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Ice Road
Part III
Fortunately, we’re not much further down the road when we pull up alongside a Canadian Indian named Victor sitting astride a snowmobile. He’s travelled over 100 miles to hunt for meat following a request from an old lady in his village – evidence, perhaps, that hunting here isn’t just about trophies. Behind him on the snow lie three caribou, one of which he’s happy to give to us – sharing the spoils, I’m told, is firmly rooted in his Dogrib tribal tradition. In two minutes flat, our guide Peter has expertly skinned, gutted and jointed the beasts, using skills he learned from his father at age 12. Gary’s rifle won’t be needed after all.
In fact, hunters’ rifles – even those belonging to vacationing trophy hunters – are falling increasingly silent these days. Tastes are changing and today’s wilderness visitor is demanding a different kind of experience – the ultimate wildlife photograph, for instance, rather than something that requires the services of a taxidermist. To survive, outfits like True North Safaris are having to change with the times, which is why they now offer wildlife photo safaris, Canadian Indian cultural encounters, and Arctic experiences focused around the ice road.
There’s another major draw to the region – one we’re treated to in spectacular style, come nightfall. With our driving speed on the ice road severely limited by the falling darkness, there’s still four hours to go to reach Mackay Lake Lodge, and we’re all tired and hungry. But all of that is swiftly banished from our minds by the incredible vision that starts to flower high in the sky above us. We grind to a halt and stand, mouths agape, beneath one of the greatest shows on earth – the Northern Lights, or aurora borealis. Pale green clouds of vapour stream back and forth across a star-filled sky, like spectral psychedelia. One of these shimmering visions hovers for a minute right over our heads, with its fringes flaring up in rainbow hues. We sound like a crowd of young kids at a firework show: ‘Wow! Ahh! Hey! Ahh!’
This fantastic spectacle raises our spirits for the last leg of the day’s drive. But there’s still one obstacle to overcome – finding the lodge. Strangely, or should I say flatteringly, Gary and his team turn to us for help. The Range Rover Sport’s GPS navigation system has plotted our movement across the clear blue outline of Mackay Lake, and now we need to get close to one particular bay before Gary can head out into the pitch black on his snowmobile in search of the lodge.
Built on a raised gravel esker, a formation left behind by glaciers about 10,000 years ago, the lodge stands on the lake’s edge, half a mile from the ploughed path of the ice road and well out of range of even the most powerful flashlight. Finally, after several attempts at finding the lodge in the pitch black, we hit the jackpot and park the vehicles, but before we can all be shuttled across in snowmobiles, we have to wait for Gary’s son Malcolm and the guides to dig away the seven-foot-high snow drifts that are currently blocking the entrance to our cabin.
Inside, it’s reassuringly authentic – very shack chic, with boots strung up to steam above an ancient upright stove and caribou steak spitting on a blackened iron griddle. It takes until the next morning for the walls and ceiling to thaw, but it makes for an extremely cosy base. I ask Malcolm what it’s like to stay up here in the isolated north all summer, as he does each year. His eyes sparkle and his breath quickens as if he’s describing a new girlfriend. ‘So much space and peace – I feel really at home in this environment.’ He grins. ‘Here, I feel alive.’
Down by the jetty, a row of motorboats lies semi-submerged in the frozen lake. ‘A grizzly came at me here one summer,’ Malcolm relates, as if describing a regular day at the office. ‘And as I shot that one, another charged from my left. Got them both.’ Considering they’ve only had to shoot eight bears in 23 years of operation at Mackay Lake – in defence of life or property, as the law permits – that was quite a day. Gary isn’t happy with this low statistic and calls the bears ‘spoiled’, claiming that they are becoming too accustomed to humans. ‘We try to keep them away with electric fences, bear bangers and rubber bullets,’ he says, ‘but the bears quickly figure out that the noise doesn’t hurt them.’ He advocates allowing hunting in a limited way to make bears more cautious about human contact – but his solution goes against current trends. However you feel about his argument, you’re left in no doubt how deeply he cares about preserving the natural balance of the land.
I’m still chewing over Gary’s theory early the next morning as we begin the drive up the remaining stretch of the ice road towards the Diavik diamond mine. The road is divided at this point with a southbound lane for empty trucks and a northern lane for loaded vehicles. The recent lack of traffic has created a build-up of snow on the surface, so we raise the Range Rover Sport’s suspension setting several times to get through some particularly thick drifts. By lunchtime we reach our goal, watching from a distance as three-storey-high yellow tractor trailers go about their ore-moving business. I don’t know what I was expecting, but the sight is a bit of an anticlimax – as giant holes in Arctic tundra tend to be, I guess. You’d be hard-pressed to find a bleaker spot in the world, yet the finished product is so exceptionally valuable. It starts me thinking about why the ice road exists – about what actually pays for it all. It’s the high price of the gems, of course, and demand has never been greater.
Suddenly, it all makes sense. For Gary’s family, the road allows them to fulfil and share their passion for the unsung world of the Barren Lands. For others, it’s all about that ultimate symbol of human passion between partners – the diamond ring. To think, a 350-mile road carved out of ice, and it’s been built for love. As I suspect I may have said before: ‘Amazing.’
In fact, hunters’ rifles – even those belonging to vacationing trophy hunters – are falling increasingly silent these days. Tastes are changing and today’s wilderness visitor is demanding a different kind of experience – the ultimate wildlife photograph, for instance, rather than something that requires the services of a taxidermist. To survive, outfits like True North Safaris are having to change with the times, which is why they now offer wildlife photo safaris, Canadian Indian cultural encounters, and Arctic experiences focused around the ice road.
There’s another major draw to the region – one we’re treated to in spectacular style, come nightfall. With our driving speed on the ice road severely limited by the falling darkness, there’s still four hours to go to reach Mackay Lake Lodge, and we’re all tired and hungry. But all of that is swiftly banished from our minds by the incredible vision that starts to flower high in the sky above us. We grind to a halt and stand, mouths agape, beneath one of the greatest shows on earth – the Northern Lights, or aurora borealis. Pale green clouds of vapour stream back and forth across a star-filled sky, like spectral psychedelia. One of these shimmering visions hovers for a minute right over our heads, with its fringes flaring up in rainbow hues. We sound like a crowd of young kids at a firework show: ‘Wow! Ahh! Hey! Ahh!’
This fantastic spectacle raises our spirits for the last leg of the day’s drive. But there’s still one obstacle to overcome – finding the lodge. Strangely, or should I say flatteringly, Gary and his team turn to us for help. The Range Rover Sport’s GPS navigation system has plotted our movement across the clear blue outline of Mackay Lake, and now we need to get close to one particular bay before Gary can head out into the pitch black on his snowmobile in search of the lodge.
Built on a raised gravel esker, a formation left behind by glaciers about 10,000 years ago, the lodge stands on the lake’s edge, half a mile from the ploughed path of the ice road and well out of range of even the most powerful flashlight. Finally, after several attempts at finding the lodge in the pitch black, we hit the jackpot and park the vehicles, but before we can all be shuttled across in snowmobiles, we have to wait for Gary’s son Malcolm and the guides to dig away the seven-foot-high snow drifts that are currently blocking the entrance to our cabin.
Inside, it’s reassuringly authentic – very shack chic, with boots strung up to steam above an ancient upright stove and caribou steak spitting on a blackened iron griddle. It takes until the next morning for the walls and ceiling to thaw, but it makes for an extremely cosy base. I ask Malcolm what it’s like to stay up here in the isolated north all summer, as he does each year. His eyes sparkle and his breath quickens as if he’s describing a new girlfriend. ‘So much space and peace – I feel really at home in this environment.’ He grins. ‘Here, I feel alive.’
Down by the jetty, a row of motorboats lies semi-submerged in the frozen lake. ‘A grizzly came at me here one summer,’ Malcolm relates, as if describing a regular day at the office. ‘And as I shot that one, another charged from my left. Got them both.’ Considering they’ve only had to shoot eight bears in 23 years of operation at Mackay Lake – in defence of life or property, as the law permits – that was quite a day. Gary isn’t happy with this low statistic and calls the bears ‘spoiled’, claiming that they are becoming too accustomed to humans. ‘We try to keep them away with electric fences, bear bangers and rubber bullets,’ he says, ‘but the bears quickly figure out that the noise doesn’t hurt them.’ He advocates allowing hunting in a limited way to make bears more cautious about human contact – but his solution goes against current trends. However you feel about his argument, you’re left in no doubt how deeply he cares about preserving the natural balance of the land.
I’m still chewing over Gary’s theory early the next morning as we begin the drive up the remaining stretch of the ice road towards the Diavik diamond mine. The road is divided at this point with a southbound lane for empty trucks and a northern lane for loaded vehicles. The recent lack of traffic has created a build-up of snow on the surface, so we raise the Range Rover Sport’s suspension setting several times to get through some particularly thick drifts. By lunchtime we reach our goal, watching from a distance as three-storey-high yellow tractor trailers go about their ore-moving business. I don’t know what I was expecting, but the sight is a bit of an anticlimax – as giant holes in Arctic tundra tend to be, I guess. You’d be hard-pressed to find a bleaker spot in the world, yet the finished product is so exceptionally valuable. It starts me thinking about why the ice road exists – about what actually pays for it all. It’s the high price of the gems, of course, and demand has never been greater.
Suddenly, it all makes sense. For Gary’s family, the road allows them to fulfil and share their passion for the unsung world of the Barren Lands. For others, it’s all about that ultimate symbol of human passion between partners – the diamond ring. To think, a 350-mile road carved out of ice, and it’s been built for love. As I suspect I may have said before: ‘Amazing.’
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