clickity clack, clickity clack. The train rumbled along the single rail line heading north, all the way to James Bay. The gentle swaying of the car had several people dozing in the comfortable seats, while outside the window, dense forests of tamarack, pine and spruce touched the blue sky. Often the train would cross over large and isolated rivers, white water flowing out the to Arctic Ocean. The undergrowth was thick and dark, ferns and small brushes blocking out the view. Overhead a large bird left its shadow on the land, unconcerned with our passing. Our train made very infrequent stops, at dirt roads going nowhere as there are no continuous roads in this part of the country. Instead, small communities nestled close to the tracks. At one stop a group of workers departed, presumably to work at the hydroelectric dam visible in the distance.
The train continued on its way, and after five hours came to Moosesnee, a small Cree community on James Bay. Once a major port for the fur trade, the area is now a small town only accessible by plane or train, and acts as a transportation hub for the James Bay lowlands. Thirty years ago, I was here with my mom, and have fond memories of not just the train, but of the huge canoes that transported people to Moose Factory, as well as the indigenous locals who taught traditional crafts such as bannock making to tourists. That is all gone now, only the faded tourists sign on an old, decommissioned train car greet tourists as they step off the train. The station is surrounded by metal beams, concrete and dirt. There are no signs pointing to local gift or craft shops, no signs to a nice spot to sit for a cold drink. There is nothing inviting tourists to step off the train, and indeed, we wished we never had.
We walked along the dusty road into the middle of town, expecting to find some of what I remember from my youth. The town had grown, and small homes covered several blocks. I had booked a hotel at…the only hotel in town. The doors are only briefly open, to coincide with the train’s arrival. We were warned that after that small window the doors are always locked. We were given several side glances, as no other group of tourists had stepped off the train, only locals, construction workers and a group of hunters. Definitely no one else in flipflops and a wide brimmed hat, no one with older children. One person went so far as to ask, with obvious surprise, if we were tourists. When we said yes, this local gentleman expressed concern, and advised against going to Tidewell Provincial park, as there is no one there and no guarantee that we would be picked up by the local water taxis. This provincial park, the most northernly in Ontario, had been on our list for a day trip, and I was brushing off his concerns, while my very quiet, very deep inner voice was preaching caution.
We left the hotel and headed towards the water, assuming that this is where we would find the taxis and ferry to the island. The heat was brutal, which we did not expect this far north, but it was the giant deer flies that caused my kids the most misery, some as long as a small finger, with bites that felt like chihuahuas nipping at your skin. These monsters were undeterred by any amount of DEET, and I suspect they were immune to bug spray. Tornadoes of these bugs formed around each of my kids, though for some reason they mostly ignored me. Out came the bug hats and shirts, which did nothing to repel these beasts, and only increased the heat. We walked along the waterfront, long grasses swaying in the breeze. The Moose river was smooth and dark, flowing towards James Bay and the Arctic Ocean while along the waters edge small boats moved with the current. We searched for a sign indicating either the water taxis or ferry docking, before conceding retreat and deciding that food was our next stop. Easier said than done. There are no restaurants, no cafes, no food trucks. There is a grocery store, with a takeout only KFC. Inside the grocery store, people pushed carts with a few items, unlike the overflowing carts we see in the south. Although when a can of coffee is fifty dollars, people would need to be very frugal with their money. We grabbed a few items to eat in the hotel room; a couple sandwiches, water and drink boxes, for the astounding price of sixty dollars. Back in our room, the winged beasts banged forcefully into the windows, determined to have their pound of flesh.
The next morning, we set off determined to visit the historic sites. We called the local Cree tourists director, and she directed us to Moose Factory and the Cree cultural center. Once again, we dared the unrelenting sun and swarms of deer flies and walked along the waterfront, and through more construction sites, and along an active rail line, and still no sign to direct us to the ferry. Instead, we stood on the shore and watched the ferry cross the river and we ran parallel to the vessel to judge where it might dock. There, a dirt and rock track leading to the water and the ferry docking, and we were clambering on board. The ride was lovely, the cool breeze ruffling our sweat soaked hair, and momentarily blowing away the bugs. The reprieve was short lived, and we found ourselves standing on a long dusty road. We walked, and walked and walked, under that hot sun, before finally arriving thirty minutes later at the cultural centre, only to find it closed for lunch. With no bench to sit on, and no shade, I became concerned that my son was experiencing heat exhaustion. We turned back, and after a rest under a tree in a church yard, boarded that ferry and returned to the hotel.
We never made it to Tidewell, the water taxis being too dubious for us, with not a life jacket in site. We never went out at night to see the northern lights, as after several interesting interactions with locals we decided it was too dangerous. We never explored James Bay to look for seals and belugas, as we did not bring cash and never found an ATM. We never saw a cultural site, as they all remained locked and not open to the public except by calling ahead. This is not a stopover for the regular tourist, instead it is for fishermen and outdoors people who want the rugged experience. Heading back to the train, we saw older couples with walkers getting off and felt it our duty to tell them to go back to the train station to wait for the return trip, as there was no where else for them to sit for a break. Back on the train, I marvelled at the scenery, as the setting sun painted the sky in shades of pink and orange and outlined the black, slender trunks of spruce strutting off to the horizon. Perhaps we did not do any of things that we hoped for, but we did spend time together and have some interesting memories to look back on.
If you do choose to go to Moosenee, plan in advance. Visit https://northernontario.travel and book your visit with local tour operators.