Time is different, here. I came from a world of schedules and deadlines, where plans made six months ahead of time are stuck to, where you call before coming over, knock before entering a house. Here time is different – you enter it like stepping into a river, slow but strong, and float into the current. Time flows; you flow. The snow melts; the river speeds up. The water is pouring from everywhere, suddenly, carving miniature canyons in the roads. You show up unexpected; you enter unannounced.
A few nights ago, over dinner, Susan and Darcy burst into laughter at something that Alana, the 6-year-old, had said.
“She says we need to take the first flight out on Monday,” Susan said. “She thinks it’s the end of the world, all the melt water making rivers in the streets. That soon it will break up the land, and we’ll have no place left.”
We laughed. I listened to the sound of the rushing water outside the window, looked at Alana, thought about how big those rivers must seem to her.
The world has warmed up, and time has sped up. There were days, times, where I felt like I would live here forever; that these days in Arctic Bay would stretch on and on into the future. Suddenly, I’m leaving tomorrow for spring camping with another local family. Who knows how long I will be out there? 12 days, 18 days? Every single day until I leave to come back home?
Lots has been going on.
A train of snowmobiles pull high school students on qamutiks to Arctic Bay’s school camp.
Last week – which already feels like a lifetime ago! – the school held a Spring Camp, a 15-minute skidoo ride from Arctic Bay. Here, a group of high school students were camped together with elders, and every day, a few grades of school kids would come for a day trip. The men would take the boys seal hunting on the ice, while the female elders taught traditional skills to the girls – how to make bannock, for example, or treat a sealskin, or traditional games. Many of these lessons were infused with life wisdom that went much deeper than the literal task being taught.
In a floral-patterned tent, elders Tootalik, Hannah and Tagoonak teach bannock-making to a group of teenage girls, imparting their perspectives on resourcefulness, feeding a family, and keeping healthy by avoiding processed and sugary foods.
I know this, now, because I was lucky enough to go camp with them, for two nights last week. I got to tag along, photographing and observing, while many of the students translated for me. We ate the seals that the men caught, slept in gloriously heated tents together, and generally enjoyed being out on the land.
Qamutiks pull middle-school boys out on a seal hunting trip. For some of the students, whose families don’t go out on the land, these trips can be quite influential.
Elder Paul Ejangiaq getting something from the qamutik at camp.
High-school boys drink juice boxes around the seal that elder Paul Ejangiaq has just caught.
Elder Tagoonak teaches Karen, 17, how to play a traditional game with string.
“The kids are so happy”, some of the teachers, visiting, commented. I had never seen them in the classroom for comparison, but even I was struck by how cooperative, helpful, and all-around positive all the young people seemed in camp. (Later, one of the high school students would tell me that she almost cried when they had to leave).
Being on the land is good for you, that much is certain, and it was awesome to see that the school in Arctic Bay, at least, has incorporated at least a little bit of “land time” into their annual curriculum. The high school students who camped with the elders for a full week got one academic credit for that time, but seemed to enjoy it immensely.
Angie, Shannah and Jocelyn taking in the view.
As someone interested in how traditional land skills are passed on to young people to prepare them for the future, this camping experience could not have been of greater interest to me. I returned to Arctic Bay with over 4,000 photographs, which needless to say I am still sorting through.
A few days after I left the camp, Susan and Darcy invited me on a day trip with them to a fishing lake known as Iqalulik. During the Fishing Derby, this was the only lake which we did not visit, and I was absolutely stunned at how gorgeous it was. The place was so overwhelmingly beautiful that it seemed to have an almost spiritual power. Of course, I took pictures, but more than anything I just stared in total awe. Walked, stared, hiked a little up into the hills.
Our qamutik parked by the side of the lake, with people ice-fishing for char in the background.
Somebody’s totally, epically, beautiful camp.
Kara, Alexis and Alana on our little pink qamutik, which has a surprisingly varied range of uses aside from pure fun.
My favorite part, however, may have been the ride home. We left Iqalulik around 10 PM, and the low-angle midnight sun swept over the sea ice the entire ride back to Arctic Bay in a beautiful array of colors and patterns. Sure enough, at exactly midnight, the sun was still shining brightly above the mountains. I felt deeply refreshed, on an inner level, after that excursion.
That was Saturday. On Monday, I went with Susan’s brother-in-law Michael, and his two kids, on a short dog team ride after dinner. Michael is one of several people in Arctic Bay who still has a dog team, the traditional method of travel over the sea ice in this part of the world. He recently participated in the Nunavut Quest dog team race, where he came in 6th place.
It was fun.
I mean, how can you resist?
This week, however, is a critical week – the week that school ends, and a huge number of people go out for Spring Camping, hunting for birds, seals, and fish for weeks at a time. My plans had been very up-in-the-air until today, and I wasn’t sure if I would be able to find anyone to take me with them. However, within the past few hours, all that has changed, and I am infinitely grateful to the family of Rex, Darlene, and their 4 kids, who have agreed to let me join them. Departure: confirmed for tomorrow.
Life in the Polar Regions never stops in its frequent demands for flexibility and adaptability, regardless of the region or circumstance. This evening, I’ve been hurriedly packing, charging batteries, washing clothes, baking camping food. I am going out, now, for at least 12 days, but could be essentially off the Internet for as many as 23. There is a chance, dear readers, that I may not have the internet resources to update this blog again until I am back in Alaska. However, you never know!
Thanks for following, thanks for reading. I’ll look forward to sharing stories of whatever comes next, whenever I am able. Until then, we’ll be out there, somewhere, on the land or on the ice.