Prologue:
In July, the summer gang somehow managed to pull off a jet boat ride up to Deline –in spite of driver cancellations, broken motors, varying gas prices, communication mishaps, and scheduling conundrums. The boat captain weaved his jet boats –laden with barrels, paddles, canoes, and Southerners- through the twists and turns of the Great Bear River and dropped them on the edge of Great Bear Lake. With the town of Deline a mere glimmer on the horizon, and the fresh, ocean-like breezes coming off the lake filling their spirits, the gang launched their boats into the swift running waters, and began a journey of adrenaline highs, temperature lows, laughs, sighs, and bug bites.
Part I: The Mouth of the Bear
The farther east one travels from Tulita, the closer they will find themselves to the Barren Lands. The infamous Barren Lands. The North at its most quintessential: Endless miles of heather and lichen*, wisps of trees to break up the vastness of cold earth and blue sky, herds of caribou rolling across it like dice from a gambler’s hand. The Mouth of the Bear is not quite in the Barren Lands. But not quite not, at the same time. The space between the trees is wider, the air less muggy, and there is a feeling when standing on the shore of Great Bear Lake that one is on the brink of something endless.
After thanking their boat driver and paying the water, the three canoes clipped along quite merrily into the setting** sun, the paddlers leisurely passing the time in the boat by engaging in clever banter about local politics, and jovial, harmless gossip about whoever was not presently in their boat with them.
A brisk 30km gave way to camp at Stick Creek amongst some low-lying willows and many thousands of abandoned tent-caterpillar nests. If it weren’t for the incessant pestering of mosquitoes, blackflies, no-see-ums and bulldogs*** it would have been an entirely perfect evening: spruce-silhouetted horizon, the gurgling white noise of the creek entering the river, cozy tents, good friends, and bellies full of noodles.
Part II: Bennett Field
The next leg of the journey proved to be a rollicking good time. Sleep-ins and porridge gave way to a fun stretch of the river with some white water, canyons, and muskox viewings. A regular North of 60 safari.
In Tulita, there are stories told with a wistful gaze and sparkling eyes of a land of lush forests and flowing waters. A place where the grass grows greener and the moose grow leaner. The Sahtu’s very own Shangri-la. Before departing on their trip, the group had reached out to Benny and Tisha, the cabin-owners/guardians/sovereigns of this plentiful and revered kingdom along the banks of the Bear, and asked if they could perhaps pitch their tents there for a night.
The day was scorcher, and in spite of the splash of rapids and a lunch break spent amongst the river’s still-frozen icebergs, the groups was a hot, sweaty mess when they finally ran their boats up onto the beach of Bennett Field. Thankfully, all the legends were true. They were greeted by a joyful legion of dragonflies, wings glinting in the sunlight like swords, slaying mosquitoes in droves. Falling down out of a meadow made entirely of wildflowers was a small stream with a deep, rocky pool. It served dutifully as a wilderness bathtub for weary, sticky travellers. In turns, each paddler submerged themselves into these cool, sacramental waters. Amidst the splashing, giggles, and gasps, they each had a moment, unbeknownst to the others, of feeling prematurely nostalgic. As if they knew there was no better time to be alive than in the present, washing away sweat, dirt, and all of life’s worries, in the bathtub of Bennett Field.
As they were pitching their tents and cooking dinner, a local lad came down from the cabin and took Maciek out to catch some fish on the other side of the river. The Bear must have been feeling generous, as they returned not long after and two fresh grayling were soon sizzling on a make-shift barbeque for a bedtime snack. Jesus loves.
Part III: Big Bertha
Now, sadly, this story must take on a different tone. Amidst the magic of Bennet Field, the crystal clear waters of the Bear, tanned shoulders, sun-screened noses, and sweeping, bluebird skies, is Big Bertha. Two of the three vessels were your standard river canoes: light, swift, maneuverable through the rapids. The third was a behemoth of a boat –fat and sluggish, dragging her fat ass along the length of the Bear, always a good half-hour behind the rest. It was not uncommon to hear paddlers in the leaner boats mutter phrases like, “Where the frick is Betha?” or “What’s taking Bertha so long” or “God why is Bertha so fat?”.
At one point, Bertha’s passengers pulled over for a pee break. After what felt like hours and hours, the leading boats saw her round the bend in the distance. When she finally caught up (after taking for freaking ever), the fast boats were about to call her out for being a dawdling slug, when they noticed that Tess, sitting in Bertha’s princess seat, was covered in mud. A thick, clay-like mud that was clinging to her boots, and pants, right up to her waist. While Bertha had parked her fat ass on the bank further up the river, the crew had walked off along the shore to find a pee spot, and Tess, unfortunately, had an encounter with some Bear River quickmud. It claimed her boot and her dignity, and all of Bertha’s crew had to come together to literally pull Tess from the mud’s slimy clutches.
Needless to say, what with the river widening, the current slowing, Bertha’s natural floating speed, and quickmud surprises, the going was slow. Which brings us to….
PART IV: 8 Hours of Straight Spruce Forest Hell With A Muskox
This part of the journey is fairly self explanatory. God Bless the Northwest Territories and its endless, endless spruce forest.
Epilogue:
Weary and covered in bug bites, the gang pulled their boats ashore just shy of the Mackenzie River confluence around 7 pm. The comforting sight of Bear Rock to the north meant that they had done it: They had paddled the entirety of the Great Bear River. The feeling of accomplishment was dulled only by the feeling of needing a shower and a pizza****.
Fin.
*lichen is the strange and beautiful love-child of an algae who took a “lichen” to a fungus, and is primo munchies for caribou.
**the sun sets just shy of midnight this time of the year. In reality it was hours before a legitimate sunset would occur, yet there was a warm, sunset quality to everything nonetheless.
*** A particularly gigantic and ruthless breed of horsefly found in the North. Actual bulldogs would have been universally preferred.
**** And dulled by the feeling that they had just spent three days paddling a run-of-the-mill river with a lot of bugs and not a lot of scenery. But, like so many things in the North, it had to be done simply because it was there.