IT TOOK several days for the true extent of our isolation to become apparent. In that time, we’d trekked inland from the coast, past desiccated gypsum hills and along the shores of Buchanan Lake, where towering cliffs soared up into the blue Arctic sky and hinted of peaks to come. Then came a labyrinth of braided rivers and narrow canyons, leading steadily upward. Emerging at last atop a vast interior plateau, we stared across unremitting plains of burnt-red rock and mochabrown earth. A few wildflowers were sprinkled about, but nothing that could assuage the mood of desolation.
In four days, we hadn’t seen a single human footprint, nor any sign of humanity at all except a dilapidated cache and bronze plaque commemorating a 1959 scientific expedition. Apart from Arctic hares—which bolted across the tundra on their hind legs, like figments from Alice in Wonderland—we’d seen no animal life, either. Which isn’t to say there wasn’t any. Muskox trails wove across the landscape. There were plenty of wolf and fox prints, and countless caribou droppings. But how did they survive? We’d passed not a sprig of vegetation taller than my big toe. That animals endured in the face of such scarcity seemed miraculous.
A biting wind swept down from the west, so the four of us sought shelter beneath a silicon tarp held up by ski poles, gnawing on a scant ration of Landjäger sausage and smoked cheese. In the distance, the peaks of Axel Heiberg’s central spine heaved upward, glaciers oozing from rounded valleys like soft tongues of white toffee. Though they appeared close in this surreal landscape, they lay a day’s march away.
The inevitable hunger of backpacking had set in, and as I mentally inventoried the food supplies buried in our packs, accounting for all eight days ahead, a sense of precariousness set in as well. If the plane scheduled to pick us up on the other side of the island never arrived, if the world changed in our absence—planes were grounded, say, or av-gas ran out—I doubted we could save ourselves. It wasn’t a feeling I was accustomed to. Even in the depths of Burmese jungles or lost on the plains of Mongolia, I’d always had the option of escaping under my own power, by harvesting wild food or seeking the help of wandering nomads. Such surety does not exist here, in a land teetering on the edge of nowhere.
A RASPY, broken voice on my answering machine offered the first tantalizing hint. It was Dave Quinn—good friend, verifiable dirtbag, and life-long wilderness guide—calling from God knows where on a cellphone that kept cutting out. All I could make out was “Axel Heiberg,” “July,” and “kinda heavy pack.” But that was enough. I immediately cancelled my other plans.
Despite persistent rumours of its rugged beauty, Axel Heiberg Island is one of the least visited, least livable, most mysterious corners of the world. It’s easy to miss when scanning maps of the Arctic, for it huddles against Ellesmere Island’s western coast. Just next door, Vilhjalmur Stefansson filled in the last big blank space in the Canadian atlas with his sighting of Meighen Island in 1916. Not until 1927 did a Canadian explorer actually set foot on Axel Heiberg. It is the third-largest uninhabited island on the planet, as empty today as it was a century or a millennium ago. By comparison, Ellesmere—with its national park, army outpost, research base, and Inuit village at Grise Fiord—feels positively pedestrian.
Eric Walters, a well-heeled European Arctic-phile, was financing a personal expedition to Axel Heiberg. Dave, who’d travelled with Eric before, was arranging logistics, and I was happy to tag along when invited, even if that meant hauling a hundred-pound pack loaded with food, a perimeter-fence to warn off bears, a shotgun, and a small raft.
We met Eric in Ottawa. Short, with a shaved head and wireless spectacles, he looked like he could fit in my backpack. He proudly patted his flat stomach. “Nine stone!” he said—just 125 pounds. A corporate banker originally from Britain who now split his time between a castle in France, a home in Zurich, and a flat in Davos, he seemed an unlikely devotee of the North. But it was clear a part of his soul resided there. He came every summer, and his journeys, although grand, were never for glory. Even at home, his mind constantly wandered to the cold wastes, and he wrote endless letters to Ottawa and Iqaluit bureaucrats on themes ranging from hunting practices in national parks to unusual wildlife observations.
Accompanying Eric was his regular Arctic travel companion, Brian Keating, the Calgary Zoo’s fountain of energy and interpretive information. Two days and two long flights later, the four of us arrived at Ellesmere’s Alert military base.
Our plan was to explore the southern valleys around Axel Heiberg’s Wolf Fiord, but the Twin Otter pilot we’d hired to ferry us there dropped a bombshell: there was no chance of landing in the island’s southern reaches. Earlier in the summer he’d spent two days and burned thousands of dollars of gas searching fruitlessly for a gravel strip. Suddenly we were scouring a map on the wall of the officers’ mess for options.
“What about Mokka Fiord?” Dave asked, pointing to a long indent on the eastern coast, where a saddle led west across the central icecap toward Strand Fiord. “What about attempting a traverse of the island?” It was a massive change of plans, and we didn’t even have correct maps. When the base commander discovered Dave photographing the wall map—planning to navigate the 125-kilometre route by studying the pictures on his digital camera—he took pity on us and handed over a topo. Minutes later we clambered aboard the Twin Otter and buckled in.
LATE ON the fourth day of our trek, a deep canyon suddenly appeared before us. From its depths, we heard the roar of a torrent that boiled over drops, careened around bends, and tore straight down through the soft tundra. It blocked our intended path, but by hugging the bank, we could still gain Axel Heiberg’s central icefield and make our way to Strand Fiord Pass—which looked, from where we stood, like a gentle ramp into the sky. Just then, three slender Peary caribou materialized from the mist on the other side of the gorge. A hundred feet away but unreachable, the curious animals skittered closer and then melted away.
After a cold and fitful rest, we were hiking by five A.M. the next morning. As we stepped onto the glacier and began our ascent, ominous clouds began rolling in, obscuring the peaks and bringing flurries. The route appeared simple on our maps, but we edged forward cautiously, ever-watchful for crevasses.
We were soon disoriented in a complete whiteout. We thought we were still climbing the snowfield when Dave suddenly shouted with glee: “Look! Look! We’re going down!” Rivulets of blue meltwater were now flowing in the direction we were headed. The pass comprises two bumps, like a Bactrian camel’s back, and we were over the first.
Soon the tiny streams coalesced into larger meltwater rivers that carved down the icy slope at a furious rate, then vanished into the black depths of the glacier. Slipping into one of these sapphire flumes would have been fatal. When drifting snow began concealing them beneath a thin crust of white, our progress slowed and we probed every step.
“Break time,” Eric would announce every hour. A man of discipline, he favoured the British Army style of travel: one hour of work followed by a five-minute snack break, repeated ad nauseam. His notepad was always in hand, filled with distances walked, rates of progress, wildlife sightings, and weather reports. “I doubt anyone will ever read these,” he confessed, chuckling. “But it’s a habit I’ve had since youth, and I simply can’t stop.”
We fell wordlessly into the routine of walking and snacking and then walking some more. Disrobing almost entirely to cross a pool of meltwater atop the glacier, we clambered over piles of loose moraine and pressed on. Far ahead, three muskox skulls sat alone and sun-bleached on the snow, and Brian veered towards them. “Can you believe this?” He practically bounced with excitement. “An entire family has been slaughtered by wolves. Look at how they’ve chewed the noses and licked the marrow. Why did they ever wander onto this expanse?”
Eleven hours and twenty-one kilometres later, lost in a meditative state, we reached the far side of the glacier. Picking our way down the steep ice to terra firma, we collapsed into tents, nursing mug after mug of tea and sugar.
TAKE A PIE-SHAPED slice out of the High Arctic, running north and west from the town of Resolute, and you have what’s been dubbed “the Barren Wedge.” The continual press of pack ice against the western shore of the Arctic Archipelago brings fog, wind, and a constant chill. Plants struggle to grow; game and marine mammals are unusually scarce. Axel Heiberg straddles the edge of this desolate zone; the western shores we were headed toward lie in this “Empty Quarter,” while the eastern coast we had come from hugs the relative lushness of Ellesmere.
The snows continued for three damp days, until at last high pressure moved in. We were following the Strand River west, winding between high ridges and globular glacial toes, swaddling ourselves in every garment we had. Then, suddenly, T-shirt weather graced us. Flies and bees appeared, flitting across the tundra, buffeted by steady winds. Entire hillsides shimmered with blooms of yellow arnica. Cotton grass and pale yellow Arctic poppies pressed up toward the sun. A chocolate-brown fox visited camp, rolling in the grass at our feet, sniffing every tent and then bounding away. We stumbled upon a field of perfect ammonite fossils. Day after day brought the joy of discovery and solitude. Unbeknownst to us, the only other people on the island, scientists at a McGill University research camp, had evacuated following the recent storm, leaving us alone. Yet as blessed as the warmth was, it felt thin, illusory, and not to be taken for granted.
Environment Canada employs the Climate Severity Index to rate the relative comfort of the nation’s communities, with one being the most mild and 100 the most severe. At 13, Victoria ranks among the most pleasant of Canada’s climes. Toronto lands at 36; Whitehorse 46; Alert, on Ellesmere, 84. The most inhospitable of all? The former Isachsen weather station, located on Ellef Ringnes Island, not too far from our destination. It earned an atrocious 99.
Inuit call this part of the extreme High Arctic Inuit Nunangata Ungata—“the land beyond the land of the people.” Despite that, occupation sites have been discovered on Axel Heiberg dating back almost 5,000 years. These sparse settlements of one to four homes employed bowhead whale bones to support roofs of sod and skin. Before the advent of seal-oil lamps, it’s postulated that the precursors of today’s Inuit survived the winter here by entering a state of torpor, moving only occasionally to nibble food or urinate.
“Berg heil!” Eric shouted as we clambered atop a high summit adjacent Strand Fiord. Amidst swirling snows we looked out over a medieval scene of peaks, ice, and great, braided rivers, the entire panorama a palette of only black, brown, and white.
Later at camp, Dave called the pilot on a satellite phone. We were due to be picked up early the next morning, but a surprising message came back. They were already in the air, racing our way. With the good weather expected not to last, they wanted to get us out while they still could.
Author’s note: Last November, just four months after visiting Axel Heiberg, Eric Walters tragically passed away while hiking in Oman. The Canadian Arctic lost a champion.