Snow

The snow has arrived. In the evenings the temperature hovers around zero and it covers the ground in a light layer, but during the day it warms up just enough to make town a muddy morass.

Bring on the true cold. I'm ready to strap on the snowshoes and hit the trails.

Wolves in the Woods

Word in town is that a pack of wolves have moved into the area, about a dozen strong. Even if it's an exaggeration, it is still unusual to see a pack around here. Generally the only wolves around are the solitary young adults starting out, or the old and feeble who have been abandoned.

Backyard Buffalo

After spending the afternoon at the school getting my lesson plans ready for the week, I came home to find a buffalo wandering around my backyard. I'm not sure if he was the same one who was peeking through my window a few weeks ago, but he smelled just as bad. He was also kind enough to drop a few pies before ambling off into the woods.

Great.

Fall Hunt 2009

After an hour or two of organized chaos on Monday morning, we loaded up a flotilla of four boats and departed for the fall hunt. There were eleven of us; seven students, Wayne, George, Laura and myself. The wind had picked up and the river was filled with debris, but we made it to the camp without mishap.

The first task was dealing with the moose we had shot on Sunday. Most of the meat would be sent back to Nahanni, but half the ribcage and a leg were left at the camp. No ravens or other animals had gotten to the meat overnight, so the remains were in great shape.

Laura butchered the leg into manageable chunks while George set up a rack over the fire, and then we got to work. In order to prepare meat for drying you have to peel it open with a series of slices as you roll it on your hand - definetly not as easy at it looks! After mangling a few pieces I got the hang of it though, and soon the rack was filled with slices ready to be smoked.

With that out of the way, we moved on to camp chores. More trail was cleared, a tarp was flown, and stairs down to the boats were carved out of the river bank. Lunch was soon laid on, and we sat down to a meal of tea, moose ribs and marrow.

This largely set the tone for the week. Shooting a moose at the very start of the hunt freed us from having to spend the hours patroling by boat or on foot, so the days passed at a relaxed pace. The kids were able to run around for hours, collecting rocks and playing games, while us adults were able to sit and talk, or busy ourselves making things around camp. It was amazing how comfortable it soon became - driftwood and logs provided benches, while branches became toolracks and stumps were smoothed into seats or small tables.

We were lucky with the weather, and despite the threatening clouds the rain held off. The air was cool but not uncomfortably so, and in any case it kept the bugs away so there was really nothing to complain about.

That night we loaded up on that staple of northern diets - moose meat dipped in butter - and then decided to go for a walk to assuage our guilt. We followed some recent buffalo tracks and headed down a creekbed filled with the most perfect skipping stones I had ever seen. We started a little competition, and for a while I held my own. I managed to get about 8 jumps, but was no match for George who could consistantly skip an incredible 15+ times. I admitted defeat, and we returned to camp.

The next day George, Wayne and I headed out early in search of more moose. We followed a trail Raymond had cut some time ago, weaving through one of the myriad islands dotting the flow of the Nahanni. We didn't encounter any moose, but did find a dam being constructed by a very ambitious beaver. He was not especially enamoured of our presence, and after a few irritated tail slaps we decided to leave him to his work.

We returned to camp and woke everyone up. During the hunt we took turns cooking the meals and washing up, and it was great to see the kids willing do their share of the work. They really are a special bunch, and I can already tell that I will miss them very much when I eventually have to leave.

One thing that does worry me is their apathy when it comes to traditional knowledge. Throughout the trip they were more interested in playing tag than in learning how a moose is skinned, or how to set a trap line. The children are not to blame, really - what I've noticed is that very few of the adults around town care to teach the old ways. Dene culture is dying a slow death, and what breaks my heart is that instead of the alarm being raised it is being met with a shrug of indifference. I have spoken with Wayne at length about this, and he says that in the years he has been here more and more elders have died and nobody has stepped up to replace their store of knowledge.

Thankfully, the locals who accompanied us on the hunt are not like that. Laura in particular is a remarkable woman, and her stories are wonderful to hear. Amazingly enough, it wasn't until the early 1960's that people from the Nahanni area began being born in hospitals. In Laura's case, she was born in a tent at -40C and grew up running dog teams up and down the river. She told me how one winter her Aunt nearly cut her toe off while chopping firewood, but with the nearest doctor being hundreds of kilometers away by sled or on foot they had no choice but to deal with it there and then. Her mother plugged the gash with a piece of beaver felt and bound it tightly, changing the bandages every few hours. Laura and her mother did this for six days straight with no rest, but it worked - the toe did not become infected and eventually healed.

Stories like this offer a glimpse of a way of life that is all but extinct now, and I am not sure that this decline can be reversed. We will do what we can, but barring a renaissance of sorts I fear that one day this unique part of Canada will be just like any other.

Pessimistic musings aside, the children did get to learn some things during the hunt. On Wednesday Raymond returned and took some of them out to set a fish net off the far shore.

This proved inspiring, and Melvin and Qualin spent hours casting their lines near the camp. I don't think they caught much, but it certainly kept them occupied.

Luckily, the net proved more successful, and in the afternoon I went across with George to see what we had snared. Not a bad catch: two conies and a Jackfish. They were still alive and flapped heorically when we pulled them in, but he demonstrated how gripping them by the eyes (unsurprisingly) quieted them down.

Back in camp, George showed us how to gut fish the Dene way, which basically means splitting the fish in half so it can be smoked while preserving the guts - after all, why damage or throw them out when you can cook them?

George gutted the Jackfish and one of the conies, while I tried my hand at the other conie. Messy work, but the best was yet to come. Raymond and George decided to skin the moose head and prepare the antlers for mounting inside the school. Hardly an easy task: removing the eyes, brain and other tissue required a combination of delicate knifework and brute force with an axe.

It took about an hour, and the onlookers were periodically hit by flying bone chips or squishy bits. At one point Raymond offered me some of the fatty deposits from inside the moose skull, and I could hardly say no. It had a smooth texture and was very chewy, but didn't have much flavour. Probably a good thing? Eventually the work was complete, and we had a fine set of antlers ready to go. To celebrate we cooked up some of the snout and one of its ears, which proved wonderfully juicy.

That night a fierce wind blew up, and even in the shelter of the trees we were rocked by powerful gusts. It robbed me of most of my sleep, and eventually I decided to just get up and go for a walk. I wandered down by the river, and eventually the sun rose in a brilliant splash of crimson and orange.

The day proved just as beautiful as the dawn: clear blue skies, with hardly a cloud to be seen. After breakfast we rounded up the kids and went for a long hike downriver along the gravel bar. There was some heat left in the sun, and it was lovely to get a last gasp of summer.

That night we stayed up late, sitting around the fire and roasting marshmellows. Laura told us how it was important to be quiet once the sun set, because that was when the spirits of countless generations of Dene would wander up and down the river. That and other stories spooked some of the children, and I ended up having to escort several of them out to the bathroom and back. I couldn't really blame them - once you get out into the woods of the Nahanni, the darkness is complete and sometimes when the wind is blowing you can swear you hear voices among the trees.

This morning was spent packing up. With 11 sets of hands the work went quickly, and we were done well before the other boats arrived to carry us back to Nahanni Butte. We passed the time goofing around and taking potshots with the rifles at stumps in the river. Once our rides arrived we gathered in for a quick group photo before hitting the water.

The ride home was very cold. Autumn is officially here, and the weather is beginning to reflect that. The trees are increasingly bare, and the wind has a distinct chill to it. Soon the snow will begin to fall, and it won't leave until next May.

It's good to be back. It was lovely to spend a week out at the camp, but towards the end I found myself itching to grab one of the boats and go exploring. I really do feel at home up here, and I want to see as much of the Nahanni country as I can. George was talking about hiking out to Bluefish Lake next weekend, so hopefully the weather will hold. It's about a 40km round trip, but it would be lovely to give it a shot while the fall colours are out. There are lots of grizzlies and black bears out that way though, so we would have to load up with shotguns if we were to attempt it.

Bring it on!

Bush Camp

This morning broke crisp and sunny, and I headed out with Raymond and George to set up the camp in preparation for kicking off the fall hunt tomorrow. We headed upriver for about an hour, but the journey was deceptive: despite the length of time on the water, we only traveled a few kilometers as the crow flies. From our level, though, the river wound back and forth in great sweeping turns, at times curving back towards Nahanni Butte itself.


Eventually we found a decent site near the base of Twisted Mountain. The ground was mostly flat and in good moose country, and we would be able to set up our camp in the protection of the trees.

We unloaded the gear and got started, spending the better part of the day cutting trail and clearing the ground. Good, honest work despite the heat and the bugs - and it certainly beat driving a desk in another interminable university lecture. Whenever I took a break I wandered down to the river and drank my fill. The novelty of drinking straight from the Nahanni still has not worn off: it is lovely to be living in a place that is so unspoiled you can actually do such a thing.

Once the site was clear, we set about raising the tents. Raymond had felled some stout spruce logs, and we quickly rigged them into a sturdy frame. Draping the tent properly was another matter, but eventually we figured it out.

Next order of business was digging the latrine and making a table. After a bit of quick carpentry we soon had a bush throne fit for a king, and a sturdy table that could seat at least 8 people comfortably. The transformation of the site was impressive: in just a few hours it had gone from an unremarkable bit of forest to a fine home away from home. We even pulled a driftwood log up from the riverbank to serve as a bench.

Our work done, we relaxed for a while chewing on bannock and caribou steak. Raymond dug out his moose-caller and gave it a few blasts, and I have to say it was remarkably similar to the distant hoots I had heard a few days ago on my hike up the river.

The bugs were relentless, so we loaded back into the boat and went for a look around. As we dodged between the waterlogged trunks being swept down the river, we were occasionally gifted with glorious views of the Butte looming in the distance. I had originally planned to climb it in the new year after the thaw, but its slopes looked so inviting under the September sunshine that I decided I'd attempt it in the next few weeks if the weather holds out.

As dusk approached, we slowed our boat to a crawl and kept our eyes and ears open for moose. The racket from our chainsaws and hammering had probably frightened away the animals in half the Territory, but we remained optimistic.

Sure enough, as we came around a bend we suddenly spotted a great rack of antlers bobbing in the water as a massive bull moose made his way across the river. He had obviously heard the moose-caller: our camp was very close, and he was heading straight for it. We closed in from behind, and despite my excitement I found myself willing it to swim faster or to somehow get away. He emerged from the water, dripping and snorting, regarding us with an impassive stare.

A sharp crack from George's rifle was followed by two from Raymond's, and he staggered into a copse of willow before collapsing. I must admit that I felt saddened to see such a magnificent creature felled - yes, hunting is a way of life up here, but I think I will always regret that my first time sighting a bull moose led to its destruction.

We pulled ashore and went to inspect the kill. He was alive, barely, but fading fast. Raymond put him to a quick end, and went to work. My dismay was soon replaced by awe at the speed and efficiency by which the moose was dismembered. In the space of an hour the moose was skinned, gutted and butchered into choice cuts. Raymond and George's hands were guided by the collective memories of countless generations of hunters; memories that we from the city have the luxury of forgetting. I helped where I could, and as they worked I began to see their own quiet respect for this creature, and their care to ensure that nothing went to waste. This was not trophy hunting, but the very essence of the connection between men and the land.

As they sliced open the belly and scooped out the entrails - and I thought they smelled bad on the outside! - a thick cloud of steam rose into the evening air. The bugs were thick and we were covered in moose blood, but I was strangely content. Raymond and George were joking around in their scattered mix of Slavey and English, and the sun was sinking below the mountains.

When we were finished, we loaded the best cuts into the boat and left the remainder to be claimed the next day when the rest of the hunting party arrived. We wrapped the remains in a thick covering of willow branches to keep them from spoiling, and covered it with a tarpoleon. There wasn't anything left to do but head for home, so we sped away from the little sandbar and into the dark green flow of the Nahanni.

River Hike

Fall is here in full force now, and I have never seen anything like it. Whenever the wind catches the leaves, ripples of gold move through the forest, sparkling in the sun. Today the clouds lifted, leaving a deep blue sky from horizon to horizon. With the fall hunt just around the corner, we can only hope that the weather will stay like this.

Most of the packing is finished now, and if all goes well we'll depart on Monday morning. The plan is to head upriver to the Twisted Mountain, then head into the bush and hopefully find a moose or two. We will probably stay out there for about a week, and then return home on the Friday or Saturday night. About a dozen of us are going, and I am looking forward to it very much.

Today I took advantage of the weather and headed out for another hike. I had been told of a path running along the river to the west, so I decided to check it out. In the winter it serves as a cross-country ski trail, but during the rest of the year it isn't often used.

The trail was in decent shape - far better than the path to Little Butte - and it took me in a gentle arc along away from town. The conditions were perfect: clear skies and a stiff breeze to keep the bugs at bay. I was traveling light and made good time.


No sooner had I stepped onto the trail when I came across a pair of grouse, scratching around in the brush. I hadn't brought my rifle so they avoided the pot this time, and it wasn't long before I ran into a few more. Every so often I would be trundling along only to be startled by a sudden explosion from the underbrush as a spooked grouse frantically flapped away. At least I know where to hunt for dinner now!

The trail roughly followed the curve of the Nahanni River as it flows down to its merging with the Liard. Every so often the trees would clear, revealing stunning vistas of the distant mountains. It was hard to keep the spring out of my step as every turn seemed to reveal some new wonder. I have never seen such wild and beautiful country, and I understand now how men of the Old North like Dick Turner or Albert Faille fell under its spell. I have only been here a few weeks, and already it is strengthening its hold on me.


After about 5km I came to the turn where the trail headed inland, away from the river. It vanished deep into the forest, eventually closing the loop and returning to Nahanni Butte. I hadn't planned to go very far, but the afternoon was so perfect I couldn't bear to head home just yet. Through the trees I glimpsed the muddy bank of the river, and decided to scramble down and have a look.

The recent warm weather had caused the level of the Nahanni to drop somewhat, and where once the water lapped tight against the overhanging forest, now a thick band of sand and mud beckoned me onwards, futher upriver. I was only carrying a granola bar and some water, but the chance to explore was too tempting to ignore.


The bank began as a wide boulevard with firm footing. Soon, though, it narrowed to a thin strip where I sunk up to my ankles in deep mud that clung relentlessly to my shoes. Very quickly I regretted not wearing boots, but it was far too late to do anything about that. I pressed on, even though at times the bank virtually vanished, forcing me to grab some sturdy branches to swing out over the river and around to better ground.

Time slid by and the day grew later, but I couldn't stop. One hour became two, and then three. How wonderful to be young and fit and free, and in a land like this! I felt no fatigue, only an insatiable desire to see what lay around the next bend. Never mind that people have been going up and down the river for generations; in the here and now, it was as if I were the first to ever lay eyes on it. To look behind me and see only my tracks and those of the animals, it truly felt as though I were the only person on earth.



Eventually I was forced to stop, as the bank had finally vanished or become too steep to traverse. I sat on a rocky outcrop, and was still.



The Nahanni country is very quiet, almost eerily so. Often there is only the wind, or the slow gurgle of the river. But if you are patient and wait, eventually the subtler sounds become clear. As I sat there, dozing on the sunwarm rocks, I could hear the occasional croak of a raven. Birds sang to each other in brief snatches, insects hummed - and finally in the distance rose the ululating call so familiar to any of those who have spent time in the North: the call of a moose.

I was woken from my daydreaming by a small squirel. He had scampered down until he was almost on top of me, only to hurtle back into the bush when I lazily slapped at a fly. We stood for a while, eyeing each other. I don't think the little fellow knew quite what to make of me. He was curious, but watched me like a hawk. I slowly advanced until we were nearly face to face, but he had had enough and fled up the trunk of a tree, chirping irritably. So much for making friends.


Idyllic as my spot was, the shadows were lengthening and I had a return trip of some 8km or so. The wind had died down and the blackflies were getting friendly, so I decided to pack up and move on while there was still daylight. My stomach was rumbling and the thought of a well-deserved meal lent haste to my step, and I hurried along the muddy bank as the sun sank behind the trees.



I made it home just after dark, muscles glowing from the exertions of the day, and cooked up a mean pasta with rosemary from the town garden.

Today was just the beginning. This land calls to me, with its barren mountains and distant valleys, winding rivers and silent forests.

I intend to answer.