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Our Winter of Content in Canada's Western Arctic

Pitt,

I really enjoy your story!

You'll enjoy that Yukon River trip as even we older guys can handle the ride downstream.
Plan on spending a day at Fort Selkirk and read "Campbell's Yukon" to really appreciate the history.

The Teslin River from Teslin Lake to Carmacks onn the Yukon River is also nice trip in that same area.
 
Great read Mike, thanks for posting.

The only time I tripped with a dog was when my friend brought his Siberian Husky. He figured out the portaging routine by the second day. Instead of following us back for the second load like he did on the first day he would remain at the far end of the portage waiting for us in the canoe.
 
Thanks for the book recommendation, Vern. We will get it.

We have also read, Al, that Siberian Huskys are independent and stubborn. In our brief experience, they are also intelligent. Our dog cottons on to routine very quickly.

And now, back to the story.


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On May 27 we had returned home from picking up our letters' Kathleen prepared grilled cheese sandwiches and hot orange drinks. We sat outside in the sun, along the south-facing cabin wall, reading aloud to each other, savouring each letter, one sentence, one word at a time.


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After lunch we paddled downstream, about half way to Ketaniatue Lake, before being blocked by a narrow, sooty barrier of ice. This section will open up in 1 or 2 more days. Most of the shoreline is free of ice. Most of the bush is free of snow. Most of the run-off rivers are now quiet trickles. For the first time, we were actually able to paddle to and land on the small island just north of our cabin. The land appears as summer. As usual, paddling back upstream to our cabin was a smidge more work than paddling downstream. It won’t be long though, before we can continue to paddle downstream, all the way to the Arctic coast.

We feel like summer. The air is warm. Prairie Crocuses bloom on all the knolls and throughout the drier bush. The fragrance of Labrador tea fills the air. We saw one lonely bull caribou yesterday crossing the lake. He continually stopped to glance back, seemingly wondering where everyone else had gone, seemingly unaware that his herd had already departed for the spring calving grounds.

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The Greater Yellowlegs and the Red-breasted Mergansers spent most of the evening in courtship. During consummation the yellowlegs are particularly noisy and unashamed, loudly proclaiming their union to the entire world. The two male mergansers often seemed more concerned with each other than with the single female that both of them desired. Every few minutes they would face each other, draw their heads inward toward their chests, and then spring out wildly like a spasmodic jack-in-the-box.

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Spring is here, but the ice on Colville Lake persists.

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May 28 was a very relaxing, calm, warm day. In the morning we paddled down the river – sun shimmering on the water – heat on our backs – multi-coloured stones gliding beneath us – grassy reeds yielding to the flow of the current. I had brought my fishing pole, and we beached the canoe on river right to stand on mostly bare ground. I tried for nearly an hour to catch a fish by casting into the riffles, but with no success. This surprised me, as I fully expected to catch something. Lake trout, grayling and pike have emerged from the depths of frozen Colville Lake, and we have seen them basking in the warm shallows. The grayling and the pike will soon be spawning.

In the evening we strolled along the shore of south bay, which now shows many places where the ice has come away from the banks. Even a male Mallard broke through when he tried to join his mate on the slushy pan of ice. A lone mosquito landed on my shoulder, and a pair of Arctic Terns arrived from South America. A yellow potentilla began to bloom on flagpole hill. Spring continues onward.

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We are now contacting Bern at 10:00 pm, so as not to interfere with our walks after dinner. During tonight’s conversation, I mentioned to Bern that we saw fish in the Ross River, but I had not been able to catch any this morning. Bern said that late evening was the best time to catch fish, “And you don’t have to go down the river. It’s easy just to catch them at the outlet.”

Immediately after the call, I went to the pier, and on the third cast caught a lake trout. I look forward to tomorrow’s dinner, although I always feel genuinely sorry for the fish, which is such a beautiful creature.

On May 29, I concluded that we have much more wood than I originally estimated last Saturday. At that time I thought that we had enough wood on the ground to last just five more days. Our consumption rate has decreased substantially though, and we actually heated our cabin all week using only the wood on the ground, which will likely last another five days. We haven’t even touched the wood stacked on the porch.

We have a wealth of wood. I no longer need to estimate how many more days of wood remain, and I feel real good about it. My neatly stacked and full woodpile brings me infinitely more satisfaction than looking at the current balance in my cheque book. Wood seems so much more valuable than mere numbers. Wood seems so much more tangible than mere scratches lined up in columns on a piece of paper. I can see my wood. I can touch my wood. I can smell my wood. My wood sits just outside my front door, within easy reach. My wood is a very ‘liquid’ asset. My wood makes me feel quite secure.

This morning we awoke to a strong southeast wind, which in the late morning blew off a large (200 m by 50 m; 200 yards by 50 yards) pan of ice below The Narrows and sent it crashing into the island. In late afternoon the wind increased, and reversed directions twice, sending the ice pan back to the main pack, and then north again to jam our route downstream, west of the island. Despite the strong wind, we now feel comfortable outside, without windbreakers, without long underwear. I wear only a single layer – a medium wool shirt. Warmth has replaced the bite of winter.

Throughout the day, hazy, billowy summer clouds rose upward. A brief rain shower, the first of the year, spilled lightly from the sky, and the earth smelled fresh and pure. By 9:00 pm the winds calmed and the sun filtered through broken clouds. A pair of Common Loons drifted in a golden shaft of light, moving without even a ripple, black heads turning regally and elegantly to monitor their summer kingdom of forest and water.

On May 30, Kathleen worked most of the day repairing the mosquito netting that encloses the front porch. In the afternoon we sat on the porch, smug in our bug-free refuge. During dinner, however, the first significant insect attack of the year came from behind our line of defense, from inside the cabin. At first there were only a few flies, and we simply swatted in their general direction. Then there were scores of flies, and we took turns using our flyswatter in earnest. Then there were untold legions of houseflies emerging like black clouds from within the cabin walls. We spent 90 minutes surrounded and inundated by buzzing, annoying magnitudes of flies. Perhaps it was just a serendipitous hatching of eggs laid last fall. Or perhaps we had angered the insect gods by feeling so smug behind our mosquito netting.

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On May 31, forthe first time this month, the temperature remained above freezing overnight, reaching a low of +2 C (36 F). In the morning we strolled over to the wood lot, where I found three small trees that had been felled last fall, recently emerged from beneath the snow. I spent the morning dragging them down Woodlot Way to the edge of the lake. I should be able to pick them up by canoe in a few more days, as the ice is now melting rapidly all along the shoreline.

We already have a complete stack of wood on the porch, and we don’t need this new wood. But it seems that in the arctic, a man, or at least this man, can never have too much wood. These three trees should provide at least 12 days of heat, which is all the time that we have left at the cabin, assuming that we spend a week in town and that we leave for the coast on June 20. When we arrived at the cabin last January 31st, we found a complete stack of wood on the front porch. We will leave the cabin just as we found it, with a complete stack of wood on the front porch. This is how it should be.

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In the early afternoon we lunched outside, in the sun, along the cabin’s south-facing wall. A muskrat rippled the surface of South Bay. The rich resinous fragrance of Balsam Poplar filled the air. Catkins of Trembling Aspen burst forth. Chunks of ice broke free and floated away. Blue butterflies fluttered by.

In late afternoon a strong northwest wind rose, and battered our point for 2.5 hours. When it was all over, the ice in North Bay appeared defeated – only half its size of this morning, with a pocked, sooty colour.


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Even the ice in South Bay now seemed like it had lost its tenacious grip. It too has turned predominantly dark gray. Along the shore, east and beyond Woodlot Way, there were numerous open leads and pools – many more than this morning. A trip to town by the weekend seems possible, particularly since a light rain now (8:45 pm) falls, which will further saturate and weaken the disintegrating ice.


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June 1, the month that the Hareskin Indians call Bemetegoxay: ‘The Month of the Ice Melting.’ I'm optimistic.

We rose for the day at 8:00 am to a very blustery, cloudy June. The temperature stood at only +2 C (36 F). After breakfast we organized all of our clothes and gear that we would need for the canoe trip, and then began packing away all our winter stuff to be shipped to either Vancouver or Inuvik. We don’t yet know how we’re shipping this winter gear and leftover food to Covlille Lake, let alone to Vancouver or Inuvik. We can be ready in half-a-day though, when the opportunity arises.

After lunch, I walked over to Woodlot Way to saw up the three trees. Much of the shoreline is open, and the rest of the outer shore is pocked with pools and leads. The ice in North Bay shrank by another third today, and seems to be so fragile that it can’t last more than two days.

By 8:30 pm the wind stopped and the sun returned. We eagerly strolled outside and lounged on the bench along the west-facing wall in front of the screened porch. Mallards, American Wigeons, White-winged Scoters (Black Ducks) and humans all drifted, basked or loafed, in mated pairs, enjoying the warmth of their own little corner of paradise. Whiskey Jacks, always insatiable, took chunks of cheese directly from Kathleen’s hands. A giant northern pike swam in the grassy ice-free shallows off the dock in North Bay. A squadron of Tree Swallows, after the day-long wind delay, took up their respective positions, like a baseball team taking the field, to circle, climb and dive for bugs over South Bay.

We stayed awake most of the night, enjoying the birds and the fantastic lighting. So interesting to remember that on our first morning last February 1st the sun rose nearly due south at 10:00 am. Now it rises nearly due north at 1:30 am.


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After our bannock breakfast on June 2, we paddled east along the shore of South Bay, and for the first time reached beyond the storage cabin. We then swung southwest along the margin of the ice, and for the first time entered the cove beyond the point on the west shore of Colville Lake. Only 90 minutes earlier, this route had still remained blocked by a narrow isthmus of ice.

We then turned north, past the grassy point, and along the edge of the ice in North Bay. We paddled in the lee of the southeast wind, along the shore to which ice had still clung only two days ago. We circled the island, where pairs of Bonaparte’s Gulls, Greater Yellowlegs, Mallards and Northern Shovelers had obviously built their nests – all eight birds became immediately agitated by our presence. We returned to the cabin for grilled cheese sandwiches, and exchanged our wool clothing for cotton shirts and nylon river pants.

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The southeast wind continued strongly in the afternoon, and eventually caught a loose corner of the ice in North Bay. A 200-m long by 75-m (200 yards by 75 yards) wide pan swung outward, and eventually broke loose from the northwest shore. Thirty minutes later the pan had moved off down the Ross River. North Bay lay free of ice, except for a 10-m strip along the margin. Summer paddling season is nearly here, although the ice in South Bay seems so very intractable.

At 8:30 pm the southeast wind caught the edge of the remaining ice in North Bay and sent it in a slow spin, away from the shore, and out of the bay, which is now free of ice for the first time since October 7. Finally free of ice after nearly eight months.

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On June 3, after pancakes and Prem for breakfast, during which we used the last of our maple syrup, we paddled along the east shore of South Bay, hoping that we could reach James and Sharon’s new cabin. We were surprised at how much open water greeted us in the foot of the bay, but then were disappointed to be blocked by ice at the second rounded point, only 0.5 km south of our cabin. On our return, we stopped at the foot of Woodlot Way for a load of wood. During the morning the northwest wind had shifted to the southeast, and had blown the ice back into South Bay. All of the shoreline leads were now blocked by ice, and we were forced to disembark about halfway back to the cabin. We pulled our canoe up on shore, tied it to a tree and returned to camp overland through the bush.

By the time we had finished lunch the southeast wind had cleared the second rounded point of ice. We hiked back to the canoe, re-launched and continued paddling south. Just beyond the Teepee Site, a little over 1 km (0.6 miles) from the cabin, we reached completely ice-free water. We paddled easily to within 0.75 km (.45 miles) of James and Sharon’s cabin, until we were stopped by an expanse of ice from Colville Lake that stretched into the 1-km gap between the Big Island and the mainland. Satisfied that we would soon be able to reach the open part of Colville Lake, we returned home and were able to force our way through the weakening ice in South Bay all the way to our cabin.

On June 4,wWe finished organizing gear to be shipped to Colville Lake and Inuvik, although we still don’t know how this will happen. We are now wearing and using only what we will need for the canoe trip. We worried a little about putting away all of our wool clothes, but we felt comfortable and warm dressed only in tee shirts and nylon pants. The afternoon temperature reached +16 C (61 F ), which is warmer than many of the days we normally encounter on northern canoe trips.

Tommy, Richard, Greg, Shania and Kaila arrived by aluminum boat in the afternoon. Our first visitors not to come by ski-doo. At their invitation, we will visit the Tent Camp tomorrow. Assuming that the ice doesn’t shift too much in the wind, we can now paddle all the way.

I had been a little worried about having five visitors, all drinking tea, and then using the outhouse. We don’t have much room left, and Kathleen and I never urinate in the outhouse. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to urinate in the outhouse. But our visitors included three men and two women. I felt uncomfortable even thinking about asking them to just wander out into the bush. So I said nothing. But when I checked the outhouse later in the evening, the frozen urine had finally begun to thaw and subside! Our available capacity had increased by about four centimetres, which should give us enough room for the rest of our time here.

On June 5, after laundry and lunch we paddled out in a continuing northeast wind to the Tent Camp. The ice had diminished by half overnight, and we found open leads all the way to the Big Island. Ice still packed the south shore facing the open part of Colville Lake, however, and we were forced to beach the canoe 100 m (yards) before reaching the trail leading up to the tent. At the camp we enjoyed whitefish steaks, trout chowder, huge bannocks, coffee and tea. These people live like I wish to live. Relaxing in their wood-warmed tent, eating and living from the produce of the land: fish, caribou, ducks. To me, it seemed an enviable, idyllic, rewarding and satisfying life. They know everything about their land. They know where the ice is thick. They know where the caribou pass and where the beavers build their houses. They know how the ice shifts during spring breakup, and when the mosquitoes emerge. Marie, the matriarch of Colville Lake, says, “The mosquitoes get bad when the big lakes thaw.”

By the time we returned in late afternoon, the ice sheet had diminished by half again. By dinner the wind shifted to the northwest, and blew the remaining ice south up the lake, nearly out of sight.

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On June 6, we paddled down the Ross River, about 3/4 of the way to Ketaniatue Lake, before we stopped at the top of a long, swift, shallow rapid. We beached and walked the rest of the way, usually along trails, perhaps traditional travel routes. Small Wood Anemones bloomed in pleasing clusters along the upland edges of marshy sites. The wide leaf of a coltsfoot thrust upward through the moist ground. A Glaucus Gull, white as ivory, flew up-and-down the river. A large sheet of ice still blocked access to the narrows in Ketaniatue Lake; but it should break up in a few more days.

After dinner we dismantled and cleaned the wood burning stove. Tommy and Greg stopped by for tea and coffee at 9:00 pm. They reported that the ice on Colville Lake proper, south of the Tent Camp, is beginning to break up. Depending on wind direction we should be able to leave for town on Thursday, four days from now.

On June 7, We paddled south to the Tent Camp this afternoon in calm and sunlight. The distant shoreline appeared tawny from last year’s withered grass. The near shoreline fell away steeply below our canoe – beneath the clear water lay a fine mosaic of rounded stones, like a submerged Japanese rock garden.

Ice still dominated Colville Lake south of the Big Island. I doubt that we'll be going to town on Thursday.

On June 8, we idled away most of the day, sleeping until 10:30, lingering over breakfast, feeding the Whiskey Jacks, reading in the sun, sauntering through the still bug-free forest, cleaning the cabin, and imagining an ice-free Colville Lake. Tomorrow we will paddle to the Tent Camp for another look south, across the ice, across the lake, across to town. I am restless and eager to travel.



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After lunch on June 9, we paddled down to the Tent Camp. For the first time we were able to paddle right to the trail, on the south side of the Big Island, that leads up to the tents. Children played and ran along the shore, acting very much like summer had arrived.

We shared tea and bannock, and talked about the ice. An east wind had blown the ice away from the east shore, just south of the Big Island. I mentioned again, like I do on every visit, of how I want to paddle with the ice. Of how I want to be with the ice as it’s breaking up. Finally Marie said, “Well, if that’s what you want, why don’t you just go, and see what happens? Here’s some fresh donuts for your travel.”

Marie was right of course. No sense paddling down here every two days just to look at the ice. We should just go and see what happens. We returned to our cabin, ate some grilled cheese sandwiches,packed up our tent, camping supplies and food, and headed back south at 6:30 pm. We stopped at 8:00 at the Tent Camp for coffee, and Marie gave us some smoked fish for our journey. We started out for town, along the east shore of Colville Lake, at 8:45 pm.
 
grand adventure, wonderfully told and great photography. I feel like I know everybody up there.

I really enjoy the non-hunter perspective and all the little details you expound on too. As a hunter I revel in and appreciate a lot what you see and feel, but not to extent that I can name flora and fauna in such great detail. We appreciate most of the same things in different ways. Upon arrival my first order of business would have been to take a caribou for meat and would have wanted to learn from the natives how they butcher, pack and preserve it, use the hides, bones, tallow and all and then prepare it for meals. While out exploring I would have been keen on taking a hare, grouse or ptarmigan along the way. Come the thaw I would have been trying to run with the natives taking geese, swans, ducks and so forth. You were a respectful and curious witness to all that, but living it in your own way.

Anyway, awesome account and life experience. You could have written and published a fantastic book about this adventure. Can't thank you enough for sharing all this.
 
Wow. Epic. This is the kind of thing that ruins you for living in the city. This stuff is a lot harder to do when you get older though and I am feeling the hurt from just a short snowshoe hike last weekend. Between you and Alan Gage, I am getting tempted to spend the summer in the bush while I still can.

Christy
 
Deerfly,

The people at Colville would have been very happy to share their knowledge with you. Too bad you weren't there! One group of our visitors in the spring asked us if we got any caribou during the winter. I told them that a person has to be a resident of the Northwest Territories for six months before they qualify for a licence to hunt. They sort of shook their heads, and said, "No one would say anything if you were hunting for food."

Christy,

It sure ruined us for city living! And, you can live in the bush without making it so physically demanding. We could have just hunkered down. Didn't have to put in all those snow trails. Didn't have to cross the ice to town. Could have made it a lot easier on ourselves.

Doug,

Things were still going quite well at 9 p.m. Thanks for asking!


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Four km (2.5 miles) later the ice lay rafted up against a narrow point that projected into the lake (Note the white arrow, bottom left). No open leads. We forced our way to shore, beached the canoe, unloaded all the gear, and portaged 150 m across the tundra-like point, where Cloudberry and Bog Rosemary were beginning to bloom.

Just as we finished the portage, Richard, Tommy and Greg arrived in their aluminum powerboat, forcing their way through the thick ice. “We were out hunting,” they said, “and happened to see you here.”

Richard, Tommy and Greg had all been in the tent when we left about an hour ago, and didn’t mention anything about a hunting trip. I think they had actually come mostly to check up on us, to make sure that we were OK. Nevertheless, they had just recently shot some Long-tailed Ducks (“Oldsquaws").

While Kathleen and I snacked on smoked fish, our three visitors prepared their dinner. Their approach to camp cooking differed markedly from ours. We would normally prepare a small fire pit encircled with stones. I would then collect some small, medium and larger-diameter pieces of wood, which I would saw into appropriate lengths. If I had known how, I would then gut and de-feather the birds and put them in a pan over a grate on the fire. This method sounds good, but in reality is unnecessarily complicated.

Our three visitors made no fire pit encircled with stones. They simply dragged in a large pile of wood of all and various dimensions and set them on fire. Then, with small sticks, they impaled each of the birds through the throat, placed them around the perimeter of the blaze, and sat back to enjoy their tea. Bits of fire began to run off away from the camp. No one seemed concerned. The bush was still too wet for a wildfire to break out. After about 30 minutes the birds were declared done. The seared feathers rubbed away easily from the charred skin. The birds were then ‘opened’ with a knife, and the guts simply fell out. This simple approach required minimum effort with very few supplies. Just a knife and some matches. No grate. No pots and pans. No axes. No saws. Quite opposite to the high-tech approach used by most urban visitors to the wilderness.

After an enjoyable hour of conversation and tea, Kathleen and I paddled away into absolute calm and quiet. The midnight sun, still high above the northern horizon, shone hot upon our backs. The calls of Common Loons and Oldsquaws beckoned us south. We slid between the sunlit, golden shoreline on our left and the white, silent, rotting ice sheet to our right.

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We stopped at 1:30 am and set up our tent in a well-used camp on an open terrace overlooking the lake. At 2:30 we fell asleep instantly, serenaded by the calls of White-crowned Sparrows. I slept soundly, without waking, until 11:45 am.


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On June 10, we awoke to a sunny, calm, warm morning. Just like yesterday morning, we still live at Colville Lake. But our life differs very markedly from yesterday. Now that we live in a tent rather than a cabin, our senses are so much more alive, so much more a part of our surroundings. We are no longer walled off from the natural world. We see and hear Arctic Terns diving and plunging into the lake. We hear ice shards tingling in the distance. We hear waves caressing our cobblestone beach. We feel the touch of a gentle breeze on our faces as we cook breakfast bannock over a fire that crackles so very reassuringly. And still no mosquitoes. Again I ask, how can life be better than this?

After breakfast we paddled toward the next point, 5 km (three miles) away, to see how far we could get before being blocked by ice. This east/west point extended even farther into Colville Lake than the previous ice-bound point, and through our binoculars at breakfast we thought that we could ‘see’ ice blocking the shoreline.

“Let's just go and have a look,” we said. “No need to pack up. We probably won’t be able to get through anyway.”

Ninety minutes later we rounded the point in a 100-m wide lead of open water, and could see apparently unending open water down the shoreline to the next distant point. We returned to camp, now knowing that barring a major wind from the northwest, we can probably reach town tomorrow.

We sat in front of the campfire sipping tea. Should we leave for town now, at five o’clock? If so, we would arrive when everyone was sleeping. Should we rest until midnight, and then head out? I love paddling beneath the midnight sun, and we would reach town around 7:00 am, just in time for breakfast. Or should we get a few hours sleep first, and put on the water early by 2:00 am, before the wind has a chance to block the open lead? We don’t know what we’ll do. And that’s the beauty. There is no night. There is no day. There is no right way. There is no wrong way. For now, we'll just sit by the fire, periodically poking in more logs. We'll head to town when we feel like it. No later, and certainly not before.

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On June 11, we headed down the east shore, south toward the point, just after breakfast, about 10:00 am. Again we found open water, with nearly 150 m (yards) between the shore and the ice sheet. A mild northwest wind now helped push us forward. We continued paddling around the point, toward the next point, 2.5 km (1.5 miles) away, where ice clogged our route, and lay rafted up, in large broken chunks against the shore. We beached in a small cove within the icy jumble, and walked along a ridge covered in scattered spruce and Bog Birch to assess the situation.

Again, Northern Labrador Tea smelled so very sweetly as we surveyed the ice, which extended nearly 1.5 km(1 mile) in an impenetrable barrier. We returned to the boat, and relaxed on shore, sipping tea, and gnawing on smoked whitefish. We concluded that unless the wind shifted to the southeast, to push the ice offshore, we would likely need to camp in a small clearing 200 m (yards) up into the bush.

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We heard a motor approaching from the north, and twenty minutes later Richard, Tommy and Greg landed for coffee and conversation. They reported that the northwest wind was moving the ice back on to the east shore of Colville Lake. The open leads through which we had paddled so easily only hours ago were now clogged with ice; our visitors had spent most of the morning forcing their way through. We lounged for a few minutes, and then they continued south to drop off some gear at an intended camp, slowly struggling through the pack with their powerboat.


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We followed 10 minutes later in their broken lead, which was already closing up. Only half way through, 100 m (yards) from shore, the ice squeezed shut, and held us firmly. We knew that the powerboat would be returning soon, so we sat patiently, listening to the candled ice of a new spring. In mid-winter, the surface of the snow is colder than lower in the profile. As the days become warmer in spring, the temperature gradient in the snow cover reverses; the surface is now warmer, and melts during the heat of the day. Water then drains down through channels in the upper snow crystals, which turn into long, vertical cylinders called ablation needles. The result produces a musical tinkling when these prism-shaped needles rub against each other. It was as though we were sitting in a giant field of wind chimes, as we swayed back and forth in the gentle breeze.

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Fifteen minutes later the powerboat returned, and again opened up a narrow, chaotic, serpentine route. Richard, Tommy and Greg wished us luck as they crunched their way north, and we slowly paddled south through the closing lead. Only two canoe lengths from open water we again became hopelessly mired as a thick, unbroken chunk of ice fell into the last remaining lead. Thirty minutes of ramming, poking, rocking, prodding, banging, and prying eventually freed us from the pack, and we once again paddled into open water.

The next point lay only one km away. By now we were suspicious of all points, which seem to collect ice like magnets. Our suspicions proved correct, for as we rounded the point, ice completely filled the 1.5-km (1 mile), shallow, scalloped bay to the south. We paddled back to the north side of the point, where we beached, collected firewood, and prepared and ate our cheese and pasta dinner. We then strolled along the ridge, where Cloudberries, Bog Rosemary and Lapland Rosebay bloomed among the tussocks of Northern Labrador Tea. We climbed up an open, tundra-like terrace to stand before a low, four-sided picket fence. Inside, the single wooden cross marked a grave that had been beautifully located to overlook Colville Lake. To the south, toward town, we could see nothing but unbroken ice. Kathleen and I returned to the canoe along the bay, along a shoreline that had no open leads. We seemed to be stuck.

The wind continued to blow from the northwest, and Kathleen wondered if we should just set up the tent and camp for the night.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s not a great place to camp, I’m not really sleepy or tired, and I don’t feel like putting up the tent. Maybe the wind will shift.”

“It’s been blowing in the same direction all day, Michael. It’s already eight o’clock, and there’s no sign that the wind is letting up. I don’t want to put the tent up either, but I don’t want to just sit on the shore all night.”

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On one of Richard’s visits to our cabin we had mentioned how spectacular the Northern Lights had been for most of February and March. Richard commented that “when a man is all alone on the winter trail, he can whistle for the Northern Lights to come closer.”

“So you know, Kathleen, if Richard can whistle for the Northern Lights to come closer, then maybe I can whistle for the southeast wind to blow.”

I whistled meekly, not wishing to challenge the universe. We sat and watched tiny bits of ice floating along the shore. Moments later they stopped, then reversed their direction and twirled back up the shoreline as the wind shifted to blow from the southeast! Large rafts of ice out on the bay now showed lee water along their margins. Arctic Terns began diving into what must be small patches of open water on the still ice-filled bay to our south. Red-breasted Mergansers and scoters (Black Ducks) landed and fished in slivers of leads. Twenty minutes later the entire shoreline opened up as the pack drifted out from shore.

It’s not possible to know why the wind shifted just as I whistled. Kathleen says that she was simultaneously praying for the wind to shift, meaning that the experiment was confounded. Also, there was no ‘experimental control,’ in that we had no data for what would have happened without either whistling or praying. All I can say is that I whistled, Kathleen prayed, the wind shifted, the ice moved, open leads appeared, and we continued our journey south to town at 9:00 pm.

We rounded the point to enter the shallow, scalloped bay that still contained some ice at its north end. We sluiced our way through gray slush, forced our way through disintegrating, candled rafts, wedged our way through cracking chunks, and in only 20 more minutes paddled away into open water, now apparently without end.

We canoed snugly up against the shore in the lee of the continuing southeast wind. The calm lake surface reflected the shoreline dunes and stunted spruce, which glowed in the midnight sun. The gray, brooding ice lay harmlessly 200 m (yards) to the west. Perhaps we will reach town tonight. At 12:30 am we again encountered very thick, nearly unbroken ice on the cape 5 km east of town. We powered into and up onto a 25-cm-wide (10 inches) crack, where we rocked up-and-down and back-and-forth until the ice surrendered, split open, and allowed us to pass.

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We continued west, along the south shore, now expecting to reach town. At 2:00 am we approached the headlands, which lay encased in ice. We paddled along the entire margin of the pack, hoping to find a route through. No passage existed, however, and we turned back to shore just in time, as shifting ice was already closing in behind us. We rammed through and beached the canoe at the ski-doo trail, 1.5 km from town, at two-thirty in the morning.

We walked into town, almost expecting an enthusiastic reception. The town site was empty though, almost deserted; everyone seemed to be either away or in bed. We returned to the canoe and began unpacking. By 5:00 am we had completed portaging all our gear to Bern Will Brown’s compound. Still no one up to greet us. No one to invite us in. What should we do? It didn’t seem right to disturb anyone. So we just strolled around town, between Bern’s lodge and Robert and Jo-Ellen’s house, hoping someone would look out their window and see us. We had made several circuits by 6:00 am, but still no one had seen us. We played on the swing set. Still the town remained quiet and asleep. We made several more rounds.

Finally, at 7:00 am, we heard rustling in one of the lodge’s cabins. On our next pass, the curtains were open, and Margaret’s sister, Agnes, who was in town working and preparing meals at Bern’s lodge, spotted us. At 7:30 we were seated at the table in the main dining room, dining on a fantastic breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, juice and coffee. Thank you, Agnes!

I thoroughly enjoyed the past two days. I loved seeing, playing with, and being with the ice. I savoured paddling beneath the marvellous light of midnight. I am very satisfied to know that I can still paddle all day, throughout the night, and yet still have enough energy to portage 2.5 hours across boggy ground. We had left the Tent Camp on The Big Island on the evening of June 9 ‘just to see what happens.’ What happened was a fantastic two days. Thank you, Marie!

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On June 12, we spent the day wandering around town, greeting people who now know us from all of their visits since duck hunting season began. It seems that we have been accepted as part of the community. Everyone knew of our trip and progress to town because of ‘Native Radio.’ All were happy to see that we had arrived safely.

People were disappointed though, that we had wandered around town for three hours in the early morning, just hoping that we would be spotted. Agnes said that, “We were worried about you. Bern said not to worry. That you were fine. That you knew what you were doing. That it’s a nice time of year, and you were probably just camping. But we were worried. You could have knocked on any door in town, and people would have let you in.”

We could have knocked on any door in town, and people would have been happy to let us in. It never occurred to us that we could have knocked on any door in town. Think about it. We could have knocked on any door in town. Even on the doors of people we didn’t know, and they would have welcomed us in. I am reminded of another of Rene Fumoleau’s stories, entitled Dene Christmas. Father Fumoleau had arrived in Fort Good Hope [Radeli Koe] in June of 1953. Here he met John, a Dene in his early twenties. Father Fumoleau admired John’s art, and asked John to draw the Christmas Story as though it had happened in Fort Good Hope. The two men agreed that the drawing should feature local and native themes, in that Joseph and Mary would arrive by a toboggan pulled by four dogs. Mary and Joseph, after finding no room in town, would pitch their tent on the other side of Jackfish Creek, where Jesus would be born.

After a week, Father Fumoleau asked John how the drawing was coming along. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” John said. Another week went by and John said he was still working on the drawing. Weeks turned into months and Father Fumoleau asked John directly if the drawing would be ready in time for Christmas.

“I don’t think so,” John replied. “I mean, that drawing doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“Oh?”

“You see, if Mary and Joseph had come to our village, they could have walked into any Dene house, and the people would have said, ‘Come on in, you’re welcome.’ ”

On June 13, a Sunday, we spent an uneventful day. Emails. Phone calls. After church we walked to the airstrip, up on the terrace east of town. From there we could see that all the ice has been moved off shore by the continuing southeast wind, which blows more strongly with each hour. The route to our cabin along the east shore of Colville Lake gapes wide open. We hope to leave Tuesday morning.

This afternoon Bern volunteered to come to North End by powerboat to take all of our winter gear back to town. Now we just need to make arrangements to get the gear from Colville Lake to Inuvik.

On Tuesday, June 15, we enjoyed another one of Agnes’ sumptuous breakfasts of eggs, bacon, toast, juice and coffee at the lodge. Three other guests joined us at the table, including a representative from North-Wright Airways in Norman Wells, with whom we made arrangements to fly our winter gear from Colville Lake to Inuvik. Our business in town was now complete, and we set out for home at 10:30 am. The cape no longer lay encased in ice, which was barely visible far to our west. We paddled around the point into a warm, southeast breeze, barely aware of the mosquitoes clinging to our backs, and flitting about our heads.

The shallow lakeshore mirrored the puffy-clouded, sun-drenched sky above. A golden-green light suffused through the placid water, penetrating easily to the sandy bottom half-a-metre below our canoe. Cloud-shadows hypnotically wavered and played on the sandy rills. Our rhythmic strokes took us from one hour to the next, one ice-free point to the next.

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About halfway down the east shore we stopped for dinner between two points where the shore gradually merged with the land. Open, park-like stands of spruce had beckoned to us, inviting us to linger on carpets of flowering Kinnikinnick, Crowberry, crunchy layers of lichen and soft layers of deep green moss. We resisted the temptation to camp in what was certainly the best campsite between town and the north end of Colville Lake. We were too close to home to stop now. Only 25 km (15 miles) to go.

We paddled on, in open water, where only five days ago we had battled thick rafts of often-impenetrable ice. The temperature hovered at 30 C (86 F). Increasing swarms of mosquitoes brought out the DEET repellent. Summer had arrived with an unbridled passion.

By 10:30 pm we neared James and Sharon’s new cabin. We paddled down the east side of the Big Island in its protected, calm water. Near its shrub-covered northern extension hordes of mosquitoes forced a temporary halt to apply generous amounts of DEET to our exposed arms and face.

At the exact moment of midnight, just like Cinderella, we beached our canoe in front of our cabin. We were home. A relaxing 13.5 hours to paddle approximately 40 km (25 miles). We felt energetic, and seem to be in good physical shape for paddling to the Arctic coast.

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Much had changed since we left six days ago. The Trembling Aspen and Balsam Poplar tress had leafed out. Red Bearberry had sprouted thick leaves. Prickly Saxifrage, Northern Comandra and Arnica were all blooming. Even at midnight, the temperature of our cabin interior registered 22C (45 F). Mosquitoes buzzed about our heads all night. Summer has arrived. In many ways, today was the first day of our canoe trip down the Anderson River to the Arctic coast. Our winter adventure – our sojourn into ice-bound isolation has ended. Vancouver threatens us in the not too distant future. I feel disconsolate, and wish we could return to last January 31st, when Kathleen and I first stood on the ice, all alone, surrounded by silence, trepidation and excitement.


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On June 16, we spent the day cleaning up, washing clothes, repairing gear and studying our maps of the Anderson River. Over the course of the winter we had accumulated six bags of garbage, mostly cans. We had burned all paper and cardboard garbage in the wood stove, and had given most of the organic garbage to the mink that lived in the burrow along the east shore north of our cabin. I had assumed that Bern would be taking our garbage back to town, but during last night’s radio conversation he said, “No, just burn it. You’ll find a garbage dump, in a pit about 100 yards northeast of the cabin.”

I found the garbage dump, and spent a couple of hours flattening and then burning the cans. Six bags of garbage aren’t very much for five months, certainly much less than we would have accumulated in five months back in Vancouver. But I didn’t like the idea of leaving my garbage here at the north end of Colville Lake, which seemed so pristine. This spot didn’t deserve garbage. In reality, though, it doesn’t make much difference whether my garbage gets dumped in town or here at the cabin. It’s still garbage. It has to go somewhere. It’s my garbage, and it’s my responsibility to deal with it.

The weather continued unbearably hot to be outside, particularly in front of a hot fire. Kathleen strung mosquito netting above our bunks; hopefully, tonight’s sleep will be uninterrupted and more relaxing.

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June 19 was our last full day at the cabin. Our last day of life at North End. Distant gunshots from hunters chasing geese and swans woke me, and I stepped outside at 4:30 am. I stood alone and silently outside on the south dock. A Bald Eagle soared majestically above Colville Lake. A beaver swam confidently through The Narrows of the outlet. A northern pike broke water aggressively in the shallow warmth off our north dock. Palpable, quiet sorrow at leaving an idyllic winter of solitude and adventure. In a little over 24 hours we will paddle away forever from our cabin. It will then be the end. Sadly, this is the end – the end of what has been the most satisfying period of my entire life.



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At 2:30 p.m., on June 20, our gear was packed, and both cabins locked and shuttered – just like we found them last January 31st. Kathleen and I wandered one more time around the compound. We walked along Laundry Lane and Lower Cabin Crescent. We sat below the flagpole and looked south across the wind-rippled surface of Colville Lake. I could have cried without too much prompting. I sighed deeply as we slowly made our way back past our cabin with its wood stacked neatly, 2 m (6 feet) high on the porch.



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We continued down the hill to our loaded canoe, which bobbed slightly in the afternoon breeze.

We looked at each other. What could we say? “It’s over. It’s time to go.”

I felt no joy, no excitement – only loss. Kathleen and I paddled away toward the Arctic coast. We could not bear to look back.
 
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That was wonderful! Thank you so much for sharing it with us.

I'm sure over the years, as you've shared this story, you've sent many minds into ardent introspection. This time was no different.

Alan
 
I was so wrapped up in this story that when I woke up yesterday morning I actually thought my part of the world was going through breakup. It was disappointing when I realized it's still 4 months away.
 
I'll also echo Deerfly in that I really appreciated your knowledge of the birds and plant life. I spent a few years being a pretty serious birder and also spent a lot of time identifying and learning our native fauna. I always enjoy traveling to knew places and seeing species that we share in common, species that are related, or are completely different. It's amazing how wide of a range plants have. Seems they can always find their niche somewhere.

Anyway, reading which ducks and birds were returning and what plants began blooming and growing, in order of occurrence, much better conveyed the sudden onslaught of spring better than "more ducks showed up overnight and today we saw some kind of little birds chirping in the bushes next to pretty yellow flowers."

Alan
 
Our three visitors made no fire pit encircled with stones. They simply dragged in a large pile of wood of all and various dimensions and set them on fire. Then, with small sticks, they impaled each of the birds through the throat, placed them around the perimeter of the blaze, and sat back to enjoy their tea.

It apparently works for fish too. This is one of PG Downes' pictures from the late 1930's on a trip north of Reindeer Lake.

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Have you read any of his books? Sleeping Island is a wonderful read. As is Distant Summers, which are his actual journal entries from his northern trips. Distant Summers is two volumes and unfortunately volume 2 is now nearly impossible to get; and judging from Amazon volume 1 might be getting to be the same way. For anyone interested you'd best snap them up if you can find them available anywhere. With any luck they'll be reprinted but who knows.

EDIT to add the print version of Sleeping Island looks to be drying up as well. A real shame. Abe Books still appears to have a few copies left at normal prices. Thankfully it's available as a Kindle download so it won't be completely gone.

Alan
 
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Apologies for plugging the thread up with my comments but just one more thing:

I found the black duck/scoter conversation very interesting. In Downes' travels north of Reindeer he mentioned a few times running across black ducks. When I hear "black duck" I think of the duck by that common name that resembles the mallard. I was surprised Downes would have seen so many since his travels were outside their normal range. So I assumed that either their range was under-reported in that remote area or that he was mistaken.

But white-winged and surf scoters do breed in that area so he was likely using the local name for those birds. Mystery solved!

Alan
 
Interesting image from Downs, Alan. He might have learned the technique from the Dene and Cree. Kathleen and I quit taking saws and axes for firewood on canoe trips long ago. No need to take stuff that we didn't really need.

Glad I could help with the Black Duck/Scoter mystery! Almost certainly Downes was using the local name. Feel free to "plug up the thread" some more!
 
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On Amazon.ca, volume two of distant summers is only $796.00. If I win the lottery I'll send you guys a copy. Don't hold your breath though.
 
Well gee, you had me pretty choked up at the end. Do we get to join you down the river, too?????

About Distant Summers, check your local library. If they don’t have it, they can probably get it on inter library loan.
 
Though I haven't read every page, I will continue to enjoy your story ! Inside all of us is a desire to do what you did ! Most of use won't even attempt it ! We are all enriched by your experience Thank you for sharing ! It was very satisfying !

Jim
 
So -30 here this morning, I'm getting ready to skidoo to work, but my life somehow feels empty. Is there 500 kilometres more of trip report coming?
 
I know it's not a contest, Mem. But -36 (-33 F) here this morning. If it were a contest, though, hard to know who would be declared the winner. Coldest or warmest?

And yes, Mem and Pringles, I do have a trip report for our month-long paddle down the Anderson River. I hope to post in the Spring. Don't want to shoot my entire wad all at once, and then have to go dormant!

As I have said before, I worry a little that I am posting too much material, such that it becomes more than people have time or inclination to read completely, as I infer from Jim's comment above. Like the Goldilocks story. Hard to know what is just right.

For example, I didn't include the following material from our last two days at the cabin, thinking it was too much. Kathleen thinks I should have, though. So here goes.

On our last night, June 19, about 11:00 pm, Richard and Charlie stopped by in their powerboat on their way to Legententue Lake, to scout the area for moose, and to do a little hunting.

“Would you like some tea?”

“Yep.”

This was Charlie’s first visit, and he looked around our cabin with interest as he waited for the tea water to boil. His gaze quickly settled on our airtight wood stove, very small by comparison to the much larger stoves usually found in Colville Lake homes. Kathleen poured the tea, and all four of us took a sip. Charlie set his mug down, looked at me, and asked, “So, you stay warm last winter?” No direct criticism of our stove. Just a rhetorical question to suggest that in the future we might want to consider getting a larger stove.

They asked if we still planned to leave tomorrow, and wondered where we intended to camp. I spread out the maps and pointed out the places on our intended itinerary, including our first camp in the narrows at Ketaniatue Lake.

“That’s not a good place for camping. Willows too dense and tall.” Richard pointed to another spot, on a point about four km (2.5 mlles) beyond the narrows. “This is the first good spot for camping. You should camp here.”

We drank a few cups of tea, and said goodbye to Charlie and Richard just after midnight.

The next morning, I awoke at 9:00 am, and strolled up to the storage cabin to start bringing our canoe packs down to the water. Suddenly a voice rang out, “Hi!”

Charlie was calling out to me from Flagpole Hill, and soon stood beside me, out of breath.

“We broke down. Kicker stopped working. Been running all night. Bugs real bad.”

“Come on in for pancakes and coffee.”

A few minutes later Richard joined us for a full breakfast in a crowded, happy cabin. I wondered how they planned to get back to their camp, which was on the Big Island. I was wondering if perhaps there was a boat at James and Sharon’s. They would need a boat. Even getting down to James and Sharon’s through the bush would be difficult. They would need a boat. I assumed that they would ask for Bern’s boat, and Bern had specifically asked me not to loan any equipment or gas. I decided to meet the problem head on.

“How are you getting back to camp?”

“By boat.”

“I don’t think you should take Bern’s boat. He says he has no gas. You should take our canoe. Are you comfortable paddling a canoe?”

Charlie and Richard both nodded yes, and moments later they paddled away, Richard in the stern, stroking hard. Kathleen and I felt a little vulnerable watching our canoe disappear up Colville Lake. If something happened to it, we couldn’t paddle down the Anderson River. What then? We were all packed up and ready to go on our canoe trip. We hadn’t discussed with Charlie and Richard about how we would get our canoe back, or even when we might expect it back. It would be OK to wait a day, or two, or three. But the uncertainty would definitely be unpleasant. We returned to the cabin, boiled some tea water, and sat down to wait.

At 12:30, an aluminum boat approached, towing our canoe behind. Two older men that we had never met before stepped out onto the dock and began tying up. I waited until they finished.

“Would you like to come in for coffee?”

“Yep.”

Our visitors sat down at the table while Kathleen brewed up more coffee. We talked of our trip down the Anderson River.

“Lot of bears on the river. You have a gun?”

I showed them my Browning .308.

“Nice, lever action.”

“You know, everyone here says that the lever action is nice, but no one but me has a lever action. All of you have bolt action rifles. If lever action is nice, then why don’t you have lever action rifles?”

“Lever action might jam.”

Another example of the diplomatic approach used by the people here. Sure, my lever action was nice. Just not as nice, in their opinion, as a bolt action. This was the first time that I had asked for their advice, so it was the first time that the advice had been given. Very diplomatic.

One of our guests then commented, “We were surprised when you came to town last winter over the ice. Why, we asked ourselves, would anyone camp out on the ice in the middle of the lake? We know that Eskimos camp out on the ice. So if Eskimos camp on the ice, then maybe other people can also camp out on the ice.” Our guest paused, and then concluded, “But here at Colville, we have trees, and we like to camp in them.”

I took this as a diplomatic suggestion that in the future I shouldn’t choose to camp out on the ice. Camping in the trees is safer, and more sheltered from winter storms.

After finishing their tea, our guests mentioned that they hadn’t been in the cabin for a very long time.

“We liked being here,” I said. “It’s a great cabin. Very well made. Just like the lodge he built in town. It’s beautiful. Bern has a lot of skills. I wish I had his skills.”

Our guests looked around a bit, and then spoke slowly and softly.

“I cleared the land for this cabin. I built the cabin. The people built Bern’s lodge in town, to help the priest. The people were here before Brown, not the other way around. Colville Lake was here before Brown.”

I was stunned by this quiet, unexpected, somewhat undiplomatic outpouring. But I could see their point. Bern is famous in the North, and I think deservedly so, for reasons I have already presented. But in reality, many southerners, many whites have come north and become famous for doing essentially what the indigenous people have done for millennia; building cabins, surviving in the bush, being part of an isolated community, creating art. The southern whites have become famous because their achievements have occurred in an environment considered strange or unusual from the southern, urban perspective. Fair enough. But the accomplishments of southerners, the success of ‘newcomers,’ the fame of men like John Hornby who travelled through the Barren Grounds, Bern Will Brown and Dr. John Rae with the Hudson Bay Company have sometimes been promoted by media that overlook or otherwise ignore the contributions of the indigenous population.

As all four of us walked back to the dock I asked what would happen to the cabin after Bern is gone. “After all, he’s getting on in age. He’s 79 this year.”

“Maybe we should burn it down. Priests aren’t supposed to marry, aren’t supposed to start businesses.”

Anyway, that is the end of our story at the cabin. We are headed down the Anderson River toward the Arctic Coast. Canoeing is fun. I shouldn't be so sad.


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For perspective, you can see the Anderson River heading north, away from Great Bear Lake.


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A schematic diagram of the Anderson River. These two diagrams are from Mary McCreadie's book "Canoeing Canda's Northwest Territories."

Back in the Spring!
 
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Don’t fret over giving us to much information! We’re not little kids hiding under the covers in bed, reading by flashlight (I’m making an assumption here.). We’re reading this because we WANT to, because we LIKE it. (As least I do.) If you write your river trip report now, you’ll be able to plan another trip during the spring, take the trip in the summer, and then write it up for us next winter! That’s a good plan. Do that. We’ll wait by our computers.

Seriously, it’s been a wonderful series. Please continue.
 
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