Alone Against the North (32 page)

A few months after my return from the Again, to my surprise I received notice that I had been elected as a Fellow of the Royal Canadian Geographical Society for “extraordinary contributions to geography.” To be elected a Fellow was to join the company
of such explorers as Sir Richard Burton, David Livingstone, Sir Henry Morton Stanley, Sir Ernest Shackleton, Sir Francis Younghusband, Percy Fawcett, and Charles Camsell—all of whom had been elected Fellows of their respective geographical societies on the basis of their expeditions. In comparison to them, I had done next to nothing to deserve such a distinction. The rivers I had explored in the Lowlands were small waterways, of no great importance in themselves, and my expeditions, while difficult and to a degree dangerous, were still only minor affairs.

I was to have the honour of presenting the Society's flag that I had carried on my expeditions to Canada's governor general, His Excellency, the Right Honourable David Johnston. At the ceremony in Ottawa, I marched down a red carpet holding the carefully folded blue flag in my hands, rows of seated dignitaries on either side, stepped onto a stage, bowed, and presented the flag to the Queen's representative, feeling a bit like an explorer from an earlier era. When he shook my hand, His Excellency mentioned that he would like to join me on an expedition—if I promised to travel at a slower pace and do most of the paddling.

Gratifying as it was to be recognized in this way, the truth is that when my exploration of the Again River was finally complete, it wasn't as if I felt a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I had gained the knowledge that I had sought about a river that had previously been an enigma, but many other unknown rivers remained to be explored—and I couldn't resist them. I felt nearly as restless as ever in my obsession with seeking the world's last unexplored rivers, and I still had an almost overwhelming compulsion to push myself to the limit to explore such places. The Again, like all the other rivers I had explored before it,
seemed only to increase my appetite for greater challenges. And besides, I had the example of other Geographical Society Fellows to live up to. Within days of presenting the Society's flag to the governor general, I had resolved to undertake a new expedition that would surpass all of my others in terms of risk, hardship, and geographical remoteness. I had, with
Canadian Geographic
's encouragement, set my sights on the unexplored reaches of the High Arctic—the most extreme environment on earth where canoeing is possible.

The morning after the ceremony with the governor general, I attended a meeting at
Canadian Geographic
's office to discuss these plans. The magazine was interested in an Arctic expedition, and they thought I was the man for the job—if I wanted it, and of course I did.
Canadian Geographic
stipulated that any expedition I dreamed up take place north of the Arctic Circle—a line of latitude that runs around the top of the world. Everything north of this line has at least one day of continuous daylight in the summer and at least one day when the sun never rises in the winter. Beyond the Arctic Circle lie the vast, nearly uninhabited Arctic islands—an immense archipelago of frozen wilderness stretching over 2,400 kilometres from east to west and consisting of 36,563 islands, of which only ten are inhabited. It's a barren land of glaciers, featureless tundra, windswept mountains, and frigid lakes.

The canoe was never meant for the icy rivers of the High Arctic. The Inuit—who first colonized Canada's Arctic islands about eight or nine hundred years ago—relied on dogsleds for transportation for most of the year, and when the ice briefly melted in summer would travel in kayaks made from animal
skins, which they used to skirt the rocky coastlines. It was only in the mid-twentieth century that the first intrepid explorers attempted to canoe High Arctic rivers—no easy task, given that the Arctic is actually a cold desert that receives very little precipitation. As a consequence, most rivers in the Arctic are shallow, rock-strewn streams that are unsuitable for canoeing—aside from when the snow melts in July, which transforms these streams into raging torrents. The difficulty of canoeing in such a place is appreciable: besides all the usual hazards such as drowning, smashing one's head on a rock, or getting crushed by an overturned canoe in a rapid, the icy water and cold air temperatures mean that merely capsizing or swamping in a river is liable to prove fatal. To add to the difficulties, the region has no trees to speak of, nothing in the way of natural materials like spruce resin or birchbark with which to repair a canoe, scarce shelter from the merciless winds, few wild edibles of any value, and of course, polar bears with no fear of humans. Even in mid-summer the wind chill is often minus ten Celsius, and snowstorms are possible.

As I left the meeting in the editor's office and headed back down the hallway to leave, I couldn't help but step into the boardroom to see Sir Francis Younghusband's sword mounted on the wall. Three and a half years earlier, the sight of it had filled me with an irresistible yearning for faraway, unexplored lands. And now, seeing his sword again and having just received my orders to devise a new expedition, I felt once more the inexpressible allure of the unknown, the romance of adventure, and the thrill of exploration.

AFTERWORD

He said he should prefer not to know the sources of the Nile, and that there should be some unknown regions preserved as hunting-grounds for the poetic imagination.

—George Eliot
, Middlemarch,
1874

E
VERY YEAR THE WORLD
gets a little more crowded, a little less wild, a little more settled. We are fortunate to still have vast areas of wilderness and some unexplored territory. But what remains is unlikely to last long in the face of an evergrowing human population coupled with an insatiable thirst for natural resources. Wherever I have ventured, from the Amazon to the High Arctic, including even the Hudson Bay Lowlands, I have found that the quest for natural resource extraction is never far behind—whether it be fossil fuels, minerals, or new logging frontiers. We are losing the natural world faster than we can explore it. In the world's tropical forests, entire species go extinct before they ever become known to science. When forests and wetlands are converted into farms, shopping malls, highways, or cities, we lose more than just the world's magnificent bio-diversity—that bewildering blend of animals and plants that
makes our world such a fascinating place. We also lose something that's deep in our collective psyches—the vast, forbidding, but enchanting world of untrammelled wildness, those critical “hunting-grounds for the poetic imagination.” It has been my privilege to experience some of these last remaining realms of mystery on the earth. I have tried to tread as gently as possible in these places; I look upon them like a pilgrim does a sacred site. It is my deepest hope that they are preserved for future generations, so that it remains possible to hear the call of faraway lands, of untouched wilderness and the unknown. We all lose when it becomes impossible to find such a place.

ADDENDUM

I
N 2015, WITH
Chuck Brill, Adam Shoalts returned to the Hudson Bay Lowlands to explore the western fork in the Brant River, one of the two rivers he was originally interested in exploring in 2011 for the Royal Canadian Geographical Society.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

T
HIS BOOK
would not have been possible without the help, expertise, and encouragement of many people who shared an interest in seeing the story of my adventures published. Most important of all was my literary agent, Rick Broadhead, who first approached me in the summer of 2013 about the idea of writing a book, and then deftly guided me through what to me was the uncharted territory of the publishing industry. Rick was everything a writer could want in a literary agent, and never once led me astray over any unexpected waterfalls or into any hidden rocks.

I was also fortunate to benefit from the expertise and professionalism of a great team at Penguin Canada. My editor, Nick Garrison, brought a keen eye and insightful mind to the narrative, and a sympathetic appreciation for what it is that I do. Nick also made sure to keep me on the right track when I was getting lost in the literary woods. Nicole Winstanley, Penguin Canada's president and publisher, was supportive throughout this process and made me feel at home with Penguin. I am indebted to Scott Richardson, the book's graphic designer, for the book's layout and cover. Scott also created the book's maps based off my originals. Mary Ann Blair, the managing editor for
the project, kept everything on schedule and running smoothly, despite having to deal with my absence for weeks in the wilderness without contact. The copyeditor, Claudia Forgas, carefully scrutinized the manuscript and helped correct errors. I also want to thank Tricia van der Grient, who handled the publicity for the book, and Justin Stoller for his work on a number of fronts. I must also thank the Royal Canadian Geographical Society, especially for their support of my expeditions in 2011 and 2013.

I was fortunate in finding a number of friends and family kind enough to read earlier stages of the manuscript and offer comments and suggestions. In particular I want to thank Diane Moore, Sandra and Charles Durant, Frank Hummell, Alice Yi, and Elizabeth Hudson. My friends Brent Kozuh and Wesley Crowe were also supportive of this book, and I wish to thank both of them for sharing in some of the adventures retold here and for remaining my good friends throughout it all. Finally, I must thank my parents, both of whom not only encouraged and nurtured my love of literature and the outdoors, but put up with the stress of my many solo expeditions.

I
NDEX

A

aboriginal people

in Canadian subarctic,
16

disease and,
19

exploration by,
12
–
13

in Hudson Bay Lowlands,
18
–
19

Again River.
See also
waterfalls; weather