66°32'

spare the rod

2006-07-27T18:54:00.000-06:00

INUVIK, NT

Ahh, the fishing trip... where men (and occasionally other genders) display their prowess at cursing, drinking, scratching themselves inappropriately, and occasionally denying some poor fish a continued existence. Also frequently in evidence on these undertakings are poor fileting skills, mechanical incompetence, and bombast so thick it could insulate house.

Enjoy!

Sadly, the pilot declined our request to troll from the plane while in flight.

The cabin proudly displays my favourite architectural feature of all: the screened-in porch. For the geographically inclined, this cabin is on Point Lake, located within the Gwich'in Settlement Area. Click here for a big-picture perspective. (Point Lake is the lake in the middle of the screen, nearly bisected by a large peninsula with rather narrow isthmus.)

The pilot, relieved to be free of such unstable persons, left quickly.

For those who didn't know, planes can double as convenient tree-pruning tools for those hard-to-reach upper branches.

This photograph was taken Saturday afternoon. The weather was some of the nicest I have experienced in the Arctic summer.

Couldn't have asked for better...

... with certain concessions to the fact that this is still the Arctic.

Yup, I even went swimming.

Now, some quick-witted among you may ask the question, But whereof the fish?

In fact, there were many fish (though not exceeding in number the legal possession limit for lake trout in the Northwest Territories as defined by C.R.C., c. 847--ahem). I just forgot to take a picture.

I'll be back in Ontario at the end of August, but before then hope to have a few more adventures to share. In the meantime, be well.

thawed blog

2006-05-18T19:11:00.000-06:00

INUVIK, NT

What's this?! A blog posting?

Why yes! And only 284 days after the last one. Some people wouldn't bother. Some people would say that I might as well try to rescucitate Ted Williams. But I have never been one to listen to some people.

Part of the reason for my blogospheric hiatus is that this is my second year in the Arctic, and many of the novel and exciting adventures of last year are now pedestrian and dull. I mean, the first time you pull a fish out of your ice hole, you're thinking, 'Wow, yeah, this is great!" But the second time you pull a... no, wait, I've still only caught one fish. You get the idea, though. So this posting doesn't have much of a narrative. It's just some unrelated photographs, though I think they're all nicely evocative of the Arctic.

Dude, I think I see a reindeer.

Yup, definitely a reindeer.

Evil snowmachines. Nice landscape.

Without these lovely symbiotes, there wouldn't be much of anything alive up here. (I can think of at least three people who will really like this photograph, for those of you who are wondering.)

Up next is hopefully a June fishing trip, and then Big River Adventure II sometime in the summer (river as yet undecided.)

Take good care.

2005-07-26T22:41:00.000-06:00

WARNING
Excessively long post. Browse at own risk.

the snake river, or the rain it raineth every day

2005-07-26T22:40:00.000-06:00

INUVIK, NT

Remember the 1982 made–for–TV movie of Ray Bradbury's "All Summer in a Day"?

No??

Well, for all you philistines, both the film and short story are set on Venus in some distant, terraforming future. Tragically for the poor neo–Venusian children, the terraforming stopped short of doing anything about the Venusian rain. Apparently, on the second planet from the sun it rains every day of the year but one, hence the misleading lyric of the title.

On our canoe trip it did not rain every day. Rain drops stopped falling on our heads the sixth day, and later the eighth through eleventh days. But for most of the trip, the clouds divested themselves of their double–h–to–the–o with evangelical persistency, as if the precipitation was trying to convince us that we could be happy if only we let water into our hearts. In the end though, all the rain likely made the trip more memorable, heightening the challenge of the journey and our sense of accomplishment at its close.

The goal was to paddle the Snake River from Duo Lakes, near the river's headwaters, through its confluence with the Peel River, to Fort McPherson in ten days. As the raven flies, the distance is roughly 520 kilometres from put–in to take–out. Below are some attractive pictures from the journey, framed by words you are welcome to ignore.

* My partner in paddling was Hessian Brit and fellow volunteer Martin Kratz. Martin, prior to this trip, had never paddled whitewater, had never done an extended canoe trip, and yet somehow was still foolish enough to both go into hock to pay for the trip, and to trust me not to run us into a headwall or hydraulic. The fact that he didn't know what either of the latter terms meant at the time may have contributed to his imprudence, but without it, the trip would not have happened. Mahsi cho, Tsuk.

DAY 1

Our flight from Inuvik to Norman Wells is delayed by several hours, giving us welcome slumber time as we sprawl supine on airport benches. We eventually arrive at the 'Wells in the afternoon—watch–free, I have happily slipped out of discrete time—and are soon aboard a floatplane.

The pilot, Dennis, lets us know before take–off that we might encounter some thunder cells requiring a careful berth, and sure enough, we find them. The sharply circumscribed storm clouds have me excitedly taking photographs and Martin looking, well, less excited.

Thunder cells.

After almost an hour and a half of flying time, we come upon the Snake (a mistranslation of the Gwich'in word for 'worm'). The fecundity of the Snake's upper reaches so impressed Hudson's Bay Company officer John Bell that he established the trading post of Fort McPherson down river. Indeed, much of the scenery is eerily evocative of a Swiss storybook, as if we might stumble across Heidi and a herd of Braunvieh around any bend.

The headwaters of the Snake River.

As the floatplane drops in altitude, we see that Duo Lakes resembles a miniature Everest base camp, with bright yellow tents dotting the hills surrounding the water. Dennis circles once to judge the wind conditions and then sets us down on the lake closest to the river, at whose shores a party of curious onlookers has gathered. In one of those Canada–is–small– and–the–number–of–people–who–pay–to–be–dropped–off–in– the–middle-of–nowhere–is–even–smaller moments, it turns out that the large group are with a family of outfitters from Ontario who happen to be related to a friend from home.

After portaging the canoe to the river, we head back to the lakes with the intention of hiking up a nearby ridge. As we reach a faeric little spring on the hillside, the wind picks up and the clouds roll in. Deciding to err on the side of caution, we descend back down to the shoreline, have dinner, and retire to our tent. Halfway through our meal, it had begun to rain, and it continues to do so throughout the night.

One of the Duo Lakes.

DAY 2

We awake to dense cloud. And go back to sleep.

Later, we awake. To dense cloud. More sleep follows.

After going through this process several more times, we rise to the still absent sun and schlep another load of gear down to the river before breakfasting. Finally, as we gullet the last of our scrambled eggs, the sun shows up, though it looks like it has been hitting the bottle. Nonetheless seeing our moment, we hit the water.

The current is fast, and all the rain means this normally shallow section of the river is nothing but easy swifts and Class Is until we hit the river's first canyon, which has mostly Class II+ sections, a Class III in their midst. The rapids are all sharp bends in the river where the water runs into a cliff, or 'headwall'. It is fantastic whitewater, probably the most enjoyable I have done. We portage around the Class III.

The Class III we declined nicely illustrates the concept of a headwall. Note the gashes from large rocks being hurled against it at spring–melt water levels.

Shortly after leaving the canyon, the rain returns and eventually suffering from the cold, we pull ashore, have an equally cold dinner, and make camp.

DAY 3

Another day of rain greets us. The river is quite braided in this section. The elevated water often escapes its banks, creating new channels through the willows and black spruce. Occasionally, we run one of these and play chicken with the trees that have fallen across the river. In the middle of the day, we come across a scenic little beach nested in a canyon and stop for lunch.

While the water had been fantastically clear until this point, just before the entrance to this canyon a milky white stream joined the flow, which can be seen mixing with the clear water in the background. From then on, the river was turbid.

As we come around one corner, perched on a striking pillar of rock is an even more striking ram. Unfortunately, by the time we get ashore and extricate our cameras from their waterproof containers, he is gone. For those of you who haven't seen a Dall's sheep, as we passed him we were literally close enough to see the reds of his eyes.

Later, we see several more sheep on cliffsides, but never succeed in getting close enough to produce worthwhile photographs. A dinner in the rain is followed by an exceedingly buggy campsite as we bring the day to a close.

DAY 4

Today begins like the previous ones, and then gets worse. The wind is stronger, whitecapping the river at times and numbing our digits. The cumulative rainfall has done a number on the water level, and three– to four–foot standing waves form at most bends. The river is wide enough that we can avoid them, but only with some stern paddling.

After a handful of hours in the canoe we get to the second canyon. The rain has stopped by now and the wind lessened. Climbing up a hill to the left of the canyon entrance, we head over and scout the rapids. You can probably guess from the video that we decide to portage. We also race several sticks, but they all die. And by sticks, of course, I mean ground squirrels.

Adrenalin is my epinephrine.

Some arctic dock along the portage trail.

The high standing waves continue on after the canyon. While the rain comes back for a time, we finish the day paddling in welcome sunshine, profoundly tired.

The first of the sun we had seen in days. The sight of it almost brought tears to my eyes.

DAY 5

In recounting anecdotes from the trip, Martin would later refer to this day as 'Black Tuesday', though I would argue that it was decidedly more of a grey day, comprising weather and incidents that were alternatively dark and sunny.

The morning is overcast but innocuous. When a period of actual blue sky and sun appears, we immediately stop for a lunch and an opportunity to dry our clothing. Later, feeling warm and content, we idly begin packing up. Then a storm so windy comes over the mountains that it is literally difficult to stand up, prompting us to rather quickly seek shelter.

Huddled under the canoe, we wait out the storm for about half an hour, by which time the worst of it has subsided. However, our blue skies have been overthrown and the rain doesn't appear to have an exit strategy. Deciding that paddling is the best way to cope, we get back in the canoe, now right side up.

After a short while, a narrow gorge, looking very worthy of exploration, comes into view. The current is strong, so we must line some way up the river to make it back to the entrance. As if by magic or the art of a bad director, while we begin climbing this coolest of canyons, the sun reappears from behind the mountains.

Woah.

(Appreciative whistling.)

That's something.

As you might be able to tell by my sodden appearance and the background, getting to successive stages of the gorge often required both swimming and bouldering. This was proper canyoneering.

Yeah, it was a nice canyon.

Okay, we get the idea.

WTF, this doesn't end?

Apparently not.

Not getting close to the end of the gorge, we bailed and took in the view, which is here on the map. You can see the gorge as the dark line on the left side of the river opposite the forked stream bed visible in the photograph.

After climbing down to our boat, we get back on the river. Within ten minutes, things go from good to bad again. Around a slight but heavily treed bend, we notice too late that the river, whose current is already speedy, now narrows rapidly, creating five–foot standing waves that span the river. With very little choice in the matter, we are into the thick of them, the bow of the canoe rising up over the crests before plunging back down into the trough of the next wave. We manage to keep our momentum, and steering for the right bank, finally make it ashore. By that time, the canoe has more than a foot of water in it. Feeling rather delirious, we line down the rest of the narrows, and when the river broadens once more, we eat, set up the tent, and sleep.

DAY 6

We wake up still feeling a little wary about what the river might hold. However, the day proves to be sunny and warm, full of golden eagle sightings and enjoyable little canyons. Lots of butterflies float along the river banks, including some impressive Old World Swallowtails that I don't succeed in photographing, my temerity at catching them always giving way to fear of injuring them. The evening is spent contemplating our first proper sunset of the trip over scotch and fine pipe tobacco.

This day also marks our departure out of the Mackenzie Mountains. The landscape from now on will be of the river valley cutting through flat boreal forest.

DAY 7

We've lost the sun again. The day is one long, hard paddle into the rain and wind. When we finally stop to camp, we've lost fine motor abilities in our fingers and spend an hour laughing hysterically at our inability to fasten and unfasten clips, or use cutlery. Who knew near–hypothermia could be so amusing?

DAY 8

After the coldest day of the trip, the gods show us some mercy and we have sun again. In fact, today proves to be one of the most magical of the journey as the forests are now comprised predominantly of birches, and we happen upon them in the midst of seeding. The trees release copious amounts of downy seeds that invade the air like a slow-motion, sun-shot snowfall. The soft spots of light fill the volume of the world around us as far as we can see.

After much hoping–to–see–it–around–every–bend, we finally arrive at the Snake's confluence with the Peel River. Earlier on our trip, we had seen a peregrine dive–bomb a gull that was threatening its nest. Now, at a broad spit of sand known as the Taco Bar, we witness the avian equivalent of Godzilla versus King Kong, as a bald eagle tries to get at the nest of an enormous (though still smaller than the eagle) glaucous gull—a rippin' good fight ensues.

Stopping at the end of a long day, we have finished the first 300 kilometres of our trip in seven days of paddling, five of which were in the rain. Ahead of us now lies 220 km of slow-moving current, which we have to cover in three days. Fortunately, we have no idea of the distance and our trip report, later discovered to be horrendously inaccurate, says the section should only take two days.

I had hoped to see an azure darner on this trip, but succeeded in catching exclusively lake darners, like this female here.

Labrador tea really does make a good cuppa.

DAY 9

The Peel River has a decidedly different character than the Snake. The landscape is much drier, and on the hottest day of the trip, the atmosphere feels almost post–apocalyptic after the lushness of the Snake. However, due to the rain, the current is not as slow as we had feared, allowing us to take breaks in certain sections and simply let our canoe float along with the river. I don't know how long we paddle for, but it is at least past midnight when we stop.

At lower altitudes, fireweed was everywhere.

Long day on the river.

DAY 10

We start paddling at 11:00 AM. We know the time at this point because we have taken out our satellite phone in attempt to call ahead to our pickup, who isn't at home. (Having the day re–atomized into minutes and seconds after nine days without it is disconcerting.) Our aim is to paddle until we reached 8 Mile, where the Dempster Highway crosses the Peel by ferry and where we will catch a ride back to Inuvik.

We see our first fish camp fairly early on, but also suffer from a headwind that gathers strength as the day progresses. Eventually it is so strong that the river not only white-caps, but we can no longer generate any forward momentum; it is all we can do to hold our position on the water. Pulling ashore, we get out our lines and begin hauling the canoe down the river until a curve puts us in a lee and we can paddle again. Later, the river changes course and we spend the rest of the day with a crosswind, or occasional tailwind.

Sometime in the evening, we pass a monument marking where an RCMP patrol perished trying to get back to McPherson. The sight is doubly depressing, because we know that they expired some distance from McPherson, meaning we still have a long way to go. Later, we pass Gwich'in Rocks, three pillar figures representing hunters who turned to stone when they saw a woman menstruating. I suppose that in a land without reptiles, one gets unusual variations on the Medusa.

In the early morning, the sun sets briefly before rising again, and the sublime displays of light and cloud are about all that keep Martin and I from taking a paddle to the other's head. The river has become painfully shallow in places, and we run out of bugspray just as the swarms seem to worsen. Utterly defeated, we pull onto a beach and bivouac with our bug jackets pulled over the top of our sleeping bags. It is 5:30 AM, and we have been paddling for eighteen and a half hours. We have still not reached the ferry crossing.

Sunrise.

DAY 11

Five hours of sleep and we are up at 10:30 AM. After a quick breakfast, we are back on the river. Just before one in the afternoon, we see our first fellow humans since leaving Duo Lakes. They are in a small aluminum boat on the other side of the channel. We wave, hoping to ask them how much further it is to the ferry crossing. They either don't see us, or don't care, but it doesn't matter, because at that moment, the ferry crossing swings into view. The distance is done, the elation profound. Our ride picks us up from the ferry crossing a few hours later and by evening, we are home.

Be well, all.

sitidgi and the end of snow

2005-04-27T22:41:00.000-06:00

INUVIK, NT

For the past three weeks, I've been lucky enough to assist some colleagues in taking groups of students out for ice–fishing overnights. Each Monday morning, we loaded kids into toboggans and sledded over to Sitidgi, a sizeable lake 27 miles east of Inuvik. Once there, we'd embark on a marathon of ice–hole drilling and then settle down for a few hours of trying to think like a fish.

Admittedly, some students were more devoted to achieving this kind of anthro–ichthyological oneness than others, but everyone had a go at 'jiggling,' some classes even using traditional muskox–horn lures they had made in an earlier workshop. For a few kids, this was the first time they had ever fished, and for others, the first time they had ever spent a night away from home. Chris and Jason, the teachers responsible for this fantastic programme, had used some of their funds to buy parkas, snowpants, mitts, and sleeping bags, so that kids without any gear could still take part, and even feel cool in their slick new duds.

After the jiggling began to wear on the wrist, we would head back to camp and cook up the day's catch, consisting mainly of lake trout, but with a hefty loche and pike thrown in for good measure. Loche liver, which is an enormous organ relative to the size of the fish, is a delicacy among the locals. The richness of it was quite remarkable, but as the livers of the fish up here are the most toxic parts of the fish, I didn't indulge too much.

After dinner, students were encouraged to burn as much energy as possible, and we generally succeeded in getting everyone to bed by midnight or so. (If getting nine–year old kids to bed by midnight doesn't sound like much of an accomplishment, there are two things to consider: the sun has only just set at that point; and the concept of curfew is generally considered foreign to many Aboriginal parenting traditions, at least in the North. Come 24–hour daylight, gangs of eight year–old kids can be seen playing road hockey at three in the morning.) The next day would consist of a leisurely breakfast, followed by clean–up and the return home.

Some other events of note since my last posting include tasting muskrat, trying it again, giving it a third go, and then running to the bathroom. Much more enjoyable was the Eskimo ice cream, a hearty blend of whipped seal fat and caribou marrow, easily imagined as life–saving calories on long winter journeys. It reminded me of creton, a similar combination of pig fat and marrow adored by certain Québecois on their toast in the morning.

Tragically, my adventures here in the Arctic will soon take on a very different tone. Over the course of the last week, temperatures rose from -20° to +14°. It is the end of snow. In particular, this seasonal succession means that I won't get to do an epic winter trip, as I'd hoped. The unfortunate fact of the matter is that finding people willing to ski or snowshoe long distances in cold and snowy conditions proved rather difficult. Everything up here really does centre on the snowmobile now.

Time to start planning my river trip. . .

2005-04-27T22:08:00.000-06:00

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A satellite view of Inuvik and Sitidgi Lake. The smaller lake to the north of Inuvik is Noell Lake, the subject of an earlier posting. (If you haven't checked out Google's satellite images of North America yet, go do it right now. Seriously. I'm watching you.)

2005-04-27T21:40:00.000-06:00

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This is me joining the time-honoured tradition of men posing with animals they recently killed. At best guess, my pike (note the arrogance of the possessive) weighed somewhere between 25 and 30 pounds. Known locally as jackfish, pike contain an additionional set of bones in the main part of their body, and aren't generally eaten by local Aboriginals. This is likely because an accidentally ingested pike bone could, and probably did, result in an untimely end or two. However, we ate this lovely lady, and it was good.

2005-04-27T21:38:00.000-06:00

Yet another sunset. Yadda yadda stunning yadda yadda mesmerizing &c.

Take good care, all.

the renewed significance of march break

2005-03-29T12:25:00.000-07:00

INUVIK, NT

Although the words 'March Break' inspire a disconcerting sense of having returned to my childhood, the week–long holiday was a much relished opportunity to gambol and frolic in the newly brilliant sun and somewhat milder temperatures. (I qualify the latter assertion because March statistically has two more days with temperatures below –20° than February, though three fewer in the below –30° range.)

The playground I lusted after like the monkey bars in the older kids' section of the schoolyard was the Richardson Mountains. Here was where I hoped to find peace (of the inner sort) and powder (of the snowy kind), both of which proved to be in generous supply.

On an unrelated note, for those of you who wish to keep tabs on my plans for the future (PFFs), the UBC School of Architecture has decided that my application was insufficient to secure a spot in their 2005 MArch programme. Given my hastily prepared portfolio and patchy academic record, I can't say I really blame them. However, this development now requires the formulation of a new PFF. Possibly, it will involve pharmaceutical drug trials.

Take good care, folks.

2005-03-28T23:25:00.000-07:00

Midway between the Richardson Mountains and Inuvik is a place called Aklavik. First established as a Hudson's Bay trading post in 1912, it grew to be one of the Mackenzie Delta's most prominent communities, with over 1600 inhabitants by 1952.

Unfortunately, the settlement was situated on land prone to erosion and flooding, so the federal government decided to build a new community nearby and relocate Aklavik's population. While many would leave for the drier pastures of what became Inuvik, other residents adamantly refused this uprooting and clung to their riverbanks.

Aklavik still floods every ten years or so, and its population continues to diminish bit by bit, but I really did get a palpable sense of a community being bound together, and it wasn't just because the town's motto is "Never Say Die." My gracious hosts were fellow volunteers with the same organization as me, and through them, I got a chance to meet all sorts of wonderful folk. One highlight in particular was a party celebrating the crowning of this year's Rendezvous King and Queen, where I learned to say lots of inappropriate things in Gwich'in.

The streetscapes of Aklavik seem to manifest the town's character. The buildings are some of the most iconic I have seen in the North, their weathered textures and tired angles only adding to Aklavik's aura of resiliency.

2005-03-28T23:23:00.000-07:00

The Beavers head up into the hills. Though the programme I'm with is called the Northern Education Project, it was originally named Operation Beaver. Up here, the moniker has stuck around, to the accompaniment of much ribald humour. To the left of me are Dylan from Alaska and Jenn from Wales. Not pictured are Chie from Japan and Olek from Poland, who stayed back at the cabin for a lack of skis.

2005-03-28T23:22:00.001-07:00

Our cozy mountain home, seen here at sunset, was a cabin owned by the Hunters and Trappers Committee, and free for use by the general population. Well–insulated, furnished with an air–tight stove, it was just about as I would envision the Platonic ideal of an alpine hut. Given my druthers, I'd have stayed another week.

2005-03-28T23:22:00.000-07:00

While being on the eastern half of the mountains meant we encountered more hard–blown crust than we did light, fluffy stuff, certain south–eastern exposures would still yield paydirt... er, snow. And when the snow was good, was the skiing ever fun.

2005-03-28T23:20:00.000-07:00

I suppose this doesn't need much commentary, does it?

2005-03-18T00:59:00.000-07:00

tree rings and other postcards

2005-03-17T11:08:00.000-07:00

INUVIK, NT

I cut down a tree the other day as part of a community outreach programme run at the school, which supplies firewood to elders. The tree, dead and at 25 feet one of the smaller we felled, had 328 growth rings.

Cetacean, at least in its raw form, is both mildly fishy and mildly elastic. When I responded to the initial offer of muktuk with an anxious "But its brain is bigger than mine," the laughing response was, "Not anymore."

Whiskey–jacks (from the Aboriginal 'wis–ka–chon,' also known as the grey jay and Canada jay) will eat out of your hand, but only after the battery on your digital camera has expired from the cold.

Even in the Arctic, people start to tell you that you need to shave and cut your hair.

Much peace and love, all.

Photo above: Nazca–like, snowmobiles tracks over the town's old dump.

gone fishin'

2005-02-21T00:48:00.000-07:00

INUVIK, NT

This weekend, I was invited out to a cabin for that most Zen–like of (generally male) activities: ice fishing. The art of the catch refined down to its purest minimalism, one sits in the cold of winter, holds a small piece of wood, and stares into a dark, watery aperture. In fact, perhaps the Zen comparison isn't that useful. When ice fishing, you cannot perceive the fish in any way, and yet you must believe in its existence in order for the exercise to have meaning. So, ice fishing is kind of like theism.

As it ended up, I found neither fish nor faith out on the ice, but it was a grand time just the same. When the wind died down, the temperatures were in the balmy teens (though when the wind didn't die down, the temperatures were in the testy thirties) and I learned useful things like what to do when the pullcord on your snowmobile breaks, and why it's important to get really trashed if you want to sleep in a small cabin filled with numerous other trashed and snoring individuals.

Hope that all is well.

2005-02-20T23:47:00.000-07:00

A view of the trail out to the cabin about halfway along. At this point, the land is 'open country,' populated primarily with willows and the occasional spruce—a boundary zone of sorts between the taiga of the Mackenzie delta and the high tundra.

2005-02-20T23:39:00.000-07:00

The willow branches in the preceding pictures were all covered with the most amazing ice/snow formation. Looking for all appearances like the delicate tissue paper covering a piñata, it was mesmerizing, like a snowflake crystal on a macroscopic scale.

2005-02-20T23:34:00.000-07:00

You're not really ice fishing unless you have to bore through seven feet of it to hit water. But one does wonder: if you have seven feet of ice on a ten–foot deep lake, how many fish can really be down there? We ultimately caught two fine trout, which became an exceptional first course. (One tries not to think about the accumulation of heavy metals and POPs in freshwater predatory fish up here.)

2005-02-20T23:15:00.000-07:00

Night photography without a tripod is generally difficult; night photography without a tripod at –30º, using a CCD sensor that simply accumulates noise over prolonged exposures is infuriating. However, the aurora borealis were so spectacular that I endeavoured to record them as best I could.

2005-02-20T23:00:00.000-07:00

The next morning we discovered a furry friend in the cabin, though it was only after this little ermine had successfully knocked several jars off the pantry shelves that we could be roused to attend to it. It was a startlingly rapid animal, and I was sad not to catch a photograph of it on its hind legs, but rather lucky to get a photograph of it at all in the end.

2005-02-20T22:50:00.000-07:00

A snowy lake passed on the way home. I had planned to make this a panorama, but by this point the cold had gotten to my battery, and so no more pictures could be taken. Just pretend the picture is wider than it is.

2005-02-20T22:37:00.000-07:00

An entirely unrelated picture, included only for its apt depiction of frostiness.

tuktoyaktuk

2005-02-09T02:27:00.000-07:00

INUVIK, NT

Last Sunday, I ventured out on my first ice road trip. Yes, while we Southerners are accustomed to stern, well–intentioned warnings to stay off the ice, in the North frozen waterways are an essential supply route to dozens of isolated communities.

Our particular destination was Tuktoyaktuk. The hard–hitting staccato of the Inuvialuktun morphemes (meaning, in this case, "looks like a caribou") were particularly exciting to drum off the palate because Tuk is: a) at 69º15'36", the most northerly point I have yet travelled; b) home to an enormous communal freezer dug into the permafrost; and c) located on the Beaufort Sea! Forget the latitude—I was going to stand at the end of Canada's contiguous land mass and look out over the Arctic Ocean.

Tragically, the town no longer opens its communal freezer to tourists, so we didn't get to descend the thirty feet into the permafrost, but this lost opportunity did little to diminish the spectacular impressions of the trip. Aside from the photographs below, I snapped a preposterously large panorama of the town from the nearest pingo. See if you can spot the DEW Line station (explanations of the terms pingo and DEW Line).

All the best.