To James Bay and the Arctic Ocean
Part 1/2 – For Canada Day 2008, two friends and I drove a few thousand kilometres to James Bay, part of Hudson Bay, in Northern Quebec. Follow our story
You can listen to these journals from 2008 on Episode 9 of Tales under the cat tree podcast. View more photos on my photo gallery at photos.dups.ca
June 25, Somewhere Near Val d'Or, Quebec
So here we are on the outskirts of Val d'Or, Quebec. Our camp has been struck, and the next part of our epic journey to Radisson and Chisasibi is about to begin.
Yes, that is our objective: Montreal to Chisasibi on James Bay, a few thousand kilometers on some of North America's most remote roads. We are going to swim in Hudson's Bay, in other words, the Arctic Ocean. The only problem is that we only have six nights from Saint-Jean-Baptiste to Canada Day.
Most of our friends have either exclaimed jealousy or feared that one, two, or all of us will not actively make it back. Okay, so first, the players in our trip: Mike, intrepid traveler; Dr. Mannion, a one-time commander of the Royal Anarcho-Geographic Society of Newfoundland (RAGSN). With his credentials, you would think he would be smarter than to follow yet another harebrained scheme. But I would like to point out that this was all Mike's idea, though he likes to pass it off saying that he had read about it on the internet somewhere and exclaimed, "That's something crazy enough for Dups to do."
I personally think that he's actually crazier than me, despite what he says.
Then we have Gen Arsenault, who jumped at the chance and immediately started booking stuff in Chisasibi and Radisson. Gen hasn't really traveled with Mike and I, and I'm not sure she knows what she's in for. But then, after the first day, I might note that she's likely madder than all of us put together. At least she has made sure that Mike and I didn't end up in Chisasibi with no food except for a bottle of scotch.
And we come to Dups. Yes, me. What can I say? The man who inspires more women to want to mother me. The man who cut his fingers with an axe just a year ago. The man whose very desire to have an adventure results in Craig Welsh preparing for his biography and eulogy.
But this will be my seventh Canada Day and sixth Canada Day adventure.
I can now count Ottawa, Hay River (Northwest Territories), Whitehorse (Yukon), Edmonton (Alberta), Waterton (Alberta), and Montreal (Quebec) since my citizenship ceremony.
You would think after all our adventures and years of camping, this would be a cinch. Oh, you haven't gone on a trip with us yet. To complicate things further, despite us going in my car, with me driving the initial leg, I have no clue where we are actually going. I haven't looked at a proper map. I barely know the names of towns in order, and apparently thought the name of the bay was a town.
Oops.
In my defense, I'm also in the middle of moving apartments and planning a trip to the UK for a wedding. I left all to Mike and Gen. My job on the final day in Montreal was simply to pack the car. The second was easy, considering I was camping at Mike's anyway due to Quebec's insane moving day shenanigans. Mike's house, or as Niall has dubbed it, the Cuthbert Hilton Hotel for Wayward Newfoundlanders in Montreal, has become the staging ground for Niall and Rebecca's move to their new apartment, my move to my apartment, and our trip to James Bay. I think Mike is ignoring the mess his house has become.
The plan was simple. I would wake up at 5 a.m., work till 2 p.m., pack the car with Gen, pick up Mike at 3:30, and head out of town to Val-d'Or, a drive of about seven hours.
The plan was going well, except then I almost forgot the medical kit. Niall shook his head and pressed a lighter and a knife into my hands and looked at me in the eye and said, "You'll thank me for this." I'm not sure if he meant I was going to burn the car, stab myself with the knife, or a combination of both. I don't think he considers a return in one piece very likely.
You know, there are many things I like about Montreal. Driving in Montreal just does not happen to be one of them. Case in point: on a Wednesday afternoon, we encountered no less than six traffic jams between Montreal and 150 kilometers out of Montreal, mostly due to the incredible amount of road design, which involved funneling four lanes of traffic down to one and then to four again. I'm beginning to think that Montreal road planners have taken lessons from the devil.
Gen, the only Quebecer amongst us, commented, "Oh, we can do so much worse. This is actually good." If this is good, the hope of my retaining sanity is not good.
I believe at some point at Mont-Tremblant, Mike truly realized what kind of idiocy he had yet again associated himself with. In the space of 15 minutes, he saw Gen realize she had lost her credit card earlier that day and Dups trying to drive with the handbrake on. Poor Mike, years of becoming a learned man of science and stuck with fools.
Supper was in Mont-Laurier as the sun was setting. We decided to stop at a Brasserie. Vegetarians beware: food choices are becoming limited. And as Mike ordered his poutine and squeaky cheese while tapping his fingers to Bon Jovi and covers of old country songs, he said, "Why fight it?"
Having completely confused the restaurant workers by not ordering beer and further interrupted their ability to have smoke breaks, we finally received our fries, poutine, and sandwiches in about an hour. Our bills showed up in another hour, in between four cigarettes and a few dirty looks.
We were not making friends.
As night descended, we made our way to Val-d'Or. We hadn't made any reservations for camping, let alone looked up campsites. We were going on the assumption that there would be camping. Around midnight, we pulled into the roundabout that signals the start of Val-d'Or. Rather than trusting our camping **GPS** tracking sensors, we pulled into a Shell station and asked for directions. Gen noted the complicated directions involving following Rue Barrette, and so we drove on.
After half an hour of driving Rue Barrette through unpaved roads, woods, and construction sites, we ended up at a roundabout.
Do you ever have a sinking feeling deep down that something has gone wrong?
Me, behind the wheel of the car after 20 hours of being awake, had that sensation. I said, "Fuck, it's the same roundabout." To which my esteemed and learned travelers exclaimed, "No, it can't be." There goes my trust in our sense of direction and ability to spot landmarks. Niall, I sense you might be right. Are we going to make it back? Yes, we had gone in a big circle and come right back to the start.
We headed to the Shell station again; finally, with directions and a map, we made it to our campsite. I was exhausted. I was pushing 20 hours of being awake, plus six hours of driving in the dark. We pitched the tent, threw our shoes outside, and promptly fell asleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night, we all realized that leaving our shoes outside in what was pouring rain was not smart.
Apparently, we had all turned over in our sleeping bags, muttered the universal term of ignorance of reality, "Fuck it," and busily slept through to the buzzing of mosquitoes.
At Rupert River. June 26, 2008. Rupert River, somewhere on Highway 109, Northern Quebec, at 10 PM.
Finally, some respite from the bugs and mosquitoes. I am ensconced in my tent, and the mozzies are left outside, looking in, salivating at the warm bodies within. Not that they should be despondent. Their brothers and sisters have already taken their pound of flesh from my body. The bastards.
Well, let's rewind to the morning, in which we found the heroes finally awake from their slumber after a night of touring the outskirts of Val-d'Or. As we left them, they had wondered about the shoes they had left outside in the sound of pounding rain. Indeed, yes, our shoes were soaked.
Breakfast started spectacularly when, under the care of Herr Dr. Mannion, a plastic case was melted over the stovetop. Oops. Nevertheless, despite the noxious fumes, breakfast was had, camp was struck, and away we went. Our goal today was Matagami for lunch, and then to camp by Rupert River, halfway to the town of Radisson.
The highlight of the journey so far has been Lac Paradis, an emerald green lake just past Amos, Quebec. The scenery has involved hundreds of kilometers of forest, sleepy suburban towns, open-pit mines, and several billion bugs.
If I ever become a god-like supreme being, there are many things I will do. First, I would get rid of Air Canada. Then, I would get rid of biting black flies and mosquitoes.
Our efforts to combat this nuisance have so far involved the erection of a rather spectacular net-lined tent brought by Gen and owned by her brother. It was only when we were in the throes of putting it up that she revealed her brother did not actually like it.
The setup involved several poles labeled 1 through 9, each of which connected in some arcane fashion and disconnected randomly during the process. All three of us had breakdowns putting the thing up. At one point, as poles about me snapped and the tent started caving in for the fifth time, I swore that the inventor of the tent had better end up in hell.
Nevertheless, we did erect it. How good is it at combating the bug horde? The jury is still out.
So what is Baie-James like? Personally, it is all I hoped for and more. The remote road winds through some subtly scenic terrain. We aren't talking about breathtaking beauty. As Gen puts it, the beauty in this land is in the small things, and of course, in its people. The beauty is in the looming large clouds washing the leaves in the rain. There are stunted trees, large trees, and the quiet of nature.
Having said that, let me quickly mention where we are camping. Rivière Rupert is a very large river whose rapids are anything but subtle. The signs note that the volume of 800 Olympic-sized pools is emptied over the rapids and falls. I'm hoping the photos will do it justice, but I doubt it. I have now been to Niagara Falls, and despite the river being smaller and the falls shallower, this is somehow more beautiful, more epic, more forceful.
Allow me to indulge and be a bit reflective. Since becoming a Canadian citizen, when I made the pact to spend Canada Day weekend somewhere new in Canada each year, I have truly come to appreciate the nuances of the country that is Canada. It is something every Canadian should try.
I have seen the patriotism of Ottawa, the wilderness of the Northwest Territories, the emptiness of the Alaska Highway, the family nature of prairie life in Edmonton, the joie de vivre of Montreal, and now the subtle northern beauty of Baie-James. And here, I'm only getting started.
I can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring.
Read Part 2: Canoeing with elders under the grand dams of Hydro-Quebec
View more photos on my photo gallery at photos.dups.ca