Goodbye, Mountains

I promised myself that I would post this rather silly moment of realization before I left, and so here I am, sharing another story about garbage. Do you recall, diligent reader, when I found that syllabic graffiti? Here is a photo to remind you.

Wow, I said. Cool! But it's probably something not very nice, because, often, graffiti isn't very nice!

Well, in the perfect crow-eating remember-not-to-assume-the-worst moment, when I was on a little walk the other day, I rounded the side of that curious little graffiti-ed structure and found this written on the other side:

Sometimes, people just want to write what a thing is and, because they live in a place where Inuktitut is spoken widely and syllabics are broadly understood, they figure, heck, this should be written in both Inuktitut and English. Sometimes, garbage-collectors need to indicate where garbage can be deposited so that it can be taken up to the dump.

A box for garbage, readers. That's what I was snapping photos of. It was something plain and innocuous and practical, but I missed the forest for the trees. Well, the garbage bin for the syllabics.

That interesting self-reflective moment is one of the things I will miss most about being in Pond Inlet, but it's something I will certainly be seeking wherever I end up next. Seeing all of the invisible things I often take for granted, with English as my first language and because I'm white and able-bodied and cisgender and all of those other privileges I try to think about but still sometimes miss, is incredible. Trying to see and dismantle privilege is at the heart of what I hope to do in the classroom and in my life.

As the light fades today, I know that this is my last evening here in Pond Inlet as part of this trip. Tomorrow, we need to be at the airport for 7am, so we're all packed and ready to head out.

It's hard to believe that I won't get to wake up and look at this vista again.

Goodbye, mountains. Goodbye, Bylot.

Goodbye, dogs singing in the distance. Goodbye, clouds across the mountains. Goodbye, sea ice. Goodbye, snowmobiles and qamutiks. Goodbye, glaciers. Goodbye, iceberg.

Goodbye, Pond Inlet, and thank you. 

Qujannamiik. ᖁᔭᓐᓇᒦᒃ.

Sunset over the iceberg on April 2nd.

Ayurnamat: Bleakness and Bold Colour

Today marks my last day at Nasivvik, as I'm staying at our host house tomorrow to pack and get all the necessary things in order for leaving Pond Inlet. While the weather looks like it should clear on all stops along the way (and it hasn't been great at either end, that's for sure!), I'm cautious about hoping for that clear shot through to Halifax I've booked. Things are unpredictable here, flights often delayed or cancelled due to myriad complications. But that's the way here: we take things as they come and adjust as necessary. There's no point worrying about that which can't be changed.

Yesterday's activity for the local youth had a good turn-out and there were some phenomenal cardboard chairs and foil boats built and tested. We're hopeful for the turnout for today's event as well. And this has been a really nice way to wrap up our time here, by spending time with engaged and interested teens. They are, after all, why we do this whole teaching thing in the first place -- and what a treat it is, to laugh and listen to hip-hop and make juice with junior high students who are just happy to visit and work away at the little activities we've schemed up.

A few photographs from the trip up the hill Brooke and I took the other day to visit the graveyard. The day was much like today: warmer, but overcast.

A qamutik, a cabin, and the sea ice. The sliding hill is down in that direction.

The graveyard was a place both solemn and beautiful: so many of the markers, often bearing syllabics and wreathed in bright plastic flowers that were in stark contrast to the bleak landscape around them, were for the young. They were carefully tended sites, sad and remarkable all at once. The view from the site is phenomenal and I wonder if there is some comfort in the vastness of the landscape for those who visit the sites of their lost loved ones. Sometimes, feeling small and humbled by the sky and mountains can help; other times, it doesn't help at all. And I imagine the feeling depends entirely on the visitors and those whom they have lost.

Our way back down from the cemetery was marked by spectacular views of the hamlet below us and the change in perspective made the mountains look as new and remarkable as always and, perhaps, all the more solemn for the grey day and the place we had just left.

Shrouded watchers in the distance on Bylot Island, haloed by light.

10 Things

I finished teaching on Thursday and, because most of the staff is away at professional improvement sessions hither and yon, I am left largely with little that Needs to Happen Immediately, save my own professional development program which involves reading Thomas King (and you don't really need to twist my arm to convince me to read his work) -- and even that is not of great urgency, although it is of great interest.

We've had an overcast few days here in Pond Inlet but the weather promises to be sunny for our Thursday morning departure. I've finished my marking and tidying; Brooke and I are running two more extra-curricular sessions for students who may wish to do fun things like build chairs out of cardboard and boats out of tin foil or make artist trading cards to swap with each other. Beyond that, though, this time here is a curious little buffer between being done with student teaching (forever!) and diving into the job search proper and staring with the for-real teaching.

Still, there is always something worth photographing and, as I inundated you with text sans accompanying photos yesterday, here are some photos sans accompanying paragraphs. Of course, I have concluded the post with a veritable wall of text (in list form!), because it isn't one of my blog entries unless I try to force you to read a million words.

The snowmobile I flipped, which I have named Unexpectedly Speedy.

The splintery wood I to which I added some extra splinters. See that yellow bit? I did that, with the help of Unexpectedly Speedy.

Caribou skin, which I am fairly sure Mother Dog and Puppy were nibbling and/or sleeping on.

A grey day for a delicious brunch, with mountains lit up in the distance.

The best things in life: raw char, an ulu, and lunch break.

Things I am going to miss about Pond Inlet:

1) Unexpectedly Speedy (the snowmobile): Although we had an uneven start, I will miss driving this mechanical workhorse across the frozen sea ice. I wish we had more time together.

2) Bylot Island: Staring at those mountains has become something I do every morning and throughout the day. I am transfixed by them, by the way the light illuminates new shapes and carves out new shadows, by their ever-changing faces.

3) The Sunlight: Once we passed through the blindingly white and chilly sunlight and into warm and yellow and lovely sunlight, the sun, always fascinating, became a source of gorgeous light and warmth. Watching it move through the sky and across the horizon, seeing it gobble up darkness as we progress toward summer, has been magical.

4) Nasivvik High School: I love this place. The staff members are incredible. The students are wonderful. My cooperating teacher is fabulous. The paper room makes me want to weep tears of joy. I've felt so welcomed into this school community and leaving will be (has been!) difficult.

5) Bannock Wednesdays: I don't know how I will be able to make it through another Wednesday morning without Regilee's bannock. My own paltry attempt does not even approach her magical bannock.

6) The Community: The community events, heading down to the Co-Op or the Northern and seeing familiar and friendly faces, developing a sense of the rhythm of the town, saying hello to my students as they drive by on ATVs or snowmobiles or visit the weekend market... I've missed living in a small town and this small town does the sense of community right.

7) The Pragmatism: People here are sensible. Clothes and coats are not for fashion; they're to deal with the weather. Heading out somewhere? Take what you need. Be smart. Be safe. Things can, at first, appear casual -- teachers wearing jeans to school! sweatshirts! heavens! -- but it's all to a point. There is no need to be fancy, to fuss over things that don't matter. The focus on what really matters is, well, beautiful.

8) The Generosity: This may be linked to the pragmatism that abounds here in Pond Inlet, but people are giving and kind. There is a sense that we must, first and foremost, take care of each other. You don't knock on doors here; you enter households because there is no sense in staying out in the cold, not when it's warm and light inside and there's plenty to share.

9) Iceberg Water: How will I ever go back to drinking regular old tap water? I DON'T KNOW!

10) The Students: The students I taught and interacted with have been truly inspiring. They came into class with voices that, although they sometimes needed coaxing out, were well-developed and engaged, especially on issues facing Nunavut and young Inuit today. My students showed up ready to learn, ready to tackle whatever challenges they faced in day-to-day life and to triumph, to be better, to strive for more. I leave inspired by their passion and their capabilities; I leave hopeful for their futures; and I leave so much richer for having known them. Young Nunavummiut make me excited for Nunavut's future!

In short, I'm going to miss a lot of things about Pond. There will be some things that I won't miss (these include primarily the internet speed, waiting-between-water-deliveries water-conservation mode, and also the fact that my wife is not up here with me, very much not in that order! I'd have to put wifelessness first on the list of things I will be glad to put an end to!). On the whole, however, this experience has been so remarkable that I'm not quite sure I can put it into words. It feels like something I'm hesitant to share, something I want to try to keep to myself -- which, of course, this blogging thing has made very much Not Possible (and that's for the best as Rebekah-in-5-Years will enjoy re-reading these very much, I imagine).

I'm going to miss this place and, because I'm leaving so soon and because my teaching has wrapped up, I'm already feeling the missing, even though I'm still here.

But I'll be back at some point to this incredible territory, this time with Kerstin in tow. After all, there are still a significant number of meats to try and I take my list of Arctic Meats to Eat very seriously indeed.

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.

Gray-Skied Conclusion

Well, today was the day. I've finished teaching at Nasivvik High School; I've finished practice teaching entirely. It's a feeling that has been a long time coming but will remain difficult to process. But today was a good day, a good goodbye. Still, even when the days are good, endings are tricky things.

But life moves on here in Pond Inlet. We had another overcast day, which meant that the temperature was mild -- comfortable, even, so Brooke and I walked home from the school, taking in the sights of the mountains cloaked in clouds, the stark black of the rock exposed after hours of sunlight. After a pause at our host house, we headed up the hill to visit one of the town's graveyards (photographs and thoughts to follow). As it happens, the graveyard was at the top of a surprisingly long and steep hill but, once we clamboured all the way up, the view was spectacular. I've included a few sample snaps from the walk back from school and then up the hill, as well as a shot of an interesting ice formation. A proper catalogue replete with too many pictures of mountains is to follow! You're welcome.

None of these have been edited except for resizing (dang, friends, these upload speeds!). I wanted to preserve the effect of the light in the sky, the cloud like a filter dampening everything to gray except for those moments when the sun broke through and lit up distant mountains.

Walking back after school.

Down the Very Steep and Very Up hill to Pat and Dave's, iceberg visible in the distance.

Our neighbourhood (that would be Mittamatalik -- the old Pond), huddled by the edge of the water, embraced by sea ice and watched by distant mountains.

Small things, big things.

A spray of ice, a broken sculpture.

And things continue to await me here in Pond Inlet before I head back to Nova Scotia! I've an amauti braid to finish (Workshop Part 2 was very useful and Geela was, as usual, preeminently patient), professional development to... develop, and activities to run for students who now could use a few things to occupy their days.

Also, pictures of mountains and things to share. So many mountains, so much ice, and a fair amount of dog pee in the background (that would be why, faithful readers, that last photo isn't edited; the yellow in the snow becomes far too obvious and detracts from the general feelings of... majesty and awe that I wanted to capture).

Shrouded

Many of the staff members at Nasivvik High come from the Maritimes, which means that, as a collective, we've been glued to weather websites as this blizzard has pounded the East Coast, dumping huge amounts of snow and entirely closing down Nova Scotia in particular. I've spoken before about how spoiled we've been with weather up here in Pond Inlet but, perhaps fittingly, today was a day shrouded in grey and the peculiar dingy white that cloaks everything when the sky is overcast. A mirror between here and home, even if ours came with the tiniest dusting of snow rather than the omnipresent and aggressive onslaught in Nova Scotia.

But what we lack in volume of snow we certainly make up for with a surreal quality. Although days like today tend to be more mild than the sunny days and thus perhaps are more comfortable, the light that penetrates the entire day is both bright and disorienting. Mountains are lost in the distance; horizons disappear entirely; the sky becomes as perceptibly close as the ceiling. Everything that is usually so clear in the distance disappears, lending the sense that anything and everything could be close.

One of the teachers on staff noted that, on days like today, being out on the ice is absolutely bizarre. Without buildings and the landscape of the town to give you direction, the ice, the horizon, and the shroud of grey-white become one, a seamless and directionless reality. And, despite the gloom, light suffuses the day, lending a harsh brightness to the confusion.

A surreal day for a walk while thinking about everyone in Nova Scotia.

Past the Coop, looking toward the airport.

The white sun, veiled.

To give you an impression of how easy it would be to become disoriented in the landscape that, usually so bright, defined, varied, becomes monotonous: our usual iceberg.

And speaking of surreal, tomorrow marks my last teaching day at Nasivvik and in my entire degree. In one week, I'll be arriving back in Nova Scotia. It's hard to believe how quickly this time -- both my practicum placement here, which has certainly have a tremendous and positive impact on how I will teach and who I am an educator, and my entire degree -- has slipped by. The thought of leaving Pond Inlet in a week and concluding, in one fell swoop, my degree and my experience here in a place that has been so formative, is bittersweet. I am excited to enter my career and to translate all I've learned here and elsewhere into teaching practice, but I'm going to miss the students I've formed those crucial relationships with, the feeling of this community, the wonderful collection of staff members -- all of the particularities of this experience. But I look forward to setting out and finding and making myself a similar space in a school community and in a community as a whole. I am ready to step beyond the bounds of student teaching and to enter this profession fully.

Dumps: More or Less the Same Everywhere

We do this weird thing as a species that I don't suspect we think about very often. We all fill up bags of stuff we don't want to look at anymore -- broken stuff, old stuff, old and broken stuff, gross stuff that's been growing at the back of our fridges for long enough that we're ashamed of and awed by its presence -- and we put those bags of stuff by the road, at which point all that stuff magically disappears.

Except no. Those bags of stuff get collected in a stuff-collector (called a dump truck) and then we go and dump it all in a hole in the ground that we try to never think about and to not look at.

And because we dump stuff in the hole in the ground, we call it a dump.

We are, in addition to being a curious one, an endlessly inventive species.

Except, in some places, the ground never thaws enough for you to dig a huge hole into which you can dump your bags of stuff and pretend it's not there. And so a trip to the dump in Pond Inlet is a trip out into a landscape that is made up mostly of gigantic and imposing mountains, a huge and mostly frozen pond of sewage, and different heaps of stuff cordoned off into different areas.

There's the wood dump -- separated because, in a place with no trees and still a few fireplaces, what are you going to burn except pallets and rejected building material? Also by the wood dump: the hazardous waste dump. Driving past that, you come to the sewage pond and the general junk pile (so far as I could tell), along with several haphazard sub-categories of junk.

Those barrels? That's the hazardous materials dump. The general blackness to the very right edge? Well, hang on. Details on that later.

As a sub-category of the domestic garbage area: the school bus dump.

Sad school buses; indifferent mountains.

But, I mean, junk is more or less the same everywhere, except that at the Pond Inlet dump there may be more broken and sad carcasses of snowmobiles who gave their best until the cold got the better of them. Other than that, it's really the same old random stuff that we like to leave by the side of the road and forget about while it gets carted off to somewhere Not Here.

The metal sub-category, loosely sorted (please note: cardboard boxes are not actually metal).

A few loyal deceased snowmobile friends, along with other junk.

Now what are the folk in Pond Inlet to do with their junk, as is cannot be buried in the ground and properly ignored?

Well, friends, remember that first photo, with the distant barrels in the left side of the picture and the dark smear way in the distance in the right? The bit tucked away behind a fence? Scroll back up. Review. Concentrate on that charcoal smudge.

That's the burning area. All the stuff that's broken or not useful or just plain old gross gets put in the burning area and, well, it gets burned. Because there isn't a big hole in the ground and it has to be dealt with properly (instead of, you know, compacting it, shifting it around, scooping it here and there, and mostly pretending we don't know it's there).

And, okay, maybe a trip to the dump doesn't sound very exciting and, really, it's not. Sure, it's neat to see what people throw out, but dumps are more or less the same everywhere. They're places where we put the stuff we don't want or need. Usually we ignore them. Here, the dump is a little more present. Need some wood? Go to the wood dump. Want to look at some pretty mountains? Go to the dump. Need to go photograph the sewage pond (I'm sorry, lagoon) for some engineering professors back in Halifax? Trip to the dump (also, true story; ask Kuukuluk). Want to find a slew of ravens? Head on up to the dump.

And, wow, I have to say that, despite the sad piles of things that have not yet been burned or cannot be burned (see: hazardous waste barrels), the view was pretty spectacular. Even the junk fence -- meant to keep burning junk away from other junk, to clearly differentiate between certain sub-categories of stuff -- is kind of beautiful, trailing out across the landscape toward distant mountains.

And I have to say this to commend the Arctic-style dump: because it is cold (-30C!), because junk gets burned, it does not smell like the dump I remember travelling to with my father for unknown reason (home renovation? one of a million projects on the go? exciting diversion for a 5-to-7-year-old Rebekah?), which had that peculiar sickly-sweet-rotten-banana-peel smell that I will forever associate with dumps. The hole in the ground back home where we stick junk is not a pleasant place to visit (even if I did find a Polly Pocket that I insisted on bringing home and making said father clean; sorry, Dad). And while the dump here is, you know, next to a (admittedly, mostly frozen) sewage lagoon and is kind of sad in that particular way that broken and disused and discarded things are sad, it's also still and silent and distant, the town entirely out of sight. It's dwarfed by those same mountains, by the scope of the landscape that surrounds it. It's like visiting an archaeological site. Like being the only people in the world, surrounded by an empty, ash-covered field, stacked barrels, and the corpses of old school buses. Like looking at this tiny and funny thing we humans do and feeling that, in the end, all that is swallowed up by the scope of things and becomes so utterly insignificant. The tiniest of pockmarks on the face of the world.

All in all, this dump was kind of a fun dump to visit.

Out on the Land: A Sample

Alright, so embedding is not going to work. However, these files are available for you on Google Drive if you click the following links. For your viewing pleasure:

Inside of the ice cave.

Zooming around Beloeil in the back of the kamotik.

Tomorrow it'll be back to your regularly scheduled (and wordy and picture-heavy) posts.

For now, a screenshot from another video of Kuukuluk (that would be little stream in Inuktitut, our name for the person formerly known as Brooke) and yours truly, frosty-hatted, bundled up, and supremely contented as we headed back to Pond Inlet.

Being out on the land: thumbs up.

To The Ice Cave!

Nunavut is a place in which the best laid plans can be completely derailed in the blink of an eye. Case in point: Brooke and I were supposed to head out to the floe edge tomorrow for a seal hunt but we just heart that both of the school's guides have taken ill and so our trip is cancelled.

We were also supposed to go to Bylot Island today to see the sand sculptures, but, after some discussion with Brooke's cooperating teacher and our on-the-land driver Anne, we determined that it was too cold for a trip of that length, so that plan went out the window.

However, other plans were afoot and we headed out this afternoon, a party of four snowmobiles and one kamotik, to find a cave in Beloeil Island.

Brooke and I, under the excellent guidance of Pat and Dave, bundled up in many layers. We were instructed to go wait outside before putting on the final layers -- the parkas, scarves, balaclavas, and seal skin mitts. My pre-out-on-the-land outfit (for the day's -34C):

Thanks for the snazzy photo, Kuukuluk! Arctic fashion.

After our crew arrived, zooming up to the beach in their fleet of skidoos, we finished bundling up and headed out. Anne had a kamotik all set up for us, replete with a caribou skin and a musk ox skin (so shaggy!). I may have fallen in rather than gracefully plunking myself in the wooden box, but there you go. True to form.

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Our crew. We had not one but two rifles in our party. I'm in the green parka with the backpack and Brooke is to the right in the red.

You can see one rifle in the picture and our party had a second as well. And it's a good thing. Although we didn't run into any problems, we did find out, upon our return, that there had been a polar bear at the edge of town the night previously. The teacher who called and let us know had wondered if we'd seen it while on our trip because that would have been the direction the bear was heading in.

It was a funny thing for me to look at those rifles and think, phew, thank heavens, now I feel safe. Guns matter here. So does fur. I was wearing a down-filled parka with a coyote ruff, a rabbit hat, and seal skin mitts (pauluk), and we used the musk ox hide to cover our legs on the way back. These are things that are necessary to survive in the environment. And I was recalling, adorned in all my fur and at least somewhat safeguarded by the guns in our little snowmobile fleet, the last protest I saw before leaving Halifax, a group of folk outside of the Public Gardens decrying Canada Goose as Canadian shame because they use down and real fur trim. And while I agree that fur-for-fashion can be problematic (although I don't believe it's always wrong; traditionally-harvested seal skin, for example, can be sustainable, ethical, and supports continued Inuit hunting practices and cultural knowledge), I would happily invite those who make a blanket statement about the use of animal products to come to the Arctic and see how well synthetic products fare (hint: they result in hypothermia).

Okay. Enough about fur! Here is a closer look at our lovely ride.

Remarkably comfy -- except in the super bumpy bits.

Zoom zoom! That's Brooke on the left and me on the right.

On our way to Beloeil, we decided to face forwards and be wary of our face masks/scarves (guarding against any stray breezes that could lead to frostbite). But the wind meant constant readjustment, even with the windbreak, and that meant constant frost on our glasses and goggles. I was worried that facing backwards would make my stomach very unhappy indeed, but, on the way back, I gave it a try and found the trip to be much more enjoyable that way. Although it was still fun facing forwards!

Our trip there -- what I could see of it -- was entrancing. The mountains rushed by as we zipped across frozen ice and cut through sun and shadow, dwarfed by mountains that loomed impossibly large above us. When we arrived, I got to look at those giants, so often featured in my posts here, up close, to stand at their feet and stare up and up and up, and then out and out and out across the ice and toward the seemingly endless horizon. The mountains stood guard on either side, drawing the eye forward toward the point where the world seemed to drop away.

We could see the wind whipping around out there. Did the bear lurk behind the snowy veil?
(Bonus: Some of the gorgeous seal skin mitt Pat let me borrow to the left of the shot!)

Shadow of giants.

The face of the mountain.

We arrived and made our way to a cave I could not have known was there. We had to shimmy up a little slope and duck through the small mouth into the roughly spherical cave, with an interior that reminded me in shape of an igluvigak. It even had a back wall that was made entirely of ice and a ceiling covered in shards of ice crystals.

The hidden cave. You can see that the snow to the right has been shifted as we crawled up and slid back down. We ducked in just beyond the snowbank.

The way out. The rope never saw use -- easier to crawl awkwardly. Grace is not easy in huge mech-like boots and stiff mitts!

Crystals formed perhaps by all the passerbys who came in with steaming thermoses of tea and coffee?

Structures like this lined the entire ceiling of the space. It was incredibly beautiful -- an crystal cave.

We couldn't stay forever, of course, and after some hot beverages and talk and the quiet of simply taking the magnitude of this place in -- a tiny cave inside a huge mountain lined with minute crystals while the impossibly huge sky stretched out forever beyond the mouth of the cave -- we headed out.

Shannon, Jaclyn, me, and Brooke, against the backdrop of the ice wall. Thanks, Scott, for taking this picture! (Scott is, incidentally, one of the MSVU grads who also did the Nunavut practicum placement and he now works along with his partner Jaclyn at Nasivvik). 

All in all, Brooke and I were fairly pleased with ourselves. The longer we were out, the more comfortable we felt -- our gear worked, we weren't dying, and we were both having fun.

Can't complain!

We went back in the kamotik and zipped around the island and headed back up the coast. And, dear reader, because you have been so patient about reading my blog and looking at all of my photos, I took my hands out of my mitts to shoot you a video and to give you a little sample of what it's like to ride between mountains while being pulled by a snowmobile across sea ice and blanketed in musk ox fur. I promise that I will try my best to upload it soon, but it's a challenge here in the Arctic, where upload speeds are sad indeed. A new challenge for tomorrow!

The whole excursion took about two and a half hours but it seemed like it all happened in a flash. Words absolutely fail to impress the sheer magnificence of this landscape, the exhilaration of flashing by and beneath mountains, the sun lighting up the sky that magnificent blue while we flash across the ice.

We both came back with stupid grins on our faces, and I felt a kind of warm contentment not unlike spending a lazy Sunday afternoon basking in the sun -- except that, instead of being snuggled up on a couch, I'd been out on the land, to an ice cave, and riding in the back of a kamotik, bundled head to toe. The thrill of it, certainly underscored by a healthy respect for the cold, for the land, for the animals that roam it, is heady. It's new. It's humbling.

And, to top it off, the sunset tonight was magnificent.

Even when plans fall through here -- and I think this may be one of those things that I'll be able to carry with me into other areas of my life, one of those things that just matters as a thing you know and understand in your gut -- other things can happen that turn out to be better than what you'd planned. And, while I don't believe in grand plans or in metaphysical machinations, learning to accept what has happened, what reality is, with a shrug and an ayurnamat and being open to what happens instead is, I think, a more profound and more meaningful understanding to carry forward.

So, nope, there's no seal hunt tomorrow and I'm sad to be missing out on that trip to the floe edge, but I had a beautiful experience today -- one that was exhilarating and bright and lovely and problem-free.

Also, now I don't need to worry about peeing in the open Arctic in front of a gaggle of teenage boys. That is an experience I am very much open to not having.

Silver lining, right?