Pilgrimage to Goose Camp,  Yukon Territory

Canada, September, 2013

Kennith at Goose Camp 1974

Goose Camp 1966

Kennith Nukon was a remarkable man,  a Van Tat Gwitch'in from Old Crow, Yukon Territory, Canada.  When I first met him in 1966 I was near the end of my first long kayak trip in the north.   I hadn't seen anyone for days when I met Kennith.  He called the place Goose Camp, 20 miles upstream from Old Crow on the Porcupine River.  At that time he got there by poling his canoe upstream from the village.  Quite a feat considering he had lost the use of one arm to polio at birth.  And yet he managed to hunt, trap and live off the land which even with two good arms can be challenging.  He preferred being in Goose Camp to town life he told me.  There were other setbacks in his life, the loss of his wife Annie  and a son, Peter, to drowning.  And yet with all this his sunny disposition and sense of humor prevailed through the years I knew him. 

By the time I met him most of his people, The People of the Lakes, belonging to a larger grouping of Athapascan indigenous people, were living permanently in Old Crow.   He was one of the last still living a traditional subsistence life style from a bush camp with infrequent trips to town.   I remember him telling me he had a cabin in Old Crow.  He told me "you want it, you take it," and he burst out laughing in that infectious way of his.  He would have given it away if I'd said yes, just like the caribou skin parka he also offered me. 

Kennith and Johnny Ross right rafting firewood from Goose Camp  1966

Kennith at Cache Goose Camp 1966

Kennith with sheefish GC 1966

Over the years more river travelers came, some over the Rat River portage, a historic route followed by gold seekers heading to the Klondike gold fields.   Later more came via Eagle River after the Dempster Highway from Dawson was completed in 1978.  Like me many stopped to visit and help Kennith, some staying for months at a time.  He was good company, invariably cheerful, with lots of stories about the goings on in Old Crow.  To these he would often exclaim at the end "my goodness me!"  I never knew him to say an unkind word about anyone even when he was taken advantage of.   Sometimes he would end these stories with a sigh and a long "jeeeeze."

In later years I returned to visit Kennith by river boat from Alaska or by airplane when I was in the flying business.  On one of these visits I introduced my now long time river and hunting partner Fran Mauer to Kennith.  We were returning to Old Crow again after an absence of six years.                                                                                            

Kennith and new cabin at Goose Camp 1974

Kennith and Fukuko Ross at fish drying racks 1974

Fran had come to know Old Crow
and developed friendships there apart from our visits together.  As a biologist on the staff of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge he had for many years documented the recovery of peregrine falcons and banded fledglings on the Porcupine River downstream from Old Crow.  Some of the early survey work began in Old Crow using an inflatable boat flown in by Roger Kaye a Refuge staff pilot.   Later the surveys began further downstream on the Alaska side of the border. 

Our goal upon leaving Circle, AK in early September 2013 was ambitious.  We hoped to again reach the headwaters of the Porcupine River as we had done 10 years earlier.  But this time we were traveling not by riverboat but in my 22 1/2 foot "dug out" canoe as another friend calls it.  It is a homemade skin on aluminum frame canoe that is light weight, only 120 pounds empty, that pushes easily with a s 10 hp Honda four stroke.  It is no speed demon with this modest power plant.  We had piggybacked it atop Fran's 30 foot riverboat on the earlier trip and used it only in the headwaters.  Now it was our sole means of ascending the Porcupine.  And it was slow going but we weren't in a hurry either..  It was spending time in  the country again that really mattered.   It also became increasingly apparent with the passing days that our two week window of opportunity for the trip would not be enough to reach the headwaters again. 

Sometimes goals need to be modified in light of existing circumstances.  We were not hunting on this trip, a first for both of us on a fall river trip during the hunting season. We had friends on the river we wanted to visit as well as those in Old Crow..  For a time we wondered if we could even make the round trip to Old Crow.  But when that became more of a certainty we decided to include a return to Kennith Nukon's old Goose Camp to see what had happened to it in the 10 years since our last visit.

We arrived in Old Crow on Sunday, September 8, 2013.  As it happened our return was 21 years to the day when Kennity Nukon passed in 1992 at the age of 71.  I had flown into Old Crow shortly thereafter for his memorial service.  The intervening years and fog of memory had left me uncertain of the exact year.  It was only after we visited the cemetery on the edge of town to pay our respects and refresh our memory that the convergence of time and place on this trip emerged.  There are no coincidences I have come to appreciate.

Kennith and Fran at Goose Camp 1988

We left for Goose camp the following afternoon to clearing skies and very little wind in the wake of a fast moving cold front.  Porcupine herd caribou were crossing between Old Crow and Goose camp.  We passed several groups of successful hunters laying in a supply of meat for the winter.  We didn't stop to visit.  We looked for Esau Nukon, one of Kennith's sons, we were told was upriver at his camp.  He wasn't as it turned out but we could have passed him downriver.

As we closed in on Goose Camp I noticed an unnatural splotch of white on the edge of a high cut bank.  It was near where I thought Kennith's old tend camp was located when I first met him.  In later years he lived in a cabin a short way upstream.  We stopped to have a closer look.  The white splotch turned out to be a chunk of fiberglass insulation.  It may have been insulation under a tent platform he used here.  There was no sign of the platform.  Caribou hunters had killed a caribou nearby judging from signs on the gravel bar. 

Kennith (white shirt) on bank at Goose Camp 1974

We continued upstream looking for Kennith's old cabin.  At one point I thought I saw caribou on the south bank ahead but I wasn't sure and didn't say anything to Fran.  But it wasn't long thereafter that Fran said he saw caribou crossing up ahead.  They are fast swimmers, propelled by their cupped, splayed hooves.  They are high floaters as well,  buoyed by the hollow hairs of their superinsulated coats.  We sped up which wasn't much with only a 10 hp kicker.  Still, we did manage to catch a group of eight young bulls just as they emerged from the water onto a more expansive gravel bar at this point in the river.  They weren't unduly alarmed by our presence and put on quite a show doing the shiver shakes to rid their fur of water..  That done they trotted up the gravel bar putting some distance between them and us before finding an exit up the cut bank and disappearing.

Bull caribou crossing Porcupine R. near Goose Camp 2013

The cabin was disappearing behind the willows as often happens as the years slip away and the brush grows taller.   Erosion had also eliminated a stair step notch in the bank that made it easier to get to the cabin.  From where we tied up you couldn't see over the high bank.  We found a toppled root wad with a young tree to grab onto to climb up and have a look around.  Sadly, we discovered the sod roof on Kennith's old cabin had collapsed taking the walls with it.  Gone too from sight we also knew were the names and dates of many river travelers who had written on the walls and ceiling to record their visit with Kennith on their downriver journey.  

We pitched my Kifaru, 4 man teepee tent near the bank in front of the cabin remains.   Overnight there was a hard frost.  In the morning it was crystal clear and dead calm.  We lingered - enjoying the warmth of a morning fire at river side until the rising sun took some of the chill off the air.  We took the opportunity of a leisurely morning to heat water and take a towel bath, a welcome relief after days on the river without a break or bath.

Fran and Don at Goose Camp September 10,2013

I unrolled the Love is the Way banner and we photographed it in front of the cut bank and from atop the cabin   Curiously, just as we finished I looked out toward the river and asked Fran to stop just as he was passing in front of me.  Just behind him I noticed two intersecting poles forming a cross, probably from  Kennith's old fish rack.  I could see it but Fran couldn't.

Fran Mauer holding banner atop Kennith's old cabin September 10, 2013

I have learned to pay attention to the symbolic meaning of seemingly random events.  The Universe is always trying to communicate with is if we're paying attention.  We had just been photographing a banner that says Love is the Way when there appears before us that penultimate symbol of a cross and a reminder of the sacrificial nature of Love exemplified by the death of Jesus on a Roman cross.  Kennith's life embodied the words.  I could almost hear Kennith exclaiming "my goodness me," and burst out laughing at all this.
It came to both of us about the same time commiserating around the fire later.  Returning to Goose Camp had been a pilgrimage to a sacred place.   With it came more treasured memories of a special person and place given all that had happened.

Fran and amazing grace at Goose Camp 2013

Back in Old Crow Martha Benjamin, Steven Frost's sister graciously put us up for the night.  In her younger years she was an Olympic caliber cross country skier coached by Father Mouchet the French Oblate priest in Old Crow at that time.  He just recently past.  There are not many of these old timers left. 

That evening while Martha ran an errand and Fran went to a community meeting, I walked along the river and found a bench to sit on just past the store.  It turned out to be behind Dick Nukon's house.  He came out and sat down beside me as the sun dropped lower.  I remembered his sense of humor. He was also something of a practical joker.  One of his favorite stories was to caution river travelers to watch out for the waterfalls downstream from Old Crow.   Of course, there was none.  Then there was the time he said he poured a little water in someones bed while they were sleeping.  When this unsuspecting soul awoke in the morning they thought they had peed the bed.  They didn't say much in embarrassment.   At this point he burst out laughing reminding me also of Kennith.  Treasured memories.  These days his mind wanders.   It was good to be with him again.  

Marion had just left for Whitehorse the day before and Dick stayed behind by choice.  At the last minute he wanted to go with her but couldn't.  There was no longer a bed for him at the place arranged for them to stay.  I wondered how this would all turn out for both of them?

As we approached the store walking along the river the next morning a man shouted "Fran Mauer."  Turns out it was Dennis Frost, Steven's son who had spotted a familiar face.  We had hoped to see Steven before leaving town and asked after him.  To this Dennis replied that Steven had just returned an hour ago by helicopter.  Dennis, is quite a hunter and said he had passed us on his way back into town yesterday evening within sight of Old Crow.  

We caught up with Steven at his house.  He was clearly tired and looking forward to a shower.  But he told us he had caught a ride with a Water Survey helicopter at Eagle Plains Lodge.  He was  headed to Inuvik to catch a flight to Old Crow.  He was turned back by a washout on the  Dempster Highway and ended up at the Lodge at the same time as the helicopter.  Steven is quite well know in these parts.  When he asked the helicopter pilot for a ride he was told "for you we'll make room."  It was great to see him again.  I marvelled at the convergence of circumstance that made it possible just before we headed back downriver.

The Porcupine was on the rise from recent rain when we departed shortly thereafter.  It had also begun to cloud over with rain beginning in late afternoon as forecast.   We put some miles behind us sped stopping occasionally to walk or jog on a passing gravel bar to warm up.  We entered the upper canyon some miles before crossing the border into Alaska.  In places the current was quite swift at the higher water level.  On this leg we had a distant look at a black bear, another of an osprey and peregrine falcon.

A long day got us into Paul Jago's trap line camp just before dark where we over nighted.  Paul graciously offered us the use of a small wall tent with stove he'd already set up.  This was most welcome saving us from having to put up our tent in the rain.  His wife and son Charley were there.  They had joined him shortly after we stopped on our way upriver.  Charley got a fire going in the tent for us to warm up in.   Seemingly small things like this make a huge difference after sitting idle and cold most of the day.  We were grateful.  

 Paul lives in a "Beaver Lodge," as some of the locals call it.  It is a mounded earth shelter, looking like a Beaver Lodge, or Hobbet House from the outside with much of it below grade.  It's a practical shelter, easy to heat but definitely non-traditional.  Paul said he never had trouble with bears getting inside when he was away.  He thought bears were leery of entering the dark, narrow tunnel like entryway to the "Lodge" with all its strange smells.  He said he had few problems with bears generally but one he had to kill ran over the top of the mound while he was there.  .

Paul had caught nearly all the chum or dog salmon he needed for his 18 dogs by the time we showed up again.  He was still short by 160 or so fish from a total of about 360 for the season.  He wasn't planning on staying past January.  He had devised a clever, work saving way of hauling salmon from the river to drying racks higher up on the bank.  He was using a 55 gallon barrels laid horizontally with wheels under it.  There was a top loading hatch for stuffing fish inside.  When it was full, I didn't ask how many salmon it took, he would fire up his chain saw cable winch attached to the barrel and pull it up the bank to the fish rack.  It helped there was no cut bank at this spot on the river.

When we arrived the winch was out of commission, the cable had jumped from the spool and jammed between the spool and housing.  He said if he couldn't get it unstuck he and Charley would use a manual come-a-long winch to pull the barrel.  It would be slower and more labor intensive but easier than packing them in a backpack.  That I knew from experience could be backbreaking having done it with red salmon and these dog salmon at roughly 5 to 8 pounds apiece were heavier.  Charley was an eager and willing helper with the energy of a 15 year old in his favor. 

You have to enjoy the bush life style with its many challenges.  There's not a lot of money in it and it's hard work, the reason most have stopped using dogs and switched to the "irondog" or snowmachine or simply quit altogether.  The result is there are very few full time trappers, native or white anymore.

Another long day and we reached Joe and Helen Matese's cabin at the mouth of the Colleen River.  The Porcupine had risen dramatically since our upriver stop.  The wide shallow delta of the Colleen River which was impossible to ascend by boat then was now underwater and passable. And the river was still on the rise.

It was nearly dark when Andrew Firmin and "J. Bob" Carroll pulled in after us.  They said they had shot a moose a couple of bends downriver and asked Joe if he wanted some moose meat.  Sure, definitely, was Joe's reply.  He hadn't killed a moose or anything else.  What followed was a scramble by Me, Fran and Joe to gather up gear and head downriver in Joe's  boat with scant light remaining.  Andrew and J. Bob went ahead and we lost sight of them.  Fran and I were mostly excess baggage.  We did help cut some willows to lay in the boats for the meat to lay on.  Carving up a big animal like a moose is a lot of work that takes time even with help.  The cutters got two quarters separated and the body opened enough to cool off overnight leaving the rest for the morning.  We headed back upriver in the dark.  The river is wide but still we ran aground in one shallow spot.  After that I shined my head light on the river bank and we made it the rest of the way without incident.

The next morning we finished  with the moose and returned to Joe and Helen's cabin.   Andrew and J. Bob took off for the "Fort" and home later in the day.  We heard later they made it about 10:00 PM after dark, of course. They know the river.  Fran and I stayed on and left the next morning enjoying Helen's fine cooking.

Four days later, just as it began to snow we pulled into Circle after a slow grind up the Yukon River that took one full day and parts of two others.   It was good to get off the river with colder temperatures settling in.    Luckily, the last day we only had a half dozen miles or so to go to make it into Circle.  The previous day we put in 10 hours on the river but couldn't quite make it before dark.

Treasured memories, the more so for time spent with friends old and new friends along the river and in Old Crow.  We would not soon  forget caribou crossing the Porcupine near Goose Camp just as we showed up to Martha Benjamin's storytelling before we turned in, to northern lights ablaze across the northern sky  and boreal owls who, who, whoing by camp.  All of it casting a magical spell as no other could on this pilgrimage to a sacred place.



Happy Solstice, Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year to you and yours,

Peace Rider 12/21/2013