We’re a mixture of Americans, from both Canada and the United States, which might provoke the question, why do you all go north for your trips? Several reasons. First, undefiled river corridors are virtually nonexistent anymore in the States. Even the vaunted Allagash, supposedly protected from lumbering interests by a strip of undisturbed forest, has suffered significantly during the recent years of federal regulatory myopia. It’s often crowded and noisy. The Connecticut River is lovely, and now more hospitable than before because of designated and maintained campsites along its route; but it’s pretty much dammed up all through its prettiest sections and rarely out of earshot of reciprocating engine noise.

Second, because of a harmonic convergence of paper birch habitat and rivers that flow in all directions in Canada, a native canoe culture developed there that has been absent in the States. The Iroquois had neither the building materials nor the extensive rivers of their northern neighbors.

Third, bugs. You can’t believe how bad black flies and mosquitoes can be until you’ve seen the cloudy swarms on the tundra. They climb into ears, nose, and mouth; crawl under wristwatch, belt, and hat band to suck blood and leave welts; and cluster by the hundreds on the netting of tent doors to remind us what awaits if we touch that zipper. I now take an empty quart bottle to bed with me. What (you might well ask) is so attractive about bugs? This: When you peep through the cloud of insects in front of your face, you see nobody else but your own party. Nobody. You’re catching lake trout literally as long as your leg, but the sporting camp types are far, far away.

There are many other reasons to go – caribou, bears, musk oxen, wolves that seem more intrigued than frightened by your presence; land rolling treeless to a deserted horizon; water that you can dip up and drink, – except, perhaps, just downstream from a caribou crossing.

If you could gather the collected experiences of the hundred people in this room, it would fill a multi-volume encyclopedia. They’ve paddled rivers with British names – Coppermine, Burnside, Back – but others with their original ones – Koroc, Nastapoka, Hiukitak. Many have crossed the Arctic Circle several times. They’ve experimented with dozens of different canoes (an irrelevancy to the uninitiated, but crucial to the aficionado). They know which outfitters and charter companies to use and which to avoid. They argue about esoterica such as whether to tie gear into a canoe in rapids, or let it float free in case of a dump. (I’m a free-floater, myself, except for duffle that won’t float.) Most have taken inadvertent icewater baths, and in mystic, silent moments, have looked into the inscrutable, appraising eyes of white wolves.

Many of us here have followed the ancient paths of native people or the historic routes of early explorers. We’ve been windbound, soaked by days-long rain, frozen by cold wind and driven sleet, and so exhausted after a long day of headwinds that only the momentum of the group has kept us awake long enough to cook some supper. But we’ve also shared the exhilaration of a big rapid run and done, quiet summer evenings with the tents up and the dishes done, steaming cups of hot coffee between cold hands, and the pure pleasure of a compatible company of fellow voyageurs.

Yet all here is not pure sweetness and light. Occasional references in various presentations hint that what has happened in the United States is also happening in northern Canada. With global warming rapidly opening the Northwest Passage to shipping, the immense mineral wealth of the North is ever more accessible and economically viable. Those living there are excited about the possibilities; those of us going north for solitude have the sense that we’re seeing the last of it.

Besides that, we notice that every year there are more gray heads among us. When I ask a middle-aged couple who’ve paddled together for decades whether their kids have followed them, they refer vaguely to the demands of jobs and families – as if that ever once made a difference. More and more, we sense, this is an electronic age, in which cyberentertainment has to a great extent superseded playing outdoors after school, joining Boy Scouts, and dreaming of adventure. It seems likely that, with our passing – and a few almost every year are unable even to join us – we will not be replaced. The last days of the wild, uninhabited North may pass unseen. And no one will care.

On the other hand, in our discussions on the subject, some of us have felt that texting, iPods, and virtual experience will pall eventually, and young people will again look for the real thing. If and when that happens, we can only hope there’ll be enough of us left to pass on our equipment, our knowledge and experience, and our love of the vast wild lands just to the north of us.