Ol' Sam. A Work in Progress.: Arctic Adventure.

Blackflies and Mosquitoes.

Fri, 04 Jul 2008 17:32:34 GMT

Reading a discussion board this morning,

http://friendswithoutborders.yuku.com/directory

I noticed a couple of entries mentioning biting bugs in the North. Below for your entertainment, is a response I posted.

Jordan, you didn't mention that bull-dogs (moose/horse/deer flies) actually take a chunk of flesh outa ya. The mosquitoes can get bad enough to stampede a herd of caribou. In fact they constantly do.............

If you park on the causeway at the river at Ft Providence to wait for the ferry, the downwind side of your vehicle will literally be black with Blackflies while the upwind side will be clean as a baby's whistle. Mosquitoes bites, one can get used to, almost. Blackflies are the scourge of the north. Blackflies breed, hatch and hang around running water, definitely.

In Yellowknife, just when one thought it safe, bugless, I've seen blackflies re-emerge after the first snow of fall, melts. Fortunately, I'm allergic to blackfly, mosquito and other biting/stinging insect bites & stings, so I always end up with beautiful itches, lumps and swellings. Blackfly bites are the worst for me, I get golf ball size lumps. Even up to a month later, old bites will flare up and itch like a bastard all over again, certainly.

"Deep Woods Off" applied /sprayed directly to the face and exposed skin is a miracle. Pre-contact, how the natives lived without bug protection chemicals is a wonderment. The early explorers, Hudson's Bay Co. men etc., deserved medals for bravery by just continuing into bug infested lands. The best they had was stuff called citronella or kerosene... neither very affective. Head nets are a true inconvenience, specially for a smoker.

Outdoors, exposing ones nether regions for any purpose, but mainly to perform the bodily functions of waste elimination, procreation etc. etc., can scar ones psyche and other soft bits for life. "Deep Woods Off" burns exposed mucus membranes. It's a rock and a hard place, I tell ya. Goodness gracious, Gerry Lee Lewis was absolutely correct!

The bug repelling qualities of a campfire/smoke myth, is exactly that, a myth. People believe it, want to believe it and light fires in the forlorne hope that it's true, it'll keep the bugs away. Biting bugs are actually attracted by campfires, cigarettes, pipes and joints, obviously. Lots of people (giant blood bags) stand/sit around campfires, flapping their arms, coughing, waiting to get bitten, eyes watering. Campfires emit a localized plume of movement, carbon dioxide and infra red, all three cues, biting blood sucking insects, use to home in on their intended prey, a fact.

1963. One breezy evening after work in Taloyoak (Spence Bay) NU. I decided to walk out to Middle Lake to do a little trout fishing. I'd walked for about an hour and was approaching the lake when the wind dropped to nothing, instantly, with every step I took, a cloud of mosquitoes rose from the low scrub of the tundra and headed for my face. Oh the humanity! I'd forgotten to bring or prespray myself with bug dope.

I had a ball cap on my head, but no hood on my jacket. Immediately my head, face and neck were surrounded by a biting, buzzing cloud of blood thirsty insects, naturally. Within 5 minutes they had me running crazily across the barren lands yelling, waving my hands and arms and dodging my own fish hook which seemed to mirror my hand and arm movements and seemed determined to rip off my hat, catch in my clothing or lodge in my eye, short term insanity began to rear it's ugly head.

But wait, what's that? I smell smoke. Smoke means people in the vicinity. Two million square miles of emptiness and I'd found someone. Undoubtedly, they would have bug dope! Three of the local Inuit boys were also out fishing that night and had stopped to light a fire and brew some tea. "Hello Agliqti, want some tea?', they asked as I charged up to them. "OK, but do you have any "Off", I forgot mine." "No, we forgot ours too." was the laughing response. With only their faces exposed they were wearing the hooded outer, Grenfell cloth, covers from their winter parkas and gloves for protection. I was almost at the point of berserk.

From somewhere, someone produced a bit of extra cloth, handy. There was just enough of it to fashion a basic head covering, enough to cover my neck and ears leaving only a small piece of my face exposed. My hands were naked, one hand carried my fishing rod, in the other I carried a .22 rifle, ducks dontchano?

Forget fishing, hands in my armpits I sat around the smudge in the bugs with the boys for a little while drinking tea, then headed back to the settlement. My only itch relief on the way home was to stop at a puddle or small lake occasionally and plunge my hands into near freezing water By the time I got home that night my swollen hands and face were on fire and covered in mud, and blood from squashed mosquitoes. My hands itched for a week after.

For the next 26 years, I never again forgot my bug dope when venturing out in the 'bush'. I've always been surprised by how quickly I succumbed to virtual craziness and running that night.

Paulatuk. 1967. A fishing trip to remember.

Mon, 29 Oct 2007 20:58:05 GMT

Fall 1967, Paulatuk:

It was freeze-up, an in-between time when travel by boat, sled or even airplanes was dang near impossible. Fall dragged on and on. Each day got a little cooler, the cloudy skies and cooler temps promised snow but failed to produce anything more significant than an occasional flurry. The bay in front of the village already had some ice, but except a few wispy snow drifts in sheltered spots, the tundra remained bare. It was really starting to get boring. The caribou had long gone on their southern migration, so had the wildfowl, I couldn't get out in the boat for a little seal hunting, all was dull and lifeless. The store was set up and all the supplies from the sea-lift unpacked and on the shelves. Because of inclement weather, no planes were flying. I was getting tired of sitting around reading, visiting, and drinking endless cups of tea or coffee with my small group of neighbours.

In those days of paternalistic government, and before land claims had been settled, Paulatuk and its inhabitants were viewed as a problem. Although a Catholic Mission existed there and had for decades, until recently Paulatuk had been not much more than a seasonal fishing camp. Its inhabiatamts, The Inuvialuit of the Cape Parry area, had been semi-nomadic, ranging up and down the peninsular, east, west and as far south as the tree line. In the late thirties or early forties, the HBCo. had established a trading post halfway up the peninsular to serve its and the local peoples needs. Due to an accidental shooting death of a young child and the resulting very bad karma, the HBC Post at Letty Harbour had been abandoned years before my arrival. (A story for another day)

Long after the abandonment of Letty Harbour, construction of the Dew Line began. This offered employment to the local Inuvialuit. Some of these previously semi-nomadic people took what few jobs there were and promptly moved into a shanty town, make-shift village, near the Dew Line site at Cape Parry. Cash money, easy access to alcohol, welfare and a high rate of unemployment meant that all the social problems associated with the aforementioned, blossomed. At Cape Parry, a burden on society and a community of do nothing drunks had been created, or so it was believed by the 'powers that be' in Inuvik. The People weren't happy about it.

Consequently, 'someone' had come up with a relocation plan. Move the people away from Cape Parry and all its evils and into a permanent village where they could resume their traditional subsistence hunting and fishing life style. Paulatuk was chosen as the location. Because of my experience with the 'Bay', a year later I was chosen as the person to assist the locals in returning to their traditional ways. In addition to six new family houses, a Native Co-op was established and a store was constructed, the idea being, the store would be self-supporting from a small Charr fishery and whatever furs the area produced.... Seal skins, fox furs and polar bear hides. All this information, correct or incorrect, was divulged to me by government reps in several meeting in Inuvik.

Personally I think the alcohol abuse bit, was blown out of proportion as I never saw evidence of it. The problem folks seemed to have chosen life in Inuvik and other larger centers, rather than resettle to Paulatuk

Anyway, included in my job description list of duties was the phrase, 'the incumbent will be responsible for the establishment of a native, commercial Arctic Charr fishery'. So, with those instructions in mind I had enlisted a young local Inuvialuit by the name of Joe Ruben to be my guide and partner. The idea was that Joe and I would go to the river, set our nets and start catching bucket loads of fish, thereby setting an example, hopefully one that others in the community would emulate. Our fish would be sold to the Co-op, the Co-op would send them to Inuvik from where they'd be transported and sold in southern markets. From Inuvik our Co-op was paid .19¢ a pound.

http://www.dfo-mpo.gc.ca/csas/Csas/status/1999/D5-68e.pdf In here it states 1968, that is incorrect, it was November '67.

Joe and I made plans to travel over to the Hornaday River and start setting nets as soon as there was enough snow for us to use a sled. It was well into Fall, the autumn Charr run had already begun, but due to the lack of snow cover we were unable to get to the river to get at it. Every day I'd pray for snow, every morning when I looked out the window, I'd be disappointed.

Joe was going to provide a sled and I was going to provide locomotion in the form of an old and broken Polaris Autoboggan. State of the art in those day, all made of steel it weighed a quarter ton at least, was articulated in the middle, had a 9hp Kohler 4-stroke engine, had a track consisting of a tin rubber membrane and massive steel cleats, it had a top speed of maybe 10 miles an hour. Similar to the one pictured below, it belonged to the government, so was mine to use as I wished.

Great! The only problem was it was broken. The engine had a hole through a lug at each corner of the cast iron sump through which a bolt was secured to the engine mount on the main frame. Unfortunately, one of the engine mount/sump lugs had broken off, the resulting uneven torque meant the drive chain kept flying off, rendering the machine unusable.

I really needed that machine as transportation. How to repair it? A day drilling with a brace and bit (hand drill), a sore shoulder and arm, and blistered hands, and I had bored a hole through the small remaining piece of cast iron, close to the engine sump. Hours more drilling a new hole in the engine mount on the frame and I was in business! A quick and short trip over the frozen muskeg and tundra indicated my repairs had been successful.

to be continued.............

Part: The Next.

I almost forgot to mention I had a couple of house guests at the time. Roughly a week before, when we could still easily get the boats out of the bay. Late one afternoon Joe had come over to my house to tell me that a couple of Barren Ground Grizzly had been spotted about ten miles out of town to the west. He asked me if I wanted to go with Adam Gruben and himself to hunt them. Putting down my coffee cup and book, I readily agreed. Being a non native and not allowed to hunt big game in the NWT without a special license didn't bother me in the least. There wasn't a C/O or RCMP officer within 300 miles, and besides if one of the above had miraculously appeared, I was with two native guys who could shoot all the game they wanted. "Honest Officer, I never even fired a shot. This rifle? I'm just holding it for Joe."

I borrowed a .30-30 from someone and we set out along the coast in the famous 'Rebecca Kelly Crofton', a small, green aluminum boat with two 20hp outboard motors. Possibly it belonged to Joe's family. Perhaps the boat even belonged to the Catholic Mission, I don't remember now. Why it was famous and named as it was I have no idea. Anyway off we went, it was overcast and breezy so we were bundled up against the cold. Bouncing along in the spray, we'd gone a few miles from town heading west when I spotted a large freighter canoe, coming the other way with what looked like two people in it. This was a great surprise as in a small place such as Paulatuk, you always knew who was out and about on the land or water. We knew who was where, as far as we were concerned, no one from town was out west of us towards Inuvik which by boat was at least four hundred miles away. Who could these people be and from where were they coming?

As the canoe approached us, we could tell by body shape and dress, these were strangers. Closer they came and I suddenly realized I knew the person driving the kicker. It was Duncan Pryde. Dunc I'd known for years, the other guy, a Dutchman named Erik, I'd never seen before. I snapped some photos as they approached, but unfortunately, the photos were backlit so their faces were not really visible. They were heading towards Paulatuk, we waved and kept on going on our bear hunt knowing Dunc and his passenger would still be in town when we got back.

"That was Duncan Pryde", I said to Joe and Adam. "Who", they asked. So then I had to explain to them who and what Dunc was. They had never heard of him, which really surprised me. Dunc was legendary in the central and eastern Arctic, and in the Hudson's Bay Company, he even made the cover of the Canadian edition of 'Time'. Like myself, he was an ex-Bay-Boy , a gifted linguist, having moderate knowledge of about six languages, and being fluent in Inuktitut, he was also famous for his womanizing and drinking. See: http://www.travelbooks.co.uk/biog.asp?id=33

Oh Crap! I thought to myself, there's Dunc heading for my home and that could mean trouble.

We arrived at the spot where the Grizzly were supposedly sighted and beached the boat. Not a bear in sight, we tromped around for a while looking for bears or sign of them and found nothing. We were either in the wrong spot or someone was bullshipping. As we hunted Joe and Adam were having a bit of personal fun between themselves at my expense. Telling me invented Grizzly lore...."Don't let it see you", "if you shoot it make sure you kill it, wounding it will bring it straight to you", "Bears can tell exactly where the shot came from, it'll straight for you and kill you", etc. Joe and Adam were having a right giggle. I just smiled politely and said something like, "Huh, is that right? Ok I'll be careful" Nudge nudge, wink wink. Seeing no bears and having drank our thermos of tea, we fired our guns at some rocks for target practice, took a few photos, jumped in Rebecca and headed back to town. Too bad, I was really in the mood to bag a Grizzly bear, but it wasn't to be.

Arriving back at home, sure enough there was Dunc and his passenger standing on the beach, by his canoe and surrounded by a bunch of people shaking hands with him. I went up and said hello and was introduced to Erik. Dunc was as surprised to see me as I had been to see him. We had last crossed paths about 3 years previously when I visted him overnight with a medical party when he was still Post Manager at his HBC store down in Bathurst Inlet.

Introductions over, I invited him and his buddy, to come up to my shack for some tea and food. I was not best pleased to see him, I wanted to hear what brought him to Paulatuk. As it turns out Dunc had political ambitions. He had decided to bow to pressure, internal and external, and run for re-election to, as it was known then, Territorial Council. His plan had been to travel by canoe along the Canadian Arctic Coast from Inuvik to Spence Bay, stopping at every Inuit camp and settlement along the way introducing himself and letting his ambitions be known....campaigning in fact.

The trouble was, it's a very long way from Inuvik to Spence Bay by canoe. If one follows the shoreline which he was, the distance is probably more than a thousand miles. He had left his start until too late in the season to complete the trip in one year, he was also almost broke (I later found out). That's why he had the Dutchman with him. Erik was footing most of the bill, in return he got an Arctic Adventure with the legendary Duncan Pryde. Their original plan had been to travel as far as Coppermine, about two hundred miles east of Paulatuk, before calling it quits for the season.

Polite and hospitable guy that I am, I offered them sleeping room for the night in my house. They gladly accepted because they were getting a bit tired of sleeping in a tent on the cold, wet ground. Next day was nasty, too nasty to travel by canoe along the Arctic Coast in October, so I told them to make themselves at home in my shack until the weather cleared enough for them to make the dash to Coppermine. Alas, it was not to be. The weather never did improve enough before freeze-up for them to resume their canoe journey. The two of them ended up camped in my house for the next month before there was enough ice in the bay out front, for a plane to come from Inuvik and haul their sorry asses out of there. There they sat in my house enjoying my heat and eating my grub. What did I get in return? Not a dang thing. In the end ol' Dunc didn't even have the common courtesy to mention my name in the book he wrote about his Arctic adventures. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Nunaga-Ten-Years-Among-Eskimos/dp/0907871631

I mentioned that I thought Dunc's arrival in Paulatuk could mean trouble. My immediate thought upon seeing him was; there wouldn't be a woman, married or single, or over 12, safe with her virtue if he stayed in Paulatuk for any length of time. He was infamous. The trickle down effect was bound to land on my doorstep. As it turned out my fears were unfounded, Paulatuk was a tiny settlement of God fearing folks. Perhaps his experience with George Oaqoaq beating the crap out of him in Perry Island had taught him a lesson about fooling around with married women, perhaps the Catholic Priest had a word with him. Whatever, if he did have any liaisons while he was in Paulatuk, he was uncharacteristically discrete about it and no problems ensued.

Dunc Pryde.

to be continued...

Map.

Tue, 23 Oct 2007 20:50:05 GMT

Places in the North, I lived and worked or visited in the course of my work.

Taloyoak to Gjoa Haven. Pt 2.

Fri, 13 Jul 2007 18:58:09 GMT

Imagine my surprise and delight the other day when I read the comment posted by Ken Vernon to my little blog story, dated July 13th '06 and called, 'Taloyoak'.

Here's a bit more of the story of that dog team trip. When I set out from Spence Bay that day, I'd only been with the Bay and in the Arctic for about six months. It was the darkest, coldest time of the year so I didn't spend a lot of time outdoors looking around. My time was divided between the Store, our Staffhouse, the Nursing Station and Ernie Lyall's house.

Of course I'd seen lots of dog teams and their drivers coming and going, and in and around the village. Most of the teams I'd seen where small, only three or four dogs, the driver usually appeared to be just sitting on the sled, occasionally flicking his whip at the dogs as they zipped along from one side of the bay to the other. From my perspective dog team travel seemed like an easy, speedy affair. The reality is very different.

The RCMP team with whom I was to travel, consisted of about 12 dogs, Adam Takolik, RCMP Special Constable, was their caretaker and handler, Cpl Dick Vitt was the Mountie on Patrol, I was the lowly HBC clerk hitching a ride to do some work in Gjoa Haven. When we three left Spence there was quite a load for the dogs to haul. Three large Arctic 3 Star sleeping bags, our camping gear and grub box, a couple of dead seals for dog food, several caribou hides for bedding, a rifle or two, an 7'x7' canvas tent and poles, fuel for the Primus stove and Coleman lamp, plus miscellaneous gear and whatever other personal items we had brought along. The sled and load alone, probably weighed close to a thousand pounds, plus another 600 hundred pounds for us three guys dressed as we were. I was skinny and relatively fit then and only came in around 160#. The maximum number of folks sitting on the sled at any one time, was two.

Late in the winter and getting on towards spring, the snow was not at it best for dog team travel, or for that matter, running along beside a sled. Dressed as I was, wearing a duffle undercoat, flannel shirt, jeans and a full suit of long-johns, covered by a heavy winter caribou parka and bib wind pants, plus heavy mitts and caribou mukluks, moving about period, let alone running, was a strenuous affair. Interestingly, I would have been warmer had I been more lightly dressed.

Alternately hard or soft, constantly breaking through the snow crust, up to my knees one second, running over a drift as hard as concrete the next, it was tough going. Up down, up down for miles on end at a brisk jog, very hard on ones hips and knees. Sweating like a pig as long as I ran, but chilled to the bone five minutes after I stopped doing so. The dogs, working hard were also having problems with the tough snow conditions so our travel speed was limited to only a few miles an hour.

Our first night out, although it was cold, the snow conditions were not good enough for Adam to build a complete Igloo. The snow was not strong enough to support the weight of a full snow dome, so Adam built a half Igloo and we just threw our tent over the top as a roof. I remember I was disappointed with this, I had been looking forward to the 'full meal deal' of sleeping in a complete Igloo. Silly rookie that I was, at the time the tent roof seemed like a 'cop-out' if you'll pardon the pun, but I now know it was a common practice in poor Igloo building conditions. In the Arctic, adaptation to circumstances is the name of the game.

After a breakfast of Pilot biscuits, porridge and tea, next morning running again, we set out into an endless, featureless, gloom of gray and white. A white-out, there was no contrast, the only relief to my straining eyes were the dogs, sled and traveling companions. With absolutely nothing else to look at, my world quickly sank to my immediate surroundings. It was not long before all depth perception beyond the lead dog disappeared into an endless sea of hummocky white. In this white-out the horizon was not discernable, even our sled tracks and footprints vanished twenty feet behind us into a white nothingness. The only sounds were my laboured breathing, the crunch of my feet, the creak and hiss of the sled, the panting of the dogs and an occasional encouraging word to them or the smack of his whip from Adam. Conversation was pretty much zero.

Eventually after about eight hours of this and several breaks for tea and a snack later, Adam announced that he could see 'Cam C', a small Dew Line, 'Eye Site', perched on top of Mt. Matheson ahead of us. I looked and looked but for the life of me couldn't see any sign of it. More time passed until finally I was able to pick out the Radome and accommodation module in the distance in front of us. I think it was the twinkling lights of it in the twilight that finally caught my attention. I have no idea how far away it was but it seemed to, and did take hours to get to it.

Why I was the last to arrive inside the module, I can't remember. I do remember that I was very glad to be there. The hospitality shown us by the three inhabitants of that bleak and remote spot was unexpected and very, very welcome. Remember, this was the middle of the 'cold war' and the Dew Line, I thought, was supposed to be military and very secret. I would not have been surprised if we had been turned away, or greeted by an armed guard. Instead we were made very welcome.

Although he was technically off shift, the chef jumped up and quickly provided us with a hot and hearty meal. I remember the chef apologizing that it wasn't better, the food was like ambrosia to me. We were made to feel very much at home and given beds for the night. I've never forgotten how warmly we, dropping in, uninvited, unexpected and in the middle of nowhere were received. I guess Ken and his buddies were as glad to see new faces as we were. Spence Bay or Taloyoak if you wish, was a small place with a population of only about 250, only twelve of whom were non Inuit. We knew everyone, had seen 'em all and had been to everyones house at least twice.

The next morning was bright and sunny. After a hearty breakfast consisting of things I hadn't seen for a while, like, bacon and fresh eggs; we loaded up the sled and set off on our last leg of the journey to Gjoa Haven.

Cam C sat on top of a hill, so every direction was downhill from there, easy going. The dogs were straining and yipping to be off, Adam pulled up the snow anchor, we all piled onto the sled and in a cloud of snow dust and at a gallop, off we went down the hill.

This was great, this was as I had previously imagined dog sled travel. Yahoo, we were flying! Just to stay ahead of the sled so it didn't run over them, the dogs were going flat out. Down the hill, over a ridge, round a corner and out of sight of the Dew Line Site. We traveled like that for about ten minutes, then the joyride was over. One of our sled runner scraped over a sharp outcrop of rock hidden just below the snow, promptly peeling off about six feet of runner mud. Instantly we slowed to a crawl as the runner lost its slipperiness and dug in.

Runner mud is no ordinary mud, it's a special mud collected in summer and carefully preserved all winter. During the coldest months, steel sled runners will not glide on snow, rather, they stick to it. It is then that a thick coat of heated and thawed runner mud is applied over the steel, and a very thin covering of mouth-warmed water, is spit out onto a piece of Polar bear fur and applied on top of the mud. To make great, speedy, slippery runners is an art. Expecting no trouble of this type, Adam had not brought any extra mud with him.

We were hooped! At the speed to which we were now reduced, it would take us another two days to get to Gjoa Have. We'd be out of camp fuel, people and dog food by then. Embarrassed after our spectacular flying departure we did not want to walk back up to the Dew Line site.

We were now out on a little frozen lake at the bottom of the hill scratching our heads. Idly looking around I noticed a bare patch of windblown ice with some straight cracks in it. I had an idea and suggested it to Adam and Dick. To my surprise it was not rejected. I suggested that with our axe we could chip out some straight pieces of ice from along the crack and cement/freeze these piece onto the steel runners in lieu of the missing mud.

We hastily half set-up the tent as a windbreak, fired up the Primus to melt some snow for water, and carefully began chipping out, six inch long by a couple of inches thick, slivers of ice from along the crack. As Dick and I stood around watching Adam with his trusty wood plane shaped and stuck the ice to the runners in place of the missing mud. An hour and a half later Adam was done, we loaded up the sled again and we were on our way. You would think that ice on snow would glide pretty well, well it doesn't. Its viscosity did not replace that of the missing mud and ice combination, we were slowed considerably. Also the ice chunks kept breaking away from the runners, we were constantly stopping to make repairs. We kept going however and finally limped into Gjoa Haven sometime after dark.

It seems my dog trips between Spence and Gjoa Haven were always to be difficult, I have another tale to tell and have coloured 35mm slides to go with it. Unfortunately it's even longer-winded that this one and will have to wait for another day.

So to my new-old friend Ken, for his warm hospitality and for being kind enough to post his comment and validate my experience, "Thanks again, and that's the bit you didn't see." It was funny and embarrassing at the time, and still is today.

Survivor Man.

Fri, 29 Jun 2007 16:06:57 GMT

Missing for a month, Igloolik elder found alive

Last Updated: Friday, June 29, 2007 | 9:02 AM CT

CBC News

An 81-year-old elder and hunter from Igloolik was found alive Thursday, after four weeks of air and ground searches.

Searchers aboard a Twin Otter airplane spotted Enoki Kunuk near a vast fjord Thursday night.

"We found his kamotiq and snowmobile first, and then we found him beside his tent," Kunuk's son, Mathusalah Kunuk, told CBC News late Thursday.

Kunuk said his father waved up at the plane, looking healthy. A helicopter with medical staff picked the elder up later that evening.

"Everybody was yelling inside the plane, crying, too," Mathusalah Kunuk said. "It was kind of emotional and at the same time, we were kind of laughing."

Enoki Kunuk left Igloolik on June 1 to embark on a caribou hunting trip about 100 kilometres north of the hamlet. When he hadn't returned home four or five days later as expected, family and friends began searching for him.

Two air searches failed to locate Kunuk, including an official search involving military aircraft that was called off last week.

But the community refused to give up, putting out a call for help from private airlines for aircraft. It was the Twin Otter plane, on loan from Air Inuit in Nunavik since Wednesday, that enabled searchers to find Kunuk.

Igloolik Mayor Paul Quassa said his community refused to give up on the search because they believed Kunuk was still alive.

"It's been a month, and for an elder to survive that long all alone, that [tells] us that's how Inuit survived without any assistance from [the] outside world," Quassa said.

Quassa said he believes Kunuk was stranded as the snow and ice melted during his trip and it was too far for him to walk home.

While he described Kunuk as an experienced hunter who always travelled with extra equipment, Quassa said the elder did not carry communications equipment.

Dreams of whereabouts

After weeks of searching, Quassa said people in the community began having dreams about the lost elder's whereabouts.

"One particular dream did tell us that he's in a valley, his snowmobile is there," he said.

"Nobody can see him, and we had flown over that area quite a few times. But this time around we went back to that same area, and sure enough, he's there."

Kunuk's family and community members were grateful for the support coming from across Nunavut and Nunavik, Quassa said.

The community will hold a celebration in the near future to mark Kunuk's safe return home.

Taloyoak (Spence Bay) NU.

Wed, 27 Sep 2006 18:56:02 GMT

I'm posting a few old B&W photos I took on my way to and in Taloyoak the first winter I was there. All I had was an old bellows type Kodak camera, so these pics aren't the best.

The dog team and igloo ones were taken on my first dog team trip. I hitched a ride on an RCMP patrol from Taloyoak to Gjoa Haven. I traveled with Dick Vitt the RCMP Corporal and Adam Takolik the Special Constable. My idea was that I'd just sit on the sled and ride, the reality was I ran most of the way, three days, 90 miles as the raven flies, (a) to keep warm & (b) because the dogs were not expected to haul my lily white HBCo. butt.

Funny thing about RCMP Special Constables. They could carry a pistol and ammunition, but not both at the same time. It was pistol and no bullets, or bullets and no pistol...or so I was told. If the need arose the accompanying Policeman would supply one or the other. I don't know if this still holds true. Adam carried neither.

There is one aerial snap I took out the window of the HBC Beaver on my way to Spence. I'm not sure but I think it's of Igloolik where we stopped for a few days to take inventory. Pretty barren and windswept where ever it was. During the inventory process, I was given the task of going to 'that' shed and counting the contents there-in. The contents were almost exclusively Walrus penis bones, hundreds of them! I'd never heard of such a thing, what on Earth does the Bay buy them for. "Ah" I was told, "the English make walking sticks out of them." Okay..............

One other snap of Peter Paniloo, he was our Native, Post Assistant. Great guy, always ready with a joke and a smile. He worked extremely hard, doing all of the grunt work around the post, hauling fuel for our stoves, organizing and stacking the fuel and gasoline barrels, dispensing purchased fuel, cutting ice for our drinking water and ice porches, stacking, packing and baling furs and keeping the warehouses organized. Anything that had to be done outside was almost exclusively his job and he did it extremely well. Dunno what the Bay paid him, but I'm sure it was a pittance.

Ernie is Ernie Lyall a famous guy in the Arctic to those in the 'know'. A former HBC man himself, he did write a book, 'An Arctic Man'. The evening I snapped the pic, I guess he got a bit bored. :-)

Moccasin Telegraph. Summer '64.

Tue, 29 Aug 2006 21:55:25 GMT

Ian Michie, yes in Cam Bay, not John MacDonald. Thanks, for that, it bothered me, I wasn't 100% certain of his last name. My favorite manager ever and his wife was a lovely lady and very kind to us lowly clerks. I learned to drive on Ian's Jeep.

Ian Michie was my manager in CB, he was replaced by the ever unpopular Casey Jones. John MacDonald was a clerk in Coppermine and Holman. I think he'd previously done a stint in Spence. I never met him.

John Stanners established the store at Spence Bay, hence Stanners Harbour.

From Spence I exchanged a few radio words with John MacDonald when he was in Holman. He was an old hand clerk, with more experience than I.

What am I, chopped liver? Alex didn't remodel the store single handedly. I distinctly remember cutting holes in the tops of the walls, then pouring in the Zonelite insulation.

They should have dropped more food in Gjoa Haven. The spring and summer I spent there, there was little to eat, virtually, no coffee, tea, sugar, lard, flour, salt or other staples. The canned goods were exhausted. The three Porter Boys and myself existed on fish and birds we shot and Bean Soup which old George made. (Except for the liver, seal meat makes me gag.)

I think I was John Gibbs's replacement in CB.

Art Atkinson, senior HBC pilot, I'd forgotten his name. Thanks. He reminded me of my granpa. I also remember the droopy landing gear with the stuck ski.

A Christmas Tale. Pt. 2

Thu, 22 Dec 2005 18:09:59 GMT

So anyway. Christmas of '82 was going to be spent by us at the cabin. Preparations were made, presents gathered, food and plastic water jugs organised. In the fall I'd put 0W-10W weight oil in my truck, it would start, albeit reluctantly, without being plugged in right down to temps of -40°C. No worries about getting it going Christmas morning.

Off we went. We'd been invited to a Christmas Eve party by the owner (Wallbridge) of a cabin at the west end of Pontoon and Christmas dinner at the Jefferson's on the north shore of Prelude Lake.

Before I got sidetracked to the outhouse, I started out to tell a simple story about how the fuel oil supply line for the Coleman heater froze up and I had to spend the whole of Christmas Eve night pouring pots of water on the propane tank to get it to produce enough heat to light all four burners and the cook stove so I could boil more water/melt some snow to pour on the propane tank. All the while, keeping an eye on the kerosene lamp in it's quickly constructed Styrofoam insulation tunnel I'd built around and under the pipe and valve from the fuel tank.

There are two types of heating/diesel fuel commonly used in the Yellowknife area of the Great White North. P-40 & P-50. P-40 gets waxy at -35° and stops flowing at -40°. P-50 on the other hand still flows at -50°C. I had been given a free barrel of P-40, that fall I'd put it (45 Gal) in the big tank and was using the remainder of it up, till I got my full tank of P-50 delivered.

Propane liquefies and no longer produces gas at -40°. However even freezing water poured over the tank, has enough residual heat in it to warm frozen propane to the point of giving of small amounts of gas. The warmer the water, the more gas you get.

We arrived at the cabin around 8 o'clock on Christmas Eve. Of course we only heated it when we were there. It had no running water or plumbing, so it didn't matter that the place was frozen solid when we weren't there. Checking the thermometer I noticed the temp was about -38°, no worries. we went in and I lit the Coleman heater, it appeared to be burning fine, so we unpacked the truck, opened up the bed to warm, then stood around for a few minutes to make sure the stove kept running. I could hear it burbling, see the flame through the spy hole and start to smell the heat coming off it. Knowing the place would be auto heated, toasty and warm upon our return we left for the party.

By the time we were ready to leave the party, a giant dome of cold air had moved in, the sky was crystal clear, the Northern Lights were cavorting wildly, blazing across the sky. The temperature had dropped to -45°. The second we walked into out cabin, I knew we were in trouble. Even to an untrained, fully sober nose, it would have appeared colder inside than it was outside. The propane was frozen too, no lights.

Golly Gosh and Dang! The heater must have gone out about ten minutes after we left. The P-40 fuel oil had gone all thick and there wasn't enough oil in the tank for gravity to keep it flowing. So there I'm am, in the dark, in instant survival mode, figuring how to get the place warm and save Christmas. Why we didn't just pack up and go back to town I don't know. Perhaps because Old Sam was driving.

Mrs Icemannwt, clever girl, wrapped herself in our Artic Three Star sleeping bag and went to bed fully clothed. Like I said I spent the night fully dressed for the great outdoors, dozing on the couch, the window open so as not to get gassed, heating pots of our drinking water supply on the reluctant cook stove. Finally by about 10 am, the outside temp moderated, and my kerosene lamp warmed the fuel line enough for the oil to start flowing again. By noon we were back to normal. Opened our presents, then drove across the ice to the Jefferson's on the north shore of Prelude.

One night with a performance like that was enough. I didn't want to risk another until I had some proper P-50 heating oil. After supper at the Jefferson's, we packed up and drove home to town. We abandoned our Cosy Cabin Christmas plan, spending the rest of a disappointed Christmas, in front of the TV. But, twenty plus years later, it turns out to be the Cabin Christmas we remember the most. We remember it fondly and laugh about it now. Another lovely adventure in which no one got hurt.

Part One of a Christmas Tale.

Mon, 19 Dec 2005 20:41:15 GMT

Once we'd purchased the cabin on Pontoon Lake, Mrs Icemannwt and I decided to spend every Christmas we could out there. A couple of times it wasn't possible because of work or 'call' commitments, but we managed four or five.
Christmas at the Cabin. I can't begin to explain what a beautiful peaceful experience it was. Some years it would be bitterly cold, we didn't mind, it was warm and toasty inside. Even at -50°C we'd be snug as a bug in a rug. We had beds enough for four and could fit six if the extra two didn't mind foamies on the floor.
Our Cabin was tiny, a mere 16'x20', later I built a 16x12 screened deck on the front. The deck had an open faced Acorn stove on it. In the fall I'd completely wrap the deck with 8 mil poly. The deck floor was uninsulated, so despite a roaring fire in the Acorn, your feet would freeze as your head broiled.
For Cabin heat, we had a lovely little Coleman oil heater hooked to an outside 250 gal tank. Even in the coldest weather we never had to run it more than half throttle, at that speed it never used more than three gallons of oil a day. I had years of experience with those Coleman oil heaters, with the exception of Cambridge Bay, they were what supplied heat for all the HBCo. post quarters and stores I lived and worked in. They were excellent heaters; low maintenance, efficient, quiet, and the gentle burbling noise they did emit, was soft and comforting. No electrical or moving parts.
I had our cabin all setup with propane lights, also 12 volt lights supplied by old car batteries, a four burner propane cook stove with an oven I'd found, a little 12 volt colour TV for New Year's and the Stanley Cup. I also wired it for 110 volts, that power if required, was supplied by a small portable gas generator. There was no outside domestic power supply. NCPC were, and still are, too damn cheap and pigheaded to acknowledge the fact that there was enough demand in the Prelude Subdivisions to justify running a power ten miles from Cassidy Point.
For running water we had a sink with a manual RV water pump, supplied from a 5 gallon water jug under the counter. Waste water went into a bucket and got dumped into the outhouse or was simply flung in a spray into the bush.
Speaking of outhouses, for inside night time use, I had installed a little portable RV toilet with a mini holding tank in a tiny WC in the corner. Couldn't let those nurses run around outside in the dark, in their nighties, in the middle of the night. We didn't want them to get eaten by Wampus Cats, Windegoes, Hidebehinds, or other very nasty things that lurk in the Northern woods after midnight, now did we? Who'd make the Boys' breakfast?
But I digress. Our outhouse was a beaut. Not being a real construction carpenter and not knowing how to build an outhouse from scratch, I acquired a vacant one, from some little used campsite, or abandoned mining operation. I simply backed my pickup, up to it, pushed it over and slid it in. About fifty feet from the cabin I dug a hole, backed my pickup up to it and reversed the process. Voila! Instant facilities.
I bet you're wondering what it's like to sit in an outhouse at -40°. Well I have a secret to share, there's a modern trick to it. One inch thick, high density, blue or pink, styrofoam insulation made by Dow Chem., makes the perfect, disposable, cold weather toilet seat! One simply cuts a square of it to fit the throne and cuts a toilet seat shaped hole in the middle of that. Styrofoam immediately reflects all of your butt heat right back to you, it's instantly warm and comfortable. You can sit in there all day if you want, pants around your knees, parka draped over your shoulders, with the door open watching the Whisky Jacks.
For a bit of extra comfort, not necessary, but we brought the styro-foam inside, and kept it behind the cabin door, taking it back out when needed. It works fantastic, best thing for outdoors since they invented clothing. The only caveat being.............don't get it wet.

A Cam Bay Musing..

Tue, 29 Nov 2005 17:22:13 GMT

Cam Bay NWT, huh? 'Cam Main', on the Dew line. Cambridge Bay, population 500, to me, was the big city. I transferred there from Gjoa Haven (Pop. 85). The store you saw, was the one I worked in. It was a real store, heat, lights, running water, NCR cash register... everything! We even had a real vehicle, a Jeep Pick-up, on which I learned to drive. One could work all day in regular street clothes. Big windows on the front. Our staff house was twenty five steps behind it. Of course the married, 'managers mansion', was up on the hill. :-) I arrived there in mid summer of '64. Five of us ran the place....the Manager (Iain Something), three clerks...myself, Lyle Greenly, John Marquand and the Eskimo Post-Servant, Ikey E.

We didn't see a lot of the guys from the Dew Line, mostly they stayed in the modules for the length of their contracts (6 months), some of them only stepped outside twice, once coming...once going. Straight from and to, Paramus NJ. They were rich beyond our wildest dreams. :-)

Picture taking or visiting by the locals was not actively encouraged. I was in the 'train' a couple of times, but I think there was an armed guard at the door to the RaDome. Strictly a no-go area. I have a few photos, taken from a discreet distance. I didn't get to very many of the sites. Cam Main, Cam A, Cam C, Cam 3 and Pin Main at Cape Parry.

I was in Cam Bay for a little over a year, by which time my three year contract was up and I got to go home for a six week vacation before returning for another six months as manager of the HBC Store on The Belcher Islands (now Saaniqiliuaq), in the middle of Hudson's Bay. Another story all together.

Cheers.

Gotcha!

Wed, 16 Nov 2005 21:59:45 GMT

As we were chatting this morning, Mrs. Icemannwt reminded me of a miserable incident we experienced together, one winter's night years ago, at forty-below, under the wing of a DC-3.

Out at the NTWAir Hanger, a mechanic who had recently come to Canada from Viet Nam, was sent outside to retrieve a landing-gear part from a mothballed plane. I think he hardly spoke any English at all.

For whatever reason, and with some difficulty I'm sure, he managed to pull the locking pin out of the right side, landing gear. Due to lack of hydraulic pressure the gear promptly collapsed, the wing tip dropped to the ground, driving him to his kneesin the snow, crushing and trapping his forearm between the landing gear and the inside of the wheel-well.

It was pitch dark, a bitterly cold night with a stiff, killing breeze. No one missed the poor bugger for an hour or so. Eventually another mechanic, went to the side door, looked out, called the missing guy's name and getting no response, assumed he'd got cold and gone home.

About three hours later, still needing the gear part, someone else went outside to get it and discovered the unfortunate soul, barely conscious and almost frozen to death, hanging by his arm in the snow bank under the plane.

Four hours after the accident had happened, an alarm was called in to the Fire Dept. Bringing both ambulances, the Rescue Vehicle and four appliances, for transport and shelter, most of the Volunteer Fire Department responded. I was among those responding. It was so cold, our idling equipment couldn't generate enough engine heat to keep the cabs warm.

What a nightmare. In the freezing dark, using the Hurst Rescue Tool/Jaws of Life and a rescue saw, many attempts were made to lift the airplane wing, drop the gear and free the guy's arm. With the Hurst and saw, we even tried to cut the gear struts and wheel well, all to no avail. We couldn't lift the plane, drop the gear or free his arm. It was terrible, nothing we tried worked, we couldn't get the guy free.

Bathed in rotating red emergency lights, with the radios crackling, shouting nonsensical orders at each other, people were running around in a panic. Tempers were flaring, ears, noses, fingers, hands and toes were getting frost bitten. Truly a nightmare of disorganization, lack of clear thinking and leadership.

Eventually, in desperation, Stanton Hospital was called and a doctor's attendance requested. Dr Hill, the resident orthopaedic surgeon and an ER Nurse (the soon to be Mrs. Icemannwt), arrived on scene shortly thereafter. Dr Hill assessed the situation quickly and realising the trapped man was very near death, decided to amputate his arm. Under the plane, Dr. Hill performed the amputation, at the shoulder,

through the man's parka, using local anaesthetic only, outside at -40° with only flashlights for illumination.

Incredible! I helped as best I could by holding a flashlight, passing instruments, and getting supplies from the Ambu. Everything was freezing as fast as it was passed or brought outside. Needles with the anaesthetics froze, IV bags froze, tubes froze, blood, and feathers from the man's parka, were frozen to everything. Bloody goose-down, was blowing around, getting everywhere, including the amputation instruments. Dr Hill was working bare handed except for rubber OR gloves. Still, slick as a whistle, in jig-time, with my future wife assisting, they had the guy's arm off.

It was so cold and the worker had been hanging there almost frozen, for so long, he hardly bled at all and being barely conscious, he didn't seem to feel much pain either. He never whined, moaned or cried out. We bundled the guy up and rushed him to the Hospital. The Doc worked on him there for several more hours, cleaning up the op site and getting him stabilized.

Amazingly the guy survived his ordeal. From start, to arm off, he'd been hanging under that plane at -40° for almost about eight hours. I remember seeing him in the hospital a few days later, walking around, in a dressing gown, pushing an IV pole, a big bandage around his shoulder where his arm used to be. Tough, that little guy was tough! I'm in awe of his toughness. I wonder whatever happened to him, where he went?

I'm also impressed by the skill and toughness displayed that night by Dr. Hill and Mrs. Icemannwt-to-be as they crouched in the dark under that airplane wing, cutting an arm off.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. The day after the night of the incident, 'they' pumped the gas out of the plane wing and lifted it with a fork-lift, whereupon, the offending limb promptly fell out of the wheel well, onto the snow covered ground.