of the place. As for the Nirivians’ playbook, Jim said, “Out there, time goes with the sun.” There are about a thousand certified citizens who have been touched by the “true life.” Here we have another of Leopold’s assertions of liberty — a hobby well played. Nirivia, a time for a clear “demarcation between hobbies and ordinary normal pursuits.”
The comfortable, well-hidden geodesic domes (built from the 1970s Whole Earth Catalogue) at the Nirivia home base are in good repair. The sauna is a gem. The land use permit is secure, and younger family members will carry on the torch.
When the Nirivian founders claimed the islands, they did so as an “enchanted country” because it was there to be claimed. They did so for the environmental protection, with St. Ignace Island as the centrepiece. Now much of Nirivia is officially designated as conservation lands. The Nature Conservancy of Canada in 2013 acquired part of an island cluster just offshore from Rossport. The resource extraction industries along the northern Lake Superior coast have cleaned up their act from the 1970s. Volunteer groups are maintaining campsites and remote saunas.[9] And Superior country is generally still revered for its spiritual impact, as Jim put it. Well done Nirivian elders, and thanks to Russ (the King) and Jim (the Earl) of Nirivia for the kind hospitality and joy of sharing some of the “true life” with us sea kayaking seekers.
A fitting way to close the Nirivian story would be to quote from the closing lines of the Nirivian national anthem, written by Nirivian citizen Norman Sponchia:
And the flag of Nirivia flies over all souls.
In the winds of Superior.
When the waters start to roll
The Nirivia spirit started to blow
Oh Nirivia, the island nation of Nirivia.[10]
If a fitting anthem for Wendell Beckwith’s Best Island were to have been written, it might go something like this:
And the cabins of Wendell’s Best Islands fills our souls with imaginative stories.
In the winds of Wabakimi when the waters start to roll
One can take comfort in the Beckwith spirit.
Oh Wendell, a radical hobbyist seeker of liberty.
Thanks, Joss, for my important early introduction to seeking out remote people in remote places. It is a valuable life enterprise.
3
Finding Cabins:
Stories from the Horton and Nahanni Rivers and
George Douglas’s Northcote Farm
“I did not realize that the old grave that stood among the brambles at the foot of our farm was history.”
— Stephen Leacock
Claude Lévi-Strauss dismissed travel books as “grocery lists and lost dog stories.” I’m not so big on that one, but I can understand it. He also said, “If lions could speak, we wouldn’t understand them anyway.”[1] I love that one. In many ways, this is a travel book, but more to do with historical places to visit. I do not dwell on the travel but rather on the places. Cabins are central to this. And if some of the inhabitants could talk to us now of their time, we might struggle to understand. That is the challenge and fun in reading Vilhjalmur Stefansson, Raymond Patterson, and George Douglas. There are life lessons in their successful travels and in the places where they waited out a winter or that they called home for a time. The tales from these cabins in the bush showcase learning and comfort, misery and despair.
The Horton River flows north from Horton Lake, northwest of Great Bear Lake, to the Arctic coast six hundred kilometres north. It has a short canyon section midway along, but otherwise gently winds its way deep in an ever-changing charmed valley. Most notable are the crystal clear waters, the abundant wildlife (muskox, grizzles, and caribou in small groupings), and the hiking options at seemingly every bend in the river.
The Nahanni River flows southeast from the Moose Ponds to the Liard River and then to the Mackenzie River. It has four main canyon sections below Virginia Falls and rocks ‘n rolls most of its length in a dramatic river valley. Most notably, this scenery is punctuated by Virginia Falls. For us, there was a general lack of wildlife encounters and select hiking from inflowing rivers and streams. Its waters are generally murky.
Northcote farm was the property of George Douglas (1875–1963). It was later owned by the Gastle family of Lakefield, Ontario, and now is in the hands of Lakefield College. Likely Samuel de Champlain portaged on the property to “Back Bay” en route from Huronia to Lake Ontario. It is on the Trent-Severn waterway just south of Young’s Point and Stoney Lake, a waterway that has seen canoe travel for centuries. Today students at Lakefield College School regularly paddle up to the farm for overnight canoe trips. As a boy at Lakefield, I likely cross-country skied on the property more than a few times.
So, why link these places together here? Well, stories! Travel stories, but not the stuff of grocery lists. And if the characters taking us back into our northern Euro-Canadian history could speak today, one is left to wonder, would we understand them anyway? That is one of the intriguing qualities of travel books about which Lévi-Strauss might be misguided. Stefansson on the Horton, Patterson and Faille on the Nahanni, and Douglas of Coppermine fame at Northcote all move as far beyond “grocery lists and lost dog stories” into the realm of inquiring minds and the zest for exploration.[2] It is a noble challenge to capture some of their passion in one’s present travels.
Joss Haiblen and David Taylor examining Stefansson’s Horton River cabin remains.
On the Horton in 2012, our group sought out Vilhjalmur Stefansson’s cabin and other related stories from the land, both geological and historical. On the Nahanni, family and friends hunted out Raymond Patterson’s and Alberta Faille’s cabins and other related stories. In both cases, the stories were tangible in the recorded history, but the evidence on the land was scant. This combines to make the physical exploration most rewarding. Another reason to link these two rivers, in my mind, from the experiences had on each is the outward lack of adventure. Both these two canoe trips were event-free. That is, if an “event” is an adventure story of a scary grizzly attack, a canoe dumping in big water, or a dynamic weather event influencing the overall mood and flow of the travel. I’m okay with that. I don’t need an adventure. On the Horton River, we had some grizzly encounters and the need for bear bangers, but with no consequence other than a feeling of great privilege to have had the experience. We had some river rapid running decisions and some rainstorm soakings and extreme heat to contend with, but no mishaps. Same for the Nahanni without the grizzlies. Not much to tell folks back home, you might be thinking. Herein lies the rub; when nothing goes wrong and nothing dramatic unfolds, then, for some, the trip might feel “adventureless.” For some, mediocrity might even be the vibe of the trip, shrouding the experience both during and after. When friends back home ask for adventure stories, you feel you are letting them down.
Enter Stefansson to the rescue:
My favourite thesis is that an adventure is a sign of incompetence. Few have disputed the Greek, or whoever it was, that said, “blessed the country whose history is uninteresting,” and no one … will dispute the statement that “blessed is the exploring expedition the story of which is monotonous.” If everything
