by Adam Shoalts
My canoe had been designed to be extra strong and tough for me by Nova Craft Canoe. They’d manufactured its hull from a cutting-edge composite material made of basalt fibres, melted down from basalt rock, and Innegra, a flexible polypropylene fibre. The two materials were then woven together and infused with a high-impact, waterproof resin. The result was an ultra-strong canoe sturdy enough to withstand all kinds of abuse from rocks and ice that would puncture and destroy a traditional canoe.
They’d demonstrated this to me when I visited their factory in London, Ontario, by showing me a video of the canoe prototype being pounded repeatedly with sledgehammers and emerging unharmed. Then, for good measure, they’d thrown the canoe off the roof of a six-storey building to the asphalt parking lot below. My own early experiences with canoe construction had been somewhat more traditional. My father and I had built canoes from cedar and birchbark sewn together with spruce roots, along with other materials found in the woods surrounding our home. I had a great fondness for those traditional canoes, but they weren’t designed to withstand constant gouging by rocks and ice (or being tossed off buildings).
Yet, as remarkably strong as Nova Craft’s canoe was, I noticed with some alarm that the rocks were beginning to tell on it. The frequent pounding and grinding it had undergone as I’d hauled it upriver had begun to wear away some of the fabric. There were no leaks yet, but if the canoe punctured, I’d be in serious trouble. I could improvise a field repair to keep me afloat, but any patch I devised wouldn’t be remotely strong enough to withstand the thousands of kilometres of harsh terrain that still lay ahead of me. It’d require delicate handling and daily repair—things that were simply impossible given the difficulties of the route and the time constraints imposed by the arctic seasons.
Thus, after a kilometre of dragging the heavily-loaded canoe over the rocks, and listening with some consternation to the sound of it scraping against them like nails on a chalkboard, I decided I hadn’t any choice but to go back to portaging. There wasn’t any sign of the stream deepening, and I didn’t want to risk puncturing my boat with further dragging.
I’d come to a vast, open rocky plain stretching off into the distance. It was a strange, barren sight, devoid of plant life aside from a little moss and some scattered clumps of sedges and dwarf willows. This rocky plain, it seemed, was an old riverbed that had drained into Great Bear Lake; all that was left of it now was the tiny stream. The stream, from what I could see, wound around it—meaning I could cut across the rocks on a diagonal, meeting up with the stream on the far side.
The better part of the day was taken up with this wearisome portage. The stream on the far side was just deep enough to paddle, and there I reloaded the canoe. Alas, it was but a short paddle before it narrowed too much to squeeze through amid willows and high banks. I once more had to empty the canoe, carry my gear ahead, then delicately turn the canoe on its side, squeezing it through the narrow creek that was in places only a foot wide, though surprisingly deep. Eventually, the creek widened out into a waterway I could paddle.
By evening I could see ahead of me something in sharp contrast to the demoralizing swamps I’d been passing through: high sand dunes, with arctic terns and gulls soaring above them. I paddled on with anticipation, realizing that Great Bear Lake must be near at hand. The temperature had dropped considerably in the face of an icy wind that was no doubt blowing across hundreds of miles of Great Bear’s frigid, arctic waters.
With gloved hands I paddled on, passing by sand dunes until a surreal sight suddenly revealed itself to me—like an ocean, the vast, seemingly limitless expanse of Great Bear stretching beyond the horizon. I’d reached it at last.
× 7 ×
ACROSS AN INLAND SEA
I beached my canoe on shore, then cut across the white sand, passing clumps of dune grasses until coming up a slight sand ridge. From the ridge I saw the immense, ocean-like extent of the world’s eighth largest lake: Great Bear. My route now lay across it.
A huge, towering iceberg loomed up out of the water in the shape of a pyramid. Beyond it, farther out across the vast, cold waters, I could make out several more bergs. Their white sides were tinted blue, and from a distance they almost looked like the sails of ships. Grey skies stretched away to the horizon while a cold arctic wind swept across the lake, whipping up surf along the beach. The beach extended as far as I could see up the coast in either direction, miles upon miles of fine white sand that made it look like Nova Scotia—aside from the fresh grizzly tracks I’d stepped over to reach the ridge.
The icebergs were somewhat unexpected, since they’re normally associated with saltwater, not inland lakes. In the ocean, they form when chunks of ice break off from glaciers or an ice shelf of the sort seen in Greenland and Antarctica. Examining the nearest berg from the sand ridge, I concluded it most likely formed as a result of the surf piling up drifting pieces of ice one on top of another. Once they’d piled up out of the water they’d partly melted to form the solid, twenty-foot-high pyramid I now saw.
The Arctic Circle cuts across Great Bear’s deep, clear waters, making it by far the largest lake in the world’s arctic regions. It covers an immense area, some 31,153 square kilometres: that’s much bigger than Lake Erie or Lake Ontario. And at nearly half a kilometre down, it’s deeper than all the Great Lakes, even Superior. Such profound depths combined with its northern latitude keep Great Bear’s waters frigid even in midsummer, when the water temperature hovers just a few degrees above freezing.
But what really makes Great Bear unique isn’t its size, depth, or northern latitude, but its wildness. Of all the world’s giant lakes, Great Bear is the one least touched by humans. Africa’s Lake Victoria’s watershed is home to over thirty million people; North America’s five Great Lakes have along their shores such sprawling cities as Chicago, Milwaukee, Cleveland, and Toronto. Siberia’s Lake Baikal, remote and isolated as it seems, now has some two and a half million people residing in its basin. Great Bear Lake’s vast watershed, meanwhile, boasts one tiny settlement that could fit into a single high school gymnasium.
These facts I knew beforehand, but standing alone on the lake’s desolate shores, staring off at distant icebergs in a place that felt so wild and remote, stirred in me feelings of awe and wonder at Great Bear’s grandeur that no facts could ever capture. Now more than ever, I could feel the solitude of my journey.
I was excited and eager to begin paddling, but I concluded that conditions ruled out setting off until the wind died down a bit. I made camp near where the nameless creek I’d followed emptied into the lake. Beyond the beaches was mostly windswept tundra dotted by clumps of low-lying willow bushes and occasional clusters of black spruce. The cold wind had thankfully dispersed the clouds of bugs. I set up my tent just beyond the beach on a level patch of sand, bearberries, and lichens, where there was plenty of driftwood for a fire.
The fresh grizzly tracks made me a little wary, so I kept an eye out as I boiled water for some tea and a freeze-dried meal. Since my waders were still wet from the swamps I hung them to dry on a small though ancient spruce. With the nearness of the lake the temperature had dipped considerably, and now I wore my heavier waterproof jacket, fleece sweater, thermal base layer, and gloves.
With a steaming cup of tea in my hands, I stared across the water at the horizon. In a straight line it was nearly three hundred kilometres across that vast expanse of open water to where I needed to get to: a small river on Great Bear’s eastern shore. But there was no way to paddle straight across the lake in my canoe—not if I wanted to live, anyway.
Instead, my plan was to hug Great Bear’s north shore, following it all the way across the lake. Given the heavily indented nature of the rugged coastline, with its array of bays, inlets, peninsulas, and islands, the actual distance would be much longer. If I played it safe and never risked any big open-water crossings, the total distance would increase to approximately 443 kilometres. How long that would take was impossible to say, depending as it d
id on wind and ice—maybe two weeks, maybe three. If the wind was bad, paddling would be impossible.
Lying inside my tent that cold night, listening to the waves lap against the shore, my mind ran through different scenarios, though mainly that pounding surf and fierce waves would make paddling fraught with danger, capsizing my canoe in the icy, storm-tossed waters. I envisioned shivering with hypothermia as the waves swept over my head and I struggled in vain to reach the shore before sinking into the depths. But, like with anything, at times you just have to set aside negative thoughts. Whether it’s a case of a rough day at the office or the jobsite, getting stressed out about an exam, confronting a difficult boss or client, or crossing Great Bear Lake, sometimes you just have to tell yourself, “Everything will be fine. An icy wave isn’t going to flood my canoe.” That’s the power of positive thinking—it really does make all the difference.
* * *
A storm gathered over the lake in the night. Thunder bursts and rain pattering off the tent kept me from sleeping too soundly—although actually, I didn’t wish to sleep too soundly. Up until now my days had followed a set pattern: rise early, set off, travel all day, make camp, sleep. Then do it all over again. But now the lake would determine my schedule. If it was too rough to paddle, I’d sleep. Otherwise I had to be prepared to set off whenever conditions allowed: whether it was night or day made no difference. Thus I didn’t want to risk missing a calm spell by falling into a deep sleep (which probably isn’t wise anyway when grizzlies are nearby). What made this strategy possible was the fact that I was in the land of the midnight sun. I hadn’t seen a star in a month. Continuous daylight meant I could paddle all night if need be, while sleeping during the day if the wind was bad.
The storm blew itself out shortly after three a.m. A dead calm, eerie in its near perfect stillness, settled over the lake. I’d slept only three hours, but by three-twenty I was up and by three-fifty-five I was paddling hard over Great Bear’s icy waters in my little fifteen-foot canoe. I followed the shore, hoping to make the most of the calm conditions.
The water was clear as crystal; despite overcast skies, in places I could see thirty or more feet down. The lake’s cold, oxygen-rich waters breed monstrous lake trout that can live for decades and grow to fantastic sizes. The biggest ones reach in excess of four feet and weigh over a hundred pounds. Lean as I was from a month of rations and hard travel, my mouth practically watered at the thought—but I wasn’t here to fish. I had to keep paddling.
I passed landscapes of varying description: white sand beaches, rocky coastlines, stunted spruce forests, and open tundra that looked almost park-like given the natural short vegetation. In places the fierce winds had sculpted the dwarf spruces, bending them low and leaning them away from the lake. Along the northern shores of Newfoundland, one sees these kinds of gnarled, twisted spruces where they’ve been shaped by the Atlantic gales and where they’re known as “tuckamores.” Such tuckamore trees testify not only to the power of the wind but also to the resiliency and adaptability of tough northern conifers.
My route took me north up the lake’s western coastline. Once I’d reached the north shore, I would turn east. The skies remained overcast and grey as I paddled, with rain falling intermittently. Twice rainbows formed across the water. The sight of them felt almost bewitching, given the sudden infusion of vivid colours over grey skies and dark waters combining with the isolation of the place, its utter vastness, and the all-encompassing solitude.
Five hours of paddling without a break brought me to the extreme northwest corner of Great Bear Lake’s Smith Arm, one of the five great arms, or gigantic bays, that give Great Bear its distinctive shape. This is the loneliest of all lonely corners of the lake. It had an almost indescribable feel to it—well not physically, I can describe that no problem: it was wet and cold. But spiritually it had a kind of magic to it—a place seldom visited by humans, where the rocks seem as old as time, so old as to be almost beyond human conception. Drifting on the still, clear water, I breathed in the solitude, the beauty of dark spruces, and quiet hills—finding it all refreshingly peaceful, especially after the swamps.
Rounding this wild bay marking Great Bear’s extreme northwest corner, I crossed over to the lake’s north shore, leaving behind the western end of Smith Arm. I paddled on for another fifteen kilometres before abruptly stopping. What brought me to a halt wasn’t the return of the wind or waves, or even my own exhaustion. It was ice, and lots of it.
Ice floes of varying thickness, some thin and clear, others still thick and snowy, formed a pack extending from the shore far out into the lake, blocking the way forward. It looked like there was open water beyond the ice, deeper out in the lake, but I knew that at such distances appearances can be deceiving, and that what I thought was open water might only be more ice.
Half a kilometre on, a headland jutted out into the lake, blocking the view farther along the shore I’d been following. Pack ice clustered all around it—but whether the far side of the headland was more ice or open water I didn’t know. To risk paddling far offshore in the hopes of evading the ice, and then gambling that there wouldn’t be more pack ice on the far side, was too dicey. If I ventured out there in my canoe only to discover the passage blocked, and the wind or the waves picked up while I was far offshore along the ice—I’d be trapped, and could be swept out by the shifting ice into the heart of the lake.
With my route blocked, I made camp on shore near the start of the ice floes. There was no way forward until either the ice melted or the wind shifted and blew it farther into the lake. Normally Great Bear’s ice is nearly all gone by late June or early July. In planning my route I’d had to calculate on reaching Great Bear at just the right time—not too soon, when it was still iced up, and not too late either. It wasn’t easy to forecast when the ice would melt and how long it would take me to arrive at Great Bear, given the number of variables involved, but it seemed I’d reached the lake at more or less the opportune time. I was optimistic that this would be only a short delay.
I made camp on a small beach with plentiful driftwood washed up on it. Beyond the beach were spruce and willow swamps. The willow swamps, given the sandy beach in front, looked almost like the kind of mangrove swamps found along tropical beaches, at least if you ignored the ice floes. I calculated that I’d covered about forty-one kilometres from where I’d reached Great Bear. Not too bad, I figured, on only three hours’ sleep. After a dinner of freeze-dried lasagna I lay in my tent, falling asleep to the peaceful sounds of squawking shorebirds and grinding, shattering ice.
* * *
By two-thirty a.m. I was awake and rolling up my sleeping bag, packing the spare clothes that formed my pillow, and my other gear. I ate a couple of energy bars, and took down my tent and packed it in a waterproof bag. Then I flipped the canoe over and carried it back down the beach to the water’s edge, packing the two barrels, backpack, and other miscellaneous items carefully. By three-fifteen I was on my way.
The ice had dissipated somewhat, leaving more open water between the hundreds of floes. Under bluish-grey skies the lake felt unnaturally calm—and with thin vapours rising over the ice where the warmer air met the colder water, it looked almost like a painting. Without wind, the temperatures had edged up somewhat, allowing a cloud of mosquitoes to buzz around me while I paddled among the floes. I weaved through them without too much trouble.
The floes ranged in size from less than a metre across to as much as seven or eight. In certain places, it was necessary to break up some thin or slushy ice to force a passage through; in other places, where thicker floes were in the way, I’d push off from them with my paddle to add some momentum.
Once through this initial pack ice close to shore, I found that the ice ahead formed a continuous field spreading over hundreds of acres. Fortunately, though, it was mostly melted, and was rather slushy as it half-sank into the water. I could break a passage through it with my paddle; jabbing away at the ice, ramming into it with the bow, an
d then pushing on through. It was slow, but it was progress. Beyond this thin ice the lake opened again, with bigger, more solid ice floes drifting about. They looked thick enough to stand on, though it seemed unwise to do so.
To avoid more ice and round the headland that had prevented me seeing up the coast, it was necessary to paddle farther offshore. Once I’d passed the headland, I saw more ice lay ahead. For some distance I managed to snake between it, and in some stretches avoid it entirely, but after only about five kilometres it became too thick to proceed. I’d arrived at a deep bay, off which a great peninsula extended diagonally out into the lake.
Massed along the approaches to this peninsula were icefields that stretched far offshore. From the stern of my canoe I scanned for any passage through, but couldn’t make any out. The ice, however, from the distance I was at, seemed weak enough that I might be able to batter a passage through it. It was a delicate matter though, as I had to balance not wishing to puncture my canoe with the necessary brute force to clear a passage. I was also acutely aware that if I were to sink out here in frigid water, far from shore, there was a good chance hypothermia would claim me before I could reach dry land. Still, aided by my lifejacket, which I always wore (I’m cautious like that), I figured I could just about manage the swim in time before my limbs seized up.
Amid the pack ice I noticed a narrow, maze-like channel. I headed for it in the canoe, but a bit of thin ice barred the way to it. As I neared the thinner ice, I spun the canoe around so that the stern, where I was seated, faced it. That way I could jab at the weak ice with my paddle, breaking open the passage. Then I spun back to edge the bow into the opening.