× 10 ×
CROSSING THE DIVIDE
On the morning of July 8 I dipped my paddle into Great Bear’s clear waters for the last time, bidding farewell to the most majestic of all lakes. Leaving the lake, I began paddling up a waterway that I found had changed little since Simpson and Dease had described it in 1838: a river inhabited by white wolves and lined with tall spruces and tamaracks along its lower reaches, which thinned out farther up, eventually giving way to windswept tundra.
At its mouth the Dease River is only about two hundred and fifty metres wide, and not far up its twisting, snaking course it narrows to less than sixty. I needed to get over a hundred kilometres up it, against its strong current, to a small tributary flowing in from the north. That little stream would lead me northward, to the spot where I planned to strike overland across the divide separating Great Bear’s drainage basin from the Coppermine River’s watershed.
The first few kilometres of the river I found I could paddle against the current without too much difficulty, but soon its tortuous course became blocked with rapids. Then I had to wade with the water nearly up to my waist, hauling and dragging the canoe behind or beside me while trying not to lose my footing. The year before, the combined strength of Chuck and me working together had been enough to overcome much of the river’s current. Alone, I had no choice but to do more wading and dragging.
This part of my journey had a slightly different feel to it than elsewhere, as here I was travelling over territory I’d seen twice before—once going upriver and then again going back downriver. I enjoy returning to old haunts as much as the next person, but they don’t have quite the same magical allure of unknown places, where every bend in the river brings something new. We tend to think of the world as a fast-shrinking place, where modern technology has bridged distances. That’s partly true. But the funny thing is, if you get out on the land in a canoe or on foot, the world remains just as big as it ever was.
When I arrived at a certain sharp bend in the river, not quite five kilometres up from Great Bear Lake, I beached my canoe at the foot of a small rapid. On the far side of the river was a steep bluff, above which stood ancient spruces. This sharp bend, I knew from the prior summer with Chuck, was the site where a 106 years earlier, a Canadian prospector by the name of George Douglas and his two companions had built a small cabin to endure the brutal cold of the long, harsh arctic winter. Chuck and I had a made cursory investigation of the cabin’s ruins, measuring its dimensions and photographing it. Douglas had sailed across Great Bear Lake that summer of 1911 on a small boat, before coming upriver here and selecting it as a spot to overwinter.
Perhaps if I were the superstitious sort I probably wouldn’t have bothered to stop now and head off into the shadows of the tall black spruces to once more gaze at decaying ruins. There’s something a little eerie about abandoned, crumbling cabins in the woods. Such an isolated cabin might be charming enough in summer, but in winter it could quickly feel like a prison.
Here, north of the Arctic Circle, sub-zero temperatures last for nearly nine months. During the worst stretch there are over forty days of unbroken darkness. Shut up inside a tiny, cramped cabin, the walls seem to close in a little tighter, week by week, sometimes driving the occupants mad with “cabin fever.” The North is replete with disturbing stories of lone trappers who, isolated for too long during long, dark winters, committed unspeakable deeds. The case of the Mad Trapper is perhaps the most infamous, but there are many others. Shortly before embarking on their expedition, one of Simpson and Dease’s men, a certain Anderson, went crazy and ran away in the woods. Simpson himself, after exploring the river I was now venturing up, had apparently become strangely withdrawn, erratic, and paranoid, eventually one night at his campsite murdering two Canadians and then shooting himself in the head. Another explorer who passed over this same ground, Dr. Richardson, Sir John Franklin’s trusted companion, once shot a voyageur he suspected of murdering and eating another member of the party (that kind of thing is frowned upon in canoeing circles).
Before Douglas and his two companions had come to this lonely spot to build their cabin, the ruins of which I was now staring at, they’d stumbled upon another cabin on their way to Great Bear Lake. When they entered it they found a scene of horror. Inside the tiny dwelling were the decomposing remains of two men. One of the corpses, in Douglas’s own words, had “his head a shapeless mass, blown out of all resemblance to anything human.” A note left beside the other body told the tale. Shut up inside the cabin for months in darkness, freezing cold, and increasingly paranoid, one trapper had murdered the other, apparently shooting him in the head while he slept. The murderer, after confessing the deed in writing, had scrawled on the paper, “I am not Crasey” and then ended his own life by drinking poison.
Among the Algonquian-speaking peoples of the subarctic forests, for generations stories were told of individuals who, during unusually hard winters when game became scarce, turned into “windigos” to survive, which meant they ate human flesh. Windigos were believed to be possessed by an evil spirit that gave them superhuman strength. Many of the fur traders and voyageurs who lived in the “fur country” ended up sharing the Ojibwe and Cree beliefs about the existence of windigos.
In the spruce woods, I circled the crumbling ruins of Douglas’s cabin. The roof had collapsed and part of the log walls had fallen in. In one corner was an impressively crafted fireplace, made with rocks carefully arranged to shelter the vital heat and chinked with clay taken from the riverbanks. Douglas and his two friends had managed to survive the winter without mishap, departing the area the next summer. They’d come to investigate copper deposits, but nothing ever came of that.
The forest was gradually swallowing the cabin’s ruins; aside from its stone hearth, in time there would be nothing left. Slowly it would vanish back into the wilderness. I took one last look at it, then headed back to where I’d left my canoe.
At night as I lay in my tent, the river’s rapids rumbling a short distance away, the air thick with the ceaseless buzz of millions of mosquitoes, and occasionally, echoing across untold miles the howls of arctic wolves, thoughts of solitary trappers and windigos would drift into my mind. Then, curled up in my sleeping bag, I’d eventually drift off.
Upstream travel on the Dease I did with a mix of paddling, poling, wading, and dragging. The days were long and exhausting, attacked as I was by hordes of blackflies and increasingly by “bulldog” flies—a type of large biting horsefly that appears around July at these latitudes. When it bites, it feels more like a bee sting and leaves a welt behind.
My legs were daily becoming more scraped and bruised from smashing into unseen rocks while wading in the river. Some of the bruises on my thighs were the result of the canoe hitting me as I hauled with all my strength to pull it toward me against the rapids. My remaining toenails were black from banging against rocks, and I was mindful, as ever, not to lose my footing and slip and smash my head off any number of jagged rocks in the rapids. My feet also had a rash from constant wetness. Despite wearing hip waders, in some places where the river rose higher, or when I stumbled in the current, water would flood into the waders. I’d empty them afterward, but my socks stayed damp.
But as bad as my feet and legs looked, the canoe’s hull looked worse. It now sported six or seven bad gashes. There was also a growing patch near the starboard side where the fabric was badly worn with threads visible. The river’s frequent shallow, rock-strewn rapids had continued to grind away at the hull, since I had little choice but to scrape and drag the heavily loaded canoe over those jagged rocks. If I were to stop and portage all of the river’s dozens of rapids I’d be lucky to get even halfway across the arctic tundra before snows buried me in the fall.
Otherwise, things were going well. Mentally, I was still very much enjoying my journey. My long days of ceaseless upriver travel were yielding about twenty to twenty-five kilometres of progress a day. There weren’t many sections suitable for poling—the river was often either too deep for it or too swift—but in certain stretches between rapids, where the current slackened, I was able to do more paddling. In these places the scenery took on an intriguing aspect, with lonely mountains surrounding the river and great sandstone outcrops towering high above it. On some of these crags were gigantic nests of sticks, as large as a small boat: eagle nests, although their astonishing dimensions made them look as though they were home to mythical birds like griffins.
Fish were plentiful in the river, especially arctic graylings, pike, and burbot, a type of freshwater cod. Chuck and I had feasted nearly every day on fish, but alas, on my journey, fishing was a diversion I couldn’t afford unless it came down to it as a necessity.
There were also small bird nests along the river’s shore, carefully camouflaged in sedges and grasses, but I didn’t have the heart to help myself to any of the eggs. My principles are to cause as little disturbance as possible, leaving, as far as I’m able, only footprints. I will admit, though, that I’ve been mighty tempted at times to throw a rock at the odd ptarmigan or grouse that crosses my path.
Wolves, too, were numerous, and as curious about me as others of their kind had been. A few days upriver, I was in the middle of a very long stretch of wading through rapids, hauling the canoe behind me, and was almost lulled into a daydream by the sounds of the water, the repetitive nature of the work, and the all-encompassing solitude. What snapped me back to attention was a sudden flash of white on the high opposite bank. I glanced up to see something dart behind a clump of willows and then re-emerge a few seconds later. It was an all-white wolf. Such white fur helps arctic wolves blend in with their surroundings in winter when stalking prey. The wolf poked its head out of the willows, staring right at me. Then, drawn by irresistible curiosity, she crept out, sat down, and just watched me passively. Or perhaps I’d merely been misreading all these wolf encounters and they’d been simply contemplating me the whole time as a nice addition to their diet.
In the lower parts of the river there was lots of ice damage along the riverbanks. During the annual breakup the ice rushes downstream on the current, smashing into the spruces overlooking the river and leaving gashes in their trunks high off the ground. These gashes have confused and alarmed a number of newcomers to northern rivers upon first sight of them—wondering what manner of beast could have wrought such destruction. The answer, of course, is ice. (But if you want to terrify the wits out of a group of young campers, tell them it was bears.)
I was often forced to sleep wherever I could find a spot—on rocks, gravel, or wherever else I’d happen to stop, exhausted, for the night. As before, if it had been a question of going downriver, I could afford to be selective, choosing anywhere to sleep that I liked. But with upriver travel, I simply had to force myself to push on for as long as I could.
My second day hauling and paddling upriver I passed through a high, twisting limestone canyon filled with a mix of rapids and deep pools. At the entrance to this canyon, a great rock pillar rose straight out of the river like a lighthouse. Nesting in the sheer cliffs were dozens of swallows that feed on the abundant swarms of insects. The year before, on our return journey, Chuck and I got caught in a July snowstorm in this canyon and were forced to canoe on through the snows, which reduced visibility greatly. Temperature drops of twenty degrees or more can happen over a single day in the Arctic, when frigid masses of air drift down from the Arctic Ocean. I was now only about a hundred and thirty kilometres inland of that icy sea.
Fortunately, this time when I entered the canyon the weather was mild. But the water levels, I noted, were higher than the previous year, probably on account of the later snowmelt. To get through the canyon would require a delicate mix of paddling and wading along the edge of rapids where the current was strong. What I wanted to avoid at all costs was portaging. In the centre of the canyon was a sizable rapid that roared over exposed rocks in a spot where the river narrowed. On its right side was a gravel bar with some willows growing on it. I landed my canoe on that gravel bar, deciding to try hauling it up through the rapids. Grabbing the bow with one hand, I towed it up to the edge of the rapids while trying to stay on shore myself. It took some careful handling to get the canoe up and past the rocks, knowing that if it caught sideways in the current it would flip over.
Once up the initial bit of whitewater I edged into the river knee-deep, in order to drag the canoe farther up to a place where I could safely jump in and resume paddling. The force of the current rushing against my legs caused me to momentarily stumble, but luckily I managed to recover without landing face first in the river. Another few steps and I was able to bring the canoe alongside me and leap back in. I paddled hard against the current, winding around the next bend in the canyon.
A short distance ahead were more rapids and a small but furious waterfall where the river plunged over big boulders. To haul up the thundering cataract would be impossible and dangerous; there was no choice but to portage around it. So I landed my canoe on the left side, just outside the last of the canyon walls, to begin carrying the loads ahead on foot. Getting everything around the cascade required climbing precariously over boulders with my heavy loads, and occasionally leaping across small channels where the torrent of raging water surged through. It wasn’t the kind of place where you’d want to slip.
Afterward the river calmed down a bit and I could paddle. In places it flowed past big sandy beaches with thick willow bushes. These sandy beaches made for pleasant campsites, aside from the abundance of “bulldog” flies. My tent, a little worn after nearly two months of travel and use, I discovered had a few small holes through which, alarmingly, blackflies were invading. Fortunately I was able to patch them with some tape.
Four days into journeying up the river I was forced to halt early for the night: a storm was gathering on the horizon. The wind had been fierce all day, which, when combined with the current, had made progress painfully slow. By now the spruces had thinned out almost entirely, leaving only thickets of waist-high willows stretching for miles in all directions. A lone willow-clad mountain with a rocky summit was visible on the horizon.
I hurried to make camp on a bank overlooking the river before the storm was unleashed. After months of camping, my routine had become second nature. Before the skies could open up, I managed to get the tent up, my canoe and barrels secured, a fire going with water gathered and boiled, my thermos filled with tea, and a freeze-dried meal cooked. As I sat finishing my dinner looking out over the winding river, which was now quite small, the skies grew darker and more threatening.
I climbed into my tent just as the first crack of thunder boomed across the land. Rain lashed against my tent as it shook in the fierce winds. But inside I at least felt snug and dry. The storm was perhaps a little too close for comfort, with repeated flashes of lightning and loud bursts of thunder. But I trusted that my little tent was lower to the ground than the hills, mountains, and some scattered spruces, so that lightning shouldn’t pose too much of a danger. Eventually the winds carried the storm away and I fell asleep.
The wind continued fierce and cold the next day, coming as it did from the Arctic Ocean, but I splashed and waded along against it, reaching by early evening the little tributary I’d been seeking. Known as Sandy Creek, it’s a little creek that, as might be guessed, is rather sandy. In places, the stream is surrounded by high vertical banks that make it impossible to see the land beyond them, but on the positive side, they provide shelter from the strong winds.
I towed my canoe with a rope up Sandy Creek, wading through the water ahead, which was easy to do now; there were no longer any rocks to bump into in the clear water. The creek forked and grew steadily smaller, but still I splashed on. It was imperative that I push as far up the stream as possible, tracing it to little more than a trickle. Once I’d left the creek I’d be embarking on the longest portage of my entire expedition—right across the great divide that separates the huge watershed of Great Bear Lake from the Coppermine River, in order to link the chain of waterways I needed to complete my journey. Draining into the Coppermine are the Dismal Lakes, and these wild lakes would be where I needed to get to in order to resume paddling.
It was a portage that I expected to take days to complete, with the total distance, given all my loads, totalling a fearsome amount, perhaps forty or fifty kilometres. Generally, in canoeing terms, anything in excess of five hundred metres is deemed a long portage. And as Bill Mason, the Canadian canoe expert, put it, “Anyone who says they enjoy portaging is either a liar or crazy.”
After a few hours of wading up the stream, I came upon a large sandy bar on the creek’s eastern bank that I recognized as a place where Chuck and I had camped the previous year. A big rack of caribou antlers lay in the sand, right where I’d left them. No one, it seemed, had been to this lonely stream in the time since. It was here at this beach where we’d left our canoe and barrels behind, before beginning the long, arduous trek overland to the Dismal Lakes with only our backpacks and the bare essentials.
The hike had been long and wearisome, with plagues of blackflies nearly the whole way aside from when the wind was stiff. Chuck, in his considered opinion, had deemed the notion of trying to haul a canoe, two barrels, and a backpack across such a huge stretch as mad. He was wise like that.
One thing perhaps not immediately obvious is just how much more difficult hiking, and especially portaging, becomes when there’s no trail to follow. Not only is it a matter of having to simultaneously navigate and lug a heavy canoe over your head or struggle under the weight of a heavy barrel, the real issue is the lack of solid, level ground to hike on. Chuck, having gotten a taste from his travels with me of what portaging without trails is like, once described it this way: “I would say very few people understand how difficult it is to walk from point A to point B without being on a proper trail. It is immeasurably more difficult and dangerous without a hard-packed surface under your feet. You start to wander like a dog, travelling three or four miles just for one mile of forward progress, stepping around obstacles and backtracking. Putting your foot in the wrong place is very likely to cause a twisted ankle or other injury.”
Chuck and I, since we’d hadn’t been portaging but merely hiking for the sake of exploring, had taken a somewhat indirect route to the lakes. In the process we wandered across a surprising variety of terrains, from flat tundra plains overgrown with dwarf birch shrubs, to snowfields that remained in shaded valleys, to surreal sandy deserts that made us feel as if we’d somehow strayed into the Sahara. Then there were the swampy sphagnum bogs, rolling beautiful hills with spruce groves, and quiet, meadow-filled valleys. Eventually we reached the tip of the Dismal Lakes, which we found windswept and inhospitable, such that canoeing would have been impossible with the waves. After camping a night there we retraced our steps homeward bound to the canoe and barrels.
This time, however, I pressed on farther up the creek, beyond where Chuck and I had left it on our overland trek. Based on what I’d read in Douglas’s journals and those of earlier explorers like Simpson and Dease, I hoped it might be possible for me to make it farther up the stream, just as they must have. They’d all come this way on their travels, since they too had crossed the divide to the Coppermine. Simpson and Dease had done so with a party of about fifteen men carrying wooden rowboats, which they’d built to navigate the Coppermine and from there the treacherous waters of the Arctic Ocean. If I could make it farther upstream, it would help reduce the length of the portage needed to reach the Dismal Lakes. Since I had a smaller boat than any of those predecessors, and the water levels seemed higher than they’d been before, I was optimistic about my chances.
Another thing not immediately obvious is that the frequent alternations between paddling or poling and wading—a necessity for upriver travel—cause water to accumulate in the canoe. This is from water running off pant legs and boots once climbing back into the canoe. It might not seem like much water could accumulate in that manner, but it certainly begins to add up quite fast—even when, like me, you take the time to stand on one leg, letting most of the water run off before stepping back in. The accumulating water adds weight to the canoe, not only slowing it down but also drenching any backpacks stowed in the boat. And a waterlogged backpack, with its increased weight, is not a pleasant thing to carry on lengthy portages. Luckily for me, as a boy I’d learned an old woodsman’s trick to avoid my backpack getting wet in the canoe. Cut some willow branches, lay them down in the bottom, then put your backpack over them. This inch or so of space the willows (or any other branch) provide is sufficient to keep your gear nice and dry.
Knowing in advance that this gruelling portage would be one of the most difficult parts of my expedition, I’d carefully plotted ahead of time how best to tackle it. With one eye on my budget and the other on my route maps, I’d specifically devised my resupply points to allow me to be travelling as light as possible in this section. Thus, my resupply at the end of Great Bear, and a second one I hoped to obtain a month or so later, when I reached a place on the Coppermine River where a floatplane could safely land. This would allow me to carry rations for only a month over this stretch, a lot less than elsewhere. Indeed, by this point, I’d been steadily eating up all my surplus rations that had been left over when I reached the end of Great Bear, allowing me to further lessen my loads and bulk up at least a little for the gruelling portaging. The cart, too, I hoped, might finally prove useful.
Back in Sudbury I’d also studied the accounts and hand-drawn maps of early explorers like Simpson, Dease, Douglas, and other historic figures who’d been over this terrain—comparing their notes with modern satellite imagery in the hope of pinpointing a route that would minimize portaging by hitting certain small lakes and ponds that appeared scattered like raindrops across the tundra.
Beyond these measures, I had no other tricks to play. Sometimes hard work is the only thing that will succeed. Daunting as such a long portage appeared, my mindset was that simple persistence would pay off. Like the tortoise and the hare again, I just told myself, “Slow and steady wins the race.”
The high water levels, it turned out, did allow me to advance up the little sandy creek, and even farther than I’d dared hope. I ventured way beyond the point where Chuck and I had abandoned the creek, managing to make it another twenty kilometres up. This took me past numerous sand hills and up and around a great many S-bends in the river. These repeated S-bends were so extreme as to make the creek resemble a crazy straw, or a giant python.
At night, camped on the creek, I could hear the howls of a pack of wolves echoing out from distant mountains. Wolves were clearly frequent visitors in these parts. I’d often come across their scat on the tundra. From the white hairs in it, it seemed they’d been feeding on caribou.
Early the next morning, after a few more hours of paddling and wading up the tiny, winding stream, I reached a point where I judged it time to begin the dreaded overland trek. It was to be the portage of all portages—nearly forty kilometres in the aggregate, with no trail to follow. I’d arrived at a sand and gravel ridge that appeared to be an esker, formed by the retreat of the glaciers northward about ten thousand years earlier. It ran off to the northwest, the direction where I needed to head. Wolf tracks were faintly visible in its sand. If wolves had gone along the ridge, I figured I’d follow their example.
All of my rations I was able to compress down into a single barrel, leaving the other one empty. This was excellent, as it meant I could simply carry the empty barrel with the canoe, reducing my loads from four to three, and thereby cutting down the total distance by as much as twenty kilometres.
I began by strapping on my backpack. It was my lightest load, weighing no more than fifty pounds. It was also much more comfortable to wear than the barrel. For that reason, I always took it first on portages, as the extra spring in my step let me scout things out more thoroughly, thereby picking out the best ground for the heavier and more difficult loads to follow. (In the wilderness, a straight line between two points is seldom the shortest way—especially if it means making your way across willow thickets, swampy ground, or boulder fields where you can twist an ankle.)
Thus I set off. The sun was beating down, but a brisk wind kept things cool. I wore a mesh bug net to minimize the annoyance of the blood-sucking insects. Navigating was easy enough: I knew which direction to head, and there was a range of high hills as landmarks to guide me.
The sandy, pebble-strewn esker made for good hiking terrain. It curved in an arc around a pond, then took me up a slope and across tundra with low willow bushes. Once over a spruce-clad ridge, I passed on to a great sandy slope. At the end of this sandy stretch, having hiked about a kilometre, I set down my backpack, refuelled with some water and an energy bar, then returned to fetch my next load.
My reason for these short intervals was not wanting to leave any of my packs unattended for too long, which seemed unwise with grizzlies and wolverines wandering about. Plus, regular breaks help make the overall portage seem more manageable.
When it came time to take the canoe, I again experimented with the cart. I strapped the canoe on it and put a number of miscellaneous items inside, such as my waders. It worked well enough across the sand esker, but once I’d passed on to the hilly terrain or over willows, it was much less practical. It was the kind of thing that might have worked effectively with two people—one pulling from the front, the other pushing from the back—allowing even more things, such as the backpack and barrels, to be put inside the canoe. I made a mental note of this for the purpose of future trips. Of course, it didn’t do much good to dwell on such things at the time.
Across a valley from this first leg of my portage, I could see a snowfield tucked beneath the bottom of a large ridge. Back in 1911 Douglas had described this very snowfield. Chuck and I had also seen it—and it was encouraging to think that warmer average temperatures hadn’t, at least yet, seemed to have changed it much. While all this landscape would be buried in snow most of the year, by June the snows usually melt across most of the low Arctic. However, in this unique spot, as in a few others, the shade of the encircling ridge keeps the ice and snow preserved year-round.
The next leg of the trek took me across vast fields of willow shrubs and dwarf birches. The willows and birches weren’t any higher than my knees, so hiking among them wasn’t much trouble. In a few places I startled willow ptarmigans. Unlike the grouse in the woods near where I grew up, the ptarmigans startled here didn’t fly off very far. They simply flew up a short couple of strides and then landed again in plain sight. Like other animals, birds that haven’t been exposed much to human hunting over many generations remain remarkably easy to approach.
This included a mother ptarmigan, with six good-sized chicks that followed her across the tundra. They scurried off as I passed by but they never went far, and I saw them on each trip back and forth with my different loads. They would have made a nice meal, but I didn’t have the heart to do it, though I certainly thought about it.
I next headed into a hilly region, passing among hills thinly clad with spruces and an abundance of wild berries, none of which were yet ripe. These sheltered hills seemed to be a favourite haunt of wildlife. Wolf tracks were visible in the sand, and I could easily imagine a grizzly would enjoy the berry buffet when they turned ripe. From the summit of one of these hills I surveyed the route ahead. In the far distance I could see mountains with some snow on their upper slopes. Beneath these lonely mountains was where I needed to get to, the Dismal Lakes.
It was the high-strung Simpson who’d given them that name. In the spring of 1838, when he and his companions came over a high ridge and first caught sight of these narrow, interconnected lakes set amid windswept mountains, Simpson noted, “Never have I seen a land so desolate and dismal as that which stretched before me.”
It was precisely that “desolate and dismal” place I was trying so hard to reach.
Luckily, just beneath the hills I’d hiked into were three ponds in a row and then a small lake, allowing me to paddle a bit and refill my empty water bottle. The canoe I went back to simply dragging, which I found faster than fiddling with the cart. The empty barrel I strapped on my back when dragging the canoe, thereby eliminating the need for a fourth trip.
Between each of these ponds, a short portage allowed me to skip ahead to the next one. Then, after crossing the last of the three, I noticed something odd. The ground just beyond the pond was flattened and trampled down, almost as if by vehicles or a stampede of elephants. But there were no roads for hundreds of kilometres, and the last arctic elephants—mastodons and woolly mammoths—had died out millennia ago.
Upon taking a closer look, it hit me what had made these rutted, muddy tracks: thousands of hooves, marching in a great herd. They were from the caribou migration, when the animals form vast herds beyond counting, and march across the tundra for hundreds of miles. The dwarf birch bushes were all grazed down, and the ground churned up to the width of a three-lane road by marching hooves. The herd must have passed recently, within days it seemed. Perhaps the howling of the wolves I’d heard was from a pack stalking them.
I scanned across the sea of tundra that unfolded before me for any sign of the herd. A white speck was bobbing along on the horizon. I couldn’t make out what it was, so I used my camera to zoom in on it. It was a lone caribou, a straggler who must have fallen behind.
I resumed my portage, carrying the canoe and two loads across the rutted-up passage that the herd had passed over. Eventually, just as I was completing the last load, the straggler approached. To my surprise, at the sight of me, the caribou walked right up to me. I informed the caribou that the herd had gone west, and that if she didn’t dally she might yet catch up with them. The caribou didn’t seem to entirely understand me, but nonetheless she trotted off in the right direction.
A few minutes later, as I was busy launching the canoe into the small lake, two more caribou materialized. These ones paid no attention to me and hurried on their way.
I, too, had to be on my way, north to the Dismal Lakes.
The ponds and the lake raised my spirits greatly, as they cut down on the portaging by allowing me to paddle a little. When I reached the end of the lake, which took only a few minutes, I resumed travel on foot.
The lake brought me to more big sand hills scattered with black spruce. On the far side of these hills I found a great sandy slope that ran down to another beautiful lake. To reach it, I dragged my canoe over the hills and down the slope, then carried my other loads up and over. It’d been about ten hours of solid portaging, but I calculated that I still wasn’t even halfway through yet. Exhausted, I camped on the sandy beach for the night. The portage I’d just have to continue in the morning.
In the meantime, after a fire on the beach, I curled up in my tent on what was a cold, windy night. Just as I was getting comfortable, the howling of wolves rang out across the distant hills. I wondered whether the friendly caribou had managed to catch up in time.