Inside the crumbling mission we find a book about George Back. The Man Who Mapped the Arctic is in pristine condition, save for the cover page, which is decorated with seven signatures: the ghostly girls from the camp! They exist. Not only that, it is dated July 9. Yesterday. They are just one day ahead of us. We take the book and leave one of our own in its place.
The next day we hit a wall of ice. Rather, a wall of ice is delivered to us slowly, in gradations. In the morning, we paddle through chunks floating on the surface of the lake. When touched by our paddles, they make the familiar tinny, tinkling sound. When we stop for lunch, Jen adds a few cubes to our water bottles to cool our lemonade.
Back on the water, a cold wind blasts, subsides, blasts again. We paddle due east, and Tim stops to peer through his binoculars. He looks worried, and the object of his concern soon becomes apparent: the horizon begins to fill with a thin line of white. As we get closer we see ice — not the smallish hunks we’ve become accustomed to, but a solid platform, in every direction. We paddle as far as we can, until enormous pans emerge directly in front of us — with heavy ice beyond that, all the way to the horizon.
Pulling loads over ice is an activity we have only read about in the annals of historical expeditions. George Back’s dogs were outfitted in leather booties to protect their paws from the rough surface. Back himself stuffed two pairs of thick socks and buffalo skins under his moccasins. “Note,” he wrote in one of his diaries, “it is unnecessary to state that English Boots and Shoes are useless in winter.”
We step tentatively onto the ice in our “English” hiking boots. It groans and heaves when we drag the boats up behind us. The sun is out, and the ice sparkles white in places but is dark black in others, slicked over with a thin layer of water. It’s hard to tell which parts are firm enough to cross, and there are deep fissures where I can see down to the inky blackness below. In 1834, one of Back’s boatmen broke through and his body disappeared. One of his mates grabbed his arm and hauled him out, saving his life.
We proceed cautiously and, after several attempts, find a system that works: we make like dogs. With ropes attached from the bow of the boats to carabiners on the back of our life jackets, we trudge forward as though hitched to sleds, dragging our cargo behind us. It is gruelling work, and to pass the time I ask Tim about his mother. He tells me about giving her eulogy, standing at the front of the packed church for several minutes before being able to choke out any words.
By late afternoon, the ice is slopier underfoot, and we have to jump between floes, retreating quickly whenever we feel them begin to sink beneath our weight. Drew and Jen are just ahead of us, while Jenny and Levi take up the rear. Tim gasps, and I look up to see Drew going through. We abandon our boat and hop across the ice pans toward him. By the time we get there, Drew has managed to haul himself up over the gunwales of his boat. He’s silent, breathing hard, and won’t speak. Far away, the ice makes a loud crack, like the sound of a gun going off.
Once Drew recovers we continue on, making good progress through the afternoon, half expecting to run into the young girls from the camp. But there are no markings, no suggestion that anyone has travelled this route before us.
On July 26, we arrive at the top of Rock Rapids. Twelve kilometres of ferocious whitewater, culminating in the plunge of Sinclair Falls. I wonder, is it named after Back’s Metis steersman, George Sinclair? We read Back’s description in The Man Who Mapped the Arctic: “The rapid foamed, and boiled, and rushed with impetuous and deadly fury . . . it was raised into an arch; while the sides were yawning and cavernous, swallowing huge masses of ice. . . . A more terrific sight could not well be conceived.” I am navigating and pass the map to Tim for his corroboration. To get swept down here would be fatal.
We stop for the night. As we pull over, we spot a small beach at the very top of the rapids with two overturned canoes pulled up onto it. It is a strange place for someone to camp, so close to the dangerous chute, but we set up our tents without giving it too much thought. Next to hypothermia, mushy lentil stew is our biggest enemy. During dinner we’d welcome a distraction from visitors, culminate but no one arrives. The next morning we portage one load of gear around the first section of Rock Rapids. When we get back, it’s almost noon, and the overturned canoes are still there.
