Walking the Line

Another day’s hiking took us to the end of the narrowing Intga River valley and Caribou Pass. The pass was true to its name—we could hardly walk a mile without coming across three or four of the curious creatures. We’d stand completely still with our arms held over our heads to mimic antlers. With their poor eyesight, the caribou would approach in fits and starts, squinting and sniffing until they got downwind, when they would catch our scent and bolt.

The pass spread out before us, a bowl-shaped meadow with a stream running through it and surrounded by stony snow-shrouded peaks. We spotted the tiny clapboard cabin maintained by a wilderness lodge back on the Barrens and, as is the custom in remote places, we detoured the 100 metres off the trail to stop and exchange the news. The shack, however, was empty save for the angry chatter of a ground squirrel whose peace we had evidently disturbed. We paused long enough to eat an energy bar and continued on our way.

Around a broad curving bend the bottom dropped out and we entered the valley of the Ekwi. Close scrub alternated with many frigid river crossings: two that day and four the next. Each one got deeper, until by the end we were wading precariously through a bone-chilling, crotch-deep surge. The theme of the Ekwi was claustrophobia relieved by intermittent wetness.

We made camp on the pebbly bank of a small tributary. I was absorbed in pitching the tent when I heard a lonely howl echo through the valley. Smiling because the sound set the atmosphere so well, I looked up in time to see a coal black wolf emerge quietly from the bushes just across the stream. Colin put down the cook stove and reached a slow hand for his camera.

The wolf stood watching us, totally still, and its bottomless eyes contained all of the wild spirit of the North. I held my breath, afraid to shatter the moment. When it took two hesitant steps forward as if to come into camp, Colin shouted reflexively and the wolf bolted into the bushes. The spell was broken.

The night was clear and not too cold. We sat beside a driftwood fire, where I wrote my notes and sipped a ration of Scotch whisky. The backdrop—the barren spine of the Backbone Range—was so stunning as to seem almost unreal. You simply can’t come to grips with the scale of the place; it looked close enough to reach out and touch. That mental disconnect lasts until you step into one of the frigid, rushing rivers, and then it becomes all too real.

Two days later we stumbled into pilot Stan Simpson’s hunt camp at Godlin Lake. We were welcomed with strong coffee and fresh cookies courtesy of Stan’s wife Debbie and immediately set about sorting and repacking our first food drop.

“I flew over you guys on my way to 222 this morning,” Stan said. “What were you doing there just over the hill? Lounging around?”

“Killing time,” I said. “We got through the Ekwi valley yesterday, so we sat around all morning to time our arrival for dinner.”

Stan grinned his quiet grin. “Well, we got some fresh Dall sheep and plenty of caribou. I’m sure we can fix you boys up with something.”

That night around the table, joined by fly-in hunters and camp guides, Stan entertained us with legends of Canol trips past. About the man who attempted an unsupported through hike from Mile 222 with his dog, only to show up at Godlin with open, weeping sores all over his back. He traded his camera for a flight out. About the party of ATVers who were turned back by the mighty Twitya River and who tried to sell Stan their remaining gear and vehicles. Their machines, new going in, were battered wrecks on the way back. About the man who arrived at Stan’s wearing only a plastic garbage bag, with his underwear on his head. He had lost everything swimming the Twitya and had walked for several days in that state.

We laughed and shook our heads at the foolishness of those who would tackle Canol unprepared, but at the same time we secretly wondered if we had done enough.

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