On a chilly autumn day, my grandpa sat hunched over his iPad, eyes narrowed at an application form. "You know I've done this race five times?" he said, scrolling. "One year, your Aunt Kathy started hallucinating. Looked back at me mid-paddle and whispered about seeing faces in the driftwood." As someone who lives for misadventure and pushing myself in nature, this caught my interest. 

By the end of the evening, the entry fee was paid, and "Grand Canoedles" appeared on the leaderboard of the Yukon River Quest - a 444-mile marathon paddle through wild, unforgiving water. Training plan? Conditioning? In my head, absolutely. In practice? Not so much. Ultimately I trusted years of paddling and sheer stubbornness to get me through. I wasn't exactly in race shape either, but I figured my time wrangling sled dogs and shoving tour carts full of tourists up hills counted for something.

Race morning smelled like damp earth and gasoline from the safety boats. Along the riverbank, racers laid out their sleek canoes, painted in bright sponsor logos. I packed and repacked my gear: bug spray, matches, rain jacket, first aid kit, sunscreen, apples with peanut butter, and—most importantly—a yogurt container for emergencies. The black hull of our boat scraped softly against the stones as we slid it into place among dozens of others, old sponsorship stickers peeling like sun-burnt skin.

A flare arced into the sky, hissing as it burned out. That was the signal. Paddlers sprinted across the gravel, splashing into the water with frantic energy. I climbed in, adrenaline shaking my hands, music already blasting in my ears. My grandfather, meanwhile, ambled down the bank like he was heading to Sunday breakfast. "Just take your time," he told me, "Save your energy for the race." But this was the race - my adrenaline didn't understand slow and steady. 

The current grabbed us, folding us into a chaotic river of boats, paddleboards, and shouted warnings. I dug in, trying to match the frenzy, while my Grandpa calmly corrected my strokes so we didn’t pinball into the competition. I should’ve taken his cue. Instead, I paddled like someone who thought the Yukon could be beaten in the first five miles. Once out of the chute, the leaders of the pack disappeared around bends and boats began to spread. I flipped on my speaker, choosing music to match the competitive chaos in my head. I was paddling hard, too fast. Pacing was a concept I didn't quite grasp. 

Hours later, the river widened and stilled into Lake Laberge, a 30-mile mirror that punishes impatience. High clay banks rose like walls, cracked and crumbling from centuries of ice and rain. Spectators lined the ridge at Policeman's Point, my aunt included, shouting encouragement that sounded faint against the vast, open silence of the lake. 

That's when we picked up company: a 6 person voyager party barge. Their music bumped across the water long before we saw them. They'd "WHOO!" as they passed, water bottles raised. I dug my paddle in harder, shoulders screaming, until we crept ahead again. Grandpa, ever the extrovert, wanted to pause and chat with them. Hours later, they overtook us for good, and I silently resented every laugh that drifted back across the water.

When the sun sank in a wash of pink and orange, I finally did cry. Quiet, ugly tears that I hoped the wind would swallow. My grandpa kept correcting the boat against my overzealous strokes. I didn't realize it at the time, but while I was burning myself out, he was quietly keeping us on course. 

At the far end of the lake, floodlights glared from a forested checkpoint. Volunteers helped us ashore, their voices brisk but kind. I collapsed straight onto the moss, using my life jacket as a pillow, too wrecked to unroll my sleeping pad. A stranger offered me a ibuprofen for my shoulders, now locked so high they brushed my ears. The ground was cold, the mosquitoes relentless, but I fell asleep face-down in seconds.

“Pack up, kid,” Grandpa whispered an hour later, nudging me awake. My eyes refused to focus as I stuffed gear back into my bag. He steered us out into the current while I lay flat on top of the spray skirt, staring up at a galaxy of stars. The water whispered against the hull. I drifted in and out, too tired to dream.

When I woke, I pulled out an apple and peanut butter, offering him a slice. He waved me off, loyal to his protein shakes. “You need real protein,” he lectured, paddling without looking at me. I chewed quietly, knowing in the moment he was probably right, but unwilling to trade my crisp sweetness for chalky shake mix.

At the next checkpoint, volunteers delivered the news: “You’re last. If you want to stay in, you need to leave now.” My stomach dropped. Had I known, I would’ve paddled through the pain, fueled by sheer pride and Gatorade. Instead, I felt the heavy pull of inevitability. On a positive note, the mosquitos at the checkpoint were horrendous, so maybe moving on wasn't the worst idea. 

The river narrowed, winding between cutbanks scarred by erosion. Birch leaves whispered in the wind. My grandfather’s strokes slowed, the silence stretching longer between words. His face, normally lit with humor, was drawn and tired. The race had taken a toll on both of us. We pulled off near the old Hootalinqua lodge site, the forest thick with spruce and alder. I stumbled ashore, grateful for the chance to stretch and equally grateful for the privacy of a real bush to pee behind instead of my yogurt container. I sat, grizzly and dissociating, fog-eating mini snickers. 

“I’m pretty tired, kid,” Grandpa said at last. His voice was quiet, heavy with something I recognized as both disappointment and peace.

I nodded. “Me too.”

We pressed the help button on the tracker that signaled we were scratching from the race. When the rescue boat arrived, we loaded our canoe and clambered aboard. I wrapped myself in my sleeping bag, eating Chinese noodles with my hands and the kind of hunger only exhaustion creates. The lights of Carmacks shimmered ahead, and for the first time in days, I let myself exhale.

We hadn't made it to the finish line, but that wasn't the point. The 120 miles of Yukon River had given me a lesson: grit matters, humor keeps you afloat, and strength is as much about knowing when to stop as it is about pushing forward. 

Besides, stress-eating so many apples made me feel so healthy.✨ Apples became my small comfort on the river: crisp, hydrating, and just enough sugar to keep going. Although I didn't get to see Dawson City as a finisher, I continued on to enjoy the post-race meet and story time. Everyone who did finish that year, as with many other, get out of their boats, bask in the glory of finishing and then drag themselves to a well-deserved stiff drink. 

Which is exactly why I made my Apple & Bourbon soap. Inspired by boat snacks and that unspoken truth that every adventurer earns their drink at the finish line, it blends crisp apple with a warm, boozy note. It smells like autumn on the riverbank, like laughter after exhaustion, like a toast to grit—even if you don’t win a medal.

Here’s to Grandpa. Here’s to the Yukon. And here’s to the small comforts—apples, bourbon, and a good bar of soap—that remind us life doesn’t always need a finish line. And here's a little something for you, just for being here: starting October 1st, use code BOO20 to get 20% off your entire order for the entire month.