Insight: Sailing through the top of the world.
the world. Looking out at the barren, glacier-covered shoreline better suited to muskoxen and polar bears than to five humans without food, dry clothes or shelter, I realized Valentine was right. So I emptied the tool box at my feet and started baling as fast as I could, praying the boat’s finicky fourstroke engine wouldn’t swamp and cut out as we continued to sink.
It was mid-August, and we were on the third leg of a fiveweek trip funded by Canon Europe, an expedition from Greenland to Ellesmere, Devon and Baffin islands in Canada, designed to give scientists and members of the World Wildlife Fund a chance to explore and map out a future for the Arctic, which is warming faster than any other place on Earth.
Judging from everything I had read and experienced in my polar travels, I knew we would see signs of a new Arctic unfolding in ways that could not have been imagined even a decade ago, when yearround ice would have put us in a much more dangerous situation than the one we now found ourselves in.
Grise Fiord, Ellesmere Island
I suspected it would not be an easy trip when I first boarded the Arctic Tern at Grise Fiord, the world’s most northerly Inuit community. It wasn’t so much the six-hour rotations on watch that worried me, nor the prospects of sharing the cooking and cleaning duties. It was the claustrophobic conditions.
The dining area was tiny, with barely room for the seven people on board to sit down. There was no shower or hot water, and the kitchen, which had a two-burner stove and a small oven that heated only to one temperature — 450 F — was just big enough for one person to stand in.
I also knew that rest wouldn’t come easy the moment I saw our sleeping quarters. Mine was seven feet long, three and a half feet wide and just two feet high. With my head on a pillow, only three inches separated my nose from the ceiling.
Getting into the bunk was a bit like spelunking. I gasped for air the first time I rolled in. The lingering smell of diesel that had backed up from the boat’s heater didn’t help, nor did the sounds and sights coming from the other three bunks.
It had been blowing snow the previous three days, and though relatively calm weather had finally arrived there was enough wave action in Jones Sound to make some of my fellow landlubbers queasy. Four feet across from me, French scientist Sophie Chollet was in her bunk, retching violently. In the bunk below, Martin Von Mirbach, the Arctic program director for the World Wildlife Fund in Canada, was snoring as if he was nearing the end of life, thanks perhaps to a steady drip of Dramamine coming from a patch glued to the skin behind his ear.
Glancing over at University of Alberta biologist Vicki Sahanatien, I realized it could have been worse. She was white as a ghost but holding her own, and probably wondering, as I was, how the four of us were going to hold up when the time came to sail into some serious weather.
Still, the beautiful sloop was a size bigger than the Belzebub II, which at the same time was on a much more ambitious expedition, forging a new Bethune I nlet, Devon I s land , Nunavut
We were searching for whales and walrus on our way to shore when we should have been watching for shoals.
Zodiacs, theoretically, are designed not to sink. But after ours hit a sharp rock that sliced a big hole in the bottom, the icy water started filling our inflatable faster than we could bail it out, and our instincts were to get to shore as quickly as possible.
Having spent countless days in a Zodiac studying whales in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Valentine Ribadeau Dumas, the second mate and science officer on this Arctic sailing trip, had another plan. “Keep bailing,” she shouted as she turned our “sinking ship” away from the shoreline and back toward the 47-foot yacht that was now out of sight, anchored in safe waters a kilometre away.
“The Zodiac is no good to us on land if it can’t get us back to the boat. It’ll be a long time before anyone can come in and rescue us out there.”
Devon Island is the second largest uninhabited island in route through the Northwest Passage.
The Arctic Tern is owned by Students On Ice — the wildly successful Canadian-based organization that provides students, educators and scientists from around the world with educational opportunities at the far ends of the Earth. Founder Geoff Green had it named in honour of Fritz Koerner, the legendary Canadian glaciologist who died in 2008 after spending nearly a half-century monitoring the retreat of the Devon Ice Cap. Imiqutailaq (Arctic Tern) is the name the Inuit had given Koerner. A little like him, the seabird spends its entire life in the Arctic and Antarctica, when not migrating back and forth.
Small as our yacht was, I knew we were in good hands the moment I saw skipper Grant Redvers’ resume. After an early career that had him sailing to Antarctica and South Georgia several times on a similar-sized yacht, he was given the job of heading up the 2006-08 Tara Arctic expedition, which sought to replicate, in part, explorer Fridtjof Nansen’s remarkable attempt in 1893-96 to get to the North Pole by harnessing the powerful currents in the Arctic.
Just 35 at the time of the Tara expedition, Redvers was the only member of that small crew to remain on board as scientists and sailing crew rotated in and out over the course of 500 days.
I also knew we were going to have a good time when I met Valentine Ribadeau Dumas and Pascale Otis, the first mate and Redvers’ partner. Pascale has an impressive sailing resume, a solid scientific background and a terrific sense of humour. “I can tell you why penguin’s feet don’t freeze,” she said by way of introducing us to her area of expertise that first night.
Cobourg Island
Cobourg is a rugged, rocky island at the far end of Jones Sound in Baffin Bay. Here, after a day’s sailing from Grise Fiord, we saw none of the ice that Group of Seven artists Lawren Harris and A.Y. Jackson had seen in August 1930, when the captain of their ship aborted an attempt to land on Ellesmere Island 30 kilometres to the north of us.
“Ice all around,” Harris wrote that summer on board the Beothic. “Made a couple of attempts to get through it, but the whole bay is full of heavy floe ice. We circled in and out of ice floes – the most fantastic forms in blue-green and pearl. We are getting kind of anxious about the ice.”
The crew of the Belzebub II, sailing in the other direction, also encountered no ice. The 31-foot Swedish-built boat was successfully forging a new route through the Northwest Passage that could not have been seriously contemplated even 10 years ago, when the presence of heavy ice would have made such a trip unimaginable.
Anchored off the coast of Cobourg, we were hiding from the weather, which we could see in dark clouds sweeping over the cliffs above us like the Norse goddesses portrayed in John Charles Dollman’s famous painting The Ride of the Valkyries. All that was missing was some Wagner music.
The island, covered by rocks and glaciers, was designated a National Wildlife Area in 1995. At last count, 30,000 pairs of black-legged kittiwake, 160,000 pairs of thickbilled murre and 3,000 pairs of northern fulmar were nesting along the cliffsides and on a small islet known as Princess Charlotte Monument. Whether there were still any ivory gulls, known to nest here as well, we couldn’t tell because it was too late in the season. For reasons that are not clearly understood, the iconic Arctic bird has been disappearing from the polar world as fast as the ice.
Cape Sherard , entering the Northwest Passage through Lancaster Sound
More than most conservation organizations, the World Wildlife Fund has a reputation for working with the Inuit and the Dene in charting out a future rather than telling them what to do. The organization is generally not opposed to development, so long as a “conservation first” approach is taken seriously.
WWF recently hired Vicki Sahanatien to be their liaison in Nunavut. Before she became a member of polar bear scientist Andrew Derocher’s lab at the University of Alberta several years ago, she spent more than a decade with Parks Canada working in several Arctic national parks. To her, the Inuit and Inuvialuit are friends and colleagues rather than clients or collaborators.
Under Derocher’s direction, Sahanatien has been working with the Inuit to better understand and model how the annual evolution and dynamics of sea ice habitat influences polar bear movements and habitat selection in Foxe Basin.
Martin Von Mirbach, the man who recruited Sahanatien, pointed out that WWF was on this trip to listen, a good strategy considering what federal Health Minister Leona Aglukkaq said last spring when a United Nations official toured the North and raised concerns about the region’s food security.
“It’s about fighting environmentalists that try and put a stop to our way of life, and hunting to provide for our families,” Aglukkaq, recently appointed to be the future chair of the Arctic Council, said at the time.
It struck me as somewhat audacious that southerners could come up North and propose charting out a future for the Arctic when the Inuit who live here are struggling with the changes taking place and the high costs of food. It is not unusual for people in Resolute or Grise Fiord to pay $15 for a head of cabbage, $4 for a single tomato and more than $20 for a bag of apples.
There was so little fresh food in Grise Fiord that Redvers and his crew came away with nothing but a head of iceberg lettuce and a few cartons of condensed milk to augment their supply of canned and freeze-dried food.
Times were so tough that Inuit hunters in Greenland were killing their dogs because the rapidly melting ice made it difficult to hunt seals and whales. Yet our expedition was greeted politely most everywhere it went. The one exception occurred in a tiny village near Qaanaaq, where a Greenlandic woman resolutely objected to the filming of a narwhal hunt. She insisted that nothing good ever came from southerners coming to the North.
Dundas Inlet
I was in a deep sleep following my 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. watch when the anchor was lowered in Dundas Harbour off the coast of Devon Island. It was the first time in three days I wasn’t getting tossed around in bed or struggling to put on my clothes in the dark without banging my head on the wall, or falling down.
There was a fresh skiff of snow on the mountains in the distance and the glacier spilling out into the harbour was a milky white. It was dead calm and the only sounds were the grumpy grunts of walruses basking in the sun. It was enchanting.
The Inuit woman in Greenland was right, in a way.
When the Canadian government unceremoniously relocated some of the Inuit from northern Quebec to the High Arctic in the 1950s, this might have been the place for them to start a new life. Instead, half of them ended up on the flat, stark, gravelly shores of Resolute, far from the walruses and narwhal. The rest ended up on Ellesmere, where they nearly starved to death in the first few years.
Until the 1950s, the Inuit were neither wards of the federal government nor protected by the Indian Act. They had no vote, no access to education or health care. The RCMP was given the mandate to take care of them.
The main goal of the relocation and the RCMP presence at remote outposts such as Dundas Harbour was to assert sovereignty in a world the Canadian government had virtually ignored until American whalers wiped out most of the big marine mammals and the Norwegians claimed part of the High Arctic in 1930.
Standing by the graves of the two RCMP constables who died serving at Dundas Harbour in 1926 and 1927, it was hard not to be sympathetic to their plight. Overwhelmed by the experience, Const. Victor Maisonneuve took his own life. A year later, Const. William Stephens accidentally shot himself and died while returning from a walrus hunt.
Lancaster Sound, crossing the Northwest Passage .
On August 10, 2010, an enormous chunk of ice broke off from the Petermann Glacier in northwest Greenland, giving birth to the largest iceberg in the northern hemisphere. Two years later, the only significant ice we encountered on this trip was a chunk that had fractured and drifted into Lancaster Sound.
Climatologists have been saying we can expect more of this in the future. In July, both shipping and offshore energy companies took notice when another Manhattansized chunk of ice broke off the same glacier in Greenland and began drifting south into shipping lanes and toward offshore drilling platforms.
Early on a Friday, we rode the Zodiac into the tiny hamlet of Arctic Bay to find fuel and water, food and a place to deposit our garbage. Nothing much was happening in the community of 800 people, except for kids going to school.
In 2007, the hamlet passed a bylaw that effectively banned tourists from visiting. The bylaw was in response to a National Geographic article that suggested the Inuit were wasteful in the way they hunted narwhal.
But if the people here were wary of outsiders, they weren’t showing it. They even brought us fish.
“A lot has happened since the community closed its doors to tourists,” said Clare Kines, a former RCMP constable who became economic development officer when he married a local woman and retired from the force eight years ago.
The native of Roblin, Man., was proudly wearing a sweatshirt with the logo of the Winnipeg Jets glued onto that of the city’s Blue Bombers. “People are still sensitive about the narwhal hunt, but this is a very friendly place.”
Walking around town, talking to people who stopped me in the street to find out who I was and what I was doing here, it was clear everyone was still excited by the successful bowhead whale hunt that had ended 10 days earlier. It was a first for a community known more for narwhal hunting than for harvesting the much bigger bowheads.
According to Jack Willie, manager of the hunters and trappers organization in Arctic Bay, the chase was quick, the kill was clean, and the nine-metre whale was cut up in just a day and a half.
At the time, Willie was measuring a couple of narwhal tusks that Inuit hunter Teman Avingaq had brought in. A little over six feet long, specimens such as these can bring in more than $1,500 each, a lot of money in a community where there have been few full-time jobs since the zinc mine at Nanisivik nearby shut down for good in 2002.
The community had only harvested half its quota of 130 narwhal by the time we arrived. Normally, they get most of their whales off the floe edge that forms in spring.
“This year that floe edge didn’t materialize,” Kines said. “No one doubts that climate change is responsible. You’d be crazy to that it wasn’t happening. There are signs of everyone. Orcas are narwhal, and just a few ago people here were in Pacific salmon instead Arctic char. Imagine Climate change is a sensitive issue, though. The Inuit like being told to stop polar bears and whales it’s southerners burning
fuels that are behind problem.”
Nanisivik , Nunavut
One might have thought Inuit at Arctic Bay would glad to see the port at
refurbished, as a construction crew was doing when landed here and boarded Terry Fox icebreaker. many of them worry an increase in shipping scare the whales away. getting harder and harder find them now that the melting,” said Avingaq, moved to Arctic Bay years ago. “We don’t anything to make it In December 2010, the
government laid position on boundaries new national maritime
area in Lancaster Sound. In Tay Bay, which within the perimeters proposal, it’s easy to both the Inuit and conservationists are excited. one of the most beautiful productive ecosystems Arctic, a haven for narwhal, beluga, bowhead walrus, polar bear, bearded and harp seals, an important nesting hundreds of thousands
birds. If and when the conservation area is established, prohibit oil and gas development and preserve Inuit a way of life they struggled to hang on
Pond Inlet
Some time around a pod of narwhal swam us in Eclipse Sound. Vicki
who was on said there were too count.
The relentless east wind calmed by then and fog was finally lifting,
a glimpse of unfolding future. Two ships were heading toward Mary River, European-based steel Arcelor Mittal proposes
18 million tonnes ore annually over the years.
The $4-billion mine have an enormous on the region. It promises create more than 5,000 and provide nearly $ in tax revenue and royalties to the territory over
be crazy to suggest wasn’t happening. are signs of change everyone. Orcas are killing narwhal, and just a few days
people here were pulling Pacific salmon instead of
char. Imagine that? Climate change is a sensitive
though. The Inuit don’t being told to stop hunting
bears and whales when southerners burning fossil fuels that are behind the problem.”
sivik, Nunavut
might have thought the Arctic Bay would be see the port at Nanisivik refurbished, as a construction crew was doing when we here and boarded the Fox icebreaker. But of them worry that increase in shipping will the whales away. “It’s
harder and harder to them now that the ice is melting,” said Avingaq, who to Arctic Bay several ago. “We don’t need anything to make it harder.
December 2010, the Canadian government laid out its position on boundaries for a
national maritime conservation area in Lancaster In Tay Bay, which lies the perimeters of that proposal, it’s easy to see why
the Inuit and conservationists are excited. This is
the most beautiful and productive ecosystems in the
a haven for narwhal, beluga, bowhead whales, walrus, polar bear, ringed, bearded and harp seals, and
important nesting area for hundreds of thousands of migratory birds.
and when the conservation area is established, it will prohibit oil and gas development and preserve for the
way of life they have struggled to hang on to.
Pond Inlet
time around 3 a.m., of narwhal swam past Eclipse Sound. Vicki Sahanatien, who was on watch,
there were too many to relentless east wind had
by then and the cold was finally lifting, unveiling a glimpse of another unfolding future. Two cargo
were heading west toward Mary River, where European-based steel giant
Mittal proposes to extract million tonnes of iron
annually over the next 21 $4-billion mine will an enormous impact region. It promises to more than 5,000 jobs provide nearly $5-billion revenue and royalties territory over the life of the mine.
But it would also have a profound environmental impact. The mine development, which includes a 150-kilometre railroad and a port, will lop off the top of a mountain. It will likely disrupt caribou and whale migrations and potentially affect seals, polar bears and other animals.
Touring through Pond Inlet and talking to people later that day, I began to understand why the Inuit might be overwhelmed by all that is happening. A Canadian warship and a U.S. Coast Guard vessel were both anchored nearby. Crew members were walking the streets, shaking hands and suggesting in their own way that the Inuit should get used to the idea that the Arctic is beginning to be an important geopolitical region.
Leaders here had just convinced the Department of Fisheries and Oceans to lift a ban on the international trade of narwhal tusks.
The issue is far from resolved. There is concern that many of the 170 countries that signed on to the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species (CITES) will propose a worldwide trade ban on narwhal at the next meeting in Thailand in 2013.
There are three pods of orcas in the area killing narwhal. A decade ago, when there was so much ice, orcas sightings were rare.
“And it’s been raining all summer long,” said one man who shrugged when I asked how he felt about the changes. “Look at all of this green grass we have here in Pond Inlet. It’s 10 degrees today and sunny. Tomorrow is the first day of September. It should be snowing at this time of year.
“You talk about change. We see it every day.”