The Final Days

The puddles are frozen and the tent bears a heavy coat of frost. The morning is obscured by thick fog. The brilliant colors are an artist’s dream. Dark red bearberry leaves, glazed with frost, surround and contrast the grey granite boulders on the tops of cobble eskers. In the forest now I fight my way through bushes and fallen trees. The open expanse of the tundra is gone and I am left in a small world where I often see no more than 50 metres ahead of me.

I enjoy these cold nights and crisp mornings. Finally, in early September, the black flies are nearly all gone. Only the heat of mid-afternoon sunshine brings out a few to pester my eyes and nose. But this is a short season and snow is on the way. The geese began flying south overhead more than a week ago. My body and feet are tired from 800km of hiking and I look forward to a break. A plane will fly me south to Mattberry Lake, on the Emile River, where I will join my family and a couple friends to paddle that river south to Behchoko. I am looking forward to the moderated reintroduction to society: a two-week paddle with family, friends, and plenty of food and conversation before the hustle of modern life hits me once again.

On the last day I awake at 5am to pack and prepare for the final 4 km hike south to a larger lake where the plane will land. By 6:20am I am walking in a light fog that is slowly giving way to blue sky. My legs are energized from a day of rest and I’m eager to reach the lake before the plane arrives. At 7:30am I set my pack down on a rocky shore shaded by a high ridge to the east. A cold breeze from the southeast urges me to pull out all my layers and gather wood for a fire. I’ll be here a few hours to reflect and contemplate this hike before a noisy modern float plane snatches me from my wilderness eskerpade.

At the beginning of this hike I mentally gave myself a 50/50 chance of finishing. The likelihood was probably more like 10/90 with the odds strongly against me. One slip on a slimy boulder could have seriously injured an ankle or knee. One crazy windstorm at an exposed campsite could have blown away a critical piece of gear. Or I could simply have gone mad from the bugs. The soles of my shoes could have fallen off or a seam on my inflatable boat could have delaminated. My feet and toes could have blistered to the point of infection and forced me to stop. But somehow I managed to avoid these catastrophes. After 41 days and 800km I sit on the edge of a rocky lake waiting for a float plane. The tears flow, tears of joy and also sadness. This project was 10 months in the making; I spent countless hours planning, applying for funding, choosing and weighing gear, testing gear, organizing food, and packing.

The project is not yet over. There are photos and video footage to organize, presentations to make, gps tracks to compile, annotated maps to scan, phone calls to make, stories to tell, and thank you messages to send. The memories and splendor of this trip will last my lifetime. We are a compilation of stories, the experiences of a lifetime. I will share stories of this hike around dinner tables and fires for many years.