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Offshore,
in the dark blue sea, hundreds of ice pans rushed dramatically
past and then disappeared over the horizon. Dark clouds on the
northwest horizon scudded toward me, spreading their shadows
across the land. With the clouds came calmer winds and my chance
to paddle again. I pushed the boat into the surf at 6:30 p.m.
and charged through the breaking waves. After I had paddled a
mile or so, the land turned southwest, forming a large, shallow
bay. Hoping the wind would remain relatively calm for a while,
I spotted a grounded ice pan on the bay's northwestern shore
to use as my reference point, and started across. The wind was
very unsettled, first blowing strongly and then dying entirely,
but by eight o'clock I reached the shore and was heading northward
toward Igloolik once again, now only a day's easy paddle away.
The wind began to blow steadily soon after I made it to the coast,
so I began looking for a campsite.
There was no beach in sight, and the steep gravel banks along the shore would
make landing difficult-and hauling the kayak up above the tide line seemed impossible.  Several
times, I stopped to check out likely sites, but having to unload the kayak just
to get it up the beach wasn't appealing. The chart suggested that the coast would
begin to flatten out a few miles along, so I dug in and paddled into the waves.
By eight thirty a low point lay ahead that looked promising. I was wet and tired
from constantly heading against the wind with waves breaking over the bow. I
would have to stop on the point, no matter what it offered for a campsite.
As I rounded it, I saw a small wooden cabin, four white tents and a group of
people who had turned to watch my progress. I angled in toward shore. What luck-I
had paddled into an Inuit summer fishing camp. I nudged my way in, trying to
avoid the submerged rocks hidden in the waves. Two big teen-aged boys wearing
hip-waders walked out and guided the boat in. As I got out, I fell down on the
hard, stony beach, a victim of cramped leg muscles and wet, slippery seaweed.
A cheery-faced man of about forty sporting a Fu Manchu moustache grabbed my cold,
sore hand in his very warm one and helped me up. Two families were using this
fishing camp: Lucien and his teenaged son Paulo, and Maurice and his wife Annie
with their four children. Within seconds, we were all in Maurice's tent where
Annie offered me biscuits, hot tea and one of their tents in which to stay the
night. Their kids, ranging from 4 to 14 years old, gathered around, anxious to
get a look at their surprise visitor. Both my hosts and I tried to remember if
we had ever met before, but we decided they had been too young to remember my
previous visit.
Moving my belongings into the tent, I immediately recognised the layout. The
floor plan was identical to the ancient ruined houses on the Ooglit Islands.
Caribou skins were laid out on the slightly raised sleeping platform at the rear,
and fishing gear was piled on either side of the doorway.
During the night, the winds again began to increase and, once more, I woke up
with the tent flapping and pushing down on my sleeping bag. Getting up, I went
outside to check what was happening. I wasn't alone! Everyone was up, pulling
on the stones to which the tent ropes were attached, moving them back to where
they had been. The wind had dragged mine several feet. I added several more stones
on top of each anchor stone, but even this was not sufficient, as the powerful
wind continued to drag the stones. Finally, I attached my ropes directly to the
next tent upwind. Satisfied that I wasn't going to blow away, I got back into
my sleeping bag. Within minutes, the whole tent came down on top of me. The ropes
had pulled away from the tent completely. I crawled out from under the collapsed
tent and placed some of my extra rocks on the tent to prevent it from tearing
or blowing away entirely. I headed for Maurice's tent. Alex, his 14-year-old
son, was up making tea. We filled our mugs and began eating bannock when, suddenly,
the tent came crashing down, waking the whole family. Alex wisely extinguished
the kerosene heater before it caused any trouble, and the younger kids pulled
on their clothes and went running after the family's belongings as they disappeared
downwind. The two other tents were also down, leaving only the wooden cabin still
standing.
While Annie and the children collected things, the men and I rushed to save their
canoes before the waves pounded them to pieces on the beach. We pulled Maurice's
heavy, 24-foot freighter canoe up higher on the beach. We walked the other canoe
to a small stream nearby, where we pulled it upstream out of the surf.
We all moved into the little cabin, nine of us in the ten-by-twelve-foot building.
As there were no windows, Maurice rigged up a lightbulb to his portable generator
and we all took turns keeping the generator filled with gas while it ran all
day without stopping. By the next day, Annie had had enough of the dark cabin
interior, not to mention the noise and smell of running the generator all day
long. She got Maurice to install the window he had brought from the dump in Igloolik.
He wanted to put it into the roof, for fear that polar bears would break it during
the winter, but in the end we cut a hole in the north wall and put it there.
Next, we repaired the roof with tar paper to prevent the occasional rain squalls
from spilling in through the cracks between the plywood. Fortunately, the paper
was very heavy, so it was possible to roll a bit out and tack it down in the
wind, which was gusting to 45 miles per hour.
Several times during our repair project, when the cabin door was unlatched, the
wind would catch it and fling it open wide. If you happened to be hanging onto
it, you would be catapulted out to the beach. After everyone had been flung out
enough times, Maurice and Lucien built a lean-to wind screen to protect the entrance
from the wind.
On the second day of the wind storm, Annie kicked us all out of the cabin and
spent the day over a sizzling frying pan, cooking mounds of fresh bannock. While
the kids went for walks on the beach, Lucien fished for char, which he caught
nonstop in his nets, and we all ate like royalty that night. Throughout the three
days of the storm, we were in touch with Igloolik and other camps in the area
thanks to the CB radios everyone used.
On the third day of the wind storm, in the afternoon, the weather began to show
signs of a break. The wind began to die down and the whitecaps became less frequent.
We decided to head into Igloolik. By nine o'clock in the evening, both canoes
were loaded to the gunwales with people and supplies and, with engines roaring,
they began making their way across Hooper Inlet to Igloolik, about eight miles
away. I watched as they made their way across, amazed at their warm hospitality
shown to me, a person they had never met before.
Rather than head straight across the inlet, I decided to follow the shoreline
and cross to Igloolik Island at the narrowest point, shortening the open crossing
to around seven miles. I rolled the kayak down the beach and plunged into the
surf. The waves were still about two feet high and coming from several directions
at once. The wind was around five to ten miles per hour. It was going to be a
wet ride.
Half an hour later, I reached the narrowest section of the inlet and headed across.
The waves and currents made for a very jumbled sea. I soon realised that I would
have to paddle hard constantly-there would be no letup all the way across if
I were to get there. I was splashed by waves as they rushed by, with the wave
crests washing over my deck.
In spite of my hard paddling, the shore ahead never seemed to get any closer.
After about an hour, however, I began to see people driving around on their ATVs.
I adjusted my landfall slightly to enter Turton Bay, which held the town of Igloolik.
The hills behind the town provided a welcome windbreak. Even so, it took another
half-hour to make my way to town. The gathering darkness of midnight, deepened
by thickening clouds overhead, made it difficult to see where to land. Soaked
and exhausted, I finally headed toward a group of people gathered on the beach.
As the bow touched the shore, I could see Leah, a friend from Igloolik I had
met here thirty years before, her brother John, and her uncle Qaminaq, the man
who had first taken me to the Ooglit Islands. They were all there, waiting to
greet me. I got out of the kayak and, this time, managed to stay on my feet as
we hugged each other, laughing and talking all at once. Maurice and Annie had
called when they arrived to tell them I was on my way, and to watch out for me.
Leah had been one of the people on the ATVs I had seen, watching to make sure
I was all right in the rough-water crossing.
We walked up to Qaminaq's two-story house to meet Joanna, his wife, and one of
their daughters, now married with children of her own. His son, Naisana, was
no longer a toddler dressed in caribou furs, but now a father of toddlers. We
downed mugs of hot, sugary tea and mouthfuls of fresh bannock. We all grinned
at one another, laughing, smiling and trying to talk all at once, not really
knowing where to begin the conversation. Leah worked hard to translate, but the
words, mingled in two languages, came in a flood. There was just so much to say
after nearly thirty years of being away. It was good to be back and especially
to have returned in the traditional way, in a kayak, and from the Ooglit Islands,
the mysterious islands of the past. |
| Michael
Bradley is a primary school teacher in Hatley, Quebec. He worked
in arctic Canada as a researcher and teacher for seven years, and
is currently working to re-establish the use of the kayak among
the Inuit of nothern Canada. |
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