By Jacob Buchan

Cheers went up across the river, drifting into the blue skies above. The completion of a two kilometre set of rapids, our longest yet, left everyone charged and ready to celebrate. I gazed out upon our crew and the five heavily packed canoes loosely aligned across the wide river. We began to paddle to shore. The imposing hills of the tundra glowered down upon us. But the river stretched on to the horizon to meet the blue above, as if it were a strip of sky cut from the heavens.

The grit and stone crunched and scratched under our boats as we beached them next to an eddy. Shallow water splashed under our feet as we unloaded the packs and barrels. Walking up the shore, a friend remarked on how striking the landscape was. I agreed. The site we had chosen was beautiful, a large flat expanse of sand and small shrubs, topped with a small run-off river forming a southern border. I let my eyes wander up the run-off where it disappeared into a valley formed by snow-topped hills rising high from the ground.

The skies were clear. The tents were up. Life was good. Happy and exhausted, we spread out with books and dozed on the small plain we had claimed for ourselves. Snacking on Nutella and pita bread, we were then surprised to see a small creature peer up at us expectantly from its hole. The Arctic stoat or ermine is an interesting find up north. Undaunted by our presence, it began to gorge itself on everything nearby: the corks of our fishing rods, the tin foil from our stove guards, our leftover snacks. Although the creature at first elicited laughs, we quickly realized its voracious appetite and potential for real nuisance – and surely there were others – and we shooed it away.

I sat, slumped and comfortable in the folding chair we had brought. The breeze licked at the back of my head, the wind carrying the sound of emptiness from across the tundra. The sun danced across the water and brought the temperature to a comfortable warm.

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After a few hours, we were roused from our dozing. Our counsellors explained to us the rest of the day: we were to pack up our things and walk seven kilometres inland to stay at the campsite known as the “Wolf Den.” Allegedly, we would hear the howls of the Arctic wolves late at night. I was all for the aural experience, but my exhausted and sore body disagreed with the idea of a big portage. However, I’m not one to complain in these situations, and we packed up and began the trek.

It was gruelling. The first few hundred metres were fine, but as we entered the canyon formed by the steep hillsides that flanked the small river beside us, the climate took a turn for the worse. No wind meant the dreaded but inevitable: bugs. Clouds of mosquitos blurred our vision as they thronged around our exposed skin. The monotonous buzzing was as unbearable as the lingering effects of their bites. The sun glared mercilessly down from its perch in the blue skies. It was beyond hot, making the packs and barrels feel twice as heavy, their thick straps cutting into our shoulders. Still, we walked on, the sun beating on our backs like the drums of some sick symphony.

The heat, bugs, and weight combined prompted us to break. Climbing up the steep hill face, the somehow still snow-covered summit allowed for respite from the bugs and a beautiful view. For miles and miles the tundra stretched on, the Hood River winding like a sleeping serpent across the land. The landscape opposite the valley, facing North, was what caught our eye. Or rather, the lack of it did, for there was none: almost nothing there, just endless flat grey that seemed to go infinitely on.

It was entrancing.

After some discussion, we unilaterally decided on a change of plan: we would bring our gear up to the flat and make camp for the night. Running down into the valley, we were eagerly welcomed back by all the mosquitoes in the land.

Carrying immensely heavy packs up a nearly ninety-degree incline was difficult to the point of comedy. Many of us fell down or slipped. The entire slog made me think of Sisyphus and his boulder, doomed to toil forever. But when we had finally brought everything up, and spent a minute taking in our surroundings the reward was sensory:  mystical, and with a heavy quiet unknown in the city.

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Later that day, after a brief walk, most people retired to rest in their tents. Exhausted, I did as well. I slept for a bit, but feeling hungry, I went to go help with dinner. As I stepped out of the tent, the gravel crunching under my feet, I was struck again by the view. The world stretched out as if painted in water colour, the light blue of the sky connecting with the delicate grey of the rock. Behind me, the deep green of the hills further highlighted the startling white of the snow dotting the summits. It was shockingly surreal, and triggered all my appreciation for where I was at that particular moment to flood back.

Wrapped up in warm gear, I strode across the plain to a small divot where we had set up our butane stove and a folding chair. The never-setting sun was hidden, and the greyness of the land was reflected in the light in the air. I looked to the south, where the Arctic storm clouds roiled like an umbral tide. Their ominous appearance always soured the mood with the prospect of rain. Still, they were far off. I sat down and stirred a pot full of noodles.

Those moments I spent alone or with a few others in comfortable silence were precious. Few words were exchanged. There was no need. An hour or two passed, all of us alone together, contemplative, contented. At that moment in life, everything could only be described as this: simple. Canoe tripping does this to you; it alters the way you think, and this is partly why I love it so much. There are no frivolities, nothing really to get worked up about. It is you, and the wild, and only your primeval needs are of great concern. You’re faced with challenges, and you overcome them. People complain, but no one ever really means it. Discomforts and annoyances become fact: when it rains, you get wet, and when are bugs, you get bitten. It generates a strange sense of tranquility.

For me, in that divot in that titanic gravel flat, that pinnacle of calm was a transformative experience, a feeling not euphoric, just – accepting. The valley we had trudged through earlier that day had seemed hostile. The hills that boxed us in had imposed with their presence. We had seemed prisoners to the landscape. But that feeling had changed. We had scaled the hills, battled the elements for weeks to be here, and now a different side of the land was revealed. Perched on top of the hills, we rested as if passengers on the back of some gargantuan tortoise. We were now above the world around us, and unlike the constraints of the valley, it was open. It felt free. My anxiety, stress, and modern world problems seemed like they could not exist here, blown away by the wind breezing around me. For that moment in time, I looked out across the grey, and was at peace.