by Adam Shoalts
In the middle of all this surveying from high above on the ridge, I did pause and think to myself that the vast panorama of open tundra and crashing water looked remarkably beautiful from afar. Scrutinizing the landscape, I began to wonder how I could shorten the lengthy, difficult portage.
It appeared that if I could manage to cross the river above the falls to the far side, its mostly flat rocks would mean a much shorter and easier portage than having to climb the steep ridge on this side. But given the rapids and especially the powerful wind gusts, to cross the river would be tricky. I’d have to haul my canoe back upriver some ways to be safe, then cut across with hard paddling against the combined force of the wind and current to the far shore. Still, this extra effort seemed worth it, as the portage promised to be much easier on the opposite side.
So I returned to my canoe, splashed back down into the river, and towed it to what seemed like a safe distance up from the thundering cataracts. The wind was still howling, making it hard to hear much of anything between wind and falls. I took a deep breath, pushed my canoe away from shore, leapt in, and began paddling across. Wind gusts almost immediately drove me diagonally in the direction of the waterfalls, which didn’t seem desirable. But the canoe I actually turned slightly into the current, as if to run the falls, but this I merely did to aid steering, so that the current would help get me across against the wind.
I aimed the bow as close as I dared toward where the cascading water began. Several strong strokes brought me to the rocky shore, safely above the start of the turbulent water. I hopped out, grabbing hold of the gunwales as I did so to keep the wind from tearing the canoe away.
A short hike convinced me that the portage was indeed relatively easy. Past the flat rock was just a steep, somewhat tricky climb over boulders and ledges to get back to the water’s edge at the end. The only serious part would be getting the canoe across. I couldn’t drag it over the rocks, and carrying it over my head in the gusting wind promised to be difficult. But there was no other way.
I waited for a break in the howling gusts, then quickly lifted the canoe and tossed it over my head. Gripping the gunwales as tightly as I could, I started moving over the rocks. The wind was blowing across my path from the southwest, which meant hitting the canoe broadside. When the really powerful gusts came I’d totter, but rather than trying to stand against the gusts I’d allow them to pivot me. Since I couldn’t hope to hold the canoe against them without falling, I’d just spin with the wind so that the canoe was aerodynamic—the stern end facing into the wind. Then, in the relative lull between gusts, I could safely continue. I climbed down the rocks with the canoe over my head, but when I reached the last steep bit I had to set it down. This final stretch was too steep to climb in the wind with the canoe over my head, so I half-carried it, half-pushed it down the rocks.
Immediately ahead lay more small rapids and boulder fields to canoe through. In calm weather they’d be fun to plunge through; in the high winds, a bit of a nightmare. Still, I pushed off into the current, paddling as well as I was able and choosing the widest, deepest spots between the protruding rocks in the rushing waters to snake through. The last thing I wanted was for the wind to hurl the canoe into a big rock, capsizing and pinning it there as the current flooded it. When you see destroyed canoes along rapids (certain popular paddling rivers have veritable graveyards of them), that’s normally what did them in—becoming pinned on rocks where they get bent round like horseshoes by the tremendous force of the water. The ruined, abandoned canoe I’d seen along the Coppermine had been such a case.
When I got through these obstacles, the river brought me to a rectangular-shaped lake not quite eleven kilometres long and about three or four kilometres wide. Along its southern shores was a long escarpment, or ridge; if not for the winds, I would have admired it. As it was, the gusting wind, which was bad enough on a closed-in, narrow river, was almost impossible on a long lake. To cross it, ideally I needed to be on the south shore, where I’d be more sheltered from the prevailing winds by the hills. The problem was the river flowed into the northern part of the lake, and to get over to the south shore would mean paddling into headwinds for some three kilometres, an impossible prospect. So I had no choice but to try the exposed north shore, where the full force of the wind, sweeping across the open water, would be hitting the canoe almost broadside.
With hard, furious paddle strokes I drove the canoe slowly forward, all the while carefully navigating the waves, the bow riding over them as they rolled into shore. Progress was slow, and I kept thinking that it was only August 11 and that the really powerful winds hadn’t even arrived yet. Worse, this was just a small lake—ahead lay two vastly larger ones that I’d have to cross, and still others beyond that.
As I continued deeper into the lake, waves began to spill into the canoe, lapping against its side with a thud and splashing up into the air, some of the water landing on my gear and soaking it. My heart sank: to push on in these waves was to risk swamping. I’d have to head to shore.
Cautiously I turned the canoe with the waves, paddling into a grassy peninsula to wait things out. On shore, I tried to make myself as comfortable as possible, telling myself this would be a temporary delay, and that getting windbound for an afternoon, even several days, was to be fully expected on the arctic tundra. But try as I may, I found it difficult to relax with the wind roaring. I couldn’t help fretting over what this wind boded for the weeks ahead. Time was critical. I had to do alone, in deteriorating weather, what it had taken those two paddlers longer to accomplish earlier in the season twenty years earlier. Right now it was difficult to see how that was possible, given I was sitting on shore rather than canoeing, staring at frightful waves.
There was some slight consolation nearby when I noticed earth and rocks had been dug up in five or six places—these, I knew, were from a grizzly digging up the burrows of arctic ground squirrels. Those adorable little squirrels are the favourite hors d’oeuvre of the arctic grizzly. Two and a half centuries ago, the explorer Samuel Hearne, who wandered on foot across much of the barrens that I was now passing over, described his astonishment at the size of the rocks the grizzlies were able to lift out of the way in their quest to dig up ground squirrels. The bear’s sheer strength is indeed astonishing, and getting to inspect the evidence of it helped keep me occupied while the wind roared.
Several hours elapsed with me still sitting on shore, the wind howling away while I ate cloudberries and lingonberries. Finally, wind or no wind, I resolved to relaunch my canoe and push on. I was just too anxious to wait any longer.
On the theory that confidence is half the battle, I decided to give myself a little bit of a morale boost by first portaging my canoe and gear across the narrow peninsula I’d come to shore on. By portaging across it, that would let me relaunch the canoe into the water on the lee side of the peninsula, sheltering me from the worst of the wind and waves. Of course, I’d have to face the wind and those waves soon enough, but this would at least allow me to ease into them, rather than starting off with the most difficult and hazardous part, which would be trying to round the tip of the peninsula in the waves. By portaging, I’d avoid that. With an action plan in place I immediately felt better. Frequently I find that there’s nothing worse than indecision, and that any plan is better than sitting idle and letting worry eat away at you. Feeling better I completed the portage quickly, as I now felt I had an extra spring in my step from the rest. I was prepared to give it my all.
The canoe I pushed into the water, then I jumped in, paddling hard. Sheltered behind the peninsula, things were much easier starting off, and I built up some speed and confidence. Within a few minutes I was once more facing the wrath of the waves. The first ones splashed against my bow, spilling a little water in. But I steered my canoe carefully, angling into the waves, avoiding any more of them lapping into the canoe.
Some canoeists favour spray covers—a modern innovation that in effect transforms an open canoe into a closed-in
kayak by putting a cover across the boat. This prevents water from lapping in when in big waves. I find them useful for downriver trips, or on lakes, without much portaging. But I dislike spray covers for more complex journeys, when anything extra is a pain on a portage, and the covers have to be removed and put back on each time you need to lift the canoe or switch to poling. More than that, on extended journeys, when long days of twelve-hour travelling are the norm, I like to be able to access my cameras, food, maps, and anything else I need easily and fast, which a cover can prevent. A cover can also be potentially dangerous if it lulls the paddler into a false sense of security, making them risk bigger waves alone than would be prudent. I figure if you can’t handle the waves in an open canoe, you probably shouldn’t be risking them at all. Last but not least, if my canoe were to swamp or tip, I don’t want a spray cover obstructing or entangling me—I want to be able to swim free. I also need my gear to be able to fall out, as if my canoe were pinned in the middle of a rapid, alone there would be scant hope of recovering it. But by allowing my barrels and pack to float free, I have a better chance of retrieving them downriver.
Several hours of hard paddling brought me across the lake. The trickiest parts were rounding the points that jutted out into the water; here I had to turn into the waves, paddling into headwinds. But after I rounded the peninsulas, then I had the reward of easier paddling on the far side as I cruised back in toward shore.
Once through the lake I passed through some narrow channels, zigzagging around a maze of islands and bays, and into more lakes. By evening the weather had calmed; I pushed on to take advantage of it.
I finally halted for the night at an attractive bit of tundra above a small rocky beach. A blood-red sun cast its fading rays across the water as I made camp. The sight of the red sky gave me hope, as I remembered the old sailor’s proverb: “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight/Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.”
In the morning I’d find out if the rhyme held true.
× 17 ×
IN THE LAND OF THE MUSKOX
The old sailor’s rhyme didn’t disappoint—the morning dawned calm. I was up early to get underway, pushing off for thirteen hours of paddling that saw me cover about seventy kilometres. Around midday the wind increased, blowing from the south and bringing with it a smoky haze—which I knew must be from forest fires still burning somewhere far away.
Under that surreal haze I’d entered into a large expanse of water known as Aylmer Lake. This vast body of water has giant bays radiating off in different directions like a lopsided star, each filled with rocky islands. In the middle of the lake’s southern shore appears a great square-shaped peninsula that is very nearly an island, with only a narrow isthmus joining it to the mainland. This giant almost-island covers about seventy square kilometres, and within its wind-ravaged confines are nearly fifty smaller lakes and ponds, all contained within the larger lake I was crossing.
Besides being merely a curious bit of geography formed by a glacier thousands of years ago, the square almost-island presented a navigational dilemma to me as I canoed across the lake. The lake’s north shore was carved up with very deep bays and long peninsulas that I wished to avoid, and it was also more exposed to the wind and waves. So I’d resolved to take the south shore, which, besides its own share of bays and peninsulas, has that peculiar almost-island joined by the isthmus to the mainland. Paddling around it would add more kilometres to my route. Instead, my plan was to try portaging across the isthmus—if I could pull this off, it’d save a lot of extra time.
The isthmus was only five hundred metres wide, which I calculated would take less time and effort to portage across than the additional paddling to get around it. There was only one slight catch to the plan: I wasn’t sure what the terrain was like across the isthmus, as my maps were too limited to give that kind of detail. If it turned out to be, say, impossibly thick willows, or some other difficult terrain, a portage there might turn out to be more trouble than it was worth. At any rate, once I’d committed to it, there was no going back, as to paddle all the way back around the square peninsula would take nearly five hours, depending on the wind.
Through hazy weather I paddled down a steadily narrowing bay, passing rocks and willows and tundra. When I reached the end I’d come to a little bit of sand, above which rose eroded banks covered in willows, moss, lichens, and other arctic plants. It looked promising. I strapped on my backpack and set off across the pathless tundra.
The plan worked out better than I could have hoped: it proved an easy portage over flat ground that was a bit marshy in places, but otherwise no problem. There was even a pond in the middle to break up the trek, which I paddled across. The only downside was that the wind had faded, allowing an unbelievable number of blackflies to viciously attack my neck, wrists, face, and anywhere else they could get at.
While the flies were swarming me, there was something else I noticed while making the multiple trips across the isthmus. The willow shrubs had been grazed down; an indication of muskox, and sure enough I found some of their big hooved tracks in the moss. I needed to refill my water bottle, but I was reluctant to do it anywhere near where herds of muskox were about. Months of drinking untreated water had so far had no ill effect on me. Consuming as I did lots of water every day, I’d long since ceased to worry about it.
However, given the signs of muskox in the area, I decided to play it safe and wait until I made camp, when I could boil up several pots of water to purify it. It had been a long, hard day, and by the time I’d finished the portage, riddled with blackfly bites, I was eager to halt for the night. My camp, too, I selected with more than usual care. While the tracks indicated there were muskox about, by this point in my various arctic wanderings I’d seen over a hundred of them, and they didn’t seem like anything more than gentle giants. The only trouble one had ever given me was the big bull that had woken me up a couple months earlier on the Mackenzie River. And even that big bull had run away at the crack of a bear-banger. Still, when I can, I prefer to err on the side of caution. So I decided to make my camp a little less exposed to muskox.
One thing I’d noticed about muskox, from regular run-ins with them, was that they were strangely unobservant. It often seemed they didn’t notice me at all until they were ten feet away; with their head down grazing, they seemed almost dopey, or poor-sighted. Sometimes they would almost stumble into me before noticing my presence.
So, to avoid startling any muskox that might wander by, I decided to make my camp more easily visible. Normally, I was reluctant to sleep on any kind of hill, preferring to camp in low-lying areas to minimize lightning hazards. But, scanning the skies, I saw no hint of thunderstorms, so I figured I’d put my tent on a small sand hill near the water’s edge. That would make it readily visible, and hopefully help grazing muskox avoid stumbling into it. I also carried my canoe up the hill, flipping it over beside my tent, and I put the two barrels on the other side, to form a sort of perimeter fence. With the brightly coloured barrels, overturned canoe, and a smoky willow fire to help drive off the bugs, I figured the camp was secure.
I crawled into my tent, feeling as comfortable as I’d been in days, and soon drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Probably the most horrifying noise I’ve ever heard was the one that awoke me around four a.m. sleeping on that sand hill. A thundering half-roar, half-snort erupted from immediately outside my tent, jarring me wide awake. I knew there was only one animal that could have made such a powerful snort: a muskox. I’d heard bulls bellow in farmer’s fields before, but compared to the snorting roar outside my tent, those bulls sounded like mere frogs.
Still, I wasn’t too alarmed. I’d been sleeping alone in the wilderness for months, and I’d seen little to make me think muskox were aggressive. So I unzipped the tent door a few inches to peek out, expecting to see a muskox gently grazing on the tundra, its back to me.
Only that’s not what I saw. Instead, through the unzipped opening, I
saw a huge muskox ten feet away, horns curved, nostrils flaring, glaring with its huge eyes right at my tent.
Now, if you’ve read survival manuals, you’ll know they’ll often say never make eye contact with a big wild animal, because that’s apparently triggering something in its brain to see you as challenging its dominance and will supposedly encourage it to respond aggressively.
But I’m not sure how you’re supposed to avoid making eye contact when you just peep out through a crack in a tent door and you see glaring right back at you a giant muskox. The big muskox suddenly snorted again and pawed at the ground, taking up what looked unmistakably like an attack pose. In response, I quickly zipped up the tent.
Unfortunately, it didn’t seem at all structurally possible that the tent door would withstand a muskox charge. So I looked frantically around my tent for some means of protection. There was no way I was going to fire off a bear banger, not with the beast that close. Nor did it seem wise to attempt using bear spray on a muskox of such enormous proportions.
My eyes scanned the tent for anything that might be of help. Then I saw my lifejacket, half-buried under my spare clothes as an extra pillow. “Ah ha!” I thought, and snatched up the lifejacket. Hurriedly I threw it on and zipped it up. “Now I’ve at least got some padding on my body,” I thought to myself. “If the muskox charges into my tent and tramples it, this padding will help shield me.”
Of course, the rational side of my brain was immediately dismissing this as nonsense that wouldn’t do any good to protect me from a half-ton creature trampling over my internal organs. But just now, I was disinclined to listen to that side of my brain, and instead let the non-rational side have its say.
