Reaching north towards the Canadian Arctic like a tattered mitt, with Hudson Bay’s frigid saltwater to its west and Ungava Bay tucked into its thumb, Nunavik is the name given to the vast, roadless region of Quebec above the 55th parallel. It’s also the homeland of Quebec’s Inuit people, who live in 14 small coastal communities forming a sparse perimeter around a hinterland that’s larger than the state of California. Plied by snowmobiles in winter and freighter canoes in summer—and plagued by rapacious insects, unforgiving terrain and savage weather—the interior is empty save a small number of seasonal camps where geese, caribou and fish harvests continue to sustain local families as they have for generations.

“Let Mother Nature be your master,” advises a French Canadian shopkeeper in Radisson, Quebec, when we tell her about our plans to paddle and portage north into this sea of spindly tamarack forests and black spruce bogs. We’ll navigate the confusing mosaics of lakes Bienville and d’Iberville, we explain, before tracing the eastern and northern edges of Tursujuq National Park through the Seal Lakes and, finally, down the mighty Nastapoka River, emerging 40-some days later on the treeless coastal barrens of Hudson Bay’s tidal shore.

Radisson marks the northern terminus of the James Bay Highway, a 620-kilometer-long shoelace of frost-heaved asphalt connecting the Hydro Québec-built town, and the massive hydroelectric complex it services, with the rest of the province. Construction on the James Bay Project’s series of dams, spillways, underground power plants and some 30,000 square kilometers of reservoirs and harnessed waterways began in the early 1970s, and the complex comprised the world’s largest hydroelectric development for a quarter-century. Today, it’s surpassed only by China’s Three Gorges.

For hardy canoeists, there’s an unexpected upshot to the development. The gravel arteries used to access Hydro Québec’s remote energy outposts also offer a backdoor into the wilderness that, for now, lies beyond the utility’s reach. Our own journey begins on Lacs des Oeufs, a dusty, day-long shuttle from Radisson on the Trans-Taiga Highway. The earth-and-stone barrage at our put-in marks the last vestige of the James Bay Project, and the beginning of Nunavik’s wild and free-flowing rivers.

The shopkeeper’s hazel eyes study my face, checking that I’ve understood her warning. Behind the concern, however, there’s also a knowing look informed by a lifetime spent on the edges of the same wildness and vastness that draw us. Before taking our leave, I assure her that we’re respectfully aware of our position on the bottom rung of Nunavik’s wilderness hierarchy.

Three weeks later, as a wet and blustery headwind saps the energy from our sodden limbs and the heat from our pruney fingers, even that humble foothold feels tenuous. The only upside to the squalls and near-freezing temperature that have dogged much of our trip is that they offer fleeting respite from the hordes of insatiable blackflies, mosquitoes and bulldogs (ping pong ball-sized deer flies) that coexist on the taiga in July. Head nets, heavy-duty bug dope and psychological resilience are essential. Still, there are moments when my guard is down—and breezeless mornings, unfortunately, when so are my pants—and sanity is as elusive as sunshine.

Paddling into the lee of a mop-topped island, Jon and I pause for a moment, thankful to escape the wind-driven rain. Eager for a distraction from the monochromatic lake views, I search the shore for signs of wildlife. We’re hoping to catch sight of what we’ve been calling Nunavik’s “Big Five,” a list of hallmark species that includes wolves, bear, musk oxen, beluga whales and—rarest of all—kasagea, the shy and solitary freshwater seal.

Once again, I’m disappointed. So far, the only other creature we’ve seen, aside from our own soggy and bedraggled forms, is a sky so animated and malevolent I could swear it’s alive.