Beyond the Trees

by Adam Shoalts

  After dining on freeze-dried shepherd’s pie, I crawled into the tent, rolled up my second pair of clothes for a pillow, and stretched out in my sleeping bag. It was a cooler night, three or four degrees above freezing. Strangely, as I’d been setting up my tent beneath the dead spruces—something I’d done hundreds of times before—a vague sense of unease had come over me. There hadn’t been any sign of grizzlies about, as far as I could tell, and so I tried to dispel the feeling by talking out loud. Yet as I drifted off to sleep, at some suppressed, almost unconscious level, that odd premonition remained.

  × 5 ×

  EASTWARD BOUND

  Around two-thirty a.m. I awoke to the sound of snapping branches. Something was out there, moving through the spruces. Rather than remain silent and still, as instinct might suggest, I yelled, “Hey, hey, hey!” in a deep voice. As I did I sprang from my sleeping bag, grabbed my knife and bear spray, and unzipped the tent’s door on the side nearest the noise. In the eerie twilight gloom of the arctic summer night, I saw through the dead spruces something moving—a huge grizzly thirty feet off.

  Then as my eyes focused I realized it wasn’t a grizzly but something else entirely: a massive, prehistoric-looking creature—an arctic muskox, with huge curved horns. The great muskox, weighing half a ton, glared at me. My goodness, I thought, I’d almost rather it was a grizzly.

  I dropped my bear spray and instead grabbed my bear banger. Hurriedly, with the muskox staring at me, I fired a banger into the air. It launched up like a firework, exploding with a bang above the trees. The muskox, startled by the bang, paused for a moment, still looking at me, then galloped off, smashing and crashing through the fallen spruces as if they were mere matchsticks.

  I waited until I could no longer hear the muskox anymore. Then I waited some more, casting glances every which way, trying to see through the ghostly grey spruces. Finally, when I’d convinced myself it was safe to do so, I climbed back into the tent and my sleeping bag. I’d met with muskox before—strange and eerie-looking beasts, a sort of arctic bison—but only in the far north of the High Arctic. Up there on the windswept, desolate snows of the arctic islands, owing to the harsh conditions the muskox were smaller. I’d found them to be mostly gentle giants that left me alone as I camped and paddled along. But here along the Mackenzie, the more hospitable climate allowed the muskox to grow much larger. The big bull that had stirred me from my sleep was the largest I’d ever seen.

  After a few more hours of uneasy sleep I was on my way. Leaving that spot among the bluffs, it was one campsite I’d be happy not to see again. Later that morning as I poled along I spotted another muskox half-hidden in some poplars; then, a few kilometres on, deposited on the mudbank was a muskox skull. My curiosity was such that I couldn’t help but stop to look at it. The enormous thing, horns and all, I estimated weighed fifty pounds! At the front of their skulls is a mass of hard bone, forming a kind of protective shield. The shield helps protect the males when they gallop and charge into each other, smashing their heads together with thunderous force. Such fierce contests are used to determine mating, sometimes inflicting severe and even fatal injuries on the losing muskox.

  * * *

  By midday on June 12 I’d reached the end point of my journey along the Mackenzie: a smaller tributary flowing in from the east known as the Hare Indian River. This little-known waterway would, I hoped, lead me eastward for several hundred kilometres—almost to the vast, icy waters of Great Bear Lake itself. It wasn’t, however, the obvious route into Great Bear from the Mackenzie. Looking at a map or satellite image, you’d almost immediately see that the obvious choice for getting from the Mackenzie River to Great Bear Lake is a larger river farther south—that’s the Bear River. It connects directly to the lake, and has in fact been used for centuries as a traditional travel route. In contrast, the river I planned to follow, the Hare Indian, doesn’t reach all the way to the lake, but instead terminates in a dead-end, which bars the way forward with miles of mosquito-infested swamps, tangled willows, and boulder fields. Why then—assuming I wasn’t crazy—would I go that way? Simple: in keeping with the spirit and intention of my journey, I wanted to stay as far north as I could, whereas the Bear River lies a further two hundred kilometres south. Besides, my curiosity naturally inclined me to the lesser known route, despite the difficulties.

  I was happy to bid goodbye to the Mackenzie not only because I was eager to push on with my journey, but also because I didn’t relish drinking silty, untreated water along it (I’d filled my water bottle from clear feeder streams whenever I chanced to camp near one). Given all the sediment that washes in along its great banks, the Mackenzie is a naturally muddy, silty river. But where it meets the clear waters of the Hare Indian River, an odd effect is produced. It looks something like water and vegetable oil being poured into a bowl together. An abrupt division between the two rivers’ waters is plainly visible, similar but on a smaller scale to the famous “meeting of the waters” in Brazil, where the coffee-coloured Amazon joins the dark waters of the Rio Negro.

  My progress up the Mackenzie had been better than expected, but I knew that could easily change if wind, ice, or any number of other factors turned against me. Still, before setting off up the Hare Indian, I planned to make a detour south on foot to Fort Good Hope, population about 500, where the two men I’d met in the motorboat had gone. It was the last inhabited place I’d see until reaching Baker Lake, Nunavut, still thousands of kilometres away across the immense wilderness forming the heart of northern North America. So the extra ten-kilometre hike seemed worth it, as I could pick up a few essentials, fresh batteries, boxers, and perhaps some yogurt…maybe even blueberry yogurt, should they have such a delicacy.

  I paddled across the mouth of the Hare Indian River (it was too deep for poling) to its southern bank, where it joined the Mackenzie. A couple of small motorboats lay pulled up on shore; behind them, a gravel path led into the woods. I secured my canoe and then set off on foot for town.

  Founded as a fur trade post back in 1805, Fort Good Hope was the scene of a famous clash in the 1970s over the proposed Mackenzie Valley pipeline. A consortium of oil companies sought to build what would have been the world’s largest natural gas pipeline running right through the valley. The local Dene communities, like Fort Good Hope, argued passionately against it on the grounds that it would destroy their traditional way of life by disrupting wildlife habitats, especially caribou. Facing tremendous local opposition, the federal government shelved the project.

  But times change, and a generation later, with the influence of the old traditionalists fading, the local Dene and Inuit groups now joined a consortium led by Imperial Oil, with a promise to receive one third of the profits from the mammoth pipeline. The approval process dragged on until, in 2010, the government finally gave the go-ahead. Construction was set to begin in the near future. Thus, as I’d poled my way up the mighty Mackenzie, I assumed, with an undeniably sad air, that I was bearing witness to the final days of the North’s greatest river in its natural state. But, in December 2017, Imperial Oil opted out, bowing to changing economic realities that had opened up more promising reserves elsewhere. Still, most observers were optimistic (if that’s the word) that the world’s insatiable demand for fossil fuels will eventually revive the pipeline.

  Despite its geographic remoteness, I found Fort Good Hope to be a thoroughly modern town: shiny new pickup trucks (brought in by ice roads) rumbled through the streets, while in a sign of the times people seemed to move about with eyes glued to their phones. (A giant transmission tower had been erected overlooking town to provide reception.) As I made my way down the main street, half a dozen planes suddenly roared across the skies performing aerobatic manoeuvres. They were there, I learned, as part of a touring Arctic air show that had been conceived as a Canada 150 project. Inside the store, I quickly picked up what I needed. Everyone I met was friendly, asking if I’d come for the air show. I explained about the yogurt and the boxers.


  As I was leaving town, I happened to spot one of the men from the motorboat I’d met days earlier along the Mackenzie.

  “You made it?!” he said, apparently shocked.

  “Yes,” I said. Now that there were no revving boat engines, conversation came easier. “You know,” he said, “it’s a lot easier to travel the Mackenzie the other direction?”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “You’re the first guy I’ve ever heard of to canoe upriver. Are you nuts?”

  I just laughed and shrugged. I wasn’t actually the first, but the fact that he thought so reinforced the oddness of it. He again offered me a place to stay, but I had to be on my way. It was all I could do, pressed for time as I was and a little shy after weeks alone, to decline offers of a hot shower or a lift to the airport to see the assortment of planes up close. So we parted, he for the airport and me for the river.

  My detour to Fort Good Hope had taken less than three hours. There was still plenty of light, but rather than face the uncertain prospect of paddling up a new river where decent camping places might be difficult to find, I decided to make camp where I’d left my canoe. I’d get an early start in the morning.

  It had been a cold, windy day with some light snow that later gave way to rain, followed overnight by more snow. Inside my little tent on the riverbank I was warm and snug, despite my sleeping bag having lost much of its warmth through regular use. But I wasn’t troubled, as whenever it was cold I always slept fully dressed. Normally, I didn’t even bother taking my jacket off. The great thing about this method, I find, is not only does it keep you warm, but you also lose no time getting dressed in the morning. You can just spring up and go.

  Occupying my thoughts that snowy night was what might await me on the Hare Indian River. The people I’d spoken to in town weren’t able to say much about the river beyond its first shallow rapids, as it wasn’t possible for motorboats to get beyond that, and their focus was naturally on the vast Mackenzie. However, in winter there was a seasonal ice-road that at one junction crossed the river, so trucks and snowmobiles could pass near that point when it was buried under ice, though that didn’t really apply much, given it was June. I hadn’t been able to locate any canoe reports on the river from the usual sources.

  The only canoe description I’d found of it, back in Sudbury while digging around in Laurentian University’s library, was in a canoe book issued by the federal government in the 1970s. This report, however, was of a rather nebulous character, especially when compared with the other northern rivers in the book. There are a few reasons why this river attracts little notice from canoeists. The giant Mackenzie River, stretching for thousands of kilometres, naturally monopolizes canoeing attention in its vicinity. And if someone is after the splendour of a more wild and majestic river with gorgeous scenery and exciting whitewater, the dozens of rivers draining down from the nearby Mackenzie Mountains are the obvious choice. For most of these waterways, as well as the Mackenzie itself, hundreds of trip reports are readily available. But not so for the river I was now to embark upon.

  * * *

  From the air, the river known as the Hare Indian seems to wind like a giant anaconda through the sparse subarctic forests west of Great Bear Lake, stretching over two hundred kilometres before emptying into the Mackenzie River just south of the Arctic Circle. It’s a much smaller river than the Mackenzie, measuring only about two hundred and fifty metres near its mouth, and this decreases the farther up it one ventures. Its waters I found swift and clear, but with a current even more powerful than the Mackenzie’s. Again, my plan entailed travelling upriver, paddling, poling, and wading through rapids against the current. I hoped it’d take me no more than two weeks—three if conditions were really bad—to struggle upriver and then hike overland to the coastline of Great Bear Lake, hopefully just in time for that mighty inland ocean’s ice melt.

  Despite the stronger current, in the river’s lower reaches I found my paddle could be used effectively by using a technique I’d experimented with previously when needing to paddle up rivers from Hudson Bay. This method consisted of capitalizing on the river’s undercut banks, which could be used as a springboard to push off from with my paddle while I remained seated in the canoe. A hard push off the undercut bank was then followed by several more strokes, and then another thrust off the bank, and so on repeating the manoeuvre, alternating between thrusts and paddle strokes while hugging the shoreline. This strategy allowed me to travel quite rapidly against even strong currents when conditions were right for it.

  A potential drawback did occur to me, though, as I was springing cheerfully along the banks with my paddle. Those same undercut banks are often thickly grown with willows—exactly the kind of willows that conceal anything lurking within them. A grizzly or a muskox could be three feet away and I’d never know it (which I found was occasionally the case). Battling upriver hugging the banks, should a muskox take a sudden fancy to charge out from its concealment, it would land right on my passing canoe. Or should a hidden grizzly reach out from a willow thicket to swipe its powerful paw at my head—well, I’d seen what that did to Betty’s steel-plated door. But I reasoned the odds of such a thing happening were quite minimal, so I tried not to let such thoughts trouble me too much as I paddled along, enjoying the plump little yellow warblers singing their songs along the banks.

  Beyond the willow thickets enclosing the river were black and white spruce, tamarack, poplars, and trembling aspens, hardy trees that can tolerate the extreme cold of these northern latitudes. In places where the banks didn’t lend themselves to my paddling method, I switched to poling. It was hard work; my muscles were feeling the ache and burn of continuous hours of non-stop poling, especially when forced to pole up rapids.

  Difficult as paddling and poling could be, a more serious challenge lay in navigating the river’s bigger rapids. This was a problem I’d largely avoided on the Mackenzie, which has few real rapids, and even those I could avoid by hugging the shorelines. But here, in sections of fast-moving water, that wasn’t an option. With hard effort I managed to pole up some of the shallower rapids, although driving a canoe through rapids while standing upright in it is always a precarious proposition. Deeper, more powerful rapids required getting out of the boat and hauling the canoe as I waded through the rushing water. For these I wore the neoprene hip waders Chuck had given me.

  Some sections weren’t too bad. I’d slosh along, dragging the canoe behind me with a rope. The river was clear, so I could at least see the rocky bottom and be sure of my footing. The exception was in the largest rapids, where the torrent of churning whitewater made it impossible to see where I was stepping. Here, I had to be extra cautious to avoid twisting an ankle or losing my footing and smashing my head on a rock. My careful plans, worked out in advance, had been very clear on the need to avoid smashing my head off rocks.

  The key was to read the water correctly—to make the right decision as to where to haul the canoe. I needed the weakest point in the racing waters, where it wasn’t too deep. Otherwise I’d lose my footing and be swept away. One stretch gave me particular trouble. The river cascaded around different gravel bars, causing swift rapids. I had to struggle to maintain my balance in the rushing water, holding on to the canoe’s bow to steady myself. I edged forward cautiously, barely lifting my feet off the river bottom; it was more like shuffling forward, trying to avoid being knocked over by the force of the water. Just a bit farther, I told myself, if I can just overcome this surging current, I’ll get there…But it was too deep: another step and the water would be over my hip waders. Reluctantly I retreated to shore.

  Fortunately, I’d packed in addition to the hip waders a separate pair of chest waders in the event of meeting with deeper stretches. The extra weight of having to pack two pairs of waders wasn’t ideal, but chest waders are very impractical to wear all the time. From past experience I’d found that smaller hip waders allowed for much greater agility, such as when needing to leap from rock to rock
or across fallen logs. So it was only with reluctance that I packed the ungainly chest waders as a kind of worst-case-scenario measure. Both sets were the kind worn with detached boots, so at least I didn’t need two pairs of those.

  On the bank I switched into the chest waders, then plunged back into the river, taking the canoe and retracing my steps into the deeper waters. I didn’t dwell too much on the particulars of the situation: standing nearly chest-deep in a swollen river with frigid water rushing past that just a few weeks earlier had been ice-covered, far from any help, hauling a heavily laden canoe behind me. I just put one foot in front of the other and kept going. That’s often the best approach, I find, when dragging canoes upriver.

  Lurking in the deep, weedy pools along the banks were northern pike. These stealthy hunters hover in calmer sections, waiting for smaller fish, or even unsuspecting ducklings, to happen along. Pike weren’t the only wildlife about. In one winding stretch of river, after I’d left the rapids behind and switched out of my chest waders, I caught sight of something small, dark, and furry moving on the opposite bank—a black bear cub.