My solo trip to the Arctic to talk with the surviving Ahiarmiut was something I chose to go ahead with a couple of months ago. My husband, who travels north of 60 on a regular basis, knows the ins and outs of northern travel. When I go with him, I follow him around, completely unconcerned as to where we will end up, knowing that any travel scheduling, any rides needed from airports to towns, any accommodations that need to be made, any people to be contacted…any arrangements at all will be made without a care or thought from me. I’m totally fine with that.
Going solo is different. Way different. An adventure to the Arctic without my tech-savvy sherpa is exciting and frightening at the same time.
But I’m not one to get freaked out by much. Besides, Canada’s far north has internet. What could go wrong?
My digs in Arviat, Nunavut
First off, our iPhones don’t work in Arviat and Whale Cove, two communities located about 1400 kms north of Winnipeg, Manitoba, which means I have to pack the northern cell, a Blackberry. I quickly find out that attempting to navigate a Blackberry for the first time would try the patience of Job himself — especially if Job grew up with an iPhone.
Secondly, internet connection, though widely available, is so slow that you have to accept the fact that posting pictures to Twitter just isn’t going to happen. This is a major deal for someone like me whose life revolves around posting pictures to Twitter. I mean, how are people going to live without seeing what I’m up to?
Thirdly, polar bears.
Last one spotted in Arviat? Two weeks ago.
Lastly, and maybe the most important to me (well, along with no iPhone usage) is the food. It’s been five days since I’ve had a glass of wine or a dry-aged steak, or fresh produce, or anything that doesn’t come out of a can. My sodium levels are through the roof.
But all those things are manageable because I know that I have a flight out of here.
Or not.
In the Arctic, you are at the complete mercy of the weather. And sometimes the weather hates you. Like today.
The morning was glorious.
Sunrise, Whale Cove.
Morning light, Whale Cove.
But, on the way to the airport, I had a sinking feeling that I wasn’t going to be leaving anytime soon.
Drive from townsite to airport, Whale Cove.
There is no more a depressing feeling than hearing a pilot’s voice on an airport radio saying that they are “flying over”. My noon flight on First Air has just been cancelled.
Whale Cove airport – white building in centre.
My husband’s mantra, when leaving the north, is “take the first plane out”. Don’t wait to stay with the same airline the following day; go with whatever is flying out next.
The young First Air agent knows everything about every other airline that flies the north. When the airport is as big as most people’s living rooms, its hard not to know everything about your competition. There is a Calm Air flight leaving at 5 pm (weather permitting). The First Air guy hitches a ride back to town because his work for now is done, which leaves just me and Gordon, the radio op man, in this tiny hut. I spy a grime-encrusted phone in the public area and throw the useless Blackberry into my backpack. I dial my husband’s toll-free number at his office, and thankfully he is there to take my call. While he does his magic (using very fast internet in the south to look up airline schedules), Gordon finds me the wi-fi password and makes me coffee. I don’t know who I love more right now, my husband or this radio op man. I have wi-fi.
The grime-encrusted phone in the lobby rings. On the fifth ring, I ask Gordon if I should pick it up it seeing as no one else is around. “Sure,” he shrugs, “go ahead.” I answer it. It’s the lady at the hotel wondering if I will be needing a room again for the night. It takes the entire town (population about 350) less than five minutes to know that the planes aren’t coming in.
Meanwhile, my husband has secured me a seat on Calm Air flight to Rankin Inlet at 5 pm. I tell Martha at the hotel that I probably won’t be staying. She tells me she’ll leave a plate of food for me just in case. I have a worrying feeling that Martha knows more than my husband.
So I wait. Four more hours to go before I find out if Calm Air will rescue me. In the meantime I pace the airport’s tiny lobby (which is to say the entire airport) and I count the number of jigsaw posters that take up every available inch of wall space. There are 80.
Jigsaw central
There is a half-empty bag of popcorn twists on the floor and I realize I haven’t eaten anything other than a small bowl of peaches and cream instant oatmeal for breakfast.
The door swings open letting the -48 degree Celsius Arctic wind into the overheated lobby. Six people, along with the First Air agent, arrive. They are getting ready for their flight out to Churchill at 3:30 pm. The phone rings; it’s First Air in Ottawa announcing that all their flights are cancelled. The northerners take it in stride. They haven’t even set their bags down yet. Everyone turns around and heads back out into the fast approaching dusk, but Gordon tells me to come to the window. He shows me the 2.5 mile marker – a barely visible hill beneath ribbons of orange and pink setting sun. “So we’re good? Calm Air can land?” I try not to sound too eager. “We’re good. For now,” he says.
Visibility Marker: a hill 2.5 miles out.
I check out the washroom. Unexplored territory. One toilet, a chipped and rusted sink with a dripping tap. And three more jigsaw puzzles on the wall.
I have taken up residence at the small table holding the grime-encrusted phone. It rings and I answer it with a very confident, “Airport!” A lady asks if the First Air flight is coming in and I tell her it’s cancelled. She thanks me and hangs up. I hope I’ve given her the right information.
I look out the window to check the visibility marker again. I swear I can see the hill better than I could only ten minutes prior. Here’s hoping.