La belle province. (Northern Quebec)
Author/s: Eddie Ward
Fall had come a little early to Northern Quebec. It was cold and dark as we pulled up to the outpost cabin on the northern shore of Lac Fauvel, and began to unload the Bronco. Inside, we lit the gas lantern and quickly started a fire in the wood stove. Soon the chill was gone, and as we finished unpacking, we began to get comfortable and look around. Although it had been exactly three months since we had left Quebec, nothing had changed. Last June, we caught more fish in one week than most people caught all summer. We caught a huge 25-pound northern pike, and we had seen the northern lights, moose and bears. We had just started to explore this vast wilderness and we wanted to see more.
Getting to Lac Fauvel was no easy task. We had been driving for almost eighteen hours, and four-wheeling on old logging roads for 200 miles. The bush road, as it's referred to by the Canadians, was two lanes wide when we left the pavement, but it quickly narrowed to less than four feet in some places. The surface was usually hard packed, but it was very rough, travel slow. There were plenty of big holes waiting to swallow a wheel and large bumps ready to launch an unsuspecting rig.
Near the end of our journey, we were anticipating crossing the Riviere Camachigama on an old dilapidated bridge. However, as we approached the river bank, we were pleased to see the old bridge had recently been replaced by a new, sturdy log structure. Although we were happy to see the improvement, we did miss some of the excitement of the old bridge. Once across, the trail became very muddy as it led to a swamp. The headlights revealed that about fifty yards of the trail was underwater, and the trees on both sides of the road were submerged as far as the spotlights could penetrate. The wise thing would have been to get out and determine the depth of the water and the condition of the trail. However, it was cold and dark, and regardless of what we found, we had to get across. The Bronco plunged into the murky water, and as the tires churned up the soft bottom, the truck clawed its way through mud and water more than two feet deep. As we traveled north from Long Island, we had watched the fall foliage increase, until it peaked north of Montreal. But now, as we approached our cabin deep in the forest, there wasn't much color because the trees were mostly evergreens.
Our cabin was very simple. It was a 16x24-foot building, constructed of flake board with a tin roof. Since the summer the floor had been painted red, but otherwise, everything was the same. There were three homemade bunk beds, a homemade table, some chairs, and a gas stove for cooking. With a fire blazing in the wood stove, it was very cozy and it felt like we had never left.
During the next two days, we each caught several fish, but the action was a little slower than our first trip in June. Our favorite fishing holes, where previously we had caught and released an endless supply of pike and walleye, were now only yielding a few fish.
On the third day we were visited by Collin, a local trapper who had been our
fishing guide on the first trip, and with whom we had become friends. He was
on the way to his camp in a remote valley north of our cabin and after joining
us for breakfast, he invited us along to see a real trapper's camp. It was
an offer we couldn't refuse.
The trail to Collin's camp was a four-wheeler's dream. It was very narrow and rocky, and it climbed up and down the steep mountains. It was located hundreds of miles from civilization and looked like it didn't get much use. In fact, Collin hadn't used the trail in months, and when he did, it was usually on foot or by snowmobile. Soon, we came to a small stream with steep, muddy, rocky banks on both sides. We watched as Collin's full-size Ford climbed down the slippery embankment and across the shallow, rocky stream, and then up the far bank. As his rig clawed its way up the steep bank, the rear bumper began to dig into the ground; a potential scene. We followed Collin to the next obstacle, a muddy swamp. Here again, we were surprised to see that although his truck struggled, Collin made it through.
Finally, after driving miles over rock-strewn trail and through several water crossings and mud-bog swamps, we reached the end of the road. We were still miles from the camp, but our full-size Fords could no longer fit between the huge boulders that lined the narrow snowmobile trail. Although nobody wants to admit there are places their truck can't go, it was great to get out and start hiking. After hiking for almost an hour, we climbed down a small mountain and into one of the most beautiful valleys we had ever seen. In the center was a long, crystal clear lake that wrapped around the base of one mountain and disappeared behind the foot of another. Collin told us this lake contained the very rare, black pike. On the opposite shore, a huge mountain rose up from the lake and disappeared into the dark clouds that rained steadily upon us. This mountain was covered with emerald-green spruce, light-green evergreens, and golden-yellow white birch trees. It was beautiful, to say the least.
Below us, we spotted Collin's cabin. It was a weathered, hand-built, log cabin surrounded by other log work buildings, located out in the middle of nowhere. Everything we saw, Collin explained, was built from materials found in the forest, or was transported into this remote location. We toured the camp, explored the area, took lots of pictures and asked lots of questions. Collin told us about the animals he traps, and about the harsh winters. He said it's not unusual to get five feet of snow or temperatures of forty degrees below zero.
The rain let up about the time Collin told us about a fishing hole guaranteed to keep us busy for the rest of the day. We quickly hiked back to the trucks, found a place to turn them around, then followed the rough trail back to our camp. There, we loaded up out fishing gear and drove for more than an hour to Lac Muskeg, located to the northwest of our cabin. Before long, we were fishing, and it was as good as Collin had promised. We were hooking and landing good-sized northern pike one after another, along with a few small walleye. When we finally got back to our cabin late that night, it was time to build a fire, relax and savor the end of a perfect day.
After lunch the next day I went out on my own in the Bronco. A trail on the
topographic map appeared to go north through a large swamp and on to a large
lake. It looked like a good area to explore and the trail itself appeared
passable, so I headed north. Passing through the swamp, the road was extremely
muddy. Eventually, the trail became wide and smooth and I found myself picking
up speed. Suddenly, a timber wolf ran out into the road in front of the truck.
I slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. In a state of disbelief, I
jumped out of the truck and watched as the wolf trotted into the forest. The
wolf was the size of a large do& with the shape and features of a husky,
and he had thick beige fur with darker streaks on his back. Still surprised,
I climbed back into the truck and continued down the trail. As I drove, I
noticed large piles of wolf droppings scattered along the road. So, with the
hope of seeing another wolf, I decided to park the Bronco and continue on
fool I grabbed my heavy coat, day pack and camera, and hiked about a mile
up the road. I knew the only chance I had of seeing another wolf was to be
patient and work my way down the trail slowly. Suddenly, pair of wolf cubs
stepped onto the trail about 25 yards in front of me. They were both beige,
with thick fur, long bushy tails, rounded heads, pointed ears, and big muscular
legs. The wolves were more surprised by me than I by them. in a flash they
bounded across the road, into the woods, and disappeared. Driving back to
camp, I was cold and tired and a little disappointed that I had missed the
photo opportunity. But, I was also pleased because it was an extraordinarily
rare and special privilege to have seen wild timber wolves in their natural
surroundings.
The following afternoon, we headed towards Collin's favorite fishing spot, Lac Pearson. Lac Pearson had been my destination the day I saw the wolves, arid I was anxious to return. As we drove down the trail, past the muddy swamps, I pointed out to my friends where I had seen the pups, and we all watched carefully for other wolves. Although we reached Lac Pearson without seeing any, we found another ancient log cabin on a beautiful lake, nestled between two mountains. While we were unpacking our fishing gear, we heard a lone wolf howl in the distance. We listened in awe, as he continued to howl, bark and yelp. Soon other wolves joined in, and by the time we were on the water we heard three distinct voices in all. It was an awesome experience fishing on a wilderness lake while listening to the howls of nearby timber wolves, and watching the cold sky turn purple' as the sun set behind the dark mountains. That night while driving home, we spotted the biggest wolf of all. His head stood about four feet above the ground, and he had the same thick beige fur as the others. We estimated his weight at more than one hundred pounds. He also quickly disappeared from sight.
Two days later, we drove back to Lac Pearson. There, the fishing wasn't as good, but the beauty of the mountains, the incredible sunset, and the primitive cries of the wolves more than compensated and made the long journey worthwhile. Throughout the trip, we were amazed at how quickly the weather could change in this part of the world. At times it was sixty degrees and sunny, only to be followed by rain, sleet, and snow a half-hour later.
The morning of our planned departure, we had just enough gas left to drive
the 200 miles back to the nearest town. Reluctantly, we packed, loaded the
Bronco, and prepared for the long ride home. Although we hadn't caught another
trophy fish, and we hadn't seen any more northern lights, we had an unforgettable
time. The most memorable experience of the trip was seeing and hearing the
wild timber wolves. This is something I'm sure we will never forget.
Eventually, we reached the pavement and civilization (or what passes for
civilization in this part of the world). There, we gassed up, phoned home,
and said good-bye to the northern Quebec wilderness, knowing someday soon
we would return.