is no wind at all and it is getting hot. We made 18 hard-fought miles
in many many hours of paddling. We are beat. More tomorrow about today.
Food and bed call seductively.
It's morning. I can
think. Well, sort of.
The highlight yesterday had to be the Inuit camp. It was part way up a
ridge and not on the wind-swept top. This seemed odd to me, given the
plaque of blackflies and mosquitoes that has been following us each day.
I mean, where else can fish graze along the top of the water and find
enough dead insects so they can thrive and grow fat? Whatever Deity put
this plague on earth is not going to be part of my sacred shrine, I can
tell you. Anyway, back to the location.
The top was flatish aand covered in lichen while the side hill was uneven
and a jumble of boulders. "What's with this?" I thought. Then
it hit me. The boulders. The Inuit used them for everything from graves
to firepits to meat caches to staking out their tents. And on the top
of the hill the rocks were all huge and embedded in 6 feet of gravel till.
Not at all the type of spot a "white guy" would pick - a long
way to get water, where will be put the lawn, the kids will kill themselves
on these rocks - but a perfectly sensible spot for an Eskimo -as Tyrell
The 3 graves we saw were the most poignant reminders that this was home
to these people. One was just a huge jumble of small rocks over the body
of the deceased. There was much shaped wood strewn about. On top there
was the remains of a kayak paddle (?) and pieces of a kayak - long flat
strips of wood with a series of drilled holes for lashing the parts together
(?). The other two were high - say 2 foot to 3 foot - rock walls about
8 feet long. The body was presumably laid on the ground and then surrounded
by the wall. I can see the whole clan carrying those rocks - one by one
- to lay around their father, their friend, their husband - and then covered
with stout timbers and covered over with more rocks. The sight of the
skull and lower jaw bone in the one left no doubt as to these being graves.
The deceased's worldy goods were scattered about the grave - perhaps inside
as well (?) We found some metal pots and an enamel bowl.
We found other places where caribou and fish had been stored in natural
crevices between huge boulders. The narrow openings - about a foot to
18 inches - were keyed shut with heavy boulders to stop wolverines and
the like from getting in. They must have fished the meat out with a rope
or stick as you couln't get into the caches. In one we could see a perfectly
preserved caribou antler, now reddish from lichen.
Earlier in the day we stopped at a non-descript piece of willow bog shoreline
so I could do a radio interview with MBC. Lynda went for a hike to a spot
where we could make out a few large angular Sonehenge-like rocks that
had been tipped up by humans. She came back to tell me that nearby, "I
found a spear point. It was about 2 inches long and the tip is broken
off. You could see the lashing notch at the base."
And this at the first place we stopped. The Inuit were everwhere here.
Not for many years - say about early 1800s to as late as about 1930 -
but they were here and it was home.
More tonight. If you hadn't noticed, we like it out here. It suits us.
It feels like home.
Day 22, Thursday
July 29, 2004
We had a great day
but a long day. 24 miles in a calm ocean of a lake. Trout for lunch after
2 casts. Too tired to do it all justice. It's 8 now, and we are just finishing
eating and have the tent to set up and much fiddling to do. I need to
fix the Zip Stove - one of my "moded" legs broke, we have to
do a food and naptha inventory, and we want to walk to a nearby hill to
have a look. Besides even under the tarp the mosquitoes are insane right
now. It is so hard to type.
The north end of this lake near the river mouth is spectacular camping.
When we stopped at an especaially nice place we found an old Inuit camp.
Many tent rings, one of which is fully 24 feet across.
Here's one for the fishermen. Fish are surfacing 20 feet from shore. I
had to rig up and try. Nothing would bite so I tried a small Mepps. They
tend to not sink so fast and you can do a slower presentation. I was sure
there were trout and that my Len Thompson was just too fast for them.
Two casts and I had a hit. The third cast I got a fish. I could see it
as it neared shore and was poutting as it was a tiny trout. But then it
leaped form the water and I could see the huge dorsal fin of a Grayling.
And we are still 6 miles from the river. Caught three in a row and they
are a great size - over a pound and a bit each - and they are in a bag
in the lake for lunch tomorrow. Grayling form shore is a new one for me.
More in the morning about today. It was special
We woke and sipped
coffee under our kitchen tarp. Discussion came around to going across
to Enetah's camp. I was for making some miles. "I mean we saw one
camp filled with tent rings and graves. Do we need to see another one?"
I asked somewhat rhetorically.
The real reason I didn't want to go across was because it hurts to see
all those who were here and are now gone forever. Their children's children
will never see this land and will soon enough forget their people's history.
Seeing these sites evokes very powerful images. I can see the whole camp.
I can see the children learning how to be hunters or learning the many
skills of thier mothers as they watch and mimic. I can see them buryng
their loved ones. And it is all now gone. That makes me profoundly sad.
So better to act jaded and paddle off into the waking day where I can
live in a world of fantasy. A fantasy where any minute a flotilla of "kyacks"
can appear magically from behind an island. And then lead us to their
camp where the whole panoply of their daily life is unfolding, where they
know not of the rest of the world, where their world is what they can
see. And so that is what I did.
As we paddled out into the main body of Angikuni, the horizon was infinite.
Sky, lake and cloud blended like you were seeing the curve of the earth.
Clouds platinum white - the colour of arctic cotton grass - sat on a black
blue sea. The sky was a vibrant aquamarine. The wall of white looked as
if God's own bulldozer had left huge mountains of snow on the edge of
this ocean. The wall of winter snow stayed for hours until finally a thin
line of black crept between. Soon these lines of black thickened and a
ragged fringe of trees could be seen sprouting from the islands. The fantasy
So I watched the sun glitter off of the waves. It was like a thousand
thousand tiny Christmas tree lights were blinking off and on each time
a breeze broke the surfcace of the lake.
And in these few hours of dreaming and fantasy it was possible that the
"kyacks" would appear.
Soon enough the sun rose to its zenith, the winds quit - the fantasy ended.
The tiny glimmers of lights blinked off.. The sun bleached the colours
from the clouds and the sky and the lake. And the "kyacks" vanished.
full day's sun, we dragged the canoe through a thick syrup of water. Ground
out our 16000 daily paddle stokes. Were back into the reallity of the
day. But for
a few hours those "kyacks" were just around the next point.
And perhaps today I will look for them again.