Beyond the Trees Read online

  Thus I set off. The sun was beating down, but a brisk wind kept things cool. I wore a mesh bug net to minimize the annoyance of the blood-sucking insects. Navigating was easy enough: I knew which direction to head, and there was a range of high hills as landmarks to guide me.

  The sandy, pebble-strewn esker made for good hiking terrain. It curved in an arc around a pond, then took me up a slope and across tundra with low willow bushes. Once over a spruce-clad ridge, I passed on to a great sandy slope. At the end of this sandy stretch, having hiked about a kilometre, I set down my backpack, refuelled with some water and an energy bar, then returned to fetch my next load.

  My reason for these short intervals was not wanting to leave any of my packs unattended for too long, which seemed unwise with grizzlies and wolverines wandering about. Plus, regular breaks help make the overall portage seem more manageable.

  When it came time to take the canoe, I again experimented with the cart. I strapped the canoe on it and put a number of miscellaneous items inside, such as my waders. It worked well enough across the sand esker, but once I’d passed on to the hilly terrain or over willows, it was much less practical. It was the kind of thing that might have worked effectively with two people—one pulling from the front, the other pushing from the back—allowing even more things, such as the backpack and barrels, to be put inside the canoe. I made a mental note of this for the purpose of future trips. Of course, it didn’t do much good to dwell on such things at the time.

  Across a valley from this first leg of my portage, I could see a snowfield tucked beneath the bottom of a large ridge. Back in 1911 Douglas had described this very snowfield. Chuck and I had also seen it—and it was encouraging to think that warmer average temperatures hadn’t, at least yet, seemed to have changed it much. While all this landscape would be buried in snow most of the year, by June the snows usually melt across most of the low Arctic. However, in this unique spot, as in a few others, the shade of the encircling ridge keeps the ice and snow preserved year-round.

  The next leg of the trek took me across vast fields of willow shrubs and dwarf birches. The willows and birches weren’t any higher than my knees, so hiking among them wasn’t much trouble. In a few places I startled willow ptarmigans. Unlike the grouse in the woods near where I grew up, the ptarmigans startled here didn’t fly off very far. They simply flew up a short couple of strides and then landed again in plain sight. Like other animals, birds that haven’t been exposed much to human hunting over many generations remain remarkably easy to approach.

  This included a mother ptarmigan, with six good-sized chicks that followed her across the tundra. They scurried off as I passed by but they never went far, and I saw them on each trip back and forth with my different loads. They would have made a nice meal, but I didn’t have the heart to do it, though I certainly thought about it.

  I next headed into a hilly region, passing among hills thinly clad with spruces and an abundance of wild berries, none of which were yet ripe. These sheltered hills seemed to be a favourite haunt of wildlife. Wolf tracks were visible in the sand, and I could easily imagine a grizzly would enjoy the berry buffet when they turned ripe. From the summit of one of these hills I surveyed the route ahead. In the far distance I could see mountains with some snow on their upper slopes. Beneath these lonely mountains was where I needed to get to, the Dismal Lakes.

  It was the high-strung Simpson who’d given them that name. In the spring of 1838, when he and his companions came over a high ridge and first caught sight of these narrow, interconnected lakes set amid windswept mountains, Simpson noted, “Never have I seen a land so desolate and dismal as that which stretched before me.”

  It was precisely that “desolate and dismal” place I was trying so hard to reach.

  Luckily, just beneath the hills I’d hiked into were three ponds in a row and then a small lake, allowing me to paddle a bit and refill my empty water bottle. The canoe I went back to simply dragging, which I found faster than fiddling with the cart. The empty barrel I strapped on my back when dragging the canoe, thereby eliminating the need for a fourth trip.

  Between each of these ponds, a short portage allowed me to skip ahead to the next one. Then, after crossing the last of the three, I noticed something odd. The ground just beyond the pond was flattened and trampled down, almost as if by vehicles or a stampede of elephants. But there were no roads for hundreds of kilometres, and the last arctic elephants—mastodons and woolly mammoths—had died out millennia ago.

  Upon taking a closer look, it hit me what had made these rutted, muddy tracks: thousands of hooves, marching in a great herd. They were from the caribou migration, when the animals form vast herds beyond counting, and march across the tundra for hundreds of miles. The dwarf birch bushes were all grazed down, and the ground churned up to the width of a three-lane road by marching hooves. The herd must have passed recently, within days it seemed. Perhaps the howling of the wolves I’d heard was from a pack stalking them.

  I scanned across the sea of tundra that unfolded before me for any sign of the herd. A white speck was bobbing along on the horizon. I couldn’t make out what it was, so I used my camera to zoom in on it. It was a lone caribou, a straggler who must have fallen behind.

  I resumed my portage, carrying the canoe and two loads across the rutted-up passage that the herd had passed over. Eventually, just as I was completing the last load, the straggler approached. To my surprise, at the sight of me, the caribou walked right up to me. I informed the caribou that the herd had gone west, and that if she didn’t dally she might yet catch up with them. The caribou didn’t seem to entirely understand me, but nonetheless she trotted off in the right direction.

  A few minutes later, as I was busy launching the canoe into the small lake, two more caribou materialized. These ones paid no attention to me and hurried on their way.

  I, too, had to be on my way, north to the Dismal Lakes.

  The ponds and the lake raised my spirits greatly, as they cut down on the portaging by allowing me to paddle a little. When I reached the end of the lake, which took only a few minutes, I resumed travel on foot.

  The lake brought me to more big sand hills scattered with black spruce. On the far side of these hills I found a great sandy slope that ran down to another beautiful lake. To reach it, I dragged my canoe over the hills and down the slope, then carried my other loads up and over. It’d been about ten hours of solid portaging, but I calculated that I still wasn’t even halfway through yet. Exhausted, I camped on the sandy beach for the night. The portage I’d just have to continue in the morning.

  In the meantime, after a fire on the beach, I curled up in my tent on what was a cold, windy night. Just as I was getting comfortable, the howling of wolves rang out across the distant hills. I wondered whether the friendly caribou had managed to catch up in time.

  × 11 ×

  THROUGH THE DISMAL LAKES

  I woke early, eager for another hard day of portaging. I figured if I could just get this dreaded portage done, it would be a great weight off my shoulders. Coming into the journey I knew it would be one of the most physically demanding aspects of it, and thus if I could pull it off, I’d feel that much closer to reaching my end goal. At this point, despite trekking and paddling nearly fifteen hundred kilometres from the Yukon, that end goal still felt pretty unreachable.

  So I tried to focus on the task at hand. (And not dwell too much on all the stories I’d heard—stories about how bad the storms got after mid-August in the barren lands west of Hudson Bay.) In my canoe I was soon paddling hard across the little lake I’d camped on. It was a short paddle to reach the lake’s north shore. Here, there was a range of steep, rolling hills covered with short tundra grass and small stones. I landed directly beneath the hills, strapped on my backpack, and began climbing. My legs burned as I ascended the steep slope, but my excitement at what I might see from the summit carried me on.

  Coming over the crest of the hill, a magnificent view unfolded before m
e. The range of steep hills formed a sort of crescent, beneath which lay a sheltered marshy valley and a small, hourglass-shaped lake. Beyond the hills were great ridges, which in places rose up to rocky summits. And just past the lake, tucked behind the hills but below the encircling mountainous ridge, was a small gap. I recognized it from the year before with Chuck—it was where I needed to head.

  I cut down the windy, barren hillside toward the valley. It was a little marshy in places, but otherwise not difficult to cross. About seven hundred and fifty metres of hiking brought me to the shores of the hourglass lake. I left my backpack there and retraced my steps across the plain, over the windswept hills, and down the far side where I’d left my canoe and the rest of my gear.

  Next I strapped on the big, heavy barrel and, with a paddle to support me, began climbing the hill again. I staggered in the gusts of wind under the weight of the barrel on the steep hillside, but balancing myself with the paddle, I kept climbing. Up on those wild slopes I could see for miles in all directions—there wasn’t the slightest hint of any human-made object to be seen anywhere, or another person. It was a remarkably beautiful, soul-filling sight.

  When I’d finished that load I took a brunch of cashews and some jerky, drank cold water, and then went back for the canoe. Hauling the canoe up the hillside required a kind of running start, dragging it with one hand while holding the other hand out to maintain my balance in the wind and on the steep slope.

  Inside the canoe were, among other things, my empty barrel, waders, fishing rod, and bailer, all of which slid down to the stern of the canoe as I kept hauling it up the hill. Panting heavily, I told myself that this hard work would be rewarded with an easy toboggan ride down the far side.

  The summits were a bit rocky, so I lifted the canoe partially up and carried it across the barren hilltop. Once over the top, the canoe did toboggan down nicely, with me jogging alongside after it. When we reached the bottom I took the bow rope, tied it into a harness, and began dragging the assemblage across the tundra like a dogsled. The improvised harness worked well, and I even jogged a bit, excited to reach the hourglass lake.

  But these early enthusiasms didn’t last long. The lake was only a half-kilometre long, and I was soon across it. On its far side more challenging terrain confronted me: a mix of willow shrubs, dwarf birch, and bog, infested with millions of blackflies, set within a long, narrow gully. This gully ran for nearly five kilometres, terminating at last at the tip of the Dismal Lakes. Of that five kilometres, all would have to be portaged aside from one pond of about five hundred metres that I could paddle across. I strapped on my backpack, and began hiking through willows, up and over a ridge, and then down into the gully.

  Swarms of blackflies and mosquitoes attacked me as soon as I dropped into the gully. Their itchy bites on my neck, wrists, and waistline were maddening, but I pushed on, trying to move as quickly as I could. Down in the gully, however, the ground was wet and boggy. My hiking boots were soon drenched and heavy, slowing me down.

  Sinking into this morass with the pack on my back was exhausting, but still I trudged on with clouds of blackflies, mosquitoes, sandflies, and bulldog flies feasting on my flesh as I did so. Eventually, after nearly three kilometres, I reached the edge of the narrow pond and unstrapped my backpack. Then I turned round and hiked back through the boggy lowlands, the bugs still swarming me. When I finally made it back to the hourglass lake, where my other loads were waiting, I flopped down on the soft moss, exhausted.

  I rested comfortably in the moss as a cool breeze blew away the swarms of bugs. Needing more energy, I fished out some dried strawberries, goji berries, and almonds from my barrel. But the breeze soon died, allowing the bugs to resume their assault. So I put away my snacks, lifted the heavy barrel up onto my knee and then onto my back, strapping it across my chest. With my other paddle, the bent-shaft one, I set off again through the willows into the gully.

  Maybe it was the blood smearing my beard and neck, but the storms of bugs seemed only to get worse on this third trip through the gully. I was wearing gloves, but the blackflies in particular were mercilessly attacking my exposed wrists. Still I staggered on, knowing that to rest would only allow more bugs to feast on me.

  To hike three kilometres with a heavy barrel strapped on your back is perhaps not too difficult on solid ground or with a trail to follow—but the boggy soil made hiking twice as exhausting as would ordinarily be the case. When I at last reached the pond where I’d left my backpack, I set down the barrel and decided I needed some relief.

  Normally I use bug spray only sparingly, if it all. Frankly, I don’t like spraying chemicals on my skin or clothing. Plus, as I’ve mentioned, it was my good fortune to have had a family home surrounded by black swamps of foul water that bred great clouds of mosquitoes, granting me a high tolerance as a result. But there are times, such as when portaging multiple loads across boggy lowlands infested with millions of blackflies and other blood-sucking insects, when bug spray comes in handy. I’d packed several containers of it, and fished one out of my backpack now. I knew from past experience in northern swamps that bug spray is of limited effectiveness here, but there are also times when even limited effectiveness seems like a worthwhile improvement. So, I liberally dosed my clothing with the spray.

  It seemed to partially diminish the hordes of blackflies and mosquitoes. I then hiked back across the gully for the fourth time in order to fetch my canoe. By the time I reached it the bugs were swarming me as fiercely as ever.

  I wasted little time slipping on the harness I’d made and dragging the canoe behind me for the fifth and final trip through the gully. My legs and hips burned, but I kept going. After about a kilometre of dragging, however, I was starting to feel almost woozy from the storms of blackflies biting me—something I’d felt only once before, when one July I’d hiked for days into the heart of muskeg in the Hudson Bay Lowlands. Apparently excessive bites can lead to something called “blackfly fever,” which, apart from the fever itself, can bring on symptoms like headache, nausea, and swollen lymph nodes. But I was determined to reach the Dismal Lakes that day, come what may, and so I splashed some refreshing bog water in my face, inhaled deeply, and pushed on.

  When I finally reached the pond where my barrel and backpack were waiting, I pushed the canoe in the water, quickly loaded it, and jumped in. The distance from the end of this pond to the tip of the Dismal Lakes was approximately 1.7 kilometres through willows, spruces, bog, and some hills. With my three separate loads to carry plus two return trips, that meant I actually had five times that amount, eight and a half kilometres, to cover before I could rest easy at the Dismal Lakes.

  Having reached the end of the pond, I set off with my backpack, plunging once more into clouds of blackflies that made sure to exact their toll for the passage. The way forward took me first through low-lying boggy ground, then past ancient, stunted spruces as the ground ascended up a long hill.

  As I came up a higher ridge, for the first time I caught sight of the Dismal Lakes. They didn’t look at all dismal to me: shimmering dark blue water set beneath wild mountain ridges and great green hills with bald rock outcrops. In the far distance, beyond the lake, rose a great mountain barrier with patches of snow on it. Some stunted spruces stood on the nearer side of the lake, but mostly the land was open, windswept tundra. The sight of the Dismal Lakes felt a bit surreal—some effect of the light, water, and distance made the mountains and snow on the far shore seem like a floating mirage. Or perhaps it was just loss of blood from millions of blackfly bites.

  The lake was still another seven hundred metres ahead, but the sight of it renewed my energy and I pushed on with my backpack down the ridge to it. The shrieking of an arctic tern, evidently nesting somewhere nearby, greeted me as I dropped my backpack on the tundra just above a small beach. A cold wind was blowing hard across the lake, lapping waves against the shore.

  It took several more hours of hard work to finish transporting my other loads. By the time I
’d finished it was seven p.m. and I was exhausted.

  I celebrated the completion of the portage with a freeze-dried meal and some Labrador tea. Best of all, the fierce winds sweeping across the lake dispelled the clouds of bugs. I could finally breathe easy, removing my mesh bug net. My throat was bloodied with bites.

  Flipping the collar up on my jacket, I huddled for warmth by the little blaze of a driftwood fire I’d kindled. I had two other reasons to celebrate. First, I’d reached the most northern part of my journey across Canada’s Arctic. The Dismal Lakes are just ninety kilometres south of the Arctic Ocean’s Coronation Gulf, which forms part of the Northwest Passage. Second, I’d crossed another major watershed divide, having now succeeded in passing out of Great Bear Lake’s drainage basin into the Coppermine River watershed. This meant that for the first significant stretch of my journey I’d actually soon have a river to paddle with the current. Before I could do that, though, I’d have to get off this windswept beach.

  The Dismal Lakes, a chain of three long, interconnected lakes set amid mountains, are notoriously windy. When Chuck and I had arrived here the previous year, we’d seen nothing at all encouraging to the idea of canoeing. The wind had been fierce the entire time we were at the lakes, and I could easily appreciate historical accounts of past travellers trapped for days here by tremendous gusts that made paddling impossible. On a short journey such a delay wouldn’t be too much of a concern, but for me, with thousands of kilometres of paddling still to do across any number of lakes that might leave me wind-bound, any delays were liable to cause trouble.

  I set up my tent in the winds, anchoring it with guy lines. Then I crawled inside. I just had to hope that morning would bring calm weather.

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