Summer 1995 Vol. 22 No.2 Quarterly Journal of the Wilderness Canoe Association Falls on Snare River NORTH OF GREAT SLAVE LAKE Part 2: Coming back Herb Pohl (Part 1 was presented in the Spring '95 issue.) . interconnected ponds. This looked much better than I had dared to hope. The esker, rather than one continuous ribbon, I had spent a great deal of time looking at maps before was a series of anastomosing heaps of gravel and well- deciding on an overland route which would take me from the rounded rocks which separated the water into discrete enti- Acasta River to the Winter River headwaters at Whitewolf ties. Spruce trees, hundreds of years old and much larger than Lake. The plan was to leave the Acasta at a point where a anything I had encountered heretofore, dominated the high poorly defined esker, running east-west, is bisected by the ground. I had actually planned to camp here and do a bit of river. Now, with mounting excitement, I was nearing the area reconnoitring, but a nervous restlessness and the ceaseless and worried whether I would recognize the place. complaints of a sandpiper urged me on. Several short por- Right on cue the river widened, revealing mounds of tages brought me to the last pond which drains into the sand and boulders beyond a little bay on the eastern shore Acasta River. By now it was too late to proceed and I and a narrow, shallow opening which led to a series of reluctantly made camp on the south shore. Just behind the Nastawgan Summer 1995 tent a dark wall of rock loomed threateningly and all around there was an air of desolation. There was no evidence that anyone had ever visited the place and one could almost feel the presence of the spirits. Progress from here would be mainly by shank's mare and in spite of fatigue I proceeded to the top of the highest hill to see what the morrow had in store. Below me the land stretched eastward in gentle undulations, hummocky bog intermixed with gravelly higher ground upon which widely scattered clumps of small spruce shared space with a profu- sion of low shrubs. Except for a small pond at the base of the hill I was standing on, there wasn't a sign of water anywhere. Somewhere out there was a small narrow lake which was my next target, but it was hidden from view. The only prominent landmark was a line of ragged low hills which ran from my lookout to the horizon. According to the map their alignment was south-east, but the compass insisted it was east. This was anything but reassuring and I returned to the tent a worried EskEr on WintEr RivEr man. The most prominent feature of the Winter River water- During the night a cold wind blew in from the north. In shed is the presence of several eskers which snake across the the morning the air was sharp and clear, perfect for portag- landscape in a generally east-west orientation. Their outlines ing. I found the next lake within two hours, then the next, define not only the horizon but also the boundaries of many and by late afternoon looked down on Irritation Lake. The of the large lakes which cover much of the surface. Along doubts and anxiety of the previous evening were replaced by the way I developed a decidedly hostile attitude towards the an almost euphoric sense of confidence. people who had produced the maps of the region. Virtually The evening was warm and the campsite remarkably all river sections which connect adjacent lakes were impass- bug-free; an abundant supply of firewood beckoned in the able boulder fields through which water percolated in the form of a dead tree some distance from the tent. So off I went most discreet way. Yet, many times the map would show a with my axe, clad only in socks and shoes, to bring home the broad channel free of obstruction or, at most, a bar or two bounty. And then a remarkable thing happened which re- across to indicate all was not well. Every wilderness traveller minded me of the ringing of the triangle at meal time in the is aware that maps are not always accurate, but here the bush camps. Each stroke of the axe seemed to bring out large discrepancies were numerous. It was below Little Martin numbers of mosquitoes, as if it were a call to dinner - and Lake that I finally managed to run a rapid without scraping so it was. For a while I held out manfully, but finally reason and bumping but all the way to Winter Lake the majority of won out and I raced back to the safety of the tent and put on drops were carries over boulder fields, with treacherous some clothes. footing. The next day was spent portaging across a wild confu- sion of glacial debris, pockets of trees, bogs, and humps of bedrock. By mid-afternoon I was standing atop one of the high hills lining the valley of the Emile River which at this point widens into a lake. The dark shadows on the vertical rock faces beyond the far shore were in sharp contrast with the bright sand at the deep blue water's edge. Caribou were wandering about everywhere; the land radiated peace and silence and I was happy beyond words. At the Emile River the last trees were left behind and for several days I carried on through a succession of ponds, across Rawalpindi Lake eastward to WhitewolfLake. This was truly a barren, almost featureless, land. Most bodies of water were so shallow as to barely float the boat and full of sharp-edged rocks. Also, the transition from boggy land to water was so gradual that landing or launching the canoe was often more work than simply carrying past. Most unexpected and much appreciated was the almost total absence of mosquitoes and black-flies. The only fly in the ointment was the presence of highlevel smoke from the forest fires farther south and west which rendered the sky a peculiar shade of grey and through which the sun shone only dimly. WintEr River, bouldEr FIEld Summer 1995 Nastawgan Perhaps it was just the realization that it was the last carryon the Winter River, but I thought that the view of Winter Lake from the top of the portage was extraordinarily beautiful. Beyond the bay into which the Winter River discharges its waters lie sev- eral small islands, little jewels of sand and stone. Scattered stands of trees dot the land- scape and give it texture. Over it all, the haze of smoke put a soft dreamy focus on the scene. Under vastly different circumstances Franklin had surveyed this landscape on his disastrous journey to the arctic ocean in 1820121. I was now only a few kilometres from the site of his winterquarters, located on the Snare River a short distance below Winter Lake. When I put ashore in a little bay just to the north of the mouth of the river I was more than a little excited. The area is criss-crossed by many strong cari- bou trails which partially obscure the old portage trail, but there was no mistaking the marker on an ancient spruce, a tree which must have witnessed the comings and go- ings of Franklin's men. Near the end of the portage dozens of stumps of large trees, their wood still solid, show the axe marks of the voyageurs. However, except for a few scattered logs, nothing remains of the N three buildings which once was Fort Enter- i prise. When I departed several hours later, it was with a new sense of urgency. For the first time on the trip large numbers of black flies had made their appearance. In my ex- citement I had ignored their persistent ef- forts and paid the price. A short distance below Fort Enterprise the Snare River enters the first of two long and narrow lakes - Roundrock and Snare - which occupy the village of Snare Lakes. The latter is a permanent settle- a groove in the shield rock which runs from northeast to ment of very recent origin and undergoing rapid expansion. southwest for nearly 100 km. A range of high, rugged hills At the time of my passing construction of a number of dominates the southern shores; by contrast, the low northern buildings was underway and a new runway had just been shore is delimited by parallel running eskers of sand and completed. Confronting "civilization" on a wilderness trip gravel which offer a continuum of beautiful campsites. to me is always an unsettling experience and I wasted little Sadly, there is a disturbing amount of garbage at all the most time collecting my groceries and paddling on. scenic spots which can only be attributed to the proximity to -3- Nastawgan Summer 1995 The Snare River below Snare Lake drops sharply into bears butt but I had no such luck. The first try missed by a an unrunnable canyon. To bypass this section I portaged wide margin; the second, though closer, never worried her through a number of small lakes to the south of the river, a and by the time I had reloaded for the third time she had route which I believe to be identical to that taken by Eric disappeared behind bushes some 60 - 70 metres away. Then Morse's party in 1964. The curious aspect of this route is that I noticed to my considerable chagrin that one of the cubs had some of the small lakes are connected by readily recogniz- climbed up a small tree only a few meters away.