In the Canadian Tundra, Wildlife Photography Tours Are Reshaping a Former Hunting Lodge

I hide behind rocks. I army crawl across the berry-strewn tundra ground, staining my pants dark purple. The bear doesn’t seem concerned with the slow-moving group of humans growing closer. It’s likely, in fact, the first time the young bear has ever seen people before.

In one thrilling instant, the bear pauses foraging and rises onto staunch hind legs. It stares at our group, lazily suspending two massive paws by its belly, claws dangling like chandeliers. Its satiny fur shines in the harsh midday sun, and I quickly check my camera’s settings using my newfound photography knowledge: f-stop low as possible, ISO 500, autofocus on.

I hold my breath and click. Perfect. Professional photographers would call it the “money shot.”

The bear moseys away. When it disappears behind an orange knoll, we jubilantly exhale, cheer, laugh, and exchange ebullient high fives. The weight of my camera seems heavier now, swollen with the photographic gold it now holds.

This is one of many powerful moments I experienced while participating in Leaf River Lodge’s first-of-its-kind wildlife photography tour in subarctic Nunavik, located a cool 850 miles north of Montréal.

The adventure begins: getting to Nunavik and the Leaf River Lodge

Getting to Leaf River Lodge is an adventure in itself. The outfitter is based in Nunavik, a France-sized territory in Canada that’s home to just 15,000 people, 90 percent of whom are Inuit.

There are no connecting roads in Nunavik, as the region is striated with finger lakes, rivers, ponds, and other bodies of water. Travel by two Inuit-owned airlines, Canadian North and Air Inuit, is the only way to traverse this vast area. Guests can enlist Leaf River Lodge to book flights — owner Louis Tardif can help to secure the best flight rates and manage travel details.

My journey begins with a two-hour plane ride from Montréal to Kuujjuaq (pronounced “koo-joo-ack”), the largest community in Nunavik and the territory’s administrative center. Ideally, you’d take a connecting Twin Otter bush plane directly to Leaf River Lodge from the Kuujjuaq airport. But because the small aircraft are highly dependent on weather, it’s not uncommon for visitors to stay overnight in Kuujjuaq to await a plane-friendly weather window. (There are two reliable hotels in Kuujjuaq: the Auberge Kuujjuaq Inn and Hôtel De La Coopérative De Kuujjuaq.)

I squeeze into Air Inuit’s Twin Otter — a handsome, compact plane with two propellers. Sitting mere feet from the cockpit, I meet the guides for the week’s wildlife tour: the Québec-based wildlife photographer Jean-Simon Bégin and videographer and guide Alexis Pageau.

“This is a very safe plane,” Alexis, who likely saw a flash of fear cross my face as the plane’s dual engines roared, assures me in a strong French-Canadian accent.

The plane starts to accelerate. I nervously smile. Another passenger laughs, “All together now, this is a safe plane!” The Twin Otter’s wheels lift from the dirt runway, and we’re airborne, flying low over the tundra.

As I watch Kuujjuaq slip away from the Otter’s window, I feel that I’m headed to sea. For the next four nights, I’ll live in an ocean of untamed wilderness, where thousand-year-old migrating caribou paths lace the land, musk ox lurk in the underbrush, and autumnal hues burst across a tundra teeming with life.

How the Leaf River Lodge got its start

The plane banks over a small cluster of white cabins near a flat, wide river, and we land on a sandy airstrip. Almost immediately after disembarking, Jean-Simon points out a trail of wolf prints molded into the wet runway, a print about the size of my palm.

“These tracks are fresh; they were probably made early this morning,” he says, peering expectantly across the horizon.

I follow his gaze. The drone of the Otter recedes as it returns to Kuujjuaq. I see no cell towers, no buildings, no roads, no trash even. I realize this is the most remote place I’ve ever been.

Founded in 1989 by Louis’s father, Alain Tardif, Leaf River Lodge nestles against the shore of the Rivière aux Feuilles, or “Leaf River” in English. It’s sandwiched between the tundra’s treeline and the north’s barren arctic, a region described as subarctic. Everything — from the food, to the building materials, to the solar panels that power most of the camp’s electricity — must be flown in by bush plane.

Louis tells a story of when his father built the camp in the 1990s. Alain enlisted the help of an Inuit friend to drag an excavator about 100 miles across the frozen tundra by snowmobile, as it was too large to fit inside an aircraft. During the trip, the two men were caught in a blizzard, forcing them to hunker down in a cramped prospector tent. Out of fuel and firewood, they lived on the brink of freezing until the storm broke nine days later. The trip took over a month, but they successfully arrived at camp, alive and with the excavator in tow. Louis and his team still use the machine today.

A new and ecologically improved business model

Leaf River Lodge was initially a hunting camp, as it strategically intersects droves of migrating caribou that reliably travel over 600 miles south each fall. For decades, the camp was a big-game hotspot for trophy hunting — a sport that I, a vegetarian and lifelong animal lover, can’t seem to comprehend.

But due to rapidly dwindling herd size, Québec’s legislators banned caribou hunting in 2018 to allow populations to recover — a move that was great for the caribou but troubling for the many lodges who relied on big-game hunters for their livelihoods. While many hunting outfitters closed, Louis pivoted his business model.

“Unlike other camps, we had the infrastructure to adapt. We have running water, electricity, WiFi, cabins, flushing toilets, and hot showers — accommodations that travelers of all kinds want,” he says. Breakfast, a packed lunch, dinner, and dessert are also served at the lodge, although guests who intend to drink must bring their own alcohol.

Leaf River Lodge’s new wildlife photography tours — which run in the fall during the annual caribou migration — are designed with conservation and education in mind, and they present the Indigenous-owned business an opportunity to monetize caribou herds and other wildlife while also protecting them. It’s been a surprisingly seamless transition for Louis, who grew up on subsistence hunting and guiding.

“Photographing wildlife is the closest you can get to hunting them. It feels liberating to protect these animals and show them to people who really appreciate them,” he says, adding that he’d started to feel uneasy about hunting animals for sport since he adopted his dog.

Tracking caribou on the subarctic tundra

I wake up at 6 AM. Soft light filters through the blinds of my cabin’s windows. I’m not a morning person, but as I wonder what kind of animals I’ll see today, I’m compelled to get out of bed early. I slip on my slippers and stand on my cabin’s patio, watching fog rise from the river’s frigid surface.

After breakfast, I dress in what I come to regard as my Leaf River uniform: leggings, hiking pants, a sweater, and, integrally, fishing waders and boots. We pile into a KingFisher boat, and with Louis at the helm, we expertly motor up the river to begin our search for caribou.

Within minutes, we see a lone buck nimbly swimming across the river. Louis kills the engine, and we silently float closer. The caribou climbs the bank, shakes off excess water like a puppy, and peers at our craft. I notice that his antlers are bright red and drip with bloody shreds of velvet. I lay my chest against the boat’s metal rim and snap a dozen photos of the caribou, capturing him as he aggressively flares his nostrils.

Jean-Simon explains that for most of the year, antlers are more organ than bone. Blood vessels feed the fuzzy, tender appendages until fall when a surge of testosterone severs the blood supply. This change encourages antlers to harden into sharp fighting spears in preparation for the late-October rut.

“They’ll only look this bloody for a few days,” he says.

We continue down the river, eventually anchoring on a small sandy shoreline. I shoulder my backpack and slide out of the KingFisher.

There are no trails here. The group bushwhacks through chest-high shrubs, clomping our waterproof boots across the surprisingly vibrant ground. This time of year, the tundra explodes with edible berries, Labrador tea, and bright oranges, reds, and yellows — a last gasp of life before the long winter descends.

Nearly every berry, I soon learn, is edible here, a fact that delights myself and my companions.

We start gorging on berries, grabbing handfuls of black crowberries, ultra-sweet wild blueberries, and, when we find them, the rarer, clementine-tasting cloudberries. I stuff handfuls of berries into my mouth and feel giddy, drunk even, the juice tinting my tongue and hands. I can’t stop thinking about the reality television series, Alone, where contestants are dropped in remote Canada to survive off the land, frequently relying on wild berries as sustenance. I bring up episodes of Alone, and the show permeates our conversation. We wonder how long a human can live on berries. We discuss whether we could eat the plentiful lichen surrounding us, if we had to.

“Carr-eee-booo!” Alexis yells, interrupting us as he excitedly points into the distance.

Suddenly sober and silent, we drop to the ground and follow the direction of his outstretched finger. A large group of caribou is headed our way. I lay on my stomach, balance my outstretched camera on a rock, and hold my breath as the herd meanders our way. I muffle a squeal of delight as a mouse-colored baby caribou and a watchful doe walk into view. Adorable details materialize: knobby knees, downy expressions, soft muzzles, and … who knew caribou have eyelashes?

The serene duo stands before what few trees grow on the tundra. I zoom in and take photographs.

Later, while editing the day’s photos, I realize I captured two wildly different caribou pictures that showcase this incredible animal’s many facets: The first powerfully masculine and intimidating, the second nurturing, peaceful, and resilient.

I start to understand why Jean-Simon said, “I have so many pictures of caribou; I definitely don’t need any more. But every time I see them I just keep taking hundreds of photos.”

A once-in-a-lifetime trip comes to a close

My time at Leaf River Lodge is defined by long, ambling tundra moments punctuated by pinch-me experiences that require gazelle-like focus. One moment I’m walking calmly through a pond, and the next I’m slithering toward a trio of willow ptarmigans, photographing their half-white, half-brown mid-molt bodies. Another time, I’m zoning out, reflecting on the day, when someone spots a trio of sprightly otters encircling each other on the river’s edge, causing photographer chaos to ensue.

In the evening, I sip Labrador tea with my new friends and learn tips to take better nighttime images. As Jean-Simon and Alexis discuss the difference between exposure and aperture, a lime-green aurora borealis pillar pierces the sky, as bright and shocking as a shard of Kryptonite. We collectively, audibly gasp.

This time, we don’t even try to photograph it. Some things are impossible to capture correctly. We set down our cameras and simply watch the northern lights wax and wane as they slip across a glittering, inky sky.