Imagine yourself under a vast dome of sky. Lakes stretch in every direction and streams weave through the terrain, trying to find their way to the sea. The ground is carpeted in low-lying vegetation, with bursts of brightly-coloured rhododendrons, but there are no trees. There is no traffic, no airplanes, no roads. You are entirely alone, completely immersed in this extraordinary scenery. Some people are scared, but others are completely mesmerized and bewildered by its stillness and scale. I’m the latter.
This is the tundra, my favourite place in Canada, which few people have the privilege of experiencing.
From the late 1970s through the 1980s, I spent about two months each summer working here with the Geological Survey of Canada. It’s difficult to describe the emotions I feel when I am there, exploring the Coppermine River region and westward towards Bluenose Lake, with incredible beauty surrounding me and no one else nearby. The closest word I can find is “fulfilled.” I’m not jumping for joy, I just feel utter contentment.
Over the years, I’ve had many assistants join me there. We’d walk more than 20 kilometres a day, collecting samples and taking notes, trying to explain the landscape we’re looking at. Some students would never walk alone on the tundra, terrified by its vastness. Others would fall under its spell just as I did, longing to embrace solitude and work solo rather than in pairs (which is now discouraged due to safety risks).
I still remember the first time I studied aerial photographs of the region. The images didn’t make sense to me yet; I didn’t know what I was looking at. I was lost, but I learned so much about the tundra in the years to come. In the process, I fell hopelessly in love with the place.