The North. Vast, rugged, untamed. Wellspring of the Canadian imagination. Behind me, the stubborn granitic core of the Anvil Batholith slumbers beneath its Paleozoic blanket. Before me, the ramparts of Rose Mountain tower over expanses of boreal green veined with silver streams, where salmon who have swum fifteen hundred miles arrive to spawn and be eaten by grizzlies. The primeval silence is broken only by the distant rumble of hundred-and-seventy-ton trucks in the huge open-pit mine to the south. Yes, it’s an awe-inspiring view. And it’s mine, all mine. I helped the geologist with reconnaissance this morning, but now he’s doing detailed mapping, so I don’t have to do much more than provide an alternate target for the bears, and they’re all down in the creeks anyway.

...

Purchase the issue to read more of this piece and others