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| Photo Credit: Des Sullivan |
Cartier may
have known scripture, but it seems he gave little assessment to the place he perceived
only as bleak and desolate. He may have been right about Cain’s reward all the
same. It just seems that he had such a limited expectation of a deity he might
have thought a merciful God.
Just possibly, the allusion to “barren” elicits an excess of subjectivity anyway. Indeed, who would argue that destiny’s plan for the biblical Cain might have been not just to survive but to thrive.
Just possibly, the allusion to “barren” elicits an excess of subjectivity anyway. Indeed, who would argue that destiny’s plan for the biblical Cain might have been not just to survive but to thrive.
Could there
be a better place to embolden and to renew the human spirit than this arctic
oasis?
These
questions were answered, of course, long before the twin-engine Otter carrying
kayaks and provisions for two weeks — and four eager paddlers and hikers — touched down on the runway at
Saglek Bay. The expedition would take us on a 200 kilometer, circuitous marine
route to ply the land and the waters south of the resettled community
of Hebron. Our destination was Grimmington Island, where are situated the
highest mountain elevations (on an island) in North America — namely Bishop’s
Mitre and Brave Mountain.
For months I had been under threat by Mark, the trip co-ordinator, that his “kit” would include a saw blade, in case my 18’ kayak proved too long to load. Arrival, with the boat fully intact, was its own satisfaction. Likely, the others enjoyed preoccupations that were different and less prescient. Of course, the view of Saglek from the aircraft was its own confirmation of why we were here. But it would not be the only proof that we had entered an extraordinary portal to the “Big Land”.
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| Photo Credit: Mark Dykeman |
The absence
of trees and grasses, revealing endless boulders and rock-strewn mountains along
the fjords and inland, suggests barrenness, but a landscape so full of
magnificence defies any such default. Even the moon rising over the Labrador
Sea acts as a celestial glow-stick bewildering the imagination, complicating
simple observation — the shadow-casting beacon offering redefinition, enjoining
the immensity below. It is not difficult to conclude that this is a place that
demands a more complex, even if obscure, literary metric.
The absence
of permanent residents does not negate the need to place them here. It is an
impossible task anyway. Humanity’s character and culture are intertwined with
and inseparable from the encompassing world. In the “Big Land” people have thrived
for millennia — possibly since soon after the peoples of Asia crossed the Bering Strait.
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| Photo Credit: TA Loeffler |
In the
interior, indigenous Innu tribes found reason to remain, as did the Inuit who settled the coast (and still inhabit it today). On the face of it, nothing more need be said — except that, historically, we have assumed that life for all the aboriginal peoples
has been harsh and unforgiving. Surely, modern society has gotten that much right!
But even
here, the unwarranted assumption leads us to ask: who are we to judge?
The question
is given context — almost from the start of our expedition. Arrival in Saglek was
met with quick dispatch to Hebron, 200 KM.north of Nain. One would be surprised
how quickly and easily notions of what is important can be transformed. All it
took was descending darkness and the generous gift of a Labrador tent ready for
occupancy — for which we were very grateful to Jenny, one of Hebron’s small
number of summer residents!
But it was
the next morning’s tour of the ancient community — especially the much newer,
but still old, Moravian Mission House (1830) — which provided a more studied
assessment of the question.
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| Route Plan: Mark Dykeman |
The Moravian
building had been given precedence over the re-establishment of Inuit sod
shelters, perhaps sensibly given that 19th century wood
construction had come very close to defying restoration. The sheer act betrayed
its impermanence alongside the remnants of an ancient culture that thrived
without the construction techniques of the Europeans.
Yet, it was neither
the Moravian project nor even the graveyards giving evidence of European
settlement from 1829, not the Inuit sod houses nor the ancient rock graveyards,
which testified to lives lived, a respect for family as well as for community —
for even here, the evidences of life found no association with notions of barrenness,
endurance, hardship, or deprivation.
That proof was manifest in the pride exhibited by an Inuit elder and carpenter working on the restoration project. He led our eager group to one site, and then another, sharing with strangers stories of the old ways, and some much more recent. He spoke not as might the historian or the archaeologist, but as one who had also endured, one for whom it was personal. After all, he was in the place of his ancestors, where he was happiest and where he evidently belonged.
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| Photo Credit: Mark Dykeman |
That proof was manifest in the pride exhibited by an Inuit elder and carpenter working on the restoration project. He led our eager group to one site, and then another, sharing with strangers stories of the old ways, and some much more recent. He spoke not as might the historian or the archaeologist, but as one who had also endured, one for whom it was personal. After all, he was in the place of his ancestors, where he was happiest and where he evidently belonged.
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| Photo Credit: Mark Dykeman |
In 1956 and
1959, the Government of Newfoundland — without consultation — forcibly relocated
the people of Nutak and Hebron.
As deeply
moving were the artifacts of early Inuit life and culture, and even those
relatively modern — especially the Moravian Mission House and the remnants of
the Hudson’s Bay Company store, the latter giving way to the elements — none quite
affirmed the love of place as did the sentiments expressed and inscribed on bronze
plaques, erected in 2005.
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| Photo Credit: Des Sullivan |
Written in
both Inuktitut and English, and prominently mounted where they give homage to
those who have passed on, the plaques echo the earlier proof of a people who
had truly lived, loved, and laid down roots — roots that ran so deep that the experience
of having them torn apart caused in those that remain, and their offspring, a
pain so hurtful, so deeply profound that, unacknowledged, the wound simply would
not heal.
The
Government’s statement read in part: “As a result of the closures and the way
they were carried out… the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, on behalf
of the citizens of the province, apologizes to the Inuit of Nutak and
Hebron…”
Inscribed, also in bronze, is a Letter of
Reply from the people of Hebron and Nutak. Its message possessed a pride
undiminished and a yearning for reconciliation. It states: “We have waited 45
painful years for this apology, and we accept it because we want the pain and
the hurting to stop. Hearing your apology helps us to move on.”
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| Photo Credit: Mark Dykeman |
“When we, the Inuit of Nutak and
Hebron, were evicted from our homes, we carried with us much that is precious and
good: the spirit of our ancestors, the beauty of our land, the treasure of
our language and the love of our God who gave us hope for our future. These are
the things that we want to pass on to our children in a spirit of humility and
forgiveness.”
And while
the expression of heartfelt loss is absolute, as is the priority that what is
“precious and good” should be passed on, the need for liberation from the hurt
and for closure remained undiminished.
The Inuit spokesperson adds:
The Inuit spokesperson adds:
“It is in that spirit that I say to
all those who had a hand in the closing of Nutak and Hebron, and who promised
that this was done for our benefit: We forgive you.”
The three
words of forgiveness seem less a powerful message of absolution than a reclamation
of authority by a dispossessed people, one still proud, having not forgotten
who they are, their connections, and the primacy of their claim to the land of
their ancestors.
Then, too,
the statement manifests a human sophistication that is noble precisely because
it speaks to the strengths that emerge from both culture and character. There’s
no cry of deprivation here — no evidence of an aboriginal community embittered
by climate, barrenness or circumstance. There is only the lament of an entire people
“unceremoniously ripped” from their moorings.
Indeed, it is
impossible for us to draw any conclusion except that the Inuit were and are a people
positioned not on the fringes of history but at its very core. Rather than weakened, they must
have been enriched and strengthened by forces we think excessive and
unbearable — a fact that finds terminus in Jacques Cartier’s wearisome invocation
of scripture.
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| Photo Credit: TA Loeffler |
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| Photo Credit: Mark Dykeman |
Those
reflections often skipped to thoughts of our good fortune that the trip
co-ordinator had exercised amazing judgment in choosing possibly the warmest
two weeks of the year to undertake the journey — notwithstanding the fact that,
at night, my sub-zero-rated sleeping bag still warranted high-tech underwear, socks,
fleece, and sometimes more. That
required planning. Luck is finding scattered bits of driftwood for a fire to
take the chill off the morning or evening air. No one needed reminding that,
within a few mere weeks, the first blushes of snow might be seen, changing the
landscape again — evoking thoughts of sparse settlers digging in for another
long winter.
Indeed, it
was impossible not to think of those people in a Darwinian sense and applaud their
intelligence, resilience, character, good judgment, and the effort each
generation undertook to shape the next one.
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| Photo Credit: TA Loeffler |
As visitors,
our preoccupation was not with the vicissitudes of survival. We wanted to
experience the sheer fascination of this remote part of the world — located, relatively
speaking, in our backyard — a place always accorded respect within our own culture, in part due to that remoteness and to the extremes of
temperature, wind, and sea state which inspired fear, at times, but always
fascination.
Here, the
superlatives most always measure up to their billing. But there is one absolute.
This part of Labrador is so different, so unspoiled and unpopulated, that whatever
you thought about its power or its magic, the place where your feet set down always
seemed to feel the first touch of humanity.
This was
especially true as we trekked over the hills of Ferdinand Inlet with grasses, bushes and other vegetation asserting themselves
with surprising frequency. Three Mountain Harbour, a climb of modest
elevation, exposed beclouded mountain tops while still affording spectacular
vistas, as if warning the sea of their overbearing presence.
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| Photo Credit: Marian Wissink |
Sunday Run, the
name conjuring thoughts of a gentle afternoon drive, claimed the protection of
Finger Hill Island to calm the Labrador Sea. Here we were also introduced to the
Kaumajet Mountain Range — an array of peaks, each seemingly in competition for
notice, rising quickly out of deep ocean depths. This is where you also get
an early sense of what lies in wait on Grimmington Island. But that’s for
later; right now, a mountain climb is rewarded with a view of five waterfalls
in the distance. Taken together, the images seem excessive — except that the
experience of sensory overload seems all too common.
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| Photo Credit: Des Sullivan |
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| Photo Credit: Des Sullivan |
Arrival at
Grimmington Island, our most southerly destination, aroused an exaggerated
sense of expectancy. The anticipation had been building months before the Lab
Air charter set down in Saglek. Two of our number, TA and Marian, had branded the
expedition “Paddle2Peaks” — giving it an air of challenge — as if a state of
enabled fascination wasn’t enough.
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| Photo Credit: TA Loeffler |
Brave Mountain and Bishop’s Mitre rise to 4032 feet and 3400 feet elevation, respectively. The Island is approached with some foreboding, perhaps because magnitude always conveys a certain gravitas. At Grimmington, it’s as if even the mountains’ shadow has weight. Aptly named, Bishop’s Mitre radiates the sensation one often feels when entering a cathedral, except in this case a single overbearing tower stands erect, like an unyielding finger, reminding us that the far superior overlord to which it is attached has the power to incite solemnity as much awe.
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| Photos Credit: TA Loeffler |
Of course, thoughts
of tomorrow’s climb suppresses all others. I ask myself, again, why I would
expect to follow one of our number who is an expert climber, having ascended a
good many mountaintops. I am hopeful that she, and the others, are
mindful that everyone defines themselves from a different (possibly lower) elevation,
each claiming their own Everest.
After a steep
climb at the start, followed by a long and energetic scramble over rough boulder-laden
terrain, the trek continued rise after rise using the rough and often deep river
bed that time had cut into the centre of the mountain. Feet shuffled over ice-filled gullies, now slightly
slushy — which made them passable without crampons — thanks to a
fortuitous sun. At 1500 feet, this humble(d) writer sat content, knowing he
ought to save some “juice” for the descent, as the others — better fit — went higher.
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| Phots Caption: Mark Dykeman |
The payoff
included a close-up view of the remaining elevation as it towered over us,
forcing heads and eyes to scan the majesty above. An about-turn afforded a
perspective which stretched as far as the eye can see. Imagine the Kaumajet Mountains,
Turtleback Back Island, Cod Bag Island, and a few icebergs, for good measure —
all in a single frame!
The next
morning, an anxious reluctance confirmed that it was time to head the kayaks north,
by another circuitous route that took us to some ‘old’ destinations and some
new ones, including Soapstone Island and the area west of the Harp Peninsula.
Again we allowed ourselves to be bedazzled. A dozen or so gigantic icebergs hid
inside Takkatat Fjord — yes, this one Fjord — the large bay providing ample
room to weave the kayaks between “bergy bits”.
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| Photo Credit: Marian Wissink |
It is one
thing to be impressed by the icebergs’ gargantuan size; quite another to hear
them groan and strain and crack under their own glacial mass; then, at night, to
hear them crash and roll in an otherwise noiseless place — as if the
cacophonous sounds of an arctic orchestra demanded an audience, preferably one
wide awake.
A few days
later, in contrast to the “noise” heard in that city of icebergs, the
discord at Torngat
Mountains Base Camp and Research Station was both brief and deliberate. With
fog capping the mountains at Saglek Bay, a phone call to the helpful Manager of
the Camp — who met us at the very start — produced a Zodiac. A short boat trip
began to the northern part of Saglek Bay, providing a chance to satisfy a
long-held curiosity as to the conveniences afforded visitors to Torngat
Mountains National Park.
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| Photo Credit: Des Sullivan |
A community
of yurts and tents, including a large version of the traditional Labrador
variety with comfortable elevated beds, greeted our arrival. Showers, a fine
meal, and a gathering place where we could hang out, read, or just relax, also
contrasted with the service-less demands of camping. Even entertainers were
part of the deal — three in fact. Each one effortlessly created harmony and
gave mimic to the elements, to the forces that created the Torngats,
occasionally allowing discordance to magnify the sometimes irreconcilable and unequal
powers that have long impacted aboriginal life.
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| Photo Credit: Mark Dykeman |
Having
paddled the waters of Hebron, Takkatat, Jansen, Ferdinand, and Kaumajet Inlets
and trekked some of the land around those places, too, it seemed obvious that
what had begun under the auspices of the Torngat National Park — in the cause of preserving and
respecting the land, and in pursuit of international tourism (and the jobs and
incomes that accompany this growing industry) — we had been given a glimpse
into an “incubator” of eco-tourism, one of the world’s best kept secrets, in
one of its most special places.
Is there a
conclusion to this story? Several fit, but only one affords the opportunity to come
full circle and to give final address to Jacques
Cartier. I would say this:
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| Photo Credit: Mark Dykeman |
Even the cynical Cain would be humbled by the grandeur of a place too magnificent to
warrant address, where the mountains and fjords defy any normal sense of scale — where even a demanding and unpredictable, though bountiful, Labrador Sea still
commands reverence alongside the Kaumajets.
This is surely a complex and challenging land. It may well be a place where humility is the best survival instinct. Yet, in its barrenness, it still leaves room for Labrador tea, for mushrooms and grasses and plants, for the ubiquitous black bear and for the much rarer polar bear (about which much could be said, but will be left for another telling). Here, though, all of this just seems normal.
This is surely a complex and challenging land. It may well be a place where humility is the best survival instinct. Yet, in its barrenness, it still leaves room for Labrador tea, for mushrooms and grasses and plants, for the ubiquitous black bear and for the much rarer polar bear (about which much could be said, but will be left for another telling). Here, though, all of this just seems normal.
Little wonder the Inuit call it "Nunatsiavut". It
is an all encompassing word. Translated, it means "our beautiful land". It is a
description at odds with that of the French explorer. Indeed, we might rightly conclude Cartier simply never visited this place, his route possibly having kept him farther south.
Perhaps, it doesn't matter. Long before Cartier, the land was claimed by aboriginal culture and psyche, by aboriginal bone and sinew. Any other claim is merely that of a visitor. But while I may not have earned the right to profess attachment to a place aptly named Nunatsiavut, as have the Inuit, I can understand far better, now, what it means to belong.
________________________________________________________________________
Another Labrador adventure story: Captured By A River Damned
Perhaps, it doesn't matter. Long before Cartier, the land was claimed by aboriginal culture and psyche, by aboriginal bone and sinew. Any other claim is merely that of a visitor. But while I may not have earned the right to profess attachment to a place aptly named Nunatsiavut, as have the Inuit, I can understand far better, now, what it means to belong.
________________________________________________________________________
Another Labrador adventure story: Captured By A River Damned