It is all just a little too perfect. The first day of my two-day kayaking trip on the Saguenay River, a tributary of the St. Lawrence, is the stuff of paddlers' dreams. The water is smooth, dark, and glassy like obsidian. The summer air is crisp and flavourful with a wisp of wind carrying scents of warm pine and hardwoods down the steep slopes. The silence, disturbed only by the rhythmic schuss , schuss , schuss of our paddles as they slice the water's surface, is arresting.

"We are very lucky for this magnifique day," says Jean-François Bourdon, the 20-year-old guide assigned by adventure outfitter Québec Hors-Circuits to lead the two of us on our expedition. Bourdon's French-Canadian accent makes him sound like a sultry French movie star but his scruffy red beard, curly ponytail, river-runner sandals, and drip-dry clothes--not to mention his skill cramming gear into the kayaks earlier in the day--mark him an outdoorsman.

Wanting to show how much I appreciate his mostly successful attempts at English, I strain to recall some high-school French. "Oui, ç'est bon," I mumble self-consciously. My paddling partner, my 12-year-old son Shane, whirls around in his seat at the front of our sea kayak and gives me one of those "oh Mom, that was so lame" looks. I break my paddling rhythm just long enough to blow him a kiss.

Shane and I have come to the Saguenay River not because we want a melodramatic mother-and-son bonding experience but because we both thought the place sounded so cool. The Saguenay River runs through one of the continent's great geological wonders, a 100-kilometre-long, glacier-ripped gash in Quebec's landscape northeast of Quebec City. Cliffs jut up dramatically from the river's edge, some to heights of 450 metres. The river runs deep, to 270 metres, before rising to a scant 25 metres at the fiord's mouth beside the town of Tadoussac.

Although the Saguenay is some 800 kilometres from open ocean, it is in form and function a distant arm of the Atlantic, making it a true marine fiord. Tides of up to six metres rise and fall against the cliffs. In a fascinating bit of water dynamics, the relatively warm, fresh waters of the Saguenay River lie atop the frigid saltwater of the St. Lawrence inside the fiord. This creates two unique layers, the upper sustaining freshwater fish such as speckled trout and rainbow smelt, the lower home to typical marine species such as cod, Atlantic redfish, and the Greenland shark. And then there are the showstopping whales, beluga and minke, that enter the fiord to feed. Two parks, Saguenay--St. Lawrence Marine Park and Parc du Saguenay, protect the river and the fiord's wild, verdant slopes.

There are precious few towns along those slopes--access down the steep, heavily forested inclines is a bitch--and those that do exist seem to cling to the hillsides. Sainte-Rose-du-Nord, the pretty town where we begin our kayaking expedition, is no exception. We find that the best spot to pack our kayaks is a wooden deck built on the sharply angled edge of the town's cove.

When we first launch, Bourdon's one-man kayak seems as sleek and fast as a Ferrari while Shane and I appear to be paddling a Dodge minivan. About 90 minutes in, we reach Cap Rouge, where Bourdon serves up an on-the-water snack of chocolate and nuts to give us the quick energy needed for our dash across the 2.5-kilometre-wide fiord.

As we close in on the south shore, curious seals appear just off our kayak's bow. "They look like those heads that pop up in the Whack-a-Mole game at Playland," says Shane, proving that you can take the boy out of the city but the reverse is not so easily done. Loons follow us, maintaining such a consistent distance that they remind me of wheeled, wooden toy ducks being pulled along on an invisible string.

We stop for an alfresco lunch on the rocks at Anse à la Chaîne, then continue paddling to the towering rock wall called Le Tableau. Here the flat, black rock plunges straight into the water and we are able to float right up to its face. Unfortunately, graffiti artists have done the same.

Our quiet contemplation of what kind of idiots would deface nature in this way is interrupted by yells from an approaching sailboat. The skipper would like to know how deep the water is beside the rock wall. Satisfied with Bourdon's answer that it is very deep indeed, the boat aims for the rock face but comes in far too fast. There is much screaming and gesticulating as the skipper's deckhands scramble to place bumpers at the bow. We take a few quick strokes and escape the chaos.

It's late afternoon when Bourdon points to our wilderness camp chiselled out of the rock at Anse du Gros Ruisseau. We land in the sand of the tiny bay and carry the kayaks five metres up the beach. Shane and I poke each other's biceps--sore enough after 15 kilometres of paddling--then set to work erecting our tent on one of the six wooden platforms that provide the only flat surfaces in sight. After washing up in a dribbling creek, we flop down on the enormous, warmed-by-the-sun boulders at one end of the beach and revel in our picture-perfect day.

The misty rain that begins during our salmon dinner turns into a full-fledged downpour by nightfall. We huddle under a tarp and chat about many things, including the strong cultural currents--both French and aboriginal--that run through the Saguenay. Bourdon talks a little about the separatist sentiments that once ruled this region. I relate what I learned about the Saguenay's first people, the Innu, during my two-day stay with Gordon Moar, a 60-year-old Cree who welcomes travellers to his family's ancestral hunting grounds in the region's immense Ashuapmushuan Wildlife Reserve.

By bedtime, the rain has turned the path to the outhouse into a muddy menace. I carefully pick my way to and fro, concerned that I'll slip and end up flying down the slope like Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone. Shane and I crawl into our tent and fall asleep to the sound of raindrops on nylon.

At daybreak the rain is still pounding down, the wind is blowing, and the tide is out, way out, some 40 metres from where we stowed the kayaks. An ankle-twisting landscape of scree, logs, and slimy-green boulders lies between where we are and where we need to be. A few choice French swearwords, forgotten since high school, come to mind.

For breakfast Bourdon warms Belgian waffles and breaks out the blueberries. I'm handed a whisk and put in charge of whipping the cream. The muscles of my right arm are not impressed.

After a final, bracing cup of coffee we begin to shuttle our gear and kayaks to the water's edge. Shane reminds me, more than once, "Mom, you're swearing." My sense of relief when we finally launch is short-lived as the reality of fighting an incoming tide, a strong headwind, and torrential rain sinks in. We're in for a brutal day.

We'd hoped to be in for a whale-watching day, and so had spent time earlier in the week at Tadoussac's Centre for Interpretation of Marine Mammals. There we learned about the whales--minke, humpbacks, belugas, blues, and finbacks--that frequent the area. Unfortunately, all the centre's interpretive signs were in French and the constant flip, flip, flipping of pages in the booklet of English translations was frustrating. Still, the booklet proved its worth when we encountered a 1.25-metre-high post surrounded by giggling French children. It's heartening to learn that the words "length of a finback whale's penis" can induce fits of laughter in both official languages. From CIMM's waterfront location we spied three minke whales heading up the fiord and decided it was a good omen for our kayaking trip.

It wasn't. No whales visit us--no seals, no loons, not one distraction--as we struggle 15 kilometres to our takeout spot in Baie Eternité. Bourdon, bless him, suggests a game of 20 questions to take our minds off the wind and rain. It's a smart strategy as we all get a kick out of trying to think of characters the three of us, given our different ages and languages, will know. Kermit, George W. Bush, and Céline Dion prove to be good bets.

I'm cheered when I see the 350-metre-high rock faces of Cap Trinité that mark the entrance to Baie Eternité, the end point of our journey. Unfortunately, that happy feeling doesn't last long as blenderlike seas send us bobbing around the cape for more than an hour.

When we finally enter Baie Eternité I'm struck by how drop-dead-gorgeous it is, even in the rain. We glide into the calm shallows near shore. As I step from the kayak I stumble and fall face first into the water. Now I'm truly soaked to the skin, but I'm also laughing--the perfect end to the adventure.

ACCESS: Decide where you'll start your exploration of the fiord, then choose the highway to get you there. Most people follow Highway 138 along the St. Lawrence River from Quebec City to Tadoussac. Alternatively, head due north on Highway 175 to Chicoutimi, then strike out for the north or south shores on highways that parallel the fiord.

The well-respected backcountry specialists at Québec Hors-Circuits offer multiday kayak adventures starting at $279 per person plus taxes for two days. Call (418) 545-3737 or visit www.quebec-hors-circuits.com/. The site is a French-only affair so keep your dictionary close by.

A great spot for a last sleep and supper before launching your kayak in Sainte-Rose-du-Nord is Cap au Leste, a collection of chalets perched high on the edge of the fiord's north slopes. Rates begin at $77 per person, double occupancy. Call (418) 675-2000 or visit www.capquebec.com/.

The knowledgeable, patient Tourisme Québec folks at 1-877-266-5687 or www.bonjourquebec.com/ will help plan your trip. For detailed Saguenay information, call 1-877-253-8387 or visit www.tourismesaguenaylacsaintjean.qc.ca/.