babine merged with the wider Skeena River, and the view opened up as we floated the last miles toward Hazelton. We passed the Indigenous village of Kispiox on the east bank, known for its totems and an early-20th-century church. The totems told stories of the community’s history and spirituality, though we could only glimpse them from the raft. Keaton explained that locals preferred outsiders not to enter their land, so we viewed the totems respectfully from the water instead of going ashore.

We drifted with the current and arrived in Hazelton, a village of about 300 people where the Gitxsan (‘people of the River of Mist’) and Wet’suwet’en (‘place of the quiet people’) territories meet. There, we disassembled the rafts for the trip back to Smithers. With little time left, I spoke with residents fishing nearby. They were as interested in our river journey as I was in their lives along the Skeena. Their stories about the river, how it supported them both spiritually and physically, stayed with me. I wanted to hear more, but since time was short, I returned to load the remaining gear onto our bus.

What the River Gave Us

Six days without phones or screens gave Mason and me something even better than great photos: time for real conversation. We talked about future adventures—an African safari, the Amazon, Kilimanjaro—even though we knew most would probably stay dreams. What I really learned was less about grizzlies and more about watching my grandson grow from a boy into a man. The trip was tough, but he found the strength to finish it. The boy who once needed watching on a campout could now be trusted on a Class IV river. I came looking for wildlife and dramatic light, and left with a thousand photos and a renewed sense of adventure. Even at 70, I learned that life still invites me to push away from the shore.

I got one last reminder of that lesson on the drive out. As we passed through Hazelton, I saw a lone bear wandering through a picnic area, stopping to sniff the buttercups and ignoring our bus completely. It almost looked like the bear was grinning, though I may have just been tired and seeing things. Either way, it felt like the corridor was seeing us off.

Planning a Babine River Rafting Adventure

Canadian Outback Rafting runs a six-day, five-night Babine River expedition out of Smithers, northern British Columbia, with a handful of departures between summer and early fall—when water levels, weather, and salmon runs typically align best. You’ll cover roughly 80 miles (129 kilometers) of Class III–IV white water between the Babine River Counting Fence and the Gitxsan village of Hazelton, and you won’t see a road, a cell signal, or another party the entire way.

You don’t need previous rafting experience, but a reasonable level of fitness will help: expect to paddle, haul gear, and camp on gravel bars and sandy islands in cool, often wet conditions, even in summer. Your guides supply the rafts, tents, sleeping bags, wetsuits, helmets, and all meals; you’re responsible for reaching Smithers, where the group meets the evening before launch, and for your own personal layers.

Pack quick-dry clothing, a warm insulating layer, rain gear, and sturdy river shoes, since the water runs glacier-cold and the weather can turn within the hour. Because the corridor has no cell service, your guides carry satellite communication and full bear-safety gear as standard, so you can focus on the river instead of worrying about what’s around the next bend. If you’re weighing a Babine River rafting trip, confirm current dates, pricing, and requirements directly with the outfitter before booking, since details shift from season to season.

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Discover More Wilderness Adventures with Wander With Wonder

From thrilling whitewater rapids to unforgettable wildlife encounters, a Babine River rafting expedition offers a rare opportunity to disconnect from everyday life and reconnect with nature—and with the people who matter most. Whether you’re ready to tackle a remote river or prefer a gentler outdoor escape, explore more adventure travel inspiration and Canadian travel experiences on Wander With Wonder. Your next unforgettable journey might be closer than you think.

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