Alone Against the North (21 page)

Still, such stories were cause for reflection, and I knew more than a few individuals—aboriginal elders, hunters who had spent a great deal of time in the wilderness, and even a couple of mavericks with PhDs in zoology—who doggedly insisted that the sasquatch was a real animal in the flesh, surviving unknown to science in pockets of unexplored wilderness.

AFTER FINISHING MY RESEARCH
on petroglyph sites in southern British Columbia, I decided to head north to the Great Bear Rainforest, the earth's largest temperate rainforest, which cloaks the islands and mountains of the northern Pacific coast up to the
Alaskan panhandle in a mantle of old-growth forest. Concealed within this mist-shrouded landscape are more than just weathered totem poles and mysterious stone carvings. Lurking in the forests are mountain lions, wolves, the world's densest concentration of grizzly bears, and the otherworldly Kermode or “spirit” bear, a rare subspecies of black bear with snow-white fur. A four-hundred-kilometre flight north of Vancouver would bring me to the isolated aboriginal settlement of Bella Coola, home to some six-hundred members of the Nuxalk First Nation. The community is situated in the heart of the Great Bear Rainforest and is the site of ancient petroglyphs. On this trip, I would go back to basics: no gun, no bear spray, no GPS, no satellite phone, just myself alone in the mountains with a knife and the bare essentials.

From the airplane window I gazed down on endless mountains capped in eternal snow. Some of these peaks had never been scaled, and no one could know how many unexplored caves remained hidden in the mountain fastness. After miles of snow and ice, a narrow ribbon of greenery loomed into view—it was our destination, the valley of the Bella Coola River, enclosed by towering mountains on either side. Stepping onto the airstrip I surveyed my surroundings. To the west lay the lush temperate rainforest of the Pacific coastline, to the north, east, and south were mountains beyond counting. Just across the tarmac I could see the swirling waters of the Bella Coola River, the very river Sir Alexander Mackenzie paddled on the final leg of his epic crossing of North America in 1793. Downstream of where I stood, Mackenzie reached tidewater on the Pacific Ocean, becoming the first explorer to cross the continent north of Mexico, beating
Lewis and Clark by thirteen years. The wilderness here had changed little in the more than two hundred years since his journey.

I hiked into Bella Coola along the road winding through the narrow valley. First, I would make arrangements with a local guide to visit the known petroglyph sites, as it was prohibited for outsiders to visit these sacred sites without a Nuxalk guide. Then, I planned to head into the mountains to seek the unknown.

I was not the first explorer attracted to the valley's mysterious stone carvings. Before he won fame for his Kon-Tiki expedition across the Pacific, the Norwegian explorer Thor Heyerdahl had come to Bella Coola in the 1940s to examine petroglyphs. Heyerdahl was convinced that the carvings were linked to ones he had seen in the distant South Pacific, considering them as evidence for his theory that people in the Americas had colonized Polynesia thousands of years ago. In town, when my interest in petroglyphs became known, I was shown black-and-white photographs proudly kept in old family albums of Heyerdahl in Bella Coola as a young man.

My guide was a Nuxalk man in his twenties named Nils. We met the following morning on the outskirts of town. Nils drove us in an old pickup truck to a small stream named Thorsen Creek, where we set off on foot up a meandering mountain trail. Climbing steadily, we passed over smooth boulders and carpets of green moss and beneath towering hemlocks, cedars, and firs. Along the trail grew skunk cabbage and devil's club—an aptly named large shrub whose sharp spines produce a painful rash when brushed against. To our left was a steep ravine, at the bottom of which roared the clear waters of Thorsen Creek as it
tumbled out of the mountains on its way to the Bella Coola River. The mosquitoes were surprisingly thick, considering that it was only mid-April.

“Just a bit farther,” said Nils as he led the way along the steep trail. I could hear the roar of falling water ahead—a small waterfall ran down the side of the gorge into Thorsen Creek far below us.

“Beautiful,” I said, pausing to inspect the fall. I dashed over a boulder to stand on the edge of the precipice, then lay on my chest to hang over the side and photograph the waterfall.

“You're crazy!” cried Nils.

I glanced over my shoulder to see Nils staring open-mouthed at me perched on the cliff edge. “What? Are you afraid of heights?” I said puzzled.

Nils nodded, seeming to see me in a whole new light.

“Oh, I didn't realize … anyway, are the petroglyphs near here?”

“Yeah, this way.”

The first of the petroglyphs were simple circles engraved in sandstone outcrops. Beyond them, on other large sandstone slabs and boulders were snarling faces, stylized birds, frogs, owls, mountain lions, mythical beasts, grotesque shapes, and indecipherable designs. The carvings formed a sort of mural—vaguely sinister looking—and are believed to have been used in secret, shamanic rituals for thousands of years.

“This is a sacred site, and in the old days if a white man was found here, he'd be kissing his life goodbye,” explained Nils.

I nodded, “I see.”

The oldest petroglyphs at this site are believed to be about three thousand years old, making them about as old as the Trojan War or Egypt's New Kingdom. Nils, however, pointed out one
carving that dated to the nineteenth century, which was engraved using a steel tool rather than stone. I carefully photographed each carving.

“Are there any petroglyphs that depict sasquatch?”

“Sasquatch?” Nils looked at me blankly for a moment. “Yeah, that one does,” he said, pointing to a hideous, snarling face etched in weathered sandstone.

I inspected it closely and photographed it. “Do you know anyone who has ever claimed to see a sasquatch?”

Nils nodded, “My grandfather has seen them. Lots of people have.”

“What do they look like?”

“Like people, only with more hair.”

“Where do they live?”

“High up in the mountains,” said Nils. “In places humans can't get to. In caves on steep cliffs and on glaciers.”

“Anywhere around here?”

Nils nodded, “Yeah, come here.” He motioned for me to step closer to the edge of the ravine, where the trees opened up enough to allow for a view of the encircling mountains. “You see that big mountain over there?”

I nodded.

“No one goes up that mountain. Sasquatch live up there.”

This revelation struck me as keenly interesting, and I at once began to brood over the idea of hiking up the mountain Nils had pointed out. I had no alpine gear with me, but I could explore the forested slopes at least as far as the snowline. As we returned down the trail, I continued to ponder the petroglyphs and ask Nils about local legends.

After a few days milling around Bella Coola, investigating more rock carvings and archaeological sites, I made arrangements with a wildlife lodge operator to drive me to the base of the mountain Nils had pointed out. After my last expedition, I wanted to return to my roots and head into the wilderness with as little gear as possible.

My driver quizzed me as we drove along a bumpy mountain road hemmed in by thick forest on either side.

“Do you have a satellite phone?”

“No.”

“GPS?”

“Just a compass. I prefer the old-fashioned way.”

“A gun?”

“Nope.”

“Bear spray?”

“No.”

“Well, it sounds like you must know what you're doing,” he shrugged as he steered the truck around a fallen tree branch that blocked part of the narrow road. “So, I'll meet you here at the end of the road in a week?”

“That'd be good.”

The road came to an end at the base of the mountain. There was an old trail that led some way up the mountain slope, and I planned to follow it. “Good luck,” said my driver, as I exited the truck and strapped on my backpack.

“Thanks,” I replied.

“Keep an eye out for grizzlies,” he advised, before driving away.

My first task was to find myself a sturdy walking stick that I could sharpen into a spear if the need arose. That accomplished,
I started along the narrow trail into the dark woods. I hiked without stopping until mid-afternoon, when I arrived at a fine moss-carpeted glade a fair way up the mountain that seemed perfect for a base camp. There was a small pond nearby where I could fetch water and plenty of dead trees around for firewood. An inspection of the area revealed no signs of bears, but a short distance from where I pitched my tent was some mountain lion scat, with the tiny hooves of an unfortunate young mountain goat in it. But mountain lions rarely attack humans, so I wasn't troubled. My plan was to camp in the glade and explore more of the mountain over the following days.

The next day, I started climbing the mountain, scrambling over boulders and steep slopes. At one point, a pine marten chasing after red squirrels scurried across the wooded slope below me. As I climbed higher, I encountered several caves, but they appeared to be unoccupied by anything other than spiders. Finally, I made it as far as the snowline, where I had a spectacular view of the sheer, snow-capped mountains that framed the valley. The highest peaks stood some three thousand metres above sea level. Cloaked in a mantle of snow and ice, it was easy to see why people imagined the formidable heights as home to all manner of monsters.

In the late afternoon, when I returned to my camp, I met with a startling sight: large claw marks sunk into the bark of a cedar tree near my tent. Uneasy, I clenched my spear and looked quickly in all directions. Inspecting the ground did not reveal any tracks. But there could be no doubt that grizzlies were in the area, hungry after the lean winter. Bears often mark their territory by scratching trees, and these claw marks couldn't have been more than a few hours old.

Sleeping in a tent suddenly lost much of its appeal. To protect myself from the possibility of a bear attack at night, I decided to build a more secure shelter to sleep in. The only tools at my disposal were a hatchet, my knife, and a folding saw, along with some rope and paracord. With these tools I could fashion a sleeping platform between four trees a safe distance off the ground. Of course, bears can climb trees, but I would be much better protected on an elevated platform than in a tent on the ground. Working quickly to beat the sunset, I had to shinny up each tree and lash together the strong sticks I had cut to create a platform between four hemlocks. After the frame was finished, I cut sticks that I would bind to the rectangular platform, creating a solid floor to sleep on. For protection against the rain, I made a roof out of my tarp and enclosed the sides with hemlock boughs. To make the floor more comfortable, I laid moss and more hemlock boughs over the platform. My shelter finished, it served as a rather cozy abode for the next five nights.

Few things encourage reflection quite like fresh mountain air and utter solitude. Over the following days, as I continued to explore the mountain, my old obsession, the Again River, weighed on my mind. Four years had elapsed since the day when, brooding over maps in my cluttered study, I had first learned of the river's existence. After the aborted attempts to explore it, first with my father and later with Wes, the Again had remained at the back of my mind as a nagging ambition left undone—it was the one that got away. Now, sitting alone on a mountain slope, staring off at distant snow-capped summits, I quietly resolved to myself that no matter the cost, I would explore the Again that year, alone if need be.

“
THOSE PORTAGES CAN'T
be done alone,” said Wes. “There's no way to carry the canoe through that forest by yourself. It's a jungle, you need a machete just to get through there.”

“So you'll come with me then?” I asked.

Wes thought for a moment. “Maybe … I have to think about it.”

Back home from my adventures in the mountains, there was little time to dwell on whether Wes would come with me to explore the Again River. In addition to my work on the map for the Royal Canadian Geographical Society, I had committed myself to an archaeological excavation at a site along the Niagara River, where I would be busy five days a week doing a different sort of exploration—digging into the earth. I was also under a deadline to finish a story for
Canadian Geographic
about a canoe trip I had undertaken through the Minesing Swamp, a wetland near Lake Huron. Thus, there was little time to think of northern rivers: I spent my days digging in the dirt and my weekends and evenings working on the map. When July arrived, I was on Parliament Hill in Ottawa with a team from the Geographical Society to officially unveil the map. There, beneath the gaze of the gothic turrets and gargoyles of the Parliament Buildings, I first mentioned to one of
Canadian Geographic
's editors my plans to explore the Again River. It was readily agreed that I would produce a few articles for the magazine's website on my expedition.

“You must be busy preparing for it then?” asked the editor.

“I haven't had a chance yet, but I'll be ready.”

“Who's going with you?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

“Tell me you're not thinking of doing this alone?” She looked alarmed.

“If need be,” I said.

“Adam!”

Once the map unveiling ceremony was over, I departed immediately for Ohio, where I was to join another archaeological dig on an Iroquoian site. It was while in Ohio—standing in a cornfield under a blazing sun examining prehistoric stone projectile points—that I received a call from Wes. He told me that he couldn't explore the Again River that summer. Maybe, he suggested, he would be available next year. But that to me was unthinkable—to delay for a day longer, let alone a year, was likely to drive me as mad as Captain Ahab.