THE WILDERNESS RIVER
THE WORLD & I
The propellers roar, the fuselage shakes, and the floats slam against the waves as the Twin Otter picks up speed and taxies down the lake. From my seat directly behind him, I watch our bush pilot, Andy, wrestle with the shuddering steering wheel and then pull it smoothly towards him. The float plane leaps off the water, takes flight, and then circles over the tiny McKenzie River village of Norman Wells in Canada 's Northwest Territories .
I glance at my companions jammed into the little bush plane along with all of our gear plus three canoes. Kay Henry and Rob Center have been on several Arctic river expeditions over the course of many years. Audrey and Phil Huffman are veterans of numerous wilderness journeys but have never paddled a wild Canadian river . My wife Mary and I have canoed wilderness rivers throughout the United States and Canada , but we have never paddled in the Barren Lands. For me, this is an adventure and a landscape I have looked forward to experiencing ever since realizing that my interior compass always points north.
We crest a long chain of bald rocky summits and the world falls away beneath us. Ahead as far as we can see are the Barren Lands, with the exception of Antarctica quite likely the largest wilderness left on the planet. Not a set-aside remnant of wild land surrounded by a sea of development like an American National Park , the Barrens reach from the Rocky Mountains all the way to Hudson Bay; and from the taiga at the northern edges of the Manitoba and Saskatchewan prairies all the way to the Arctic Ocean . From our bouncy perch a few thousand feet in the sky we look out on a quilt of tundra, forest, rivers and lakes stretching to the edges of the horizon.
The red and yellow flames of a forest fire licking the sky catch my attention. A massive plume of billowing gray smoke trails away downwind for miles. The fire is so remote; the burning acreage of so little consequence in such a vast region, if anyone even knows about this fire, they aren't going to bother fighting it. The blaze will burn until it burns itself out. In the Barrens, the natural processes that shape the land and its inhabitants still take their course without direct human interference.
For two hours we fly north and east towards our objective, Horton Lake , where we plan to begin our three-week, 370 mile journey down the Horton River to the Arctic Ocean . We pass over an arm of enormous Great Bear Lake, a body of water more than twice the size of Lake Ontario . Though nearly July, the entire surface of Great Bear Lake is solid ice. Snowdrifts begin to appear on the south side of hills and outcrops, and I wonder if Horton Lake might be frozen over as well.
Andy drops the plane to an altitude of about a hundred feet, and we speed above the tundra and sparse, spindly trees towards the huge white saucer-shaped disk of Horton Lake dead ahead. The lake looks iced-in, and it seems our journey might end before it truly begins. Andy circles low and we spot a long, thin lead of open water at the northern edge of the lake where an outlet flows north to the main branch of the Horton River . He banks the plane sharply, lines up for the approach, and touches down.
The floats skim across the smooth surface, carrying us a hundred yards over the water. And then the engines rev again and we are airborne once more, just in time to avoid crashing on the rocks of the opposite shore. Our runway is tight. Three times we make the approach and touchdown only to escape to the skies again at the last second. On the fourth try the wind shifts, the ice opens up just enough to give us the room we need, and we put down on the water.
When all of our gear –three canoes, paddles, tents, clothing, and food for three weeks is stacked in neat piles on shore, Andy fires up the Twin Otter and taxies down the open lead. The plane lifts, turns, and flies right over us. Andy dips the wings, wishing us goodbye and good luck, and then is gone. Within minutes the faint drone of the propellers is swallowed by the vastness. But then the sound of the engines is replaced by another, slightly higher pitched sound –the sound of the tundra coming to life.
At first the mosquitoes are merely an annoyance, attacking us in small groups of a half-dozen or so at a time. But within minutes of Andy's departure, clouds of the insects rise up from the tundra like ground fog. We quickly put on our bug suits –garments made of mosquito netting that cover us head-to-toe—before setting up our tents and getting the cooking fires going. We will scramble into the protective suits often during the next three weeks.
Rising above the Arctic Circle and emptying into the Arctic Ocean at Franklin Bay , the Horton is the most northern, and quite probably the most remote, river on the North American continent. Although the region saw sporadic human habitation since between 1100 and 1400 A.D, when the Thule people (the ancestors of today's Eskimos) migrated into the Canadian Arctic from Alaska , no one has lived in the Horton River region for decades. The closest human communities are Paulatuk, a tiny Inuvialuit Eskimo community 60 miles east of the mouth of the Horton; and Colville Lake, a small Hareskin Athabaskan Indian village 100 miles west of Horton Lake.
The only human inhabitants in the Horton River region in the last half-century have been military personnel. During the Cold War the United States built DEW Line (Defense Early Warning) radar stations at the mouth of the Horton and on Cape Parry , across Franklin Bay , to warn of Soviet missiles striking over the North Pole. Today these stations are automated, so they are usually unoccupied but are still in operation.
The day is relatively warm and quite sunny with a high temperature in the sixties, and right now, on the morning of the 28 th of June, Horton Lake is finally breaking up. Glittering chunks of ice accompany us as we catch the current flowing out of the lake and enter the stream leading to the intersection with the main branch of the Horton. The ice bumps and grinds against the hulls of our canoes, providing a counterpoint to the sounds of the blizzard of mosquitoes following us from shore. As the current sweeps us along, it looks and sounds as if we are riding a tongue of slush.
The Horton is so remote few groups have paddled it, and there are few published descriptions of the river. From what scraps of information we have been able to piece together, we know that for the first half of the journey the Horton will straddle the continental treeline. There will be sparse stands of stunted spruce along the banks and in some adjacent valleys, but even these intermittent patches of woodlands will eventually give way to open tundra. But despite the fact that we will be at or above treeline, the riverbanks will be lined with driftwood for the entire journey, so we should never be short of fuel for cooking fires.
A fast, clear river flowing over a bed of cobbles for its entire length, The Horton will become progressively wider and more voluminous as it approaches the northern coastline. We are all looking forward to the middle portion of the trip, where there will be several deep canyons reminiscent of the American Southwest, each with exciting stretches of whitewater rapids. The lower third of the river supposedly flows through a vast area of badlands –arid bluffs and exposed hills cut by coulees and striped with multicolored bands of pink, yellow, gray, and black rock. The last portion of the trip has everyone intrigued. Just before we end the trip at Franklin Bay on the Arctic Ocean , we will enter an area known as the Smoking Hills.
River days go by, the one blending seamlessly –literally-- into the next. The paddling is fairly straightforward, with lots of pleasant riffles and plenty of fun Class I and Class II rapids. The canoes seem to fly over the cobbled riverbed, and we easily cover our scheduled allotment of twenty or so miles per day. As we move steadily north the river valley changes dramatically from flat boggy tundra, to rolling hills, to steep multicolored canyon walls.
Because we have twenty four hours of daylight this far north, our entire journey takes place over the course of one three-week-long day. Early on Audrey, Phil, Mary and I suggest paddling through the night, when the landscape is at its most spectacular. At midnight the harsh overhead sun drops to just above the horizon, and the rich colors of the landscape are exposed by the low angle light.
Kay and Rob prefer clinging to a mid-latitude notion of time, choosing to be in their tent and sleeping bags at eight o'clock sharp, even though in these high latitudes that hour barely qualifies as mid-afternoon. Since the rest of us left our watches at home precisely because the timepieces have no essential purpose up here, we are disappointed by their unwillingness to adapt to the natural dictates of the local environment.
One of our prime reasons for being here is to see the wildlife, which is mostly nocturnal at this time of year. Shifting the clock ahead twelve hours –instead of getting up at seven AM getting up at seven PM-- would allow us to take advantage of the magic light and the increased activity of the wildlife. Unfortunately, the suggestion falls on deaf ears.
Rather than be dictated to by an arbitrary --and in this landscape, foreign-- notion of time, the four of us choose instead to spend the late afternoon and evening hours fly fishing for arctic grayling –are large, plentiful, and soon a featured item on every dinner menu-- or hiking in the surrounding hillsides into hidden places where people may not have been for centuries, if at all.
We quickly make a daily ritual of taking long, late evening hikes to see the Horton River Valley at this, its most spectacular moment of the day. Regrettably for us, however, we know that the other two will be up promptly at seven in the morning, Edmonton time. So, in order to experience the magic of the midnight sun, but wishing to avoid a conflict, the four of us make do with very little sleep.
After returning from one of our midnight hikes I lie awake, excited and unable to sleep. I'm sure that it's at least one in the morning, but I'm still thinking about the bull caribou that just suddenly appeared before us as we walked across the broad valley and up onto a high plateau.
The animals here have a way of abruptly materializing as though some conjuror had summoned them. It's startling to reflect upon the times I have vainly searched an empty expanse of tundra for signs of animals, then given up and looked away, only to glance back once more and see a creature standing precisely where moments before there was none.
The caribou trotted purposefully right past us, as if he was late for some important engagement downriver. I remember the dignified way he lifted his hooves as he trotted, the way he held his head high as a thoroughbred, the way his huge rack of antlers arced over his back, the way he glanced at us without concern, as if he saw humans all the time (we are almost certainly the first people this creature has ever seen).
Tonight, as always, we are camped on a gravel bar close to the river's edge. We do this because the lack of vegetation keeps the mosquitoes down and the breezes flow unchecked. Also, the gravel bars are as smooth and as flat as runways; the little round stones are smaller than marbles and are quite comfortable to sleep on top of.
I am about to doze off when I hear Audrey and Phil splashing in the river right in front of our tent. Since the four of us swim frequently, this doesn't strike me as unusual. What does strike me as odd, however, is that now I can also hear Audrey and Phil talking quietly in their tent. So, I think, if Audrey and Phil are in their tent, and Rob and Kay have been asleep for hours, then who is swimming? I look over at Mary to see if she is awake. She is, and I see she is puzzled too.
“Must be a caribou,” I say as I reach for the zipper and open the tent door. When I look out, what I see is no caribou. I quickly reach down alongside my sleeping bag and grab my shotgun, a twelve-gauge pump-action Browning loaded with three-inch steel sabot slugs.
“It's a grizzly,” I say to Mary. In less than a second I examine my choices and make a decision. Then, without any abrupt motions I exit the tent, jack a shell into the breech, and take aim at the thick chest under the large square head. I stand up tall as I can to try and look imposing.
The enormous bear is now less than twenty yards away and coming quickly straight towards me. His muscles ripple under his silver-tipped fur, his dark wet legs fling droplets of river water that glisten in mid-air as they catch the late evening light. He is a magnificent being, massive and awesome, but he is also now just fifteen yards away and he will either charge, in which case I will have to fire quickly and accurately several times; or he will flee. At this point and at this range whatever happens next is completely up to him.
Suddenly the bear stops. He stands for a brief moment, peering at me, as if only now aware of my presence for the first time. I hold my aim and calmly say “Go away bear” in a voice as firm and deep as I can make it. To my great relief, and to the relief of Mary, Audrey, and Phil who are now watching from the tents, the bear complies. He starts running like a sprinter down the beach, spraying gravel with each long stride, then cuts into the willow and alder thickets along the bank. A few moments later we watch his silhouette crest the ridge and run straight into the golden disk of the sun peeking over the rim.
As we enter the second half of the river and approach the Arctic coastline we see wildlife in increasing numbers. Caribou become quite plentiful, and are frequently seen in ones and twos from the boats. The deer are often around our camp, and sometimes we hear them trotting past the tents when we are in our sleeping bags. On two occasions we see herds of musk oxen. The large shaggy beasts look like survivors from the Pleistocene, which in fact they are. Peregrine falcons, gyrfalcons, golden eagles and jaegers swoop over us as we paddle; while ahead of us on the water we frequently see Arctic and common loons, scoters, mergansers, and scaup. We four insomniacs continue our ritual evening hikes, but never without the shotgun and pepper spray, for the grizzlies are increasingly common. At one camp alone we see five of the bears.
One sparkling morning towards the end of our journey where the river parallels the coastline for many miles, we feel a sharp cool breeze flow over us from the direction of the ocean a mile or so off to the east. The air is chilly, probably in the low to mid fifties. The sun is bright and intense out of a clear blue sky, and the Horton River is dazzling to look at. But after lunch when the river flows out onto a broad flat plain, the air fills with acrid smoke.
The blue sky fills with a thick yellow haze that hangs heavily over the plain. The smoke smells toxic, it's like being downwind of a tire factory, or a chemical plant. Our eyes sting from the pollution, and we take shallow breaths to try and avoid ingesting too much contaminated air.
The source of the dense yellow plume is The Smoking Hills, the tall coastal bluffs that separate the river from the waters of Franklin Bay . Concentrations of carbon-rich shale and pyrite rich in sulphur literally ignite spontaneously when the hills erode and the mineral veins are exposed to the air. As a result, numerous fissures and vents spew out hellish, sulphur-smelling smoke from the hillsides.
In 1850 British Navy Captain Robert McClure was sent to explore the coastline of this part of the Beaufort Sea during the intensive search for the lost Sir John Franklin expedition. Two Royal Navy vessels under Franklin 's command had vanished without a trace during an attempt to make a journey through the Northwest Passage . Franklin 's ships had last been seen by a whaler in June, 1845, and the mystery of their fate gripped the British public.
At the mouth of the Horton, McClure dispatched a search party to investigate what appeared to be a smoldering fire in what is now Franklin Bay . The party arrived to find not flames from Franklin 's campfires, but rather thick columns of smoke emerging from vents in the ground. The sailors returned with a sample of the smoldering rock, and when they set it down on McClure's desk, the rock burned a hole in the wood.
The Smoking Hills have been burning for centuries, and will most likely burn for many more. Ironically, though we are in one of Nature's most pristine environments, wherever the evil airborne concoction –a nasty brew of sulphur dioxide and toxic heavy metals—comes to earth, the land and water is as severely contaminated as a Superfund site.
On one of our last days we hike up over the Smoking Hills through blooming fields of wildflowers to the Arctic Ocean . Cresting the bluff, we look down over white icebergs floating in the cobalt colored sea. Off on the horizon we see the thin white line where the pack ice has retreated during this, the height of summer (the pack will return to lock up this shore for the winter in just a few short weeks). Down among the ice flows, five extremely rare and endangered bowhead whales (there are only some 250 remaining on earth) feed at the surface. Down the bluff to our left caribou lie on the ridge tops where the cold onshore breezes keep the mosquitoes down. Here and there yellow vents belch their fire and brimstone.
We hike down the bluff to the thin strand of beach, which is completely covered with grizzly tracks, then strip down and take the plunge. The water is so shockingly cold it is nearly impossible to breath. As we take turns dashing in and out of the frigid sea and catching rides on passing ice floes, seals pop out of the water and join us, no doubt wondering what the celebration is about.
As if anyone might need to ask, I think. At a time when the planet is overwhelmed by some six billion people and counting; when global natural systems are on the verge of collapse from humanity's insatiable need for resources; when what wilderness that is left on the planet is more precious than gold; at this time we have spent nearly a month in a landscape that comes as close as possible to being pristine. That it is still possible to paddle a true wilderness river at the dawn of the 21 st century is definitely worth celebrating.
The seals swim to and fro, looking at us, unafraid. Behind them the giant bowheads breach and spout.
