We came on the trip expecting to need our wetsuits for the Third and Fourth canyons, but with this kind of water we needed them for all four. These, together with warm, insulating clothing, were the best we could do if we fell in. Nonetheless, it became plain to us that a victim in the water had little chance of being rescued, unless a guide in a canoe went after him immediately. Trying to ferry yourself across the current while swimming in that frigid water was next to impossible.
I had been well-fed on the trip but still ended up losing 12 pounds. The psychological stress had taken its toll. In fact, the reality of this experience was such that had one more thing gone wrong, we would have been in serious trouble.
While I couldn’t take all the pictures I wanted to, I did achieve my primary goal of experiencing the Nahanni. I got to see the magnificence of Virginia Falls, the legendary valleys and the stark beauty of the many canyons. But never was I so glad to return home from a vacation.
Here are a few interesting facts, that I would like to share with you, about the Nahanni National Park Reserve:
It is one of the largest parks in the world.
Virginia Falls is nearly twice the height of Niagara Falls.
In 1908, the disappearance of two prospecting brothers in the Nahanni Valley, and the subsequent finding of their headless bodies, resulted in place names such as Headless Creek and Deadmen Valley.
Prime Minister Pierre Elliot Trudeau championed the formation of Nahanni National Park Reserve after paddling the river in 1970.
—by John G. Attridge, Hamilton, Ontario
Climb Every Mountain
Conquering these rugged peaks gave this newcomer to Canada confidence, strength and purpose
In early 2010, wheezing from the exertion of carrying my two 30-pound suitcases—which contained all of my worldly possessions at that time—up a couple of flights of stairs, I walked into my new home in Squamish, British Columbia. Arriving here from Ireland, my bulky frame weighed more than 300 pounds from many years of being sedentary. Now, as I stared out at the snow-capped mountains rising up around me, the sight of them filled a hole inside me I’d been unaware of before. Although I had not come to this place with an interest in mountains, I was suddenly bitten with the desire to touch those shining summits.
Living in Ireland, I did not grow up in a culture of athleticism. I was never very coordinated, so any team sports I tried I usually failed at. The circle of friends I kept would kick a ball around on a Sunday and then follow it up with a trip to the pub to gain back any calories expended. No physical exercise would occur again until the next Sunday, and if it was raining too hard, which it frequently does in Ireland, we’d skip soccer and head straight to the pub.
Eventually, through a poor diet and a complete lack of exercise, I looked down at the scale and realized I’d passed the maximum weight of 280 pounds on it. I stopped weighing myself after that, ashamed at the thought of having to buy a scale with larger numbers.
After the Irish recession in 2008, though, I got an itch to move somewhere different, as progression in my career stalled. My wife Spring is originally from Alberta and, while living in Ireland, we’d always talked about starting a new life in her home country. On a whim, we decided to move to the small town of Squamish and left Ireland behind.
I can’t explain what changed when I got here. Maybe I’d been idle for too long, but like a siren on the rocks, the wind blowing spray off those high ridges and summits beckoned me. Mountains no longer looked like scenery but rather an arena in which to test myself.
I’d never backpacked before, so I needed to learn about tents and sleeping bags. I’d never climbed before either, so I read about climbing knots and harnesses. Words that I previously had never said aloud, such as “crampon” or “crux,” became a daily part of my lexicon. My thirst to understand how other people were getting to these summits was insatiable.
As I pushed myself higher and further, not even slowing down in winter, I finally realized what my talent was. I could suffer longer than others around me. I could endure the cold; I could endure the sleepless nights inside a tent being beaten by the wind; I could smile while being swarmed by clouds of mosquitoes as I pushed through the dense rainforest of British Columbia—and I could get up and do it all again the next day. I didn’t need a couple of weeks’ rest to forget the tortures that led to reaching that summit. I could always see the next summit rising up behind the one I was currently reaching.
It is said that the mountains have gifts for those who wrestle with them and I believe this is true. The mountains have taken my self-doubt and over 130 pounds off of my body; in return, they’ve given me confidence, strength and purpose. While there, I found a passion for photography and writing, and for that I will be eternally grateful. As author John Muir once said: “Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.”
—by Leigh McClurg, Garibaldi Highlands, British Columbia
The Yukon Is Gold
It’s the best of times—even in the coldest climes
The Yukon? In March? Isn’t it still winter up there at that time of year?” I smiled at my friend and nodded my head. When our “Wild Women of the Yukon” group first suggested holding our annual reunion back in Dawson City, I balked a bit at the idea of heading north when most people head for sunnier climes. But it turned out to be the best of all times.
March is the month when the sun returns in the Yukon. After the long, grey days of winter, everyone smiles as the warmth of the sun increases. In Dawson, water drips from log cabin roofs, the streets get a bit muddy and the locals start speculating on when the ice in the Yukon River will begin to crack. People are eager to be out and about, but the summer tourist season is still just a thought in the back of the mind. Some shops are opening their doors, getting ready for the season ahead, and often prices are good, as they are clearing out last year’s stock.
We had come back to Dawson to celebrate the tenth anniversary of our annual Wild Women reunion and to help a few friends celebrate a milestone birthday. Usually there are six of us who get together once a year to renew our friendship and talk about those “old Dawson days.” We first met in the small northern community in the early 1970s and have remained tied together by those memories, the kind that solidify friendships into lifelong relationships.
But this time, there were more than six of us. We joined friends who still live in Dawson, and invited a few from Whitehorse as well. The numbers grew to the point where we had to find an alternate place to host the birthday party. When the time came, we packed a local establishment, presented a handmade quilt to one of the birthday girls and feasted on a variety of dishes supplied by our Dawson friends, including a huge and very delicious birthday cake.
The party didn’t stop there, however, as we were invited out for dinner every night or met friends at local eateries and continued to present gifts to those hitting that significant milestone. The week flew by, filled with hugs and kisses and the often-heard expression, “Do you remember when…?”
We even managed to squeeze in a trip up the Dempster Highway as far as the Tombstone Valley. Layered in warm clothing, we lit a campfire at the campground, feasted again on everything from moose jerky to fresh oranges, and then drove to the summit to take in the view. There is nothing as stunning as a clear Yukon sky with the gleaming, snow-covered mountains reaching out to it. The Tombstone Valley in March is a beautiful sight to behold. A special bonus was spotting two lynx as we journeyed back down the highway.
All too soon, it was time to say goodbye to Dawson and its people and make the six-hour drive back to Whitehorse and our flights home. We chatted easily as we drove, already filing away more memories that would last until our next get together. Dawson in March? Oh, yes. I recommend it!
Here are a few interesting facts about Dawson City:
Dawson City gets about 5.5 hours of daylight in January, and about 21.5 in June.
The Yukon encompasses 483,450 square kilometres—more than the Netherlan
ds, Belgium, Denmark and Germany combined.
Dawson City’s population grew to nearly 40,000 during the Klondike Gold Rush in the 1890s but fell to about 5,000 by the time it was incorporated in 1902. About 1,300 people now call it home.
Dawson City is named for Canadian geologist George Mercer Dawson. “Yukon” comes from the Gwich’in word Yuk-un-ah, meaning “Great River.”
The Yukon boasts three national parks—Ivvavik, Kluane and Vuntut—as well as numerous National Historic Sites.
—by Marcia Lee Laycock, Blackfalds, Alberta
Life in Igloolik
Impressed by the people of the North
In 2007, we took another of our numerous trips north of 60. This time, we went to a small hamlet on the edge of Foxe Basin called Igloolik. This area has a history that dates back 4,000 years. We were interested in seeing the wildlife, such as birds, walruses, whales and hopefully a polar bear. We were well-rewarded thanks to two Inuit guides, Manasi and Lainiki. A komatik (sled), pulled by a snowmobile rather than a dog team, took us to the ice edge, where the guides were waiting with modern boats to take us wildlife viewing.
While we loved seeing the amazing wildlife, we also met and learned much about the local people and culture. In winter, the residents of Igloolik live in southern-style homes with conveniences such as TV, microwaves, dishwashers and computers. In summer, however, some abandon all this and head to the edge of the ice at Igloolik Point to live in the traditional Inuit way with no power, phones or plumbing. We were camped beside these people and had a first-hand experience of their way of life.
The family we grew to know consisted of five generations: Rachael (106 years old), Atoa (72), Tam (38), Daniel (25) and Neil (three). Four family members lived in one tent, which consisted of a sleeping platform and cooking area. A kudlik (oil lamp), usually carved from soapstone, filled with seal oil and a wick of arctic cotton, gives warmth and light and is used to boil water for cooking. The wick is attended to constantly to avoid it burning too high. If this happened inside an igloo, it would melt the inside, causing it to ice over and transmit the outside cold in.
We watched Atoa sewing a new tent with a hand-crank sewing machine and repairing her other grandson Nathan’s shoes. She also prepared the hide of a second seal using an ulu to scrape the fat off. It was then scrubbed many times to get rid of the grease and then stretched to dry. The finished product would be used to make mitts for Nathan. Rachael was busy cutting and cleaning the meat, saving the oil for the kudlik. She also made a duster from the feathers of the goose that had been cooked for dinner.
Bill and I played many games of double solitaire on Sunday, sitting in the tent with our legs straight out. Atoa didn’t go to church that Sunday, even though she is a lay minister in the Anglican church. Her mother, Rachael, sat humming and singing hymns in Inuktitut. We all got along fine, even though we spoke different languages.
When we were taken to the airport at the end of our stay, we went early because Brad, Tam’s partner, had to meet the plane to get groceries and deliver them to Northern Store. This, we learned, is fairly typical of the North, where people often have two or three jobs.
We will always remember the warmth, friendliness and hospitality we experienced from these people. It was so kind of Tam and Brad, our official hosts, to share their family with us.
—by Joan Prunkl, Edmonton, Alberta
Beauty and the Barrens
Canoeing unnamed Arctic rivers and trekking the treeline tundra
Superlatives are inadequate. The Barren Lands (also called Barren Grounds) of the Canadian Arctic that I visited in the late summer of 2014 are inadequately described with words and photographs. Nonetheless, I wish to piece some phrases together and convey a glimpse into the magnificence of this pristine place.
David, my companion in all things important for 40 years, had an unfulfilled yearning to canoe the Arctic waters explored by the likes of Samuel Hearne in 1771. I had no such interest. Agreeing to accompany him was one of the better decisions I have made.
The area we flew into with our guide, outfitter and bannock baker extraordinaire Alex Hall, is a spectacular, roadless wilderness that is yet untouched by mineral and petroleum exploration.
We canoed nameless rivers; unbelievable but true that a number of rivers and lakes we travelled have no name. We tented on numerous sandy beaches scattered with caribou antlers. If you like the beaches of Prince Edward Island, you will love the beaches of the central Arctic. Our group has been sworn to secrecy about the precise location of this expedition. Ever since Alex, with his company Canoe Arctic Inc., began flying enthusiasts into this area from Fort Smith in the 1970s, he has never met another traveller. And he wants to keep it that way.
Including Alex, our group consisted of ten adults in five canoes. Lucy from Boston was an outlier age-wise at 31, while the average age for the remainder of us was 65. The journey commenced in Fort Smith, Northwest Territories, where all the gear and my fellow Canoe Arctic adventurers were loaded on three planes bound for our first night of beachfront camping. Alex is the boss and he determines, based on weather factors, if the day is to be spent canoeing or trekking the vast eskers to view wildlife. Over 11 days, our group paddled 100 kilometres. Alex hosts a number of groups every summer. Guests early in the season will be awed with sightings of muskoxen and migrating caribou. Not so awesome at this time are also hordes of pesky insects.
The beasts and bugs were mostly absent during our excursion dates from late August to early September; however, the fall season presents other unique gifts. Autumn happens quickly in the north and the beauty of each day was breathtaking. The land was turning crimson with dwarf birch and bearberry, among other vegetation. This was in dramatic contrast to the silver lichen ground cover. If you love the fall colours of New Brunswick, the Arctic will leave you weak in the knees.
Comparable was the exquisiteness of the night. Countless stars illuminated an endless sky and the aurora borealis is downright dreamy. One night, a red moon was reflected twice in the lake. While unsure of the physics involved, I am sure the image existed, as David saw it, too.
There were other surprises. The water is so pure that you can dip your container into the lake and simply drink. It is so quiet that when the planes arrived to pick up our group, I had to cover my ears. I’m positive they were less loud the week before. There are no bright screens, smart phones, electrical towers or aircraft overhead. Simply a vast expanse of land, small trees hugging the shoreline and lakes upon lakes as far as the eye could see. It is an unreservedly lovely place. After several centuries, explorer Samuel Hearne might conclude that not much has changed.
If you believe that this type of tenting and canoeing is beyond your physical capacity, I can identify with you. Years ago, I did some tenting but always in a civilized campground with bathrooms and rain shelters adjacent to designated parking. Then last year, David and I enrolled in a day of canoeing lessons. Still, knowing Alex had emergency contacts, I believed I would be the first shipped back to Fort Smith!
If you are considering a visit to this majestic Arctic corridor, don’t put it off. Visiting the Canadian Barren Lands is an experience that is seen with the eye, felt in the heart, and permanently settles in the soul.
Here are a few interesting facts about the Barren Lands:
The Barren Lands (or the Barrens) in the Canadian Arctic is a vast, subarctic prairie.
It lies mainly in Nunavut, but it also includes the eastern part of the Northwest Territories, extending west from Hudson Bay to Great Slave and Great Bear lakes, north to the Arctic Ocean and south along the Hudson Bay coastal plain.
Its surface is covered with grass, moss and lichen, interspersed with granitic outcrops. It’s also dotted with countless lakes and streams, many of them unnamed.
Wildlife includes caribou, muskoxen, foxes and bears, while most of the permanent human inhabitants are Inuit people living in the coastal areas.
—by Barbara Leroy, Delta, British Columb
ia
Searching for Wild Bill
The hunt for the legendary mountain man’s secret cabin took years
“I headed downslope below where the cubs were feeding and came up at them, hoping to scare them into one or another of my mining shafts for protection. It worked perfectly, as they ran for the nearest dark hole, and I went in with my ropes on the ready to see if I could catch one. I could hear the little fellows squealing in the dark and I had to pause a moment to let my eyes adjust. Just then I heard a tremendous roar and knew the sow was coming on the run looking for her wayward offspring. It didn’t take her a moment to pick up the scent and she headed straight for the mouth of the shaft, bent on destruction…”
— Entry from Bill Peyto’s mountain journal, “Ain’t It Hell”, May 15, 1910
Anyone who’s ever been to Banff National Park has encountered Bill Peyto, even if they weren’t aware of it. His likeness adorns the “Welcome to Banff” signs that greet visitors as they enter town. The raucous saloon on the corner of Banff Avenue and Caribou Street borrowed his famous moniker for its name: Wild Bill’s. Bill Peyto’s Café, a restaurant in Lake Louise that’s quickly becoming a favourite among locals, also bears his title. He even has a lake, a glacier, a mountain and an Alpine Club of Canada hut named in his honour. The man has reached legendary status in the wilds of Alberta.
Ebenezer William “Bill” Peyto was born in England in 1869 and immigrated to Canada in 1887 at the young age of 18. He eventually made his way to the Rocky Mountains of Alberta, where he proved to be a proficient outfitter and mountaineer. Between enlistments in the Boer War and World War I, Peyto joined the Warden Service, making him one of the first wardens in Banff, which was known as Rocky Mountains Park at that time. He married Emily Wood in 1902 and the birth of their son Robert soon followed. Emily suddenly passed away in 1906, and Robert was sent to live with his mother’s family for a time. Peyto remained with the Warden Service until his retirement in 1934. After retiring, he led a very private life until his death in 1943.
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