In 2020, having made up my mind to set off on an expedition deep into Labrador’s mountains, I next resolved to find a suitable partner. Most of the time when I undertake an adventure, I go solo, but finding a dependable partner for this one seemed wise. It was Labrador, after all, and the expedition I had in mind was a complicated undertaking involving both challenging paddling conditions and gruelling bushwhacking far from any trails, all in the hopes of solving a century-old mystery.
After giving it some thought, I decided to ask a person I’d never so much as previously paddled a canoe with: Zach Junkin. Why?
We’d attended the same elementary and high school in Pelham, Ontario, though he was a year ahead of me, so at the time I didn’t know him all that well. But I’d played a bit of hockey with Zach, and knew that he was outdoorsy and fond of fishing; that he was into mixed martial arts and had a taste for adventure.
I also knew he had a sense of humour (he’d once dabbled in stand-up comedy), that he’d formerly edited the local newspaper, and that he’d run for mayor (placing a respectable second). In other words, he was a person who followed his passions.
Zach accepted my invitation—sent out of the blue by text—at once. From that moment on, not once did I regret my choice. Quite simply, Zach turned out to be the perfect adventure companion. I’ve been asked what traits it takes to be successful on an expedition; the simplest answer is, “Zach Junkin”: inquisitive, bold, smart, tough, strong, courageous, upbeat, and enthusiastic.
To get to Labrador required a 2,521-kilometre road trip, after which we’d set off into the backcountry. Zach, in his characteristic style, offered to drive as if it were no big deal—and then he drove the whole way, as if it were merely a short cruise down the road.
You’d think with all that time behind the wheel we might have listened to the radio or a podcast. Nope. With Zach, you could start talking on just about any topic under the sun, and before you knew it, hours would pass without interest waning at all. The whole 29 hours driving, we talked with hardly a pause.
The breadth of Zach’s interests reflected his relentless, curiosity-fueled drive. He’d fought (and won) professional MMA fights, even setting a league record for fastest knock-out; competed in triathlons; co-authored a book on dog training; run with the bulls in Spain; worked in everything from insurance to scrap metal; and started his own book club.
Raised on his family’s farm in North Pelham, Zach could talk about everything from milking cows to classic literature. But for someone who could be quick with his fists, Zach was the most good-natured, easy-going person you can imagine. Among all who were lucky enough to know him, his friendships and random acts of kindness were legendary. If someone was moving and needed help loading furniture or boxes or borrowing a truck, Zach would be there—and not just for friends, but for friends of friends.
A dedicated conservationist, Zach was co-vice-president, along with his wife, Brooke, of the Sydenham Field Naturalists. One of his great ambitions was to restore a portion of his family’s property to a natural state with native tree species.
Raised on his family’s farm in North Pelham, Zach could talk about everything from milking cows to classic literature
When we finally reached Labrador’s wilderness, Zach proved equally at home. He was, as you’d expect, tough and strong. But he was smart too (an avid reader, he was always devouring books), and a keen observer of everything around us—the wildlife, plants, trees, the history. Yet what really set Zach apart and made him the ideal person you’d want in the wilderness was his unremittingly good-natured, enthusiastic approach to things.
He was the kind of person who’d never give up, no matter the obstacles ahead—and would be sure to joke in the middle of it all (even while being swarmed by blackflies and mosquitoes). It didn’t matter how bad the bugs got, adverse weather, the diet of bland granola bars, the pathless bushwhacking, or the lack of freshwater in places along the coast. Zach took it all in stride, joking the whole time with his signature wit.
In fact, the whole two weeks of our expedition, I never once saw Zach grumble or complain about anything. He was always excited about something—a black-backed woodpecker calling on the horizon, a big tree overlooking the bank, the possibility of brook trout around the next bend, a moose lurking unseen in the thick undergrowth. Too many people let life pass them by never really appreciating the wonder all around us; not Zach. He lived life with his eyes wide open. He was the embodiment of the phrase carpe diem.
So, when I made up my mind the following year to retrace David Thompson’s route through the Athabasca Pass in the Rockies, I knew immediately that I wanted Zach as a partner again. He accepted with his usual gusto. The expedition was sponsored by the Royal Canadian Geographical Society and we received special permission from Parks Canada to attempt it.
This time we hiked into the mountains at high altitudes with heavy packs, alternatively bushwhacking through dense conifers and weaving across open meadows. We were faced with sudden snow storms, steep climbs up precarious mountain slopes in low visibility, scrambling across rocks to reach a glacier, and at one point had a mother grizzly with two cubs charge us. As usual, Zach took it all in stride.
His pace, too, lugging a heavy pack with apparent ease, was amazing, and at times it was all I could do to keep up. I’d wanted to explore a few alpine lakes, and an inflatable pack raft seemed to offer the best chance of doing so. But the raft meant an extra burden to carry. Not to worry: Zach just nonchalantly added it to his already heavy pack. Climbing up steep, rocky terrain—sometimes slick with wet snow—he was as agile and sure-footed as a mountain goat.
Our most difficult challenge proved crossing a swollen, glacier-fed river. A footbridge that had once spanned it had been destroyed by ice breakup. When we first reached it, my heart sank at the sight of the icy water and fierce current, knowing that our entire expedition depended on getting across. The current was too strong for the tiny raft, with rapids roaring downstream. The waters, fed by a mountain glacier, were utterly frigid. We had no idea how deep it was, or if fording was possible.
It would have been perfectly understandable to have wanted to turn back. We’d already covered a lot of ground, and there’d be no shame in turning around.
But not Zach Junkin. Taking the easy way was not in his makeup.
He was the embodiment of the phrase carpe diem.
Removing his hiking boots and stripping down to his boxers, Zach volunteered to attempt a crossing. He left his backpack on shore, then, with trekking poles for balance, he edged out barefooted into the swirling waters. I winced, watching: the river bottom, I knew, would be full of sharp rocks.
Zach slowly worked his way out from the shore, angling his body upstream into the full force of the current, measuring each step. It looked impossible, but with his ironclad resolve, he made it across. On opposite banks, we couldn’t hear each other over the roar of the river. So, after only the briefest pause, Zach edged right back in and recrossed to my side.
We conferred over what he’d found: midstream, the raging water had been more than waist-deep on Zach’s six-foot-two frame and he said it had nearly knocked him off his feet. Crossing with heavy backpacks just wouldn’t be feasible. We discussed trying to rig up some sort of zip line to get the packs across, but ruled this out as also unfeasible.
We decided that perhaps if we bushwhacked downriver, with any luck we might find a spot not as deep. This we did, coming across a place that, although wider across, appeared to possibly be a little shallower.
With the rushing glacial water threatening hypothermia, we decided to skip any test-run and instead just go straight for it with the backpacks. Zach again volunteered to go first. He removed his boots, tied them onto his already heavy pack, which also had the raft strapped to it, and once more set off into the rapids. To this day I don’t how he managed it barefoot over such treacherous unseen rocks beneath the racing waters, but manage he did, reaching the far side.
When it was my turn to follow, I didn’t dream of making it barefoot. I just accepted I’d have to put up with wet feet for the rest of the day and kept my boots on. The frigid water felt like knives. Once I’d struggled across to the far side, Zach, smiling happily, made a few of his trademark jokes about how he’d needed a bath, and then we were off again.
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In due course we completed our expedition and met all of our objectives. Almost at once I began to formulate plans for more expeditions with Zach. We were planning a return to Labrador in September 2023, this time paddling along the coast as part of a larger historical research project. Zach was excited for it, and with the departure date approaching we’d frequently text back and forth about preparations. I had just picked up a new canoe for the venture when I received shocking and terrible news that even now doesn’t seem fully real: Zach had apparently passed away suddenly, with no warning of any kind.
It didn’t seem possible: he was just 38 years old. Surely it was all just a bad dream that would go away. But it didn’t. He’d been alone at home putting away groceries when it happened. Zach had no known health concerns, and to all appearances was as fit as could be. He had at the time just returned from the gym. Initially it was assumed that it could only be a heart attack or brain aneurysm, as it’s hard to imagine what else could suddenly fell a fit 38-year-old with no known health issues.
The toxicology report was clean and showed Zach had no drugs in his system. However, the coroner ultimately ruled these causes out, and although an exact cause of death could not be officially determined, unofficially it was attributed to a likely heart arrhythmia, a condition that on rare occasions can strike without any previous warning, as seems to have been the case with Zach.
With Zach’s passing, I somehow instantly felt that the country as a whole was the poorer for it. It might seem like one individual among a nation of millions can’t make a difference, but it’s rare individuals like Zach that are the glue that helps hold everything together. Zach was that generous, principled, civic-minded person of energy and enthusiasm who made everyone else’s lives better simply by being in it, and by extension his wider community’s—and a country after all, is a network of smaller communities.
I was not alone in feeling this way: it was a testament to Zach’s larger-than-life personality and extraordinary ability to make friends wherever he went that his funeral drew many people from seemingly every walk of life, and every kind of background. They’d travelled from near and far to be there, some not having seen him in years.
Of all Zach’s many accomplishments, his greatest was his family, which for him always came first. He was deeply devoted to his cherished wife, Brooke, and their beloved daughter Celeste, now three years old. He was as excited as can be, too, to welcome a new addition to his family in November; this turned out to be a second daughter, Ginny. Both of Zach’s children, I am sure, will inherit their father’s passionate drive, generous nature, boundless curiosity, and everlasting sense of wonder. I can think of no better legacy.
A Fellow of the Royal Canadian Geographical Society, Adam Shoalts is a professional explorer and national bestselling author. A geographer and historian, he holds a Ph.D. from McMaster University. Shoalts is the Westaway Explorer-in-Residence of the Royal Canadian Geographical Society and in 2016 was named a national champion of the Trans-Canada Trail.