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!

Dogs: Here, There, Everywhere

Mother dog and pup seem to live around our host house. I've seen them nearly every day, hanging around, curled up and sleeping, or, once, stealing an Arctic Char and running like hell back down the beach for some delicious fish and away from frustrated people. These canines are thieves, friends, but their cleverness is endearing.

First, I was playing with the miniature settings on my camera because I thought it would be cool if our iceberg looked itty-bitty. Here are the fruits of my labour (not exactly what I was aiming for; alas!).

Does it sort of look little? Not really. Oh well. I tried.

Teeny-tiny puppy.

Then, on our walk yesterday, we came right by one of the boats that the pooches like to huddle underneath.

Cuddles against the cold.

And, this morning, when I opened up the blinds to get a look at the day, the dogs were right underneath our front window. Our working hypothesis is that they like to sleep under a shed next door. They aren't exactly friendly -- watchful, wary of any rocks that might come hurtling their way -- but they aren't aggressive either. And part of me wants to go out and sneak them pieces of ham, but it's better that they cultivate their fish-finding habits and self-sufficiency, as I'm not going to be around to feed them. Southerners who live in Pond Inlet very often end up with stray dogs and it's no wonder. We're soft-hearted. If we're up here, we're usually making plenty of money and we have enough food security that we can afford to spend time thinking about our dogs' stomachs rather than our own or our childrens'. One of the teachers with whom I worked during my practicum has a husky mix named Oscar because he found puppy-Oscar in a garbage can (get it? Oscar from a garbage can).

If I was here for any length of time, I'd no doubt end up with a dog. For now, however, I steel my heart and watch these two, Mother Dog and Puppy, scurry around together. And, as I've said, these dogs aren't unhappy. This climate, this lifestyle, is bred deep into their genes; theirs is a traditional lifestyle, the relationship with their owners one spooled out over hundreds and hundreds of years of working relationships. Even when I get it intellectually, though, I guess I'm just a soft-hearted qallunaat right down to the core.

I am working on developing that thicker skin. I need it. But I still want to make sure the mushy inside bit is there, only a little more protected.

Right outside our window.

Many nights, I hear the sounds of dogs yipping and howling out on the ice -- maybe getting an evening meal, perhaps watching a bear wander by in the distance. Sometimes, as Brooke and I walk down the hill toward home after school, we'll look down and see the dogs, no bigger than grains of rice scattered across the ice, and their voices carry all the way up to us, eerie in the quiet under the mountains.

And tonight we were treated to the sight of a team of dogs hustling by the iceberg, their legs flashing quickly underneath them.

Hurry, pups.

There's ground still to tread.

Running dogs and dogs I kind of want to cuddle make me, of course, think of my own dog. It's been a long time since you've seen a picture of Jensen, dear readers, and no doubt you've been waiting patiently for this handsome mug again!

Cuddles with Kerstin. Apparently this is actually his I'm going to throw up in about 10 minutes face. Dog ownership, folks. Very glamourous.

I'll be arriving on Jensen's birthday -- the Big #3! -- and rumour has it that he's pretty thrilled. Apparently, when Kerstin pulled on one of my sweatshirts the other day, Jensen sniffed it forever and got really waggy and excited (only to find that I didn't materialize), so I'm sure our reunion will be one for the memory books. And I'm pretty excited to see my own dog again, who also used to run and run and run and who now sleeps and sleeps and sleeps and cuddles plenty as well.

The cats, though. The cats are indifferent, as always. Perpetually indifferent. Continually indifferent.

One of the profound and personal discoveries I've made here in Pond Inlet, land of mountains and sky and snow? I am well and truly a dog person.

Tangled Yarn, Braiding, and the Learning Curve

Brooke and I were fortunate enough to be able to take advantage of a workshop happening at Nasivvik today after school (with another session next Thursday). A local woman came in to teach us how to create the braided belts that Inuit women use around their amautis -- packing parkas with a huge hood in the back in which babies sit and a remarkably popular article of clothing. After a long time untangling yarn that I was trying to spool out (not because it came to me tangled; I am just a good tangle-maker), I finally sat down, watched Geela work, and then set to it, determined to try it out for my own.

Well, that didn't go well. I had to start again, after observing some more and listening to her patient instructions. Alright, I thought, time to go again. We undid my work and I set back to it.

And again.

And again.

The fifth time seems to have helped all of the principles of this craft click into place. Under Geela's watchful eye and under the tutelage of her sure hands, I am slowly figuring out how to make this thing work. It is so humbling to learn something totally new about which I know absolutely nothing from a person who is such an expert. It is an incredibly important experience for an educator to have. Our students so often feel that frustration, the desire to push ahead and try and fail, the I'll never get it!, and then (if we're doing our jobs well) the success when things do click. But, heavens, was it ever frustrating when I had to undo my weaving for that fourth time! And I'm sure I will experience the same mixture of frustration at my own ineptitude and excitement at learning something new when one of the Inuit staff members tries to teach me to make socks during the upcoming PD days.

My mother, an excellent teacher indeed, has always said that she tries to take a class on something entirely new every few years so that she remembers what it's like to dive into a learning process without any familiar footing. Good teachers, she insists, need to experience that feeling to be reminded of what it's like to be in our students' shoes. If we want to be effective, we need to feel in our bones what the learning process is like, in all its ups and downs.

Well, Mum, good call. You're completely right.

So much of my time here has been coming face-to-face with things that I don't know and being okay with not knowing everything. I've learned a lot about asking questions and seeking guidance and, sometimes (often!), laughing off my mistakes and continuing to move forwards.

Progress so far. Fifth attempt.

 On our walk back at the end of the day, we walked by the same fluffy puppy as yesterday, waiting outside the kitchen window and staring in at his boy. When he saw us, he perked right up, yipped a hello, and came over to wiggle around and lick our mitts. But, let me tell you, this pooch knows which side his bread is buttered on. We turned to head off and he scampered right on back to the house to stare back up at his beloved 7-year-old owner, who watched with happy eyes from inside.

Why hello!

Puppy love.

Sun Dogs, Snow Dogs

Last night, we were treated to our very first sun dog. For those of you not on Baffin Island, that would be an optical illusion -- when the air and light are just right, the sun is followed on either side by light. This light sometimes appears as a small half-arc rainbow, sometimes a smaller circular sun, and sometimes, like last night, a smear of colour. The effect is the result of light refracting off of ice crystals in the air and, in temperatures like this, those crystals are known as diamond dust. Friends, this place is made of magic.

Sun dogs tend to, up here, come with two small suns, on on each side of the real deal. Oddly enough, we could only locate the one dog; we suspect the sun's other pup was hiding behind the notorious iceberg although, on my trek down the beach to snap a photograph, I couldn't locate him.

One sundog, its master, and sea ice.

There have been other stray and missing pups today. There is a mother dog who wanders around in the area with her one puppy. I've snapped a few pictures of her over the days. Indeed, when I walked back from my trip to find the sun dog, I wandered right past the mother and pup curled up under the motor of a boat grounded for the season. But today, as I peered out of the bedroom window, I saw the mother by herself, eyes scanning the area, wandering to and fro and looking a little lost.

I don't know if that meant a lost pup, or if he was hiding around the corner of the house, waiting for the all clear before coming out. Only time will tell.

The wanderers.

Under the watchful eye and warm light of the sun dog in the distance.

I've said before that life here for dogs is different than it is in the south. While there are certainly dogs-who-are-pets (and I met a gorgeous, rolly-polly, fuzzy, and well-loved puppy today, with his owner, a 7-year-old boy, attached and happy to introduce them both), most dogs are not pets. Many dogs spend their winters out on the ice, waiting there to pull a sled, waiting to be fed delicious seal that is carefully prepared on the ice. Others, like this mother and her pup, are loose and wander. And, as I've said, the dogs understand this relationship: they work for their living; they're bred to be working dogs and, with a purpose fulfilled, are very contended indeed. In the south, most of us tend to understand dogs apart from their original purposes. We think of them as companions primarily -- a luxury in a life in which we do not need that carefully-domesticated and carefully-bred companion to help protect us, transport us, hunt for us. It is incredible to see these dogs doing what is programmed deep into their brains and bodies, even if I find myself hoping that our dear mother dog has not lost her pup.

When we were treated to the sun dog sky, the mountains were also especially spectacular: swathed in mist, still sharp and crisp but softened around the edges.

The way back home, misty mountains in the distance.

The Skinned Seal and Little Thief

Yesterday was a beautiful day in Pond Inlet, as every day thus far has been. The sun is so very white -- sharp and clear and unerring. It blankets the entire hamlet with an unyielding light, rising from pastels in the morning and dying in a blaze of ferocious pink on the ice at night.

I've made this smaller, but that's it. A genuine picture of the light. You can see how it makes such lovely and crisp shadows -- blue, instead of black. This is on the edge of town facing Bylot Island.

Dave took us for a little drive around town to take some photographs, which I am saving for another post. However, after we returned to the house, I was able to watch an engaging little drama unfold on the ice right outside of the kitchen window.

The dog teams live on the ice, as I've said. Sometimes, standing outside, you can hear them yipping and complaining, but they're mostly silent. They aren't tethered, but the dogs here seem to know their place: those that are in town slink around, expecting to be pelted by rocks at any moment.

It's a hard life -- not what most Southerners would want for their dogs, but the dogs here are tools not pets -- but it does have sweet rewards.

One local drove down from town with a frozen seal, caught earlier and left outside. I watched him pull up with the seal and start going to work to it.

I wasn't the only one who noticed. Soon, a beautiful white husky came over the ice. A hungry beautiful white husky.

After being chased away a few times, the dog tried the other side as the hunter continued to peel the skin from the seal, leaving it in chunks on the ice.

Dogs are opportunists. Our little thief managed to steal a piece.

Sneaky pup.

Of course, it didn't take long for the hunter to notice and to watch. Pat and I knew this would be the telling moment: if the seal wasn't for the dogs, this little thief would be in big trouble.

As it happens, though, the hunter just returned to work, efficiently skinning the frozen seal. He hopped back on his skidoo once the work was done and drove out to his dogs, seal trailing merrily behind him.

Seals are common here, although right now is not a great time to get them (it takes a great hunter to spot the gentle mound in the snow on the ice that indicates a breathing hole). In a little while, the seals and their pups will be up on the ice, basking in the warm sun -- that same sun that is intense and unrelenting and will grow to dominate both day and night here in Pond Inlet. Just above the school, seal skins, bleached white, dry on a railing, while frozen seals stand in the front yard. These, too, may be food for faithful dogs, who understand their place but are not yet willing to forgo opportunistic snacks.

Seal skins, drying. This is not an uncommon sight around town, to see skins hanging outside. Brooke has even sighted a polar bear pelt, so I'm going to need to find that one to take a picture.

These will have been around for awhile. It's been nothing but sun, sun, sun here in beautiful Pond Inlet.

After the drama and some down time -- much needed near the end of any teaching week, but especially after the week and a half we students from the south have had (wrapping up units, last minute marking, saying goodbye to family and students and very handsome greyhounds, packing, flying to Ottawa, making our way to Nunavut, then the Arctic Circle, adjusting to a new home, new school, new community). However, we did have two visitors last night, one of whom I hadn't seen in probably 8 years. We reminisced, talked about the North, ate delicious cake (thanks, Pat!), drank tea, and laughed.

It's a small and curious place, this world we live in, and that seems to be amplified up here. The connections we find when we start digging are truly remarkable -- and what a place to have as an anchor linking so many people.

Meeting in Pond Inlet -- only 3144 km from Cambridge, NS!

Long Lists and Airport Outfits

Today has been a day of list-making and list-finishing. After a lovely cuddle with Jensen in bed, cup of coffee provided by Kerstin (Best Wife in World, 6 years running), I made my Big List of the Day, which I've been working to cross off since I actually convinced myself to climb out of bed and into the real world. Between figuring out the restrictions on luggage for my trip up and back to sorting out all of those final details -- photocopying insurance papers, charging electronics, making sure my Kobo's library is bulked up (The 5th Wave, recommended enthusiastically by one of my students, is at the top of my list, as are the first five Percy Jackson books and other choice picks) -- it's been a busy day.

We did manage to carve out some time to go on a walk with Jensen up to a local park; it's such a beautiful day here -- light jacket weather, sunny, clean and crisp air -- and I figured I might as well enjoy wearing my Southern clothes while I can. Although, to be fair, my Canada Goose parka is currently hanging up by the front door, its pockets stuffed full of other winter accoutrements, and I feel a little puff of excitement each time I look at it. There aren't many opportunities to wear such a coat in Halifax, and I've missed feeling like an explorer who's hopped the Wall and is off into wildling territory (that's a Game of Thrones reference, in case you aren't enamoured with the show and/or novels).

Speaking of. So, my brother and his fiance are giving me a lift to the airport tomorrow morning (thanks, Ken and Ayla!) and, while thinking about packing and luggage restrictions and the clunky nature of many things I will need to have on my person when I step off the plane in Iqaluit on Sunday, well -- I realized (and by I realized, I mean Kerstin pointed out, thus breaking my absent-minded reverie) that I am going to need to wear a) my parka (Nick recommended this last semester, but it hadn't really 'clicked' for me), and b) my huge Sorel boots built for -70C.

In other words, stylish and streamlined all of the way.

But that's the price one must pay when living in a world with Air Canada's baggage restrictions and when heading to a place that requires bulky outerwear to fend off the cold.

Expect a photograph of my airport outfit ensemble soon.

For now, here is a photo of someone who, of his own free will and entirely of his own doing, snuggled up in my sweatshirt while we were out of the room. He has figured out that something is Going On.

How he managed to get pull it over him will forever remain a mystery.

(This has been an exercise in trying to get used to blogging daily)

(Daily dog photos will be stopping soon, but I may need to sort out a weekly feature -- Jensen Tuesdays or Greyhound Saturdays or preferably something that uses alliteration -- in order to keep that traffic up)

Life on the Edge

It feels as though I'm sprinting to Nunavut. It was hard to imagine, back at the beginning of this practicum, that time would slip by this quickly, but it has absolutely flown. It seems like yesterday that I first started getting to know my junior high students and today I'm saying goodbye (it's more of a see you later, truth be told, as I've promised to come back to visit in April and see what looks to be an exceptional play). It's exciting -- beyond that, in fact, and into exhilarating -- to be heading off to a new adventure, but it's also very difficult to leave these classroom communities that have so warmly and enthusiastically welcomed me and made me feel very much at home.

But onwards! My co-operating teacher at Nasivvik High School has been so welcoming and enthusiastic in our email exchanges and I am eager to step back into a high school environment with all these newly acquired teaching skills (thanks, MS1/MS2!) -- although I will certainly be stepping outside of my comfort zone and teaching unfamiliar courses and topics (guidance and esthetics, alongside English Language Arts). And not just into any old high school environment, but one that is nestled in a strikingly beautiful community and promises to help me become a better, more thoughtful, and more creative educator.

This past weekend, I made a trip to the store to pick up all of the small essentials one needs when travelling away from home -- chiefly King Cole tea and Laughing Whale coffee (these are far more important things to bring along than the requisite toiletries that I also picked up; I could make do with any toothpaste, but without my precious Lunenburg-roasted coffee? Ha!). Making these small preparations, doing some minor packing, and preparing my binder of NU-related resources (so helpfully compiled by my wonderful professor and NU program coordinator Nick Newbery) have helped make this impending trip much more concrete.

It still feels a bit like a dream, of course -- like something I've imagined and hoped for but don't really believe would come true. I've been so immersed in my junior high placement that making the intellectual and emotional shift is slow, but I imagine the shock of a new environment and a new school will snap me into the here-and-now (or the soon-to-be here-and-now). And that's a change I'm ready for -- it's a change I'm eager for!

Although, eagerness aside, it will be hard to say goodbye to this face come Saturday:

I will be flying back just in time for his birthday (the big 3!).

But, as I've told my students, it isn't goodbye so much as see you soon with a heaping side of with stories to tell, a heart full of new experiences, and on my way to becoming a better teacher.