by Bill Bennett
It was in 1981 the first time my group discovered a forlorn cabin nestled in the tall jackpine and birch trees behind a labyrinth of little islands on the north shore of Wabakimi Lake. Located deep within Ontario’s Wabakimi Provincial Park far from any road, there was little doubt this humble abode has evoked tale after tale of speculation and wonder. It was clear that people had lived and loved here, probably struggling to eke out an existence in this remote wilderness. It was also clear that whoever had constructed this modest, yet unusual cabin had some serious off-grid survival skills. The old cabin had a story to tell…
At that time, we were new to Wabakimi and were scouting the lake for good places to fish. I remember being with my dad that day, we’d decided to fish around the islands up on the north side. It was breezy and the islands offered good shelter against the winds. It was also on this day we came around a little nondescript island and looked upon an old 12 foot tin boat pulled up on the rough bank turned upside down. It looked as though it hadn’t been used in years. We could see the sunlight glinting off the aluminum and that’s what first drew us to the spot. As our focus expands we see this roughhewn cabin built high among the rugged terrain. At first glance it looked like whoever built it here was crazy – the ground was so uneven and strewn with slabs of granite boulder. The surrounding pines grew so close that you just know they rubbed on the cabin with any sort of wind. We decided to investigate
I remember well my dad hailing the camp as we nosed into shore. We felt like trespassers as we explored the site careful not to disturb anything. The first thing we noticed was this ingenious live well built from rocks at least 4 feet deep in the shallow water near shore. Walking up the short path we discovered the campfire site with cleverly constructed benches made from stumps and timber slabs in a semi-circle. Along the other side was a playground area with a swing set and teeter totter, all handmade. Visible trails were found although most were overgrown. The forest was quickly reclaiming the site. We found several outbuildings behind the cabin, all of them well built. Of course we found the outhouse, but I have no memory of looking inside. There was a shed with animal traps hanging on the wall that fascinated me. Another outbuilding was used as a smoker and there was even one crafted as a sauna. The cabin itself was in pretty decent shape, there was a padlock on the door, but it could be popped open easily with a screwdriver. Of course we honoured it as being an occupied dwelling. Our suspicions were confirmed when we looked through the window to see dishes in the sink and books on the table. We decided to respect the locked door, but we would stop by and check on things each year, even if it was just a slow drift by.
By 1994 the cabin was rapidly deteriorating and we finally entered it for the first time. At this point the door was barely passable and the roof had failed. Really nothing had changed in the cabin though, the same books, the same dishes in the sink. One of our guys found the name of Joel Crookham in some old papers at the camp. When he returned home he sought him out and wrote to him. Joel eventually responded and thus began the first chapter in what was, and still is, a fascinating story. The history of the first family of Wabakimi.
In 2010 I took my wife to a lodge just outside of Armstrong Station, Ontario. Armstrong, known as “the gateway to Wabakimi Park”, is a tiny town of natives roughly 50 miles of rugged bush south of Wabakimi Lake. We came almost a full day ahead of time so we could spend some extra time in town. Speaking with locals about the trappers camp on Wabakimi, we came away with another name – Mary Bea Kenny. Mary was Joel’s wife and I managed to contact her with an email.
Mary opened up to me and shared her story, answering a question we’d pondered for years.
Mary Bea Kenny was born in White Plains, New York, but her parents were both from Iowa and came from farm families of Ojibway descent. Mary immigrated to Canada in 1972 and became a Canadian citizen in 1978. Joel would often be gone for days at a time tending an 80 mile circle which he’d have to check each week. Having gotten to know her a bit, in our eyes Mary was a cross between Pocahontas and Elly Mae Clampett, Wabakimi style. The birds in the sky serenade her. The bear, moose and wolf understand her and the caribou do not fear her. The forest here was as natural to Mary as she was to it. She not only home schooled her two babies who were 4 and 2 that first winter, but protected them and raised them through 5 of the most brutal winter conditions mother nature has to offer. I have come to respect her immensely.
Here is the real story.
In 1975, Joel set the trapline living that winter in just a wall tent. In the spring of 1976 Mary and Joel and the kids met a Swedish man named Bo Persson visiting Canada. They met while camping earlier that summer on the Sibley Peninsula near Thunder Bay, Ontario. They were telling him about building the cabin up on Wabakimi and he wanted to come up and help. A friendship was struck and Bo came for a few weeks helping Joel with the heavy construction. When finished he carved his name into the door, something we’d noticed and always wondered about.
It was during this time that Joel and Mary would spend much of their summers guiding and planting trees in Armstrong. Come September they would load up their two canoes with provisions, both kids and the family dog and cat and make the arduous trek back to their winter haven. Their arrival would coincide with the last of the fly-in fishermen departing. They were alone in the wilderness. Much firewood needed to be cut and the trapline needed to be set – it was hard work. But it was the type of honest labor that gives a man great satisfaction. They would harvest a moose every fall and ate a lot of dried foods and fish in order to survive the long harsh winters. Such a life gives a man true inner peace. Mary would home school her kids in the morning and they would do chores gathering firewood and hauling water in the afternoon. Once chores were done it was playtime. Mary would make bread every Monday for the week. It was a simple life, but a happy one. Joel Mary, Jason and Sarah lived like this for 5 years till Joel sold his trapline in 1981 and the camp abandoned.
In Mary’s own words, “At Wabakimi, I think I lived like many Native American women in my family did since the 1600’s.”
In 1981 Joel wrote a short biography of his life in his journal. “Age 33, born in Council Bluffs Iowa. Immigrated to Canada in 1972, became a Canadian citizen in 1976. Very physical person, love to do things by hand, get very little pleasure out of machines, hate roads, never been impressed with social institutions. Like people but only in small doses or a few at a time. Have a tendency for adventure, love the lure of wilderness and the challenges it imposes. Vietnam veteran at 20; that woke me up to the state of the world. Canoed Quetico since the age of 12. Even at a young age, I always wondered why I had to return home and leave the remote wilderness. Have lived an isolated life for 10 years in one place or another. Found early how simple it is to live, how pleasurable the simple things are. Believe one should not be isolated from the rhythms of the natural world. We feel at home in remote places. We know we can take care of ourselves. We accept the risks. A warm fire and a good meal at -30 feels better and tastes better sixty miles from nowhere than in any city on the earth”.
The boreal forest of Wabakimi is a harsh and unforgiving environment teeming with wolves, bears, moose and caribou. Joel and Mary were able to coexist with the wolves using their outdoors moxie. A tale that Joel told in his journal was dated February 18 1980. “Very early this morning we were serenaded by wolves. All night we heard them intermittently. This morning before the sun, Mary was up and out as the wolves were very close. The air was still and the sky cloudy and low. The wolves were howling in long tremendous songs from the islands in front of the cabin. A rich, low voice of an older wolf began, then three more would join in, with a young one giving a worried yipping high pitched call. The raven and boreal owls joined in for a symphony. Mary howled to them and they answered her. Soon in the silence between answers, she felt they were drawing nearer and sure enough, each song was closer until they were only a couple islands away. Then a strange thing occurred. Just before a song would begin, the air would quiver as though a giant were silently humming and setting every molecule of air vibrating. It was a sense between hearing and feeling and the air seemed alive and pulsating. All four of us were standing on shore, howling to the wolves in our pajamas”.
No question, an extraordinary family who marched to the beat of their own drum. Proud, independent and at one with nature, they recognized the need to tread lightly on this fragile land.
Joel had a series of small overnight cabins for the winter rounds of his trapline. I believe that my group stumbled upon the ruins of one of these overnight cabins on Lower Wabakimi Lake years ago. It’s long gone now.
It must be said that Sarah tragically perished in a scuba diving accident while working and traveling overseas at the end of 1994. A year or so later, her brother Jason paddled back to Wabakimi and spread Sarah Serena Crookham’s ashes where they grew up. Gone as well, but the memories remain. We now have a quiet moment for Sarah, each time we are back.
Jason Crookham has a medical practice in Hawaii today and Joel is retired from his tree planting business and we think he is with family in Thunder Bay. Mary is an environmental scientist and owns Blue Sky Ranch with her present husband George Kenny, author of the book “Indians Don’t Cry” outside of Dinorwic, Ontario. Ironically, Brad, our bush pilot from Northern Wilderness Outfitters is their closest neighbor.
Today, the trapper’s camp on Wabakimi is not much more than a pile of rubble. After the roof fell in it wasn’t long until the ravages of the boreal forest took the structure to granite. The corner posts still stand tall as if impervious to the effects of deterioration. The walls of pine logs on each side are slowly folding in amongst themselves. A large birch tree, its white bark sticking out distinctly, fell across the structure at some point as if they were meant to die together. It fell so softly that it’s just resting on the center of it, its gentle branches spreading undisturbed. Fresh growth scrub trees are fighting their way up through this weakened mass of wooden rubble.
It wouldn’t surprise me if the Ministry of Natural Resources would decide to burn what’s left at some point. I hope not. I like to go back each year and look, it’s comforting to see that it’s still there. I like to see that same 12 foot tinny sitting in its same spot undisturbed for the last 35 years. I take comfort just knowing the story of the amazing occupants of this old camp. I don’t see a pile of rubble – I see a history and a lifetime of memories. If one squints real hard you can still hear the shriek of children happily playing as Mary looks on through the window. For us, just as Joel so eloquently expressed, the air seems alive and pulsating.
