If we’d been here 238 years and two weeks ago, we would have witnessed the appalling scene that gave this place its grisly name. In 1768 Copper Indians from the northern Canadian tundra showed up at Fort Prince of Wales, the Hudson’s Bay Company’s post on the western shore of Hudson Bay, with chunks of native copper to trade. They described a great river and fabulous deposits of copper lying about on the ground near its mouth. Samuel Hearne, an up-and-coming young English employee of the Company, volunteered and was appointed to trek across the tundra to the mouth of the river, on the Arctic coast, to evaluate the prospects of its exploitation. Hearne would have to walk virtually the whole way to the north coast and back.

It took him three tries. The first time, he was plundered by natives and returned destitute; the second, attempted with the protection of a local chief, ended when he broke his quadrant and was unable to survey further; but on the third, he was successful. He reached the ocean, searched the area unsuccessfully for copper, and returned. By the time he got back, three years after first setting out, he’d covered about 5000 miles, feasting and starving with Indian guides, and established that there was no northwest passage across the continent south of the Canadian archipelago.

Toward the end of his outward journey, right where we’re camped this beautiful evening, his Chipewyan scouts reported a band of Inuit fishing at the base of these falls. The Indians and Inuit were mortal enemies. In spite of Hearne’s entreaties – over a thousand miles from home, he was in no position to give orders – the Indians painted their faces, crept up on the unsuspecting families at the falls, and just after midnight, fell upon them as they slept, spearing as many as they could. Hearne was as appalled as he was helpless to stop the slaughter, or the abuse of the bodies afterward. The incident affected him for the rest of his life, and he gave the place the name Bloody Falls. Fifty years later to the day, John Franklin’s first expedition to find the Northwest Passage descended the Coppermine and found the skulls of the unfortunate Inuit where they had died.

We approached the unrunnable canyon of Bloody Falls cautiously; but its basalt cliffs and deep roar are impossible to miss. Following a well-worn portage trail up a steep hill, we discovered to our amazement that there’s now a boardwalk three feet wide for about half the length of the portage. We passed a pressure-treated post hung with signs indicating that this was now Kuglok (“falling water”) Provincial Park, and that it contained evidence of 3500 years of native habitation. At the end of the carry, more wonders: a picnic ground with tables and benches (oh, the joy of a seat with a back after three weeks in a Crazy Creek!), a fireplace, and a solidly built two-hole privy! We’ve pitched our tents in beaten-down patches where tents have been before and settled in for a two-night stay. The afternoon sun has made a sweat lodge of our tent, but I have a page-turner to finish before tomorrow morning, when I have to give it back to its owner (not that he wants it; I just don’t want to carry it any farther than I have to).

There were Inuit fishing for char at the foot of the falls today, just as there were when Hearne arrived here 238 years ago. But instead of nets and spears, these were using spinning rods and shiny spoons. And instead of walking to the falls from the river mouth, they’d ridden ATVs. Terry, the older of the two, was employed by the government of Nunavut as a social worker, and the younger, John Henry, had been a heavy equipment operator until he retired at 55. He was looking a little chagrined; he’d been trying to land a big char and accidentally knocked his rod into the river. So he was both rodless and fishless. We agreed that char, a lot like their first cousins the brook trout, are finicky creatures. One day you’ll hook a dozen or so, and the next, none.

Ever since an ill-fated canoe trip in 1997 when, at the end, our pickup plane couldn’t find us for several days, we’ve carried a satellite phone for just such situations, and to inform our wives each week of our progress. I realized today that Larry hadn’t heard from me in about a month, and had no idea if we were even in Canada. So I called him: “Here I am,” I announced, “bouncing a signal off a satellite God-knows-how-many miles out in space, just to call you eight miles away.”. We invited him and his wife, Helen, for supper, but there was no easy way for them to get to the falls. He has a Challenger Ultralight on wheels and floats, but the river is too risky a landing place. He said he’d buzz us, though, and sure enough, just before suppertime we heard the roar of the Rotax engine from behind a hill. A few moments later the bright yellow little plane circled us three times – Helen waving from the back seat – and disappeared downriver.

So after almost three weeks of hearing nothing but running water, alarmed birds, an occasional plane going by far up, and our own voices, we’re about to plunge back into the electronic world; the ATVs, satellite phone, and Larry’s flying visit are all harbingers. My mind is already on getting the canoes ready for shipping back to Yellowknife, getting my incredibly grotty clothes washed, and getting us all to the Kugluktuk airport on time Tuesday afternoon. But for the moment we’ll sit beside the falls and commune with the ghosts of thousands of years of other campers.