Dispatch 1 - Arrival
Incredible journey north and day of meeting people in this small community. Old Crow has been extremely welcoming and Reanna’s father Peter (the tumbleweed ) has been a gracious host! Tomorrow we climb Mt. Crow.
Dispatches - 2 Old Crow, Yukon
PS. Pink area on map depicts current location of the Porcupine Caribou Herd.
Greetings from north of 66 degrees.
What a journey so far. On August 22nd, we left Kelowna for Whitehorse, where we were warmly greeted by Reanna Huston's relatives, who shuttled us to the SKKY hotel where we overnighted.
The next morning, we arrived at the airport, only to find out that fog in Dawson City had delayed our flight. We found a small sitting lounge and crashed for a bit until our flight was called. Because of the fog, the plan was to fly direct to Old Crow (then on to Inuvik). Perhaps what struck us most was that there was NO security getting onto the twin-prop ATR conveyor. Just climb on in! It was easy to identify the Old Crow travelers: most had been shopping 'down south' and were encumbered with the necessities for their remote lifestyle.
The flight took us over spectacular scenery. Heading northwest from Whitehorse, you fly over white-capped peaks until you get to the dryer peaks of the Ni'iinlii Njik (Fishing Branch Territorial Park), then cross over what is the beginning of Old Crow Flats, where the Gwitchin people do most of their hunting and muskrat and other trapping.
We landed on a gravel runway and at the airport (practical grey wooden building), we were met by Reanna's father Peter Abel who took us to our modest accommodations. We'll never forget that short ride: the evidence of the community's connection to the land is everywhere. The front of many homes are adorned with caribou antlers and great moose racks, the prowess of many hunting excursions. The town is a mixture of old log cabins (some are traditional caches once used to store meat, fish and fur supplies) and newer homes built on raised blocks, to accommodate melting permafrost beneath (climate change is real up here, folks). Here and there we spotted dog sled teams chained to their kennels. Generally, people got around on 'four-wheelers' (ATVs). On top of most homes sat one or two crows or ravens, and we spotted a bald eagle atop a power pole (some folk discard their caribou scraps for the awaiting carrion birds and local dogs).
That day we were given a tour of Old Crow Village, visiting the administrative building, the Co-op store (12 cans of Pepsi were $34.99!), and the fascinating John Tizya Centre, the hub of Yukon Gwitchin culture, where we met filmmaker Mary Jane Moses, caribou and renewable resources expert Jason Von Fleet, and the Heritage Manager Megan Williams, who informed us that our research proposal had been granted (we now had carte blanche to film in the village and surrounding areas!). Peter Abel gave us an excellent overview of all the fishing and hunting camps belonging to the people on a superbly laid out relief map. We were surprised to find on display mastodon teeth and human relics dating back up to 7,000 years.
Jason Von Fleet showed us on an app where the Porcupine Caribou herd was currently feeding just to the east of Old Crow. He said we may or may not see a few before we depart, especially since last year they have been observing a more traditional pattern of movement. In fact, at the airport, we met Johnny, who had just harvested a caribou 30 miles upstream.
After the tour we joined folks at the Old Crow Youth Centre for a barbecue and to 'talk story'. It was a long, wonderful day.
More tonight!
Dispatches – 3 – Climbing Crow Mountain
The wind blew all that first night, a wild lullaby. In the morning, we were awoken by the sound of ravens landing on the roof and complaining loudly to one another with croaky epithets. Breakfast was instant oatmeal for Tim and I; the girls a few country blocks away were eating scrambled eggs and toast.
At 11am, Peter Abel picked us up on a four-wheeler and shuttled us to the house of Paul Dhoele, the IT guru of Old Crow. The seasoned Arctic warrior and his friend Bryan were our guides that day. We rode two ATV's (one pulling a trailer with our gear) the five kilometers up towards the community-owned quarry, parked then literally headed due west cross-country over the low taiga. It was a decent incline from the get-go, and the vastness of the place had us speaking in awe-struck voices.
The Porcupine and Crow River valleys soon spread out below us and we could see for perhaps 100 miles. Beneath our feet was a brilliant patchwork of reds, yellows and lichen greens, with the occasional splash of purple, a hearty fall bloom.
And then the girls discovered the berries.
It was hard to get Reanna and Dawn to keep moving, they were so enraptured by the sheer bounty at their fingertips. Wild blueberries and cranberries dominated the hillside, and the rest of us had to content ourselves with eating a few berries and inspecting the caribou remains scattered here and there—some from hunting, some from natural causes.
It was a wind torn slog to the top of the mountain, at 2500 feet. On these rocky barrens we came across inukshuks and other way markers hunters used in times of white-out. We also paid tribute to a tumble of caribou antlers and a wooden cross, a makeshift memorial to the later Father Mouchet. His is an interesting story. Sprotsnorth.com paints a nice tribute:
"Father Mouchet played an instrumental role introducing the sport of cross country skiing to the North in the 1950s and beyond. Father Mouchet was an Oblate priest who came to Northern Canada in 1946, from his hometown of Malbuisson, France. He was initially posted in Telegraph Creek, BC, but then was posted to Old Crow, Inuvik, Whitehorse and Ross River.
”While living in Inuvik, Father Mouchet founded the Territorial Experimental Ski Training (TEST) Program. This program was supported by the NWT Government to develop an outdoor education program in Inuvik. The TEST program grew to include many Northern communities, including the home base of the program in Old Crow, Yukon. It was Father Mouchet’s hope that providing the community with competitive and recreational sports training it would serve in delivering “more self-esteem and confidence, motivation and a tool for the rest of their lives in a complex and complicated world”. The inspiration that cultivated from this program stimulated ski club development and cross country ski training programs in communities across the Northwest Territories.
“The TEST Program developed into a World-Class training program for Canada’s top cross-country ski athletes. NWT-born Sharon and Shirley Firth, 1972, 1976, 1980 & 1984 Canadian Olympic Cross-Country Ski athletes, were products of the TEST program. The program left a legacy that not only spreads across the Northwest Territories, but the Yukon as well.”
”Father Mouchet has been recognized locally, nationally and internationally. He was inducted in the Yukon Sports Hall of Fame in 1980, awarded the Yukon Commissioner’s Award in 1981, awarded the Chevalier de l’Ordre National due Merite in 1987 from the French Government, and was awarded the Order of Canada in 1993."
Our guide Paul said Mouchet's ashes had been scattered along this desolate hilltop overlooking Old Crow.
For the rest of the afternoon we took in the sweeping valleys where vast glaciers must have once dominated. Now these were the haunts of the caribou and grizzlies and we searched in vain for our antlered and humpbacked friends through binoculars. Paul's stories about getting lost in the fog during hunting season kept us entertained.
On the descent, we lost Reanna and Dawn once again to nature's cornucopia—by the end of their toils they had two large zip-locs full of berries and their fingertips were stained red.
The round trip took about five hours and by the time we reached the parked ATV's we were pretty bagged, even though Dawn kept picking cranberries the whole way back. On the way back down to town, it was hard not to marvel at the desolate beauty of this place.
Dispatches - 4 Shooting, Mose Stew and Little Big Man
Another eventful day. Late in the morning Tim and I received a radio-call from Reanne asking if we wanted to go shooting. Of course we did. We met with Peter Abel (the Tumbleweed) at his place on the river, then with a 25/20 rifle loaded and cocked because there had been numerous bear encounters in the area, we climbed a low but steep escarpment, followed the ridge for some ways, then cut back down to the river through willow forests to the waterfront, where we did some target practice in preparation for Tuesdays hunt upriver.
That evening at Reanna's aunt's place we enjoyed moose stew on macaroni and cheese while watching "Little Big Man" starring Dustin Hoffman and Chief Dan George. The story is of the trials and tribulations that befall a white man adopted into a Cheyenne community and General Custer's horrible slaughter of Native Americans, a bittersweet story, both humorous and tragic, and rather strange to be watching here in this remote community with new friends.
Tomorrow we would head upriver to the healing camp at T’loo K’ats….
Dispatches – 5 – T'loo K'at and Pete’s Cabin
The next day, we met Peter Abel (the Tubleweed), Dawn and Reanna down at the 'dock' where people loaded and unloaded their hunting and fishing flat-bottomed 'tin' boats. Here we retrieved life-jackets from a communal cache, and then Paul Josie of 'Josie's Old Crow Adventures' shuttled us to T'loo K'at (the ' is a glottal sound, if you're wondering), a camp for healing, equipped with cavalry-style white tents, a main gathering lodge with an antique wood stove and kitchen, outdoor firepits and benches etc. It was a wonderful facility, considering how difficult and expensive it must have been to get some of the building and furnishings there.
Rather than tarry here, Peter took us down a faint trail through the stunted willows, fireweed and grass until it opened up into a clearing, at the far end of which stood a hunting cabin with various tools and antlers nailed to the outside. This was Pete's Cabin where he planned to spend the fall. Inside it was tidy and well kept, replete with wood stove, a larder of sorts, drying racks for meat and clothing, and several homemade beds with rolled up foam mattresses. Shelves were lined with memorabilia and household items: old family photographs, a caribou hide covered Bible and cloth bookmark adorned with beadwork, kerosene lanterns and extra glass covers, an old painted Haida box (a gift from someone), lighters, old tools, handmade miniature snowshoes and more. It felt like a thoughtfully constructed display in a museum, and each item held its anointed place.
We spent the afternoon here, wiling away the daylight by exploring the shoreline for fossils and interesting stones, brewing tea and talking around a campfire. Peter looked comfortable here 'out on the land' as the Gwitch'ins call it, in 'my camp', seeming to take pleasure in the small tasks of making the fire, and fetching water from the river and brewing the tea. From here he would go on hunting excursions when the caribou arrived, which was soon, he said. They were just upriver around Driftwood Creek. We'd go hunting tomorrow.
Later, back at T'loo K'at, we were invited to share a meal of steak, fry bread, roasted potatoes and carrots. Our hosts were gracious people, and although we offered to make a donation for the food, they said all they hoped for was a thank you. After dinner, as we sipped coffee around the campfire and the camp custodian expertly chopped wood nearby, a healer led a group of Gwitch’in in various initiatives. Of late, there had been numerous deaths in the community and this was a place to share and restore.
Earlier in the day I had struck up a conversation with the healer, an aboriginal man named Vernon. He asked me where home was. When I said, "Wherever my wife is," he looked at me thoughtfully, then said in a tone that straightened me up a bit, "There are two places that you call home. Where you are born and where you plant your roots with your family." These were the words of a shaman, something I recognized from similar encounters in the Andes, the Amazon and the Himalayas. I nodded, as with such men it's best to listen, or you might miss out. Vernon's words made me reflect on the various definitions of home, and clearly, for him and for the Gwitch'in people place was sacred, like the items on Peter’s Cabin shelves. He told me about his work among various nations. "Healing starts from inside of you," he said. "And the more you heal, the more grounded you become." As someone who has had to do a lot of healing of his own, I appreciated his words.
We left T'loo K'at satiated and subdued, and the whole boat ride back to Old Crow I thought of home.
Dispatch – 6 Hunting Caribou on the Porcupine
No. We didn't get a caribou. I might as well get that out of the way.
But what an amazing trip upriver! We loaded up a rifle, food, gas and survival necessities and after a few mishaps (we didn't realize the main gas line was disconnected, we stalled, we had to go searching for life jackets…) we got under way. As with anything Peter Abel did, this wasn’t your average day excursion but a proper hunting trip. And judging by the amount of gas we had on board (about 30 gallons), we weren't going to get home before sundown.
The Porcupine is the main river in the area and a lifeline to the Gwitch'in people:
"The Porcupine River (Ch’ôonjik in Gwich’in) is a 916 km (569 mi) tributary of the Yukon River in Canada and the United States. It begins in the Ogilvie Mountains north of Dawson City, Yukon, Canada. From there it flows north through the community of Old Crow, veers southwest into the U.S. state of Alaska and enters the larger river at Fort Yukon. It derives its name from the Gwich'in word for the river, Ch'oonjik, or "Porcupine Quill River". The Porcupine caribou herd, in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR) Alaska, gets its name from the river.
"The oldest (but disputed) possible evidence of human habitation in North America was found in a cave along one of its tributaries, the Bluefish River. A large number of apparently human-modified animal bones have been discovered in the Bluefish Caves. They have been dated to 25,000 to 40,000 years old by radiocarbon dating—several thousand years earlier than generally accepted human habitation of North America." (Wikipedia)
As we meandered along the great river bows flanked by stunning fall colours, it boggled the mind to think that camps we passed like T'loo K'at (where we had spent time the previous day) had once been home to about 8,000 Gwitch'in, before the arrival of the Voyageurs. Brandon Kyikavichik at the Tizya Cultural Centre said that, based on all the archaeological and anthropological evidence he and others had seen and gathered on the land, he 'knew in his bones' that his people were part of the great Beringia migration at the end of the last ice age, perhaps the first to cross, and that because the land was so plentiful they had chosen to stay.
Like Old Crow village, the land seemed to anticipate the arrival of the caribou. Mile after mile slipped beneath the boat in relative quiet, the river banks devoid of visible animal life, except for a few ducks, one bald eagle and a kestrel. At about the 50 mile mark we put in at a fall hunting camp to top up the main gas cannister. Reanna pointed out something in the mud: fresh caribou tracks. A few animals had already crossed the river here, possibly that day.
This find lifted our spirits after long hours of bumping along in the flat-bottomed boat. But the wind out of the southwest was picking up and we knew our ride back was going to be a slow and choppy one. We'd have to turn around soon.
We passed Driftwood Creek, then on up through the Blue Bluffs. A few more hours would have taken us to the headwaters of the Porcupine, or even to the Eagle River that eventually passed beneath the Dempster Highway.
While we scanned the shoreline for signs of life, we began to notice something else. In many places appeared huge gashes in the land, and where moving water normally would have been trying to undercut the land, instead great slicks of mud snaked down perpendicular to the shore into the water. Later, I'd find out from folks at the John Tizya Centre that these gashes had started to appear more frequently over the years with melting permafrost. First the trees began to list as their roots became loose in the normally frozen soil, looking like legions of drunken sentinels, the lakes in Old Crow Flats seemed to be draining as the water table shifted, and because the land was changing, migratory patterns of caribou had changed, and all this was having a profound impact on the seasonal existence of the Gwitch'in.
It was perhaps why, when Peter realized he had left his rifle back at the hunting camp, it was such a profound disappointment. This was the first time in years that the caribou were passing this close to Old Crow. Now, the hunt was effectively over. We puttered along for another mile or two, then, without saying a word, Peter swung the nose of the boat around.
By the time we got back to the camp, the wind was tossing up two-foot waves that splashed us at intervals. We were glad to get off the water.
While our spirits were dampened by the lack of caribou, at camp we started a fire in the meat-curing hut, roasting smokies, potatoes and carrots for dinner and brewing a black tea. We ate our makeshift dinner seated on the grass on the bank overlooking the tossing river. Peter had stationed himself on a log with an uninterrupted view of the far shore, gun leaning nearby. He scanned the far bank with patient, hopeful eyes, while we finished eating then began to nose about camp.
The camp consisted of a white tent with doors open and flapping (to let curious bears in, Peter said). There were the smoke hut and a small insulated log cabin for winter use, a couple of firepits, and outdoor iron stove and a rickety homemade table with the large shoulder blade of a moose—a contraption Peter demonstrated was used to call moose by scraping the bone on a piece of wood. It sounded uncannily like a deep throaty summons. "Careful, 'cuz you'll call a moose," Peter said. We couldn't tell if he was joking.
Sometime later, Peter said, "It's going to be rough going back." I sensed Peter wanted to spend the night and said as much to Tim. Peter was muttering about how we hadn't brought sleeping bags. It was 7pm. 50 miles lay between us and Old Crow.
Dawn helped turn the tables. "We better get going if we're going to get there before dark and the rain."
Quietly, I wanted to stay at this forlorn windy outpost on the Porcupine River in the vast Arctic wasteland.
While the land was vast and seemingly 'untouched', I started to construct in my mind just how much the Gwitch'in must have moved around in earlier days: they would have spent most of their lives crossing the flats to harvest muskrat furs, killing the odd moose, corralling the caribou with their ingenious fence traps. The Gwitch'in would have changed hunting techniques and diet with the season. For example, in the fall they would have been picking berries, rhubarb, mushrooms and Labrador tea for brewing; while during other seasons they'd be on the flats killing moose, snaring as many caribou as they could as the herds passed through, or fishing.
In those days, most people would have lived a semi-nomadic life. Nowadays, the people, although still closely tied to the land, stuck to the river edges or to ATV tracks across the tundra. Trapping muskrat had fallen out of vogue, although there were a few hardcore trappers still working the winter lines. But many preferred to go after fox, wolf, wolverine, ermine and beaver which seemed more popular at the occasional sustainable goods fairs in Whitehorse and elsewhere.
Then there were the words of a young Gwitch'in-man-turned actor, now starting his own prospecting business: "Why would I go out there chasing after furs when I can make it big in gold?" He was quick to add that being out on the land was important to holding onto one's culture.
All of these things bumped about in my mind as we made the butt-taxing trip back to Old Crow. When T'loo K'ats camp teetered into view we cut over an especially rough patch of water and a few folks on shore first checked to see if we had any caribou, then stared at us, bewildered that we were coming down so late in the day in such conditions. It was getting close to 10pm.
Although Peter was a man of few words, as we rounded the final bend and Old Crow came into view, in a rare display of affection he reached over and put an arm around his daughter Reanna sitting next to him. At that moment, it felt as if a new chapter had begun.
Rears sore, we finally ground ashore. In 100 miles of river travel we hadn't seen a solitary caribou, but we'd felt them nearby, seen their tracks in the mud. Peter even said he thought he could smell them. Their invisible presence had camped in our souls.
Final Dispatch - Farewell to Old Crow
We found a stranger in our cabin upon our return to the Ch'oodenjik Guest House that night. His name was Rene, a Swiss helicopter pilot. While we were battling the gusts on the river the previous day, Rene had flown from Inuvik in his Bell Long Ranger, equipped with pontoons so it could land on water, through some of the most treacherous weather he'd seen in a long time.
"I was honestly scared for my life a few times," he said. "Those damned pontoons catch the wind like crazy." This from a veteran Arctic pilot. He'd come to assist our other cabin-mate, Ian McDonald, from Parks Canada, to take water and algae samples in Old Crow Flats, a region just northeast of us. McDonald said in essence his research was trying to ascertain whether lake levels were being affected by the predictable rise and fall of aquifers or because of degrading permafrost. Earth & Space News puts it this way:
"When a network of lakes is connected to the same groundwater source, like an aquifer, the lakes are drained and replenished at the same rate. When lakes are underlain by permafrost, they rise and fall independently, largely disconnected from any central system.
"Thus, monitoring lake levels over time by air or by satellite [or ground, in this case], tracking which ones started out being independent and then shifted toward fluctuating in concert with neighboring lakes, may help decipher whether permafrost underlying a given lake is degrading, ...."
The next day Tim and I lay low until the afternoon when we had an interview at the John Tizya Centre. Meanwhile, Reanna and Dawn attended a headstone laying ceremony for an aunt who had recently passed. The honouring of ancestors is still strong among the Gwitch'in. But of late there seemed to have been a spate of deaths including the suicide of a teen that deeply affected the community. In fact, the gathering at T'loo K'at camp was especially for those seeking restoration, as the presence of the healer-shaman indicated.
At the cultural centre we interviewed Mary Jane Moses, a filmmaker whose films about Gwitch'in culture have been internationally recognized. It was bittersweet to hear the mixture of pride and concern for her people. Her goal as a filmmaker, she said, was not to seek distribution, but to preserve traditions for the next generation. Of residential school she declined to speak, but she did mention that she had found extraordinary healing through community, and that each year she felt stronger. She had especially found new strength through her documentary work. (For a sample of her work, look up The Man Who Always Lives in the Bush).
On our last day, Tim and I went for a brisk walk around the airstrip (that was long enough to land military conveyors) to see some of the new homes that had been put in next to a partly-constructed solar farm. The neatly laid out homes north of the airport felt like a different town entirely, all buildings sitting on carefully levelled blocks on solid pads of crushed stone taken from the quarry. Most looked new. Chief Dana Tizya had serious plans for Old Crow.
According to Yukon News (August 21, 2019), the Gwitch'in leader said that he wanted the town to be carbon neutral by 2030, claiming that "...roughly 1.5 million litres of fossil fuel (diesel, gasoline and aviation fuel) are used in Old Crow each year to provide electricity, heat and transportation, generating greenhouse gases and contributing to climate change." To this ambitious end, the solar plant was being installed, new power lines put in (Reanna's cousin Marlin, who we called 'The Wizard' was working on the forest and brush-clearing for this). The Chief said the Vuntut Gwitchin were also considering wind power, biomass and using remote controlled blimps to transport supplies instead of airplanes and helicopters. (For more information on this read ‘Vuntut Gwitch'in First Nation Wants to be Carbon Neutral by 2030’.)
Later in the day, Brandon Kyikavichik led a superb interpreted tour of the John Tizya Cultural Centre. This unparalleled overview of the Gwitch'in people took us on a journey from the suggested origins of his people, to the myths, legends, archaeological and paleontological discoveries, hunting techniques, and notable figures like journalist Edith Josie, a long-time columnist for the Whitehorse star. In a closing interview, Brandon left us with a sobering Gwitch'in prophecy:
"We will be living in hard times. A lot of people are going to die. And most of the animals will die off, too."
We told Brandon that his words, his voice carried incredible weight. That he should take his message beyond Old Crow. He smiled and said he'd been told that before. He wanted to do something about it.
That evening, we were all invited to share a meal at the Charlie house. Upon our arrival, we found the place crowded with guests: the healer-shaman Vernon was there, Reanna's uncle Lawrence, a Japanese outdoor photographer Atsushi Sugimoto who we'd met at the cultural centre, a field researcher from Parks Canada, and many other guests and family members. We were deeply touched by the Charlie family's hospitality. They made it seem simple, happy protocol to invite all those in town who could join them.
With our bellies stuffed with potato salad, grilled salmon, moose steak and dessert, we said our goodbyes and made to leave. Outside a few people were smoking. Among them was Uncle Lawrence who said that if we wanted tattoos, he was willing to do them. Two hours later, Reanna, Dawn and I found ourselves receiving what would become the symbols of our time among the Gwitch'in: tattoos of caribou hoofprints. As Uncle Lawrence worked the needle Iron Maiden blared from a Bluetooth speaker. Tim did the filming. It was epic.
On the morning of August 30th, we hauled our gear to the airport. The flight had been delayed due to poor weather in Dawson City, so we spent an hour walking the banks of the Porcupine River. When the time came for our flight to leave, Reanna's entire clan came out to say their goodbyes. We couldn't have received a better send off. Just before boarding, I sat next to 'The Tumbleweed', Peter Abel. He said with a smile, "Now that you've been here once, you'll have to come back."
As we buckled into our seats, each of us seemed lost in his or her own thoughts. Mine had turned to how I was going to convince my wife, Tanya, to fly to Old Crow with me mid-winter for a dog-sled tour beneath the Northern Lights.
Incredible journey north and day of meeting people in this small community. Old Crow has been extremely welcoming and Reanna’s father Peter (the tumbleweed ) has been a gracious host! Tomorrow we climb Mt. Crow.
Dispatches - 2 Old Crow, Yukon
PS. Pink area on map depicts current location of the Porcupine Caribou Herd.
Greetings from north of 66 degrees.
What a journey so far. On August 22nd, we left Kelowna for Whitehorse, where we were warmly greeted by Reanna Huston's relatives, who shuttled us to the SKKY hotel where we overnighted.
The next morning, we arrived at the airport, only to find out that fog in Dawson City had delayed our flight. We found a small sitting lounge and crashed for a bit until our flight was called. Because of the fog, the plan was to fly direct to Old Crow (then on to Inuvik). Perhaps what struck us most was that there was NO security getting onto the twin-prop ATR conveyor. Just climb on in! It was easy to identify the Old Crow travelers: most had been shopping 'down south' and were encumbered with the necessities for their remote lifestyle.
The flight took us over spectacular scenery. Heading northwest from Whitehorse, you fly over white-capped peaks until you get to the dryer peaks of the Ni'iinlii Njik (Fishing Branch Territorial Park), then cross over what is the beginning of Old Crow Flats, where the Gwitchin people do most of their hunting and muskrat and other trapping.
We landed on a gravel runway and at the airport (practical grey wooden building), we were met by Reanna's father Peter Abel who took us to our modest accommodations. We'll never forget that short ride: the evidence of the community's connection to the land is everywhere. The front of many homes are adorned with caribou antlers and great moose racks, the prowess of many hunting excursions. The town is a mixture of old log cabins (some are traditional caches once used to store meat, fish and fur supplies) and newer homes built on raised blocks, to accommodate melting permafrost beneath (climate change is real up here, folks). Here and there we spotted dog sled teams chained to their kennels. Generally, people got around on 'four-wheelers' (ATVs). On top of most homes sat one or two crows or ravens, and we spotted a bald eagle atop a power pole (some folk discard their caribou scraps for the awaiting carrion birds and local dogs).
That day we were given a tour of Old Crow Village, visiting the administrative building, the Co-op store (12 cans of Pepsi were $34.99!), and the fascinating John Tizya Centre, the hub of Yukon Gwitchin culture, where we met filmmaker Mary Jane Moses, caribou and renewable resources expert Jason Von Fleet, and the Heritage Manager Megan Williams, who informed us that our research proposal had been granted (we now had carte blanche to film in the village and surrounding areas!). Peter Abel gave us an excellent overview of all the fishing and hunting camps belonging to the people on a superbly laid out relief map. We were surprised to find on display mastodon teeth and human relics dating back up to 7,000 years.
Jason Von Fleet showed us on an app where the Porcupine Caribou herd was currently feeding just to the east of Old Crow. He said we may or may not see a few before we depart, especially since last year they have been observing a more traditional pattern of movement. In fact, at the airport, we met Johnny, who had just harvested a caribou 30 miles upstream.
After the tour we joined folks at the Old Crow Youth Centre for a barbecue and to 'talk story'. It was a long, wonderful day.
More tonight!
Dispatches – 3 – Climbing Crow Mountain
The wind blew all that first night, a wild lullaby. In the morning, we were awoken by the sound of ravens landing on the roof and complaining loudly to one another with croaky epithets. Breakfast was instant oatmeal for Tim and I; the girls a few country blocks away were eating scrambled eggs and toast.
At 11am, Peter Abel picked us up on a four-wheeler and shuttled us to the house of Paul Dhoele, the IT guru of Old Crow. The seasoned Arctic warrior and his friend Bryan were our guides that day. We rode two ATV's (one pulling a trailer with our gear) the five kilometers up towards the community-owned quarry, parked then literally headed due west cross-country over the low taiga. It was a decent incline from the get-go, and the vastness of the place had us speaking in awe-struck voices.
The Porcupine and Crow River valleys soon spread out below us and we could see for perhaps 100 miles. Beneath our feet was a brilliant patchwork of reds, yellows and lichen greens, with the occasional splash of purple, a hearty fall bloom.
And then the girls discovered the berries.
It was hard to get Reanna and Dawn to keep moving, they were so enraptured by the sheer bounty at their fingertips. Wild blueberries and cranberries dominated the hillside, and the rest of us had to content ourselves with eating a few berries and inspecting the caribou remains scattered here and there—some from hunting, some from natural causes.
It was a wind torn slog to the top of the mountain, at 2500 feet. On these rocky barrens we came across inukshuks and other way markers hunters used in times of white-out. We also paid tribute to a tumble of caribou antlers and a wooden cross, a makeshift memorial to the later Father Mouchet. His is an interesting story. Sprotsnorth.com paints a nice tribute:
"Father Mouchet played an instrumental role introducing the sport of cross country skiing to the North in the 1950s and beyond. Father Mouchet was an Oblate priest who came to Northern Canada in 1946, from his hometown of Malbuisson, France. He was initially posted in Telegraph Creek, BC, but then was posted to Old Crow, Inuvik, Whitehorse and Ross River.
”While living in Inuvik, Father Mouchet founded the Territorial Experimental Ski Training (TEST) Program. This program was supported by the NWT Government to develop an outdoor education program in Inuvik. The TEST program grew to include many Northern communities, including the home base of the program in Old Crow, Yukon. It was Father Mouchet’s hope that providing the community with competitive and recreational sports training it would serve in delivering “more self-esteem and confidence, motivation and a tool for the rest of their lives in a complex and complicated world”. The inspiration that cultivated from this program stimulated ski club development and cross country ski training programs in communities across the Northwest Territories.
“The TEST Program developed into a World-Class training program for Canada’s top cross-country ski athletes. NWT-born Sharon and Shirley Firth, 1972, 1976, 1980 & 1984 Canadian Olympic Cross-Country Ski athletes, were products of the TEST program. The program left a legacy that not only spreads across the Northwest Territories, but the Yukon as well.”
”Father Mouchet has been recognized locally, nationally and internationally. He was inducted in the Yukon Sports Hall of Fame in 1980, awarded the Yukon Commissioner’s Award in 1981, awarded the Chevalier de l’Ordre National due Merite in 1987 from the French Government, and was awarded the Order of Canada in 1993."
Our guide Paul said Mouchet's ashes had been scattered along this desolate hilltop overlooking Old Crow.
For the rest of the afternoon we took in the sweeping valleys where vast glaciers must have once dominated. Now these were the haunts of the caribou and grizzlies and we searched in vain for our antlered and humpbacked friends through binoculars. Paul's stories about getting lost in the fog during hunting season kept us entertained.
On the descent, we lost Reanna and Dawn once again to nature's cornucopia—by the end of their toils they had two large zip-locs full of berries and their fingertips were stained red.
The round trip took about five hours and by the time we reached the parked ATV's we were pretty bagged, even though Dawn kept picking cranberries the whole way back. On the way back down to town, it was hard not to marvel at the desolate beauty of this place.
Dispatches - 4 Shooting, Mose Stew and Little Big Man
Another eventful day. Late in the morning Tim and I received a radio-call from Reanne asking if we wanted to go shooting. Of course we did. We met with Peter Abel (the Tumbleweed) at his place on the river, then with a 25/20 rifle loaded and cocked because there had been numerous bear encounters in the area, we climbed a low but steep escarpment, followed the ridge for some ways, then cut back down to the river through willow forests to the waterfront, where we did some target practice in preparation for Tuesdays hunt upriver.
That evening at Reanna's aunt's place we enjoyed moose stew on macaroni and cheese while watching "Little Big Man" starring Dustin Hoffman and Chief Dan George. The story is of the trials and tribulations that befall a white man adopted into a Cheyenne community and General Custer's horrible slaughter of Native Americans, a bittersweet story, both humorous and tragic, and rather strange to be watching here in this remote community with new friends.
Tomorrow we would head upriver to the healing camp at T’loo K’ats….
Dispatches – 5 – T'loo K'at and Pete’s Cabin
The next day, we met Peter Abel (the Tubleweed), Dawn and Reanna down at the 'dock' where people loaded and unloaded their hunting and fishing flat-bottomed 'tin' boats. Here we retrieved life-jackets from a communal cache, and then Paul Josie of 'Josie's Old Crow Adventures' shuttled us to T'loo K'at (the ' is a glottal sound, if you're wondering), a camp for healing, equipped with cavalry-style white tents, a main gathering lodge with an antique wood stove and kitchen, outdoor firepits and benches etc. It was a wonderful facility, considering how difficult and expensive it must have been to get some of the building and furnishings there.
Rather than tarry here, Peter took us down a faint trail through the stunted willows, fireweed and grass until it opened up into a clearing, at the far end of which stood a hunting cabin with various tools and antlers nailed to the outside. This was Pete's Cabin where he planned to spend the fall. Inside it was tidy and well kept, replete with wood stove, a larder of sorts, drying racks for meat and clothing, and several homemade beds with rolled up foam mattresses. Shelves were lined with memorabilia and household items: old family photographs, a caribou hide covered Bible and cloth bookmark adorned with beadwork, kerosene lanterns and extra glass covers, an old painted Haida box (a gift from someone), lighters, old tools, handmade miniature snowshoes and more. It felt like a thoughtfully constructed display in a museum, and each item held its anointed place.
We spent the afternoon here, wiling away the daylight by exploring the shoreline for fossils and interesting stones, brewing tea and talking around a campfire. Peter looked comfortable here 'out on the land' as the Gwitch'ins call it, in 'my camp', seeming to take pleasure in the small tasks of making the fire, and fetching water from the river and brewing the tea. From here he would go on hunting excursions when the caribou arrived, which was soon, he said. They were just upriver around Driftwood Creek. We'd go hunting tomorrow.
Later, back at T'loo K'at, we were invited to share a meal of steak, fry bread, roasted potatoes and carrots. Our hosts were gracious people, and although we offered to make a donation for the food, they said all they hoped for was a thank you. After dinner, as we sipped coffee around the campfire and the camp custodian expertly chopped wood nearby, a healer led a group of Gwitch’in in various initiatives. Of late, there had been numerous deaths in the community and this was a place to share and restore.
Earlier in the day I had struck up a conversation with the healer, an aboriginal man named Vernon. He asked me where home was. When I said, "Wherever my wife is," he looked at me thoughtfully, then said in a tone that straightened me up a bit, "There are two places that you call home. Where you are born and where you plant your roots with your family." These were the words of a shaman, something I recognized from similar encounters in the Andes, the Amazon and the Himalayas. I nodded, as with such men it's best to listen, or you might miss out. Vernon's words made me reflect on the various definitions of home, and clearly, for him and for the Gwitch'in people place was sacred, like the items on Peter’s Cabin shelves. He told me about his work among various nations. "Healing starts from inside of you," he said. "And the more you heal, the more grounded you become." As someone who has had to do a lot of healing of his own, I appreciated his words.
We left T'loo K'at satiated and subdued, and the whole boat ride back to Old Crow I thought of home.
Dispatch – 6 Hunting Caribou on the Porcupine
No. We didn't get a caribou. I might as well get that out of the way.
But what an amazing trip upriver! We loaded up a rifle, food, gas and survival necessities and after a few mishaps (we didn't realize the main gas line was disconnected, we stalled, we had to go searching for life jackets…) we got under way. As with anything Peter Abel did, this wasn’t your average day excursion but a proper hunting trip. And judging by the amount of gas we had on board (about 30 gallons), we weren't going to get home before sundown.
The Porcupine is the main river in the area and a lifeline to the Gwitch'in people:
"The Porcupine River (Ch’ôonjik in Gwich’in) is a 916 km (569 mi) tributary of the Yukon River in Canada and the United States. It begins in the Ogilvie Mountains north of Dawson City, Yukon, Canada. From there it flows north through the community of Old Crow, veers southwest into the U.S. state of Alaska and enters the larger river at Fort Yukon. It derives its name from the Gwich'in word for the river, Ch'oonjik, or "Porcupine Quill River". The Porcupine caribou herd, in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR) Alaska, gets its name from the river.
"The oldest (but disputed) possible evidence of human habitation in North America was found in a cave along one of its tributaries, the Bluefish River. A large number of apparently human-modified animal bones have been discovered in the Bluefish Caves. They have been dated to 25,000 to 40,000 years old by radiocarbon dating—several thousand years earlier than generally accepted human habitation of North America." (Wikipedia)
As we meandered along the great river bows flanked by stunning fall colours, it boggled the mind to think that camps we passed like T'loo K'at (where we had spent time the previous day) had once been home to about 8,000 Gwitch'in, before the arrival of the Voyageurs. Brandon Kyikavichik at the Tizya Cultural Centre said that, based on all the archaeological and anthropological evidence he and others had seen and gathered on the land, he 'knew in his bones' that his people were part of the great Beringia migration at the end of the last ice age, perhaps the first to cross, and that because the land was so plentiful they had chosen to stay.
Like Old Crow village, the land seemed to anticipate the arrival of the caribou. Mile after mile slipped beneath the boat in relative quiet, the river banks devoid of visible animal life, except for a few ducks, one bald eagle and a kestrel. At about the 50 mile mark we put in at a fall hunting camp to top up the main gas cannister. Reanna pointed out something in the mud: fresh caribou tracks. A few animals had already crossed the river here, possibly that day.
This find lifted our spirits after long hours of bumping along in the flat-bottomed boat. But the wind out of the southwest was picking up and we knew our ride back was going to be a slow and choppy one. We'd have to turn around soon.
We passed Driftwood Creek, then on up through the Blue Bluffs. A few more hours would have taken us to the headwaters of the Porcupine, or even to the Eagle River that eventually passed beneath the Dempster Highway.
While we scanned the shoreline for signs of life, we began to notice something else. In many places appeared huge gashes in the land, and where moving water normally would have been trying to undercut the land, instead great slicks of mud snaked down perpendicular to the shore into the water. Later, I'd find out from folks at the John Tizya Centre that these gashes had started to appear more frequently over the years with melting permafrost. First the trees began to list as their roots became loose in the normally frozen soil, looking like legions of drunken sentinels, the lakes in Old Crow Flats seemed to be draining as the water table shifted, and because the land was changing, migratory patterns of caribou had changed, and all this was having a profound impact on the seasonal existence of the Gwitch'in.
It was perhaps why, when Peter realized he had left his rifle back at the hunting camp, it was such a profound disappointment. This was the first time in years that the caribou were passing this close to Old Crow. Now, the hunt was effectively over. We puttered along for another mile or two, then, without saying a word, Peter swung the nose of the boat around.
By the time we got back to the camp, the wind was tossing up two-foot waves that splashed us at intervals. We were glad to get off the water.
While our spirits were dampened by the lack of caribou, at camp we started a fire in the meat-curing hut, roasting smokies, potatoes and carrots for dinner and brewing a black tea. We ate our makeshift dinner seated on the grass on the bank overlooking the tossing river. Peter had stationed himself on a log with an uninterrupted view of the far shore, gun leaning nearby. He scanned the far bank with patient, hopeful eyes, while we finished eating then began to nose about camp.
The camp consisted of a white tent with doors open and flapping (to let curious bears in, Peter said). There were the smoke hut and a small insulated log cabin for winter use, a couple of firepits, and outdoor iron stove and a rickety homemade table with the large shoulder blade of a moose—a contraption Peter demonstrated was used to call moose by scraping the bone on a piece of wood. It sounded uncannily like a deep throaty summons. "Careful, 'cuz you'll call a moose," Peter said. We couldn't tell if he was joking.
Sometime later, Peter said, "It's going to be rough going back." I sensed Peter wanted to spend the night and said as much to Tim. Peter was muttering about how we hadn't brought sleeping bags. It was 7pm. 50 miles lay between us and Old Crow.
Dawn helped turn the tables. "We better get going if we're going to get there before dark and the rain."
Quietly, I wanted to stay at this forlorn windy outpost on the Porcupine River in the vast Arctic wasteland.
While the land was vast and seemingly 'untouched', I started to construct in my mind just how much the Gwitch'in must have moved around in earlier days: they would have spent most of their lives crossing the flats to harvest muskrat furs, killing the odd moose, corralling the caribou with their ingenious fence traps. The Gwitch'in would have changed hunting techniques and diet with the season. For example, in the fall they would have been picking berries, rhubarb, mushrooms and Labrador tea for brewing; while during other seasons they'd be on the flats killing moose, snaring as many caribou as they could as the herds passed through, or fishing.
In those days, most people would have lived a semi-nomadic life. Nowadays, the people, although still closely tied to the land, stuck to the river edges or to ATV tracks across the tundra. Trapping muskrat had fallen out of vogue, although there were a few hardcore trappers still working the winter lines. But many preferred to go after fox, wolf, wolverine, ermine and beaver which seemed more popular at the occasional sustainable goods fairs in Whitehorse and elsewhere.
Then there were the words of a young Gwitch'in-man-turned actor, now starting his own prospecting business: "Why would I go out there chasing after furs when I can make it big in gold?" He was quick to add that being out on the land was important to holding onto one's culture.
All of these things bumped about in my mind as we made the butt-taxing trip back to Old Crow. When T'loo K'ats camp teetered into view we cut over an especially rough patch of water and a few folks on shore first checked to see if we had any caribou, then stared at us, bewildered that we were coming down so late in the day in such conditions. It was getting close to 10pm.
Although Peter was a man of few words, as we rounded the final bend and Old Crow came into view, in a rare display of affection he reached over and put an arm around his daughter Reanna sitting next to him. At that moment, it felt as if a new chapter had begun.
Rears sore, we finally ground ashore. In 100 miles of river travel we hadn't seen a solitary caribou, but we'd felt them nearby, seen their tracks in the mud. Peter even said he thought he could smell them. Their invisible presence had camped in our souls.
Final Dispatch - Farewell to Old Crow
We found a stranger in our cabin upon our return to the Ch'oodenjik Guest House that night. His name was Rene, a Swiss helicopter pilot. While we were battling the gusts on the river the previous day, Rene had flown from Inuvik in his Bell Long Ranger, equipped with pontoons so it could land on water, through some of the most treacherous weather he'd seen in a long time.
"I was honestly scared for my life a few times," he said. "Those damned pontoons catch the wind like crazy." This from a veteran Arctic pilot. He'd come to assist our other cabin-mate, Ian McDonald, from Parks Canada, to take water and algae samples in Old Crow Flats, a region just northeast of us. McDonald said in essence his research was trying to ascertain whether lake levels were being affected by the predictable rise and fall of aquifers or because of degrading permafrost. Earth & Space News puts it this way:
"When a network of lakes is connected to the same groundwater source, like an aquifer, the lakes are drained and replenished at the same rate. When lakes are underlain by permafrost, they rise and fall independently, largely disconnected from any central system.
"Thus, monitoring lake levels over time by air or by satellite [or ground, in this case], tracking which ones started out being independent and then shifted toward fluctuating in concert with neighboring lakes, may help decipher whether permafrost underlying a given lake is degrading, ...."
The next day Tim and I lay low until the afternoon when we had an interview at the John Tizya Centre. Meanwhile, Reanna and Dawn attended a headstone laying ceremony for an aunt who had recently passed. The honouring of ancestors is still strong among the Gwitch'in. But of late there seemed to have been a spate of deaths including the suicide of a teen that deeply affected the community. In fact, the gathering at T'loo K'at camp was especially for those seeking restoration, as the presence of the healer-shaman indicated.
At the cultural centre we interviewed Mary Jane Moses, a filmmaker whose films about Gwitch'in culture have been internationally recognized. It was bittersweet to hear the mixture of pride and concern for her people. Her goal as a filmmaker, she said, was not to seek distribution, but to preserve traditions for the next generation. Of residential school she declined to speak, but she did mention that she had found extraordinary healing through community, and that each year she felt stronger. She had especially found new strength through her documentary work. (For a sample of her work, look up The Man Who Always Lives in the Bush).
On our last day, Tim and I went for a brisk walk around the airstrip (that was long enough to land military conveyors) to see some of the new homes that had been put in next to a partly-constructed solar farm. The neatly laid out homes north of the airport felt like a different town entirely, all buildings sitting on carefully levelled blocks on solid pads of crushed stone taken from the quarry. Most looked new. Chief Dana Tizya had serious plans for Old Crow.
According to Yukon News (August 21, 2019), the Gwitch'in leader said that he wanted the town to be carbon neutral by 2030, claiming that "...roughly 1.5 million litres of fossil fuel (diesel, gasoline and aviation fuel) are used in Old Crow each year to provide electricity, heat and transportation, generating greenhouse gases and contributing to climate change." To this ambitious end, the solar plant was being installed, new power lines put in (Reanna's cousin Marlin, who we called 'The Wizard' was working on the forest and brush-clearing for this). The Chief said the Vuntut Gwitchin were also considering wind power, biomass and using remote controlled blimps to transport supplies instead of airplanes and helicopters. (For more information on this read ‘Vuntut Gwitch'in First Nation Wants to be Carbon Neutral by 2030’.)
Later in the day, Brandon Kyikavichik led a superb interpreted tour of the John Tizya Cultural Centre. This unparalleled overview of the Gwitch'in people took us on a journey from the suggested origins of his people, to the myths, legends, archaeological and paleontological discoveries, hunting techniques, and notable figures like journalist Edith Josie, a long-time columnist for the Whitehorse star. In a closing interview, Brandon left us with a sobering Gwitch'in prophecy:
"We will be living in hard times. A lot of people are going to die. And most of the animals will die off, too."
We told Brandon that his words, his voice carried incredible weight. That he should take his message beyond Old Crow. He smiled and said he'd been told that before. He wanted to do something about it.
That evening, we were all invited to share a meal at the Charlie house. Upon our arrival, we found the place crowded with guests: the healer-shaman Vernon was there, Reanna's uncle Lawrence, a Japanese outdoor photographer Atsushi Sugimoto who we'd met at the cultural centre, a field researcher from Parks Canada, and many other guests and family members. We were deeply touched by the Charlie family's hospitality. They made it seem simple, happy protocol to invite all those in town who could join them.
With our bellies stuffed with potato salad, grilled salmon, moose steak and dessert, we said our goodbyes and made to leave. Outside a few people were smoking. Among them was Uncle Lawrence who said that if we wanted tattoos, he was willing to do them. Two hours later, Reanna, Dawn and I found ourselves receiving what would become the symbols of our time among the Gwitch'in: tattoos of caribou hoofprints. As Uncle Lawrence worked the needle Iron Maiden blared from a Bluetooth speaker. Tim did the filming. It was epic.
On the morning of August 30th, we hauled our gear to the airport. The flight had been delayed due to poor weather in Dawson City, so we spent an hour walking the banks of the Porcupine River. When the time came for our flight to leave, Reanna's entire clan came out to say their goodbyes. We couldn't have received a better send off. Just before boarding, I sat next to 'The Tumbleweed', Peter Abel. He said with a smile, "Now that you've been here once, you'll have to come back."
As we buckled into our seats, each of us seemed lost in his or her own thoughts. Mine had turned to how I was going to convince my wife, Tanya, to fly to Old Crow with me mid-winter for a dog-sled tour beneath the Northern Lights.