A Soft Egg in the Nahanni – Part One

This is the 1st in a 4-part series on Yukon Road Trip

Weich Ei means “Soft Egg” in German. This defines a person’s character. In Canada we call them wimps.

Charly Kudlacek is from Frankfurt in the German state of Hesse and, as eggs go, is hard-boiled. We met Charly and his wife Marion in a remote unserviced campground at Summit Lake on the British Columbia portion of the Alaska Highway.

The place is named due to its location on the highest point of this international highway. The “Alcan” traverses 2237 kilometers from Dawson Creek in northeast British Columbia to its terminus at Delta Junction, Alaska. Remarkably the highway was built in just eight months during 1942, designed to stave off a possible World War II Japanese invasion.

Although June was nigh this high-altitude lake was covered in ice. We arrived late evening and set up camp. A solitary beaver, freshly emerged from winter lodging, coolly went about its business.

Canadian summers are brief. We Albertans tend to enjoy them near home, with perhaps a visit to the mountains or a week sunning and boating on a warm lake in the Okanagan. Winter is when we travel afar – invariably south – to destinations distant from home: Mexico, Arizona, Hawaii.

I’d never been north of Grande Prairie. So we decided it was time to see more of Canada in its season of warmth: the great white north converted green by boreal springtime.

My trip planning is poor: peruse a map, devise a vague strategy, perhaps talk to a couple of friends (over a beer) who have been to the parts we’re hoping to visit. I’ve attempted advance-planning – reading about the sights, the flora, the fauna – but somehow it just doesn’t sink in for me until the experience actually happens. I learn as I go, waiting to see what’s around the next corner.

A stranger at a campground in Fort Nelson, BC told us about a bush pilot who flew floatplane charters from Muncho Lake, B.C. to remote Virginia falls in Nahanni National Park, in the Northwest Territories.

I had no idea where Muncho Lake was. I checked the map and found it was two days up the road, directly on our path to the Yukon. I phoned and spoke to Marianne of Northern Rockies Lodge. She and her husband – Urs the pilot – own this beautiful spot on the lake.

“Urs is in Vancouver getting the floatplane ready for the season,”” said Marianne in a thick Swiss accent. “The lake still has ice and he can’t land until it clears. Perhaps call again in a day or two.”

That was the night we camped at Summit Lake and met Charly and Marion. I asked them if they’d like to join us on a trip to Virginia Falls – if the ice cleared and Urs could fly in. I waxed eloquently, exaggerating my meager knowledge of the Nahanni (which I had gleaned from a guide book in the previous fifteen minutes).

The floatplane seats nine and I’d been told Urs wouldn’t fly with less than four paying customers.
Germans have a propensity for austerity exceeded only by Scots, so I was not optimistic that our Alaska Highway adventure would include a spur-of-the-moment side trip to the Northwest Territories.

“We shall sleep on this,” announced Charly.

In the morning crispness Charly informed me that, “Marion and I have slept on this and agree that we shall join you if the conditions permit.”

We spent the next two days in the company of our newfound German friends, enjoying wonderful hiking in this remote corner of northeastern BC, enchanted by the sight of moose, bear, lynx, red fox, caribou, wood bison, stone sheep and a countless variety of birds and other wildlife.

Charly and Marion have made five trips to Canada. They have seen more of our home and native land than have I – an embarrassing admission. They never arrive unprepared. Their well-appointed camper van was reasonably priced and fully equipped; except for the axe. Charly brought his own finely-edged Fiskar from Germany.

“Charly” is a strange name for a German. Marion told us that he was actually christened “Karl”. But in West Germany in the 1960’s the name Karl (for reasons I didn’t ask and he didn’t disclose) had a negative connotation. So as a young man he adopted a modern, western moniker.

After a particularly tiring day-hike up a melting mountain creek, Charly asked if I would like to join him for a short run down the highway. Naturally I was stupid enough to agree. 10 kilometers and an hour later I stumbled back to camp lamely following his tireless lead.

Charly was apologetic. “In former times I was not so slow and the distance would be much greater.”

When I collapsed into bed that night Charly was alternating between calisthenics and wood-chopping. In the morning I stumbled out into the bright sun and found him washing in the cold creek. He’d been up for hours, eaten his daily morning repast of eggs, meat, cheese, tea, fruit and five pieces of bread and had completed 50 pushups and 100 sit-ups. Then he buckled down to real breakfast: a hearty bowl of Muesli.

Did I mention that Charly is older than I? He’s no weich ei.

They say the Irish would rule the world were it not for Guinness. After observing Charly for a few days I have concluded that there is somewhat more to the equation.