North Ontario August 31 - September 6, 1978
I decided to head north, away from the crowds, and, of course, into the cold. My goal was to get to Moose Factory, an old Hudson’s Bay Company outpost on Factory Island, at the mouth of the Moose River where it empties into James Bay. Moose Factory is almost directly north of Toronto. I take Highway 69, through Sudbury, stop for the night at Half Way Lake, and then carry on the next day to Cochrane, from where I catch a train to Moosonee. The travel keeps me busy enough that I write in snatches, or not at all.
driving through the Muskoka
munching thoughtfully on an apple
savouring its flavour, its juiciness
experiencing Canadian apple-ness
the stars are wondrous bright tonight
the crickets are singing.
on Highway 69, the road to Sudbury
a brilliant sunny, absolutely cloudless day
I stop often to gaze at the changing landscape
The beginnings of the famous (infamous?) Canadian shield
a sea of glacial sand and dirt debris
jagged grey slabs of rock punctuating the flat
rocks covered with beautiful, vibrant coloured lichens
pinks, oranges, browns, greens and yellows
scraggly clumps of grass
sticking up between cracks in the dry dun earth
proclaiming their determination to live, to flourish even
in this barren, inhospitable place
a few white barked birches, white pine
every now and then a muskeggy swamp
lily-covered, bull-rush ringed
and always right nearby a pathetic stand of dead and dying trees
the dead dull grey-brown skeletons
the merely dying brilliant red leafed warriors
not fading quietly away, but fading just the same
nearer Sudbury the landscape pitted and scarred
bleak and blackened, ravaged by surface mining
forests of transmission line poles
and yet, despite all this, or maybe because
there is a serenity here
a simplicity of form and colour
an austerity almost majestic
almost
At Half-way Lake I make renovations to my tent. It started with adding mosquito netting, thinking I’d need it as I traveled farther north. But so far, bugs are not the problem. It's bigger critters – raccoons and maybe skunks, or squirrels – who I hear, pawing and scratching at the perimeter of my tent, looking for a way in. I have scotched their plans by sewing two sturdy zippers along the bottom of the tent-door. It’s not that I’m averse to sharing. A little squirrel came by to visit, and I gave it some sunflower seeds. That attracted a nearby jay. My stash of nuts was rapidly dwindling.
Last night I fell asleep to the call of a loon.
An eery, mournful cry, echoing over the waters.
I imagined Indians gliding soundlessly along in their birch bark canoes,
going to visit, trade with, or ambush, members of another tribe.
What peoples lived here?
I know I learned the names of Canada’s Indians in school.
But I have forgotten. It wasn’t real or relevant then.
But now I want to know.
Who were they and what were their lives like?
Before the white man came.
Before the landscape looked as it does now.
This morning has dawned, after some rain last night, windy and clear.
The sun, filtering through the tall birches and pines, is warm on my back.
On to Cochrane and the ‘Polar Bear Express’ train to Moosonee
A five hour trip, clackety-clack, clackety-clack
I sit in the dim lit dining car, sipping tea
Eavesdropping on conversations
Excited tourists trading travel tales
Their voices piercing in the confines of the tin box on wheels
A few, more taciturn, locals, maybe heading home
Eyeing the tourists with inscrutable expressions
I wonder what they’re thinking
And finally I’m in Moosonee – the ‘Gateway to the Arctic’. I’m not sure that I’m glad to have come here. The place – everything about it – the people, the buildings, the look of the land – reminds me of when I was working for the Department of Indian Affairs, visiting reserves all over BC to talk to them about their housing needs. Here as there I see the Indians’ unsmiling, uncommunicative faces. It’s not hostility per se, nor resignation. More like a weary forbearance. Then I, as a 22 year old fresh out of university girl, with no experience of any kind, and specifically no knowledge of the people I was being sent to talk to. No knowledge of their history, their customs, their living conditions. And no training before being sent out. And yet representing an agency that held so much power over them. Here I was asking questions about their housing needs. And they answering those questions knowing their answers made no difference, indeed their needs made no difference, to the decisions that had likely already been made, by a bunch of black and grey suited white guys, in Ottawa, who had likely no more knowledge of them as a people than I did, and had furthermore never set foot on their reserve, or come themselves to talk to them. I felt embarrassed, mortified. I was ashamed by what the government of my country was doing, and my role in it. I quit at the end of the summer.
Now here I was again, seeing those same wearied expressions, and all I could think was: "What have we done?" All of us whiteys, who came to and ‘settled’ these lands, bringing with us our diseases, our warped social values, our judgmental holier-than-thou religions, our perverted economic – read ‘capitalist’ – systems, our unhealthy mind-over-matter/body/spirit ‘intellectualism’.
What have we done? How responsible are we for the breakdown of so many indigenous cultures and societies, the poverty so many live in, and the lack of a meaningful ‘place’ for indigenous peoples in the Canada’s social fabric, and it’s political, economic, educational and judicial systems? It’s impossible not to ask the question: what it might have been like if we white folk had not invaded this great land?
Here in Moosonee the Indians have apparently requested tourism because it brings in badly needed revenue. Money. It seems it’s always all about money.
So, even though the sun is out, and it’s a beautiful, if cold, day, I feel depressed. I sit outside a ‘Native crafts’ store drinking instant coffee from a plastic cup, assaulted by incongruous heavy-metal ‘music’ (why not indigenous songs or drumming?), waiting for a boat that will take me to the island of Moose Factory.
The boat was small, and the wind was chill, but it was not raining. Although there were few people on the boat – indeed I was the only tourist – when I arrived at Moose Factory I realized at least a few boatloads of tourists had made the trip earlier in the day. They were chattering away, clicking their cameras, pointing them at Native people in the brazen way that so many tourists do, without thought of privacy, or asking ‘would you mind?’ I put my camera in my bag, and took no photos at all that day. It just didn’t feel right.
I was lucky to spend some time alone with four indigenous women who were sitting in a teepee baking bannock. As they didn’t speak English, we communicated through hand-signals (they motioned for me to sit in their circle), facial expressions (welcoming smiles), eye contact (I see you) and silence (we are comfortable). I enjoyed this quiet time with them for quite a while, watching as they made and shaped the bannock, formed it around sticks, and baked it over the fire. They invited me to join in in the baking, turning the stick slowly to cook all sides evenly.
Half an hour or so later a group of tourists arrived, led by a Native guide. The tourists clicked their cameras and asked the usual questions: ‘How old are you? Do you have children? Do you make bannock every day? What is it made of? The guide interpreted the questions and the four women, shy and sly, ‘responded’ – more often just nodding their heads, not actually giving an answer – and so gave nothing of themselves away. Wise women. Wise women.
I sat quietly throughout this little charade, embarrassed for the women, ashamed of my countrymen. But they were soon off to see another sight. None of them bought the bannock that the women were selling. Indeed none of them showed any interest in it at all. It was a ‘sight’, not an experience.
So I bought some bannock, pretty much all that we had just baked, and offered it around to the four women. We sat and ate. I mimed a refined white person picking hesitantly at the bannock, having a laugh at the expense of my own culture. They thought this was very funny, and laughing away, tried to mimic my actions. That brought on more laughter, gales of laughter. Up to this point, and certainly when the tourists were in the teepee, there’d been no laughter, not even a smile. It felt good to be sharing this joke together. Everyone likes a good joke.
Before I left the teepee I drew three little pictures for them – one of me as I might have looked to them when I came into the teepee – my face expressionless, my mouth a straight line. The next one of the circle bannocks on sticks being baked over the fire. And the last one of me, and them, with big smiles. We were all laughing as I left.
For more information about Moosonee and Moose Factory go to:
https://www.northeasternontario.com/moosonee-moose-factory-travel/
https://www.hbcheritage.ca/places/forts-posts/staff-house-at-moose-factory
On the way back from Cochrane to Toronto I decide to stop at Esker Lakes Provincial Park. The park is about 10 miles east of the highway. A rough gravel road through a beautiful landscape of tall pines interspersed with lovely white-barked birches. Little lakes dotted everywhere. This may be my favourite campsite so far.
I pitch my tent in the midst of a grove of birches – so white and pink and golden with soft soft trunks and silver-green leaves. I have fallen in love with birches – they are so elegant, so light and carefree. Their leaves, disturbed by the breeze, whisper a happy melody, a secret message full of joy and life.
I walk slowly through the forest, taking time to appreciate the textures and colours of the forest floor - the ferns, mosses, lichens - the little landscapes where faeries live.
Now I am reading Carl Jung by the fire. I just read a passage that strikes home, particularly after my experience at Moose Factory. It describes a meeting Jung had in 1932 with Chief Mountain Lake of the Taos pueblo in New Mexico:
“I was able to talk with him as I have rarely been able to talk with a European.” Of the Europeans, Chief Mountain Lake said: “See how cruel the whites look, their lips are thin, their noses sharp, their faces furrowed and distorted by folds. Their eyes have a staring expression; they are always seeking something. What are they seeking? The whites always want something. They are always uneasy and restless. We do not know what they want. We do not understand them. We think that they are all mad.”
Jung asked the Chief why he thinks the whites are ‘all mad’, and he replied, “They say they think with their heads.”
“Why of course,” said Jung, “What do you think with?”
“We think here,” said Chief Mountain Lake, indicating his heart.
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