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| Looking out into the forbidden fjords. |
Unreal. I glance down at my watch; it’s 12:15 A.M. Sunlight makes a midnight cameo, illuminating some of the least explored terrain on earth in a dreamy shade of frozen pastels. From my perch 120 feet off the water atop the bridge of the Russian icebreaker Kapitan Khlebnikov, my senses are energized with surreal stimulation. My ears hear the steady rumble of mighty engines and the metallic scraping of the sharp bow as it cuts through the Arctic ice. I gaze out upon the dramatic frozen peaks of Greenland, rising thousands of feet from inky black waters, guarding fjords whose last visible twists terminate in glowing clouds and sprawling glaciers. The air is cold and feels good on my skin and is scented with cool, salty brine. The desolation is so indescribably beautiful, so utterly pure, I feel both privileged and insignificant in the scale of it all.
The ship I’m riding on is a world-class diesel-powered ice breaker manufactured in Finland circa 1980, designed to break passages in the ice for Russian commercial vessels passing through Arctic waters. A shining hammer and sickle on the bow recalls the ship’s Communist heritage. The Khlebnikov is only in operation for five months a year as an ice breaker; an enterprising union between the Russian fleet and Celebrity Cruise’s Quark Xpedition branch has given the ship a second life as a tour guide into the extreme. Modified to carry about 90 civilian passengers, the vessel is surprisingly comfortable, yet every bit a workhorse. If you’re going to see the Arctic, you might as well do it right.
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| Russian sailor and pal in Qaanaaq. Photo by Jackie MacPherson. |
My fellow passengers are almost as fascinating as the landscape. The sailors are hardworking Russians. I notice their expressions and their eyes: shy, stoic, thoughtful, and curious. The few who speak English are jovial and friendly. There is a small wait staff for meals, young women from Russia and Estonia. Our guide staff includes a head guide from Colorado, a co-leader from South Africa, a young doctor from Australia, and historians from Ireland. A film crew from Ireland is also aboard to get footage for a piece on the Northwest Passage, along with their personal historian from England. The clientele on board is mostly from the U.S.—Miami, Aspen, San Diego, Boston, and myself, a product of Waterbury, Connecticut. All the Canadians I meet on board are friendly, hearty people with great senses of humor and adventure; I warm up to them immediately. Others from Norway, Columbia, and Spain round out our international roster.
Before ever setting foot on the ship, I am buzzing with excitement. I’ve read up on the history of the high Arctic. As an American, I feel cheated in my studies—we learned very little about the amazing, rich history of Arctic exploration. Canadians, British, and Norwegians all know the stories of the search for the fabled Northwest Passage and the colorful characters involved in the search. For Britain, the heroes of another era are exemplified by Sir John Franklin, the embodiment of pluck and ineptitude all wrapped into one charming, bumbling personality. Other notables made their names here, including the Norwegian Roald Amundson (who finally cleared the Northwest Passage in 1906). Hundreds of years of exploration history lay preserved in the high Canadian Arctic, a chain of islands easy to overlook, but each alive with unique characteristics and histories.
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| The Kapitan Khlebnikov in action. |
Flying out of Ottawa, I watch the world below me fade into boreal forests and snowy prairies. Our plane, a specially modified 767 jet, stops in the small town of Iqaluit on Baffin Island to refuel. My feet feel an urgency to stand on this new ground but we are not allowed to exit the plane until reaching our final destination. We cruise towards the small town of Nanisivik, a barely-there communinity nestled in Arctic Bay on the northwest side of Baffin Island. Our jet makes a smooth landing on a frozen dirt runway. There are no plants or flora, just rock, ice and water. The still topography belies the fact a hard wind is waiting to greet us as we exit toward the “terminal," a small fortified shack. Old busses truck us into town where our ship lies in wait in the still harbor. Children run up to greet us. We are told not to give them candy or other sweets because dentistry is a major issue in these communities. I get into conversations with them about baseball (their favorite team, bar none, is the Toronto Blue Jays) and challenge them to rock-skipping contests as we wait for the Zodiac rafts to shuttle us to the Khlebnikov.
Once on board, I find my cabin to be surprisingly cozy, complete with my own shower and bathroom. A small porthole window lets me look out into the Arctic. The ship is replete with six tough Zodiac rafts and two specially equipped helicopters—once we reach the thickest Arctic ice, we’ll need to use the helicopters to visit islands.
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| Farthest north, from the bridge of the Kapitan Khlebnikov. |
Every day is a story in itself with new discoveries and amazing historical lessons. We begin at roughly 78 degrees north, where the water is open, dark, and flat. Our first destination is Devon Island, the largest island on Earth free of a human population. The finds there are just an appetizer for what lies ahead: Inuit ruins, deserted research facilities, bowhead whale skulls, and an overwhelming sense of amazement that people actually spent their days in such a harsh environment.
One of my biggest incentives to travel here is to see the durable creatures that call this environment home. I am not disappointed. The first animals we see are a herd of remarkable Musk-Ox, the large, shaggy inhabitants of the lower islands that resemble a buffalo outfitted for winter. In person they are very impressive and I feel their blue-collar name does not do them justice. Even the birds of the Arctic carry certain majesty, as if they were ordained by some Nordic God to understand the mystery of the hinterlands.
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| The lonley graves on Beechey Island. |
Days go by and we push farther north. The ice grows thicker and the historical presence looms larger. We stop at Beechey Island to observe the graves of three of Sir John Franklin’s men. A book on board the ship shows pictures from an autopsy carried out a few years earlier on these men. There was a theory that they had perished from improperly welded lead food cans, so a group of researchers dug up the men and tested their remains. The images are startling. The men are so well preserved, you can still see the blue of their eyes, the hair on their heads, and the texture of their skin. Odd to think these men are more intact a hundred years later than their surviving fellows, whose corpses have mostly dissolved into English soil.
Other islands offer historical lessons such as the Viking mail found on Skraeling Island, the ill-fated expedition of Greeley, and the world’s most remote post office (a simple tower where bottles with messages were left for future voyagers). As we crash into the highest latitudes, one of my truest wishes is granted: I get to see a family of polar bears in the wild. A mother and two cubs have just pulled a seal from an ice-hole and lustfully gnaw on the fat off the bones of the unfortunate pinniped. It is here, in the seemingly infinite emptiness one of the many defiant and robust signs of life stands before me. There is something moving about seeing these creatures, animals so untainted, raw, savvy, and pure that tears well up in my eyes. My life becomes richer knowing they are out there.
We push as far north as 82 degrees latitude when the decision is made to turn around. The ship could press all the way to the north pole had that been the goal, but there were other sights to see.
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| The colorful graves at Qaanaaq, Greenland. |
A visit to the Greenland village of Qaanaaq is a mix of sorrow and splendor. Government programs imposed by the Danish landowners have centralized a nomadic people and there is a depressed sense of legacy, as if a birthright to wander as been stifled and trapped in time. The main grocery store focuses on alcohol and cigarettes, with food stuffs displayed in secondary fixtures. People I meet are a mixed bunch, some curious and alive, others with an aura of distress radiating from proud faces. A graveyard adorned with vibrant plastic flowers is a reminder of ancestors who lived their lives in accordance with the ways of the wild. Huge Greenland huskies are everywhere, semi-tame, dogs that are easily double the size of any malamute I’d ever seen. Puppies playfully run along the shore, mixing with the children and sniffing the rotten piles of seaweed for any hidden treats.
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| The rare narwhal, unicorn of the sea. |
Before we begin the return home, we take helicopters to the Greenland Ice Cap and stand on the highest example of this feature on the planet. En route from the ship, we see an impressive pod of Narwhal feeding in the bay, their legendary unicorn-style horns breaking the surface in rhythmic waves. Twenty or so of the grey, marbled-skin mammals offer a show to be seen now where else on earth.
Once we reach the lower waters we stop to gaze as an impressive glacier that graciously decided to break off a house sized chunk just after we had examined it in our rafts. An exciting Indiana-Jones style escape kept us out of harm’s way and we were able to return to the rubble floating in the ocean. There was a thick, earthy, organic smell, like freshly overturned garden soil. The air we were breathing was trapped in the ice an estimated 40,000 years ago, set free eons later. When it was locked in the icy pores, small forests dotted the landscape and the sun shone much brighter in the high Arctic. Scientists have studied this air as an archive of our atmospheric past. Indeed, this was rare air to fill one’s lungs.
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| Adding a little color to the highest ice cap on Earth. |
Slowly we entered Smith Sound and concluded our three-week tour at Resolute Bay, an aptly named outpost on Cornwalis Island. This is one of northernmost towns on Earth along with sister city Grise Fiord (a research station atop Ellesmere Island called “Alert” is the only higher inhabited location). As we fly away from the Khlebnikov, I wonder to myself:
“Will I ever be here again? How many times have I been here in dreams? Why is this life, this amazing place, not valued as it should be? What is my connection to this world of ice and pure, uncontaminated truth?”
I feel I have had just a sample of what life is like free of man-made systems of religion, currency, status, and politics. Out here, there is no place for a lie, no place for laziness, no place for superfluous spirituality. Every corner of the Arctic is truth, brutal and exquisite, breathtaking and soul-breaking. Treasures abound, and are hidden for those strong enough to seek them. There is no room for undue superstition.
Those who lived here, until tainted by those who must have the world neatly defined in an encyclopedia, were by nature joyful, generous, and kind. Families would sleep together every night under the same bear skins while their dogs curled up in the snow outside of their huts. Everything that could be shared was. The elderly and sick willingly sacrificed themselves instead of lingering and using up rare resources. In that way, they give their very flesh back to the great white bear, the god of the north, the true spirit of the lands where there are two seasons: night and day. As I fly back toward the glowing metropolis, the busy streets, credit card bills, and citizens thrust into a mold of nationalism, I hope with all my spirit I can keep just a shard of that purity at the forefront of my soul. It is a struggle to adapt to the ways of the white man again; perhaps I would be better suited taking a lesson from the ways of the white bear.
To see more images from James’ trip, check out the photo gallery at: www.jamesfaqs.com/Images/artictrip/index.htm
Getting There
Quark Expeditions (800-356-5699;www.quarkexpeditions.com) provides one of a kind tours to the Arctic and Antarctic. The guides provided are excellent and the experience is truly amazing. This isn't a cruise ship you'll be on, this is a working ice breaker and the tour is interactive--you'll spend most days off the boat exploring the terrain.
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| The author on a balmy minus 20 day. |
Last Updated: Dec 8th, 2005 - 07:30:48
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