Coming Over 

If you sit long enough, the silence will enter you -- the open waters, the blue of the lake, the rocky outcrops of the land speckled like an old woman's hand, skin discoloured pink salmon, charcoal, washed out, transparent green. She will enter you. If you sit long enough.  If you let her.

Coming over by boat, steering around Light Island, Goose Island, we take our bearings from Big Point, across Lake Athabasca. Carl, a Metis, trapper by winter, fisher by summer, Ira, his eleven-year-old son, and Oliver, a retired fish and wildlife officer, point out English Island, Potato Island, Fort Chipewyan receding behind us. We sight peregrine falcons near the cliffs, geese feeding mid-lake, white pelicans in formation above us. Gingerly making our way around the peninsula, we cut the engine and paddle, ever gauging the lake bottom. A boat could easily run aground here. A sand spit stretches below and away from us for most of the two kilometres between Sandy Point and Burntwood Island. If the water level were a little lower, we could climb out and wade, the seas parting for us. Rounding the point, Carl shows me how to sight his cabin among several coves and worn rocky prominences on the horizon.

When I first arrived in Fort Chip, the locals pressed me: Why did I want to see the north shore of Lake Athabasca? Why the north shore with its sheer cliffs, frequent storms, difficult, even dangerous waters? Why not the south shore, all sand and beach? They knew cabins, people all along, not far from town, easy to access by boat. "I want to see the rock," I said simply. "The Canadian Shield. This is some of the oldest rock in the world." When they still looked puzzled, wanting to find the common language between us, I managed finally, "It's the closest thing to the beginning of things. It's the closest thing to the Creator." They nodded in recognition. "Oh."

"Stay for a week," Carl suggests as we unpack my gear, unfasten the cabin window shutters, check the propane line. "You'll be alright." Young Ira offers me his cap gun, "to scare off the bears." Of the high-tech variety, the cartridges are minute compared with those I used to play with as a child, offering less smoke, more bang. I leave them on the shelf. Before my companions depart, however, I beg personal instruction, store in my head the means of discharging the .303 hunting rifle hung over the inside front door, just in case. ...