In 1993 Kathleen and I canoed 950 km (600 miles) down the Thelon River, ending our trip in Baker Lake at the head of Chesterfield Inlet on Hudson Bay. Our pilot, Paul, is loading the float plane and inspecting its checkpoints for our flight back to Fort Smith in the Northwest Territories.
Paul took off easily into the north wind, and we banked south, our direction "locked in" by the global positioning system. Below, the Barren Grounds stretched endlessly, dominated by lakes and water courses. We flew silently across the unchanging landscape. Had Kathleen and I really traversed this open emptiness alone?
We crossed Dubawnt Lake, an immense body of water, purported by Paul to be as large as Massachusetts. A short time later we landed at Damant Lake for refuelling. The float plane coughed and wheezed, and sputtered against the shore next to the ubiquitous red-and-yellow fuel drums.
"Cracked fuel line," Paul remarked, with incredible nonchalance. “I'll try to fix it. If we try to take off, we might explode." In fact, I thought I had been smelling gas.
We watched nervously as Paul removed the front fuselage and unpacked his screw drivers and other tools.
"I could jerry-rig this to work, but I don't want to take a chance. I'll radio for help."
Kathleen and I wandered onto the esker, then back down into the trees. We settled in the shelter of a hill away from the strengthening winds. Our sausages, peanut butter, crackers and gorp made a good meal. Paul joined us after relaying a message to Fort Smith, through Yellowknife. As the afternoon lengthened into evening, we considered putting up the tent. Maybe I could catch fish for dinner. I was hoping not to be saved just yet, as I very much wanted to continue living in the Barren Grounds. All too soon, however, we heard the drone of an approaching plane, which landed at 8:30 p.m.
Dick, the manager and mechanic of Loon Air held the required replacement part in his hand, and he immediately began repairing the broken fuel line. After quickly completing the repair with a 50-cent piece of tubing, Dick suggested that Kathleen and I should travel in the "rescue" plane. Even though we couldn't make Fort Smith before nightfall, both pilots wanted to at least get off the Barrens. Thekulthili Lake, about 1 hour away, became our destination. Paul took off first, without incident. We followed, but soon passed the first plane, which was slowed by our canoe strapped to the pontoon. Although not yet legally night, the lake looked dark as our pilot Don, who had flown us into the Thelon River six weeks ago, flew low over the water surface, looking for rocks and shoals. Paul landed about 5 minutes later, and we all tied up to shore in front of a rustic fishing lodge.
Once our sleeping bags were spread on the bunks we enjoyed a beer, compliments of Dick and Loon Air. The rest of the evening passed quickly, as we listened to stories of flying and mishaps in this vast, empty land.
The next morning we woke to a heavy mist hanging over the lake. As we drank our coffee, we stared toward the end of the lake, searching hopefully for signs that the fog may be lifting. Don and Paul studied the maps, looking for water routes above which they could fly safely. Don was ready when the far shore became visible, so we taxied down the lake and took off for Fort Smith.
The fog soon thickened, and I strained ahead to see potential obstacles that might suddenly emerge from the mist that now covered the land. Don banked sharply, and turned back and landed on a small, unnamed patch of water barely visible beneath the thickening mist. Rocky, steep, well-treed banks surrounded the lake.
Don flew in fog only when he could see lakes, which provided potential emergency landings. He never flew in fog over land. We appreciated Don's cautious motto: "Never close the back door. When the Barrens bite, they bite hard."
About an hour later, the ceiling lifted slightly, revealing the lake's far shore. After taking off for the second time this morning, the southern horizon continued to become brighter. Just before lunch we taxied up to the Loon Air float dock on Four Mile Lake. Paul didn't arrive with our gear and canoe until around 4:00 pm; he had been unable to leave the fishing lodge this morning, as the fog returned to Thekulthili Lake only moments after we had flown away.
We returned to the Pelican restaurant for the pizza we'd been looking forward to since arriving in Baker Lake. After dinner Don, Paul and another young pilot joined us at our Fort Smith campsite for beer and more bush-pilot stories. The skill of these pilots had safely transported us to and from the Thelon River. It seemed fitting to end our adventure in their company.