I was concerned about the safety of our group, but also the potential for the bear to take our food supply. Being two days out in the wilderness makes having no food a serious issue. My goal was to ensure the safe evacuation of the site with all our belongings, and in order to balance the risk I needed to see what that bear was doing. I was still holding the hatchet, but as I approached within sight of the bear again, I realized how useless it would be.
I watched as the bear lumbered forward and reached the thunder box. At this point, I was probably fifteen metres away from him. He sniffed the wooden box and then, as if it were a pebble, swatted it sideways, sending it flying about ten metres.
Then, in a breathtaking moment I will never forget, the bear stood up on his hind legs, reaching a height of close to seven feet. He turned and looked right into my eyes. You know the line in that bear song, “He looked at me, I looked at him…” This powerful beast locked his gaze on me, but something happened in that exchange. In that moment I didn’t feel any fear or aggression toward him. Instead, I felt awe and respect. I was overcome by the magnificence of this animal, and I believe my eyes told him as much.
His eyes told me not to worry either. After what seemed like twenty minutes (but was probably only a few seconds,) the bear lowered back down to all fours, turned his head and walked away. Then my heart started to beat again, and I was overwhelmed with the reality of what had just happened. I turned and headed back to the campsite. Everyone was waiting offshore, so I jumped in my canoe and paddled out to them. Of course I told them all what had happened, and how lucky I was.
Yes, I had been lucky — truly fortunate to experience this beautiful animal in his own habitat without fear or competition. Instead we shared an almost sacred moment of peace and recognition, with mutual respect and wonder.
As I paddled away from the scene of this encounter, the water seemed to sparkle in the sunlight a little more, the greenery of the pines looked somehow deeper, and the few clouds in the otherwise blue sky appeared as if they had been painted on canvas and placed there deliberately. I felt an almost timeless sense of the spirit of this land that had been travelled by those before me, from the Algonquin First Nations tribe to the Voyageurs and the French coureurs de bois. Perhaps, they too had had an encounter like mine.
This wasn’t the first time I’d encountered a bear, nor would it be the last. But this experience stands out as a moment that established within me a sacred connection to the spirit of the bear that I carry to this day. The bear holds a space inside my soul that still fills me with wonder and gratitude that we are able to share this great land, in all its majesty.
~Bradley A. Rudner
Victoria, British Columbia
Four Seasons in Moosonee
The more I see of the country, the less I feel I know about it. There is a saying that after five years in the north every man is an expert; after ten years, a novice.
~Pierre Berton
I guess someone should have warned us it wasn’t a good idea to get married and start a family when neither of us was fully employed. After our third anniversary, I was pregnant, we had no full-time work, and we were both still in college in Toronto. It was then that my husband, Doug, decided to apply for a teaching position in the north.
Waiting is always hard, but finally he received the call, an interview, and an offer all in one day. He came home so excited. “I accepted a job teaching a grade five class in Moosonee!”
“Excellent.” I said. “Where is Moosonee?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Let’s get out the map.”
“Okay, straight north of us. That must be a two-day trip to get there. Looks good. But, wait, there are no roads going that far north. How do we get there?”
“By train,” explained Doug. “Or, as my principal explained, we could ship our stuff by train and then fly in, but you know how much I like planes.”
“So, train it is,” I said. “Excellent.”
Maybe not so excellent. Now came the warnings from family and friends: “You’ll feel isolated so far from everything.” “You’ll experience culture shock in a tiny remote native community.” “You may even feel some antagonism toward you, being one of the very few non-natives.” “You will be homesick.” But if this was going be my new home, I reflected, how could I feel anything but “at home?”
With our few belongings crammed into a crate, we boarded the train in Toronto for the all-day trip north to Cochrane. The next day we boarded the train called the Polar Bear Express for the rest of the trip. For six hours we bumped and lurched over the boggy terrain, filled with the excitement of this crazy adventure. Crossing many rivers, we surveyed an endless terrain of short and skinny spruce and tamarack trees.
Moosonee. A tiny community of mostly Cree natives. But the few jobs were filled mostly by outsider white men, like the newbies climbing down the steps of the train that bright, hot August day. Some of our wide-eyed fellow travellers, who were tourists, headed for the motel down by the wide Moose River. Our new home sat slightly behind the motel, but from our bedroom window we could still see past it to this ever-changing body of water. Being so close to the Arctic tidewaters of James Bay, only eighteen kilometres away, we saw the dramatic effect of the tide throughout the day. At low tide, the low, fast flowing river revealed a huge sandbar in the middle, but as high tide approached, the river swelled and then seemed to flow backwards. Fascinating!
The first day of school was soon upon us. Doug quickly learned that the dress code was not as formal as southern Ontario. Not formal at all, actually. But he easily and quickly fit in, especially since even the natives thought he was native, too.
One day, I agreed to meet him after school at the only store in town, the Bay. This Hudson’s Bay store had a little of everything: clothes, furniture and food. Prior to this, it had always been so easy for me to find Doug anywhere. Taller than most men, Doug stood out with his raven black hair. But of course everywhere I looked here I saw tall men with shiny, raven black hair. It was not so easy to find him now!
As for me, I was maybe the only blond, short female anywhere here or in the small neighbouring town and reserve of Moose Factory, just across the river. Strange name, eh? In the early days of exploration, the Hudson’s Bay Company sent out men to set up trading posts. These men were called Factors, and their home and shop was called “The Factory.”
How were we going to make this unique community our home? It wasn’t long before we’d explored all we could of the very limited roads on our bikes. We took short walks into the surrounding wilderness. We took the boat taxi over to Moose Factory. My new friend and neighbour walked with me every day to the post office. Some days the short walk involved a long detour around a hungry, dangerous pack of stray dogs.
In the fall, so many of the locals disappeared into the bush to hunt that school was closed for a week. So Doug took a gun safety course and got a hunting licence. He would only be allowed to go hunting with a native guide, though. In the past, the low marshy terrain and the fluctuating, unpredictable Arctic tides had taken too many lives. Doug quickly realized that he could not take the lives of those beautiful, innocent snow geese. Also, he had an extremely close call that almost took his life. So that was the end of the gun.
Doug played the organ for the Anglican church services. We sometimes attended the Pentecostal and Baptist worship services as well. Everywhere we made lots of long-lasting, faithful friends. While Doug took evening classes to learn the Cree language, I took a koolatuk-making class. A koolatuk is a very warm northern-style parka. I actually became somewhat artistic by designing my own unique pattern to embroider on both the inner and outer layers.
It turned out we really needed these warm coats. Winter arrived in a snowstorm in mid-October. During November, I checked the thermometer every day. But since it consistently read –20 C, it was a safe bet the rest of the winter was going to be well below that. Most people had snowmobiles, zipping up and down the roads and across to Moose
Factory over the five-foot-thick ice covering the river. For the few cars, at every parking spot the store provided a pole with an outlet in order for customers to plug in their vehicles. At the usual –40 C it doesn’t take long for a battery to freeze.
We started hosting youth group meetings. The kids made their excitement and gratitude evident at having something positive to do, to counter the substance abuse that had become a serious threat.
When the warmth of spring arrived, we learned about the gigantic blocks of ice that would jam together and potentially cause flooding. Around that time our baby was born in the Moose Factory hospital. Now that we had a baby in this tiny, isolated, northern Ontario town, it felt like home.
Summer brought a hot sun and swarms of shockingly enormous moose flies. But the youth assured me those thick swarms were not dangerous. The Polar Bear Express once again brought tourists to the motel down by the river. And although I did not look like I belonged there, I was most assuredly not a tourist. This was Moosonee and this was my home.
~Elizabeth Kranz
Killaloe, Ontario
Where Ravens Fly Backwards
You have not seen Canada until you have seen the North.
~Former Prime Minister Pierre Elliot Trudeau
As the floatplane circled lower over the Payne River, the pilot pointed to a cluster of houses. “That’s Payne Bay,” he said. “The tide’s out so we’ll have to land a ways out, clear of the rocks. Don’t worry, they’ll come out and get you.” After we touched down in the water I stepped onto the pontoon and into a waiting motorboat. I had arrived — 100 miles north of the tree line in Arctic Quebec (Nunavik), at the Inuit village known today as Kangirsuk on the western side of Ungava Bay. The shore was lined with elders and children who had halted their play to come and greet their new teacher. I returned their smiles, but heard no English until Jim, the principal, stepped forward to welcome me. It was August 1969 and I had just turned twenty-two.
Knowing nothing about my accommodations, I was pleasantly surprised when Jim took me to my own house. He pointed out the water tank that was filled daily by a community worker, who in winter would also bring blocks of ice from the nearby lake. At the bathroom door Jim motioned to a metal bucket with a toilet seat mounted over a sturdy garbage bag saying, “that’s called a honey bucket.”
“I’ll be fine,” I grinned. “I used an outhouse as a child.”
I was glad to see the well-stocked pantry and freezer, proof that my Montreal order had arrived on the summer ship, unlike my trunk of clothes.
“Don’t worry,” Jim assured me. “It’ll probably be on the next plane.” (It wasn’t but I managed).
“That’s my house over there,” he pointed. “My wife will have supper ready at 6:00.”
The next day I saw my classroom, which contained just blackboards, neat rows of desks and the same Dick and Jane books I had read in grade one. In a cupboard I found flip chart pads, crayons, and paints. The youngest in my K through 4 class only spoke Inuktitut so I was overjoyed to meet Anna, my Inuit assistant. Anna was responsible for teaching basic English. She also made hot chocolate, delicious and essential for dipping vitamin biscuits.
At the first sound of a plane the children would rush to the windows but, on one particularly windy day, I was the one who took a second look when I saw a raven flying backwards. That became my measure for gale force winds.
I purchased a parka at the Co-op, and the Hudson’s Bay store had most essentials. There was only one radiophone in the village, and to call home I had to connect with an operator in southern Quebec who then rang my parents in New Brunswick. The protocol was to speak, say “over” then wait for the relay and response. But we forgot, talked at the wrong time and laughed until tears threatened to flow. Calls were too short, a high followed by the low of goodbye.
Mail arrived by plane, but just before freeze-up came a period when planes couldn’t land on the river because spray would freeze on the wings, and the ice in the lake was not yet thick enough. Then my only connection with the South was CBC’s Northern Messenger on my short-wave radio. Letters were sent to Montreal to be read on air, connecting teachers all around Quebec’s Arctic coast. We learned of engagements, family reunions and new babies, and became one family. I don’t think the broadcaster appreciated the humour when my mother included hard-to-pronounce place names like Lake Magaguadavic, and I wasn’t amused when she responded to a lack of letters by inquiring if I had broken my arm or perhaps the post office had burned down.
I loved the treeless landscape and spent my spare time climbing hills, picking my way over rock fields and jumping small streams. I purchased an over-and-under (single shot 22 and 20 gauge shotgun) at the Hudson’s Bay store and proudly carried it as I wandered the tundra. I jumped when ptarmigan flushed near my feet and marvelled at my first snow geese, but after I shot a Canada goose I stopped hunting. Geese mate for life, and the plaintive honking of the flock haunted my every step home.
Winter brought new adventure when I acquired an older 10 horsepower Skidoo. It wasn’t fast or powerful, but I loved that little machine and the freedom it brought. Cold demands respect so I never left the village alone. David, the principal’s administrative assistant, became my Skidoo buddy. We sped along valleys, drove on thick river ice cracking and shifting with the tide, and I learned to skirt the dangerous inland ponds.
In March I was thrilled when David invited me to join an overland trip to Koartac over the Easter weekend. But I had never driven for eight hours straight, and became uncertain as I watched the Skidoos being checked and the komatiks (Inuit sleds) loaded. Then, on Tuesday, a storm blew up, and my indecision increased with the swirling snow. Mid-morning on Good Friday the wind dropped, but the sky remained grey and all traces of the trail were gone. Nevertheless, I was on one of ten machines that left for Koartac mid-afternoon.
At 6:00 p.m. we stopped for hot tea and cold meat. I revelled in the holiday mood, pleased that I had no trouble keeping up. There are no stars, I reflected, and every rocky hill looks the same. It’s amazing — I wonder how they find their way?
At 9:00 p.m. we halted again. This time three men drove their machines in a big circle, their headlights shining out into the darkness. Then they consulted, each pointing in a different direction. I had no idea what they were saying. This was repeated about every hour and I became more anxious with each stop. Were we lost? Cold and fatigue seeped in and my knees resented climbing back on the Skidoo.
Finally at 1:00 a.m. David told me we were going no farther; they were afraid of running out of gas. I watched as both men and women tramped snow in two big circles. Long knives flashed cutting blocks and, just like that, two traditional igloos emerged! A woman motioned for me to enter one, and gave me tea she’d made on a small burner. She quickly turned it off because the roof was dripping. I laid my sleeping bag down on caribou hides, took off my outer clothes and gave in to exhaustion.
I awoke at first light to the sound of excited voices. Apparently we had gone too far west and were now on the wrong side of the bay. Breakfast could wait! After loading up, everyone chose their own path racing across the ice, meeting the searchers who by now had set out from Koartac. I was elated. I had done it!
Monday we returned home on a clear trail, and I had learned two new things. I don’t like muktuk (whale blubber) and one should never have two cups of coffee where there are no trees and you are wearing a one-piece Skidoo suit!
I left Payne Bay after two years but the experiences have never left me. My soul expanded in that open Arctic land, and the accepting Inuit taught me to embrace Canada’s diversity. On cold winter nights the memories are still as vivid as ravens flying backwards.
~Rose Burke
Rusagonis, New Brunswick
Season of the Fly
And the black flies, the little black flies. Always the black fly no matter where you go. I’ll die with the black fly a-pickin’ my bones. In North Ontar-eye-o-eye-o, In North Ontar-eye-o.
~Wade Hemsworth, “The Black Fly Song”
In 1961 my father decided it was time to introduce our family to the joys of “wilderness” camping. Not one to undertake modest adventures, he chose for our week-long holiday the mighty Algonquin — the famous 7,652-square-kilometre Provincial Park on the doorstep of Ontario’s wild north. I was nine and my brother seven. Although raised in the country, we’d never ventured beyond our tamed landscape of rolling pastures and tidy dairy farms. Our father’s descriptions of the wonders of watching bears rummaging through dumps and deer begging at cars on roadsides intrigued us, although our curiosity was tempered by some past experience with Dad’s exploits.
He fancied himself a yet-to-be-discovered inventor, business mogul and explorer, worthy of the National Geographic Society; he rarely let his inexperience get in the way of his enthusiasm. Dad did some checking and discovered the very best time to camp in Algonquin was May. Few people booked campsites at that time of the year, and it was dirt-cheap. Dad put this down to the stupidity of the common man blind to the value of a good bargain. So book he did, and the family prepared for our great adventure.
My parents cleared out our blue and white Volkswagen bus and restocked it with a mattress for the floor, blankets, tarps, boxes of food and utensils, a cast iron frying pan, clothes, fishing gear, rubber boots, soap and sundries. We did not pack sunscreen or bug repellent.
We arrived in the late afternoon. Strangely, there were no other campers in our vicinity. My father was delighted — he regaled us with tales of Iroquois warriors stalking the lonely pines, and described wild trappers cloaked in furs, muskets in hand, hunting bear and wolverine.
The first clue as to the real trouble we were in came after my mother and I left to fetch water. With the sun close to the horizon there was some urgency in getting settled for the night. As we crossed a grassy patch toward the waterspout, our way was blocked by a vast black cloud of dancing dots. My mother laughed at my hesitation. Bugs were part of camping after all. “Just keep your mouth closed,” she advised, “and forage on.”