Beyond the Trees
Page 29
I was headed home—wherever that might be. Ideally, I thought to myself, near a lake somewhere, with some forest, and birds, and wild animals.
AFTERWORD
Nowhere makes you feel as small and insignificant as wandering alone across ancient lava flows that were already a billion years old before the first dinosaurs ever walked the earth. Nowhere makes you feel so alive as on a pristine lake, the spray of cold water in your face and an impossible horizon to be reached with your paddle strokes. Nowhere I know conjures up so much enchantment and wonder as an ancient forest, with fragrant spruces and tamaracks, birdsong, and wolves that look you in the eye. There’s a kind of magic to these wild places; the kind of thing that can’t be captured in words.
It’s a magic that’s becoming rarer in our fast-developing world, which pushes back the wild a little more, year by year, including here in Canada. But it’s still there, if you trouble yourself to look for it—you don’t necessarily have to wander for months alone in the wild to find it. Look at that great old tree, that field, that bird, that squirrel, and you might just catch a glimpse of it.
I think everyone can benefit by becoming a little more attuned to wild places—even if it’s just for a day, or merely an hour to “unplug.” I’m asked how I deal with the stress of my journeys, but in reality that’s easy. What’s hard is dealing with the stress of a modern, hyper-connected world—traffic, emails, texts, social media, 24/7 connectivity, paperwork, asphalt, concrete, noise. That’s stressful. But there’s a tonic to it—take a stroll in a nature park, or sit and watch some birds, or if you really want, try plowing a canoe through ice. If you let it, it will work its magic on you: that’s the beauty and charm of nature. It can help us de-stress, rejuvenate, and reawaken our sense of awe.
But that’s also why it’s crucial we find ways to preserve and restore wild places in Canada and beyond—from the vast areas of the North, to the very fringes of our sprawling cities and even within them, to the countryside and small towns, and everywhere in between. When we lose these things, we lose something of irreplaceable value and something indispensable to our physical and mental well-being; we lose the biodiversity of the planet—the magic of our world.
The solutions to prevent that are pretty much known, it’s just a matter of will. And the first part of that is to care enough to want to change things. If this book helps anyone care a little more, or to look upon wild nature with fresh eyes, my journey will have achieved its purpose.
At the airport bright and early on May 13, ready to fly to the Yukon.
Photo Credit: Aleksia Wiatr.
Hiking through the Richardson Mountains at the start of my journey.
Courtesy Alone Across the Arctic, photo by Martin Wojtunik.
“It wasn’t long into my lonely trek before I came across tracks of an unsettling size, sunk deep into the gravel roadway.”
A grizzly I crossed paths with while hiking along the Dempster.
Poling up the Mackenzie River under grey skies.
A trio of Sandhill cranes with their distinctive red-bands around their eyes, along the Mackenzie’s sand banks.
It can be somewhat unsettling to find a muskox staring you down outside your tent at night.
“One beautiful arctic wolf, his white coat streaked with black and grey, was particularly curious about me. He was a big, lanky animal, and followed me along the riverbank for over a kilometre as I paddled along.”
Hauling and pushing the canoe through the first of many logjams on the upper reaches of the Hare Indian River.
Camping on the windswept coast of the world’s eighth largest lake, Great Bear.
My route appears to be blocked by ice.
Trying to break a passage through the ice.
After several days stuck in the ice, a dream-like rainbow formed across the ice labyrinth, giving me hope that I might make it through.
Using my pole to force my canoe across more ice.
July 6, 2017, my camp along Great Bear’s north shore, where only a few stunted, hardy spruces and willows manage to grow. My canoe, gouged and scraped by ice, sits overturned by the tent, while the two barrels rest near my campfire.
The surreal Dismal Lakes at night. “Across the dark waters the midnight sun, having dipped below the mountains, filled the cloudy sky with an eerie red glow.”
Enjoying the (temporary) end of my upriver travel as I race downstream through a canyon on the Kendall River.
Back to exhausting upriver travel as I jump from rock to rock hauling my canoe up the powerful current of the Coppermine River.
A land time forgot, where, amid ancient boulders eons older than even the dinosaurs, a little stream crashes a path down the hillside.
Trying to maintain my balance and not twist an ankle while wading up rapids in a narrow channel connecting two lakes.
“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.”
In the haze, a pair of shaggy, prehistoric-looking muskox wander the ancient landscape.
Portaging around the Hanbury River’s many dangerous canyons took four trips per canyon, the first with my backpack, two more with each barrel, and a final one with my canoe.
Climbing along the cliffs of the Hanbury River while guiding my canoe below with a rope.
The gusting wind made paddling impossible, so I strapped on my waders, grabbed the bow rope, and started dragging the canoe behind me, vast sandy barrens stretching off into the distance.
That look you get when a big wave throws ice-cold water in your face while paddling rapids.
Thunder clouds mass on the horizon as I huddle in my tent for another cold, stormy night in late August.
A family of caribou stare at me as they wander the tundra while snow geese head south for warmer climes.
The moon rises above the ancient hills overlooking the last of the Thelon’s lakes, where I was wind-bound.
September 4, 2017. A herd of muskox graze on the tundra now ablaze with bright fall colours.
Four months later, the end of my journey; looking across the tundra and wondering if we will find the courage and political will to preserve large tracts of wilderness. There’s magic in the wild, if you allow yourself to feel it.
Courtesy of Alone Across the Arctic, photo by Mike Reid.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s perhaps ironic that for a solo journey, I incurred debts to a great many people for their kind help, support, and encouragement, without which my journey wouldn’t have happened. I must thank everyone who donated to my GoFundMe page, or otherwise made contributions to my fundraising campaign. This includes Theresa F., Mallory Sheldon, Meg Sanderson, Cody Hancock, Kim Yallup, Barbara Davies, Michael Reaume, David Shoalts, Craig den Ouden, Shyrill Españo, Steve Chapman, Jason Garner, Barb Dyker, Steve Fechner, Louise R. Smith, Anthony Podell, Brian Costello, Alex Letkemann, Daniel Turko, Ed Anderson, Elaine Anderson, Larry Stern, Carl Cencig, Allyson Rowley, Kathleen Connors, Buddy Andres, Keleigh Goodfellow, Minor Fisheries, Bill Van Vliet, Laurie McNamee, Bill Guerin, Trevor Milne, AB Charty, Mary Pennington, Sheri Roy, Allan Schmidt, Barbara, Sylvia, Ingrid Kern, Stephen Black, Marilyn, Pierre Gould, Katie, Melissa Ruf, John Locke, Michael Stinson, the GoFundMe Team, Andrew Zyp, Curtis McEwan, Linda Ploen, Mark Mcnulty, Todd Shoalts, and John Davies. I also thank for their generous support Kekoo Gatta, Phil Ritchie, Rick Taylor, Clayton Smith, Todd Barber, Carolyn Botari, Connie Shoalts, and Paxton and Peggy Allewell. I regret if I’ve overlooked some people who supported me; if so, please forgive me and know that I thank you. I must also extend a very special and heartfelt thanks to Elizabeth, whose support and encouragement was very generous and deeply touching.
Without the support of these individuals and others, my expedition wouldn’t have been successful—and instead, I might have a written a book on moss.
I thank also the Royal Canadian Geographica
l Society for their support, especially John Geiger and Wendy Cecil. Their support, encouragement, and wise words before my journey were much appreciated. I also thank MEC for their support and the expertise of their always knowledgeable staff. I’m indebted further to the amazing Nova Craft Canoe—especially Tim and John—who build the toughest, best canoes a paddler could wish to own. I can’t recommend their canoes enough. I thank also Rocky Mountain Barber for their support and encouragement; if you have a beard, they’re the ones to see about it. Outdoors Oriented in St. Catharines, Ontario, was also supportive of me, and their staff are likewise very insightful when you have to make important life decisions about which brand of tent or socks to choose. Alpacka Rafts provided me with one of their ingenious inflatable rafts, which I used when crossing rivers around Old Crow. I thank also McMaster University’s alumni association for their generous support and encouragement, especially Karen McQuigge, Kris Gadjanski, and Allyson Rowley. And I thank Brock University for their support as well, especially Kevin Cavanagh and Maryanne Firth. I thank also my doctoral supervisory committee, particularly Dr. Ken Cruikshank, who were understanding of my leave of absence from research. I thank Calm Air for seeing my canoe’s return south, and Steve at Ahmic Air for his expertise and the professionalism and excellence of his pilots, as well as Chuk at Plummer’s Lodge for his kind support.
I thank also Barclay Maude, Marty Wojtunik, Francis Luta, and Patrick Cameron for their support and encouragement, particularly at the start of my journey, and Mike Reid at the end, as well as Francis throughout. Chuck Brill and Mark Richard were also superb. Chuck has been an outstanding partner on many adventures, and his wisdom and encouragement at the start of my journey were very much appreciated. Mark, too, I owe a debt of gratitude; he also helped and encouraged me at the beginning of my journey, which meant a lot, and his generosity extended even to giving me his own hiking boots, which I wore throughout my journey. Alas, I’d return them now, but fear that would be a very inadequate thanks for what I owe him. I thank also my friends Wes Crowe, Travis Hill, and Chad Rumsby for their encouragement. Chad, especially, I thank for his kind gift of goose jerky. I further thank my family for their support and encouragement; especially my brother, Ben, and my father, for helping ship my things to Yellowknife. There were many others who assisted or encouraged me with kind messages or emails; I thank everyone who wished me well.
On the book side of things, I was fortunate to benefit from the expertise and professionalism of a great team at Penguin Random House. Nick Garrison has now edited three of my books, and as always, his keen insights and clear vision has greatly helped to improve things. More than that, it was actually Nick who, years ago, made a gift of a fine paddle to me—the paddle I ended up using on my journey, so that makes me indebted to him twice over. Samantha Church handled the book’s publicity, while David Ross, the managing editor, kept everything on schedule and running smoothly. Jennifer Griffiths did a superb job designing the book’s cover, layout, and maps. I’m thankful to each of them for all their hard work. I also thank Nicole Winstanley, the publisher, for believing in this story, and Scott Loomer, the sales director who helped it find its way to readers. The copyeditor, Karen Alliston, carefully scrutinized the manuscript and helped correct errors. I’m much in her debt for her keen insights and careful attention to detail. Justin Stoller, the assistant editor, helped on a number of fronts and his attention to detail was also very much appreciated. I’m also lucky to have a great literary agent, Rick Broadhead, whose excellence and encouragement has been indispensable to me.
Above all, I must thank Aleksia for her invaluable assistance in all manner of things, from educating me about electronic equipment, to the use of satellite phones, to logistical support, to insightful editing, and much else. So highly do I esteem her that I asked her to marry me. But that’s a story for another time.