Canada travel writing EXTRACT: …..From Cape Merry, looking straight ahead, the Fort looked a short distance away; maybe a fifteen-minute yomp; and looking over to the right, the point at which the ice had melted on the Hudson Bay was maybe a further fifteen minutes. However the only object across this wilderness of frozen water was the Fort, and with nothing to measure its size against, gauging distance was a very inexact science.
Walking gingerly across the water I encountered a range of terrain: deep snow drifts; mushy ice; firm ice; and shallow pools of water through which the lines of cracks were clearly visible. Underneath these the subterranean tide flowed. Having all this different terrain jumbled up meant that there was no such thing as a straight walking path to the Fort. Every few metres I found myself having to negotiate and renegotiate my path, whether through being thigh deep in snow or ankle deep in water.
The most striking features across this expanse were the ice and snow formations that had been thrown up in water form by the tide months before, and frozen in mid air, like sculptures. Walking through, over and around these stark creations felt like trying to find a path through a miniature mountain range. Their breath taking beauty was further enhanced by the bright midday sun, giving them a turquoise glow, like giant pieces of mint cake.
Some two hours across this desolate wilderness, with not another person in sight, I reflected that if the lack of human contact on the rail journey to Churchill had imparted a sense of loneliness and boredom. These feelings were in sharp contrast to those that I now felt. This lunar like landscape was both exhilarating and scary. The complete absence of contact with life form was both its strength and weakness. On the one hand there was a sense of discovery and privilege, that maybe standing on water in this desolate expanse was the culmination of a thousand-mile journey from Winnipeg. On the other hand, I also had a deep eerie feeling of reticence, like a child who is trying to swim his first length, and who half way across feels that in all directions the water’s edge is too far away to save himself if things start to go wrong.
The scaredom factor was soon to multiply. Halfway across to the Fort, I contemplated turning right and heading for the Hudson Bay’s water edge in search of seals. I rummaged in my shoulder bag for binoculars to see if the terrain at the end of this stretch was just as intriguing. My scanning movement was abruptly halted by the appearance in the lenses of what looked like two polar bears relaxing on the water edge. No, impossible, I thought. I looked again and the bears started moving, but then I realised this was just my hands shaking with fear. How good was their power of smell and how fast could they run? Just as importantly, how good was their sight – I was wearing a bright red shirt. I eventually managed to convince myself that these off-white polar bear like formations, which contrasted sharply against the bright snow surface, could not be the real thing. After all, back in town the consensus was that they had all gone home for the time being. No doubt this was just my imagination starting to run riot.
Moments later my panic levels soared again, as I came across huge fresh paw prints in the snow; too small for a polar bear, but much bigger than a dog’s. I measured the base of one of these tracks with a large twig, to save me signaling with my hands later on, in exaggerated fashion, ‘It was this big!’
Occasionally, on my return route back across the ice, when cutting through the miniature mountain ranges, I heard what sounded like grunting and pounding across the surface. I was fully expecting a bear to appear around the corner at any moment. But when this did not occur, I put it down to the noise of water being pumped up onto the surface, coinciding with a block of thawing snow crashing down onto the ice. I was starting to suffer an acute attack of bear paranoia, even to the point of trying to recall what the foetal position outlined in the town’s information blurb looked like.
I thought back to the bear warning sign on the water’s edge and recognised its irony. This was clearly meant for people who could phone from the mainland, but for me out on the ice, I would have needed a mobile phone. Even if I had one, it was unlikely that a one-hour target time from the Park’s staff would have helped steady my nerves…..
For full tale, see A Manitoba journey: In the shadows of bears
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