Day 1,
The company has sent me to Ft. McPherson to do a five week relief for a store manager who is on vacation. In honor of my first trip above the Arctic Circle, I've decided to stop shaving until I return south again. I haven't told Nicole this yet. I'm not sure how she'll take the news.
I arrived at the Inuvik airport around 1pm on Friday. Shane, the Ft. McPherson store manager was there to meet me. I came equipped with one bag full of clothes, my camera, and fishing pole.
We drove into Inuvik. It is an ugly town in otherwise beautiful surroundings. Shane had to pick up a part for his water pump, and we went to the North-Mart for some dirty bird (KFC). While waiting for our food, we went down to check out the electronics. I found the fishing section and on an impulse, bought myself a new fishing lure. I'm fairly sure most lures are designed to catch the eyes of fisherman rather than fish. This one was matte black with fluorescent red spots. It's called "the black fury." Even as I was forking over the cash, I wondered what the hell I was doing. It probably won't work anyway.
After picking up a day-old copy of the Globe and Mail (half price!) we got on the Dempster Highway, heading for ft. McPherson. The Dempster highway stretches from just outside of Dawson City to Inuvik, passing mostly through the Yukon before crossing into the territories just above the arctic circle. The highway is only about twenty six years old. To even call it a highway is misleading. It is a well built gravel road with a speed limit of 90km/h. In the winter it becomes an ice road.
The Dempster attracts scores of tree-huggers,weekend warriors, RV-ers, and tour buses. We passed all of the above on our way down. I felt bad for them knowing that their goal was the uninspiring town of Inuvik. Once there, they would have to turn around and drive back. You could see the cloud of dust raised by oncoming trucks a mile away. Slowly but surely they would approach. Both vehicles would slow a bit and move to the side. Some trucks didn't seem to slow at all, and our windshield would be pelted with tiny bits of gravel.
The view was mostly monotonous but strangely beautiful. The trees are in the prime of their fall colors up here. We drove past mile after mile of skinny fir trees and stunted birch with bright yellow leaves.
The Dempster crosses the Mackenzie river at the town of Tsiigehtchic(pronounced sig-a-chick, formerly called Arctic Red River). The M.V. Louis Cardinal ferries vehicles between the eastern side of the river, the Dempster highway on the western side, and the town of Tsiigehtchic, which is separated from the highway by the Arctic red river. We arrived at the river just as the ferry was pulling away with only one vehicle aboard. First it went over to the highway. Then it picked up someone there who had to go to Tsiigehtchic. finally, after about half an hour, it came back for us. Everyone I've spoken to curses the ferry, probably because they have all arrived, as I did, just to see it pull away. However, waiting half an hour is a small price to pay for mobility.
Day 2
You can judge the size of a town in the north by how many RCMP officers it has. Tulita has two. The Wells has four. McPherson qualifies for five.
McPherson (pronounced either Mick-FUR-sun or Mick-FEAR-sun) has about twice the population of Tulita at 800 people. It looks like so many northern towns, with dirt roads and standard northern housing. But there's something about it I like, although I cannot yet tell you exactly what it is.
Day 3
I drive Shane and his wife Alyssa into Inuvik so they can catch their plane. It is Labour Day, but the news stand is still open. I pop in for a Globe and Mail but the rack is empty.
"Do you have any copies of Saturday's Globe in the back?"
"Sorry, all sold out."
I drive around Inuvik for a bit, but there is nothing to see. Ugly residential sections and even uglier industrial sections. The speed limit in town is thirty five. My truck won't even go that slow. I have to accelerate and then coast. I decide to get the hell out of there and back on the highway. I never would have thought that driving one-ten on a dirt road would be so easy. About and hour and a half into the trip, I feel the rear end skidding out as I go around a turn. It is enough to make me back off to ninety.
Day 4
My first full day running the store on my own. The day seems to be going well until I go to put on my glasses after my shower. When I pick them up from the table, the right arm stays behind. I find the screw, but no amount of fiddling can get the damn thing to stay in. So I improvise. I use a bent staple in place of the screw and tape to hold it together.
After work, I get in the company truck, determined to get a line in the water. Out on the highway, the sun is low in the sky. CBC is on the radio.
"I'm Paul Kennedy. This is Ideas."
I cruise just over that next hill for several minutes, certain that I spotted a good fishing spot last week. Finally I stop at a lake that looks as good as any other. There is a small space on the side of the road, just large enough to park a truck without impeding traffic.
To get to the water, I soon realize that I'm not walking on ground at all. I'm walking on thick underbrush: dense and springy shrubs that grow out of marshy bog. It's ok for walking, as long as I look where I'm going, but as soon as I stop, the shrubs slowly give way. I cast twice before I start to feel the bog water seeping through my Adidas.
"To hell with it," I say.
However, my fishing is soon interrupted. It is silent out here, even though I'm less than a hundred yards from the so-called highway. But coming from the other side of the lake, I can hear someone calling "Hello!."
It is most definitely human. Of this, I am at first sure. I'm taken aback because it is out of place. I would have been less surprised to see a bear.
There is no sense of panic in the voice. Not much friendliness either. After two hellos, I yell back. There is another hello back, exactly the same as the last. It must be some lost hiker, I think to myself. Or someone fishing on the other side. There it is again.
"Hello!"
"Are you alright?" I yell.
"Hello!"
"Hello?"
"Hello!"
Then I see it. A loon swims into sight. I feel so stupid. luckily there is no one for miles who might have heard me. I guess he spotted a wet footed boobie and he wanted to move in for a closer look. Later his partner appears and they watch me fight with my lure, which is caught on a bush at the water's edge.
I don't stay long. About half an hour. But when I get back in the truck, Paul Kennedy is gone. The local radio station has taken over the frequency. With Buck Owens singing in the background, a woman is reading messages in that slow, monotone northern accent.
"This message is for Andrew Snowshoe. please Go down to the end of miller creek tomorrow to meet Judith and Dan. This message is for Ira Koe. If your listening, call home on channel 22 for an important message..."
Buck Owens comes through the AM radio loud and tinny. They call it country music for a reason. It's enough to drive you insane in the city, but I don't think I could handle anything post nineteen-eighty while driving into a dirt-road town with clapboard sidewalks. A kid is walking up the road and firing stones at a light pole, just to see if he can hit it. The sun is setting on my left, and there's a cloud of dust rising behind that truck that is driving this way.
The company has sent me to Ft. McPherson to do a five week relief for a store manager who is on vacation. In honor of my first trip above the Arctic Circle, I've decided to stop shaving until I return south again. I haven't told Nicole this yet. I'm not sure how she'll take the news.
I arrived at the Inuvik airport around 1pm on Friday. Shane, the Ft. McPherson store manager was there to meet me. I came equipped with one bag full of clothes, my camera, and fishing pole.
We drove into Inuvik. It is an ugly town in otherwise beautiful surroundings. Shane had to pick up a part for his water pump, and we went to the North-Mart for some dirty bird (KFC). While waiting for our food, we went down to check out the electronics. I found the fishing section and on an impulse, bought myself a new fishing lure. I'm fairly sure most lures are designed to catch the eyes of fisherman rather than fish. This one was matte black with fluorescent red spots. It's called "the black fury." Even as I was forking over the cash, I wondered what the hell I was doing. It probably won't work anyway.
After picking up a day-old copy of the Globe and Mail (half price!) we got on the Dempster Highway, heading for ft. McPherson. The Dempster highway stretches from just outside of Dawson City to Inuvik, passing mostly through the Yukon before crossing into the territories just above the arctic circle. The highway is only about twenty six years old. To even call it a highway is misleading. It is a well built gravel road with a speed limit of 90km/h. In the winter it becomes an ice road.
The Dempster attracts scores of tree-huggers,weekend warriors, RV-ers, and tour buses. We passed all of the above on our way down. I felt bad for them knowing that their goal was the uninspiring town of Inuvik. Once there, they would have to turn around and drive back. You could see the cloud of dust raised by oncoming trucks a mile away. Slowly but surely they would approach. Both vehicles would slow a bit and move to the side. Some trucks didn't seem to slow at all, and our windshield would be pelted with tiny bits of gravel.
The view was mostly monotonous but strangely beautiful. The trees are in the prime of their fall colors up here. We drove past mile after mile of skinny fir trees and stunted birch with bright yellow leaves.
The Dempster crosses the Mackenzie river at the town of Tsiigehtchic(pronounced sig-a-chick, formerly called Arctic Red River). The M.V. Louis Cardinal ferries vehicles between the eastern side of the river, the Dempster highway on the western side, and the town of Tsiigehtchic, which is separated from the highway by the Arctic red river. We arrived at the river just as the ferry was pulling away with only one vehicle aboard. First it went over to the highway. Then it picked up someone there who had to go to Tsiigehtchic. finally, after about half an hour, it came back for us. Everyone I've spoken to curses the ferry, probably because they have all arrived, as I did, just to see it pull away. However, waiting half an hour is a small price to pay for mobility.
Day 2
You can judge the size of a town in the north by how many RCMP officers it has. Tulita has two. The Wells has four. McPherson qualifies for five.
McPherson (pronounced either Mick-FUR-sun or Mick-FEAR-sun) has about twice the population of Tulita at 800 people. It looks like so many northern towns, with dirt roads and standard northern housing. But there's something about it I like, although I cannot yet tell you exactly what it is.
Day 3
I drive Shane and his wife Alyssa into Inuvik so they can catch their plane. It is Labour Day, but the news stand is still open. I pop in for a Globe and Mail but the rack is empty.
"Do you have any copies of Saturday's Globe in the back?"
"Sorry, all sold out."
I drive around Inuvik for a bit, but there is nothing to see. Ugly residential sections and even uglier industrial sections. The speed limit in town is thirty five. My truck won't even go that slow. I have to accelerate and then coast. I decide to get the hell out of there and back on the highway. I never would have thought that driving one-ten on a dirt road would be so easy. About and hour and a half into the trip, I feel the rear end skidding out as I go around a turn. It is enough to make me back off to ninety.
Day 4
My first full day running the store on my own. The day seems to be going well until I go to put on my glasses after my shower. When I pick them up from the table, the right arm stays behind. I find the screw, but no amount of fiddling can get the damn thing to stay in. So I improvise. I use a bent staple in place of the screw and tape to hold it together.
After work, I get in the company truck, determined to get a line in the water. Out on the highway, the sun is low in the sky. CBC is on the radio.
"I'm Paul Kennedy. This is Ideas."
I cruise just over that next hill for several minutes, certain that I spotted a good fishing spot last week. Finally I stop at a lake that looks as good as any other. There is a small space on the side of the road, just large enough to park a truck without impeding traffic.
To get to the water, I soon realize that I'm not walking on ground at all. I'm walking on thick underbrush: dense and springy shrubs that grow out of marshy bog. It's ok for walking, as long as I look where I'm going, but as soon as I stop, the shrubs slowly give way. I cast twice before I start to feel the bog water seeping through my Adidas.
"To hell with it," I say.
However, my fishing is soon interrupted. It is silent out here, even though I'm less than a hundred yards from the so-called highway. But coming from the other side of the lake, I can hear someone calling "Hello!."
It is most definitely human. Of this, I am at first sure. I'm taken aback because it is out of place. I would have been less surprised to see a bear.
There is no sense of panic in the voice. Not much friendliness either. After two hellos, I yell back. There is another hello back, exactly the same as the last. It must be some lost hiker, I think to myself. Or someone fishing on the other side. There it is again.
"Hello!"
"Are you alright?" I yell.
"Hello!"
"Hello?"
"Hello!"
Then I see it. A loon swims into sight. I feel so stupid. luckily there is no one for miles who might have heard me. I guess he spotted a wet footed boobie and he wanted to move in for a closer look. Later his partner appears and they watch me fight with my lure, which is caught on a bush at the water's edge.
I don't stay long. About half an hour. But when I get back in the truck, Paul Kennedy is gone. The local radio station has taken over the frequency. With Buck Owens singing in the background, a woman is reading messages in that slow, monotone northern accent.
"This message is for Andrew Snowshoe. please Go down to the end of miller creek tomorrow to meet Judith and Dan. This message is for Ira Koe. If your listening, call home on channel 22 for an important message..."
Buck Owens comes through the AM radio loud and tinny. They call it country music for a reason. It's enough to drive you insane in the city, but I don't think I could handle anything post nineteen-eighty while driving into a dirt-road town with clapboard sidewalks. A kid is walking up the road and firing stones at a light pole, just to see if he can hit it. The sun is setting on my left, and there's a cloud of dust rising behind that truck that is driving this way.
2 comments:
Brodie:
Tsk tsk gone only a week and already gone "loonie" Nice blogging, good to see you back in the swing of things. keep it up!
I love to see more pictures, especially of this new remote area you are in. Thanks.
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