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From
the house ridge, I spotted a large circle of stones on a hilltop
near the eastern shore. It was 20 feet in diameter, made of giant
stones piled up chest high. Three taller stones, well beyond
the height of their neighbours, were precisely positioned equidistant
from each other around the circumference. In the center was a
block of granite about four feet high and two feet along each
side, with the sides squared off and a flat top. An altar stone?  The
site had been built on the highest point of land, commanding
a view over the Ooglit Islands, the surrounding seas and, far
off to the west, the distant hazy line of the mainland. Now at
midnight, the dull, reddish sun was low in the northern sky,
about to momentarily touch the horizon before rising again for
a new day. Deepening shadows had spread across the island and
I still hadn't had supper.
The next morning, I sensed a change in the weather. While it was still sunny
with only a few clouds, a light breeze had come up from the west. I would have
to leave quickly or be stranded, possibly for days. By eight o'clock I had packed
the kayak and was on the water. I paddled around the western shore looking into
each inlet for possible signs of walrus and checking each rocky islet for seals
before I reluctantly headed northward toward Pinger Point on the mainland. I
passed three of the other Ooglit Islands, barely showing above the water and
covered with hundreds of sea birds. The tidal currents were stronger now, and
highly variable winds were just off my port bow. I passed through a number of
tidal rips and through several lines of ice pans trapped in eddies. Guillemots
and arctic loons skimmed ahead of me and then circled back for a closer look.
Again the sea air played its tricks: Pinger Point loomed high and solid in front
of me, only to collapse into the water, leaving no sign of itself. Tall headlands
rose up to the west, yet there was no land for nearly five miles in that direction.
The constantly changing view confused and baffled me. Several times I was tempted
to change course for what seemed to be the closer headland, only to have it disappear.
Worries began to flood my consciousness. What if I headed out into Foxe Basin
where nothing blocked my passage for dozens of miles? Even the compass was no
longer as steady as it had been the day before. The only choice available to
me was to continue paddling, trusting the sun's position and the wave direction,
which seemed to be the only constants.
By eleven o'clock, Pinger Point finally remained fixed and solid-looking and,
a half-hour later, I was paddling alongside its gravel base. Dozens of ice pans
were trapped in the shallow water, forming a maze of channels through which I
wound. Many of the ice floes were crazily tilted with massive overhanging sections
that dripped icy water down my neck. By noon, I had made it around the point
and was relieved to find myself once again in clear water and heading northward.
It was time for some lunch. As I readied my meal, the winds began to rise, first
to 15 mph, and then higher. I was grateful to be off the island and back on the
mainland. By two o'clock, the winds died away and I launched into a choppy sea,
again moving along the shore. I could see from the kelp fronds that the current
was working against me. I wanted to camp that night by one of the streams marked
on the chart, but I couldn't find any of them. I finally realised that water
ran in them only during the spring. I had been passing their dry beds one after
the other. I turned the kayak toward the next one I saw and rolled it safely
up the beach above the tide line.
Early in the morning I awoke to the roaring sound of a windstorm, with my tent
roof pressing down on me. The wind was blowing so strongly the tent was nearly
flattened. Outside, the sea was a boiling mess, covered with wind-driven ice
pans, spindrift and whitecaps. It was not going to be a paddling day, that was
certain. To keep the fly on the tent, I wrapped duct tape around the anchoring
sleeves at either end of the ridge pole and tied the biggest rocks I could carry
to the guy lines. Then I buried the windward edge of the tent floor in the beach
gravel, in hopes it would stop the wind from lifting the tent and carrying it
away. Once I was satisfied it was not going to blow away, I went for a blustery
walk. I found more Thule houses strung along the shores of a large tundra pond.
The yapping of a grey fox alerted me that one of the abandoned houses was inhabited.
He had dug tunnels throughout the ruined structure, and the land around the house
was a brilliant green, contrasting with the monochrome beige of the surrounding
landscape. It was the only place for miles getting fertilised on a regular basis. |
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