58 up here JANuArY/FeBruArY 2012

Me,

JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2012 Up hERE 59

I stood on an Icy road scratched into a flat white plain, amid two rows of identical, colourfully-painted, pointy-roofed houses. the hall Beach “hotel” I had just checked into was several atco trailers stitched together into no-frills rooms. In a starkly-lit cafeteria where two flavours of Kool-aid gurgled in dispensers, someone had left me a flakey-crusted wedge of homemade arctic char pie. It was February 1992. I was the only guest.

the pastel morning had painted the snowy landscape baby-room pink and blue, the light so soft I couldn’t see where the sky and the frozen ground met. the only landmarks were two giant black rectangles several kilometres away, deW Line radar panels

resembling drive-in movie screens. It was 10 a.m. on a sunday morning, 300 kilometres north of the arctic circle, and not a soul was awake. Walking away from the village onto frozen Foxe Basin, I aimed for the only texture in sight, a giant jumble of ice heaved into the air. the wind was so cold I coughed when I inhaled. hairs in my nose crystallized and my brain screamed, “you could die real fast out here.” as the shifting ice-floes creaked, my heart pounded. Looking back at the houses, dots in the distance, I felt stranded on some desolate planet. suddenly I craved the familiarity of the Kool-aid hotel and waddled back as fast as my six layers of clothing would allow. »

Me,life and death, and the icetwenty years ago, writer Margo Pfeiff knew nothing of the arctic.

then she got caught uP in a reMarkable tale of survival …

60 up here JANuArY/FeBruArY 2012

My first trip North had, ironically, re-sulted from a chance meeting in Mexico’s sweltering Baja. the previous January, during my annual escape to the tropics from wintry Montreal, i was paired in a double kayak with a vacationing nurse named heather Drum-mond. As heather and i leisurely paddled through the turquoise waters, she reminisced about her wonderful life in a frozen Nunavut outpost called pond inlet. Nodding politely, i popped in my ear buds and cranked up Bob Marley. Never, ever goin’ there, i thought.

three months later, the phone rang. heather was on the line. “i’ve got an amaz-ing story for you,” she said. “you have to come north.” At the time i was working for Reader’s Digest, writing “Drama in real Life” stories – tales of ordinary folks suddenly finding them-selves trapped under a fallen tree or a burning tanker-truck (or, ideally, both) and surviving thanks to a nick-of-time rescue or by sawing off an appendage with a rusty implement.

such was heather’s offering: four inuit walrus hunters had been stranded on an ice floe sent adrift in a blizzard during the cold-est week of winter. they’d fallen into slushy seawater, lost their sled dogs and supplies. one died, two were maimed by cold. i was

tempted. “the only one who speaks English is in Montreal for treatment,” heather said. i went to go see him. But the next afternoon, as i sat oppo-site from Ammie Kipsigak in a noisy café near the hospital, it was clear he was too shaken to tell his tale.

i was shocked, then, when he phoned me the next february. “We held a ceremony and told our story to the community,” he said, calmly. “Now we want to tell it to you. When can you be here?” two days later, i was staring in horror at airline tickets that would take me to a beach without palm trees: hall Beach, in central Nunavut.

LAst suMMEr, i made my 19th trip north. on a boat bound from iceland to Arctic Quebec, i met Darcy Kuppaq, the grand-daughter of Ben Arnaqjuaq, one of the hall Beach hunters i travelled north to interview in 1992. i learned Ben had passed away the year before. he was one of the town’s most respected elders – the school was named after him – and Darcy and i talked about him often. After meeting her, i found myself

mulling over my extraordinary first trip north and how much it changed my life.

My passion was – and is – experi-encing the world’s exotica. i’ve waded through Borneo’s leech-infested jungles with orangutan researchers and bicy-cled remote desert tracks on the heels of elephants in Namibia. Like many folks from southern Canada, though, i always equated stark, icy landscapes with a dull, difficult, one-dimensional existence. it didn’t take long to realize how wrong i was.

on my first day in hall Beach i learned my hunters had taken advan-tage of good weather to go camping. With time on my hands, i poked into the Arctic Co-op store, a drab window-less building. to my surprise i found an intriguing and bizarre inventory – ammunition, Eskimo pies, plastic flower bouquets and the oldest broccoli $5 could buy. the manager chatted at length with me about the town’s little-known trade in walrus penises. i left with an invitation to a house party.

over the next two hunter-less days i started a power-walking regime with a local nurse, and sampled a local spe-cialty, igunaq – fermented walrus meat,

so stinky it could trigger gagging at 100 me-tres. i nibbled raw caribou and marvelled as toddlers in caribou-skin snowsuits wobbled about during the annual hamlet Day celebra-tions.

Between interviews with search-and-res-cue spotters, pilots and the rCMp, my social circle burgeoned. i met a Jamaican electrician, a Greek plumber, a sparky Newfoundland teacher (who would go on to become a Nuna-vut MLA) and a hanoi-born dentist so passion-ate about the Arctic that he came North to work during his vacations. i also made increasingly long treks out of town, and found that the big whiteness now made my stomach tingle with excitement rather than fear. My senses began to fine-tune: i became fascinated with the mi-nutia of ice patterns, wind-blown snow, clouds, the extraordinary light. the longer i looked, the more i saw. My busy Montreal brain began to slow down. i was shocked when i realized i was falling in love with this place. »

Can you swim?” I nodded as my skin prickled with terror. He smiled slightly. “It doesn’t mat-ter. The cold water will get you before you make your first stroke. What- ever happens, don’t get off the komatiq”. I thought I was going to throw up.

“

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Four days aFter arriving, i finally managed to get both a translator and 65-year-old Ben arnaqjuaq into the same room. as he perched on his bed, the amputated stumps of his legs stuck straight out in front of him. His wrinkled face was deeply tanned and radiated calm. His arms and legs were lily white – they had likely never seen the sun.

Before i could ask my first question, he began recounting the events of February 20, 1991. “it was a clear day when i hitched my dogs to my komatiq,” he said. He was plan-ning on a quick trip to retrieve meat from a cache, but once underway he spotted wal-ruses in the distance and decided to hunt one. Fellow hunters ammie Kipsigak, Peter siakuluk and Jopie Kaernerk, all on dog-sleds, met up with him. then a snowmobile approached with another local and James Qammaniq. Qammaniq was a much-loved, mentally handicapped 45-year-old who went around town pushing a small wooden sled to which he’d added a windshield, speedometer and the side mirror from a wrecked skidoo. in his slurred speech, he begged to come along. since it would just be a brief walrus-hunt, the town’s top hunters agreed and James hopped onto Jopie’s komatiq.

Ben fired at the first walrus but it dove be-neath the water. ammie saw another come to the surface, but missed too. it felt like a bad omen. Finally, a bull came up for air and ammie lodged a bullet in its skull. as they butchered the beast, James re-enacted the hunt, throwing make-believe harpoons. But by the time the men had packed the meat onto the sleds and turned towards the mainland, a 100-metre-high wall of fog – open water steaming into the minus-28-degree air – told them the wind had shifted and pushed them offshore on a slab of ice. they spent the night hunkered behind a makeshift shelter, watch-ing skidoo lights on Hall Beach’s main street as the wind pushed them south.

not having planned to travel on sea ice, they didn’t have extra clothing or stoves. though they had plenty of food, their fresh-water ice wouldn’t get them through the day. they searched for fresh snow and a route back to land. then they built another shelter, fearing for James, who wore only “southern clothes” – a parka, wind pants and store-bought boots – and was showing signs of hypothermia.

at this point in the story, Ben paused, then cleared his throat. “i was the elder,” he said. “after three days i had to do some-thing.” He thought of the anguish James’ father – an old friend – had already suffered. His wife had died and then two of his chil-

dren committed suicide. Ben knew he had to get James home. at midnight he slipped away from the camp to search for an escape. that’s when, without warning, he crashed through the ice. submerged in frigid water, he struggled to the surface and managed to drag himself out. Clothes stiff with ice, he struggled back to the camp.

the next morning, the others awoke to find Ben motionless atop his sled, soaking wet. they quickly pitched a makeshift shel-ter, moved him inside and fired up their only stove. ammie pried off Ben’s frozen boots, revealing dead white flesh. (smiling weakly, Ben tapped his legs together for me. “Like wood,” he said.) suddenly, a high-pitched whine sent them scrambling. a thick slab of ice surged up over another, sweeping away their stove. as the men hunkered down for a fifth night, the temperature plummeted to minus-39 and the wind roared at 40 kilo-metres an hour. sluggish with dehydration, their hands were blistered and their noses and cheeks were white with frostbite.

day six dawned with the metallic screech of shifting ice sheets. the men scrambled onto their komatiqs as open water gaped be-neath them. one sled after another crashed through the ice, sending James waist-deep into the water. they pulled him to safety, but after a few metres he went in again. When they dragged him out this time, he was barely breathing. ammie crawled on all fours across the undulating ice to com-fort him. “ammie, i want to stay with you,” James said. ammie agreed. James sighed and said softly, “i will sleep now.” He closed his eyes and died.

the four hunters were devastated. they wept as they tied James’ body to their last komatiq. suddenly, the ice again moaned be-neath their feet. they watched in horror as a floe heaved skyward, lifting the komatiq in slow motion until it stood vertically, James’ body hanging in mid-air. the ice sliced the dogs’ leads and they vanished, howling. With a surreal shriek, a hole gaped beneath the komatiq and swallowed it like a coffin buried at sea. then the ice closed in and there was silence.

Ben paused. i blinked and the apparition in front of me vanished slowly. tears rolled unabashedly down Ben’s cheeks. i was back in the tiny bedroom with its chintz bed-spread and lopsided dresser. drenched in sweat, i had never been so eerily transported by a story in my life.

things were desperate now and the hunt-ers began to kill their dogs, tying the pelts around their frozen feet. dazed, Ben looked

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64 up here JANuArY/FeBruArY 2012

to the west and shouted – for the first time in six days the fog had lifted and they could see land. They knew the area – and knew a cabin was nearby. Then the fog rolled in again, like a shroud. With no sleds, food or water, they stumbled through the dark toward shore. Peter supported Ben as he shuffled on dead legs. When at last they realized they were standing on safe, shore-locked ice, the pair col-lapsed. Then Ben ordered Peter to leave him and go for help. Peter nodded and moved on.

The next morning, in the sunshine of a clear day, Peter found the cabin. He was already ripping planks off it to build a fire when Jopie and Ammie arrived. That eve-ning a plane spotted them; soon thereafter, searchers arrived from Hall Beach by snow-mobile. Despite protests, Peter demanded dry clothes so he could help them find Ben.

For 18 hours the elder had lain in a snow-bank drifting in and out of consciousness when he saw the distinctive bobbing yellow light of a skidoo and heard a voice. “Are you alive?” the driver shouted. Ben replied weakly: “Are you really here? Let me shake your hand so I know it’s true!” The man reached inside Ben’s jacket and grasped his hand, shocked by the warmth of his body. “See,” Ben chuckled, “I’m not dead.”

WHen Ben FInISHeD speaking, that final scene lingered in the room. We all sat in si-lence for a very long time – a silence that, for the first time in my career, I didn’t rush to fill. I’d never experienced such intense storytell-ing. My head spun. I realized I’d witnessed an ancient ritual – the passing on of extraor-dinary detail in perfect sequence, a transfer of knowledge vital to Inuit survival in a culture with no written language. It was humbling and profound.

exhausted and in search of fresh air, I sought out my new friend, the nurse. As we strolled through the cold night, she provided more details about the previous year’s tragedy. She described how everyone in town had gath-ered around the health centre as the hunters were transported from the airport. When the police van backed towards the entrance, she said, the crowd parted and a high-pitched wailing began – a gut-wrenching expression of the anguish and fear pent up in town for a week. Tears streamed down every face as they reached out to touch the four men be-fore they were whisked inside.

The medical staff were amazed that they’d survived. Ammie had severe frostbite to his left foot, Peter had frozen several toes and his right heel, and Jopie was practically un-harmed. When the nurse approached Ben,

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ME, LIFE AND DEATH, AND THE ICE

JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2012 UP HERE 65

he made a cutting gesture across his knees, shrugged and smiled. “He knew he was going to lose his legs,” she said.

Before she could escort the men’s wives to see them, an RCMP constable stopped her. “First, James’ father wants to see Ben,” he said. When the two friends met, they let out a mournful wail. They hugged and sobbed. Then James’ father straightened, grasped Ben’s hand fi rmly and was gone.

MY FINAL INTERVIEW was with Ammie. Since he spoke English, I quizzed him about visual details I needed – the colour of the ice, the shape of the land. He explained as best he could, but fi nally stood up. “You’re coming hunting tomorrow so you can see for yourself,” he said. He rummaged through his closet for his wife’s caribou jacket, sealskin pants and boots. “Leave that” – he pointed disdainfully at

my Patagonia parka – “at the hotel.”

The next day as I huddled on the komatiq, the runners hissed peacefully across the snow while Ammie cracked his sealskin whip beside the dogs. Two more hunters’ sleds pulled alongside; on one of them I recognized Peter. Between the shore and the fro-zen sea we bucked over tide-tossed ice. Within an hour Ammie spotted the brown dot of a distant walrus in the water. He fi red. The mas-sive bull threw back

its head, revealing long ivory tusks just before a harpoon landed in the thick fat folds of its neck. It slipped beneath the surface into a bub-bling pool of blood. As it slashed away at the ice with its tusks, the men anchored the harpoon line, attached a winch and hitched the dogs to the rope to haul the one-tonne creature out of the water. I don’t think I breathed throughout the entire process.

Slipping out of their caribou jackets, the men then carved up the beast. The dogs licked their chops and I tried to stay out of everyone’s way. Suddenly, an ear-piercing screech sent me scrambling. An ice sheet a metre thick rose from water and began sliding towards me. Then it stopped. The hunters paused and glanced over, amused. CONTINUED ON PAGE 71»

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Ammie crawled on all fours across the undulating ice to comfort James. “Am-mie, I want to stay with you,” he said. Ammie agreed. James sighed and said softly, “I will sleep now.” He closed his eyes and died.

ME, LIFE AND DEATH, AND THE ICE

ME, LIFE AND DEATH, AND THE ICE CONTINUED FROM PAGE 65

JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2012 Up hERE 71

With the fatty, dark-red meat strapped to the three komatiqs, we headed back to shore. I was marvelling at how these past 10 days had be-come one of my most compelling trips when suddenly the dogs stopped. Ammie cracked his whip, but they wouldn’t budge. Fifty metres ahead, Peter got down on his hands and knees, then shuffled towards us. This can’t be good, I thought. I saw jiggling blue Jell-O under our sled. Annie turned to me and asked, “Can you swim?” I nodded as my skin prickled with terror. He smiled slightly. “It doesn’t matter. The cold water will get you before you make your first stroke. Whatever happens, don’t get off the komatiq.” I thought I was going to throw up.

The dogs whined, lifting nervous paws off the slushy surface. I didn’t dare move a mus-cle. Enough already: I appreciated this visceral insight into the skill and toughness of hunters in a brutal environment, but now I wanted to go home. Ammie urged the dogs to gently turn the sled, and we inched towards firmer ice. It wasn’t until the next day when I ran into Peter that he told me with Inuk frankness: “I was really worried we would go in the water yesterday. It was very close.”

AFTEr 10 dAys in Hall Beach, I was over-whelmed, overstimulated and ready to get home. As I packed in my hotel room, the nurse came in, gave me a hug and pressed a tiny carving into my hand. It was two ivory be-lugas, swimming across a caribou-antler base. “you’ll be back,” she whispered.

Over the next few months I kept in touch with Ammie. He told me he’d had a new baby boy, which he’d named, Qamuq – James Qammaniq’s Inuit name. We talked about his plans to move his family away from Hall Beach, which he did for several years, to raise his kids on the land. Then I found my-self stopping to chat with Inuit gathered in Montreal, or tuning in to the aboriginal TV channel just to hear Inuktitut. A year later I was in Pond Inlet for an article about an rCMP officer with the world’s biggest beat. I found myself paddling a kayak around the same stranded iceberg that Heather had raved about in Baja.

Over and over for the next 20 years I would be drawn north for stories about bush pilots and rangers, nurses, floe-edge safaris, epic High Arctic hikes. I thought each trip would “get the Arctic out of my system.” But gradu-ally, reluctantly, I had to admit the North had weaseled its way into my soul. It won’t seem to leave me alone.

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