There is nothing quite like opening the throttle on your skidoo and powering through the light crusty snow as you cross a frozen river. The wind in your ears, the bite of cold as a blast of air creeps through your many layers of clothing, the glint of bright sunshine from the completely white terrain surrounding you.
We were traversing the Moose River in northern Ontario on a perfect February morning, en route to the hunting cabin of Byron Corston, a native Moose Cree and member of the Canadian Rangers, the nation’s Army reserves providing a presence in the vast and largely uninhabited north of the country.
But let me offer some context. Having completed the majority of the filming we needed for out project the previous day - a profile of an energy conservation program designed to reduce the cost of power bills for residents of First Nations communities in Ontario - a chance meeting with Byron, the janitor at our hotel, set up a surprising addition to our shoot. Byron’s family was a recipient of some energy saving devices for his home, but he also spoke eloquently of a life spent on the land, offering a connection into the cultural side of the Moose Cree.
Having sourced some additional snowmobiles for our crew and equipment, we headed out along the river which had become thick ice in sustained temperatures of -35 degrees Celsius. It was my first experience of driving a snowmobile. With a helmet prone to fogging making navigation challenging, and trying to master which hand operated the accelerator and which the brake, it was a slow start, but I gradually got the hang of it.
However, crossing a frozen river was nothing compared with when we hit the far shore and started navigating the muskeg. In the summer, this endless bog strewn with gnarled shrubs and stunted trees would make for a tough walks. Covered by snow, we had to pick our way carefully, winding a route along narrow tracks.
Barring one incident that involved some less-than-optimum steering and particularly stubborn tree stump, we made it to Byron’s cabin unscathed. It was bitterly cold, but with a fire quickly stoked, we could remove a few damp layers and begin to thaw a little. The interior of the cabin was spartan, but held evidence of a fascinating history.
The odd books and dated photos spoke of the generations that had spent time here since his grandfather built it. Byron spoke of his formative years learning to hunt, especially the Canada goose which has a prominent place in the diet and folklore of the Moose Cree. Only in his mid 20s, Byron expressed a calm authority and wisdom that belied his years. He spoke eloquently of the threats to his people from resource development, a loss of traditional knowledge and the impact of climate change. His command of wilderness craft, borne of a life spent outdoors, reminded me of the great value of being connected to your homeland so deeply that it becomes a barometer to experience other shifts.
Having warmed ourselves and rehydrated, we prepared for our return trip, but not before we made one further detour. Heading due north from the cabin, we crossed more muskeg, then crested a small lip (which we learned later was the waterline), and suddenly we were skimming across what at other times of the year are the extreme southern reaches of the Arctic Ocean. We were riding across Hudson Bay.
As a lover of geography, I had long recognized the vast size and distinctive shape of this waterway that looks like a great bite has been taken out the Canadian tundra. Large enough to swallow most European countries, Hudson Bay also has a mythical place in the history of frontier exploration and trade.
Standing on the frozen sea, nothing but infinite horizon in every direction, I caught a glimpse of what it must have been like for those early travelers, forced to ride out the long winter until their ships could make it through the breaking ice to the mainland. It was humbling to feel so small and insignificant, knowing there was nothing but ice for hundreds of miles north from this gateway to the Arctic.
The journey back to town was easier as we avoided the land and skirted the shore back to the mouth of the Moose River, then home. It put me in a reflective mood. I thought about what Byron had shared about the skills of hunting and trapping that he learned as a boy and still puts to good use, and of the desires of corporations - like the one that had funded this project - to help remote communities gain access to resources like electricity that have played a part in eroding that traditional knowledge.
The message of a day spent on the land with Byron was clear: accept progress, but not at any price. Find the balance of old and new, traditional and contemporary. And seek out opportunities to be humbled and fully appreciate that we are servants of the earth, not its masters.