Beyond the Trees

by Adam Shoalts

  Still, I was as content as could be, admiring the beauty and solitude of this rock-filled landscape. It was a little surreal how, nine or ten thousand years ago, the glaciers had arranged the great boulders in their present position. Nearby, one giant rock had come to rest precariously on top of another, a bit like a giant booby trap. In the crevice of another rock I found a spider’s web. This interested me greatly, as spiders reach their northern distribution in the southern Arctic, where they can tolerate the extreme cold and feed on the abundant bugs during brief summers. I hadn’t seen many of them on my journey. I find patterns in nature—like a spider’s intricate web or the colossal heaps of rubble left by a melting glacier thousands of years ago, or the ancient cliffs weathered and shaped by the elements for eons into resembling masonry—can keep a person engrossed for hours.

  * * *

  I retrieved my canoe early the next morning and completed the portage in good time. The rain had subsided, but it remained cold and windy. Reaching Courageous Lake, I’d crossed another watershed divide, though not the coveted Hudson Bay one that I was after. Hard paddling battling side winds took me south through Courageous Lake, where I passed a giant sand peninsula before coming to the lake’s big eastern bay. The scenery was gorgeous, with sandy beaches, dunes, and rolling grassy fields. Once I’d rounded the giant peninsula, the wind was in my favour and I could travel much faster, weaving between islands.

  Tucked in a sandy bay I spotted some ruins. It was an abandoned fly-in fishing lodge consisting of little plywood cabins. There are a few of these scattered across the North; back in the 1990s, sport fishing was a bigger draw, and it was possible for quite a few of these remote camps to operate. There are still some in business, but this one had clearly been left to rot away. All of these lakes, I knew well, were home to delicious lake trout and other cold-water species that can survive in their icy, nutrient-poor depths.

  As I completed my crossing of the lake I noticed a few other signs of humans. Appearing as tiny specks on the horizon I made out some radio towers; these, I knew, were associated with mining operations in the area. Indeed, I saw in the far distance inland across the tundra some sort of mining encampment—a few little cabins or something. In a land of rocks, willows, tundra, and lakes that seemed to go on forever, the sight of these objects felt very bizarre, like looking at something that belonged in another world. Approximately sixty kilometres northeast of me were major open-pit mining operations for diamonds. Those massive mines functioned as off-the-grid operations, supplied by aircraft and resembling a sort of lunar colony.

  That night I slept on a wonderful bit of mossy tundra, luxuriously comfortable despite the sandflies that showed up to disturb my peace. But inside my tent I was happy. I could see a full moon rising over the pale sky—there were now a few hours of partial darkness each night. The season was getting on. As I drifted off to sleep, the words winter is coming were at the back of my mind.

  × 16 ×

  OF WIND AND WAVES

  Mid-August was supposed to be the date after which the winds became increasingly unmanageable for canoeing on the arctic tundra. It was now August 8, so I figured I had only a week of decent weather left. I had to make the most of it, especially now that the biggest lakes I’d seen since Great Bear lay in front of me. It was thus discouraging to awake to high winds that morning, which promised to make paddling extremely difficult. Under ordinary circumstances, it was the kind of wind that would prompt a day off to rest, but that was no longer an option for me.

  Fierce as the wind was, I had to push on. After all, I told myself, if I can’t handle this wind, what chance would I have in another couple of weeks when it got really bad?

  Eleven hours of hard, exhausting paddling saw me advance only thirty kilometres. The wind had constantly been hitting the canoe broadside, so that the majority of my strokes were merely to keep the canoe from crashing into shore rather than propelling it forward. I passed rapidly down a small river, known as the Snake River, the first river I’d paddled on with the current for almost three weeks, since the Kendall River. It was a short river with some small rapids and ledges that were easily navigated; the only difficulty arising from the powerful wind gusts that I had to counteract by paddling while simultaneously zigzagging around rocks. The Snake River spit me out into a large body of water known as MacKay Lake. In rough weather, if I had to trace out its shoreline to where I needed to get to, that’d total a sixty-six-kilometre paddle. But I hoped for a calm spell that would allow me to make a large open-water crossing, “island-hopping” across the centre of the lake, and thereby greatly reducing the distance to its northeast tip, where I needed to end up.

  I camped on the lake’s western shore, my little tent and canoe looking very lonesome against a backdrop of miles of grassy tundra with hardly a feature on it other than some small hills. The tundra here was almost entirely devoid of rocks, resembling more of an overgrown soccer field.

  The wind stayed cold and strong—I had to use my canoe and two barrels as a windbreak just to boil water over the camp stove. As I waited for it to boil, I took the opportunity to eat as many cloudberries, crowberries, lingonberries, and blueberries as I could.

  While searching out these berries I’d made an unexpected find: a clump of thick white fur lying on the tundra. At first it looked uncomfortably like polar bear fur. But I was still too far inland for polar bears, which stay near the seacoast hunting seals. So I told myself it couldn’t be from a bear. It seemed more likely to be the fur of an arctic wolf or even arctic fox, though I favoured a wolf as it felt too coarse for a fox, and anyway a fox would still have its grey summer coat at this time of year.

  After dinner I bundled up to stay warm and crawled into my tent. The full moon rose over the lake with a pale orange glow against a purple sky. The nights were growing almost dark now.

  My gear was starting to feel the effects of continuous use and the elements. The tent was patched in a few places with duct tape and its main support pole had stripped where it attached at the joint, due to the pressure of the winds. My canoe was a more serious concern; the gouges were really accumulating and getting deeper from all the grinding over endless rocky rapids. Both my paddles were chipped up along their blades from jabbing at rocks. My legs were pretty bruised up too, from wading and bumping into rocks in the rapids.

  I fell asleep, wondering what the dawn would bring. If I were to cross the lake’s big open water, I’d need fair weather.

  * * *

  The morning of August 9 broke in my favour: the skies were clear and the lake calm, with just a pleasant breeze. I was determined to take full advantage of the conditions. In the high winds and dangerous waves, I’d never risk crossing the lake. But in this calm weather it was no problem. I cut across a two-kilometre open stretch to some grassy islands, followed along this archipelago for some way, then made another two-kilometre crossing to a big point. And from there another open-water crossing to the lake’s end that I needed to reach.

  Among those islands I saw mergansers swimming in the water and on the rocky shore a great bald eagle looking regal and majestic. There were also some rocks.

  Living outdoors, you quickly become attuned to the weather in a way indoor life makes impossible. Every change, no matter how slight, in the weather’s mood demands attention, and you begin to realize just how variable weather can be. Every shift in the wind, which it did frequently, would directly affect my travelling, like which side of a lake to follow or which side of my canoe to paddle on. And these changing moods of the weather increasingly influenced my own—high winds demoralized me, cold weather made me forlorn, and clear skies and calm conditions left me carefree.

  I made camp early that evening, selecting a site near deep water along a small beach. This was to be the site of my third and final resupply. A resupply by necessity caused me to lose a precious day, as it would take that long to arrange things and wait for a pilot. It was a shame to lose the time, but to press on any farther would dri
ve up the cost of the resupply flight, as the pilots charged by the kilometre for how far they flew; and with the increasing winds, the likelihood of delayed flights was increasing. Besides, my rations wouldn’t last the more than thousand kilometres of travel that still lay ahead. How long that would take to traverse was difficult to forecast, considering how heavily it depended on weather—on a calm day I might make a hundred kilometres; on a windy day, zero.

  I knew of a pair of paddlers who, almost twenty years earlier, had completed the trip from here to Baker Lake in just thirty-three days. But there had been two of them paddling together, and only one of me—and they’d done it in mid-summer during the best wind conditions, not late in the season. They’d also taken exceptional risks to make such time: cutting across big lakes far from shore and running dangerous whitewater rapids. Still, I had the advantage of youth over them, and whereas they’d started cold after a floatplane dropped them off on the lake, my body was already conditioned from thousands of kilometres of journeying. If I could, on my own, equal the two of them together, even with the worst weather, that’d put me in Baker Lake to end my journey by September 15—late in the year for Arctic canoeing. If I couldn’t match their pace, or if the wind held me back further, I’d be looking at the onset of winter. These were the kinds of calculations I had to ponder as I sat on the tundra overlooking the water, trying to decide how much extra weight in the form of rations and propane fuel canisters to carry from here on out. It was a double-edged sword: more food would give me a larger cushion; more weight would slow my paddling and compound the many long, arduous portages around dangerous canyons I knew lay ahead of me.

  If my rations ran out, I couldn’t get more resupplies. My budget for flights was used up; and the farther I went, the more expensive any hypothetical flight would become. In terms of paddling speed, I probably couldn’t equal what the combined efforts of two paddlers could do together, but I could exceed them, I figured, in the length of the days I put in—more like the tortoise and hare than ever. Ultimately, I resolved on five weeks’ worth of supplies on the basis that I hoped to equal the two paddlers who had it done it in mid-summer; if I had to go a little hungry toward the end, I figured I could manage it.

  In the meantime, the weather just now was glorious, and since I was stuck waiting for the floatplane, I figured I’d go for a swim while it was still possible. Catching my reflection in the water, I realized how thin I’d become. I guessed I’d shed about twenty pounds since I’d started the journey.

  After a brief dip in the frigid water, I let the sun dry me as I sat on the tundra, watching bold little arctic ground squirrels scurrying about on the sand, chirping and standing up like prairie dogs to look around. That night I slept soundly on a nice bed of lichens.

  The next morning dawned with overcast skies. A thunderstorm rolled in over the lake but rolled out just as quickly, narrowly missing me. A tent pitched on flat tundra isn’t the most carefree place during lightning strikes, but I always selected my sites with care, away from high points or big rocks, in lower-lying areas wherever possible.

  The resupply flight was delayed (they always seem to be) and it wasn’t until late afternoon through a cloud patch that I saw the small plane materialize. The pilot circled round, spotted my tent and overturned canoe, then skidded down across the water. It wasn’t possible for the plane to come in toward shore, due to some rocks that extended far out. So I had to paddle out to the plane to get my supplies.

  This was a different pilot from the one who’d resupplied me back on the Coppermine almost three weeks earlier. Things went quickly. He stood on the plane’s aluminum float and handed me my barrel; I sorted through it, then gave it back to him empty. He wished me well, made an encouraging comment about the gale-force winds coming in the weeks ahead and how he sure was glad he wouldn’t be out here during that time, then revved his engine back to life, wished me well again, and departed for the long flight back.

  His was the last face I’d see for a while.

  It was only four p.m., so I decided to press on. I’d already lost a full day’s worth of travel waiting for the resupply since reaching the end of MacKay Lake, and I couldn’t afford to waste a minute more. The winds were light, so I set off.

  Draining MacKay Lake is the Lockhart River, a short river but one with serious whitewater, the kind you wouldn’t want to make the slightest mistake in. I was paddling with the current, and would be for the remainder of my journey. That meant much faster travel, but also the need for caution around dangerous rapids.

  The first rapid I came to was a big roaring affair, more than a half-kilometre long, where the river descended steeply through a narrow stretch. It was the kind of thing I might possibly have run on a warm summer’s day in a less remote locale with an empty canoe. Here, alone, on the arctic tundra, any mistake could be fatal. The safe option would be to portage. But that would be time-consuming and exhausting. As an alternative, I could try to wade down the edge of it, hopping from rock to rock, and guide my canoe down with ropes, keeping it safely out of the big waves in the centre.

  For months I’d become accustomed to wading up rapids, so it felt a little strange to now be wading down them. This wasn’t actually any easier, as going downstream the canoe is more difficult to control when lining or wading, and like with upstream travel, the force of the roaring current is always threatening to tear the canoe away. I had to combine caution and force to get it through safely. Sometimes this meant letting out the rope and allowing the canoe to drift ahead on the current and around the rocks, where I could then catch up to it.

  Once through the rapids I resumed paddling, pushing on for a few more hours before making camp on a high bank. That night I had to say a solemn goodbye to an old friend: my pole. It had been with me since early on, back on the Mackenzie River. Shaped by a beaver from balsam poplar, it had served me well—never breaking, and helping me get up rapids beyond counting. I was sad to part with it—much like the feeling one gets with losing a walking stick you’ve come to know. But from here on out all my travel would be downstream, across lakes or on foot, and in those scenarios the pole could be of no further use. And where I was headed every extra ounce mattered. So I turned it over one last time in my hands, said goodbye, and set it gently down among some willows.

  * * *

  I crawled out of my tent the next morning to find the wind gusting fiercely across the land. The little knee-high willows shook with each burst, and ripples appeared along the river’s surface where the powerful gusts raced across—like a kind of ghost imprint, as I could see the outline of the air current as it moved rapidly over the water.

  It wasn’t exactly good weather for paddling. But I had the current in my favour and I had to press on. So I pulled on my hat. The wind knocked it off into the willows. I fetched it back and decided I’d go hatless for the day.

  With the canoe loaded, I set off paddling downriver. It should have been easy but it was anything but. The howling gusts made steering the canoe difficult; they knocked and jostled it about, at times even overwhelming both the current and my paddle strokes to drive the canoe into the banks. Trying to steer through small rapids and avoid rocks with such tremendous gusts proved frustratingly difficult. The canoe felt as though it were under someone else’s control, careening wildly across the river wherever the crazy gusts took it. It was all I could do, battling with all my strength against both current and wind, to avoid smashing it into the rocks in the rapids.

  I tried to escape the brunt of the gusts by tucking in under the high banks whenever I could. It wasn’t much help, but it did at least allow me to continue working my way downriver. After about thirteen kilometres of difficult paddling, I spotted something up ahead that made my heart beat faster. Thin curls of mist rose, and over the roar of the wind I could hear a distinct crashing sound of falling water.

  The far side of the river looked better for approaching this hazard, so I waited for a break in the gusts and then paddled with all my stre
ngth for the far shore. When I reached it, I had a clearer view of what lay downriver: it looked like a vertical drop. I’d have to approach it very carefully. If the wind or the current caught me I might reach a point of no return and plunge right over it—which isn’t half as fun as it sounds.

  The gusts were too steady and too fierce for me to proceed by water, so instead I took the canoe by the bow rope and splashed ahead on foot, towing it behind me until the stream carried it past me. Then I followed behind it. In the far distance ran great blue ridges; nearer toward me were hills partially covered in dwarf birch. It was a very windswept, empty-looking place. As I cautiously edged along the shore, I saw where the river appeared to vanish into thin air, the whitewater splashing up before it tumbled out of view.

  I hauled my canoe onshore and secured it so that I could go ahead on foot. I can’t recommend enough the need to haul the canoe fully onto the land when doing anything like this. If I’d merely pulled the bow only partway up on some rocks and left it there, disaster could follow if the gusting wind dislodged it and swept it over the falls. I hiked ahead along the curving course of the river, climbing up a steep, high ridge that overlooked it. The winds were fierce as I ascended, and I made sure to keep away from the edge.

  Once I reached the top I had a good view of the river’s turbulent, roaring course over the rocks. There were two big, foaming cataracts separated by a rocky island, with large rapids above each one. Clearly, I wasn’t going to be able to navigate that. A portage was necessary, which, from what I could see, was going to be a long, drawn-out effort. I’d have to haul each of my loads and the canoe a long way to get around the rapids, and then to get back to the water’s edge would require a steep climb.