The Midnight Sun-Times

The End.

2009-07-01T05:45:00.000-07:00

What Happened?

We left. In January, a job came up back east. I applied. I got it. We left. Those last six months after my last post were great. We drove to Dawson city. The summer flew by. We flew back east in August and got married. In the end, opportunity knocked and we answered.

I could've written more post those last months but I was busy writing for the paper. The north was no longer foregin to me. I was begining to see it as normal. It was harder to pick out things worth writing about from a southerner's perspective. So I stopped, and focused on writing for the paper.

I've been thinking about the North a lot lately. I especially miss it in the summer months. Sometimes I find myself craving a drive on the Dempster. Sometimes I miss the view of the river from Tulita. I miss how the north was at once vast in size and small in community. Mostly I miss the people.

I thought I should sign on and let any readers out there know the end. Thank you, good night.

A Very Large Day

2008-06-07T08:43:00.000-07:00

My friend's dad used to have a saying. Whenever I was sleeping over at their house and we woke to a bright sunny Saturday he would look out the window and say, "Well. It's a rather large day out there."

He always put emphasis on the "large." I can still remember the first time he said it because I had never heard the saying before and yet I knew exactly what he meant. There were no clouds that day. The sky seemed so big and at the same time the day was full of potential. It was Large.

The other day I checked the "sunwatch" for the paper. It's a listing of sunrise and sunset times. The sun is now up. And it won't be setting until late in July. Yesterday was also one of the first warm days of the year. The first real t-shirt day. As I was walking the dog around boot lake it hit me that this is the largest day I've ever experienced. Summer is finally here, and the potential seems unlimited. We're going camping.

Two views of the north

2008-05-18T09:09:00.000-07:00

A few weeks after I got to Inuvik, a British journalist named Oliver Burkeman dropped by our office. He was there writing about northern sovereignty, oil and gas, etc, etc...

His article was more negative than positive, in my view, portraying the north through the eyes of an outsider.

"It isn't hard, visiting the Canadian Arctic, to feel as though you have reached the back of beyond: a place at the edge of the map, empty except for the caribou and a few improbably hardy humans, who journey for miles to shop at Inuvik's solitary supermarket, which sells overpriced groceries shipped from "down south" - meaning the northern Canadian city of Edmonton - along with a small selection of snowmobiles."

Inuvik has three supermarkets, not one. It was the first of several errors in his article, "A very cold war indeed."

I duly reported them to the editor of the guardian, but I didn't receive a response.

Today I read an excellent article about another northern country, Iceland. It was called, No wonder Iceland and the happiest people on earth. (Also by a reporter from The Guardian.) I saw many similarities between what Iceland did during World War Two, and what is currently happening in the North as it embraces industry on its own terms. There is a similar view here of family, and of welcoming children. It's not, as reporters in the south might have you believe, a epidemic of unwanted teenage pregnancy.

Perhaps it is because my job is to seek out the good news, but I see such potential here. And when I read article's like Oliver Burkeman's, portraying the north as a backwoods and its people as pawns in the geopolitical game currently being played out, I can't help but get a bit mad.

Night and Day

2008-05-03T16:56:00.001-07:00

Spring in Inuvik is not like spring back East. Yesterday we got 10 centimeters of snow. The roads are now rivers of dirty slush. We have had some warm days. But warm up here is anything near 0C. Anything above 0C is downright hot.

Every day I have the trouble of deciding whether or not I’ll wear my light spring jacket, or my heavy parka. It comes down to whether I’d rather be a bit too warm, or a bit too cold.

At least the pussywillows are out. That has to count for something.

Last time I checked we’re nearing 18 hours of sunlight a day. We gain about 10 minutes every day, or over an hour every week. The strangest thing of all is that the sun now sets before it rises in the run of a day. Technically, a day begins at 12:00am. Lately sunset has been around 12:15am. And sunrise is around 5:00am. So technically, the sun sets before it rises. “Night” as most people know it is for a few short hours in the morning. The mind boggles.

If you enjoy this blog...

2008-04-29T20:27:00.000-07:00

There are quite a few other bloggers writing about the north. Another blogger recently created some awards for the best NWT blogs. Quite frankly, I don't see how this can be for the "best" blogs since mine wasn't in the running for any of the awards. I've learned my lesson. It's nothing but shameless self-promotion for me from here on in.

If you are online tonight, you still have time to vote. Lots of good reading to be found.

http://bestnwtblogs.blogspot.com/

Paulatuk

2008-04-29T19:45:00.000-07:00

I woke up just before my alarm, around 6am on a Saturday morning, to catch my flight to Paulatuk. I was offered a seat on a charter by a resources start-up called Darnley Bay Resources. Myself along with two reps from the company arrived at the airport a bit after 8. Of course the plane was nowhere near ready to take off. The pilots had rolled in just before us.

Although they did their best to get the plane going, the pilots were at first unable to find someone qualified to drive the fuel truck. Welcome to a small town on a Saturday morning.

The mining guys shuffled impatiently and checked their watches. Representatives from the community corporation who were there to help the community did the same. This was funny because they were actually the owners of the airline, and they had no more power to speed things up than anyone else.

We took off about 45 minutes late. But then again lateness is just an idea created by people with watches. In the North, you’ll get there when you get there.

I was able to see the tree line once we got in the air. An hour later we came down through the clouds above the frozen Arctic Ocean. A string of dots lay on the treeless coastline. Welcome to Paulatuk.

They picked us up in a big shiny 15-passenger van and drove us three minutes to the school gym. From there I bid my friends adieu and set out on foot to see the town. The sun was out and it was just a bit below zero. At 10:30 on a Saturday morning, everything was quiet. There were no real signs of life except for the sled dogs tied out on their leashes.

I was drawn to one old building overlooking the water and spent a few minutes taking shots from different angles. Just about every other building in town was standard government housing. A hundred years ago, Paulatuk had whalers passing through. This one building may have seen wooden sailing ships docked out in the bay.

One old man I spoke to that morning by the name of Charlie Thrasher said he himself was a descendant of the whalers that came north to make their fortunes.

As soon as I told him I was from the paper, he asked me if I was getting it right. He didn’t specify what “it” was. He also told me that global warming is “bullsh*t” and pointed out all the snow around town to prove it. He said this is the latest spring he has ever seen, and he was most certainly well past 60.

Paulatuk has suffered through a lot of unusual blizzards this past April. It is usually to cold and dry to snow very much this far north. Although Mr. Thrasher might see more snow as evidence against global warming, it is more likely proof of climate change: more moisture moving in from the south and temperatures warm enough to allow it to snow.

The mining guys were in town to ask the community’s permission to drill on their land. Paulatuk is home to one of the great mysteries of the geological world. The Darnley bay anomaly was discovered in the 1950s by INCO Mining Corporation. The Geological Survey of Canada also knew of the anomaly. Although they never bothered to mention it until the 1990s, when Darnley Bay Resources staked the mineral rights.

It sounds like something from a Stephen king novel. The anomaly is a “blip” in the earth’s magnetic and gravitational field. It means there is a large, dense body somewhere below Paulatuk. The mining company is betting that it is mostly nickel and other metals.

82-year-old Leon La Prairie, the company president, is determined to get a drill bit down there to see what the heck it is. He was working for INCO back in the 50s when the anomaly was discovered. La Prairie chatted with residents and shuffled around the gym, leaning on his cane. At the end of it all, he got approval to do the test drilling.

Before the community voted, we were treated to a meal of caribou stew, caribou soup, and straight-up boiled caribou. It was good. At least the stew was. I wasn’t in the mood for soup, and the boiled caribou was more for the elders.

The mining company also brought Tim Horton’s donuts, which are a real treat up here, even if they are a day old. In the North, most communities make “traditional” or “Eskimo” donuts. These are a sweet, light, fried bread. There was a plate of these sitting next to the caribou stew. I ate three. Tim’s could take a page from Paulatuk’s recipe book.

The other thing the mining company brought was oranges. Two whole cases, to be exact. This was probably at the suggestion of an elder, or someone who occasionally travels to remote northern communities once every few years. People traveling to the North seem to think that kids are going to go wild for fresh fruit, or that they only get it at certain times of the year. I’ve read stories about barges coming up the Mackenzie at the turn of the last century. They would bring oranges and give one to every child in every town. I hate to break this to everyone, but it’s not 1942. They’ve got papaya and mangoes down at the northern store. Give the kids their donuts.

After the meeting there was a lot of hustling to get back on the plane and back to Inuvik. We had to go track down the pilots, who were sleeping off Friday night at the hotel. I was a bit concerned with the water they were guzzling on they flight back, but the landing was flawless. I slept most of the way. I wish I had more time to talk to the elders, and round up a few more stories, but you’ve got to take what you can get up here. I just hope next time I can get up there in the summer.

Ice Road to Tuktoyaktuk

2008-04-19T15:41:00.000-07:00

Note: A slideshow of pictures from the trip is available at the bottom of the post (or by clicking here). I suggest opening the link and viewing the pics full sized.

The road to Tuktoyaktuk mostly follows the path of the Mackenzie River. It took us three hours to get there. For the first half hour we were stuck behind a large dump truck, presumably hauling a load of gravel to Aklavik.

For the first hour there wasn’t much to see. The road was solid ice covered with drifted snow. It was very clean. I recall flying past an empty can of red bull, and the elbow of a stove pipe. There was no other litter.

There were hills to the left of us, trees and low shrub to the right. About an hour in, I saw something that seemed to stand out against the plains. Nicole dismissed it as small tress or shrubs at first, but as we got closer we realized it was a herd of reindeer.

Reindeer are domesticated caribou. There is little difference except in temperament and color. Reindeer are much more docile than caribou. A man on a snowmobile was leading the herd.

As I was standing up on a snow bank, snapping pictures of the reindeer, I turned and noticed an animal running on the other side of the road. At first I thought it might be a fox but after Nicole saw the pictures, she told me it was a wolverine.

Note: Correction. On closer inspection of the phots, it was a fox.

When you look at a map that shows the tree line, Inuvik is right on the edge. In fact we had to go about an hour and a half north before we realized we were above the tree line.

One might think that thee tree line is just an idea, or that the end of the trees is a much more gradual process. It was, from what I can see, almost an invisible line. There is literally a point where the trees suddenly peter out to nothing. I was in a hurry to get home when I noticed this, so I didn’t stop for a picture. Maybe next time.

It wasn’t easy to tell when we left the delta and drove out on the Beaufort Sea. We kept checking our GPS. The frozen shoreline became apparent after a while. It was different that the hills in the delta. The road is build offshore, on the ice. The road is bright blue when it is not covered with ice. It is a strange, frostless ice full of cracks. Driving on the ice was smoother than driving on the gravel of the Dempster, with very few “potholes.” But it was wavy in places. When a truck was driving towards us with its headlights on, it bounced up and down ever so slightly so that it looked as if he was flashing his high beams at us. Occasionally you would hit a crack in the ice.

Tuktoyaktuk was visible long before we reached it. Near the edge of town you can see two “pingos,” which are distinct hills that are formed through the thawing of permafrost. I had seen at least a couple on the way up. They are impossible to miss on an otherwise snow covered tundra. I would love to see the tundra in the summer. In the winter, it is not much to look at. Perhaps that is why pingos are so loved among the people of tuk. They provide natural scenery. The area just outside of the town has been set aside as “pingo national park.”

Tuk looks like so many other northern towns, with a lot of the same government housing. I’m sure it would be pretty in the summer, and it does have its scenic parts. I ran into Sister Faye, someone I had only known as a voice on the phone. Nicole and I were up exploring the old churches in town. Sister Faye was going into “Our Lady of Grace” Catholic church to start up the furnace. She said that they now only use this church for Christmas, Easter, and confirmation. On this day she was getting ready for confirmation.

Sister told me to walk right into the church, and to check out the Anglican church as well, which was a small log building near the Catholic church. She said they always keep them unlocked.

I walked into both. The Catholic church was beautiful on the inside, with ornate woodwork and painting. The Anglican Church, true to its protestant roots, was more humble. It was all I could do to stop myself from pulling the rope in the porch that led to the bell.

There was a tiny, fold up pump organ near the altar of the Anglican church. It was the size of a large suitcase, and it hand a handle on the top. It looked old. I suspect it might have come up on a whaling ship. It looked as if it were designed to be used on a ship, brought out for Sunday mass no matter where the crew might be. Then again, it might have been ordered out of the sears catalogue in the 1940s.

I think I became fixated on the ship idea because there is a large wooden sailing ship not far from the church. It too is owned by the church, and Sister Faye told me that they will be having the ship and Our Lady of Grace painted this summer. The Anglican church is mostly bare logs, and except for the window trip it looks as if it has never seen a drop of paint.

Macro and Mac-Crow Photography

2008-03-11T19:12:00.000-07:00

Macro photography is when you take pictures of objects on a very small scale, or get your camera lens in very close to the subject. (Yes, I took these).

Mac-Crow Photography is when I take pictures of my dog, Mac, fighting with a crow.

It was about 50 below with wind chill when I took these. The colour is off and the pictures are a bit out of focus. The worst part was when the crow (raven, to be more accurate) hovered on the breeze about five feet above Mac, as if taunting her. Just as I went to snap the picture, my camera was locked up, processing the ten other pictures I had already taken.

Place of Man

2008-02-24T17:19:00.000-08:00

Inuvik is a town that I described as “ugly” in a post last September. Back then I was just passing through, and I had only spent about an hour on the main drag of town. It was hard to see past its industrial exterior. I am officially withdrawing that remark. After having lived here for almost a full week, I can say that Inuvik is beginning to grow on me.

Maybe it is the rusted ships that dot the edge of the river. Old tugs that may yet be seaworthy and have found shelter from the ice on shore. I have started walking the dog on a route that takes me past three of them- five if it’s warm and I have the energy to go a bit farther. I can almost convince my self I’m back in Newfoundland or some seaside town in Nova Scotia.

Out on the frozen river you can see the headlights of trucks heading to and from Aklavik and Tuktoyaktuk. You can also hear the whine of skidoo engines being wound out and pushed to their limits. They are always in pairs and they seem to be drag racing on that long, straight, flat expanse.

I think part of my newfound love for Inuvik is the landscape. Tulita had nice mountains and rivers, but I felt landlocked there. Here I know that the ocean is just a hundred clicks up river. It is difficult to explain that feeling of being landlocked unless you’ve lived your whole life by the ocean. I remember the first time I went to Ontario when I was 17. The thought would occur to me several times every day that I was so far from the ocean.

Along with the comfort of the ocean is the peace of mind that the road brings. Inuvik is the end of the Dempster Highway. If I was so inclined, I could purchase a beat up car and just hit the road straight down to Dawson, Whitehorse, and BC.

Although I consider myself a pretty cheap guy, and I’m not one to shop for the sake of shopping, it is great to know that there are two hardware stores here in Inuvik. Three if you count the industrial supplies shop. Being a male, I have a gene that predisposes me to love hardware stores. There is no retail outlet more beautiful than one that specializes in practical things. The one possible exception is a bookstore, which Inuvik also has, along with a nice little library, and the Northwest Territories largest magazine stand. You would think that Yellowknife, with 20,000 people, would have the largest magazine stand. But no, it is here in Inuvik, with a population of about 3,000.

Inuvik celebrates its fiftieth birthday this summer. It was founded as a place to resettle the people of Aklavik because that town was - and is - prone to floods. Of course some people refused to move, and Aklavik survives to this day. I hope to travel there in the coming weeks, although our company vehicle does not have four wheel drive at the moment. Inuvik simply means “Place of Man” in the local language. It is the northernmost town in Canada. There are other communities at higher latitudes, but not incorporated towns.

I am loving my job. I can’t put into words how good it feels to go into an office and write every day. I love going out to meet and interview people, but at the end of the day I have to sit down and carve out a story of just 300 to 500 words. It is challenging, but at the same time I know that I can do it. Working at the store became this insurmountable challenge. I knew that no matter how many hours I put in, and no matter how hard I tried, there would always be more to do. I could never be satisfied with the results I received from my efforts. Here I might file a poorly written story, but when it is filed it is done and I can go home knowing I learned from my mistakes and strive for something better next time.

One thing I’ve learned is that people have short attention spans. We try to say more in fewer words. So if you’re still reading this, I’ve already taken you further that the average newspaper article. I will be trying to post more regularly now that I have an abundance of time. This was one of my first real weekends in years. A weekend has to be long enough so you can afford to waste some time without feeling guilty. A weekend isn’t a weekend unless you get to have it on Saturday and Sunday. There is a vibe you get on those days that you just can’t get on a Tuesday.

Chapter Two

2008-01-06T08:14:00.000-08:00

December was long and eventful here in our now-packed-up house. It started with a job offer from Northern News Services, a company based in Yellowknife that publishes weekly and bi-weekly papers all over the Northwest Territories and Nunavut. I had been sending them photos for a while and they had my resume on file, so when a job in Inuvik opened up, they called to ask me if I was interested.

These decisions are not easy to make, especially over the Christmas season, but after talking it over, Nicole and I decided to go for it. It wasn't easy telling everyone at the store that I was leaving, but they were supportive to say the least.

On the 23rd, Nicole started having pains in her stomach. There is no doctor in Tulita, but the nurse called the hospital in Yellowknife and described the symptoms. We were told it was nothing too serious. The pain subsided a bit over Christmas, but by the 29th it was back and we decided that she couldn't wait any longer to go see a doctor. It meant paying several thousand out of our own pocket for a last minute flight to Yellowknife. It is true that health care is free in Canada, but only once you're inside the hospital. How you get there is up to you.

Once inside, the doctors seemed fascinated by Nicole's conflicting symptoms. There was a steady stream of specialists called in from their Christmas holidays to perform test after test. I felt relieved knowing that so many doctors were putting their heads together on her case. I'm sure it was because of her unusual symptoms. We later learned that the patient in the bed next to us had languished for four full days before finding out her appendix had ruptured. They kept telling her no doctors were available to do an ultrasound, even though we knew one had come in the day before to perform an ultrasound on Nicole.

In the end, Nicole's illness wasn't too serious. It was an overreaction of her immune system that was painful more than anything else. It had a long name that even the doctors seemed unable to pronounce. After four nights and five days in Yellowknife, I jetted back to Tulita to begin packing our stuff.

And that brings me to today, my last day living in Tulita. It will be spent ferrying boxes and doing some last-minute packing. Tomorrow afternoon I'll arrive in Yellowknife and begin my career as a journalist. I set out in 2001 with the dream of making a living as a writer. Seven years later I've finally made it a reality. We will see how long it lasts, but at least now I can say I've tried.

By the sounds of things, one of my first tasks as a reporter will be a 10-day road trip through most of the communities in the southern part of the Northwest Territories. I don't want to say too much yet except that if it goes ahead, it will be the trip of a lifetime for me. I can't wait. Not sure when my next posting will be because my computer will be shipped to Inuvik. I'm scheduled to go there sometime in mid-February. Stay tuned.

On Coldness

2007-12-02T18:06:00.000-08:00

The day I arrived back in Tulita From Fort McPherson in early October, the ground was already blanketed with snow. I was told that it had just fallen the day before I arrived. It hasn’t been above zero degrees Celsius here in Tulita since that day. We have had several heavy snowfalls since. The river is now a frozen mass of ice chunks, and workers are already venturing out on Skidoos to prepare the ice bridge for the winter road.

Last week the temperature dipped to below minus thirty for a few days, before shooting up to minus ten overnight. It struck me how nice minus ten felt after the extreme cold. Most of you living down south rarely feel temperatures as cold as minus thirty on a regular basis. You might think that anything below freezing is cold, but once you become acclimatized to the cold, and as long as you dress properly, you begin to become a connoisseur of the cold. You can judge the difference between zero and minus thirty in the same way you might judge a spring or summer day on the opposite end of the thermometer.

Zero Degrees Celsius to minus 10 - Great weather for walking, even if there is a bit of a breeze. In temperatures down to about minus seven you can comfortably go out without a hat or mitts for 15 minutes or more. It is in this temperature zone that snow is most likely to fall. Snow tends to be wetter and heavier. The sky is usually overcast when it is this warm, the clouds being the cause of the warmer weather.

Minus ten to minus twenty - This is an acceptable cold as long as there is no wind. I enjoy going out on still nights such as this because the air is crisp and the sky is usually clear. It is the best weather for northern lights viewing. Gloves and a hat are a must, but you can take them off for a few minutes without any problems in order to unlock a door or fiddle with the settings on your camera. The snow is dryer and more powdery.

Minus twenty to minus twenty five - This is the threshold between a nice day and a not so nice day. Minus twenty is still bearable. Once it dips below minus twenty, you think twice about going out. If it is minus twenty-five and the air is stilll, it isn’t too bad. But if there is any wind, you feel it. Regardless of the wind, this is the temperature where the air begins to shock your lungs. When I step outside at this temperature, I always let out a short involuntary cough. Although wind makes this temperature feel much worse, the colder it gets, the less likely it is to be windy.

Minus twenty five to minus thirty five - This is where it gets really cold. Gloves are ineffective at this temperature. You need mittens, and you will often put your thumb in with the rest of your fingers. The air is almost always completely still once it gets this cold. Because the air is still, it can be deceiving. You might think you can run outside for just a minute, and at first you might not even feel the cold the way you might on a damp fall day. But within a minute, any exposed skin will begin to ache. Touching anything made of metal can be dangerous and your skin will register a burning sensation. I find that when I’m out in this weather and my face or hands begin to ache, I will begin to feel a slight panic. I think it is a fight or flight mechanism, as if my body knows that I’m in danger. If I’m five minutes away from the house, I will pick up the pace and do anything to cover up exposed skin.

Thirty five and below - Nobody goes outside if they can help it. Even skidoo riders, who insist on joyriding at twenty below and beyond, stay inside. Your truck will not start unless it is plugged in. The air becomes remarkably still. Breathing can be painful. Frostbite can begin within minutes. Even when you are inside, the floor can feel cold and there is a chill that you cannot shake. Keys will break off inside locks at this temperature (or so I have been told). School is cancelled.

All of this assumes you are wearing a down filled parka, long johns, and properly insulated boots. Cotton long johns are only good down to ten below, after that, fleece long johns are a must if you want to feel comfortable.

Hell Hounds and Little Green Men

2007-11-06T21:05:00.000-08:00

People around town have been reporting a wolf on the loose for the past week or so. On Monday, our neighbor’s dog was killed and eaten by a wolf. On Tuesday morning, around 4 a.m., our neighbor Jimmy shot this wolf in his yard.

The picture doesn't really do justice to the size of this dog. It is too bad this big guy couldn’t have stayed out in the wild, but I guess he was tempted by all the snacks tied out in everyone’s yard. We bring our dog in at night.

In other news, people in the town just east of us (only about 100km as the crow flies) spotted a UFO the other morning. It would be easy to pass this off as a star, except the footage was shot in the daytime. Nicole knows the folks who shot this footage. They aren’t they type to go about perpetrating hoaxes. Some reported seeing red lights shooting out of the object. I'm sure there is a rational explanation. My boss thinks it's a drop of water on the camera lens. You be the judge.

South to Old Fort Point

2007-10-29T16:30:00.000-07:00

Captain Ron showed up in Tulita the week after he took me four wheeling in Norman Wells. He came by boat on a Saturday, and on Sunday morning he called Nicole and I, asking us if we wanted to go for a little tour south on the Mackenzie.

This was the last weekend in August. It was still summer and it was a sunny, warm day, but we put on sweaters because it can get surprisingly cold out on the water.

Ron’s wife Wendy was along for the ride too. Ron had one of his trademark captain black cigars clutched between his teeth as we drove past flocks of geese and ducks already gathering for their flight south.

We traveled for about an hour and a half past endless trees and rocks. Occasionally we passed groups of cabins and with blue-tarp teepees outside. Ron seemed to know who owned each one.

The scenery grew a bit monotonous after a while, but every so often you would round a bend to see a mountain off in the distance. In the exposed cliffs of the riverbank we could see coal seams and once, a layers of kimberlite, the rock geologists look for when they are looking for diamonds.

We stopped at “Old Fort Point,” where a family from Tulita has a group of log cabins. No one was home, but we got out to admire the cabins. They were beautifully constructed, but small and humble at the same time. Some were barely twenty feet by twenty feet, but they had all one could ask for.

Old Fort Point was once the site of a fort, possibly the original “Fort Norman” and Ron said you can find the ruins of the fort if you look, but we were starting to run short on time, and he said there wasn’t much to see. No Parks Canada interpretation plaques here. Just the name passed down for several hundred years by the locals.

I was getting cold as we traveled back, but I tried to ignore the discomfort and take in the scenery. About halfway back, someone spotted a black bear on the eastern bank, and Ron spun the boat around so we could go in for a closer look. It of course took off into the woods before we could get really close.

Four miles south of Tulita is a spot known locally as “The Smokes.” It is where an exposed coal seam has been smoldering for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. Alexander Mackenzie, the explorer for whom the river is named, noted the smoke rolling from the ground when he first paddled up the river in 1789. Although it was getting late in the day, Ron’s wife Wendy insisted that we stop in for a look. They had mentioned something about fossils, but I was unprepared for what we were about to find.

There was a bit of smoke coming from the cliffs up the river. You could smell it in the air. The beach was littered with pink colored rocks, and on closer inspection we found that each pink rock was covered in leaf imprints. It was literally impossible to pick up a rock that didn’t have an imprint of some kind. The challenge wasn’t finding a fossil, but finding a good, clear imprint that stood out from the tens of thousands of mediocre fossils.

Ron started a small fire to roast some wieners. Nicole, Wendy and I clambered over the banks, collecting some of the better specimens we could find. Ron is an evangelical Christian and he was unimpressed by the fossils. Earlier in the day I had told him about some petrified wood I had found on the banks of Great Bear River, and he told me how wood actually petrifies over decades instead of thousands of years. He said there is a museum in the states has a petrified tennis shoe. Instead of looking for fossils, he filled a Rubbermaid tub with the rocks to use as gravel on his walkway.

With our boat heavily laden with a few hundred extra ponds of rocks, it was difficult to get back up to speed. We arrived back in Tulita around six and unloaded our fossils. Ron still had an hours trip ahead of him north to Norman Wells. We thanked them for another memorable trip.

Owl

2007-10-22T11:35:00.000-07:00

We don’t have as many brushes with wildlife as you might expect here in the north. I’ve seen some wolves from a distance, bears, one moose, and dead caribou, but on Sunday I saw my first owl. I was on the phone with my folks when I saw a brown bird swoop past the warehouses in our front yard. I waved Nicole over. At first we thought it was a Peregrine falcon from the colouring of the wings.

I got bundled up and trudged outside through a foot of snow to get some pictures. As soon as I approached the edge of blueberry hill, I saw the bird take off for the beach. I slowly pursued it but it flew about a kilometers down the beach and perched on a log.

When I got back to the house and downloaded the first pictures, they were blurry at best, but when I zoomed in on pictures of the bird perched on a log, I noticed that it had the shape of a owl.

In the afternoon it returned, so I headed out again and this time the pictures were much better. It was, as I had suspected, an owl.

Buttermilk

2007-10-18T19:11:00.000-07:00

Fort McPherson’s store shares its trucks with the North Mart in Inuvik, which is the end of the line for the Dempster highway. The delivery truck usually stop in McPherson first to unload their freight, and then continues on to Inuvik.
One night, while we were unloading the truck, Mike the grocery manager noticed something funny.
“It looks like they’ve got a pallet of buttermilk in there! Someone must have really screwed up the order.”
Buttermilk is something I’ve never ordered. Mike once ran the dairy section in the Inuvik store, and he said he usually ordered 12 1 litre cartons. That was for a population of 6000 people.

Today I found out what happened to the buttermilk:

Inuvik inundated with free buttermilk bounty

A Slideshow

2007-09-29T21:28:00.000-07:00

You want pictures? You got 'em.

Ft. McPherson Journal - Part Three

2007-09-29T21:11:00.000-07:00

The other day I was speaking with Sarah, an employee at the store as she was putting out toys. The toys were action figure that included men in fluorescent furs, space-aged snowmobiles, and wooly mammoths. Sarah motioned towards the toy wooly mammoth and told me her father had once found "a...a...whatchacallit....mammoth trunk" up in the mountains. She was pointing to the toy's nose and tusks.

"You mean the tusk? The bone?"

"No. It was the trunk. It was dried out."

She held up her hands about thee feet apart to indicate the size.

I can only assume that it was freeze dried somehow. She said it didn't stink at all and that someone in the family might still have it. She also told me that her father and some others once came across "a whole bunch" of mammoths when they were snowmobiling in the mountains but that "they never went back to that place." Her father is long gone.

Sarah is a wealth of interesting and sometimes disturbing stores. The other day I got off the phone with an elder from town while Sarah was in the office with me, doing some paperwork.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"Oh it was so and so (I don't remember the name) and she's sending her grandson up to charge on her account."

"She doesn't really come around any more, ever since she got shot."

"Shot?"

"Yeah, her brother-in-law. He shot her and four other people in the family."

"Jesus! Was he drunk or what?"

"No. They say when they found him he was still holding the gun and he just kept saying 'why do they always make fun of me? Why do they always make fun of me' over and over again."

One Crow For Sorrow

2007-09-22T23:15:00.001-07:00

Death seems more common here in the north. Not death itself, which is a part of life, but tragic death. The death of young people. Last year it was the plane crash. On my first day here in McPherson there was a funeral for a girl who had commited suicide. Today, the husband of an employee at the store was killed in an accident out on the Dempster.

Last night she was excited because he was coming home from working away. She hadn't seen him in a while. He made it home ok, but this morning I learned that he had been killed on his way back to work. I had just delivered them a new washer the other day. I had just ordered them a new king size bed. It hasn't even arrived yet. I wanted to drive down and see her. But I didn't have to because she came in to the store with her kids. You could tell she was crying. Her kids were crying openly, but they bravely marched through the store, picking up some odds and ends, and then renting some movies. I approached her and told her if she needed anything to call. An empty gesture, but one I felt I had to do. I couldn't just look away.

Last week, a bootleger from town rolled her car and walked away unharmed. You can't help but wonder why a hard-working family man could be taken in the same way a week later. I know it's wrong, but I can't help wishing it had been the other way around.

Ft. McPherson Journal - Part Two

2007-09-13T06:44:00.000-07:00

Days 5 through 10

WORK

Day 11
It's finally my day off. I was going to take Monday off, but the office lady ended up taking it off instead, which was fine because it rained all day Monday. Today it is warm and dry. I'm planning to drive about 200km south on the Dempster to Eagle Plains, a mid-way truck stop. All week I've been psyching myself up for this trip. Whenever tourists have stopped into the store on their way to Inuvik, I've asked them what the drive is like between Eagle Plains and McPherson. Everyone I asked said it was the most scenic part of the highway. That works for me because I won't be able to drive the next leg of the highway (400+km to Dawson).

Of course as I'm getting ready to go, a truck shows up with freight for the store. They never come when you need them, but always arrive when you're in the middle of something important (like a day off). I go in to help but Mike, the grocery manager, chases me off.

My truck is loaded with junk food, camera gear and fishing gear. I'm thinking about eating lunch at Eagle Plains, but I've brought a sandwich just in case the food there is crappy and/or expensive.

It's a five minute drive from McPherson to the cable ferry which crosses the Peel River. It looks like I'm the first truck of the day. The sign says that the ferry runs 9:30 a.m. to 12:45p.m. There is an old guy directing traffic onto the ferry. The trip across takes less than five minutes, but he comes over and asks me where I'm headed. I tell him and he tells me that I might see some Caribou. There are several herds that migrate across the highway. I pray that I'll see some wildlife. One lady who works at the store warned me not to get out of my truck if I see any grizzlies. Good advice if I ever heard it.
The highway rolls between some small hills and lakes before rising onto a plateau. Right away I stop at a look off and snap a few pictures of the mist filled Mackenzie Valley below. The sun is still quite low in the sky and I hope that it will be that way when I get to the Richardson Mountains. Any photographer will tell you that early morning and late evening are the golden hours for photography. It's that time when everything has a golden hue and shadows are more dramatic.

I think that the leaves are just a few days past their prime, but the colors are still wonderful. There aren't many trees here on the plateau and the low bushes are varying shades of yellow and red. Down below I can see some mountains, but nothing too spectacular yet. The road is in good shape; very smooth for a gravel road.

Up ahead I see a sign that says "Emergency Airstrip 1km." It takes a minute for me to realize that this runway isn't beside the highway. It is the highway. The road widens for a few hundred yards and then narrows again. There are orange and red markers on the side of the road. I wonder how often this runway is used.

Past the runway I see what I've been waiting for: Mountains. And the road appears to be headed straight for them. I can't help but stop every few kilometers to take a few more pictures of them. IT makes me wonder if I'll ever get to Eagle Plains. Especially when I stop to try fishing at a small nameless creek. As usual I don't have any luck.

Close to the mountain pass they are grading the road. Dump trucks loaded with gravel are barreling up and down the road. It is intimidating to come upon one of these things as they head at you at nearly 100km/h. I move as close to the shoulder as possible. I picture these monster trucks jack-knifing and sliding into me. I picture myself loosing control on the loose gravel and sliding into them. But each time they pass without incident.

Down through the mountain pass is a flat section and then another smaller pass. In the middle of this second pass, I cross over into the Yukon. I stop for the obligatory picture at the border. Some of my earliest memories are of my dad reading Robert Service to me. Now I am finally in Service's home territory.

Passing in to a different jurisdiction, I instantly notice a difference in the quality of the roads. I'd say they are slightly better than on the Territories' side. The mountains aren't quite as impressive, but beautiful in their own way nonetheless.

It is noon when I cross the border. It has taken me two and a half hours to go 100 km with my frequent stops. I try to push ahead while the road is good and the scenery is mundane. Before long I come to the Arctic Circle rest stop. More obligatory photos, then back on the road.

Eagle Plains, as a destination, is a bit of a let down. I almost knew this would be the case. It is an ugly hotel, restaurant, and gas bar. It was built in 1978 because there was no natural stopping point between Dawson and McPherson. It obviously hasn't been renovated since. It's like walking into a time capsule. A plaque on the wall explains how the site is completely self sufficient as far as power, water, and sewer go. The plaque even brags that TV signals in the rooms come from an "ANIK 2 satellite dish." Wow, the future is here.

There's an old hound dog asleep on the floor in the hotel lobby. I take one look at the restaurant and decide to eat my sandwich instead of eating here. It's cafeteria style, complete with orange plastic trays and coffee mugs straight out of the 70s. The carpet and walls are ugly earth tones. I get the heck out of there and go eat my lunch by the Eagle River. At least the earth tones there are real.

Then it's back the way I came. Nothing much happens until I get close to the border again. I come around a bend and there up ahead is a bull moose, facing towards me and not moving.

Like I said before, delivery trucks are never there when you need them, and always appear at the most inopportune times. As I pull over, I know that about three minutes behind me is an 18 wheeler with a load of vehicles for Inuvik. Somehow I manage to steer the truck over with one hand while reaching for my camera with the other. For some unknown reason I happen to have my zoom lens on my camera. I can't even remember putting it on, but I'm glad it's there now. I manage to rip the lens cap off and snap a few pictures before the 18 wheeler flys past me, scaring the moose into the bushes. I pull ahead to where he was, but there is no sign of him. There's no sign of my lens cap either. I must have tossed it out the window in my mad rush to get my camera out.

Even though I make better time on the way back because I'm not stopping every five minutes, the trip seems longer. I've got my Ipod to keep me company. I arrive back in McPherson right around five o'clock. The trip has taken seven and a half hours. I've burned just over half a tank of gas. At McPherson's prices (1.36/L) that's about $70.00. I don't think I'll be topping that trip any time soon.

Ft. McPherson Journal - Part One

2007-09-05T18:34:00.000-07:00

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 Wells

2007-08-26T20:03:00.001-07:00

I’ve had a lot of people say that life here in the north must be exciting. The truth is that life in the north can be weeks or months on end of boredom, followed by a few hours that make up for those boring stretches. I had one of those experiences last week. The company sent me to Norman Wells, the next town up on the Mackenzie River, to work for a week at the Northern Store there.

As I mentioned in a previous post, Norman Wells takes it’s name from the oil wells that Imperial Oil tapped into during World War Two. They are still pumping oil and natural gas today. Most of the houses in town are hooked up to cheap natural gas for their heat and hot water. They pave the main roads using oil (possibly mixed with some other chemicals) to stick the top layer of dirt together. One person told me that biologists have found fish downstream in the Mackenzie are dying from oil poisoning, although skeptics say that there has always been oil seeping from the ground into the Mackenzie.

Norman Wells is the hub of the Sahtu region, thanks to it’s airport. Most people consider it the place to be amongst the five Sahtu communities. It has several restaurants (four by my count), two stores, several gift shops, and a museum. It also has a liquor store and at least three bars. I’ve often heard it described as the “whitest” of the five communities. The population is predominately made up of energy sector workers brought in from the south.

The Northern Store in The Wells (nobody calls it “Norman Wells,” in day-to-day conversation) is a sight to be seen. I’m used to working in a big bright new building with high ceilings and tiled floors. In the Wells, the store was constructed by connecting seven ATCO rental trailers together. There are metal seams in the floor that become insurmountable speed bumps for your shopping cart. The shelving is old and dented, the aisles are narrow, and the fridges and coolers break down on a regular basis. The ceiling leaks all over the place. Midway through my stay, the power in the bathroom stopped without warning. No breakers were blown. Before I left, it came back on for no reason, but when I turned on the ceiling fan it started spraying water that had pooled in the fan’s plastic casing.

Despite its deficiencies, The store has some of the highest sales among similar sized stores in the company. They carry high end items that wouldn’t sell in most other Northern communities. Want crab legs, lobster tails, or premium steaks? They have them at the Northern. The store also has one section of shelving devoted entirely to “Newfie” items such as purity cookies, hardbread, and Lee’s Snowballs. They also sell buckets of salt beef. There are a lot of Newfoundlanders working in the oil business.

The week was uneventful. Work is work, and keeping shelves locked is rarely exciting. The best part of my job is meeting the characters who come in the store. One day, a Newfoundlander named Dudley introduced himself and started haggling over the price of a frozen turkey. He told me that he worked for Aurora college, but he was also the justice of the peace and the coroner. He was often in the store throughout the week. Once he came in to return a defective cordless phone.

“We’ll have to order another one in,” said the manager. “That was our last one.”

“But what do I do in the meantime. I got no phone.”

I couldn’t help interrupting.

“Here’s what you do, Dudley. Get yourself two tin cans and a piece of string…”

“Oh, yiss b’y. Where’d you say you came from?”

The housing there was nice. The Northern Store owns a duplex for it’s employees. I had a three bedroom house all to myself for a week. Around six thirty on Sunday morning, , I awoke to the sound of wood crunching. It was my only day to sleep in, but the sound was urgent enough that I managed to pull myself out of bed and look out the window. I could see that our front fence had been flattened and a white truck was pulling away. He had been backing out of the driveway across the street and had gone a bit too far. I cursed, got out of bed, and called the RCMP. Later that week I had to go give a statement. Apparently there was a second witness and the Mounties told me they had their man.

While all of this was fun, it was my last night in The Wells that made it all worth while. My friend Ron Oe, who took me fishing up on Great Bear Lake last year dropped by the store. I had run into his wife earlier in the week.

“How would you like to take the quads up to the mountains?”

I couldn’t say no to that one. I didn’t get out of work until eight thirty. Ron has two Honda four-wheelers which he bought for a song and then fixed up. It helps that he is a trained mechanic. We topped of the gas tanks and then roared off up towards the dump.

It was a beautiful night. After a week of rain and overcast skies, the air was warm and the sun was low in the sky, giving the landscape a golden glow.

I had never seen the appeal in four-wheeling before. My only experience on one had been bombing up and down a short logging road at my friend’s house when we were teens. Now Ron and I were flying through a maze of narrow trails, sometimes cutting back down the hill, other times launching up steep gravel banks. Before I was usually perched on the luggage racks while someone else drove. Now I was in control, and the feeling was exhilarating.

Finally we got up to the ridge above Jackfish Lake. Without warning, I looked to my right and saw nothing but some tiny trees four hundred feet or so below. But the path was solid and well maintained. I at no time felt as if I was in any danger. We stopped the quads and took in the view. Ron lit up one of his trademark captain black cigars, and I crawled on my belly to the edge of the cliff, sticking my nose out over the edge. Across the valley were even taller mountains. Ron told me that a local helicopter company takes people up there on the twenty first of June. From that height , you can watch the sun swing around the entire horizon without setting. However, tonight the sun was settling low at the end of the valley. Fortunately, sunsets last for hours this time of year, so we decided to head down to Jackfish Lake.

The town has developed the lake beautifully. Ant the end of the road they have a few campsites with fire pits. There is an unobtrusive path leading down to a well maintained dock. A battered canoe and a small zodiac were tied up, free for anyone to borrow. There were also two observation decks built into the side of the hill, where parents could sit and watch their kids swim. The water was crystal clear. A school of minnows was swimming below the dock, and two loons were out on the lake.

Climbing back on the quads, we roared up out of the valley and stopped to take in the view of the town before heading home. Lights were coming on in the twilight. The Mackenzie river snaked southward and northward as far as the eye could see, and the silhouette of the Mackenzie mountains loomed above the river, their jagged peaks finally free from cloud cover that had obscured them all week. I didn’t bother to bring my camera, and at the time I wished I had. Now I know it would have only slowed me down. The most expensive camera available would not have done the views justice. We were gone only two and a half hours, but I would gladly toil for another six months in the store for a few more hours such as those.

A trip to the outside

2007-08-12T13:02:00.000-07:00

When Pierre Burton lived in Dawson city as a child, he said that people referred to anywhere south as the “outside.” If you weren’t cooped up in Dawson for six months of winter, you were “outside” in the rest of the civilized world. While it is not quite that bad here in Tulita, I can say that seven months in the same small town can get to you. I have felt the first hints of cabin fever, and although I could always get on the internet or turn on the TV, after seven months you need a change of scenery.

We left for vacation of July 7th. 07/07/07. The luckiest day of the year. And I was inclined to agree. I had just spent six weeks running the store, shorthanded. I was burnt out to say the least, and in the last few days before we left, I started to not care that things were less than perfect at the store. My one useless stock boy had buggered off, and the cashiers were showing up late and leaving early. But none of that mattered. I couldn’t even sleep the last few nights. I had finally recaptured that feeling one gets in the run-up to Christmas when one is six. But this was going to be better than Christmas. Christmas is a mere day. I was looking forward to three weeks in the civilized world.

Leaving Tulita is no small feat. One must first board a plane at the airport and fly twenty minutes north to Norman Wells, Imperial Oil’s bastion of the north. Unlike every other nearby community, Norman Wells is a fairly new town. It was founded in the 1940s because of its oil reserves. The Americans built a pipeline to help the war effort. From there you catch a Canadian North flight to Edmonton, with a half hour stopover in Yellowknife to go through proper security. It is clear that the Canadian government doesn’t care what you bring north of sixty on a flight, but god help you if you try to bring anything back.

We got a ride from the Norman Wells airport with Larry, owner and proprietor of one of the local hotels. As we were driving into town, I noticed that the van wasn’t kicking up a cloud of dust.

“What do they use on the roads around here?” I asked Larry.

“Oil.”

“Oil?! Like, crude oil?”

“Oil. It’s better than dust.”

Anywhere else in Canada, if your furnace tank leaks, Environment Canada will come dig up your front lawn and leave you with a $20,000 bill. In Norman Wells, they spray it on the roads.

It was so strange to be somewhere other than Tulita and to know I would be without responsibilities or deadlines for the next three weeks. I picked up a copy of the Globe and Mail. It was the first time I had seen a newspaper that wasn’t at least a day old in seven months. Nicole often brings me back newspapers when she travels to Yellowknife. I hoard them like gold and often read every column and section. Even papers that are a month old have interesting stories. Our store gets only one paper a week. It’s a northern publication called News North, and even that arrives a day late. Sure we have the internet, but it’s not the same as seeing the news in black and white.

We ate at Larry’s hotel (which also has a small restaurant). It was the first of too many meals out. Our flight to Edmonton left at three. We boarded a 737 without even going through a metal detector. It’s still a strange feeling in this day and age.

I thought that my return to civilization would be a bit of a shock. More than one person had warned me that the pace is often too much for people who have spent a lot of time in the North. To me, it was as if I had never left. But it was strange to see a group of people and not know the names of any of them. Working at the store, I know the names of almost everyone in town.

With our luggage checked, we wandered around the airport, waiting for our flight to St. John’s. At one point, a businessman who was walking in front of us suddenly stopped and spun around.

“Hey Michael! How’s it going?”

Nicole and I jumped back and stopped. It was only then that I noticed the tiny Bluetooth headset resting on his ear. We both kept walking and laughed to ourselves. Later, a security guard whizzed past on a segway scooter. The future arrived while I was away.

Our flight to St. John’s was hellish. We somehow ended up in the emergency exit seats. They don’t recline, and since we were in the aisle and middle seats, sleep was all but impossible. There were seventeen empty seats in first class by my count, but the stewardess would not let us sit there.

“I’m sorry sir. I can’t upgrade you to first class.”

I wasn’t asking to be “upgraded” to first class. I just wanted to sit there and sleep for a few hours. But I let it go.

We arrived in St. John’s on Sunday the 8th at ten thirty local time. Nicole’s dad and sister were there to meet us at the airport. Her mom was home cooking up a massive “sunday dinner.” Besides a turkey and glazed ham, we had potatoes, turnips, carrots and cabbage boiled up with salt beef, and too many other sides to mention.

The next morning, five of us climbed into a new Daewoo car for an 11 hour drive across the entire island of Newfoundland. Our destination was Rose Blanche, a small fishing village on the south west coast, near Port-aux-Basques. It is the ancestral home of the Light’s Family, and it is where Nicole and I bought a small house with some of our savings from our first year in the north.

The drive was eventful to say the least, but I promised not to record any of it. These are my future in-laws, after all.

We arrived at our house at nine-thirty that night, just as it was getting dark. Having never seen the house in person, it exceeded all of our expectations. Nicole’s cousins came over and we had beer and pizza. Then we spent the night talking and checking out the features of the house.

The next day was mostly spent visiting relatives. First cousins Dave and Dianne. Then Aunt Marie and Uncle Willie, then cousin Tanya and Aunt Geraldine. And finally, Aunt Rose, who is actually Aunt to nobody. As Farley Mowat wrote in his book, Bay of Spirits, “Aunt” is a title bestowed on respected women all along the southwest coast of Newfoundland. She welcomed us into her house, which was lined with pictures of her children (one of whom is now a doctor). She offered us a drink of whiskey, noting that the doctor had told her a small drink was good for her now and then, as long as it was mixed with water.

“I like to mix mine with ginger ale though,” she said with a false whisper and a big grin.

Although seeing old friends was fun, by the end of the day that feeling of Christmas returned. I had been out visiting relatives when I really wanted to be home, playing with my toys. Only this time, the toy was my home.

The next morning we left for the east coast again. We stopped for a night in Corner Brook to look up old friends, most of whom were not home or had moved on.

The next week in St. John’s was uneventful. We spent our time visiting tourist attractions and going to the mall. I bought a few shirts, but even flush with cash I was unable to bring myself to spend 25 bucks on a shirt or 50 for a sweater. Fashion in the north tends towards the practical rather than the stylish. What I did buy was books. About 15 by the end of three weeks. I walked through Chapters, grabbing anything that looked interesting. It was the one pleasure I refused to deny myself. At one point, while carrying about seven books, a customer stopped me and asked me if I worked at the store. I guess he needed some help.

On Monday the 16th we went downtown to see the White Stripes concert. Although we had floor tickets, and although we started out very close to the stage, the notion of standing for two hours amongst a bunch of pierced and colorful teenagers didn’t appeal to us fogies. Luckily, Mile One Stadium has a restaurant up among the private boxes. We got two seats with a prime view of the stage. Jack White looked kind of small, but we could hear him fine and the beer tasted good.

The next day we flew to Nova Scotia. We spent a lot of time visiting family and friends, and there was more shopping. It was over all too quick. On the way back to the north, we stopped for a night in Edmonton and spent an afternoon at the West Edmonton Mall, once again buying almost nothing.

I will admit, it felt good to get back to Tulita. That really surprised me because I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here when we left. Too much of anything (or anyplace) is a bad thing. Now I’m ready for another year.

After having spent a year in relative isolation, I’ve compiled a list of things you should not take for granted:

1. Family and friends
2. Bookstores
3. Cold beer with family and friends
4. Long drives to nowhere in particular
5. Fresh meat and vegetables
6. Newspapers (especially the weekend edition)

Everything else you can probably live without.

Flash Happy

2007-08-10T08:06:00.000-07:00

When we went on vacation in July, Nicole and I were in an unusual position. For the first time in our lives we had cash, but we didn't need anything. In the past year we had learned that living in the north wasn't exactly roughing it when it comes to getting day-to-day needs, meaning we didn't need to stock up on any items. We could only bring back what we could fit in our suitcases. I didn't want to spend money on expensive clothes that would only be ruined by days at the store. My one major purchase (besides a suitcase full of books) was a new digital SLR camera.

Tulita means "where the waters meet" in the local language. Here you can see the cold and crystal clear waters of the Bear River merging with the muddy waters of the Mackenzie. There is probably a 10 to 15 degree temperature difference between the waters. There is supposedly good fishing on the border of these two waters, although you need a boat to fish there.

The slopes of Great bear rock as seen from the air.

Another part of the rock. The swath cut through the trees in the center of the picture is the winter road.

Bear rock from the airport.

This picture was taken at the dump. This doesn't show how incredibly big these ravens are.

The Mackay Range mountains are a dominant feature of the landscape around Tulita. The first picture was taken from my yard. The second from the airport above town. I'm beginning to wonder when I'll get tired of taking pictures of this scene.

Bears in their natural habitat. (I wish).

Ursus aviation is the local charter company. Their motto is: "Don't be fooled by the orange and brown paint job or the orange shag carpeting in our planes. We do regular engine maintenance!"

Believe it or not, Mac the dog can fly. I have proof in these two pictures.

A chance picture I took one Sunday morning. That's the old Hudson's Bay warehouse where we keep our furniture.

Images of the Norwetta heading south on the Mackenzie. Customers pay upwards of $5000 for a week-long one-way trip up the Mackenzie.

Dangerous Creatures

2007-08-06T11:35:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday night I took the dog for a walk on the beach. It was getting late, and I had already driven up to the dump to get some pics of the bears with my new camera. But when I returned, Mackey was jumping around at the door, which is her way of asking to go out for a walk. So I took her down to the beach.

It was an uneventful walk, as far as I could tell. But when I got her back to the house, Nicole noticed something.

“Mackey has a splinter in her tongue!”

Mackey was sitting on the floor, looking up at us. Her tail was wagging and her tongue was hanging out. Sure enough, I could see a bi-colored splinter stuck in her lolling tongue.

“That’s not a splinter. That’s a porcupine quill.”

She was still looking up at us, apparently unaware that she had a huge spike in her tongue. I coaxed her onto the coach,. Then I tried to pry open her mouth and grab the quill. Her happy demeanor was quickly replaced by the scrunched up face of a resisting little child. As soon as I stopped she would resume panting and tail-wagging, her tongue hanging out as if to show off the quill.

The quill looked smaller than most I had seen. It didn’t seem to be in her tongue too deep, and she did not appear to be in pain. Yet I was beginning to worry. I had heard that quills slowly work their way into the skin. I had also heard that they have barbs like fishhooks that make them difficult to remove Throughout this whole ordeal, Nicole was very helpful. She mostly held Mackey’s head still and said things like, “Just grab it! Just yank it out!” Of course dog drool isn’t exactly sticky. It has what you might call lubricating properties. Any time I did manage to grab the quill, it slipped out of my fingers.

At this point, I did what any college educated person is bound to do when action isn’t working. I switched to research. A quick Google search of “porcupine quill in dog mouth” brought up all sorts of helpful links. They all showed disturbing pictures of dogs covered in quills and said things like:

“A few porcupine quills in a dogs face can usually be removed by the owner, but quills in the mouth will probably require a trip to the vet so that the dog can be sedated.”

I got up form the computer in disgust. A trip to the vet would probably cost us at least five hundred dollars. We would have to borrow a kennel, make arrangements to get her on the plane, make arrangements to pick her up. All because the damn dog had decided to see how a porcupine tastes.. I felt like an American parent who has learned their child has done something stupid and will need an expensive trip to the hospital.

The problem, I decided, was that Mac kept pulling her tongue into her mouth whenever I tried to grab the quill. If only there was some way to make her stick her tongue out.

I went to the cupboard and grabbed the extra large jar of peanut butter we had mailed to ourselves last year. I spooned some into a bowl, and then jammed my fingers into the mess.

“Here Mackey!”

Now instead of pulling her head away, her little tongue was darting in and out like a piston. This didn’t make grabbing the quill any easier. Neither did the great globs of peanut butter stuck to my fingers. At eleven o’clock, we gave up and went to bed.

In the morning, the quill was still there. Because she didn’t appear to be in any pain, we decided that there was no rush. Nicole made plans to call the vet for advice. We thought that maybe they could send up a mild sedative that would allow us to get the quill out.

As we were getting ready for work, Mac came in the bedroom and jumped up on the bed. She was lying on her back with her mouth open. Nicole and I looked at each other, and within seconds, she had grabbed the dog and I had grabbed the quill. It came out very easily, and Mac didn’t even flinch.

For Crown and Country

2007-06-22T20:54:00.000-07:00

It’s been a long time since I felt like writing. Today is the 21st of June, the longest day of the year. It’s a statutory holiday in the Northwest Territories because it is National Aboriginal Day. The Dene Band here in town held celebrations just across the road from our house. There were barbequed steaks, smoked grayling (a type of fish), an archery competition, and a drum dance. As I barbequed supper out on my deck, I could hear the steady thumping of ten or more drums pounding in unison.

Earlier in the day, as Nicole and I got ready to take the dog for a walk on the beach, we spotted the unmistakable sight of tourists. You can distinguish them a mile away in their shorts, windbreakers, and Gilligan style wide brimmed white hats. As soon as I saw them, I knew that the Norweta was in dock. Sure enough, when we walked out to blueberry hill, we could see the ship tied up at the point, along with a few more white hatted tourists ambling along the dirt road towards town.

The Norweta was built in 1971 as a passenger ship according to the ship’s website. It is now used as a tour boat that makes regular trips up and down the Mackenzie all summer long. Passengers pay upwards of $6000 each for an eight day tour (10 days if you’re going south against the current) between Hay River and Inuvik. From what I’ve seen, the passengers are usually retirees spending their kids inheritance. These rich, polite old folks are always friendly and a pleasure to talk to. We met one nice lady at the foot of Blueberry hill. She asked if the store was open because she wanted to buy another notepad for her travel log. I informed her the store was closed, but invited her to take advantage of the free steaks cooking up the hill.

Nicole and I went down to the beach, let the dog off the leash, and started walking towards the ship. Just a few short weeks ago, the beach was littered with massive chunks of ice after the breakup. I wanted to go down and get my picture taken next to some, but for some reason I never got around to it. Today they are gone and we made our way around and over the dead trees that now litter the beach. When we got to the Norweta, a crew member was swabbing the deck with a broom. He greeted us and we made some polite casual conversation about the weather, but he didn’t invite us aboard. We walked a bit further down the beach and then started back.

On our way back, an older gentleman in a beard was preparing to mount a bicycle to peddle into town. Mackie approached him and we struck up a conversation. He told us he was the historian and tour guide on the cruise. He told us that he had worked as an archeologist for the government, and was based out of the museum in Yellowknife. He had researched and suggested the name change for the town from Fort Norman to Tulita. He said he had just finish telling passengers on the ship the story of how one of Canada’s Governor Generals, Lord Tweedsmuir, had climbed Great Bear Rock with two bodygurads and then drank some whiskey atop the plateau while his two bodyguards were rescued by a team of locals.

As we were talking, we had to get out of the way of a huge yellow grader that was scraping the road. All day today, the town worked through the holiday leveling the dirt roads around town, and spraying them with a chemical that is supposed to reduce dust. We learned they are doing this because Prince Andrew will be in town next weekend (or possibly the weekend after) to set out on a canoe trip. First Leslie Neilson, and now Prince Andrew. We are forever being besiged by our social superiors here in Tulita. I think I will make an effort to get the Prince’s photo if he does show up in town. Oh, and apparently this is supposed to be a secret. And here I am posting it on the internet. Oh bother.