Death on the Barrens

by George James Grinnell

  However, these maps were also lacking contours, so we had no idea of the height of the hills that separated the two lakes, nor of the kind of terrain we would have to traverse. But because this portage would save us nearly a hundred miles of dangerous rapids and open-lake paddling, we all voted to head north up the lake and to strike out overland rather than to follow the Dubawnt on its divergent course to the northwest.

  Suddenly a terrific commotion behind the canoe startled me. I stopped paddling and turned to look: Peter’s fishing rod was severely arched, then tore free from under his boot. Peter dropped his paddle and lunged to catch the rod as it flew overboard. Despite his attempts to slow the fish down, the line ran to the bitter end. Caught up short, the trout was jerked clear of the water, writhing violently, then slammed back through the surface with a terrific splash. I worried that at any moment we were going to lose our last lure, but in a way, too, I wished that the fish would shake the hook so that we could carry on and its life would be spared.

  The fish, which far outweighed the capacity of Peter’s eight-pound test line, continued to fight ferociously. Peter was patient, reeling it in when he could, letting it run when he could not. The battle seemed interminable.

  I turned forward again to see Skip and the others paddling away down the lake. They seemed oblivious of the struggle Peter was having over possession of our last lure. I wanted to call out and plead with them to stay with us, but I was afraid of startling Peter. There was no real reason for them to wait, but I was seized, nonetheless, by anxiety as I watched their canoe diminish in the distance, then disappear beyond the horizon.

  Eventually Peter’s patience paid off. As the fish lay exhausted alongside the canoe, he stabbed four fingers through its gills and hauled the huge lake trout aboard. As it thrashed about in its last agonies, Peter tried to ease its passing by beating it over the head. Finally it lay still, then gradually froze solid.

  Inuit believe that the goddess Nuliajuk gave birth to that fish, as she had given birth to Lady Marjorie Nicholson and to us, but some of her children must be sacrificed so that others might live. Nuliajuk is a beautiful goddess; Nuliajuk is a terrifying goddess.

  As darkness settled, Peter and I found the others at the far end of the lake. When they saw the great fish Peter had caught, they were overjoyed. Death had come to the fish; ours was delayed for another day.

  In preparation for the long portage, we determined to shed everything that was not absolutely essential. We had so little that leaving behind even lumps of frozen clothing was difficult. The kitchen tarpaulin, of which I had fond memories, also remained heavily frozen, so we voted to discard it as well. More difficult was the decision whether to leave behind our last two jars of peanut butter.

  During a portage around a fearsome falls, these two jars of peanut butter had fallen out of a wanigan and smashed into myriad pieces on the bedrock of the river bank. Peter had gone back to scrape the peanut butter off the rock and had repacked it in two previously emptied peanut butter jars. Unfortunately, night had fallen by that time, and he had not been able to see well, so the rescued peanut butter was shot through with slivers of broken glass.

  We stood around trying to decide whether to discard them and, after much discussion, voted unanimously to abandon them. No sooner had we come to this decision than everyone said, “Well, if no one else wants them, I’ll take them.” We all laughed and gobbled down the peanut butter as fast as we could get our fingers into the jars, our teeth crunching on the larger chunks of glass, the salty taste of blood mingling with the nourishing taste of peanuts as the thinner slivers punctured our tongues and cheeks.

  The following morning, Joe and I jumped from tuft of grass to tuft of grass trying to keep our boots from breaking through ice-coated puddles as we carried the front of the canoes; Peter and Skip, under the sterns, were so jerked this way and that that they soon revolted, saying that it would be easier to carry the eighteen-foot canoes, weighing ninety pounds each, without our help.

  Initially, we had planned to attempt the crossing in one trip, each man carrying his personal pack along with one end of a canoe, the fifth man carrying his personal pack, the two good tents, and the remains of our food supply, but the plan failed. Peter and Skip decided to portage the canoes single-handedly, while Bruce agreed to stay with them to act as guide. Joe and I volunteered to carry their personal packs on the first trip and to come back for the rest of the supplies on a second.

  A strong wind was blowing, which made the canoes difficult to control. Peter and Skip staggered blindly up a long hill, hour after hour, toward a height of land that lay somewhere to the north between the two lakes. With eighteen-foot canoes upside down over their heads, they could see only the ground in front of their feet. There was no trail. Because of our lack of food and the danger of freeze-up, they wanted to complete the portage in one day, then launch the canoes again in Aberdeen Lake and cross the open water before dawn the following morning when the lake was likely to be at its calmest, but it was an impossible dream.

  By about noon, Joe and I had reached the height of land. In the far distance, at the edge of the horizon, we could see a sliver of blue, which we assumed to be the fifty-mile extent of Aberdeen Lake. We put down the four personal packs we were carrying and returned toward Lady Marjorie Nicholson Lake. When we came across the others and reported what we had seen, everyone was optimistic.

  Back in camp, Joe and I decided to rescue everything that we had voted to discard the evening before—frozen clothes, frozen tarp, moldy oatmeal, cans of dehydrated carrots, the wooden wanigans, Peter’s and my broken tent—then set off again into the hills that separated the two lakes.

  When Joe and I reached the height of land again, I took out the compass he had given me and checked our bearings. While studying the maps the previous evening, we had agreed to aim for the eastern corner of a peninsula that jutted out partly across Aberdeen Lake, which we felt would afford us some protection from the north wind. Miles away, a low hill obscured part of the lake. Because the maps showed no contours, it was difficult, in actuality, to determine the difference between the peninsula and that distant hill. Our eyes told us one thing, and the compass told us something else.

  Compasses are not very accurate in the north because of the proximity of the magnetic pole; the deviation is large and the daily fluctuations uncertain. No one but Joe had bothered to bring a compass. After the accident at the falls, Joe asked me to trade packs with him, because his extra large pack had been the one to haul me overboard in my attempt to rescue it on our way to him and Art. To sweeten the swap, he agreed to throw in his compass. In the army, I had learned to appreciate compasses. When lost, my own intuitive judgment had inevitably proven wrong, and my compass, right. Although Joe and I were certain that the distant hill was the peninsula, the compass indicated otherwise. After much discussion, we decided to follow the compass and headed due north, while the others headed northeast. Sometimes it is better to be wrong together than right apart.

  As darkness settled over the land, Joe and I staggered toward the peninsula, farther and farther from the others. We tried to step from tuft of grass to tuft of grass again to avoid the frozen puddles that had collected everywhere, unable to drain into the glacial till because of the permafrost a few inches below the surface, but we frequently broke through the ice into the frigid water beneath it. There was no moon that night, but the sky was clear, and stars sparkled from horizon to horizon as the temperature dropped. We decided to spread out in the dark in order to improve our chance of locating the others, although, unknowingly, we had already passed their camp. Exhausted, cold, hungry, and now alone, I stumbled toward the lake.

  I had learned to fear the sky during the blizzard that had nearly killed Peter and me. I had learned to fear the river when we had been carried over the falls; now I feared the land in its very vastness. The Barrens are the largest uninhabited wilderness in the northern hemisphere. There was no moon out. The star-filled sky extended in
finitely, all so large, and I, alone in the starlit darkness, was so small. I tripped on a tuft of grass, fell, and broke through the ice of another puddle. The wanigan, filled with frozen clothes, fell on top of me. I lay still on the tundra.

  Meanwhile, as they approached the lake, that low, now-closer hill appeared to Skip, Bruce, and Pete more and more like a hill and not the peninsula we had been aiming for. Realizing the mistake, they had put down their loads and returned to the height of land to look for Joe and me. Not finding us, they picked up the packs we had left on our first portage and returned to the canoes, where they set up camp.

  While Bruce cooked dinner, Skip and Pete spread out to the west in search of Joe and me, keeping in contact by calling out every few minutes. Eventually Joe heard their voices and was now calling out to me. Lying there on the frozen ground, I did not think I had the strength to get to my feet until I heard his voice.

  The more afraid I became of this vast wilderness, the more thankful I was for the presence of the others. This was the second time I had been wakened from my sleep of death by a voice calling out to me. My gratitude was unbounded.

  Eventually Joe, Skip, Pete, and I staggered together into camp. Bruce had a fire going and had cooked up the remaining half of Peter’s fish in a delicious curry soup. We sat by the fire passing the tin can around and saying little while the northern lights danced through the clear Arctic sky above our heads.

  CHAPTER 23

  Inuit

  I saw you looming up afar, and I am dying of hunger. Now that you have come, my hunger is gone.

  —KALAHARI BUSHMAN TRADITIONAL GREETING

  The farther from land we paddled, the larger the waves grew, and the more frightened I became. The green canoe carrying Skip, Bruce, and Joe had disappeared. As darkness settled, I did not expect to see another dawn.

  Earlier that afternoon, we had completed the portage to the southern shore of Aberdeen Lake. We had scoured the far horizon but could see no sign of land north across the lake. A strong offshore wind was blowing spume off the whitecaps. We had hesitated, but, being more afraid of starving than of drowning, we embarked for a long and dangerous crossing.

  In darkness, the canoe was lifted to the crest of each wave, then settled into the trough, up and down, up and down … Rocked in the arms of God, hour after hour, my fear receded, and I surrendered to the elements, almost falling asleep at the paddle, even when suddenly I became aware of the sound of waves breaking on land. We could see little, but our impression of being near land was confirmed when we felt ourselves lifted high before being dropped precipitously into the foaming surf. Another wave rolled out of the darkness and broke over us. Peter and I tumbled into the water, clutched at packs in the dark, and then staggered up a sandy beach to dry land. Laughing with joy we hauled the canoe to safety. We had made it across Aberdeen Lake and soon discovered our companions, also safely arrived, not far down the beach.

  On rising in the morning, my feet crunched over ice-coated moss as first light welcomed me into the beauty of the dawn. Low clouds burned crimson across the eastern sky, but while building the breakfast fire, I became aware of an ominous darkness shrouding the western horizon.

  I laid the fire carefully, dry tinder on a crumpled square of paper, the tips of three tarp poles pointing with the wind, a fourth and fifth laid across them to focus the draft under the tin can that served as our pot. We had lost our stove in the falls and there was no driftwood about, but Art had provided well for us with those long black spruce poles that may have been annoying underfoot but now burned briskly.

  This was the day of the autumnal equinox. Far to the south of us, the sun circled the equator. A quarter-year earlier, at the time of the summer solstice, as the sun had reached its northernmost limit, we had set off on our adventure. Day in, day out, week in, week out, month in, month out, while the sun crept quietly to the south, we had continued north. The view to the north now was of the sky being swallowed by a blizzard’s blackness. Around us, everything was still. Not a breath of air stirred.

  “Red sky at night, sailors delight. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.”

  One by one the others emerged from the tents, looked at the sky, and were silent. After breakfast, for which Bruce had thrown a meager portion of moldy oatmeal into the can, we debated the wisdom of making haste down the lake while the water was calm rather than spending the morning fortifying the camp.

  For lack of food, there was little discussion. We struck the tents, packed the canoes, and headed east into the flaming sky.

  Because the sun remained low, illuminating the bottoms of the crystalline clouds high in the eastern sky, the symphony of color continued to play all morning long. We paddled strongly down the lake, keeping one eye on the shore for safe refuge, the other on the concert of color playing off ice crystals high in the sky. Through the beauty of the land, the water, and the sky, my fear of the blizzard was transformed into awe.

  Quickly come,

  Soon be done.

  Long foretold,

  Be brave and bold.

  The storm was long foretold. We continued cautiously down the lake, keeping an eye on the sky all around. The quiet ballet of warm and cold fronts danced all day. Through blue holes in the lower strata I could see wispy cirrus clouds sparkling like diamonds in the golden light of the southern sun. Closer to the ground, the darker clouds burned against the azure horizon. We paddled toward that distant horizon, never able to reach it physically but being continually transformed by it spiritually. We paddled more slowly. I wondered whether we had already arrived at our destination.

  Toward evening, we felt the current drawing us out of the lake into fast water; our paddle strokes quickened to keep pace with the tumultuous river until something on the left shore caught our eye: small furry creatures walking about on their hind legs.

  “I think they’re people!” Joe exclaimed in disbelief. Three months had passed since we had seen another human being, but, indeed, these were children, dressed from head to toe in caribou fur, playing on the tundra.

  When we landed, a woman, also dressed completely in fur, emerged from a tent. We stayed by the canoes, so as not to overwhelm her, while Skip walked slowly up the bank, pronouncing reassuring words in English, none of which she seemed to understand. Her children gathered close about her caribou-clad legs for protection. She too was frightened. There were no men around. Was it we who needed rescuing, or her? The only thing we were certain of was that she was more frightened of us than we were of her, so we left and paddled across the narrows to the opposite shore, set up camp, built a stone wall against the impending storm, and then cooked up the last of the dehydrated carrots for dinner.

  During our meal, we heard the sound of a motor, and a boat suddenly appeared from around the bend. When he saw us, the Inuit hunter turned sharply toward shore and landed. Three boys and a dead caribou were in the boat with him. They were smiling broadly. We invited them to share some dehydrated carrots with us, which Bruce had cooked directly in the tin can they had been packed in, and from which we were now eating, using the lid as a spoon.

  The Inuit shared this spare meal with us with polite smiles. They rubbed their bellies as if it were the best meal they had ever eaten, but they could not all bring themselves to swallow the carrots. Finally the hunter, cheeks bulging, disappeared behind a rock and when he returned he was still smiling broadly and rubbing his belly, but his cheeks were no longer bulging with carrots. He sat down again.

  Before we had finished eating, the Inuit hunter pointed to the sky and suddenly stood up; the boys followed, and in a moment they were gone.

  All was silent. Camp seemed empty without them, as if they had never been there, and we were left to face the storm, which raged all night, alone again.

  The following day, as the blizzard blew itself out, we lay low in our tents and slept, for lack of food. Toward evening, I heard strange sounds through the whistling of the wind.

  “Is that you, George?�
�� Skip asked from the other tent.

  “No. I thought it was you.” I poked my head out and discovered our new friend, the Inuit hunter.

  “Tea? Canoe?” I was puzzled. I thought perhaps that he wanted some tea, or to borrow a canoe. My companions shortly emerged, but all were just as puzzled.

  “Tea? Canoe?” the Inuit hunter asked again.

  We decided hopefully that he was inviting us to tea at his place. We picked up our canoes and began to carry them toward the water, but were stopped when the hunter placed his hand firmly on the bow of the green canoe and pressed it down.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” he said. His command of English was limited and ours of Inuktitut nonexistent. He began to walk away, and we stood by our tents in despair until he turned and beckoned us to follow.

  We found other Inuit men standing around behind some rocks on the beach and heard the distinct roar of a kerosene stove coming from behind a curtain. The hunter handed us chipped enamel cups and then reached through the curtain and brought forth a pot of boiling tea. We were very grateful to warm our bellies with hot tea, but we could not help but notice that there was also a large pot filled with caribou steaks steaming on the rocks nearby.

  The hunter caught us eyeing them, reached in, and handed them around. We wolfed them down. I do not know if they had been planning to join us, but when they saw how hungrily we ate them, they held back and left us all the steaks.

  When the pot was empty of meat and our tea finished, the hunter offered us the fatty broth the steaks had been boiled up in. We shook our heads politely. He offered it a second time, and when we again refused—knowing that they, like us, valued the fat more than the meat—he poured a tiny bit out onto the ground. We all leaped forward to save it. They laughed and filled our teacups with it and then indicated through gestures that we were more like Inuit than white men. We laughed happily, for they could not have paid us a deeper compliment.