Learning the Inuit Approach to Wilderness on the Rugged Coast of Labrador

On another instance, we were kayaking along the cove in Hebron Mission, an abandoned Inuit settlement from the 1800s, when we spotted several gulls flying around us. “You see a gull,” said Rogier Gruys, my kayak guide, “but that gull sees something you don’t.” And then, as if on cue, a minke whale broke the surface just beyond it with a slow, exhaling arc of grey. The gull had known.

It was the first of many humbling moments that made me realize how much I tend to rush—in travel, in hiking, in life. I’m used to moving with purpose, often counting miles, chasing summits, and maximizing daylight. But in Northern Labrador, those instincts become a barrier. Here, movement for its own sake meant missing the subtle signals of the land. The wind shifts bringing in the fog, the soft texture of moss indicates the ground below might crumble, and a seal’s repeated glance hints there might be a bear nearby. That’s when I realized that the land is talking all the time, but you only hear it if you’re quiet enough to listen.

Afternoons stretched long and unhurried. Hiking trails were unmarked, roads nonexistent, and the only way along the coast was either by expedition ship or a floatplane from Nain, the northernmost Inuit settlement in Labrador. Our landings were determined not by the map but by the weather. We’d slip ashore by Zodiac into still coves, hiking across springy bog grass and stopping to inhale its earthy, sweet perfume. In some places we traced the outlines of old Inuit sod houses long gone, leaving behind only Inuksuit (stone piles similar to cairns) now standing as quiet markers of their presence.

Even waiting became intentional. When we found a perch overlooking a sheltered cove, the ship dropped anchor and we sat for an hour, maybe two, and observed the landscape with intention. I learned patience in those hours. But more than that, I learned humility. Labrador reminded me that wilderness doesn’t exist for my entertainment and that wildlife has its own interior world, its own decisions, its own boundaries. A photograph could never truly capture that, only hint at it.

Nights brought a different kind of magic. We heard tales of the Torngat Mountains, a place the Inuit say is alive, not metaphorically but spiritually. And stories of animals that choose whether to reveal themselves to hunters along with stories of elders who navigated this land without maps, guided instead by memory, stars, and the swell of the sea.

One night, the sky itself seemed to affirm those stories when the northern lights shimmered above the water in vivid streaks of green, like brushstrokes across the sky. They didn’t flare into neon or dance wildly as postcards promise; instead, they glowed quietly and deliberately. The Inuit believe that the lights are spirits of our ancestors dancing, playing games, or celebrating in the sky. To many of us that night, that seemed to resonate more intensely than the scientific explanation of charged particles from the sun colliding with Earth’s atmosphere.

Toward the end of the trip, we returned to the community of Nain, Nunatsiavut's administrative capital, after visiting the Torngat Mountains and Ramah, a cultural site where Inuit from across the region reconnect with their ancestral territory each summer, guiding travelers like me with care and intention. Nain is central to Inuit self-governance in Labrador, embedding traditional indigenous rights in land use, cultural preservation, and local representation within the Canadian federal structure. When I asked Broomfield what he hoped travelers took away from this place, he answered, without a moment's hesitation, “That we are not the only ones with a story here.”

Travel media often frames places like this as “untouched,” or “waiting to be discovered.” But Labrador is none of those things. It is full of history, relationships, and responsibility. The land isn’t empty or lacking adventure. If anything, I was the one being discovered by a place that watched me back.

I left Labrador changed in a way that wasn’t immediately apparent. It wasn’t a dramatic epiphany and I didn't suddenly feel an urge to hike less, travel less, or stop seeking wild places. It was a shift in perspective guided by a new understanding that exploration isn’t always a forward motion. Sometimes, the deepest discovery is in staying still. I thought back to the bear, the whale and the seal whose curious eyes tracked our every movement. I thought about the patience that revealed each of them.

Now I wonder how much of the world I’ve rushed past in my life or how much I’ve missed while hurrying toward a summit or a story. I've since promised myself the next time I enter a wild place, I’ll move slowly. I’ll listen first. And I’ll remember that I am not the center of the story, the land is.