Carl’s Library: Everett

Who was Everett Ruess?

Over the years, when writing about my wilderness adventures or sharing photos online, I have often dropped the name Everett Ruess into my posts. It is well past time that I share the reason for doing so.

Warning: This report contains spoilers…

Like many people, I had never heard of Everett until I read the Jon Krakauer book Into the Wild—the biography of vagabond Christopher McCandless. In the middle of that story, a chapter entitled “Davis Gulch” introduced us to an artistic young explorer named Everett Ruess who was swallowed by the Utah desert in 1934; he was 20 years old. The account of the life and death of McCandless was a very interesting read, yet as I continued through the remaining pages, my mind kept drifting back to that all-too-brief chapter about Everett. Upon reaching the end of the book, I immediately returned to “Davis Gulch” for a second pass. It was clear that I needed to track down a biography and learn much more about this enlightened wanderer.

Krakauer used that chapter to highlight the similarities between Ruess and McCandless. Certainly, they did share a number of qualities, but I feel that their differences carry the day. That said, I cannot claim to fully understand all of the motivating factors that led Chris McCandless to that abandoned bus in Alaska. Reading his story, I could sense there was something going on inside Chris that I would never be able to decipher; likely, that something just isn’t a part of my fabric. Not so when reading about Everett—I identified with him instantly and effortlessly. Of all the celebrated wilderness adventurers, Ruess speaks to me like no other.

The best way to know Everett is by reading his beautifully written letters and journals; both collections are presented in the book Everett Ruess, A Vagabond for Beauty & Wilderness Journals. Featured are a great many of the letters Everett wrote to his friends and family during his solo adventures from 1930 through 1934.

At age 16, Everett set out on his first journey into the wild beauty of the West, exploring near Big Sur and Carmel before moving on to Yosemite National Park in the summer of 1930. He was away from home for most of the following year, spending February through October immersed in the glory of the Canyon Country in Arizona and Utah (including Grand Canyon and Zion National Parks). Everett returned to the desert between March and September of ’32, while also venturing into southwestern Colorado. 1933 saw his grand tour of California’s Sierras; for five months, beginning in June, he slowly rode up through Sequoia National Park, (what would become) Kings Canyon National Park, and on once more to Yosemite. In April of 1934, he left home for the last time, returning to the canyons of Arizona and Utah that he loved so much. His final letter, written near Escalante, Utah, was dated November 11, 1934.

The pages of this book overflow with Everett’s lyrical descriptions of the sublime western landscapes that surrounded him. But more than that, the letters and journals reveal the evolution of his emotional maturity, as he wrote of the things that truly mattered to him and of the deeper human connections which he desired but rarely found. On several occasions, Ruess referred to his longing for the elusive companionship of someone with an equal ability to appreciate the splendor found in wild lands.

Unlike some champions of the wilderness, Ruess was not a hermit, nor was he a misanthrope. He liked people, he just liked solitude better. While he managed to spend a great deal of time alone during these adventures, much of his travel brought him into national parks, and crossing paths with humans was inevitable. Everett often wrote fondly of his encounters with farmers, ranchers, cowboys, vagabonds, artists, naturalists, park rangers, CCC workers, tourists, campers, sportsmen and Native Americans. Most were merely passing acquaintances, but he did keep in touch with a few.

For Ruess, the beauty he found while wandering through the backcountry was its own reward. As an added bonus, it also served as inspiration for his art. Everett was a highly creative person, and his artistic talent was not confined to a single discipline. He wrote poems and essays inspired by places he had discovered or by events that happened along the way. He would rise before dawn to paint watercolors as the day’s first light illuminated beautiful rock formations. With his camera, he captured dramatic vistas as well as portraits of the people he met. And he created sketches of the scenery which would later be turned into blockprints.

All of this was taking place during the peak years of the Great Depression, and Everett managed to live quite frugally while on the trail. In addition to their letters, his parents would ship care packages to the post office of the nearest desert town, loaded with such items as camping gear, boots, books, art supplies, and edible treats. They would also mail what few dollars they could spare. When passing a ranch or a farm, Everett would offer to perform odd jobs in exchange for a meal or a night’s lodging. Often, he was able to sell or trade one of his prints or watercolors to acquire food and equipment.

At a time when employment and opportunity were scarce, Everett pondered his future, and was at a loss regarding its direction. More than once he expressed his dread at the thought of leading a conventional existence. Were there a way to be paid as a professional wanderer, he surely would have taken that path.

I don’t think I could ever settle down. I have known too much of the depths of life already, and I would prefer anything to an anticlimax.

Between adventures, Everett returned to Los Angeles to be with his family, attend school and work on improving his artistic technique. In October of 1933, he decided to spend the fall and winter living alone in San Francisco, and for those five months, he was on a mission to absorb as much culture as possible, through art exhibits, museums, concerts, operas, plays, lectures, films, books, and gatherings of creative people. By day, he would roam the city and paint. As exhilarating as these cultural experiences proved to be, Everett knew from the beginning that his stay in San Francisco would be temporary; once April arrived, he would be back on the trail with two new burros, exploring the desert’s rugged beauty.

Though Ruess had doubts about his ability to forge a career as an artist, his creative drive never left him; whether in the city or in the wild, inspiration found him and new pieces were constantly taking shape. And he was always on the lookout for opportunities to receive advice and constructive criticism. Within days of leaving home on that first adventure along the California coast, Everett showed up unannounced at the studio of famed photographer Edward Weston; he quickly became friends with Weston and his two youngest sons, Neil and Cole. Three years later, Ruess repeated that move just after his arrival in San Francisco with a visit to the studio of painter Maynard Dixon, and in short order, befriended Dixon and his wife, photographer Dorothea Lange. They saw each other often; effectively, the power couple played the role of surrogate parents to Everett while he was in the Bay Area. Maynard shared valuable insight that would help the young man develop his artistic eye; Dorothea and Everett enjoyed many photographic and cultural outings together, including this little jaunt to a presentation by one of my favorite authors:

On Tuesday, Mrs. Dixon and I went to Berkeley to hear Rockwell Kent. We enjoyed seeing the cuts and paintings shown very large on a screen.

There was also a meeting with Ansel Adams

(The Adams photograph which Everett describes can be viewed here.)

It’s no surprise that I hold Ruess in high regard, nor that he comes to mind now and again when I’m reveling in my own adventures under a big sky. Though he had his burros and I have my Pontiac, we share an affinity for solo wilderness exploration, as well as three of my greatest diversions—photography, music and books. He wrote often of the books he was reading while on the trail, occasionally quoting passages that moved him. And my thanks go out to Everett for recommending a few titles that I had yet to discover, such as Willa Cather’s Death Comes for the Archbishop.

Generally, I am not prone to envy; however, there is a little of it at play in this case. To be sure, carpooling with Everett and Dorothea to the Rockwell Kent lecture is on my time-travel wishlist. But the envy I have in mind applies to broader aspects of Everett’s life—his education, for one. It’s astonishing that these letters and journal entries were written by a teenager. Ruess strikes me as exceptionally articulate and erudite for his age, with a remarkable grasp of philosophy. That certainly cannot be said of me or my friends when we were 16. (Can I blame that on growing up in the age of television? Were all students back then as bright as Everett?)

Additionally, I envy the freedom of movement that Ruess enjoyed in the early ’30s. While hardly ancient history, it’s far enough back that the West was much more wild and open than it is today. I would love to see it as he did…fewer inhabitants, fewer highways, no cell towers, less development, and much less fencing.

It is out of admiration for Everett—not envy—that I write this post; admiration for daring to follow his heart into the wilderness, for the ardent joy he derived from the beauty of the West, and for the wealth of living he packed into those final five years.

A web search will reveal that the vast majority of the public’s interest in Everett Ruess centers on the mystery of his disappearance. I find that unfortunate; his intense love of nature, his art, his writing, his ability to find bliss in solitude, and his passion for living life to the fullest are worthy of much greater appreciation. As to the how and why of his departure, I really don’t care…but then, the mystery and crime genres have never appealed to me. I can certainly understand why his family and friends cared enough to go looking for him, but at this point in time, I’d rather see people focus on Everett’s brief yet fascinating life and, with finality, declare his whereabouts as “unknown.”

Frankly, I can think of no better ending for a true lover of the wild. And, for the record, should anyone wish to pull out the phrase “That’s the way he would have wanted to go” once I have gone over the Big Ridge, qualifying circumstances would include an accident while exploring lonely roads in the Pontiac, or a mishap while hiking or camping in the wilderness—lightning strike, severe weather event, landslide, being eaten by wild animals, falling from a cliff, direct hit by a meteorite, and so on. Spending my last moments in a hospital or, for that matter, anywhere indoors? No, thanks—that’s the most dreadful possibility I can imagine. If I have any control over my exit, I’ll be guided by the words Everett wrote to his brother Waldo in 1931:

…I shall go on some last wilderness trip, to a place I have known and loved. I shall not return.

~ ~ ~

Photograph of Everett Ruess (top of page) by Dorothea Lange, 1933

Illustrations and text by Everett Ruess, 1930-1934

Everett Ruess, A Vagabond for Beauty  © 1983 by Gibbs M. Smith, Inc.

Wilderness Journals of Everett Ruess  © 1998 by Gibbs Smith, Publisher

Everett Ruess Combination Edition  © 2002 by Gibbs Smith, Publisher

(Posts about my library are archived through this link: ridingwithcarl.wordpress.com/tag/library)

Self-Portrait

I must pack my short life full of interesting events and creative activity. Philosophy and aesthetic contemplation are not enough. I intend to do everything possible to broaden my experiences and allow myself to reach the fullest development. Then, and before physical deterioration obtrudes, I shall go on some last wilderness trip, to a place I have known and loved. I shall not return. 

~ Everett Ruess, letter dated May 2, 1931

Cimarron National Grassland, Kansas

(Much more on Everett coming up in next Sunday’s post…)

Never Lost

The Great Plains in those early days were solitary and desolate beyond the power of description; the Arkansas River sluggishly followed the tortuous windings of its treeless banks with a placidness that was awful in its very silence; and whoso traced the wanderings of that stream with no companion but his own thoughts, realized in all its intensity the depth of solitude from which Robinson Crusoe suffered on his lonely island. Illimitable as the ocean, the weary waste stretched away until lost in the purple of the horizon, and the mirage created weird pictures in the landscape, distorted distances and objects which continually annoyed and deceived. Despite its loneliness, however, there was then, and ever has been for many men, an infatuation for those majestic prairies that once experienced is never lost…

Henry Inman
The Old Santa Fé Trail
1897

Earth & Sky

Above, light from the rising sun illuminates large boulders on a hilltop in the Davis Mountains of western Texas.

The oldest entry in my blog was posted five years ago today, and tells of a spot in the mountains which is very special to me. The Pontiac and I have enjoyed five tours of these beautiful and peaceful mountains during the past 30 years; I’ve no doubt we’ll be visiting the area again.

Speaking of, here are links to a few archived blog posts about our most recent trip to the Davis Mountains in 2015…

The long-awaited return to the spot mentioned in the post linked above, including some photos of the incredible night sky:

Deep in the Heart of Texas

And a couple of posts featuring photos of the area’s wildlife:

Raptor’s Delight

Acme Little Giant Do-It-Yourself Rocket-Sled Kit

Carl’s Library: Mary Schäffer Warren

108 years ago…

A Merry Christmas

My darling brother: If you had only not been a boy I could have thought up O so many things to have sent you. But being a boy (however I am very glad you are) you will have to put up with a book. I do not know how good this book is for I have not read it. But the notice said many fine things about it.        ~ Sister Julia

In many of the vintage books I have acquired over the years, I’ve been pleasantly surprised to discover reminders of the people who owned those books long ago, such as Julia’s handwritten note found in my copy of Old Indian Trails of the Canadian Rockies by Mary T. S. Schäffer.

Mary Schäffer’s husband, Dr. Charles Schäffer, had a passion for botany. His playground was the Selkirk Mountains of British Columbia, and shortly after their marriage, Mary made her first trip to western Canada with Charles, acting as his scientific assistant. She was awestruck by the magnificent scenery all around her. With her husband’s guidance, Mary quickly became a talented amateur botanist and enjoyed the work they did together. She collected and identified specimens, captured photographs, and painted beautiful watercolor illustrations of the alpine flowers. For Mary, this was the genesis of many annual transcontinental journeys via the Canadian Pacific Railway, from her home in Pennsylvania to the wild country known as Banff & Jasper National Parks.

Charles died shortly after their 1903 visit to the mountains. By that time, Mary was thoroughly in love with the Canadian wilderness, and as a tribute to her dear husband, she wished to complete the botanical guide of mountain flora that they had dreamed of writing. Mary enlisted her husband’s colleague, botanist Stewardson Brown, to co-author the project, and they set out for Alberta in the summer of 1906; the book, Alpine Flora of the Canadian Rocky Mountains, was published the following year.

That great task now completed, Mary was eager to plan her next westward journey, with a desire to make it a grander adventure than any before…exploring new territory and spending more time in the wild. Over the winter months, Mary and her friend Mollie Adams began their preparations.

Old Indian Trails is the story of the 1907 and 1908 expeditions made by Mary and Mollie, along with guides Sid Unwin and Billy Warren.

To anyone who quizzed the group about the purpose of their travels during those two summers, they explained that they were looking for the sources of the Athabasca and Saskatchewan Rivers. In truth, they were happy just to be roaming through this beautiful wilderness, wherever the trails may lead.

But there was indeed one specific goal very much on their minds: to locate a mysterious lake which the Stoney Indians called Chaba Imne. Working from a sketch made by their local friend, a Stoney named Sampson Beaver, they finally found the lake in 1908. Its current name, Maligne Lake, was affixed by Mary, and she is credited with its “official” discovery.

From her earliest travels, Mary approached Indigenous Peoples with warmth and friendship, and showed an eagerness to understand their way of life. She had great affection for Sampson Beaver and his family; Mary looked forward to visiting them whenever she was in the area. The Stoney Indians referred to Mary as Yahe-Weha (“Mountain Woman”).

After so many years of enduring long train trips to see her beloved mountains, Mary realized there was no longer any point in maintaining the life she knew in Philadelphia. She finally made Banff her year-round home and married her long-time mountain guide, Billy Warren.

With her writing, her lectures and her lantern slide shows, Mary worked to publicize the beauty of this region. Even so, a part of her was saddened to see the peace and tranquility fade a little as more and more visitors arrived each year, and opportunities for trailblazing and discovery existed only in her memory.

Like many other titles in my library, I discovered this book due to its reference in another book (and once again, I can’t recall which one). That is one of the joys of nonfiction; I’ve enjoyed many books that I likely would never have found—and my library has grown—simply due to authors referencing earlier works on the subject at hand.

Of course, it’s hard for me to pass up any old book that happens to include a folding map…

Speaking of mountains: I know that a similar early edition of this book resides on the shelves of the Rocky Mountain Land Library, and I can’t think of a more appropriate home for it. I want to take this opportunity to mention that December is a great time to make a donation to the RMLL, as they are currently raising funds to support their 2020 workshops and restoration projects. Find out more about the Land Library and make a contribution by visiting landlibrary.wordpress.com.

Companion book: I recommend the biography No Ordinary Woman: The Story of Mary Schäffer Warren by Janice Sanford Beck, published in 2002. The book provides a great deal of illuminating information, from Mary’s Quaker upbringing in Pennsylvania to her final years with Billy Warren in their Banff home, and in between, we learn of her early travel experiences and her growing appreciation for wild beauty, her first trips to the Canadian Rockies with Charles, her fascination and fondness for the Indigenous Peoples she encountered, the botanical work with her husband and Stewardson Brown, her government-backed survey expedition of Maligne Lake in 1911, her journeys to other parts of the globe, and her environmental activism. Additionally, this book contains several of Mary’s previously unpublished articles and manuscripts, and many more photographs from her mountain adventures.

Photographs and text: Copyright 1911 by Mary T.S. Schäffer.

(Posts about my library are archived through this link: ridingwithcarl.wordpress.com/tag/library.)

Carl’s Library: The Kindred of the Wild

It’s sad to see a beloved used bookstore close its doors. But the bright side of such a farewell is the opportunity to do several years’ worth of shopping in a few short weeks. When the owner of the bookstore in my neighborhood decided to retire, I was able to add dozens of vintage books to my library at generous clearance-sale prices. I didn’t walk in with a wish list; I just browsed the shelves featuring books on history, exploration, the American West and wilderness fiction and came home with a wide assortment of unfamiliar titles.

I was not acquainted with The Kindred of the Wild, nor its author, Charles G.D. Roberts. Since reading the book, I have learned that it was wildly popular in its day, selling very well the world over, and that Roberts is highly regarded as a writer of prose and poetry—much of his work dedicated to natural history.

Kindred is a collection of short stories about the lives of wild animals, set in the woodlands of Atlantic Canada, where Roberts grew up.

Some stories describe prey/predator relationships, while others tell of encounters between animals and humans. Death appears often in this book, but escape, survival and freedom are also present. And on page after page, the reader finds beautiful descriptions of the sights, sounds and tranquility of the forest.

Accompanying each story are several full-page illustrations by artist Charles Livingston Bull

As Roberts acknowledges, Kindred is a work of fiction. The stories are not anthropomorphic in nature; the creatures are not affixed with human names, nor do they speak English. These are simply tales of animals doing what animals do. Roberts was a proponent of realism when writing about animal behavior.

Nevertheless, the book became involved in the so-called “nature fakers controversy,” in which naturalist John Burroughs and President Theodore Roosevelt criticized the work of authors such as Roberts, Ernest Thompson Seton, William J. Long and Jack London, condemning their stories as “sham natural history.”

Whether or not such allegations hold any truth or relevance, I’ll leave for others to decide. In any case, I appreciate Roberts’s writing style and I truly enjoyed reading this book.

Illustrations and text: Copyright 1902 by L.C. Page & Company, Inc.

(Posts about my library are archived through this link: ridingwithcarl.wordpress.com/tag/library.)

Trees & Leaves

That didn’t take long. Today’s post includes the last few photographs I have to share from my recent excursion through eastern Canada. This trip generated far fewer images than past adventures of similar distance or duration. There’s a reason for that…

On most road trips, I’m winding my way across the wide-open prairies, deserts, badlands and high country of the American West. Roaming under the Big Sky is, photographically, very stimulating; each turn of the road or the trail presents a new look at the marriage of land and sky. I return from every western journey with hundreds of photos.

Driving or hiking through heavily forested regions is different; though still quite satisfying, it’s more of a relaxing, contemplative experience rather than a photo opportunity. When I’m immersed in the forest, I don’t reach for the camera nearly as often.

Am I anti-tree? Certainly not. I greatly enjoy hiking in the woods during fall and winter, as well as taking long drives through Canada’s vast boreal forest. However, to me, nothing is more enjoyable than watching the sky. When I’m boxed in by a multitude of trees (or hills or mountains, for that matter), I’m missing out on sunrises, sunsets, moonrises, moonsets, interesting clouds, soaring birds, approaching storms, the beautiful colors of twilight. Having an unobstructed view of the horizon is something that I treasure. My preference is to appreciate trees in smaller doses—a stand of aspens marking the path of a stream that snakes across a broad Colorado valley, for example. A solitary tree standing guard on the prairie is one of my favorite sights; on many occasions, I have visited this lonely old cottonwood that lives on a South Dakota ranch…

I find that spending time with a single tree, or with a small grove, is more rewarding than a journey among countless thousands of trees. Even so, the larger forests do have their charms, and I’ll keep on driving through the wilds of Canada, hiking in silent woods carpeted with freshly fallen snow, and visiting all of my favorite trees. As for day-to-day living, I hope to be doing that on the Great Plains someday…preferably, on a piece of land that has one tree within hiking distance.

Carl’s Library: Mina Benson Hubbard

This autumn’s long road trip gave me my first look at Quebec and The Maritimes; I made it as far east as Port Morien, Nova Scotia. I was asked by a few people if I would be continuing on to explore Newfoundland & Labrador. No, my first visit to that province will be a monster of a trip all its own. At some point in the next few years, I’ll embark on what will likely be the Pontiac’s greatest challenge: driving the Trans-Labrador Highway—probably the most remote and loneliest highway in all of North America. Should I reach the Labrador coast, I’ll be far closer to Greenland than to New York City.

To this day, Labrador remains a vast boreal wilderness with very few inhabitants; only 27,000 or so live there, mainly along the coast. It is a land of rugged terrain, dense brush, fierce weather and legions of biting insects. Life is hard there, even for the Indigenous Peoples of the region. Few visitors see Labrador’s interior.

Imagine traversing this daunting landscape in 1905, with no map to guide you…

Warning: This report contains spoilers…

Leonidas Hubbard, Junior set out in 1903 to chart a course through the harsh interior of Labrador—said to be the least-explored region of North America at that time. His party became lost in a labyrinth of lakes and swamps, and the cold air and snow arrived early that summer. They were unable to secure sufficient game to feed themselves as their supplies dwindled. Too weak to travel, Leonidas died from starvation, alone in his tent, after his two companions had raced off separately to bring back food and a rescue party.

Mina Hubbard, now a 33-year-old widow, grew determined to complete her husband’s journey. She was an absolute novice regarding this type of travel, and most people were shocked at the idea of a woman participating in an exploratory expedition, let alone leading one. But she planned it well, teaching herself navigation and mapping skills, researching equipment and provisions, talking with trappers and sportsmen who knew the territory, and assembling a reliable crew: Joseph, Job, and Gilbert; the fourth man, and the greatest asset to the team, was George Elson, a survivor of her husband’s expedition.

In late June of ’05, they loaded two 19′ canoes with their gear, which included plenty of flour, rice, coffee and other staples; meat, fish and berries would be procured as they traveled. Leaving the Northwest River trading post, the expedition began its long slog up the Nascaupee River, struggling against the swift current and making several portages along the way.

They finally came to the sprawling Lake Michikamau, and shortly thereafter, to the river’s source, which Mina named Lake Adelaide (zooming out from this aerial view will give you an appreciation for the ruggedness and isolation that this wilderness offers). Crossing over the height of land (the present-day boundary between Labrador and Quebec), the team descended the George River. They soon found themselves in the midst of the largest caribou herd in the world—hundreds of thousands of beasts in migration mode. Farther on, the expedition passed through the great Barren Ground of northern Labrador, and in late August, arrived at the Ungava Bay trading post, where they waited for the final southbound ship of the season—Hudson’s Bay Company’s steamer, Pelican—to return them to Rigolette.

All told, they canoed and portaged 576 miles from post to post during those 62 days in the summer of 1905, and gave us the first accurate mapping of the Nascaupee and George Rivers.

Mrs. Hubbard’s book is not a cold play-by-play of each day’s progress, but is written in a storytelling fashion that allows her to expand upon many aspects of the adventure. She writes of their successes and discoveries, their worries and critical decisions, their near disasters. She describes their friendly encounters with the Montagnais and Nascaupee tribes of the interior. She writes of animal behavior, thoughts of home, thoughts of her late husband, the personalities of her companions, their moments of joy along the way, and her appreciation for the beauty of her surroundings.

The men were very protective of Mina and constantly worried for her safety; to their dismay, she had an adventurous streak and loved wandering off alone to hike up hills and mountains, smiling and happy as she walked along. In addition to her revolver and hunting knife, Mina armed herself with one Panoram Kodak Camera and one 3.25″ x 4.25″ Folding Pocket Kodak Camera…

I discovered A Woman’s Way Through Unknown Labrador by a reference in another book on northern exploration (although the title of that book escapes me). I learned enough about Mina Hubbard’s expedition to know that I definitely wanted to acquire a copy of her book, and I was lucky to find this 1908 first Canadian edition. This particular book was the obvious choice for a cartophile like me, as it came complete with its original color copy of Mina’s map, detailing the routes of the two expeditions. The map is stored in a pocket within the back board, and is in remarkably good condition for its age…

Mrs. Hubbard’s map became the benchmark for this region, as recognized by American and European geographical authorities. Several of the lakes and land features along the route still bear the names that Mina affixed to them in 1905.

Included in this book is the diary that Leonidas Hubbard kept during his expedition, along with George Elson’s account of those final days, his harrowing solo journey to find help, and his return the following spring to retrieve Mr. Hubbard’s body.

I don’t purchase books as investments; I buy them to read, and I look for sensibly-priced copies. Yet, for whatever reason, I felt that I needed a premium edition of this title, and it is indeed the most money I’ve ever spent on a single book. Even so, no regrets here…it is a beautiful book and a great reading experience.

Photographs, map and text: Copyright 1908 by Mrs. Leonidas Hubbard, Jr. (Mina Benson Hubbard).

(Posts about my library are archived through this link: ridingwithcarl.wordpress.com/tag/library.)

Freshwater Pools of the Canadian Shield

When I left my tent for a morning hike, little did I know that I would find myself in a wilderness rock garden, featuring colorful plants and beautiful pools of cool, clear water. Such was my luck when I chose to camp on the shore of James Bay at Longue Pointe, north of Chisasibi, Quebec.

Just before the hike, I listened to the birds and watched the sunrise from my seaside campsite

Hear the birds and the waves for yourself by watching this brief video, recorded at the above location:    YouTube     Vimeo

Leaving the shore and walking uphill through the trees and brush, I arrived on the high ground of Longue Pointe—the exposed gneissic granite of the Canadian Shield

The pools are perennial fixtures of the terrain, fed only by rain and snow…

Here’s another short video, which will give you a 360° tour of this area:    YouTube    Vimeo

Fascinating microecosystems…

Algae? Pollen? Ribbons of orange floating on the still water…

I never thought it was such a bad little tree: Below, a ragged little evergreen makes its home on the hard stone…

I left the trees behind as I walked westward toward the end of the point…

Above and below, dikes of pegmatite run for long distances across the great slabs of granite…

Terminus: The western tip of Longue Pointe, where the rock dives below the calm, blue waters of James Bay…

A short but extremely satisfying hike…one that I’d like to take morning after morning. Perhaps I’ll be able to stay for several nights on my next visit.

Overland to Nunavut

I’m not that keen on being hauled to a destination by plane or by boat; I prefer to get there on my own, either by driving or by walking. As for visiting the territory of Nunavut, boats and planes are, very nearly, the only options.

Nunavut is Canada’s newest and largest territory, created April 1, 1999 from the eastern and northern portions of the Northwest Territories. It is a gigantic and sparsely populated wilderness, and there are no roads leading to Nunavut from the rest of North America.

The boundaries of Canada’s provinces and territories have undergone many changes since 1867; don’t be surprised if these adjustments continue. For reasons unclear (as noted in this article), Quebec’s territory stops at the shoreline. All of the islands in James Bay and Hudson Bay—even those within throwing distance—belong to Nunavut.

However, there are several spots along these northern shores where Nunavut and Quebec share short land borders. These exist in certain places where land sits below the high tide line…even though that land may appear to be dry and verdant. Edward Bearskin, the Tourism Coordinator in Chisasibi, informed me that there is one such area west of town, just north of the end of the James Bay Road…

I was quite happy to learn about this location, as I would no longer need to charter a boat to one of the nearby islands in order to visit Nunavut. Edward told me that there are no trails leading into this acreage, no signage marking the boundary…just raw coastal wilderness. Fine with me; it would add a little pioneering spirit to the hike as I forged my own trail.

Of course, the car would have to stay behind in Quebec. After coming so close, it seemed only fair to carry a photo of the Pontiac into Nunavut, just to complete its journey.

(Ocean in View: Below, the Pontiac’s first look at northern seawater. We reached the shore of James Bay after driving all 434 miles (699 km) of Route de la Baie-James. This is as near to Nunavut as the Pontiac will ever be, parked just above the territorial boundary of the high tide line.)

Stepping off the road and into the wild, I worked my way northward. Though not a long hike in terms of distance, it was no easy stroll; the brush was often tall, tangled and quite dense, sometimes hiding deep holes. I made several detours, and occasionally had to crawl under some of these thick shrubs. Other areas consisted of soft, wet muskeg. By the time I had reached the open air again, I had a few cuts and scrapes, and two very soggy boots.

After walking across a low, marshy area, I was standing on broad slabs of granite surrounded by shorter brush, and I could see the waters of James Bay. It appeared that I had reached my destination…

The GPS locator on my phone told me that I had indeed crossed the “border.” Welcome to Nunavut…

(Phone screenshot, captured 1309 EDT, September 16, 2019.)

From there, I continued walking northward to the shore, where I spent some time playing on the large, colorful rocks awash in the calm sea. I also enjoyed a sip of Nunavut’s cool, clear water (yeah, yeah…it was fine; so many rivers empty into James Bay that its salinity is very low).

(Give a Hoot: This card was not left on the stone; it’s back in my wallet.)

Not exactly a proper visit to Nunavut, but it will do for now. I expect to return someday, as there’s enough wild beauty up there to get me on an airplane; Baffin Island and Ellesmere Island are on my list.