9th June 2018

It wasn’t a good night. I woke at 3:30 a.m. to the sound of a loud TV in the next room. Judging by the accompanying snoring, the occupant had fallen asleep with it on. Sue was also awake, so we decided to try the trusted method of knocking on the wall. No response. Even when I hit the wall with as much venom as I could muster at that hour, there was no change.

Plan B, knocking on the door, was swiftly ruled out. This is North America, after all; people have guns up here and a tendency to use them first and think later. So, on to Plan C: I rang the room on the internal phone. After a few moments, the call was picked up and immediately put down again. Good, I had his attention. I rang again. This time, a groggy voice answered with, “What is it?” I politely pointed out that we were in the room next door and asked if he could turn off his TV. The TV went silent, and five minutes later, the snoring resumed in full force. You can’t win them all, I thought. Though at that moment, I did consider that a gun might have come in handy after all.

The alarm woke us at 7:30 a.m., and after a much-needed strong coffee, we got ourselves ready for the day’s adventure.

At the train station, we parked the car and waited in the platform waiting room with about a dozen other passengers. Most appeared to be of local Indigenous descent, though a few, like us, were clearly tourists. The Polar Bear Express is very much a workhorse of the north, serving the tiny settlements scattered across Ontario’s wilderness. It is not, as the name might suggest, a sleek, glamorous speedster. However, I have to say, the seating was some of the most comfortable I have ever experienced, which was just as well, given that the track appeared neither flat nor entirely parallel. Lurches and violent swings were the norm.

The train pulled out on time, and we were off.

The seats had charging points, both mains and USB, so I plugged in my mobile, pulled up a map app, and tracked our progress on its little screen, keeping an eye out for any noteworthy photo opportunities.

The weather was kind to us: clear, warm blue skies with the occasional puffy cloud, which we soon left behind. The route stretched 186 km northward, winding through dense forests, skirting lake shores, and crossing rivers ranging from mighty to barely noticeable. As we travelled further, the landscape became increasingly waterlogged, and the towering lodgepole pines began to shrink in height, though never in sheer numbers.

Cabins and outbuildings dotted the route sporadically, but even these grew fewer and farther between. Some people are brave enough to carve out a life in remote locations, but fewer still seem mad enough to attempt it where even the flora and fauna struggle to survive.

The train could be flagged down at various points along the track, and sure enough, we stopped at seemingly random locations. More often than not, when passengers disembarked or boarded, I could see no sign of habitation, no houses, no trails, not even a clearing. The Green Man? A fanciful notion, but surely they had somewhere to go. One of the more curious stops involved two men on ATVs who waved us down. They climbed aboard with rucksacks slung over their shoulders, leaving their expensive machines parked beside the track. We were in the middle of nowhere, but I suppose theft wasn’t much of a concern, unless the local bears had recently developed a knack for hotwiring quad bikes. Still, it felt odd.

The scenery was an endless stretch of pine, occasionally interrupted by stands of birch and clearings where logging had stripped the land bare. The felled areas were in various stages of regrowth, evidence of both nature’s resilience and man’s interference. Wildlife was scarce, just a few birds, though they were impressively large. The ponds and streams, ever-present in the landscape, were all the same distinctive tea-stained hue. Yorkshire tea, I fancy. I’d seen the same colouring in the watercourses of the Scottish Highlands, likely a result of minerals and bog moss… or, an astonishing level of whisky production.

One of our stops before Moosonee was at a hydroelectric plant, an impressive feat of engineering considering the remoteness of the location. The sight of water thundering over the dam was spectacular, a powerful reminder of nature being harnessed to serve human needs.

Breakfast was served on board, and despite the golden opportunity to fleece passengers, the prices were surprisingly reasonable. That said, most of the Indigenous passengers had brought their own food and drink, seemingly well-prepared for the journey.

We arrived in Moosonee on a gloriously warm afternoon. Our promised stopover of 3 hours and 10 minutes had been reduced by half an hour due to frequent stops along the way, but that was to be expected. This train was for the locals, not for tourists like us. Most of the other passengers vanished into waiting cars or taxis, while a few, like us, set off on foot in various directions.

We opted to follow what looked like the main street, heading toward the large body of water in the distance.

The people of Moosonee (pop. 4,500) were going about their day as we wandered through town, passing a school, a supermarket, a church, a restaurant, and finally a bar, closed, unfortunately.

Reaching the banks of the Moose River, we took a moment to sit and soak in the crisp, clear air, watching as a steady stream of powered canoes zipped across the water, picking up passengers and disappearing in various directions. Most seemed to follow the same route, which we assumed led to the Eco Village at Moose Factory, located on an island in the river. We had tried to book accommodation there, but after several unanswered emails, we gave up. A shame, really.

The water and air sparkled in the afternoon sun, fortunate, considering the town itself had no tarmac roads. Compact dirt and gravel made up the surfaces, kicking up clouds of dust as vehicles passed. I imagined Sue wondering how anyone managed to keep their laundry clean.

We spent a couple of hours roaming the town, taking photos and speculating on what life might be like here. We passed a large road-scraping machine multiple times as it rumbled through the streets, supposedly flattening the surface. In reality, it made a lot of noise, kicked up a lot of dust, and left the roads looking just as uneven as before.

Moosonee is laid out in a simple grid, making navigation easy. However, with the town’s main attractions, two museums, closed until The Season officially began on July 1st, we found ourselves back at the river.

There, on a large sandbank, a group of seals basked lazily in the sun, seemingly indifferent to the canoes skimming past, sometimes alarmingly close.

On our return to the station, we decided to go native and visit the local supermarket, picking up some snacks for the journey back. Given how remote Moosonee is, we expected eye-watering prices, but they were surprisingly reasonable. I suppose you don’t mess with these Indians!

The train departed promptly at 5 p.m., half-full once again, mostly with locals. Heading south under a cloudless sky, we took seats on the opposite side of the carriage to catch anything we might have missed on the way up.

Dinner was in the dining car, both of us opting for shepherd’s pie, Canadian-style, complete with sweet corn and a topping of cheese. I must say, Canadian Rail may have just improved on this traditional English dish. It was very tasty!

If you have a phobia of trees, this journey isn’t for you. But if you want to witness nature’s sheer determination in its rawest form, it’s a must. The vastness of the Canadian northland is breathtaking from above when flying to Calgary or Vancouver, but down here, where you can truly appreciate the endless layers of trees, marshes, lakes, and scattered wildlife, it’s something else entirely. You can’t help but wonder if there is a grand plan.

We arrived back in Cochrane an hour late, at 10:50 p.m., in total darkness. Some passengers were continuing to Toronto, good luck to them, I say. As for us, we were returning to our hotel and off to bed!