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ON THE JAMES BAY WINTER ROAD—David Kataquapit and his cousin Eric Kataquapit are manhandling a large, gas-powered augur across the frozen Kapiskau River south of Attawapiskat.
They’re swaddled head to toe to dough-boy plumpness, wearing construction helmets and reflector vests, heavy gloves and ice cleats on their big boots, their breath puffs of white against the crystalline blue sky.
It was -35C when their shift started at 7 a.m. The temperature rose to about -20C by noon. It will be down in the -30s again by quitting time at 7 p.m.
“We’re used to it,” David laughs. “Sometimes it gets cold. It’s not that cold now. No wind.” He nods to the east toward James Bay and says Eric was “born on this river.” Born in the bush, in fact, a few kilometres up the southern bank. The traditional way of life is as recent to the Kataquapits, as it is for many James Bay Cree, as their childhood.
With a yank by Eric on the rip cord, the motor grunts to readiness and, with a cousin on each side, the augur begins boring another hole into the ice.
Down, and then the men pull up the augur to shed some snow. Down again, and up. Down again, and up. Until the entire length of the augur’s boring corkscrew of almost four feet (1.25 metres) is swallowed by the ice over the Kapiskau. Finally, another push, and a gush of water rises from below.
Here, the men estimate the river crossing is about 1,000 feet (305 metres) — one of the widest on the winter road. Two banks of snow mark the lanes for traffic and also contain water when the lane is flooded. Small evergreens are stuck in the snow berms to make them more visible to drivers against the all-white landscape. The men drill holes every 100 feet (30.5 metres) or so, in the middle and on each side of the crossing lane, to gauge the depth.
They’ve hauled their equipment out onto the river in a boxy wooden sleigh — an au da ba nas in Cree — pulled by a Ski-doo. Some of their tools are rudimentary, if perfectly serviceable.
They take a long wooden stake, marked by hand in inches. A nail has been hammered laterally at the bottom. They put the pole down the hole they’ve just bored, use the nail to feel for the bottom of the ice, and measure its depth.
Forty-two inches. Not quite there yet. The magic number is 43 inches (1.09 metres). And some of the other holes aren’t as deep as this. The measurements are recorded daily on “Ice Thickness Collection Forms” that the men carry on a clipboard. Even here, so seemingly far from the necessary nuisances of modernity, there is paperwork.
The measurements are crucial. Ice of 43 inches across the river will support commercial loads of about 100,000 pounds (45,000 kilograms). Unaided by men, the river would freeze to only about two feet or so. And the James Bay Winter Road, which follows the bay’s western coast about 300 kilometres from Moosonee to Attawapiskat, won’t open to its heavy traffic of supply trucks to isolated native communities until safe thickness is reached.
So the Kataquapits, or another crew, will insert a pump hose down into the river to siphon water for flooding the ice once more, the berms containing the water, to deepen and strengthen the crossing. Two wide lanes are built, here and at other water crossings along the road. Traffic uses one while the other is built up. The next day, the process is switched.
“If it wasn’t for us, the ice wouldn’t be thick enough,” says David. “We have to flood it.”
For weeks now, car and light-truck traffic has passed up and down throughout the day, limited to gross weight of 16,500 pounds (7,484 kilograms). The ice has to be only about 20 inches (51 centimetres) thick to support that.
But it is the heavy traffic — and the supplies it carries — that makes this road the lifeline for Fort Albany, Kashechewan and Attawapiskat, and makes its official opening one of the high points of the year.
Only the people who live in those remote first nations communities, far from the consciousness of most Canadians, truly understand how important it is that the Kataquapits, and others like them, are out for 12 hours or more each day in the numbing cold, building this most essential and unusual of Ontario thoroughfares.
To Ontarians from what James Bay residents invariably call “down south,” anyone chomping at the bit to drive almost 300 kilometres on roads made of ice, the surface like a really, really long backyard skating rink — with no service station on the entire route — would likely be regarded as certifiable.
But in Fort Albany, in Kashechewan, in Attawapiskat — inaccessible in summer except by plane — the opening of the road in late December or early January means nothing short of freedom.
“We all take off right away to see who’s first” to get to Moosonee, says 24-year-old John Loon of Fort Albany.
For the rest of this article, please go to the Toronto Star website: http://www.thestar.com/news/ontario/article/1126212–the-james-bay-winter-road-links-attawapiskat-and-moosonee-in-northern-ontario