Books

My love of books and my fascination with the North has inspired me to begin something of a library on the subject. Recent purchases include:

By Water and the Word: A Transcription of the Diary of the Right Reverend J.A. Newnham M.A., D.D., LL.D., while plying the waters and ice fields of Northern Canada in the Diocese of Moosonee
- J.A. Newnham, 1943

Algonquin (Cree & Ojibway) Indian Names of Places in Northern Canada
-J.B. Tyrrell, 1915

Son of the North - The Autobiography of Charles Camsell
-Charles Camsell, 1951

A Journey from Prince of Wales Fort in Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean: In the Years 1769, 1770, 1771, and 1772
- Samuel Hearne, 1781

Through the Subarctic Forest: A Record of a Canoe Journey from Fort Wrangel to the Pelly Lakes and Down the Yukon River to the Bering Sea
-Warburton Pike, 1896

I am attempting to track down obscure accounts wherever I can find them. What might be a mere historical curiosity to outsiders has become for me a conversation with old friends. Most are written by young men not much different from myself, all experiencing the joys of exploring and experiencing a land unlike any they have ever known. It is humbling, too, learning their daily routines and the realities of northern travel in their era. The conditions in which they made their journeys can scarcely be imagined, let alone replicated.

Trail Work

Today was bright and sunny, so Wayne and I returned to the trails to do the final prep work for cross-country skiing. Wayne took the trail carver on the medium loop, while I took a weighted sled along the river route to compress the fresh snowfall. Now that most of the grunt work has been done in terms of clearing fallen trees and branches, it truly is a pleasure zipping along the trail under a bright sky. The mountains were out in stunning detail, and I was very envious of the pilots flying in supplies. What I wouldn't give to be up in a light aircraft on a day like this!

It was -30C again today, and after a few hours I was feeling it. It doesn't help that one of the handwarmers on my skidoo is broken, but a little discomfort was a fair trade for the vistas that greeted me along the river. More importantly, the steady cold means the ice bridge across the Liard might be finished a week or two ahead of schedule, which would be a welcome development. The cupboard is looking pretty bare, so Wayne and I are planning to head down to Fort Nelson before the holidays.

Parasites

Here is a highlight from the "Field Guide to Common Wildlfe Diseases and Parasites in the Northwest Territories and Nunavut":

Warbles: these are parasitic larvae of the warble fly. The adult fly lays eggs on the hairs of the caribou's legs and lower body. The larvae hatch, penetrate the skin, and travel under the skin to the caribou's back. The warbles grow there until early summer, when they break through the skin and drop to the ground.

Fun fact: Laura tells me that when she and her sisters were growing up they used to snack on any warbles they found when dealing with a freshly killed caribou. They are packed with protien and are apparently quite tasty.

Queen of the Skies

Today I heard a bass rumble of propellors and a caught a glimpse of a vision from another era sweeping through the low sunlight of midday.

It was one of the legendary DC-3's of Buffalo Airways, bringing in a load of supplies for the repairs currently underway in the community gym. Lovingly maintaining a fleet of 65-year old aircraft, "the Buffs" are one of the premier transport operations in this part of the North and are featured in the History Television series "Ice Pilots."

I rushed down to the airstrip just in time to see it taxi in and pirouette on the landing apron. Its passage stirred up a cloud of snow, and I was transfixed by its sleek beauty. Surely it is one of the most elegant aircraft ever to take wing.

Oral History II

Today I took the Grade 9's to see Elsie, the local matriarch. She was delighted to have us visit, and together we sat in a circle and listened to her speak for about an hour. My feelings on the encounter were mixed - of course it was lovely to spend time with her, but as expected she spoke only in Slavey. I picked up references to a few things - firewood, lakes, Netla River - but obviously the majority was beyond me. The kids were not much better off, and while they were listening intently they understood only a small part of what was said. I suppose that says a lot about the cultural disconnect here, when Elsie struggles to communicate with her own grandchildren.

This language gap is very frustrating - if only these kids could speak Slavey properly! If only I could speak Slavey properly! There is so much we could learn. As it is, we are going to return next week with my camera and a translater. George has kindly volunteered to do that for us, so that will at least facilitate something of a conversation with her.

Oral History

It is a strange feeling, being here at the end. I am at once both blessed and cursed to be present for the final extinction of an entire way of life - blessed because I get to experience some of it for myself, but cursed because there is nothing I can do to save it. What will this place be like in a decade or two when the elders are all dead and with them the knowledge of a time before television, alcohol and the white man?

A few days ago I was talking with the kids about taking pride in the past and the importance of learning Slavey. One of the younger girls stopped me and asked "Wait, Slavey is our language?" She just couldn't get her head around the idea that it is what her ancestors spoke, not just another arcane subject inflicted upon her in school.

What are you supposed to say to that? How am I supposed to convey to these children just what they are losing? They can barely speak Slavey, and their English isn't much better. Where does that leave them, when they mature and start searching for an identity? Perhaps it's no surprise so many of them turn to gang culture as they grow older.

One of the saddest things is that I now know more about this place and its history than most of the younger people around town. I have read virtually every book ever written on the Nahanni area, relentlessly picked the brains of the elders whenever I get the chance, know both white and Dene names for many of the local lakes and rivers and mountains. When I hear a story in passing about the best places to find fish or moose or rabbits, I write it down.

I listen, I learn, I remember.

A current project of mine is putting together something of an oral history of Nahanni Butte with the older kids. They are going to interview some of the elders, and I will record it on my camera. As far as the school board is concerned, I am using our Social Studies classes to work on this as a prospective entry for the upcoming territorial Historica Fair. But I think the Fair is almost beside the point, my goal is to do what I can to get these children interested in their past and preserve some of the old stories. When we are done I will burn them on DVD's and distribute them as a gift for the community - and we'll keep some of them in the school, so maybe future students will be able to look back and get a sense of how things used to be.

It's such a small gesture, but what else can I do?

Strange Sights

Yesterday Wayne and I took advantage of the warm weather to do some more work on the cross-country ski trails, and then later watched the hockey game and talked long into the night. As I made my way home around 2am, I was confronted with the eeriest sight of my life: amidst powerful gusts of wind, Tthenaago was backlit by a violent wave of aurora, while overhead jet black clouds spiraled and raced across the sky. The stars shone so brightly it seemed I could reach out and touch them.

It was like a vision from a dream, or maybe a nightmare.

Today I have the heater off and the door open, letting the chinook carry the scent of distant green and growing things into my home. It is +2C outside, and I had almost forgotten what that feels like given that recent temperatures have hovered in the area of -30C.

Chinook Dawn

This morning I rose early and went for a walk while the world was still dark. As sunrise approached, the chinook began to blow stronger, roaring high in the mountains like the surf of a distant ocean. Weird clouds boiled overhead, writhing and shifting from moment to moment.

Lest We Forget

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Better Trails

What a difference a week makes. I returned to the trails at dawn, and was pleased to find that the snow had compacted significantly since my last outing. Where before I was trudging through thigh-deep drifts, today I barely sank to my shins.

This time I skipped Little Butte in favor of following the river, and the improved conditions allowed me to head a good six kilometers out of town. The morning was cold and clear, and the river ice was criss-crossed with dozens of animal tracks.


As the day wore on, ominous clouds began to roll in from the west, so after a quick snack I headed for home. As I walked I could see swathes of snow falling further upriver, and I doubt it will be long before it hits town.

On the trail back I encountered Raymond felling trees for firewood. He toppled a massive poplar, and even from a hundred meters away I could feel the ground shudder. All that ax work got me thinking about Christmas, and I made note of a nice grove of spruce trees. I might be lacking decorations and lights, but that doesn't mean I can't have a tree!

Back in Nahanni I had a closer look at the abandoned gas tanker, one of several derelict vehicles around town. It was driven in on the winter road a number of years ago, but has since been abandoned and left to the mercy of the elements. Some of the kids have taken potshots at it, and its windshield is riddled with bulletholes.

I noticed it's mudflap read "Coast Powertrain Ltd., New Westminster BC". Like me, it has traveled a long way to be here - let's just hope I don't follow suit and end up rusting away in the snow.

Long Shadows

November is a time of long shadows. The sun lingers close to the horizon, making noon feel like early morning. Dawn is noticably delayed day by day, while sunset falls as swift and final as a door slammed shut on the world.

I have found that the path I cleared to the doorstep of my cabin has become a highway of sorts for the local buffalo. Having experienced the joys of breaking trail I can't say I blame them, but it does mean I now get to pry half-frozen pies off my boots whenever I venture outside. I have also discovered the steaming holes they drill into the snow and ice whenever they urinate. Not subtle creatures, these buffalo.


Lately I have taken to giving my own names to places and features around Nahanni: a trio of rocky towers on the shoulder of Tthenaago have become the Three Wise Men, while Fin Rock is what I call the hump of Little Butte.

Names tend to be slippery and transient up here - there are those bestowed by official geographic surveys, those thought up by the (white) locals, and of course the Dene names that have endured for thousands of years. For example, depending on who you ask, a certain body of water to the northeast is known as Duck Lake, Yohin Lake or Chitú.

Meanwhile, the river has nearly completly frozen over. It will be at least another month before it will be safe to cross, but the odd remaining patch of open water clearly did nothing to deter an intrepid little fox.

Dog Days

Tonight Kiyana approached me with a proposition: would I be willing to adopt a puppy? Her dog is pregnant and expecting in the next few weeks, but if owners can't be found for the pups they will be killed.

While I would welcome a companion, I know it would be no small undertaking. My work in the community keeps me busy so I am away from home for much of the day, and there is the question of what to do with the puppy when I leave Nahanni next summer.

On the plus side, Kiyana and her friends are eager to help me out, and would babysit the dog whenever I was out of town.

What do to, what to do.

A Walk In The Snow

It was cold last night, dropping to -30. Restless, I went for a walk to ease my mind. The moon was out, bright and fierce, and its silver light threw the land into stark relief. My shadow slid eerily over the sparkling snow, and the still air transformed the dull crump of each step into a salvo of shattering crystal. It wasn't long before a rime of frost collected on my beard, stinging my skin with its edge. Tthenaago glimmered in the sharp clarity of the midnight air, and above the horn of its summit stretched the arm of the Dipper, known to the Dene as zhidą.

In the simplicity of the night I felt myself relax a little, the cold drawing the tension from my body. I wandered the riverbank for a time, reflecting on my life in Nahanni: what I am experiencing, what I hope to achieve. I let the drifting ice fog wash over me, catching on the coyote fur of my parka hood.

After a while I began to feel a little better. These are difficult days, but being out here in the thick of things is what I was born to do.

Return to Little Butte

Today I returned to the Little Butte trail. I hadn't been out that way in almost two months, and I was eager to take advantage of the clearing skies to trial my snowshoes. The weather was chilly but not uncomfortably so, and I set off after lunch.

I realised very quickly that there is an art to snowshoeing. Walking normally is not really possible, especially in deeper snow, and the most efficient way to move is to adopt a deliberate, loping stride. It is not for the faint of heart, and I am certain that tomorrow I will be feeling it in my legs. The road to the dump was easy enough, and it allowed me to get used to my new gait, but the trail was a different story.

Days of wet snow followed by the recent drop in temperatures had bent and frozen trees haphazardly, and several times as I made my way down the trail a careless bump resulted in a dump of snow and a few choice words on my part.

As I moved deeper into the forest, I was struck by the change in its character. Where before it was shrouded by the dark, wet silence of late summer, now the stillness was broken by the occasional chatter of squirrels and the sibilant sighs of snow falling from the trees. A conspiracy of ravens followed me for a time, their awks and quorks echoing strangely across the hills and gullies.

The snow became very deep, and even with the snowshoes I was sometimes wading through waist-deep drifts. Fresh powder is difficult to move in, but in a week or so it will compact and become easier to navigate. I had no choice but to carry on.

As the day progressed, the clouds lifted at times. I saw blue sky for the first time in what felt like ages, but such moments were fleeting. As I laboured up yet another hillside, I sometimes caught glimpses of Little Butte, its steep slopes rising like the fin of some great sea creature cutting through the frozen ocean of trees. It remained maddeningly distant, though, and no matter how I toiled it never seemed any closer.

Eventually I had to admit defeat and turn back. The day was getting late, and to go any further would risk being caught in the woods after dark. Returning to Nahanni was somewhat easier as I had already broken a trail, and I made reasonable time. My legs were aching by the time I made it home, though, and I was filled with a new appreciation for the men of the old North. Some of their feats beggar belief: Dr. John Rae, working for the Hudson's Bay Company, snowshoed 1200 miles in two months during the winter of 1844.

In my case, I can see that it is going to take a lot of practice before I can start covering any real distance. Today I only went about 8km, but it left me exhausted and sore. Snowshoeing requires a different kind of fitness to what I am used to, but with luck I'll be able to actually make it to Little Butte before the year is out. Third time's the charm, right?

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.