Intrepid Adventurer, Questionable Driver

Today was fabulous: a sunny and nearly windless day in the mid -20s (which, here, is pretty comfortable). In the morning, I spotted, yet again, Mother Dog and Puppy, eagerly eyeballing an animal that a hunter was butchering out on the ice for his dogs. Luckily, they were able to pick up some scraps and the man who was preparing the animal kindly welcomed Mother Dog and made sure she got something to take away with her.

Keen watchers, whose diligence was later rewarded.

The best picture of the two I've managed. They're good looking dogs, if somewhat scruffy.

After I took the obligatory photographs so that you can continue to learn about these two entrancing canines (ha! you're welcome), Brooke and I got bundled up for a little adventure. We headed out in a little convoy of two snowmobiles and a qamutik (please note the corrected spelling) with Dave, two of his children and a daughter-in-law, and three grandchildren, along with me, your intrepid writer, and Kuukuluk.

A cozy little family box on a qamutik. It got toasty in there!

We drove down to a sledding hill by Salmon Creek, where two families were already sledding with many, many children and a deliriously happy and friendly puppy. The hill was incredible -- smooth, with steps chiselled up the face. As I rode down, snow sprayed up on my face and melted against my skin, wetting my face as thoroughly as if I'd washed my face. And despite the fact that it was -25C, I was warm and happy and safe. Incredible to think that I could spend an afternoon in that kind of temperature with soaked skin and feel nary a concern, only a half-delirious contentment!

Up the hill.

Kuukuluk, climbing with sled in hand.

The watcher of all the action, who happily participated in many a slide down the hill.

I had so many cuddles with this little guy -- so fluffy, so sweet. I wanted to scoop him up and fly him home with me!

Happy sledders!

After a great time sliding, we decided to head back around the town to Janes Creek, where Dave's son and daughter-in-law have a cabin. Brooke and I rode with two of the children in the qamutik and then arrived to drink hot chocolate, eat bannock (I made a second bannock, which I called redemption bannock as I omitted the doubled-salt that I included in the first... it was delicious and also, as a bonus, edible), and have some Noodles-in-a-Cup. As we climbed up the hill to the cabin, Abbas noted some tracks.

BEAR TRACKS.

Well, we saw those bad boys, which Abbas pronounced were fresh, and Dave unslung the rifle from around his shoulder and got it ready to go, should we spot the fellow who made those tracks.

Thankfully, we didn't. That's about as close to a polar bear as I ever want to be.

After stopping in the cabin and warming up, we decided to head back home, and Anisa asked me if I'd like to drive her snowmobile on the way back. Of course, readers, I knew that I had to -- I couldn't come back and write a blog about how I said no. For one thing, Kerstin would never let me back in the house. For another thing, I like driving fast things. I like it a lot. We trundled back down the hill and onto the sea ice.

That's some nice sea ice. Icey indeed.

I got a quick little lesson in driving a snowmobile and we set off. Readers, the sun was warm and glorious, the wind light and hardly noticeable. The snowmobile rumbled on underneath of me, the tendons in my arms and hands tense as I directed the machine in the tracks of Abbas's, which cut a path back toward Pond Inlet proper. A stupid smile spread across my face under my balaclava. This was incredible: zipping along on a snowmobile, Anisa behind me and congratulating me on my excellent driving, zooming over the frozen sea ice as mountains watched on either side. I knew, suddenly, that I needed a snowmobile.

Chuffed at how well I was doing, I zipped us all the way back to the house, hopped us over some bumps in the sea ice -- which, admittedly, I took a little fast because I was afraid of getting stuck (turns out that I didn't need to do this, but the air we caught was pretty exciting).

That would be yours truly, the intrepid adventurer, through the window. Thanks, Pat!

Onwards and up to the house we went, where we rounded the corner and --

Well, okay. Let me explain this first.

One handle has a thing you squeeze to go.

The other handle has a thing you squeeze to not go, called a brake.

So I squeezed the go, squeezed it all the way to A Little Too Fast, and squeezed again to stop -- only we didn't because I squeezed the go instead of the not go (whoops!) and I maybe drove us into the abandoned Arctic Research Station's wooden heater platform, thereby flipping the snowmobile on its side.

Yes, I know. I may be an intrepid adventurer, but I am, at this point in my snowmobiling history, a questionable driver.

As it turns out, everything is okay. I got clipped a little above my left eye by the handlebar and so have a little lump there, but Anisa was fine and also in fine spirits, the snowmobile is fine, the Arctic Research Station is abandoned and so doesn't care (it's also fine), and, although my pride may be a little less fine, I, too, am fine.

I scrambled up, a long string of very rude words exiting my mouth (like darn! and drat! and other more colourful choices), interspersed with ample apologies once Anisa and I determined we were both okay. It was then that two little heads popped over the roof: two young boys, asking if we needed help, little faces furrowed with concern. Nope, Anisa assured them, we're okay. She headed inside after we tried to right the snowmobile and failed and so had to wait for other grown-ups. I stood there, looking at the snowmobile rather blankly. Dang, I thought, way to go, Rebekah.

The boys looked down again, heads peeking over the edge of the roof. "Are you sure you don't need help?" they asked skeptically, slow smiles spreading across their rosy-cheeked faces.

I looked up, grinned and shrugged. "It's alright," I said. "I am pretty embarrassed, but other than that, I'm fine." Ten-year-old kids, checking in on me, hoping they could help. They chuckled and headed off and, with that, I went inside. The snowmobile was righted, tested, and my lumpy eyebrow iced, while we had a good chuckle over my squeeze-to-stop impulse that equalled, in that moment, the very opposite of stop.

Here is something I have noticed about the North: the generosity and compassion of people here. Anisa wasn't worried for a second about her snowmobile; she found the whole thing quite funny, once she was sure that I was okay, and was quick to wave away my profuse apologies and share the rich and storied history of snowmobile-flipping. As it turns out, this whole thing is a bit of a rite of passage and my little incident led to an enjoyable little stint of storytelling. But it isn't just that: offers of clothing, beautiful sealskin mitts and kamiks, folks stopping on a trip on the land to make sure I'm comfortable and content, students inquiring after how I'm finding Pond Inlet, another student who gave me the mini kamiks off her purse because she knew I was after a pair... People here are generous, the community warm and open and inviting. I feel, here, welcome, protected, looked after. And that's a wonderful feeling indeed.

All in all, an incredible day, even if I did make sure we had an, uh, exciting ending. Oh, Rebekah... Ha!