Copyright © 2021 by Marlis Butcher
First Edition
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Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada
ISBN 9781771604789 (softcover)
ISBN 9781771604796 (electronic)
All photographs are by Marlis Butcher unless otherwise noted.
Cover photo Aulavik - Muskox (Marlis Butcher)
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We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and of the province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
DISCLAIMER
The actions described in this book may be considered inherently dangerous activities. Individuals undertake these activities at their own risk. The information put forth in this book has been collected from a variety of sources and is not guaranteed to be completely accurate or reliable. Many conditions and some information may change owing to weather and numerous other factors beyond the control of the authors and publishers. Individuals or groups must determine the risks, use their own judgment, and take full responsibility for their actions. Do not depend on any information found in this book for your own personal safety. Your safety depends on your own good judgment based on your skills, education, and experience.
It is up to the users of this book to acquire the necessary skills for safe experiences and to exercise caution in potentially hazardous areas. The authors and publishers of this book accept no responsibility for your actions or the results that occur from another’s actions, choices, or judgments. If you have any doubt as to your safety or your ability to attempt anything described in this book, do not attempt it.
For my parents,
who immigrated to this great country of opportunity to raise their children.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Special thanks to Parks Canada for preserving significant samples of the varied Canadian landscapes and for making these special places available to us. Also to the Indigenous Peoples of this vast land, for teaching me and sharing the splendour.
I thank everyone who had the faith and confidence in me to explore the farthest reaches of this vast country, and to successfully write this book. Specific thanks to fellow adventurers Paul and Sue Gierszewski, John Borley, Carmen Braund and Blake Sparks, who shared the burdens of getting into those really remote parks. Also Sue Neal and Dr. Anna Dowbiggin for helping see my writing through. I also truly appreciated the encouragement from Stefan Kindberg, my sponsor to The Explorers Club, and from Dr. David Galbraith, my sponsor to the Royal Canadian Geographical Society’s College of Fellows.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Preface
Introduction
THE NORTHWEST
1 Aulavik
2 Vuntut
3 Ivvavik
4 Kluane Reserve
5 Qausuittuq
6 Tuktut Nogait
7 Nááts’įhch’oh Reserve
8 Nahanni Reserve
9 Wood Buffalo
10 Thaidene Nëné Reserve
THE WESTERN MOUNTAINS
11 Gwaii Haanas Reserve
12 Pacific Rim Reserve
13 Gulf Islands Reserve
14 Mount Revelstoke
15 Glacier
16 Kootenay
17 Yoho
18 Banff
19 Jasper
20 Waterton Lakes
THE PRAIRIES
21 Elk Island
22 Prince Albert
23 Grasslands
24 Riding Mountain
CENTRAL CANADA
25 Pukaskwa
26 Bruce Peninsula
27 Georgian Bay Islands
28 Point Pelee
29 Rouge River (Urban)
30 St. Lawrence Islands
31 La Mauricie
THE NORTHEAST
32 Wapusk
33 Ukkusiksalik
34 Quttinirpaaq
35 Sirmilik
36 Auyuittuq
37 Mealy Mountains Reserve
38 Torngat Mountains
THE EAST COAST
39 Terra Nova
40 Gros Morne
41 Mingan Archipelago Reserve
42 Forillon
43 Kouchibouguac
44 Fundy
45 Prince Edward Island
46 Cape Breton Highlands
47 Kejimkujik
48 Sable Island Reserve
A Dream Realized
Afterthoughts
PREFACE
Falling down mountainsides, being pinned to cliff faces by driving sleet, paddling kayaks through giant whitewater, ricocheting a canoe through deep canyons and being clotheslined off a mountain bike in a dense forest are some of the consequences of exploring the farthest reaches of Canada’s wilderness. But there are also much larger rewards to be experienced, such as the pleasures of strolling through dreamy woodlands, contemplating life while paddling on calm waters, and meditating in the Arctic under the midnight sun. Then there are adventures that can be both daunting and awe-inspiring, like encounters with bears, bison and butterflies. The promise of these experiences is what pushes me to explore Canada’s national parks and discover my country.
I was born and raised in Montreal, and my education included Canadian geography, peoples, history and literature. The photographs and stories piqued my interest. The strength of character and resilience of both the Indigenous Peoples and the first Europeans who settled here intrigued me. The challenges they endured contrasted so much with my own secure, cushy, modern Canadian experience. This awareness developed into three driving forces in my life.
First, like many Canadians, I wanted to get to know my country personally, to visit all of the provinces and territories. That quest naturally led me into the national parks. However, I did not originally set out to see all the parks. They were just something to visit when I was in the area; interesting places which helped me get to know the part of the country I was exploring. Only after noticing that I’d been to over half the national parks did I become obsessed with getting to all of them.
Second, Canada has so much wilderness that even as a child I felt I needed to know how to survive should I ever become lost. Not that I was afraid of getting lost, but I expected I would be at some point and I wanted to be prepared for it.
Family vacations in nearby national parks introduced me to basic camping: how to live without the comforts of a modern home.
As a teenager I travelled farther afield with the Girl Guides, learning everything I could about summer and winter camping, canoeing, kayaking, Nordic skiing, snowshoeing, dog sledding, wild edibles, first aid and whatever other survival courses the Girl Guides had to offer. Their motto “Be Prepared” was not lost on me.
Those experiences led me to travelling with outfitters who organize trips for small groups of adults to some of the more remote parks. I became not only familiar with travelling alone to the group meeting points across the country but comfortable enough to go on adventures with just my husband, Martin, and even completely by myself.
Eventually, in order to complete my mission of visiting all the national parks, I had to truly stretch my personal limits. I needed to use all my knowledge, skills and abilities to boldly try things I’d never dreamt of. I had to develop novel ways of getting to and safely exploring the most remote reaches of this enormous country.
A third driving force for me was that I shouldn’t ever complain about any hardships while travelling in Canada. I have it so much easier than those who came before. For instance, I don’t have to wear long, water-wicking skirts while forging through swamps. I don’t have to carry a heavy canvas tent. I don’t have to build my own canoe. And I don’t have to rely on the availability of wild game for food. I can wear quick-dry pants, backpack ultralight nylon tents, rent a lightweight canoe and survive on store-bought freeze-dried foods. Still, it is nice to know how to build a shelter and forage for food, just in case.
There is of course another driver, and that’s the adrenalin rush from venturing out of my comfort zone. The satisfaction of not having remained complacent is matched by that of the personal growth gained by exploring new things and places.
In 2002 someone asked me how many parks I’d been to. I didn’t know; I’d never thought to count them. I scanned through my travel journals and found that I’d been to more than half of the 44 national parks that existed at that time. That act of cataloguing my visits suggested a new objective: I had to see them all. Hence I became a “park bagger” – someone who attempts to visit all the national parks of Canada. This quest overtook much of my life, and certainly it superseded my interests in exploring the rest of the world. Even relaxing Caribbean vacations were forfeited to this obsession. Overall, though, I’ve been fortunate, and I am extremely grateful to have been able to follow my passion.
Having visited so many of the parks, I came to associate myself with Parks Canada’s mission. I too wanted to share the parks, and my adventures in them, with everyone. I’d tell my stories to friends and colleagues every time I returned from a park visit. They wanted to know more. They wanted to see my photographs. Some people reacted by reminiscing about their own park visits. Some were inspired to go and visit the parks, while others were happy just to have learned about the wilderness without needing to endure it themselves. Many people suggested that I write a book about my exploits. And so this book was born.
This is the story, or rather the stories, of some of my adventures as a Canadian park bagger. They are sorted from west to east to provide a sense of geographic continuity, rather than chronologically as I hopscotched opportunistically across the country.
I invite you to come with me on my journeys discovering Canada.
INTRODUCTION
Canada is the world’s second-largest country by area, spanning some 5500 kilometres from the Pacific to the Atlantic oceans and 4600 kilometres from Middle Island in Lake Erie at the us border to the north end of Ellesmere Island. Despite this vast geography, we are only 38 million residents, and 95 per cent of us live along the southern edge of the country. While a few people do live in the North, 80 per cent of the landmass is uninhabited because it is largely inhospitable. The North consists primarily of buggy forests, deep swamps, rock, tundra and Arctic permafrost. Houses on many of those types of land tend to sink into the ground. As a result, the vast majority of the 10 million square kilometres of the country is preserved in its natural state. Of course, industry does attempt to exploit the land for minerals, oil, gas and even water. Hence our national parks.
Parks Canada’s objective is to create at least one park in each of the 39 natural regions it has carved the country into, with the following mandate:
On behalf of the people of Canada, we protect and present nationally significant examples of Canada's natural and cultural heritage, and foster public understanding, appreciation and enjoyment in ways that ensure the ecological and commemorative integrity of these places for present and future generations.
Unlike the national parks of most other countries, however, many of Canada’s are inaccessible by road. Which of course invites a question: How is it a “park” if people can’t visit it? Well, people are allowed to visit all the Canadian parks; the challenge is how to get to some of them. And that may be okay, because some people (like me) enjoy challenges.
I had to become creative in finding transportation and funding. I became opportunistic in my quest, hooking up with other, similarly minded explorers, going with licensed outfitters, and even taking advantage of Parks’s public visitation packages. Visitors, I can confirm, may enter these parks by bicycle, car, truck or small ship as well as by float plane, small plane and helicopter.
I also had to be flexible with how I’d overnight in the parks. Some have five-star hotels, some have comfy rustic cabins, most have camp-grounds, and many have backcountry campsites with no road access. There are also parks where you can camp pretty much wherever you wish – just be sure to bring everything you’ll need, because there’s no easy way to quickly get anything you may have forgotten. And then there are a few small parks where there’s no overnighting allowed at all.
The sheer size of the country means there is a great variety in the activities and points of interest in the parks. Although I was surprised by the urban attractions in some of the parks, I have to confess that a spa and first-class dinner are fine things to enjoy after a challenging sojourn in the wilderness. Of course there are playgrounds and beaches in many of the parks, but there are also scenic drives. Then there are the sportier ways of enjoying and getting to know the land. Visitors can partake in walking, hiking, backpacking, snowshoeing, skiing (both Nordic and alpine), cycling, canoeing, kayaking, sailing and on and on. Greedily, I’ve tried to do it all.
Many of my park experiences included learnings from and about Canada’s Indigenous Peoples, the first people to live on and with this land. Recognizing their skills and knowledge, Parks Canada now manages many parks in collaboration with Indigenous Peoples. That co-operation has in turn enabled visitors like me to participate in traditional meals, beading, games, orienteering, sweatlodge bathing, and smudging, and even visit with the spiritual world. These cultures have had a great influence on those like me travelling through this great land: our paths, canoes, kayaks, snowshoes, tents and foods such as bannock and jerky are based on Indigenous ways. They are integral to our Canadian identity, our parks and my own experiences.
What impressed me most, however, were the amazing landscapes. Each park is so unique. I’ve found everything from sparkling oceans and inviting beaches, to glaciers and snow-covered mountains, to desolate lands, to friendly forests, to endless prairie grasses. With this diversity comes all sorts of wild animals, some fun to meet, others threatening. I’ve met up with polar, grizzly and black bears. I’ve seen wolves, wolverines, martens and beavers. Then there were the bison, sheep and goats, moose, caribou, elk and deer. The smaller critters such as ground squirrels and chipmunks are undeniably cute, but they are also very destructive, I’ve discovered. Raptors and songbirds are always a welcome sight. And while bees and butterflies are enchanting to watch, insects such as the ubiquitous mosquitos, black flies and horse flies have driven me crazy.
As a result, my escapades in the parks have been as varied as the vast diversity of the parks and their locations. And as my wilderness survival skills developed with experience, I ventured into the remotest of the parks and discovered that they aren’t nearly as scary as I once expected. In fact, I have found I can be comfortable, at least for a short time, pretty much anywhere in Canada. Visits to the national parks are at once challenging and stress-free, exciting and calming, entertaining and educational.
So my adventures in the Canadian national parks unfold.
THE NORTHWEST
1
Aulavik
THE WESTERN HIGH ARCTIC
MOSQUITOS AND MUSKOX
Late in June 2017 six of us met with our two Black Feather outfitter guides, Gail and Caleb, in the Parks Canada office in Inuvik in the Mackenzie River delta. I had never met Dave, a serious long-distance hiker, or Terry, a retired judge from Windsor, Ontario, but we’d each travelled with Gail on other trips. Americans Cathy and Ian were new to Arctic canoeing, but were experienced paddlers down south. Heidi, in her 80s, was a retired Swiss ski instructor who was eager to experience the far North before she became too frail to manage it.
Apart from just getting acquainted, the meeting was for the mandatory backcountry camping orientation and polar bear safety instructions before heading into Aulavik National Park on Banks Island. As part of the safety plan for our 13-day trip in this High Arctic park, we were each issued a can of bear spray and a bag of pen-sized explosive flares called bear bangers.
Our objective was to paddle 160 kilometres of the Thomsen River, Canada’s northernmost navigable waterway, which runs northward right through the middle of the park. Aulavik makes up just less than a fifth of the 70,000 square kilometre Banks Island, Canada’s fifth-largest, at the west end of the Northwest Passage.
Despite the name of the park meaning “place where people travel,” the only way to get to Aulavik is by plane, or possibly by boat if the ice on the Arctic Ocean has broken up. We flew. On an unusually calm sunny day, a small Twin Otter propeller plane flew us over the Beaufort Sea to Banks Island. On our way across the water we spotted a pod of pure-white beluga whales, easily distinguishable from the bluish-white ice floating on the dark surface of the ocean. This first sighting of wildlife, although from high up in the sky, marked the start of our adventure.
Almost too quickly travelling 520 kilometres, we arrived at Sachs Harbour. Situated on the south coast of Banks, Sachs is the only settlement on the island. I had been hoping to meet some of the 112 residents, but we only had enough time to refuel, so we couldn’t explore the hamlet. With fine flying weather, our pilots were anxious to get us to our destination.
Travelling almost 240 kilometres due north over Arctic tundra, we passengers kept our noses pressed to the windows. We noted several small groups of muskox grazing on what appeared to be, from our altitude, barren ground. We also watched flocks of what looked like white snow geese, flying below us from pond to inky dark pond between the low, rolling hills. I wondered about the evolution of polar animals’ camouflage: white might be excellent in the winter, but not so much in the summer when most of the snow has melted. Furthermore, some of these white animals migrate south in winter. How odd.
Our little plane landed in Aulavik National Park on a flattish strip of dirt delineated by old oil drums. Despite having been filled with stones, a few of the drums had been blown over by the wind. A forewarning of conditions to come? From the end of the runway we taxied back along the bumpy terrain to Green Cabin on the west bank of the Thomsen River.
Green Cabin is an old hunting shelter, painted green of course and consisting of just one large room with a few folding tables, plastic chairs and some emergency supplies. We unloaded our gear and watched as the plane left us alone on the tundra. The sky had become grey and it was starting to rain. There was a bone-chilling cold to the air. We watched as the rain dissolved the thick snowbank on the far side of the river. In spite of the prospect of a dreary, miserable canoe trip, I tried to be positive: I had made it to another national park!
Inside Green Cabin, Gail gave priority to warming us up with hot soup, made from vegetables she’d grown in her own garden at home and freeze-dried. We’d need all our strength to manage the tasks necessary to make our days in the park as comfortable as possible. Camping is all about survival work: a continuous stream of jobs without modern-day comforts like insulated shelters, furnaces, hot and cold running water and fully equipped kitchens.
Re-energized, we started setting up our tents in the cold, wind-driven rain. Each of us had been issued a two-person winter tent, except the one couple, who shared a three-place tent. We worked together to hold down the nylon sheets until tent pegs and rocks had been put into place. Unfortunately one tent got away from us and was blown violently down into the fast-running river, where it was immediately snagged by exposed rocks, the strong wind tearing at the thin nylon. Scrambling down the steep, slushy bank, we balanced our way out over the ice-topped river rocks. We managed to catch the escaped tent, but found it was already bulging with gritty river water. The heavy, water-laden tent had been punctured and shredded as it grated over the rough riverbed. Carefully we heaved the mass, wringing the water out of it. Not having netted any fish, we joked about how poor a trawling method this was. As a result of this folly, for the rest of the trip we had to repeatedly patch this tent with duct tape; and we discovered that tape doesn’t stay fast in wet weather.
Our next task was to assemble our canoes. We had four folding canoes made of a thick polyester-type fabric that is stretched into shape by a series of hinged aluminum poles and ribs. All we had to do was unroll the skin, unfold and snap the poles and ribs together, and assemble the lot using the supplied rubber mallets. This was easier said than done, though, because the tight-fitting parts needed to be pressed into just the right places. We were lucky to have so many hands helping to put these puzzles together. We were also very thankful for the shelter of Green Cabin, given how harsh the weather outside had become.
Happily, the sun came out the following day. We put our canoes into the water, loaded our gear and set forth. Although we had strong headwinds, as we did most days no matter which direction the crazy meandering river ran, we were happy to be on the water. I paddled with Dave; Caleb and Terry paddled together; Cathy and Ian had their matrimonial boat; and Gail paddled for Heidi. Later in the trip we’d adjust our paddling partners to more comfortable balances of strengths and abilities.
With no trees or other vegetation more than about 15 centimetres tall, we could see for kilometres between the low, green hills. Arctic wolves peeked down from the snow-topped muddy riverbanks, curiously watching us as we paddled downstream. There were muskox, small groups of the big shaggy beasts, grazing on every other hill. We canoed past orange-billed king eider ducks and pure-white gulls. A pair of swans flew overhead. A peregrine falcon eyed us suspiciously from its perch on a rocky cliff hanging over a river eddy where we rested awhile to shelter from the incessant wind.
And oops, on one of those lovely canoeing days, when I was paying more attention to these wondrous sights than to where I was paddling, my canoe got blown up against a gravel bank in the middle of the river. After much struggling and frustration Dave and I managed to get the canoe unstuck, but we had turned away from our intended side of the low, stony island. Unexpectedly, we had found the deep-channel route on the other side of the island. Caleb and Terry accompanied us, the strong current pushing both our boats rapidly downsteam. The other two canoes, which had been in the lead before the island, unfortunately chose the wrong channel. They became grounded in shallow water and had to be hauled over the muddy pebbles. Eventually all four boats safely met up again at the next bend in the river.
The water was dark brown and thick with sediment because of the slumping riverbanks. The permafrost was permanently frozen no longer: the ground was melting, exposing the soil to erosion. We sorrowfully watched as mud banks collapsed into the water like calving glaciers.
When unloading our heavy gear each afternoon that we made camp, we struggled over those thawed riverbanks, occasionally sinking knee deep into the mire. After passing loads of equipment, and then the empty canoes, fire-brigade-style, up to the high, flat plains overlooking the river, I’d climb up myself, covered in mud. Since there are no facilities of any sort other than what we brought with us, I had only the wildflowers to wipe my hands clean on. I resigned my clothing to the filth of the hostile wilderness for the duration of the trip.
Most of the fields above the Thomsen, we discovered, were broken up into a labyrinth of small, squarish plots outlined by narrow water channels. The squares were all approximately three hectares in size. The drier of these plots were covered with wildflowers – that’s were we set up our tents – but most were marshy from melted snow. Sandhill cranes waded in the distant wet patches. About a kilometre back from the river, in lower-lying areas, the meltwater overflowed into the squares, creating small, clear ponds. Loons would call from these ponds when we approached to collect drinking water.
Some days, instead of paddling, we went exploring on foot. We’d carefully walk along the narrow, elevated, grassy dikes that surrounded the soggy squares, to get to the distant hills. The gentle slopes were swathed in colourful wildflowers with wafts of the sweetest perfumes. Nature flourishes spectacularly in the few weeks of summer, under the 24-hour sun in the High Arctic. With no trails or paths to follow, we lamented having to tread on the fragile-looking blossoms. However, I happily noted that the flowers, hardy enough to withstand Arctic gales, did not break under our boots.
On top of a hill overlooking the confluence of the Muskox and Thomsen rivers, we arrived at a 1,000-year-old Thule summer campsite. These were peoples who had lived in the Arctic even before the Inuit. We found many tent rings: arrangements of rocks that had been used to hold down round tents. There were piles of large rocks that had been used to cache food. And there were many, many decaying caribou and muskox bones scattered about the place. Researchers had counted approximately 800 muskox skulls on this plateau. Orangey-red lichen covers all of the remains of human activity, attesting to the length of time that has passed since this site was last used by the Thule.
We settled down for lunch on some rocks in the middle of this historic site. Although we were eating crackers with cheese and cured meats, I like to think we were sharing a meal, over time, with some of those ancient travellers who noshed on fresh muskox meat. We were all sitting in this flowered field enjoying food, company and the expansive views of the Thomsen River valley.
On our way back to camp we decided to avoid the low-lying marshy plots for as long as possible, hiking instead over a row of hills. However, we were stopped short of the first summit by a huge muskox that had crested that hill from the other side. Just a few metres above us, the beast stared down at us, letting us know we were not to proceed. Without hesitation, we quietly complied, edging our way down the side of the hill. I stopped every few metres to turn around and take photos. To my surprise, the last time I looked back there were seven of these thick-horned giants watching our retreat, their mean, rough coats billowing in the wind, juxtaposed against the pretty, purple-flowered crest of the hill. The scene was backed by a perfect bright-blue sky. I snapped my last photograph and then left the muskox in peace.
Back down on the plain again, each of us found our own way along the myriad of dikes. Looking down at my feet, watching that I didn’t step into the soggy fens, I almost walked onto a small grass-covered pingo. Pingos are round-topped, cone-shaped hills formed by lifting permafrost. The squawk of a jaeger, a huge, gull-like bird that was perched on top of the pingo, made me look up at where I was going. These fierce hunting birds are known to attack people, and this one didn’t appear happy with my approach. I altered my course to avoid both pingo and jaeger and found another dry route back to camp.
The following few days were extremely warm, in the high 20s Celsius. The last time we checked the thermometer one day, it was 30 degrees – way too hot for the Arctic! Our neighbouring muskox were lying in patches of leftover snow in the shadowy trenches between the hills, trying to stay cool. A pair of wolves paced the far bank of the Thomsen, scratching and twitching in the midst of a swarm of mosquitos that had risen out of the low Arctic willows that windless day. To us it looked like the wolves wanted to go into the water for relief from the heat and mosquitos but the water was too thick with mud.
That day was also too hot for us to paddle or hike. In the stifling still air the mosquitos invaded our kitchen teepee, attracted to the potential to feed. Our low dome tents, while bug-free, were like bake ovens inside, and there was no shade in this treeless Arctic wilderness. So each of us simply sat dozing outside, in the shadow of our tents. Despite the heat, I wore my heavy boots, long pants, a long-sleeved shirt and my winter gloves, just to keep the mosquitos from biting. A bug net kept my head safe.
After a few hours of this mind-numbing stillness, the wind finally picked up again and the mosquitos settled down into the weeds. I took advantage of this reprieve and raced along the dikes to the nearest pond. Quickly I stripped off my clothes and ran in. I didn’t care that the bottom of the pond was muddy and reedy – I was just happy for the relief. The cool water soothed my itchy, dirty skin. I took a moment to swab myself with my hands, the first body wash I’d had since arriving in the park.
As per standard, respectful wilderness practice, I don’t use soap to bathe where there’s no water circulation – and the water in these ponds was stagnant. Even biodegradable soaps would have added non-native ingredients to these remote, pristine environments. However, after days of minimal body washing inside my tent, this simple submersion in water felt wonderful.
Unfortunately the mosquitos were waiting for me to come out of my pond. They attacked in full force the moment I sat down on the dike to put on my socks. Hurriedly I pulled on the rest of my filthy clothes. In the process I suffered a few more bites – the itching would start, I knew, the following day.
On the Arctic tundra there is no animal-safe place for human food and “smellies” – toiletries and other nicely scented items. So we kept these items in dense, 60-litre plastic barrels inside the kitchen teepee. We surrounded the kitchen tent with a bear-fence, a simple tripwire that would set off small explosives to let us know when we had visitors. During the day, we disarmed the fence so that we wouldn’t accidentally trip it ourselves. Fortunately we never did see any polar bears, and “Bob,” the lemming that took shelter under our kitchen at one camp, was too small to set off any alarms.
One bright sunny night when I was desperately braving the clouds of mosquitos to go pee, I noticed there were three adult muskox, one adolescent and two cute kids, grazing alongside our kitchen tent. From my faraway spot, swatting to keep the mosquitos off my exposed buttocks, I watched these muskox. While muskox are vegetarians and hence wouldn’t likely be attracted to the smellies inside the kitchen, there was the possibility that they’d wander too close to the tripwires and set off the explosives. However, the mosquito-safety of my tent outweighed my desire to shoo the muskox away. Also, those beasts, at up to 400 kilograms each, looked rather mean. I took the chance and went back to bed. The explosives never went off and I slept soundly.
From the north, the midnight sun shone brightly through my orange nylon tent. I had to wear eyeshades to simulate darkness so I could sleep. Most nighttimes were quite cold and I snuggled in my winter sleeping bag. However, on a couple of those very hot days I slept stark naked on top of my sleeping bag, feeding the few mosquitos that had followed me into my tent. These extreme temperature fluctuations were unexpected and frustrating. I expected that the wildlife were just as uncomfortable as we were.
Out on the river, even in strong headwinds, was always the best place to be: cool and mosquito-free! We paddled past three very large pingos covered with grass and wildflowers. Only their cone shapes identified these hills as special permafrost formations.
We paused at each of several tributaries that feed into the Thomsen. Into these rocky estuaries Ian cast a line for Arctic char. However, the fish, if they were present in the muddy waters, didn’t find the lures. So no tasty char for our lunches.
We usually ate lunch at riverside spots sheltered from the wind, under rocky cliffs or behind flower-covered sand dunes. Unfortunately flies and mosquitos also liked those lees, so we’d scoff down our food and hurry back onto the sanctuary of the swift river as quickly as possible. We really didn’t have much time to rest.
The land, however, had many attractions enticing us to put up with the mosquitos. One afternoon, instead of paddling we went on a hike over several hills alongside the river. On the highest hill, overlooking the Thomsen River, was a pre-Dorset site. The pre-Dorset peoples had lived here even before the Thule. We found many lichen-covered tent rings, food caches and some possible graves. This site extended over several hills.
There were pieces of decomposing animal bones, caribou antlers and muskox skulls, most of them partially buried in the ground, everywhere. Ironically, over on the next hill were several muskox grazing on the mosses growing between the skulls of their long-dead ancestors. Either these animals didn’t recognize their slaughtered family members, or their dead had no meaning to them. We quietly watched as they foraged their way into the far valley out of our sight.
Among the debris were some obviously carved, chipped or cut bones and stones, possibly the remnants of prehistoric tools. I almost stepped on one oddly curved small rock, but instead I stopped and picked it up. The one edge fit nicely into my palm. Turning it over, I saw that the opposite edge had been carefully chip-carved and tapered into a nice, thinly curved blade. This might have been a stone ulu, a traditional northern-style knife! I felt the excitement of an amateur archaeologist. We photographed the stone, then properly put it back exactly into the indented soil where I’d found it.
Our group split up on the hike back to camp because Heidi was an extremely slow walker. Caleb stayed back to accompany her. The rest of us were already resting in camp when we heard a bear banger go off, the explosion echoing in the hills. Emergency! Quickly Gail gathered up supplies and gave us instructions to stay in camp to relay a satellite phone call for help if necessary. Just as she was about to leave towards the source of the alarm, Caleb and Heidi appeared in the distance and gave an “all’s okay” hand signal. We settled down and waited for their return.
At long last Caleb and Heidi arrived in camp and told us the story of what had happened. After we’d walked out of their sight over a hill, a lone Arctic wolf had appeared and charged at them. From a hidden crag, the animal had likely watched the larger group of us pass, and seemed to have considered our two stragglers to be weak prey. But Caleb and Heidi successfully scared the predator off with the bear banger and then nonchalantly sauntered the rest of the way back to camp. Heidi had even managed to photograph the frightened animal as it ran away. For the rest of our journey, however, we ensured that no one wandered off alone and unseen by the rest of our group.
We tried to travel farther down the river, but the water was running low, as the last of the snow had melted. Finding water deep enough to float our canoes was becoming challenging. The shorelines had turned into wide, muddy flats with no comfortable access between the shallow streams of running water and the dry higher ground. Furthermore the risk of polar bear encounters increased the closer we got to the Arctic Ocean. So we opted to end our journey at the “Back Channel campsite” near where the Thomsen River empties into the south end of Castel Bay, on the Arctic Ocean.
This last camp was on a large gravel island in the river delta. As everywhere along this river, there are no facilities, trails or even hints of where one might set up tents. The Back Channel campsite is simply a flat enough area where small planes may land, so that’s where paddlers set up camp.
We wandered about the island looking for a drier spot where we could set up our tents, yet not right on the designated landing strip. The latter we identified by tire tracks left by the last plane that had landed there earlier in the summer. Of course, that landing area was on the other side of the island. So back and forth we walked, portaging all our bags, barrel packs and the canoes, from the muddy riverbank, around a pond and swampy weeds, to the site we’d selected. In the process, everything, including ourselves, became covered with a thick layer of mud.
In addition to our regular daily camp chores, that day we had to pack up the canoes. This meant we had to collect cleanish water from the shallow pond to first wash the mud off of ourselves. Then we collected more water with which to clean the boats. Finally we took the canoes apart and stuffed the pieces into their large cargo bags.
On our final day in Aulavik, before the Twin Otter came to collect us, we had time to explore our gravel island. We spent an hour walking the circumference, noting the numerous goose feathers strewn about the island. Perhaps this had been a nesting site, but we didn’t see anything that resembled nests. Whatever the birds had been doing here, they’d long since flown away.
The drone of distant propellers distracted our contemplations, and we hurried back to the landing site, where we’d already piled our bags and equipment. It was time for us too to fly away. Our exploration and travels in Aulavik were complete.
2
Vuntut
THE BRITISH MOUNTAINS
CARIBOU, WOLVES AND GRIZZLIES
Vuntut National Park, in the north of the Yukon Territory, is one of those parks that’s almost impossible to get to. There are no roads to this landlocked Arctic park. The southern quarter of the park is made up of much of the Old Crow Flats wetland, a boggy plain filled with small lakes, ponds and streams, which is why the park is named “Vuntut”: Gwitch’in for “among the lakes.” The northern part of the park, composed of the British Mountains, with their low, crag-topped hills and broad muskeg meadows, has been designated a “Declared Wilderness Area” in order to protect the Porcupine caribou, one of the largest migrating herds in North America. As a result, very few people have visited Vuntut and there are no recommended routes or places to go in the park. And there are no facilities of any sort.
So my first challenge was to figure out how to get into Vuntut National Park, just 50 (barren) kilometres north of the community of Old Crow. And Old Crow is an isolated community itself, with no road access. I considered, and rejected, several possibilities:
•A boat might meander north up the winding Old Crow River. But surprisingly, the actual length of the river is more than triple the straight-line distance to the park due to the many bends in the river. Further challenging the use of this route into the park is the fact that the river is not regularly cleared of debris such as encroaching shrubs and beaver dams.
•A float plane could land on one of those lakes in the Old Crow Flats, but I’d be trapped there in the middle of a vast mosquito-ridden wetland.
•I could fly into the Declared Wilderness Area. The challenge with this option was that to prevent disturbing the wildlife, the territorial government requires a lengthy environmental assessment. As assessments normally require a baseline status for comparison and so few people have visited the park, I didn’t expect to receive a favourable assessment on a timely basis.
Working by phone with the park manager based in Whitehorse, I devised yet another way into the park: a helicopter could land just north of the boundary and I could simply step over the “line” into the park. The more I thought about it, the more realistic, though pricey, this plan became.
From the comfort of my home, I scoured Google Earth and topographical maps for mountain passes on the park’s northern edge where a helicopter might land. I found a possibility just a few kilometres east of the Alaskan border, but I was afraid such a site might create a perceived international incident with our us neighbours. So I located another couple of passes farther east along the northern boundary of the park. On the maps at least, these sites looked reasonable.
Early in 2018 I received permission from Parks Canada for my team to walk into Vuntut National Park from the northeast and backpack 35 kilometres through the Declared Wilderness Area to the edge of the Old Crow Flats. In July, three of us chartered Canadian Helicopters to fly us 250 kilometres westward from Inuvik, NWT, on the Mackenzie River, with hopes of landing in either of the two passes I’d identified. We were taking a chance, because I couldn’t find any information at all about whether the terrain was suitable for landing. But I was optimistic.
Looking out the helicopter windows, we saw dark clouds sweeping over the mountains to the north of Vuntut – a storm was coming in from the Arctic Ocean. To avoid the rain our pilot detoured to the south. This deviation gave us our first view of the Old Crow Flats wetlands. The vast, watery land stretched out below us to the southern horizon. Interesting of course, but we were happy to be heading to the higher, drier land to the north.
When we approached our targeted GPS coordinates, we found that thick rain clouds had already enveloped the mountain chain that delineates the northern boundary of Vuntut National Park. As we couldn’t land on the passes I’d selected, our pilot tried to set us down in the valley to the south of the pass. Although the plain looked flat, there was sufficient tilt to possibly cause the helicopter to rollover on the ground. On the third landing attempt our pilot found a sufficiently level spot. He carefully manoeuvred the helicopter so that its skids would settle between grassy lumps of sod in the wet field. Excitedly we disembarked, grabbed our backpacks from the cage on one of the skids and crept away from the helicopter. Our pilot didn’t waste any time. He wanted to leave before the storm arrived.
So there we stood, my friends John and Blake, and me. We surveyed the shape of the valley and the mountains to the south and consulted our maps and GPS. These mountains and valleys are mostly nameless open spaces on the charts. Oriented, we found the route I’d traced on the map so many months ago. That’s when I realized I had actually made it: I was in Vuntut National Park!
We were in the Arctic, well above the treeline, so there was nothing to obscure the view. We could see for kilometres down the lush green plain to both east and west, to where the valley rose gently up the base of the faraway mountains. A rocky, steep-sloped peak barred our view to the south. We had to circumnavigate that mountain.
First, however, we needed to get out of the muskeg we’d landed in. Muskeg is a field of very lumpy soil, hummocks of soft earth with weeds growing on them, surrounded by water. When stepped on, these hummocks either squish straight down to the water level or, if too narrow, bend over into the water – potential ankle twisters either way.
Each of us had about 27 kilos of supplies in our backpacks. We carried everything we needed to survive for seven days in the wilderness, though we were planning on flying out on the fifth day. In the Arctic one has to be prepared for delays due to unpredictable weather. Intense heat, sun, wind, rain, sleet, snow and cold are all possible in the summer. Therefore we brought layers of clothing, two low-domed tents, a kitchen tarp, winter sleeping bags and pads, freeze-dried foods, two stoves, fuel and water purifiers. We also brought several litres of water with us because I’d heard rumours that the area was quite arid – ha! Our first footsteps had already filled with stagnant water.
We helped each other heave our heavy packs onto our backs and then carefully made our way through the muskeg to the base of the mountain. We found that if we went too high up the slope, we’d be negotiating loose, rocky scree. So instead we constantly sought out the “sweet spots” between the wet valley and the unstable, rocky slopes. As there wasn’t any one obvious good route, we didn’t hike single file. Each of us found our own way. We tried following the caribou trails that braided the mountainside, but the animals didn’t seem to mind stepping into swampy water, through dense shrubs and over large rocks. We less nimble humans had to be content with following their paths for a while but then having to veer around a deep crevasse or some other obstacle. It was slow going.
After a couple of hours of picking our way around the mountain we paused for lunch. The dry bread with cheddar cheese, beef jerky and electrolyte-infused water went down well. We sat on some larger rocks, observing the vast land around us. It seemed unreal. There was a lone caribou trotting along far down the valley. We watched it disappear beyond the horizon. The land stretched out invitingly before us, drawing us to follow that caribou. But the beauty was deceiving. We’d already experienced the inhospitable wet valley bottom. Furthermore, those dark clouds were rapidly coming in behind us. We had to find a place to set up camp, and soon.
The rain started to fall lightly as we rounded the mountain into the next sloping valley. Within another hour we came upon a rather small spot that wasn’t waterlogged or rocky and was fairly level. This would be our first camp. We gave priority to setting up the three-man winter expedition tent – this thing was designed for the worst Arctic conditions. Good thing too that we put it up first, because the wind had picked up as we worked.
By the time we were ready to set up the second tent, the rain was blowing sideways. The strong wind lashed at us, tearing the smaller two-man tent out of our wet grasps. It was impossible to get the tent poles in place. Soaked, cold and exhausted, we gave up. We stuffed the small tent, along with our backpacks, into the larger vestibule of the expedition tent. This tent had two vestibules, one a square-metre space under the fly at the back of the tent, the other a half-square-metre under the fly at the front.