I was determined not to like our three-day canoe trip down the Restigouche… but the rain and the river's course became a courtship of sorts.

As my husband, Ron, and I shoved our 16-foot canoe into the water, I had other ideas about how to spend our Canada Day weekend: Chez Francoise in Shediac, NB, or maybe a unit at Summerville, NS, overlooking a broad expanse of ocean-side beach. The prospect of bugs, bushes and no bathrooms seemed a shabby substitute.

Ron, however, viewed the upcoming adventure with great enthusiasm, and since our previous two vacations had been my choice, it was his turn to decide. Determined to be a good sport, I climbed aboard and waved to our friends already afloat.

"It'll be great, you'll see!" someone yelled back from one of the five canoes already heading downstream ahead of us.

"Yeah, right!" I replied, in sarcastic silence.

We pushed off under a lead-coloured sky, the air humid and thick with blackflies. Relief flooded through me as our canoe swung into the river's flow, leaving the bloodthirsty mass behind.

"You're going to love it!" The enthusiasts were unrelenting.

But as we started off, the scowling cloud cover and a distant rumble of thunder underscored my reluctance. Ahead, the river wound through the northern New Brunswick wilderness; behind were comfortable beds, restaurant meals, hot showers and flush toilets... not to mention roofs, walls and windows capable of keeping out tiny biting things and other wildlife.

Our canoe fell into line with the others, and I settled back to endure the voyage. I can do this, I told myself. I might not like it, but I can do it.

Almost immediately, we were surrounded by verdant forest-trees and undergrowth flaunted amazingly varied hues of jade, enhanced by the contrast of the dark sky and water. A red-winged blackbird burst into song in the cattails along the shore.

Okay, this is sort of nice, I grudgingly admitted to myself. While I might not welcome the inconveniences of wilderness travel, I'm not immune to the beauty and wonder of nature. I felt my resolve to simply grin and bear it slip just a tad, and settled back to observe the changing landscape.

To the left, thickly treed mountains appeared in deep green swatches between wide ribbons of mist in the dark, inhospitable day. Spruce, poplar and cedar had somehow managed to grow tall and strong as they clung to the steep pitch of the land. On the right shore, verdant meadows reached down to the water's edge. Maples and birches garnished a gentle landscape trimmed with moss roses, devil's paintbrushes, buttercups and minuscule twinflowers-all small, bright spots.

We travelled at a leisurely rate, gliding effortlessly along a wide stretch known as Camel's Run that swerves gracefully around mountain bases. Nice ride, I thought, yielding just a little more.

Then thunder rumbled again. I glanced up to see charcoal clouds roiling overhead; rain and an all-out summer storm couldn't be far off. I adjusted my broad-rimmed hat, made sure my waterproof poncho was close at hand and accepted the probability of having to set up camp in a downpour.

I knew we shouldn't have come.

In a storm-induced early twilight, we pulled in on one of the small islands at Artist Falls that, like appropriate punctuation, offers places to pause or even come to a full stop. After a cursory inspection of this semi-colon in the stream, we decided to set up camp for the night. Darkness was rapidly descending.

By the time the first lukewarm drops spattered down, six tents and two dining shelters were neatly in place. I pulled my poncho over my head and turned my hands and face upwards. The rain was refreshing, a part of the outdoors I've always enjoyed. Benign and soothing, my resolve to simply tolerate this voyage slipped another small notch.

I drew a deep breath and looked around at my surroundings. A gossamer veil of fog had begun to rise from the Restigouche. The tops of the mountains appeared to be disembodied mounds of dark jade suspended in mid-air, casting a surreal ambiance of mystery and romance over the dusk.

No, no, no! I stopped myself abruptly as I realized I'd come dangerously close to getting into the spirit of this adventure.

I walked to the dining tents through freshly washed weeds and shrubs that soaked my jeans and made my sneakers squish. The others had already settled down to supper. The golden glow of lanterns through rain and mist, the hiss of gas camp stoves, the laughter-accentuated conversation and the scents of coffee and spaghetti sauce all cast a warm, cheerful feeling out into the damp night.

Later, as Ron and I lay in our sleeping bags, the tender rain morphed into an all-out deluge, sounding as if all the carpenters in Hades were beating a tattoo on our tent.

"Great, isn't it?"

"Great," I mumbled as I tried to get comfortable on my bubble mattress. But it was snug and cozy, I had to admit, as I pulled my sleeping bag more securely about me. I dozed off listening to the rhythm of the rain.

In a seething downpour the following morning, we drank juice and coffee, wolfed down hard-boiled eggs and muffins, and broke camp. We headed off into a wet, windless day, the river black and pockmarked by big, pelting drops.

At noon we pulled onto shore and heated plastic pouches of rice and vegetables in pots of boiling water over a wood fire contained in a metal box. As we huddled around the primitive stove, I was reminded of a group of seagulls clustered around a spilled box of fries at our local McDonald's.

After lunch we set off again. Wisps of mist had again begun to drift out of the trees, hanging suspended in the still air. It was mystical, ethereal. A full notch in my grin-and-bear-it resolve released.

We glided past sections of the river with such colourful names as Devil's Half Acre, Three Sisters and Porcupine Bar. We also passed some of the most elegant of the fishing lodges that adorn the riverbanks. In spite of their opulent appearance-in many cases, complete with manicured lawns and flowerbeds-these hideaways were typically brown and green and accentuated by chimneys of river stone, fitting in with their wilderness surroundings.

Around 3 p.m., a ragged blue crevasse appeared in the sullen grey sky. It seemed as though a breeze widened the gap, shoving the clouds out of sight behind hills and mountains, and by 4 p.m. we travelled in the first brilliant sunshine of our trip. Drifting over sparkling water, rain gear finally shed and stowed away behind our seats, we stretched out to bask and dry. The forest became a glistening green, twinkling with raindrop diamonds, the sky so blue it put sapphires to shame.

Birds burst into lusty song and a dragonfly, rainbow-variegated wings throbbing, paused to hitch a ride on the bow of our canoe. The day glowed in the sunlight.

We beached at Cross Point Island. Someone before us had constructed a drying rack of slender poles. The structure smacked so keenly of pioneer wilderness that I could picture pelts or strips of meat and fish hanging from it. This country must have been much the same 100 years ago, 300 years ago, maybe more….

Camp once more established, we barbecued potatoes and steaks, and relaxed. Our gear dried in the early evening sun on those primitive racks.

That night no rain pounded on our tents and, although I didn't admit it, I missed it. The snug feeling of coziness gone, I contented myself to drift off listening to whispering pines, rustling poplars and the occasional mournful cry of a coyote.

The next morning the sun rose in full force, teasing us with the ­possibility of a fine day. We allowed ourselves the luxury of a sumptuous breakfast: cereal with bananas, French toast smothered with maple syrup, crisp bacon and coffee.

"This is the life," another Restigouche neophyte commented. "This run's a piece of cake. Next year I'll bring the kids and my parents."

"Hang on," a veteran cautioned. "The trip's not over yet. This lady saves her best for last. There are a few sets of nice little rapids up ahead. And just before lunch, we'll be passing over Chamberlain Shoals."

His assessment soon proved correct. We had barely set out again when we encountered a little cluster of rapids. Nothing major, just enough to shake our lassitude and make us give the Restigouche a bit more respect.

"Piece of cake!" the cry of vindication went up.

"Wait and see!" was the reply.

And suddenly, we saw a wreathing foam of golden-brown rapids that looked perfectly capable of ripping the river's so-far kindly demeanor to shreds.

Bow straight, we plunged in. The water bucked and cavorted beneath us. One second the bow was pointing skyward, the next it was plunging into the dark abyss between the waves. Twice I was convinced we were going under, and prepared for a dunking. Twice the canoe miraculously rose straight and clear out of the waves. It was exciting, exhilarating. The last of my grin-and-bear-it resolve shredded into tatters. This was fun!

The wild ride-the most difficult part of our trip-ended as abruptly as it began, and we floated safe and serene into a stretch of near-slack water on the other side. As my pulse returned to normal, I glanced back and couldn't believe we'd made it. "I thought we'd had it," I muttered to myself.

"Me, too," Ron said softly from the stern.

We'd barely had time to recover when the cry went up: "Chamberlain Shoals!" We could see the water seething up over the rock ledge that jutted out into the river, creating the shoals. We steered left, kept the bow steady, and headed in. Then: quicker and with much less to-do than the earlier rapids, we were through.

With the roughest part of the trip behind us, we stopped for lunch on a tiny island. The noon hour began warm and sunny, with just enough breeze to keep most of the blackflies at bay. But when a red-winged blackbird swept low over our heads and drew our attention upwards, we noticed the darkening sky. We set off amid a nasty mutter of thunder, the threatening clouds once more clustering over us.

Soon we were at Mockler's Island. A narrow strip of green, it effectively divides the river for a short distance. One of the Restigouche regulars called out the challenge: "Try the left side if you want to have some fun and think you can handle it."

It had been three days of almost constant travel. We were a tad weary, and not even the challenging "piece of cakers" chose to run this gauntlet.

By 3 p.m. we were sliding down the final stretch. It started to rain; I turned my face upwards, glad to receive its refreshing coolness after the mid-day heat.

Over calm waters, amid light, intermittent showers, we paddled home. One side of the river was bordered by pancake-level meadows while the opposite bank was an awesome precipice that seemed to thrust itself up into the sky's face. This is where the river forms the border between New Brunswick and Quebec.

Finally we were at the Rafting Ground, our take-out point. We beached our canoes and began to load craft and gear into 4X4s. Large, mushy drops spattered down faster and faster. Happy and relaxed, I felt it was a fitting farewell to this remarkable river.

"Hey!" someone yelled. "We need a Canada Day picture!" Looking like models for a bad-hair day, our soggy group posed for a picture that would end up in all of our collections of prized memorabilia. Then we scrambled into our vehicles. Within minutes we were on the road through the little village of Dawsonville, NB, on our way to Campbellton, NB, windshield wipers flapping against the bucketing rain.

Warm and comfortable in the truck, I was finally on my way back to walls, windows and washrooms. But I had to confess: I would miss the unique flavour of food cooked in the open, the thrill of bounding over rapids, the cozy feeling of that first night in the tent. But most of all, I knew I would miss the wonderful sense of adventure and the mysterious beauty of the Restigouche in the rain.

"Did you have a good time?" Ron asked, glancing over at me.

"Yes, I did," I replied without hesitation.

Startled, I realized I had been romanced by a river.