Northbound / Longue Pointe

Restless Viking Radio – Season 1, Episode 5

Cape Jones Series - Part 2

The morning after the fire at Chisasibi, we packed up camp and drove farther north — toward Longue Pointe, one of the last places pavement reaches in eastern North America.

What we found there wasn’t quiet hospitality or solemn history.

It was humor. Testing. Politics. Data. Canoes. Kayaks.

And a man named George — sharp, funny, stubborn, and deeply invested in the land he calls home.

This episode is about learning, the hard way, that the North doesn’t present itself in a single voice.

It jokes.

It challenges your assumptions.

And sometimes it decides whether you’re worth talking to at all.

A story about permission, curiosity, and the strange moment when strangers stop being strangers — at the edge of the road.

Welcome back to Restless Viking Radio,

the show where I follow questionable

roads, meet remarkable people, and

occasionally learn something I probably

should have known before leaving home.

Today's episode picks up right after

holding the fire at Chisasibi, where

we met Robert, a man who welcomed us

to his fire with the generosity that

lingered long after the embers cooled.

But if the north has a rule, it's this.

No two encounters are ever the same.

This stretch of road and the people

waiting at the end of it would prove that.

In the last story, Robert showed

us one side of Cree hospitality,

quiet, grounded, steady.

The very next morning we

packed up camp and pointed the

convoy toward Lounge Pointe.

A place that feels like the

continent's final punctuation mark.

What waited for us, there was

nothing like the night before.

The morning after meeting Robert,

we packed up camp and drove

North toward Lounge Pointe.

The quiet grace of the night before still

hung with us, the fire, the sausage, the

way Robert welcomed us onto the land.

That didn't owe us anything.

I didn't know what to expect next,

but I knew enough by now to understand

that the Cree weren't One thing Robert

had shown us one side of this place.

Whatever came next would

be something else entirely.

We just arrived at Lounge Pointe, one

of the northern most bits of road you

can reach in eastern North America.

It's where hunting and fishing parties

launch out along the coast and travel

hundreds of miles across some of the

most remote wilderness in North America.

It's a quiet wind bent end of the

line as we eased our vehicles into

makeshift campsites, overlooking the

water, the low thrum of an engine

rolled in, swallowing the silence.

Gravel popped, cracked and shifted.

A vehicle was approaching

from around a bend.

It's always like this up here.

You drive for hours without

seeing a soul, but the minute

you unpack, someone materializes.

A truck eased over the hill and

slowed gray-haired man behind the

wheel, someone in a ball cap riding

shotgun, no windows rolled down.

I raised a hand and stepped

a bit closer for a minute.

They just ignored me,

staring straight ahead.

The driver's window slowly

slid down how said the driver.

I winced.

That's not what I said.

He smirked.

You always say how when you meet Indians.

I stared at him.

Caught between confusion

and the suspicion.

I just stepped into a trap.

The passengers grin widened.

Both men burst out laughing.

I produced something between

a crooked smile and what the

hell is happening eyebrow.

The passenger leaned over and added.

The most important question

is, did you vote for Trump?

These guys were playing chess.

While I was still unfolding my camp

chair, I scanned for the angle.

then slowly said, who's Trump?

Silence their faces dropped

like I unplugged the room.

Wrong answer, the passenger

said he pointed at the driver.

He's the only guy in the

village with a Trump mug.

The driver stared straight

ahead fighting a smile.

I wasn't sure where to take this.

Politics was not my lane, not here,

and definitely not with two strangers

at the northern edge of Quebec.

Most Canadians tilt liberal, and

I walked into this conversation

assuming the Cree were no different.

It was a lazy assumption,

one that was dead wrong.

This guy, it turned out was a

different sort of creature altogether.

Then the driver pushed his door open

and stepped out with the seriousness.

That made me wonder if I was about

to learn something spiritual.

He surveyed our camp.

Then he fixed me with a steady stare.

You need to understand something.

He said, we outnumber you 4,000- he

looked around at our group to nine-

so you better watch your step now.

That was my opening.

I put on my most cheerful sociopath voice

and said, actually, there are 10 of us.

The one you can't see has a

12 gauge pointed at your Trump

mug waiting for my signal.

Your move.

The passenger broke first

bending over, laughing so hard.

He nearly dropped his cane.

The driver lit up grinned

wide and thrust his hand down.

I'm George, he said with white hair.

I shook his hand.

White hair?

Yeah.

I'm the only bastard of my

people who has white hair.

I studied it for a second.

White is winner.

Unusual enough that he'd

made it his identifier.

You sure you don't have

some English blood in you?

I asked.

He considered this with

the mock seriousness.

That's probably it.

The teasing clicked into place.

It was familiar, old school humor,

a little verbal sparring to make

sure you were human out here.

It was social currency.

A way to meet in the middle without

declaring that's what you were doing.

A few teammates wandered over.

I turned to George.

Do you know how we can get

permission to camp here?

He gave me a number.

Surprised when I said

we had no cell service.

Why the hell do you want to camp here?

He asked, we Volleyed, why and

why not Until I explained our

goal of reaching Cape Jones.

That stopped him.

Really?

I nodded.

Yeah.

My dad worked at remote radar

sites in the fifties and sixties.

I'd been hearing about these

stories these places my entire life.

Remote radar sites, military outposts

you could reach only by air landscapes

that could swallow you whole.

This was my chance to see what he'd

seen, to walk where he'd walked.

I didn't say that part out loud though.

Really, he asked again

now, fully animated.

That was the spark for an

hour long conversation.

Cape Jones helicopter flights

to his camp up the coast.

Caribou migration, the land, the people.

George was the kind of man who

read the land like a textbook

and argued with a corporation

like it was a moral obligation.

And he had argued with a corporation

he'd worked with Dr. Fred Short.

A researcher from the University

of New Hampshire who had spent

his career studying seagrass

around the world together, they

documented something troubling.

The Eelgrass beds along the

Chisasibi coast were disappearing,

not thinning, disappearing.

And with them, the geese

and George had a theory.

Hydro Quebec had been diverting

rivers upstream for decades.

Massive infrastructure projects that

rerouted fresh water away from the coast.

The fresh water used to mix with

the salt water and create the

right conditions for eelgrass.

Without it, the salinity changed.

The eelgrass died and the geese left.

Hydro Quebec blamed disease,

climate change, natural cycles,

but George didn't buy it.

He had the data and he had the

fire of a man who intends to

hold someone accountable even

if he has to drag them there.

Nelson, the passenger was his

counterweight, leaning on a cane,

tossing in jokes to keep the conversation

from buckling under its own weight.

A classic sidekick with perfect timing.

Eventually, a young couple pulled

in and they chatted with George

and headed off along the coast.

George watched them go, then turned

to us, well, we should get going.

We wish them well, and he and Nelson

drove off the crusader and the

comic rolling back into the north.

Permission or not.

George figured camping there would be

fine, and that was good enough for us.

We'd driven 1300 miles with the kayaks

and it was time to put them in the water.

The inlet looked calm, so the

kayakers geared up while the

overlanders explored and snapped.

Photos we launched inside the brake

wall, rounding it just as the wind

sharpened outside the bay got restless.

Waves slapped the hulls and spray washed

over our deck, but we kept pushing

toward the Rocky Islands half a mile out.

Then we reached a wind swept island

and landed on the sheltered side.

The tide was already sliding out.

We walked across the shaved

grass, the wind howling through

it like an old pipe organ.

I stopped at one point, pulled

out my phone and filmed a quick,

Hey kids, guess where we are?

Video.

Turns out we crossed into Nunavut carved

from the Northwest Territories in 1999.

One of those quiet milestones you don't

set out to earn, but keep forever.

Very few people have ever set foot there.

Nunavut is bigger than Western Europe,

yet fewer than 40,000 people call it home.

Out here, distance isn't something

you measure, it's something you carry.

We'd joined a rare club.

The island held a few tough

plants and some old hunting

blinds carved into the ground.

We explored then paddled back through

the chop and drifted into a slow,

satisfying evening camp chairs.

Laughter in the low hum

of tired, contentment.

The Northern Lights teased

us with faint gray ribbons.

Before disappearing by 1:00 AM we

gave up and crawled into our tents.

It was Sunday, a day of

rest, and we honored it.

Tomorrow was Monday, we'd

head back to town and try to

find a guide for Cape Jones.

We didn't know if we'd be welcomed or

turned away, but our intentions were good.

Sometimes that's enough.

As the tide slipped out to sea, we

fell asleep under a pale, northern sky.

Grateful, tired, and exactly

where we were supposed to be.

Lounge Pointe wasn't just another dot

on the map, it was a reminder that

the North has its own rhythm, its

own tests, its own jokes, and its own

way of deciding when to let you in.

Next time we head back to town to

search for a guide to Cape Jones

and find out whether the door to

the end of the continent is open.

It turns out we were about to

meet the whole town at once.

Thanks for listening.

Stay curious, stay stubborn, and

keep your eyes on the horizon.