Beyond the Trees Page 5

  Willow and alder bushes grew thickly along the roadside, reaching heights of eight or nine feet. Concealed in these thickets, I knew, were grizzlies—their fresh tracks, sunk alarmingly deep into the gravel, littered the roadway. They might spring out at any time, but hopefully only to spook me for the fun of it.

  I kept marching. One foot in front of another. Slow and steady wins the race, I told myself. Another ten kilometres or so and the road dropped into the lowlands of the Peel River. Here, conditions were less harsh than higher up; the trees were bigger, and now included white birch—though the birch were still far too small for canoe-making. Foxtail barley, horsetails, yarrow, and fireweed all grew in abundance along the roadside. Along this stretch, my third day hiking, the weather became misty, with intermittent rain. A big grizzly appeared, sauntering along the road in the most casual manner possible. It was a striking animal, with blond tips on its thick, rich coat and impressive curved claws. For a moment it looked as if it might charge me, but then the bear dipped back down into the willows, disappearing from view.

  Late on the third day I could see up ahead the waters of the Peel, about two hundred metres wide. Nearby was a miscellaneous collection of shacks, trucks, and rubbish scattered about. Chuck and Mark were parked by the muddy bank, and Chuck had set up his tent there.

  Chuck and Mark had already made friends with the ferry operator and told him something of me and my plans. The ferry operator, Morris, a native of Fort McPherson and veteran boat captain familiar with the strong currents of the Mackenzie, expressed the opinion that upriver travel alone in a canoe was impossible. Only a motorboat with a strong engine could make it upriver, and even that was difficult and time-consuming.

  When Morris saw me arrive, somewhat wearied from my hike, he looked me up and down and asked, “What kind of drugs are you smoking?”

  “None,” I assured him.

  “So you’re just crazy, then?”

  I thought I’d demonstrate my sanity by invoking a different subject. Morris, I’d noticed, sported an Edmonton Oilers hat. I alluded to the team’s having made the playoffs for the first time in eleven seasons. Morris livened up. Yes, he assured me, the Oilers were back—they’d shown real promise. Morris, it turned out, had lived in Edmonton and was something of a fanatical Oilers fan. But now that Edmonton was eliminated, Morris explained, he wanted the playoffs’ only remaining Canadian team, Ottawa, to win—he couldn’t stand the thought of an American team claiming the Cup again. The Senators were playing that night, so he had to be off soon so as not to miss the puck drop.

  Having noticed Chuck and Mark’s lack of interest in our discussion, Morris asked me what the deal was with them.

  “Americans,” I explained.

  The original plan was to have Chuck and Mark deposit my canoe and two barrels on the banks of the Mackenzie River, where I could pick them up. To do so they’d have to take the car ferry across the Peel River, which the Dempster crosses. The ferry, though, was out of service for repairs. I’d planned for such a contingency by including among my expedition gear a small wheeled cart. That way, in the worst-case scenario with the river-ferry closed on the Peel (thereby preventing Chuck and Mark from crossing in the vehicle), I could still transport my canoe and barrels to the Mackenzie River by wheeling them along the Dempster behind me. But this prospect was not at all appealing, as it’d be slow-going and time-consuming.

  Fortunately, Morris eliminated the need for the cart by offering to transport the canoe and barrels to the Mackenzie River. While the ferry was out of commission, he still had a motorboat at hand and a pickup truck on the opposite side of the Peel. I gratefully accepted this offer, and wondered if my favourable words about the Oilers had facilitated it.

  Chuck and Mark, meanwhile, had to take their leave. I owed them both a debt of gratitude. Besides helping transport my canoe and supplies to the river, Mark had given me his hiking boots. (They were a size larger than my own, and my feet had swelled slightly from all the hiking, causing me considerable discomfort. He’d told me I could keep the boots, so I did.) Chuck, too, had been overly generous—he’d given me his waterproof neoprene waders, lighter than the ones I’d packed. As they prepared to make the long drive back to Whitehorse, the two of them wished me well. Before they left I rifled through my pack and discarded anything I didn’t need, so as to travel even lighter and repay them in some way for their kindness—I had a pair of wool socks (worn), a pack of matches (half-used), and two granola bars (unopened) that I could spare. I handed them over.

  The Mackenzie River had cleared of its winter ice just as I’d hoped it would, by the last of May. On June 1, five days after setting off from the Arctic Circle, I arrived on its muddy banks where the Dempster crosses it. As promised, Morris dropped off my canoe and two barrels, then wished me well on my fool’s errand upriver. Nearby was the little community of Tsiigehtchic (population 195), where Morris had gone to visit his sister before returning to his post at the Peel River crossing. His was the last face I’d see for a while.

  Now the real challenges would begin.

  × 4 ×

  UP THE MACKENZIE

  Up close, the swirling, rippling waters of the vast Mackenzie River did look alarmingly swift. At 1,738 kilometres long on its main branch, the Mackenzie is Canada’s longest river and North America’s second longest. It was understandable why pretty much everyone judged trying to canoe upriver on it an indication of insanity. It wasn’t just that I was attempting to do it alone; it was also that I had over a hundred and seventy pounds of dead weight to transport in the canoe—two barrels crammed with food rations and a backpack holding my tent, camping gear, camera equipment, and miscellaneous other things—all of which would have to be propelled upriver against a powerful current still swollen with the recent ice melt.

  Even if I could maintain a paddling pace of five kilometres an hour—no mean feat with a hundred and seventy pounds of deadweight against a four-kilometre-an-hour current—that’d translate into only one kilometre an hour progress. At that rate it would take me well over a month to get upriver to the point I’d needed to reach. Not at all feasible, if I were to have any hope of success. So instead I’d thought up a different plan.

  I hoped to rely on an ancient, though now largely forgotten technique for upstream navigation: poling. Sticking close to the river’s steep banks, I planned to delicately balance myself in a standing position while pushing a long pole off the river’s bottom—advancing the canoe steadily upstream. It’s an eloquent illustration of Newton’s third law of motion: “When one body exerts a force on a second body, the second body simultaneously exerts a force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction on the first body.” My pushing down with the pole would meet with a second body, the river bottom, simultaneously exerting a force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction to my initial thrust with the pole—thus propelling the canoe upriver. A pole used in such a manner is far more effective than any paddle.

  But first I had to find myself a suitable pole. The Mackenzie here was about one kilometre wide, and across its icy, swirling waters I could see a stand of trembling aspens. One of these hardy trees, I figured would serve my purpose admirably. I shoved my canoe into the water, hopped in, and pushed off with my paddle in what was the first stroke of my journey across Canada’s Arctic. To traverse it to reach the aspens my canoe would have to be broadside to the current, meaning I’d have to paddle twice as hard. To compensate for the current pushing me back I first headed some ways upstream, pointed my canoe farther yet upstream of where the aspens were, and then began paddling across, the current swirling around me, forming little whirlpools as I went. Fifteen minutes of hard paddling later, I’d landed on the opposite bank beneath the stand of aspens.

  A plump muskrat sat on the bank cheerfully chewing some willow shoots as I scrutinized the trees. About ten feet long, I figured, would be enough to reach bottom if I stayed close to shore, where the current was slacker. With my hatchet I chopped down my chos
en tree and then shaved off its branches, smoothing it down into a pole that could be easily wielded. The muskrat, meanwhile, finished his meal and plopped into the water with a splash, heading upstream in a steady dog paddle, or rather muskrat paddle, as if to show me the way.

  Steadying myself upright in the canoe, I began pushing against the river bottom with the pole, propelling myself along after the muskrat. Slow and steady wins the race, I told myself again. Another thrust, then another, each one flinging the canoe against the oncoming current, with me repeating the manoeuvre before the current could overcome the boat’s forward momentum. The muskrat, for his part, now seemed to think better of the exercise. He took a gulp of air, sank beneath the swirling waves, and passed under the canoe, emerging a short way downriver, letting the current carry him back to the willows. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him scramble up the muddy bank, give his coat a good shake, and then resume feasting on willows.

  I cast my eyes back upriver, in the direction I had to head. I couldn’t see very far. Towering grey banks a hundred feet high, like some kind of huge canal carved out by a giant long ago, curved around to the west, blocking the view. On top of these heights I could make out lines of little trees: spruces, tamaracks, and in a few places aspens. The skies were blue, with the sun beating down and glaring off the rippling waters.

  I kept on poling. I had to—otherwise I’d drift right back downriver—but it seemed to be working. At times I’d bend my knees and pivot my body, giving the canoe an extra strong thrust. In a few places, though, large rocks beneath the water blocked my path. Here, I’d have to cautiously thrust out farther from shore, into the deeper water where the current was much stronger, then rapidly pole myself back in, skirting the rocks.

  I poled my way into the enormous canyon known as the Lower Ramparts, which I’d seen from downriver. Pushing along, I soon fell into a rhythm. After the river rounded a sharp bend, the view opened up down a straighter stretch that extended for over twelve kilometres. It was a magnificent sight—no other great river in the world, not even the Amazon, is so free of human development and traffic as the Mackenzie still is. No buildings, radio towers, transmission lines, cottages, pipelines, or any other human-made objects appeared to litter the view. Just high grey cliffs crowned with rich, dark green forest, beyond which were rolling hills extending for hundreds of miles in either direction.

  Poling wasn’t my only strategy for overcoming the river’s powerful current. Some six hours into my upriver battle, I found the chance I’d been waiting for to implement another tactic. The wind had shifted; it was blowing from the northwest now, just what I needed to try out my second trick—a specially designed sail shaped like an umbrella that could be sprung open to catch the wind and just as quickly collapsed when the wind shifted or died.

  If I could successfully harness the power of the wind, it’d be a nice help. But sailing a heavily laden canoe upriver on a wilderness expedition is easier said than done. Canoes aren’t designed to be sailed. Not only are they light, shallow vessels without much means of rigging up a decent mast, but any such mast becomes a liability on portages, in rapids, or if you have to suddenly change direction, as happens a lot when going up a winding river. On an expedition, when time is critical and shifting quickly from one mode of travel to another is essential, a mast becomes a potentially dangerous thing to fiddle with. Which brings me to the secret of my sail’s design: it didn’t require a mast. It could simply be flown like a kind of kite, with one end secured firmly to the canoe’s centre thwart and the other end tied with a string toward the back of the canoe.

  Just now the wind seemed favourable. So with a tinge of excitement and trepidation I set aside my pole and gave a pull on the slipknots holding the little sail I’d reefed to the canoe’s thwart. In an instant the tightly coiled sail sprang out and caught the wind. I felt a sudden tug—it was pulling me upriver! I could hardly believe it: the canoe and I were shooting straight up the current. Hurriedly I tied a shoelace from the sail to my canoe seat, securing it so that my hands might remain free. Then I snatched up my paddle and used it as a rudder to steer. In that moment I felt what all sailors must feel when they first learn to harness the wind—an exhilaration that’s half revelation, half jubilation at the wind carrying you along.

  With the sail up, I steered with my paddle and added strokes of my own to further improve my pace. It felt marvellous to sail a canoe upriver. Alas, this triumph lasted only thirty minutes before the wind shifted again. The sail abruptly fluttered and then fell flat over the canoe. It was back to poling.

  On the bright side, the sun was shining, the temperature was hovering around nine degrees Celsius, and this early in the year there were still no blackflies and mosquitoes to torment all living mammals. Better yet, lots of birds were around to keep me company.

  Along the river’s banks hopped little shorebirds, mainly sandpipers, which glide gracefully over the water. Also on the banks, chirping away, were robins, which during the summer are indeed found north of the Arctic Circle. They’re one of the most widely travelled birds in North America, ranging from urban parks to northern tundra. As I was poling along I also spotted a stately looking bald eagle. Perched tall and proud on its spruce throne, high atop the banks, it seemed to survey the vast river lands that formed its domain with a touch of aristocratic disdain. Any fish, muskrat, baby beaver, arctic ground squirrel, duckling, or other small bird that attracted its fancy might furnish it a meal.

  But most intriguing of all were the great sandhill cranes stalking along the mud flats. These giant birds, standing three and a half feet tall and with a nearly seven-foot wingspan, are one of the eeriest birds in the North. Their sheer size, along with their thick grey plumage that almost looks like fur and the bright red bands around their eyes, as if they’re attending a costume ball, make them unmistakable. Their most peculiar characteristic, however, is their call. It’s a kind of nervous, rattling sound—something like a French horn mingled with a rusty gate opening and closing.

  The first time I ever saw one of these cranes was as a teenager. I’d been wandering in the wilderness with my best friend Wes for three weeks. One evening, while gathering firewood, I spotted a couple of these giant, spooky cranes near a clearing on the edge of a spruce bog. I had no idea what they were; to me they looked like a ghostly mirage. Back at our campsite I hesitated to even tell Wes I’d seen them, so bizarre did they appear, like a kind of Canadian emu. Maybe I’d been dreaming? In fact, sandhill cranes are not uncommon, and can be found across much of North America’s wild places, from the Gulf of Mexico, where they overwinter, all the way up to the Arctic coastline in summer. But in dark and gloomy subarctic forests, or on deserted tundra, there’s something peculiarly striking about these distinctive birds with their red masks and eerie calls. Poling up the Mackenzie that afternoon, I saw more sandhill cranes than I ever had before: a trio on a mud flat, a half-dozen more wading along the shores, and another nine or ten soaring over the river.

  That night I made camp along the river’s eastern bank on a patch of sand that promised to make for a comfortable night’s sleep. The Mackenzie was nearly three kilometres wide at this point, although its current seemed just as strong, with eddies, ripples, and driftwood swirling by. I’d put in only eight and half hours my first day, not having slept much the night before. Examining my maps, it seemed I’d made it about twenty kilometres upriver. This was fairly encouraging, and I was optimistic that in the days ahead, as I refined my methods and increased my hours, my daily distances would increase. Of course, much would depend on the wind.

  I gathered up some driftwood and fixed myself a nice cheering fire. With the driftwood crackling loudly, it wasn’t long before my kettle boiled, giving me enough water to make tea and cook a freeze-dried meal. From my packed rations I selected “Forever Young Mac and Cheese” from the brand Backpacker’s Pantry. I found it particularly savoury as I sat on a driftwood log and watched the great river rolling by, shorebirds soaring gracefull
y along it.

  Nearby on the mud flats were wolf tracks as well as some grizzly tracks. It was quite interesting to see how clearly their giant claws registered in the mud, unlike their much less vivid imprints on the Dempster. Some people think you should never camp in an area with signs of bears. Such people, I presume, wouldn’t find camping along the Mackenzie River very agreeable. Signs of grizzlies are nearly everywhere in springtime.

  Survival books tend to advise all kinds of precautions when camping in bear territory, such as never bringing food anywhere near your camp, or even toothpaste. A few even go so far as to advise not sleeping in the same clothes you cook in. And some, if you can believe it, will tell you never to camp alone. I’ve always taken this kind of advice with a grain of salt. My packed food was the kind that doesn’t give off much odour: a mix of dehydrated meals (rationed to one a day), and things that didn’t need preparation, like high-calorie energy bars, granola bars, and protein bars supplemented by some jerky and dried fruits. Since these dried foods were all in sealed packages inside watertight plastic barrels, there didn’t seem much likelihood of attracting bears. At night I’d move the food barrels just a short distance away from my tent. Unlike in heavily visited parks farther south or near towns, the bears in remote wilderness areas are much wilder, and much less accustomed to stealing camp food. On the other hand, wild bears are said to be more likely to attack humans. You can’t have everything, after all.

  Seeing how there was ample driftwood at hand, before turning in I did make a nice cheering fire on the beach. Most wild animals instinctively fear fire, and the scent of it is sometimes enough to keep bears away. Of course out on the tundra there wouldn’t be wood for a fire, and I’d likely sleep months without one. But that needn’t concern me now. So I slept peacefully under the midnight sun, listening to the river murmur and the robins sing.