In Northern Quebec’s Tundra, Wilderness Is Still Wild

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I could scream, and no one would ever hear me. The thought crossed my mind one chilly late September morning deep in the Quebecois tundra.

It took three days just to get to the middle of nowhere: One flight took me from Denver to Montreal. Another took me to Kuujjuaq, an Inuit town on the northernmost part of Québec and only accessible via aircraft and boat. (During the short stopover in the town, I learned that the formerly nomadic Inuit tribe stayed in Kuujjuaq after the Canadian government killed the nation’s sled dogs with poisoned meat in the 1950s—an offense for which officials apologized just last month). Then a small tin can of a bush plane took me to Leaf River Lodge, a small cluster of buildings 5 miles south of the Arctic Circle that once operated as a hunting lodge due to its close proximity to the annual caribou migration on the Leaf River. But I wasn’t there for that kind of hunting. I was hunting for photographs and maybe enlightenment in the great expanse. 

After a quick sleep in the Wes Anderson-style lodge, I got up in the darkness and donned my wool layers before stepping into sub-freezing temperatures to see if I could catch any unassuming animal first thing in the morning. The sun was cresting over the horizon when I found myself on “the highway,” a small sandy path that faded into nothing a few hundreds yards away from the lodge that the local guides nicknamed as a joke.

Wary of the crunch of earth beneath my feet, I scanned the mostly flat horizon for any sign of movement. I heard them before I saw them: The little squawks of ptarmigans arose through the berry bushes. The smallest bird in the grouse family, their bodies wiggled and their wings stretched under the orange light as they began their morning wakeup process. They perked up as I drew near, heads bobbing in the brush. Then I aimed and shot my camera. Got it. 

Wilderness Still Exists, Albeit Much Less of It

I’d been reading about the “wilderness” since I was a kid, collecting book after book from authors like Jon Krakauer and Maurice Herzog. As an adult, I traveled to Alaska and Nepal to peer into the few places that humanity hadn’t transformed. But by 2024, just 23 percent of the earth’s surface was considered to be truly wild, and just 5 percent of the United States fell into that category. Those wilderness areas had been shrinking at a rate of over 3 percent per year from 2000 to 2013 due to urban expansion.

Nearly 10 years after falling in love with backpacking, I wanted to dive deeper into the great expanse and explore places where few other humans had ever stepped foot, which was what brought me to Nunavik, a 171,307.62-square-mile province in the northern third of Québec. 

One afternoon, Life River Lodge’s owner, Louis Tardif, took me and a few other adventurers down the river on a small boat. A short ride later, we pulled over to a shore that looked like it contained nothing. But before I knew it, Tardif was guiding us through the bushes and up a growing rock formation that landed us next to a waterfall.  

After fixing our eyes on the cascading water, we had our fill of wild berries that grew all around the shore and began our descent back to the boat. Just then, Tardif hushed us and pointed off into the distance. There, in the middle of nowhere, a curious black bear poked its head up. 

As we drew closer, the bear stood up, attempting to catch our scent to no avail. It began walking toward us as Tardif began shouting and discouraging the pursuit. The bear turned and ran, but as we began our descent back to the boat, we noticed it following our tracks. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that bear had never seen humans before,” Tardif said with a smile. 

Climate Change is Impacting Caribou Migration Patterns

Running into wildlife that might never have encountered humans before made my jaw drop. I’d never considered that there were still places that were remote enough to cultivate such wilderness. The bears were something to behold. The caribou were even stranger. 

“The caribou are confused,” Tardif explained one morning after we’d encountered a solo male wandering the shore. There used to be a time in the season when the whole 200,000-head herd would make its way south, cross the Leaf River, and continue moving toward the warmth until winter passed. Now, they wander in circles. 

The climbing temperatures were partially to blame. Scarce food sources were, too. Lichen, a primary winter food source for caribou, was becoming less available. Also, the berry bushes remained full and colorful much later into the season than they once did, giving no need to leave. So, the caribou stay near the convenient food sources, instead of seeking nourishment out where it would otherwise grow seasonally.

Even the trees were changing. Tardif explained that larch trees—a deciduous conifer that sheds its needles every season—were a new addition to the landscape. Up until the last decade or two, locals had never spotted such a tree in the great expanse. When Tardif’s dad drove hundreds of miles across the tundra to build the Leaf River Lodge decades ago, these trees did not exist in the region. Perhaps it was another indication of a changing climate. 

The caribou migration was happening later every year, too. I found myself on the Leaf River in late September. Although we spotted dozens of caribou in varying group sizes, the main 200,000-animal herd had not yet made it to the river, like they usually do at that point in the season 

But one day, after an afternoon rain, we were hiking across the tundra when I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye. There, in the distance was a mother and baby caribou, making their way east. They stopped and looked right at me. Although life for the caribou had been changing for years, the young generation was just as wide-eyed and determined as ever.