Smiling at the welcome I received in La Ronge from Dave Fast and his dog Sherlock It's not easy to condense the events of the last two and a half weeks into a few short paragraphs. I feel like I could write an account almost as long as War and Peace, perhaps borrowing the title too. But fortunately it's mostly been peace.
I left Slave Lake, Alta., by car one evening with Theresa Driediger, a friend of a friend (and now a friend of mine) who works as a psychologist in several northern Alberta communities and happened to be heading south by way of Slave Lake to Edmonton, where I was to catch a bus northeast to Cold Lake the following morning. We blasted south for three hours through the wind-driven snow and spent the night with her folks, Al and Adrian, who were extremely kind to me. It was strange to be in a big city (which I hadn't been since leaving Vancouver in mid-November), but being welcomed into their home made it feel like some quiet country place. Al entertained me with stories of his urban Have-a-Heart trapping of the critters that come up from the ravine leading down to the North Saskatchewan River right from their backyard, including the time he accidentally trapped his neighbour's cat.
Next morning Theresa took me to the bus depot, saw me off with a hug and a smile, and in an hour I was on my way back to the north. In Cold Lake I met Scott McCallum, who is from Montreal and grew up skiing in many of the same places I did. The day after I arrived and packed up all my new supplies Scott drove me down to the lake in his truck and saw me off.
The first ten or fifteen kilometres was pointing and skiing from one cluster of fishing huts to the next. I camped that night out in the middle of the lake astride the Alberta-Saskatchewan border. The night was clear and my tent door was facing north (as it almost always is). To the left I could see the lights of Alberta along the shore and illuminating the sky above, but to my right was utter darkness and ghostly silence - Saskatchewan, the wild land awaiting me.
For the first couple of days on the far side of Cold Lake it was just me, Jackrabbit, and Fridtjof gliding up and down, roller-coaster fashion, along dreamy boreal trails north of Pierce Lake. (Don't ever let anyone tell you Saskatchewan doesn't have hills). Who are Jackrabbit and Fridtjof? Why, they're my skis, or bushsliders as I have come to call them now. Jackrabbit is usually on the north or west, while Fridtjof is on my south or east foot. If it's any different, it's probably because I'm backtracking. My bushsliders, when lined up side by side, bear an image of an aged Roald Amundsen, whose stern gaze looks at me all day long reminding me not to be faint-hearted.
"Okay," you're thinking, "Anders is now officially touched. He counts his skis as company. Time to bring him back to civilized life." But Dave Fast, who I'm staying with at the time of writing, assures me that it's perfectly fine to talk to the trees when you're out in the bush alone. It's when they start responding that you may have a problem on your hands.
But I have had other company too, like Harley Nault, whom I met out trapping wolves near the end of my third day out from Cold Lake. He was surprised to see anyone, let alone a long-distance traveler, out back as far as he was. It's a good thing I ran into him when I did too, because if I had stayed on that trail much longer, he explained, I would have found myself with miles and miles of untracked snow ahead. Fortunately, Harley knew an easier way to where I was going, and he offered me a lift back over the ground I'd already covered on his skidoo. We loaded all my gear on to his utility sled, I climbed on to the snowmachine behind him, and we were off on a much faster roller-coaster ride though the bush with me holding on tight to just one of the side bars so I could bend around to keep and eye on my things rattling around behind. Up and down we went, taking face shots from alders, ducking on cue from Harley so as not to be clotheslined by spruce trees that had fallen across the trail, and receiving copious boughfuls of fresh snow right in my hood and down my neck every time I turned my head to see if I needed to duck. At the end of our trail Harley's brother-in-law had a trapping cabin. As it was just about sunset now Harley said he would open it for me if I wanted to spend the night. I accepted his generous offer, we said our goodbyes, and I spent a night reading and writing by the flickering light of the warm stove.
Saskatchewan takes its name from the homonymous river. It is a word of Cree derivation meaning "swift flowing river". But before I had a chance to look that up on Wikipedia I speculated about other meanings it might have as I skied among the aspen, pine, and white spruce of its sunny highlands and down into its windy bogs of black spruce and tamarack: "the land that holds you in its soft snowy arms", "peaceful place", "the place where you belong right now". Which is exactly how it feels here.
And the people of Saskatchewan are no small part of that. A few days after saying goodbye to Harley I met John and Pauline, who live on the Waterhen Lake Cree Nation Reserve. I first saw them in the afternoon, and that evening they came out to visit with me bearing a fresh-baked loaf of bannock and a thermos full of hot green tea. We sat in their warm truck and talked for about forty-five minutes, and then I skied on under the crystal-clear night sky for another couple of hours, warmed in both body and soul, before making camp.
A few more days brought me to Beauval, where I took a rest day and, shortly after setting off again, met Don Skopyk. I believe this chance encounter is what is termed, in the parlance of our times, a game changer. Don has spent years mushing dogs all over the north with his friend Early Stobbey (whom I would later meet). My expedition struck a chord with him, so he invited me back to his cabin to pore over his old maps and "regroup", as he said. To make a long story short, we decided that I would go to Pinehouse Lake, from where I would set off over the lakes for a few days toward La Ronge, my next rest and resupply stop. "The problem with Pinehouse," explained Don several times, "is that once you get there, you won't want to leave. Last time I was there it was supposed to be for a three-hour visit and I ended up staying three days." So the next morning, after a hearty breakfast of moose-meat sausage, eggs, and bread toasted on the fire - basking in the warm sunlight pouring through Don's giant southeast-facing window - I loaded up my gear, Don tossed a rifle and an extra pair of clothes in the backseat for good measure, and we were off.
And was he ever right about Pinehouse! Within five minutes of our arrival (and I am not exaggerating) I felt like I had been adopted by this warm and loving community. In the community centre food seemed to be cooking for whoever happened to be wandering through - noodle and meatball soup, fried bannock, chocolate cake with cherry sauce, and hot coffee. While I ate Glen McCallum was on the phone with MBC, the north's aboriginal radio station broadcasting out of La Ronge, and five minutes later I was being interviewed by radio host Abel Charles as my words were translated into Cree, which somehow made me feel distinctly honoured.
By that night I had met a whole slew of other friendly folks - too many names to remember - and had been given the school library as a bedroom with the home-ec room as my private kitchen. That evening I took in a local youth hockey game with Don's friend Earl, dog-musher extraordinaire, and then retired to the school to chat with the friendly janitor before resting for the night.
Next morning, amid the buzz of school and general community traffic, I hauled my gear across the road with the aid of Curtis Chandler, another friend of Don's, who explained with great precision exactly the route I needed to follow. Curtis saw me off and told me to call when I got to La Ronge, "even if you have to call collect."
And so now I was traveling the way Saskatchewan was meant to be traveled, over lakes and portage trails. In Saskatchewan this network is as seamless as any modern highway system, only without the traffic and a million times more harmonious. Unlike in B.C. and Alberta, if you see a snowmobile track here, the chances are pretty good that it will actually take you to some far-off place where you might want to go. Also, I've found that you can generally trust local intelligence about routes. If someone says there will be a winter trail at such-and-such a place, it's quite likely that there really will be. This cannot be taken for granted elsewhere.
A moment of doubt, however, led me to try to piece together my own shortcut, and it cost me two whole days - some forty or fifty kilometres of circuitous skiing. But eventually I got back on track and found myself camped on Sikachu Lake, within striking distance of La Ronge, the night before last. Just after dark I saw a small light moving slowly toward me from across the lonesome lake. An old man approached on high-tipped snowshoes, loaded down with fishing gear. He had seen my light and assumed I was a snowmobiler stuck in the slush. He was a taciturn fellow and his English was quite broken. "Almost home now," he said gently before bidding me goodnight. Then he trod off toward the tiny reserve settlement of Sikachu.
The night ushered in a fierce wind that rattled my tent and disturbed my sleep. In the morning I lazed in my sleeping bag for an hour or two hoping that the storm would pass and that it wouldn't obliterate the trail across the lakes to La Ronge. As I sat drinking my morning cocktail of coffee and hot cocoa trying to muster up the wherewithal to strike out into the whiteness, I unzipped my tent door a little to see if I could still make out a trail, and what should I see but the old Cree fisherman plodding inexorably along in the distance through the windblown snow like a character in some Farley Mowat tale of survival against all odds. This inspired me even more than Amundsen's austere stare, and in no time I was packed up and moving east along the north shore of the Montreal River.
The day ahead proved to be among the most trying I have yet had. I lost my trail amid the shifting drifts, hit slush on the lake (caking my skis and boots in ice), broke a pole, and took a thorough thrashing from the cold north wind. Just after coming out of the bush to navigate my way across six or eight kilometres of open lake with no trace of a trail to follow, I saw a headlight bobbing across the drifts - a lone snowmobiler. Hallelujah! At the very same time the clouds lifted and the sun bathed the last two hours of the afternoon in its pure light.
I followed the track (quickly fading before the wind that blew on unabated) clear across the lake, and as I approached the far side I saw a skier coming toward me, who I imagined was Dave Fast, the fellow I was to meet in La Ronge. He and his dog Sherlock had come quite a distance (seven or eight kilometres) out from town to meet me, and this act of hospitality was just the morale-booster I needed. We skied back to Dave's car in the dark and soon were home with his wife Crystal enjoying a delicious steak dinner. It's great to be here.
I left Slave Lake, Alta., by car one evening with Theresa Driediger, a friend of a friend (and now a friend of mine) who works as a psychologist in several northern Alberta communities and happened to be heading south by way of Slave Lake to Edmonton, where I was to catch a bus northeast to Cold Lake the following morning. We blasted south for three hours through the wind-driven snow and spent the night with her folks, Al and Adrian, who were extremely kind to me. It was strange to be in a big city (which I hadn't been since leaving Vancouver in mid-November), but being welcomed into their home made it feel like some quiet country place. Al entertained me with stories of his urban Have-a-Heart trapping of the critters that come up from the ravine leading down to the North Saskatchewan River right from their backyard, including the time he accidentally trapped his neighbour's cat.
Next morning Theresa took me to the bus depot, saw me off with a hug and a smile, and in an hour I was on my way back to the north. In Cold Lake I met Scott McCallum, who is from Montreal and grew up skiing in many of the same places I did. The day after I arrived and packed up all my new supplies Scott drove me down to the lake in his truck and saw me off.
The first ten or fifteen kilometres was pointing and skiing from one cluster of fishing huts to the next. I camped that night out in the middle of the lake astride the Alberta-Saskatchewan border. The night was clear and my tent door was facing north (as it almost always is). To the left I could see the lights of Alberta along the shore and illuminating the sky above, but to my right was utter darkness and ghostly silence - Saskatchewan, the wild land awaiting me.
For the first couple of days on the far side of Cold Lake it was just me, Jackrabbit, and Fridtjof gliding up and down, roller-coaster fashion, along dreamy boreal trails north of Pierce Lake. (Don't ever let anyone tell you Saskatchewan doesn't have hills). Who are Jackrabbit and Fridtjof? Why, they're my skis, or bushsliders as I have come to call them now. Jackrabbit is usually on the north or west, while Fridtjof is on my south or east foot. If it's any different, it's probably because I'm backtracking. My bushsliders, when lined up side by side, bear an image of an aged Roald Amundsen, whose stern gaze looks at me all day long reminding me not to be faint-hearted.
"Okay," you're thinking, "Anders is now officially touched. He counts his skis as company. Time to bring him back to civilized life." But Dave Fast, who I'm staying with at the time of writing, assures me that it's perfectly fine to talk to the trees when you're out in the bush alone. It's when they start responding that you may have a problem on your hands.
But I have had other company too, like Harley Nault, whom I met out trapping wolves near the end of my third day out from Cold Lake. He was surprised to see anyone, let alone a long-distance traveler, out back as far as he was. It's a good thing I ran into him when I did too, because if I had stayed on that trail much longer, he explained, I would have found myself with miles and miles of untracked snow ahead. Fortunately, Harley knew an easier way to where I was going, and he offered me a lift back over the ground I'd already covered on his skidoo. We loaded all my gear on to his utility sled, I climbed on to the snowmachine behind him, and we were off on a much faster roller-coaster ride though the bush with me holding on tight to just one of the side bars so I could bend around to keep and eye on my things rattling around behind. Up and down we went, taking face shots from alders, ducking on cue from Harley so as not to be clotheslined by spruce trees that had fallen across the trail, and receiving copious boughfuls of fresh snow right in my hood and down my neck every time I turned my head to see if I needed to duck. At the end of our trail Harley's brother-in-law had a trapping cabin. As it was just about sunset now Harley said he would open it for me if I wanted to spend the night. I accepted his generous offer, we said our goodbyes, and I spent a night reading and writing by the flickering light of the warm stove.
Saskatchewan takes its name from the homonymous river. It is a word of Cree derivation meaning "swift flowing river". But before I had a chance to look that up on Wikipedia I speculated about other meanings it might have as I skied among the aspen, pine, and white spruce of its sunny highlands and down into its windy bogs of black spruce and tamarack: "the land that holds you in its soft snowy arms", "peaceful place", "the place where you belong right now". Which is exactly how it feels here.
And the people of Saskatchewan are no small part of that. A few days after saying goodbye to Harley I met John and Pauline, who live on the Waterhen Lake Cree Nation Reserve. I first saw them in the afternoon, and that evening they came out to visit with me bearing a fresh-baked loaf of bannock and a thermos full of hot green tea. We sat in their warm truck and talked for about forty-five minutes, and then I skied on under the crystal-clear night sky for another couple of hours, warmed in both body and soul, before making camp.
A few more days brought me to Beauval, where I took a rest day and, shortly after setting off again, met Don Skopyk. I believe this chance encounter is what is termed, in the parlance of our times, a game changer. Don has spent years mushing dogs all over the north with his friend Early Stobbey (whom I would later meet). My expedition struck a chord with him, so he invited me back to his cabin to pore over his old maps and "regroup", as he said. To make a long story short, we decided that I would go to Pinehouse Lake, from where I would set off over the lakes for a few days toward La Ronge, my next rest and resupply stop. "The problem with Pinehouse," explained Don several times, "is that once you get there, you won't want to leave. Last time I was there it was supposed to be for a three-hour visit and I ended up staying three days." So the next morning, after a hearty breakfast of moose-meat sausage, eggs, and bread toasted on the fire - basking in the warm sunlight pouring through Don's giant southeast-facing window - I loaded up my gear, Don tossed a rifle and an extra pair of clothes in the backseat for good measure, and we were off.
And was he ever right about Pinehouse! Within five minutes of our arrival (and I am not exaggerating) I felt like I had been adopted by this warm and loving community. In the community centre food seemed to be cooking for whoever happened to be wandering through - noodle and meatball soup, fried bannock, chocolate cake with cherry sauce, and hot coffee. While I ate Glen McCallum was on the phone with MBC, the north's aboriginal radio station broadcasting out of La Ronge, and five minutes later I was being interviewed by radio host Abel Charles as my words were translated into Cree, which somehow made me feel distinctly honoured.
By that night I had met a whole slew of other friendly folks - too many names to remember - and had been given the school library as a bedroom with the home-ec room as my private kitchen. That evening I took in a local youth hockey game with Don's friend Earl, dog-musher extraordinaire, and then retired to the school to chat with the friendly janitor before resting for the night.
Next morning, amid the buzz of school and general community traffic, I hauled my gear across the road with the aid of Curtis Chandler, another friend of Don's, who explained with great precision exactly the route I needed to follow. Curtis saw me off and told me to call when I got to La Ronge, "even if you have to call collect."
And so now I was traveling the way Saskatchewan was meant to be traveled, over lakes and portage trails. In Saskatchewan this network is as seamless as any modern highway system, only without the traffic and a million times more harmonious. Unlike in B.C. and Alberta, if you see a snowmobile track here, the chances are pretty good that it will actually take you to some far-off place where you might want to go. Also, I've found that you can generally trust local intelligence about routes. If someone says there will be a winter trail at such-and-such a place, it's quite likely that there really will be. This cannot be taken for granted elsewhere.
A moment of doubt, however, led me to try to piece together my own shortcut, and it cost me two whole days - some forty or fifty kilometres of circuitous skiing. But eventually I got back on track and found myself camped on Sikachu Lake, within striking distance of La Ronge, the night before last. Just after dark I saw a small light moving slowly toward me from across the lonesome lake. An old man approached on high-tipped snowshoes, loaded down with fishing gear. He had seen my light and assumed I was a snowmobiler stuck in the slush. He was a taciturn fellow and his English was quite broken. "Almost home now," he said gently before bidding me goodnight. Then he trod off toward the tiny reserve settlement of Sikachu.
The night ushered in a fierce wind that rattled my tent and disturbed my sleep. In the morning I lazed in my sleeping bag for an hour or two hoping that the storm would pass and that it wouldn't obliterate the trail across the lakes to La Ronge. As I sat drinking my morning cocktail of coffee and hot cocoa trying to muster up the wherewithal to strike out into the whiteness, I unzipped my tent door a little to see if I could still make out a trail, and what should I see but the old Cree fisherman plodding inexorably along in the distance through the windblown snow like a character in some Farley Mowat tale of survival against all odds. This inspired me even more than Amundsen's austere stare, and in no time I was packed up and moving east along the north shore of the Montreal River.
The day ahead proved to be among the most trying I have yet had. I lost my trail amid the shifting drifts, hit slush on the lake (caking my skis and boots in ice), broke a pole, and took a thorough thrashing from the cold north wind. Just after coming out of the bush to navigate my way across six or eight kilometres of open lake with no trace of a trail to follow, I saw a headlight bobbing across the drifts - a lone snowmobiler. Hallelujah! At the very same time the clouds lifted and the sun bathed the last two hours of the afternoon in its pure light.
I followed the track (quickly fading before the wind that blew on unabated) clear across the lake, and as I approached the far side I saw a skier coming toward me, who I imagined was Dave Fast, the fellow I was to meet in La Ronge. He and his dog Sherlock had come quite a distance (seven or eight kilometres) out from town to meet me, and this act of hospitality was just the morale-booster I needed. We skied back to Dave's car in the dark and soon were home with his wife Crystal enjoying a delicious steak dinner. It's great to be here.
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