Subarctic Equinox
Eskers and Caribou
Small herds of caribou wandered everywhere—bulls with white manes and enormous red racks and large groups of cows, calves, and yearlings. Some bobbed high in the water as they swam across from the mainland, shaking off spray as they emerged onto the beach. The caribou—part of the 500,000-strong Qamanirjuaq herd that calves near the Kazan River—had been sauntering south toward the tree line since mid-August, primed for the approaching rut. Like livestock in a pasture, they had cut deep troughs with their hooves among the spruce trees near the esker. We followed their trails to the ridgetop and walked north along the island, surprising a large blond wolf that paused to inspect us before disappearing over a hill.
Up close the foliage was still colorful. Although the bearberry had withered and some birch leaves were already lying brown on the lichen, many bushes still held vivid hues of red and orange, and the tamaracks were a bright, smoky gold. Ripe blueberries still clung to mauve bushes. Rascal, the border collie, waded through choice patches like a small bear, gently licking up the sweet fruit. “Smart dog,” someone joked. “Probably knows he’ll need it in the next two weeks.” We all laughed, wondering quietly if that was true. With temperatures barely breaking 40 degrees Fahrenheit during the day and dipping well into the 20s at night, the rich food we carried was precious cargo.
That night the wind shifted, and we stood stiffly around our fire, sparks trailing off horizontally down the beach into the cold, wet darkness. “A good time to head south,” we all agreed, before heading off to our tents and sleeping bags.
The morning dawned gray and windy, and we picked our way down the big lake using what shelter there was, even portaging across a barren peninsula to escape the breakers kicked up by the relentless tailwind. Near the outlet of the Wolverine River, we had to turn and quarter into the waves, watching keenly upwind as they rose and fell, timing our strokes to avoid those that crested and broke nearby. Finally, we pulled into the lee of an esker close to shore and drained the boats, then ran Wolverine Rapids into Little Duck Lake.
We were in the traditional territory of the Sayisi Dene, the native band who had lived off this land since time immemorial. A Hudson’s Bay Company post at the lake was built in 1941 to facilitate the trapping of white fox, marten, and beaver, but plummeting caribou numbers prompted the Canadian government to relocate all the people to Churchill in 1956. Displaced from their home and lifestyle, they fell into despair and poverty, as recounted in the book Night Spirits. In 1973, the survivors reclaimed their traditions and relocated to Tadoule Lake, where many still lead a subsistence life. A cemetery on a sandy hill watches over the country now. Tracks of caribou and wolf pass through the small plot of weathered wooden crosses.
The Wolverine proved to be a picturesque river with lively whitewater and high cut banks still bright with autumn colors. The small river’s only real obstacle was Grayling Falls, a solid stretch of Class IV water that looked too big and technical for open boats in our conditions.
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