Beyond the Trees

by Adam Shoalts

  The river snaked through numerous islands, presenting a choice of channels to take. I generally stuck to the east. For my first several days along it, the Thelon flowed in a northerly course before trending eastward then north again. That second night, as I was making camp, I was delighted to find a perfectly shaped slab of rock: it served as a wonderful kitchen table. Cooking with my stove was easier, and the rock table allowed me to spread my things out nicely. It was as fine a table as I’d ever seen.

  The winds, however, soon returned. A misty morning the following day turned into a blustery afternoon, with roaring headwinds that eliminated any sense of travelling downriver. Instead I had to paddle with all my strength just to make progress. The wind was so bad that it actually created reverse whitecaps in the river, a bizarre experience that required me to run rapids kindled solely by the wind. The canoe’s bow crashed over them, cresting into the air before plowing back down into the waves.

  Back in 1927 the Thelon was the scene of a famous tragedy. An eccentric trapper from an upper-class background named Jack Hornby had made plans to canoe the Thelon and overwinter there. Hornby was a veteran of the Western Front’s trenches and seemed almost to have a death wish, confessing as much in some of his letters. The year before, while portaging through a canyon on the Hanbury River, he was nearly killed by a landslide. And now he was ignoring conventional wisdom by seeking to overwinter on the isolated Thelon rather than in the more hospitable forested lands to the southwest, where other trappers made their cabins.

  There’s a notable grove of spruces on the Thelon’s bank, a natural oasis where black spruce are able to take root, surrounded by windswept plains in all directions. It was this grove where Hornby planned to survive the harsh winter. With him were two companions: another war veteran, twenty-seven-year-old Harold Adlard, and Hornby’s eighteen-year-old nephew, Edgar Christian.

  The record of what befell them is told through the faded pages of Christian’s diary, which was discovered years later stashed away in their crude cabin’s iron stove. The trio canoed north through Great Slave Lake, eventually arriving at the remote spruce grove on the Thelon. Here, in the fall of 1926, they built a small cabin. They planned to survive the winter on caribou and anything else they could hunt or trap—a dangerous plan, since living off the land usually requires a nomadic lifestyle in order to follow the caribou herds. But unlike most trappers, the three didn’t have a dogsled team, and as a result were tethered to a small radius around their cabin.

  By April they were mere skeletal figures, surviving off scraps of hide and discarded bones they dug up in the snow from their earlier hunts. By April 10 Hornby, the only one with much experience in the North, was dead from starvation. The others, too weak to do anything else, wrapped his body in blankets and left it just outside the cabin door. Eighteen days later, Adlard followed Hornby’s fate. Christian continued to struggle on, living off bones and hides. Then he made his final, half-coherent diary entry: “June 1st, Got out too weak and all in now. Left Things Late.” He died in the cabin.

  A year later, in the summer of 1928, a four-person prospecting party was exploring the Thelon by canoe when they spotted the crude cabin set back from the river’s edge. One member of the party, Ken Dewar, a McGill University graduate student, recalled what happened next: “There was no immediate signs of life and the place looked as though it had been deserted for some time…To the right of the cabin door were two objects all wrapped up, lying on the ground…From the shape they appeared to be skeletons…There was one way to be sure of this so I took a knife and made a slit in both objects and revealed the two skulls. They had been dead a long time.”

  Next Dewar and his three companions entered the musty cabin. It appeared deserted, but with the crack of light from the doorway Dewar went over to the bunks. He recalled: “The right-hand bunk appeared to have something under the blanket so I gave the blanket a slight pull…the bones of two feet fell off the foot of the bunk and the skull rolled off to the side.” The bones terrified the men. “When the bones fell off the bed we were of one mind: Let’s get the hell out of here.” They set off paddling downriver, putting as many miles between themselves and the haunted cabin as they could.

  Not until the following year did a party of RCMP officers, after months of canoeing from Great Slave Lake, arrive at the isolated site. The officers found the skeletons and buried them in shallow graves beside the cabin. Inside, the officers noted something Dewar’s group had missed: on top of the cast-iron stove was a scrap of paper with the weak, faintly scrawled words “WHO…LOOK IN STOVE.” This turned out to be, apparently, a dying note from young Christian. Inside the stove the officers found his diary telling the tragic tale.

  * * *

  I didn’t have time to stop and investigate the remnants of the cabin or the graves, although I liked the idea that their ghosts still haunted the grove. My thoughts were on the fierce winds and the notoriously stormy lakes of large size that lay toward the end of the Thelon’s course that I’d have to get through.

  On August 25 I put in a thirteen-hour day of paddling, passing many sandy beaches and one giant island, all while battling headwinds and side winds. In the afternoon the wind shifted in my favour, and for one glorious hour I actually sailed, flying along at great speed. The wind soon shifted though, and back I went to paddling. But the sail had certainly cheered me.

  But what really excited me was approaching a bend and seeing a lone wolf standing sentinel on a ridge, apparently keeping a watchful eye on me as I paddled along below. This wolf had a creamy, blondish-white coat, differing from the purer white ones I’d become accustomed to seeing. This wolf also seemed more alert and watchful, as if it had encountered humans before. This was probable, since in midsummer the Thelon attracts parties of canoeists who normally get dropped by floatplane somewhere on its upper reaches. In late summer, with the fierce winds and shorter days, few chance paddling it.

  As I finished rounding the bend I saw why the wolf had been keeping an eye out—down below on the willow-covered bank stood four little wolf pups, their mother a few feet away. They all had the same creamy-blond fur as the wolf up on the ridge. When the pups saw me they immediately scattered, diving into some willows. The pups’ reaction had been so swift that it seemed rehearsed, as if their parents had trained them in exactly what to do on any hint of danger. Their mother, meanwhile, was very brave: she came right down to the shore and growled in my direction. I wish I could have told them they had nothing to fear from me. Then she tipped her head back and howled. This brought her mate down from the ridge. The whole performance filled me with awe: I admired how brave and devoted they seemed, putting themselves squarely between the hidden pups and me. As I continued drifting downstream on the current the female wolf actually followed me along the bank, keeping an eye on me, while the father remained with the pups. But then one of the pups squirmed out of the willows and came right out into the open on shore, looking at me curiously as I drifted away.

  Whatever happened in the miles that still lay ahead—fierce winds that might strand me for weeks, swamping in frigid rapids, winter closing in before I could reach the finish line—seemed but a small matter to have seen wolves up close in the wild. Watching that family of wolves had felt almost magical, an experience I knew I would always cherish. It’s the kind of thing that I hope remains possible in a world that leaves fewer and fewer wild places for wolves to roam.

  At camp that night, I tallied up the day’s sightings: a moose, a caribou, two eagles, six wolves, a red fox, a dozen tundra swans, and no humans. That’s what I think anyone would agree is a successful day. To cap it off, I’d paddled for thirteen hours and slept on a beach overlooking the river.

  * * *

  The nights were growing darker, with the sun completely disappearing for four or five hours below the horizon. Signs of the changing season were now everywhere. As I paddled my lonely way downriver, flocks of snow geese passed overhead heading south. The scenery had continued to c
hange, too, with great hills splashed with red, gold, and green as the autumn transformed the land into a colourful quilt.

  But by afternoon the skies had turned dark and dismal, altering the mood of the landscape; with its high ridges and rocky shores, it now seemed a dreary place. The river here was only about three hundred metres wide and enclosed by high gravel banks. Ahead I could hear the roar of whitewater.

  Paddling through the rain, I approached the start of the whitewater in my canoe. They were deep rapids, free of visible rocks, but with big standing waves that could easily swamp a canoe. Naturally I decided to canoe right through them. By this point I had a pretty fair idea of what the boat and I could handle.

  I allowed the main current to suck us down the centre toward the towering whitecapped waves. With my paddle I steered into them. The canoe rode over the crest of the first wave, becoming almost vertical as the bow soared into the open air. Then we plunged into the next wave, throwing frigid water in my face. I exhaled at the shock—there’s nothing like a bucket of ice-cold water smack in the face to wake you up.

  It was an exhilarating roller-coaster ride through these big rapids, the canoe flying up and down as I steered and paddled, with one eye on what lay immediately in front of me and the other on the best course farther ahead.

  When I’d passed through the last of the big waves, I glanced down and saw that my knees were submerged; a considerable amount of water had accumulated inside the canoe from the wild run. A pack of matches sat bobbing in the canoe. Fortunately, I had extras.

  I pivoted toward shore and paddled into a rocky area to unpack everything. Canoes can hold quite a lot of water before they sink, as I knew from past experience fooling around with them in rapids or big waves. Still, I figured it was prudent to dump out the water before continuing, especially since I knew I was nearing the Thelon’s dreaded giant lakes.

  These windswept lakes form a chain more than two hundred kilometres long. They’re known for their treacherous winds and waves. Most parties of canoeists who descend the Thelon opt to arrange a pickup at the start of the lakes by floatplane or even motorboat shuttle, in order to avoid crossing them. Crossing them solo, late in the season with cold temperatures, shorter days, and violent winds, is one of those things in life that many people will tell you are best avoided.

  That 1970s era report I’d photocopied had warned about the dangers of these lakes, noting that even in mid-summer gale-force winds were common. Of course, it was now well beyond mid-summer, so I didn’t have to worry about those mid-summer gales. Instead, I could look forward to the larger gales of September. The report had also warned about the complex web of islands and channels that connects each of the big lakes, and how easy it is to get turned around in these mazes.

  I reached the first of the lakes shortly after passing through the big rapids. This part of my route was also the one I’d studied the least beforehand, devoting most of my memory space to the labyrinthine complexity of the many dozens of lakes in the central portion of my journey. Plus, I figured, if I did make it this far, the thousands of kilometres of travelling up to this point would have prepared me to work things out once I got here.

  As it happened, at the point where I thought I was almost at the first of the big lakes, known as Beverly Lake, the maps on the GPS indicated that the channel I intended to follow was a dead end. This gave me a moment’s pause as I drifted on the current, seated in my canoe, staring at the map. Somehow I thought the map looked wrong: although it claimed this was a dead end, the perceptible current suggested otherwise. I took the shoreline to be not a peninsula but rather a large sandy island. I decided to stick with my gut rather than the maps, and chose to paddle down the allegedly dead-end bay. Four kilometres of paddling later, it was with relief that I came round a bend and saw a vast expanse of frigid water riddled with whitecaps stretching off to the horizon.

  It had been the correct channel after all: the map was wrong. (It might seem surprising that twenty-first-century maps can still have errors on them, but it’s more common than supposed. Not only do sandy channels appear and disappear with the shifting currents and ice melts, but even today human error and educated guesses remain part of the mapmaking process—especially in a place as immense as Canada’s North.)

  Now all I had to do was get across the lake. The wind was blowing hard to the north, so I decided to follow the lake’s rock-strewn south shore. It didn’t offer much protection from the wind, but it was a shorter overall distance, and with dark skies above, I wasn’t sure how far I could make it before conditions ruled out further travel on safety grounds. Given the weather, it was critical that I stay close to shore now; risking any kind of big water crossing was dangerous.

  About twenty kilometres of hard paddling brought me to a great peninsula, beyond which lay a collection of windswept islands. The winds had shifted as I neared the peninsula. To round it promised to be tricky, as I’d have to paddle broadside to the large waves that were crashing into its shore. I debated whether to attempt it now or gamble on better winds come morning.

  What swayed my decision was the sight of thunderclouds massing on the horizon. The high winds would move those clouds quickly in my direction. With the fierce winds and coming storm, I needed to make camp—the peninsula would have to wait for morning.

  The land sloped up from the lake to level tundra, which seemed aflame with bright red colours that had transformed the leaves of the arctic berries. Among these were dashes of orange and yellow scattered about where the little clumps of dwarf birch had turned out their fall suits. It was all wonderfully beautiful, although the massive storm gathering on the horizon somewhat diverted me from pausing too long to admire it. The good news was the presence of some rocky hills nearby; any bolts of lightning, I hoped, would strike these and not my tent poles.

  However, for once the billowing winds turned out to be friendly, and to my great relief they blew the thunderstorm right past my tent, narrowly missing me. I watched it drift rapidly by over the lake. Rain and winds remained, but these I could handle as I huddled inside my tent for the night, warm and dry.

  * * *

  I woke to the tent shaking in high winds and heavy rain. I shivered in the cold as I sat up. I’d taken to sleeping in my warm jacket again, with the hood zipped up. I peeked out through the door: the lake looked angry, with whitecaps ravaging it.

  “Well,” I said to the tent, “I guess we’ll just sleep a bit longer until this blows over.”

  That didn’t pan out the way I’d hoped. An hour later the rain had only turned heavier, and the winds stronger. The combination of the two allowed water to start pooling inside my tent. So I packed everything up, and just crouched near the door, staring at the storm, waiting for any break. I grew anxious about my prospects; I thought of those accounts of canoeists stranded for weeks.

  Time was critical. But there was no way the peninsula could be rounded in such fierce winds and stormy weather. So I decided to set off on foot and scout things out, to see if I could formulate some alternate plan. A kilometre hike brought me across the hilly peninsula to the far side: the wind was still fierce here, but the lake wasn’t nearly as exposed and so the waves weren’t as much of a factor. I concluded that if I could portage everything here I’d be able to continue paddling into the narrow maze leading to the next body of water, Aberdeen Lake. At this point, I’d hoped that all my portaging would be behind me, but with fall canoeing in the arctic I had to accept such unconventional approaches to things as the only way I was ever going to reach Baker Lake before winter.

  Back at camp my tent was getting drenched; I packed it up in the rain and wind. There was no denying how miserable it was trekking with my first load for nearly a kilometre across steep, hilly terrain, and then down into a swampy valley. My hiking boots were quickly soaked right through. With cold, wet feet, I returned to fetch my next load. (Fortunately, on the way back I did find some cloudberries.)

  Transporting all the loads up the steep hills a
nd across willow thickets and swampy lowlands to the lakeshore was a little exhausting. But I felt confident my plan would work—fierce as the gusts were, bypassing the open part of the lake should enable me to continue.

  When I had everything across I ate two energy bars, switched out of my drenched boots and socks into some dry ones and my waders, then set off paddling hard.

  The wind was brutally fierce, but if I could overcome it for just a short distance I’d be able to escape into the maze of islands, which would shelter me from the waves. That island maze snaked for over forty-two kilometres before reaching Aberdeen Lake.

  Finally, once inside the islands, I found I could mostly paddle—except in those places where the twisting, confusing channels faced into the wind. Here the powerful gusts proved too much. Then I had no choice but to set my paddle aside, step overboard into the shallows near shore, and drag the canoe with rope.

  The navigating here was among the most challenging I’d encountered anywhere on my journey. The islands all kind of blended into each other, concealing passageways between them; to find my way I relied as much on detecting the current as I did on reading my maps. Yet when the wind gusted, the current could be hard to detect. I once found myself heading down a side channel only to discover that the headwinds had hidden the flow’s real direction. I’d almost gone up a false passage—one that would have taken me into the mouth of an altogether different river, the Dubawnt. However, when I saw the current clearly, I realized my mistake, and paddled back to the far shore, finding the right passage.

  In the midst of all this wading and dragging I felt my left wader suddenly filling with freezing water. The spruce-gum patch had punctured. There wasn’t anything I could do about it at the moment; no spruce trees were anywhere near here—so I ignored it and kept going. At least my other foot was still dry.