Beyond the Trees Read online

  “Hmm, actually that might not be a problem,” said Gilles, the publisher. “There’ll likely be funding opportunities for 2017.”

  That was a change. I was used to doing expeditions on shoestring budgets, with gear I fashioned myself or picked up second-hand.

  “Well, I’ll have to think about it. Do some research. I’ll get back to you,” I replied.

  We adjourned our little meeting, with the notion that we’d follow up at some unspecified date. After all, it was still only 2013. 2017 seemed rather far off and hypothetical.

  Over the following weeks I mulled over the idea. Now that I was actually compelled to come up with a plan and a budget, I had to look at things in more detail. I studied maps and atlases and satellite images, consulted with pilots in the Arctic about costs, and sketched out various plans. And I came to a disheartening conclusion—I was unlikely to succeed. No matter how I calculated things, I couldn’t see any realistic plan that would allow for a long enough ice-free canoeing season to get even halfway across Canada’s mainland Arctic territories on a west–east axis, let alone the whole thing. Everything I researched was discouraging. There were the August snowstorms, the ice that persisted on lakes well into July, and the polar bears that ate canoeists. Not to mention a lack of navigable water routes that actually lead east–west or west–east across the Arctic. Much of the rivers would have to be navigated upstream, against the current. A five-month journey seemed optimistic, and that would entail travelling in the shoulder season with plunging temperatures. Of course, I was no stranger to any of these things. But the odds were not good. I suppose if I’d been an ancient Roman I’d have looked at the bird signs, said it boded ill, and concluded that the gods did not approve of the idea.

  Fortunately, I wasn’t an ancient Roman.

  So I decided to go forward with the plan. After all, at least it seemed I wouldn’t have to worry about the funding. And that certainly counted for a lot.

  Then, as fate would have it, a few months later I found out that the Royal Canadian Geographical Society couldn’t promise any money. The funding they’d hoped to obtain through a strategic partnership never materialized. Such are the vagaries of non-profits.

  That threw a wrench in my plans. To gamble with your life is one thing; to gamble with your money quite another. As a rule, I didn’t do that—one needs standards, after all. The cost of such an Arctic journey spanning five months would run around $35,000, much of it toward air charter. An impossible sum for me to come up with on my own. Maybe, I wondered, I should focus my energies on something more manageable for 2017. I might, for instance, do a study on rare moss. Somehow, though, that didn’t quite capture the imagination in the same way.

  I needed to do some serious thinking. Whenever I was confronted with some momentous decision, I preferred to go where my mind was clearest—to the place I knew best, where I’d grown up, the woods of my childhood. It was a large forest south of the little rural village of Fenwick, Ontario, made up of ancient oaks, maples, ash, beech, and cherry, and intersected with swamps of black water, brambles, and sarsaparilla. It was there in those woods surrounding my family home where I’d first learned to recognize trees—to know them, along with the plants and the birds and the other wild things. It was where as a child I’d slept in shelters cheerfully built during bright days, and huddled in during fearful nights as I listened to the wind in the swaying branches of the great oaks and sassafras. In these familiar woods I’d known and loved, where I’d fished in creeks, slept under the stars, and wandered by night and day, I felt sure I’d know what to do.

  And out there, among the oaks and sycamores, the ferns and sarsaparillas, the nuthatches and woodpeckers, my heart felt the pull of wild places. Something seemed to whisper to me that I ought to attempt the Arctic journey in 2017, regardless of the odds. I also felt something else with terrible clarity—that if I wanted to wander across a vast wild, the time to do it was now. It might be a last chance to make a journey like this across a portion of the earth’s surface that had largely remained in its natural wild state, undeveloped by humans, one of the few places where large animals still roam free and it’s possible to wander for months without seeing another human being.

  So that settled it. I resolved that in three years’ time I’d attempt my journey across the Arctic, come what may. I put this in writing as soon as I returned home, which was a custom of mine when vowing to tackle some daunting prospect (it’s less painful than making blood oaths). I didn’t know if I’d succeed on such a journey; I didn’t even know the details: what route I’d follow, when exactly I’d start, or whether I’d be doing it alone or with companions. But I’d made up my mind to try.

  Slowly, as the months unfolded, I began to prepare. I tested out various gear and clothing and researched different routes, average ice melts, weather patterns, and past trip reports. The challenge was to design a route and a stratagem that would allow me the greatest ice-free canoeing season at minimal financial cost.

  My best chance seemed to be to start in the mountains of the west, in the northern Yukon. The ice breakup is earlier there than in the east, near Hudson Bay, so starting in the west would let me get my canoe in the water sooner. In the west is also Canada’s most northern highway, a narrow gravel road known as the Dempster that winds through the Yukon’s wilderness. It would provide a convenient jumping-off point for an expedition. (It would also be the only road I’d encounter on my entire journey.)

  After hiking through the Richardson Mountains along the Dempster I’d reach the Mackenzie River, the world’s thirteenth longest river. Much would depend on when its ice broke up. Its annual spring breakup varied, ranging from early May to mid-June, and a difference of a few weeks could make or break my expedition. When the Mackenzie broke free of its winter ice, I’d start canoeing. The problem was, following the Mackenzie’s winding course downriver wouldn’t help me. That’d merely take me out to the icebergs of the Beaufort Sea. Instead I’d have to somehow go the opposite direction, upriver on the Mackenzie, against its powerful current.

  Whenever I shared this idea of travelling upriver on the Mackenzie, the response I heard from fellow canoeists acquainted with the North was, “Are you insane?”

  It was a question I’d become accustomed to hearing.

  And that would be the easier part of my journey. Once I’d ascended the Mackenzie for a distance of some three hundred and forty kilometres, the real work would begin. I’d have to strike east, laboriously working my way against the current up the mysterious Hare Indian River, of which little was known. From its headwaters I’d have to undertake a series of long portages, spanning several kilometres each, over difficult terrain with no trail to follow. I hoped these would bring me within sight of the vast, icy waters of Great Bear Lake—the world’s eighth largest lake, making it larger than two of the Great Lakes. I planned to paddle across it in my fifteen-foot canoe.

  If I could cross Great Bear, more hauling, wading, and dragging would await me on its eastern shores, up more rivers against the current. This would take me northward in the direction of the windswept Dismal Lakes. A series of long portages would be needed to reach these wild lakes set amid mountains. From there I could continue working my way east until reaching the fabled Coppermine River—a river with a current far more powerful than the Mackenzie’s. Once again I’d have to fight my way up it, battling whitewater, canyons, and rocks that might puncture my canoe. If I could canoe the Coppermine in reverse—a prospect that in comparison made paddling up the Mackenzie sound perfectly sensible—the next task would entail lengthy portages and paddles across the big icy lakes of the central Arctic.

  From there I’d cross into the Hudson Bay watershed. Now the rivers would be flowing east. My plan was to paddle down the Hanbury River, with its deep canyons and thunderous waterfalls, to the Thelon River, which would bring me to another series of large, stormy arctic lakes, each of which I’d have to paddle across. By that time it’d be late in the season—well int
o September—with frost and fierce winds sweeping off Hudson Bay.

  Finally, with any luck, I’d descend the last section of the Thelon and arrive in the little community of Baker Lake, Nunavut—the first human settlement anywhere in this vast route since the banks of the Mackenzie River thousands of kilometres to the west.

  In total, including the doubling back I’d have to do on all the portages, it worked out to a distance of almost four thousand kilometres. That is, nearly four thousand kilometres across the largest expanse of wilderness, free of roads and cities, yet remaining in the terrestrial world outside of Antarctica.

  Next I had to decide whether it was better to attempt the journey alone or with a partner. It’s true that travelling alone is considered more dangerous, even reckless. But I had a natural affinity for solitary wandering, and I liked the freedom and simplicity that came with it. On the other hand, there was no question having a partner would make things easier and minimize risks. Two paddlers could travel twice as fast, or nearly so. Labour could be divided—one person could make the fires while the other set up the tent, a useful thing when a storm threatens. When needing to track a canoe with ropes up treacherous stretches of rapids, or around boulders when the current is strong and dangerous, two people are nearly essential. And there’d be two sets of eyes to watch for any hazards, like hidden rocks or hungry bears. In the case of some unforeseen medical emergency, two people would also make things much safer. But experience had taught me that it was better to go alone than to undertake a venture with someone who was only half committed to it.

  And who’d wish to commit to such a journey anyway?

  Most of my past expedition partners I knew wouldn’t be able to take the time required. They’d gradually settled down with lives, careers, and families, and could now seldom get away for more than a week or two. In the three years since making my vow in the forest, I’d undertaken many expeditions independent of what I had in mind for 2017, and these ventures had brought me into contact with some excellent expedition partners.

  There was my old friend Travis, an elite athlete and two-time silver medallist in the world lacrosse championships with the Iroquois Nationals, who could laugh at adversity while trudging up an arctic stream in the icy domain of polar bears or while in the teeth of an arctic gale. That first summer after I’d made my resolution, the two of us canoed a nameless High Arctic river some five hundred kilometres north of the Northwest Passage. After that adventure, Travis and I spent time climbing snowy mountains together in the Adirondacks.

  Whereas Travis and I were old friends of more than ten years, my other expedition partner during these summers was a person I’d never previously met before plunging off with. Nearly thirty years my senior, Chuck was an American, an avid angler and outdoorsman who’d once raced canoes back in the 1980s. He was sensible, congenial, and undaunted whenever confronted with some horrid journey. He joined me to trace an obscure river to its headwaters deep in trackless muskeg in the subarctic. There, in polar bear territory—over a hundred miles from the nearest human settlement, in a swamp home to the highest concentration of blood-sucking insects on earth—our friendship blossomed. The next summer, 2016, Chuck and I reunited for another journey, this time in the Northwest Territories, where we headed beyond the Arctic Circle to the windswept tundra in order to trace another winding river to its source.

  Either Travis or Chuck would make an ideal partner for a journey across Canada’s Arctic. But Chuck, I knew, wouldn’t be able to take anything like five months off from his career and his family. He also said that, all things considered, it might not be wise to walk long distances over rough terrain with a heavy pack in polar bear territory. He was sensible like that. (Chuck did, however, offer his help when it came time to shuttle myself and my canoe up to the Arctic Circle.) As for Travis, when I told him of my idea for an Arctic journey in 2017, he was tempted. Very tempted. But Travis also had a steady job, a mortgage, a dog, and a girlfriend. These things all made a potentially five-month expedition difficult. Ultimately, he concluded he couldn’t commit to it.

  In contrast, I had little to hold me back. My own beloved dog, Riley, who’d been my companion and shadow, had died three years earlier; I’d never had another. My income, such as it was, came from grants for my doctoral research plus whatever I made from writing—things that allowed me to wander. My rent was seven hundred a month for the ground floor of an old decrepit house in St. Catharines. It was enough for my landlords that I paid the rent and was quiet; they didn’t ask questions about my prolonged absences or the muskox skulls in the backroom. And with Travis and Chuck unavailable and my other past expedition partners tied down, there wasn’t anyone else I could see myself spending five months with in the Arctic.

  So that settled it. I’d be going alone. The prospect didn’t much trouble me, at least not the idea of solitude. But from a practical point of view, one person instead of two would amplify the physical dimension of the journey. To make up for this, I’d need to do some careful strategizing and devise a few novel techniques, especially since I’d be racing against the seasons.

  But first I had to confront a more immediate and alarming challenge: coming up with the funds. Though I’d heard about grants being handed out for Canada 150 projects, I’d also heard they were reserved for groups, not individuals. In any case, it seemed doubtful that a project like mine would win government funding. So, in the spirit of the times, I opted for crowdfunding. This was not something I’d had any experience with. My penchant for the woods left me estranged from social media. I didn’t have a smartphone, a Twitter account, or an Instagram page. Regardless, eight months before I planned to set off, I launched a GoFundMe page for the expedition. My goal was to raise at least $12,000 of the $35,000 I needed that way, with the remainder (I hoped) coming from sponsorships.

  The same month I launched my fundraising page I moved to Sudbury, Ontario. There I spent my days training and prepping for the expedition—rock climbing, skating laps on the city’s outdoor oval or on hockey rinks I had all to myself, and ransacking the archives of Laurentian University for old canoe exploration reports and other useful information. Besides this, I took long daily hikes through spruce and pine forests, culminating with scrambles up barren summits of the high rocky hills that envelop the city. From those gloomy peaks, scarred by acid rain, I brooded over my plans for the journey, pondering the challenges to come.

  Meanwhile, my fundraising proceeded slowly. Three days after I’d launched my funding page the sum total of donations came in at only $0.00. I didn’t find it a particularly encouraging sum.

  Then one Theresa, whom I didn’t know, broke the ice by donating $25. Soon after a certain Mallory gave $45, then Meg gave $25, and one Cody tossed in another $20. Amazingly, I was up to $115. On the other hand, I’d spent $300 on hiring a graphic design artist to make a poster promoting the expedition. But small donations continued to trickle in: from a couple of Canadian expatriates who wished me well, from an old school classmate, from past archaeological dig colleagues, from readers of my first book (one of whom appended a note to his $10 donation requesting that I write another book, if I should happen to live). Mostly, though, support came from total strangers. By the date of my departure in May, I’d received through my GoFundMe page $5,310 in donations. Minus GoFundMe’s handling fees, that left with me with almost $4,800.

  In other words, well short of the thirty-five grand I needed. Just as I was beginning to despair, I received an unusual and unexpected phone call. It was from someone I didn’t know, someone who promised to fund my entire expedition on one condition—that I take him with me. This prospect, camping with a stranger you meet over the internet in exchange for money, was not as appealing as it might sound, given that the individual admitted to having little to no previous canoeing experience. I could foresee all too well where that might lead, so I felt I had no choice but to decline his offer.

  That put me back at square one.

  Fortunately, much t
o my surprise, McMaster University’s alumni association offered to partly sponsor my journey. I’d done my master’s degree at McMaster and was still finishing (from afar) my doctorate there, so I was only too happy to have their support. Then Brock University, where I’d gone as an undergraduate, also offered to sponsor me. Apparently universities considered the image of a penniless adventurer to be an excellent recruiting tool for prospective students. Meanwhile, the outdoor chain MEC (that is Mountain Equipment Co-op) offered to outfit me with gear, clothing, and much of my dried rations. Nova Craft Canoe, a made-in-Canada canoe company based in London, Ontario, built me a custom canoe for the journey and shipped it to Whitehorse. A number of other companies and individuals also made donations of gear or cash toward the expedition.

  By April, as the snow started to melt around Sudbury, I was pacing my small rented rooms in an old Depression-era apartment building, anxiously piling up my accumulated gear for the journey: seven watertight plastic barrels crammed with dehydrated energy bars, hundreds of photocopied topographic maps covering my route, more electronics than I used on a daily basis to cover my satellite communications and filming, clothing of various sorts, and my tent, sleeping bag, and assorted waterproof bags. But I was still short of the funds I needed, and I’d run out of outdoor companies I could approach about sponsorship. What was I to do? Time was running out: in less than four weeks I needed to be in the Arctic if I were to get underway when the ice melted. None of the remaining options I could think of were at all encouraging.

  Then, out of the blue it seemed, came a generous donation from another stranger—a remarkable woman in British Columbia, who’d read my first book and wanted to assist me in this project. She provided the funds I needed through a donation to the Royal Canadian Geographical Society, and like that, my expedition was a go. The Geographical Society bestowed symbolic support by honouring me with a flag bearing its coat-of-arms. The flag was presented to me at a ceremony in Ottawa by the Society’s honorary president, Alex Trebek, who a few readers might also know from his television show Jeopardy! He wished me well.