Before launch. July 12th, 2022. 56°33’ N, 76°33’ W

On which our protagonist finds himself in a familiarly unfamiliar place.

During summer in Quebec’s far north, dawn breaks early. I wake up with it around 4:15 AM in the village of Umiujaq, a settlement of about 500 Inuit on the coast of Hudson Bay, many roadless miles from other outposts of civilization. In this part of the world, civilization has few centers, only toeholds.

I rub my eyes blearily and gaze westward at the string of rocky barrier islands three miles offshore. They stretch north and south, forming a corridor of saltwater called Nastapoka Sound. It's been four years since I’ve seen this place, and I am breathing slowly with gratitude for my first decent night of sleep in several days. Just getting here involves a lot of stress, but it’s mild compared to what I’ll encounter over the next three weeks. Umiujaq is where I leave civilization behind.

Umiujaq. It’s pronounced Oo-mee-wack, more or less, with the W sounding a bit like an R. I remember how little I knew when I first saw the place in 2018. Despite years of camping, hiking and kayaking in backcountry situations farther to the south, touching down at Umiujaq’s tiny airport had been disconcerting. Even at the height of summer, patches of snow had been plainly visible on the ground as the plane banked into its final approach and descended to the gravel runway, and the airport building — smaller than most single-family homes in suburban Maryland, where I live — had a large top-opening refrigerator in its waiting room. When I peeked inside out of curiosity, staring back at me were the eyes of a frozen caribou head. I hadn’t entirely left civilization yet, but I was no longer in familiar territory.

It’s now 2022. Standing once again in the airport building after this trip’s flight, I saw the refrigerator was still there, but it brought a smile rather than culture shock. This time around, I know a few people here and I am better prepared. I’m still jittery though, because I’ve planned a more ambitious journey, and once I leave this place, I’ll be more on my own than I’ve ever been before.

I am here to kayak the Leaf River.

For the casual reader who does not spend hours obsessing over maps of Canada’s north country, that river’s name may not mean much. A bit of an introduction may be in order.

...

Nunavik is the northernmost section of Quebec, a sparsely inhabited place north of 55 degrees latitude where summer temperatures are regularly cool enough to make a warm beverage welcome. The word Nunavik means “great land” in Inuktitut, the language of the Inuit; it’s their turf. I first came up here after spotting a few tempting geographical features near the Hudson Bay coast and repeatedly failing to dissuade myself from visiting them. I am a wilderness kayaker, and my idea of a good time is harnessing my camping, hiking and boating skills to go places that remain obscure on most maps. I’d already taken several solo trips into the Canadian outback, but Nunavik proved the most demanding by far.

On that first visit, the Inuit told me they refer to a person from the south as a qallunaa. I didn’t ask whether the word carried any implication of insanity. I was fortunate to encounter a few locals who were not only supportive of, but supremely patient with, the overenthusiastic and under-experienced qallunaa who had shown up at their airport. Before I returned home three weeks later, I had been properly humbled by the north, but also deeply entranced by the landscape. I knew I had to go back.

I also knew I needed to up my game. My time in Nunavik had confronted me with enough intimidating hazards that in hindsight, I suspected I had benefited from the adage that providence looks after fools and children. I had gone there at the age of 48, so I had no illusions as to which of the two categories I belonged. I spent the ensuing four years training my body, accumulating tundra-worthy gear and pursuing experiences that would teach me the skills I would need for my next Nunavik adventure. Which I thought I could anticipate the demands of, because I had already visited some of it.

From my research into Quebec canoe routes, I learned that there was a river whose source was not far from Umiujaq and that flowed nearly the whole way across the Ungava peninsula, emptying into saltwater a few kilometers from Tasiujaq, another Inuit village far to the northeast. This was the Leaf River, or Rivière aux Feuilles, whose French name I remain unable to pronounce. I was by no means the first to attempt paddling the Leaf: Individuals and groups had traveled it previously, and most had sung its praises as a stunning route through a beautiful valley with serious but runnable rapids.

The Leaf seemed an attainable destination as well. As a rule, the north is not cheap. Accessing most of Nunavik’s interior requires shelling out for a float plane charter at rates upwards of $100 per mile flown, a price which, for a person of modest means such as myself, becomes prohibitive very quickly. So I was pleased to learn of an overland route to the Leaf River’s headwater of Lake Minto, an arm of which was a mere 64 km as the crow flies from the Hudson Bay coast. Now for yours truly at least, forty miles is not a quick walk, but a good majority of the territory between the coast and Lake Minto is crisscrossed by ponds and streams. And many years prior, the Inuit had found a way through them.

The physical challenge of the route was part of its attraction, as was its varied nature. Altogether, it seemed like five trips in one: paddling north along Hudson Bay’s coast, navigating through the ponds, crossing Minto’s expanse, running the river, then back to salt water in Leaf Bay to the village of Tasiujaq. After spending months considering the route in detail, I began to think it was doable.

When the spring of 2022 arrived and the pandemic-stricken border at last seemed convincingly open, I cautiously booked a flight on the commercial carrier Air Inuit from Radisson, Quebec to Umiujaq.

…

I stepped off the plane yesterday already tired from the journey thus far. Since leaving home on July 9th, I first spent 24 road hours driving north from the Washington DC area, crossing the border near Ottawa (where I stopped at MEC for bear spray), and continuing up through the Val d’Or region to Radisson, a company town built for constructing and maintaining a string of hydroelectric dams that stretches off to the east. Radisson is essentially the farthest north you can get on the road system in eastern North America, and its airport offers transport to the Inuit villages farther north along Quebec’s coast. The town is isolated, and its modern buildings look like bunkers. It has a frontier feel. Cree natives mingle with curious travelers who have made their way up here on the long road from Matagami, the next town to the south. This road, more than 600 km long, has no settlements, just a single way station offering costly food, lodging, and especially fuel, without which many vehicles would not have the range to drive it. When I arrived in Radisson, I was three days and 1,300 road miles from home.

I had no time or energy for sightseeing, of which Radisson offers little. My first priority was to get my sea kayak to the Le Grande airport in order to get it onto the next cargo plane to Umiujaq. Cargo always travels separately from people on Air Inuit. I arrived an hour before the cargo terminal closed for the day, handed off my boat, and by 5PM I was on what passes for a strip in this outpost of 400 people, eating my last restaurant meal: a generously topped pizza from Chez Mika. Then I drove to the town’s campground, pitched my tent, and stood in line for a shower while chatting with a few people who had driven their RVs up the road from Matagami. I went to bed early, hoping the clear weather would hold. Flying requires the weather to cooperate — never something to expect in this region.

Luckily, my flight was on time and blissfully uneventful, and today, my only full day in Umiujaq, becomes a constant wash of nostalgia and perspective. I have a few hours to renew old acquaintances and make a few new ones. Four years ago, Bobby Tooktoo was a guide at the park; today he’s the head ranger. I’m happy to hear that he and his wife just welcomed their first child, a boy. Simon Fleming, another younger guide, is there as well. Both of them traveled with me to Clearwater Lake in 2018.

A newer park employee is Jack, an older Inuk I haven’t met before. He takes an immediate interest in my route, and we are soon poring over my maps, which I have annotated with all the details I gleaned from others’ trips. On a map of Lake Minto, Jack points out where I can find some cabins on the shore. Bobby also lets me know about a cabin they have built for park visitors at the mouth of the Nastapoka River, where I plan to stop to check out its waterfall. I listen closely. Options for shelter are always good up here. Last trip I was stuck in my tent for three harrowing days waiting for a windstorm to die down.

My mind is already fixating on the weather and conditions. On the flight yesterday, I saw ice floes in Nastapoka Sound farther south. From here, the sound looks relatively ice-free, which pleases me, as I don’t want to delay the trip before it starts. Paddling up to a floe for the first time in my life would be inspiring; unnavigable pack ice would not.

My Prijon Seayak arrives on the cargo flight later this morning, and I spend much of the afternoon stowing my gear for launch tomorrow. I pack three weeks’ worth of necessities into a volume the size of three chest coolers. The afternoon passes quickly, and I go to sleep early. I'm on the water in 12 hours.