Ski with the Cree - part 1

Saturday 19th January

Today I was collected just after lunch in Ottawa by one of the other ski trippers and he drove me up through Ontario and into Quebec to Bill Pollock’s house. Canada really is very flat! Eventually we got into some small and rounded, although quite steep sided, forested hills. These were the Laurentians. It seemed that there was a ski slope on every hill. Bill lived a long way down a remote snowy road in the middle of the forest. An entirely appropriate location for an ex-forester who runs ski trips. (www.tuckamor.ca)

Sunday 20th January

By the morning most of the other trip members had arrived and eleven of us piled into the minibus and drove north. We stopped at Val d’Or for a short ski on some groomed trails and a spot of lunch. I was relieved to find that I didn’t get completely left behind by the two guys I skied with! We continued driving and long after it got dark we drew up at the train station in Cochrane. The architects of the station (which was also the hotel) definitely drew upon the train theme for inspiration and the building was essentially a single long corridor, upstairs and downstairs. 

Monday 21st January

After breakfast we piled all our luggage into the baggage car of the Polar Bear Express and settled ourselves in the largest train seats I’ve ever seen. The carriages were remarkably roomy – a British train would have crammed in twice as many seats. Each pair of seats could even be swung round to face the opposite direction if you wanted to be more sociable with your friends. The train’s whistle blew and we set off into a landscape of white snow and black spruce. For mile, after mile, after mile… All 193 of them. I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so uncompromisingly flat. We arrived in Moosonee six hours later to be met by our guides from Moose Cree Outdoor Discoveries and Adventures (www.creeadventures.com). Originally the plan had been to ski straight from the train to a camp on the other side of the river. Unfortunately the rapids section wasn’t frozen enough and so instead we were driven to the Moose River Cree Cultural Centre where we spent the night among exhibits of snowshoes, fur clothing, bearskins and other trappings of Cree life (spot the obvious pun in that last sentence!) Given that the temperature over the last few days had been in the minus thirties and was predicted to be –47C on Wednesday I decided to take up the guides’ offer of a “winter” sleeping bag. It was much more substantial than my own! 

Clarence Trapper runs the company and was in charge of organising our trip. After we’d all had dinner he gave us a welcoming speech emphasising that this was to be a cross cultural experience and much more than just an ordinary ski trip. To make his point he gave us a list of cultural differences which we should be aware of between ourselves and the Cree. "To a native, making eye contact means either that you're in love with them or that you are hostile." Immediately all our eyes darted to the floor, to the ceiling, to anywhere that was not a continuation of our attentive gaze directly into Clarence's eyes. For me, not looking at someone in the eyes as I talked to them was surprisingly difficult. Before this I wasn't really aware of how much eye contact I must make during conversation. I have to confess that I was no better at avoiding eye contact by the end of the trip than I was at the beginning. Clarence laughed at me when I said this and told me that I must be sending out all sorts of signals. Quite possibly, but as I definitely wasn't hostile I suppose I must have been in love, and that wouldn't be too far wrong. It would have been impossible (and terribly rude) not have fallen a little bit in love when welcomed with such friendliness and generosity. 

Tuesday 22nd January

I woke up to a view of snowshoes after a very comfortable night's sleep in my own sleeping bag - on top of my karrimat, thermarest AND the most enormous sleeping bag I've ever seen in my life. Who needs a bed when you've got that many layers underneath? Clarence arrived just after 8 - remarkably prompt considering that he'd been telling us the evening before that watches and clocks were for white men and Cree Time is a wholly different (not to mention flexible) concept. Breakfast was ready and waiting for us in the Moose Cree Compex which houses administative offices, the post office, the daycare, the supermarket and other community services. I quite like this Canadian idea of pancakes for breakfast, especially when accompanied by syrup and bacon. After we'd all been fed it was back to the Cultural Centre and time to wrap ourselves up warmly for the ski upriver to Philip Sutherland's camp.
 
All I had to carry was my daypack as everything else was being transported by snowmachine. How luxurious - I don't get this kind of treatment at home! The temperature wasn't nearly as low as in Igloolik but it was still bitterly cold. There were several points where I worried about my cheeks and pulled my neck gaiter well up over my nose, just leaving a slit for my eyes. This meant that my cheeks were cosy, heated up nicely by all that warm, moist air I was breathing out. The downside was that the aforementioned warm, moist air was funnelled up out the top of the neck gaiter and promptly froze onto my eyelashes. This created a white mascara effect so clumpy it would never get past even the most lax cosmetic testers! We skied on the frozen river itself, fairly close to the western bank. At this point the channel must be a few km wide and so we appeared to be skiing in a vast expanse of white, trimmed by a fringe of dark, scraggy spruce trees. Due to the cold we rarely stopped on our way upriver and the group spread out over quite a large distance. To the guides waiting at the camp our arrival seemed like a scene out of Lawrence of Arabia - a file of dark figures marching steadily towards them out of a flat desert of ice and snow. The camp was perched on the northernmost tip of an island. Tall birch trees surrounded a clearing with a lit bonfire and several cabins. Technically, I believe they were frame tents- each roofed with tarpaulins and with the walls clad inside and out by plywood. Inside were either wood or oil burning stoves. These had been lit by the guides and so when we arrived smoke was billowing out in a welcoming fashion and we walked straight into warnth - such luxury! Inside the cook tent the kettle was boiling and so we all happily sat down to eat our sandwiches and unpack our bags in this new home from home.    As we'd skied so fast there was still plenty of daylight left and that afternoon Elizabeth and I found a convenient snowbank and excavated a "quincy" also known as a "quinchee", or more prosaically, as a "snowhole". I believe that we cheated somewhat. To make an authentic quincy (that is, without utilising the conveniently situated snowbank) one would pile up a huge mound of snow, let it settle and consolidate for several hours and then excavate. By breaking sticks into 6-8 inch lengths and poking these into the snow surface we made sure that we didn't excavate too close to the roof and cause a collapse. It was quite a lot of fun, especially considering that we didn't have a suitable shovel and to substitute I'd purloined a metal bucket, a dustpan and a baking tray from the kitchen. I was nice and cosy in my super duper enormous sleeping bag, although we could have done with a bit more head room to prevent snow showers every time we tried to manouevre in and out of the hole. Next time I'll make some design improvements!