The Great Northern Canada Writing Contest

Here's a piece I submitted to a Northern Canada writing contest. It didn't place, except for in my heart....and hopefully yours, too.

In keeping with the tradition of this blog, the names of people have been changed.


Listening to the North
What Today’s Stories Say about Conflict, Change, and Culture—and what it Means to our Youth


Justin Cardinal shuffles through the halls of Inuvik’s Sir Alexander Mackenzie School—his face tucked in the hood of a Volcom sweatshirt, his ears plugged with the buds of an mp3 player. His feet, like many youth in this northern town, are adorned with mukluks, traditional animal-skin boots that have been handcrafted by generations of aboriginal Canadians. Justin’s accessories may not clash in the fashion sense of pre-teens across the Territories, but they do represent a collision of cultures that is shaping the North of tomorrow.

This is a story about my year as a volunteer teacher in the Arctic and the stories shared with me by northerners—the same stories I’ve overheard told to students like Justin. From the classroom to the campfire, I’ve watched youth confront two powerful, yet seemingly conflicting messages. Remember your roots. Branch out with new technologies. What kids-these-days patch together from the internet, their iPods, their elders, and their ever-diversifying peers is being stitched into the fabric of their identities like beads on their footwear.[i]

How do they make sense of the noise? By analyzing three stories youth hear, we begin to learn about their task of braiding worlds of the past with the present.[ii] By listening to the North, northerners can take crucial steps to preserving culture in the face of modern challenges.

The land is our home. We can develop it, but we must also protect it..

Imperial Oil was in town this winter proposing plans to survey the Beaufort Sea for oil reserves. The company conducted meetings across the Inuvialuit Settlement Region to consult with natives about best management practices. Their study area intersected traditional whale harvesting grounds and hunters had expressed concerns over potential impacts left by research vessels. I prepared myself for a heated discussion that might take the chill out of the November air.

Things never got too hot to handle. Instead, opinions from the southern enterprise harmonized with those from the local Hunters and Trappers Committee. Biologists used graphs and charts to prove their point. Inuvik residents spoke from personal experiences and the wisdom of their ancestors. One lesson resonated through these different stories: take only what is needed from nature and no more—it is delicate, yet resilient, and must be treated with care.[iii] As I wandered home under the Aurora, I wondered how northern and southern perspectives had traveled to this common ground.

Perhaps the dialogue I heard in Ingamo Hall is a legacy of Thomas Berger and his landmark decision against the Mackenzie Pipeline in the 1970s.[iv] Perhaps visitors to today’s North bring with them respect for what is native to this land—the people, their traditions, and the wilderness. Wherever the origins may lie, agreements among aboriginal and non-aboriginal environmental groups are a symbol of the new North. Kids see the signs of these times—from classroom presentations about careers in environmental monitoring to Petroleum Show banners boasting sponsorships from the Inuvik Youth Centre and the Aboriginal Pipeline Group.

There is a cautious tone underlying today’s stories of resource development. It lingered in Ingamo Hall and it surfaced again on trips to Split Pingo, to Rock River for a caribou hunt, and to the Mackenzie Delta for a trapping program. While on-the-land with groups of 6th graders, I listened as park officials and elders warned of the consequences of mismanaging resources and abusing nature. “This land may be an economic opportunity now,” a local man advised, “but it is always our home. We can’t take from it forever. We have to protect our home.”

It seems as new paths for development open in the North, young northerners are being reminded to tread lightly.

The only constant is change.

“Mr. O’Donnell! You’re back!” This was the battle-cry as an army of 5th graders overtook a middle-aged man—who taught these students a few years ago, before he left town. He’s returned, but only for a visit. Teacher turnover in Inuvik is as common as flies in the summer and can be just as annoying. I’ve heard parents and peers echo concerns about the troubles of northern youth, linking many of these troubles with watching teachers come and go, year after year.

While worries about adolescent development hang like a cloud over the North, there is an important silver lining to point out. Students here understand that transience is a permanent feature of their landscape—a lesson that may have increasing value as their world endures changes their elders never experienced. With forces like global warming and international tourism touching down in the Territories, knowing how to learn—without getting attached to expert knowledge—will be essential to thriving, adaptive communities.

Culture is preserved and produced on a daily basis.

Northern heritage lives in Sir Alexander Mackenzie School. It’s in the beading projects displayed in Mrs. Ray’s Gwich’in language room. It’s in the sounds of drums beaten by young drummers and dancers rehearsing for the Christmas concert. It’s in the smell of cooked loche wafting through the first floor corridor. It’s inside the cover of a book stamped with Grollier Hall—a living memory of this building’s residential school days.

Like a journey that begins with a single step, maintaining culture over time depends on daily practice. If my observations in the past year as a volunteer in the North are any indication for its future, the task of preservation is in good hands. I’ve seen youth build their own jiggling sticks, compete in finger pulls, and twist their own rabbit snares—a hands-on education they have come to cherish and celebrate.

Culture is created at the same pace it is preserved, and as students carry on age-old customs, they also produce new ones. I marvel at how these leaders, barely more than a decade old, balance the weights of tradition and modernity, of conservation and development, and of consistency and unpredictability. Stories of mukluks and iPods will be their legacies—their lessons in how to change and yet stay what you are.

[i] For an example of the continuing oral tradition in the Northwest Territories, see Above and Beyond’s feature on The Land is Our Storybook series (March/April 2008 edition). For an enlightening history of Yukon oral traditions, see Julie Cruikshank, Do Glaciers Listen? Local Knowledge, Colonial Encounters, and Social Imagination, (UBC Press: Toronto, 2005).
[ii] Environmental historian William Cronon has written about the importance of narrative—or stories—in shaping societal values with respect to nature, culture, and history. See William Cronon, “A Place for Stories: Nature, History, and Narrative,” The Journal of American History, Vol. 78, No. 4 (Mar., 1992), pp. 1347-1376
[iii] For more on how scientific narratives can shape perceptions of northern environments, see Stephen Bocking, “Science and Spaces in a Northern Environment,” Environmental History, 12 (October 2007): 867-94.
[iv]There are many resources for learning more about the history of the Mackenzie Pipeline and Thomas Berger’s role in its development. A good introduction can be found in: Carolyn Swayze, Hard Choices: A Life of Tom Berger, (Douglas and McIntyre: Vancouver, 1987).

South of Sixty

Reluctantly, we left the north. Boarding the plane in Whitehorse, Yukon, we whispered a goodbye to the region we've come to love. We know we will be back. But what will happen to the North while are gone?

We wish could press a magic pause button to keep the people and the land the way they are now, the way we remember them. We've learned that Inuvik--among other places--can be a transient town. Researchers, visitors, medical professionals, students, volunteers...they all come and go. The people we've befriended may or may not be around when we find our way back to the Arctic. That must be life, eh?

In typical Northern fashion, we were pleasantly amazed during a recent trip to a new city and territory: Whitehorse, the capital of the Yukon. Whitehorse is gorgeous. Mountains, lakes, more mountains, more lakes, fresh air. Whitehorse is just big enough to be comfortable and cultured, but small and remote enough to have a strong interface with wilderness. You can stay "downtown" but still have trailheads in your backyard. We ate breakfast with fresh reindeer sausage and ripe tomatoes and watched a fox run past the fence.

We both experienced a little culture shock in Whitehorse. One of the things to get used to was not recognizing everyone we knew and, conversely, knowing the people we didnt recognize were not from Whitehorse. Inuvik grew on us. We both felt like we should know the people passing us on the streets of Whitehorse, and spent a few minutes deciding who the new strangers reminded us of--that guy looks like a 5th grader we know, this girl is our Inuvik neighbor in 30 years, and so on. It was our slow transition from insider to outsider, from known to anonymous, from neighbor to stranger, from the North to the South.

And now, Vancouver. A bustling city, filled with culture and things to do, but also with lots of people we don't know. It's ok, they've got great sushi, beautiful mountains, wonderful wireless!, and tons of trails for exploring--though they are more than a bus ride away.

Goodbye North, thanks for everything.

See you soon-
A/A

The Midnight Sun. We are kind of bummed that we will miss a monumental event in Inuvik's summer schedule. Each year on June 21st, the town organizes a Midnight Sun Fun Run, where runners compete in various distance races under the Arctic sun...in the middle of the night. The half marathon starts at 10pm, the 5 and 10k's kick off when the clock strikes 12. Though we'll be gone when Inuvik celebrates the solstice-with-the-mostes, we are trying our best to soak up the rays at all hours of the day, before we leave.

It's not yet the longest day of the year, but you wouldn't know that living in Inuvik this past month. We haven't seen darkness since May 5th. And the darkness we did see wasn't in Inuvik--it was in Yellowknife, a town 800 miles south of us. It has been near constant brightness and lightness up here for May and June, and it has definitely been an extreme experience.

We mentioned our mission to tinfoil up the windows--that has helped create a faux-night time feeling while preparing for bed. But, what the body makes up in artificial darkness it really lacks in tiredness. We are finding that we don't get that "evening cue" that twilight gives the mind--that signal to start getting a little sleepy, to start wanting to curl up with a pillow and get some rest. When you finish brushing your teeth before bed and leave the bathroom to see a beautiful sunny day, its not hard to be tricked into starting the next morning late at night.

Time really doesn't exist anymore. Last Saturday night (what does "night?" refer to now?) we went canoeing on a lake outside of town. We headed out at 7pm, just after dinner, and had dipped our paddles in the ice water by 8. We floated down to a local park, did some hiking, and were back on our return cruise around 10pm. There was no way to tell the difference between afternoon and evening. The sun barely moved, the shadows and shades of the trees were unchanged, no one felt like calling it a night. It would have been really easy to stay up until 4am paddling until we were exhausted. If that would have happened, we would have slept in until 2pm, without hesitation. After all, all of these times look exactly the same as one another.

A lot of people mentioned to us that the "light" time is more difficult to handle than the "dark" time of year. It could be a grass-is-greener type thing, but I think I agree. We took many more precautions to handle the darkness--simulated light, increased exercise, vitamins, etc. We had some complaints about the way it made us feel (It is really hard to get a jump on the day when the sun is not there to greet you in the morning...for 30 straight mornings). Looking back though, the dark was a cinch compared to the light.

The light has taken more tolls on us beyond the confusion over what time it actually is, and the fact that there's no time-to-get-sleepy-signal. We have found it is even harder to wake up with the 24 hour sun than the 24-hour-none. Part of this difficulty lies in the one precaution we did make for the lightness--our tinfoil. We had to cover every square millimeter of our windows, because even a tiny section of bare window will allow enough light in to flood a room. This means that when we rise in the morning, there is absolutely no light to wake up with--even less than there was in winter with the moon, stars, and street lamps outside. It's an ironic battle to fight with light, and we have found that nature always wins.

Of course, there are so many bonuses to having the sun up all day. Getting outside is a major plus. Watching spring-greening unfold in the course of a day is another. You can literally watch the willow branches sprout buds and unfold leaves in front of you. And last, but certainly not least, is the benefit of laying out for some sun after dessert. It's really easy to get a tan really fast during the summer here in Inuvik--for some people.

Pale and proud-
A

Tan-tastic-
A

What Would Barry Lopez Do?

This isn't a question most people ask themselves. Unless of course, you 1) are Barry Lopez himself or 2) fell under Lopez's spell by reading one of his books.


Before embarking on our Arctic journey, both of us read the novel Arctic Dreams, authored by Barry Lopez. We hoped this book would help us prepare for life inside the circle, by introducing us to the ecology, culture, and history of the Canadian Arctic. What I didn't expect, though, was how the book would force me to confront my own expectations and preconceived notions of what it means to be an Arctic traveler.

One of Lopez's major claims in Arctic Dreams is that people traveling North bring with them certain desires that color the experiences they have in the Arctic. These "dreams"--to find the Northwest Passage, to discover gold, to harvest bowhead whales, to build an oil pipeline--blind the dreamers to the reality that exists around them. The people of Arctic, along with their land and culture, fall to the background of explorer's journals, captain's logs, and scientific papers. Drunk from the idea of their journey, they usually end up misrepresenting, underreporting, or otherwise contorting what lies at their destination.

So we came to Inuvik with a feeling of uneasy gratitude. We were thankful for the opportunity to visit this place, but weary of writing about it--how would our experiences, thoughts, and desires be translated and transformed by our readers? And how would our journeys then color those taken by others? These questions put us in a struggle with ourselves--a difficult, but very useful one.

At the end of the day, it came down to realizing our own biases. There are stories we want to tell, and we are going to tell them differently from say, a local Gwich'in teenager or a woman in her 40's changing careers by moving to Inuvik. We wanted to talk about life in the Arctic from the American point-of-view, from the traveler's perspective, from the standpoint of volunteers trying to get the most out of their 10 month stay. We can't erase our bias. We can only point it out and come to terms with it. There's a saying--biases are like reality TV shows: nowadays, everyone's got one.

On the other side of that coin, we have no idea what you all take from our stories. We may reflect on our visit to Tuk with some golden lessons in mind. Then you go and read it and miss the whole point. Wait, that's not the point--you're not "supposed" to be learning something that we're supposed to be teaching. We put something out there and let it go. The act of writing fulfills our need to appreciate what we are doing. The act of reading has millions of motivations behind it--someone Googling the word "utilidor" pops up on this blog at the same time that my Dad checks in on my weekend camping trip.

I once heard author Sherman Alexie talk about this same phenomenon--readers interpreting his novels in ways he didn't expect. A woman in the crowd asked him if he was worried about youth reading his work and taking it the wrong way, with possible negative consequences on their behavior, self-image, and relationships. He said he didn't care what they did. He was being blunt on purpose--taking a swing at the idea of his responsibility for other's actions. But he also pointed out that he doesn't write something to get a certain response from his audience.

This blog isn't just an instrument by which we toot our own horns. We wanted to share this year with our friends and family and whoever else may land on ArcticFrontiers. We don't know what you'll do with the stories shared here--whether you'll forget them, tell them to a friend, or remember them when you start your own adventure north. We only hope that this blog will inspire you to ask yourself questions, perhaps the one we had in mind when we started putting pen to paper:

What would Barry Lopez do?

A/A

saison de boue

translation: mud season. spring break-up is here in Inuvik, and with it comes a mixed bag of consequences. we love: more sun, warmer temperatures, and hatching plans to play outside. we love to hate: mud, mud boots, muddy clothes, and muddy roads.

with the sun staying above the horizon for more than 20 hours each day, the snow just couldn't hold on any longer. piles of the white stuff began melting about a week and a half ago. at first, the run-off would make little contained puddles, which would freeze overnight with the little darkness (and coolness) that remained. as the days grew even longer and twilight gave way to more sunlight, the snow and ice had no chance of reconstituting. snowy sidewalks became urban lakes. streets flooded into oceans. goodbye late winter and hello mud season.



there is some important terminology we learned during the melting. everyone is familiar with the feeling of walking near mud--that nervousness that overwhelms a walker as she attempts to find dry-dirt oases in mud flats, or the fearless faith one gives to thin sheets of ice--hoping they will stay strong long enough for the foot to push off to the next safety zone. these feelings have become synonymous with one word here in Inuvik: soakers.

Soakers are the unfortunate result of mud season, and the hubris one might have in trying to tempt a muddy fate. Perhaps quite obviously, soakers involve soaked feet and socks, after one's foot has fallen through an ice patch, become submerged in a chilly bath, or has become caked in spring mud. While walking one must be on the lookout for soakers, must avoid soakers, and most importantly, announce to others once he/she has been soaked.

To those who have stored enough innocence not to pay mind to soakers (kids), a wet foot is no more than the byproduct of a good time. We've seen kids around town seeking out potential soakers--playing in puddles, jumping streams as they form into mighty rivers, and playing hydro-engineers with rocks, run-off, and an afternoon of free time. These youngsters don't seem to mind the soakers as much as the adults, and it's been fun to watch them play--as we keep a safe, and dry, distance.


mud season is all about transitions. from ice to water, from dry to wet, from cool to warm, from spring to summer, from ski-dooing to boating, from ice roads to dirt roads. as you can imagine, there's a lot of baggage with all of these changes. front yards are now staging areas for prepping boats for another summer season, for making repairs to winter-tested snowmobiles, and for packing away a season's worth of tools and toys for next year. its kind of like putting away christmas decorations in february. when it comes time to take down those ornaments, a new celebration is already knocking on the door.

someone's front yard was full of antlers and this muskox skull

for the adventurous souls in Inuvik, the mud season represents an escape from the dark and cold. for them, its time to dust off the tents and camping gear and get out of town. if you're lucky, you'll be the first to the campsites on a sunny day with temperatures around 8 C--which feels downright warm after a long winter. if you're luckier, the campsite will be dry and quiet, and plenty of wildlife (grouse, rabbits, ducks) will be around for viewing. if you're unlucky, there's a hungry bear fresh from hibernation looking for a meal.

we've felt the itch to get outside and do some camping--and the twinge of fear related to spotting a bear too close for comfort. inuvik has some incredible day-use parks and camping areas just on the edge of town. unfortunately, these edges can be stomping grounds for bears, who make their way from the town dump to campsites looking for food. we had initial concerns with testing the waters early in the season. but, some veteran outdoorsmen and women calmed us down--strength in numbers and bear-spray are good things to have handy when camping.

so, we joined some friends for a few camping excursions over the last few days. it is amazing how far a short run, bike ride, or drive will take you from inuvik. this weekend we spent an afternoon biking to Jak Park, where we made a quick fire and had a bar-b-que. the next day, we drove down the dempster a bit and camped overnight at Gwich'in campground. lots of other locals had the same idea--get out of town and enjoy the scenery on the land, however muddy it may be.



happy queen victoria day-
a/a

Super Soccer

Last weekend, we took a trip with two dozen kids down to Yellowknife, NWT [about 2 hours south of Inuvik by plane], to attend and participate in the Super Soccer tournament. The event brings in over 100 teams of soccer players from the Northwest Territories and Nunavut. Hotels around the city are booked months in advance, and the stores and restaurants are packed full from Friday afternoon until Sunday. Super Soccer is one of those yearly spectacles that leave the participants from around the Arctic talking about their experiences at the competition right up until the next year’s super soccer is about to kick-off.

There are many age divisions at the tournament, and we were there with our 12 and under boys’ team from S.A.M.S. We had been working with the guys, 2-3 practices per week, during the past month, preparing them for Super Soccer. It was Andrew’s first time coaching one of his all time favorite childhood sports, and I was there more as the assistant coach and organizer since I’ve been to Super Soccer before and knew how crazy it would be when we arrived. But, despite all our planning for the trip, it both surprised and exceeded our expectations, as did our players.

We were responsible, from Friday noon until Monday afternoon, for ten 5^th and 6^th grade boys, many of whom had never traveled without their parents before and others who had never been part of a traveling sports team. We had a picky eater, who refused breakfast even though we were slated to play an hour later, a player with a serious allergy that we had to be mindful of at meal times, and another handful of totally unique and amazing players. For some of the athletes, it was their first time in Yellowknife. So, the trip was only partially about soccer, and partially about being in Yellowknife, a city complete with a bowling alley and a shopping mall.

The weather was beautiful during our excursion, about 55 Fahrenheit. It was like summer to us as those were the highest temperatures we’ve seen in 2008 so far. The sunny, warmer weather made the drive around town fun as the guys would roll down their windows and take in the sights and sounds of the surrounding area. We let them pick the music, even though it meant listening to Metallica over and over again during each ride I took in the rented Suburban. Since the trip was all about the kids, why not let them pick the soundtrack?

Between the soccer games, the music, the weather, the shopping, the swimming, the bowling, and the fun group activities in our hotel rooms in the evenings, I think our players had a wonderful trip. We have just finished putting together a slide show with pictures from our weekend, which we’ll show to the whole school during an assembly tomorrow. We’d like to continue building interest in the soccer program and what better way than to show the other kids what kind of experience they’ll be able to have if they join soccer and make the traveling team.

So, those are the strides we’ve taken in the names of our athletes- but the most amazing part of the Super Soccer trip, in my eyes, was learning how amazing coaching is! Before the trip, both Andrew and I had discussed how much fun it was to teach soccer skills to excited learners, and to spend time with our students outside of the classroom. But, it was during the trip that I realized we were teaching them much more than soccer, even if they didn’t realize it. The trip was really about leadership [representing Inuvik at a northern Canada competition], responsibility [for many things but especially their finances while on the trip: purchasing meals, gifts, and other items], teamwork, sportsmanship, athleticism, and making healthy choices [there was a strict bedtime for our players, along with a no soda pop policy for the trip]. We never would have been able to practice these important skills in the classroom; it took the trip to give us the opportunity to both model these behaviors as well as provide support to the athletes, boys learning these skills.

As we returned to Inuvik, we were totally thrilled that our players had made it to the play-offs, but even more excited that they had hustled and played the best soccer that we have seen out of them yet! Someone must have tipped off the local paper, The Inuvik Drum, about our excitement because the lead reporter came to speak with us about the Super Soccer adventure [you’ll likely see the article framed somewhere, at some point].

Littler Gnome Facts

For clothing, gnomes wear softened birch-bark stitched together with doe hair for their coats and shoes. They use leather from the skins of mice and squirrels who have died to make pants and belts.

Stray pieces of sheep's wool, found blowing in the fields or caught on barbed-wire fences, are used for making heavy blankets and sweaters.