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Canadian Arctic Wintering: Swinging against our biggest hook in another one of those familiar "this is bad enough but we're glad we're not out there" anchorages under the vicissitudes of an autumn storm on the deserted coast of Labrador, seems like "home" enough now to be reflecting on the last 18 months of adventure in the far north. Tying together the last strands of the far-faring Otto Sverdrup Centennial Expedition, we are tumbling slowly southward towards St Johns Newfoundland where we will finally wrap up the longest, widest ranging (and coldest!) expedition we have yet undertaken with Northanger. Indeed, we feel privileged to have partaken in this unique quest, one which also marked a turning point in Northanger's history. It was the first time in which we have been involved in an adventure not wholly conceived and contained by just the boat and ourselves. Still, it gave us the opportunity to test ourselves and the rebuilding of Northanger to the limit. Kudos to our expedition leaders Graeme and Linda Magor for having the naiveté to assume it could be done! And to Lars & Guldborg for organizing all from the Norwegian end. The full story of the expedition is contained on the website www.sverdrup2000.org but we would like to offer a short comment on our part in it.
We have to say that spending a winter in the High Arctic on a boat is a unique experience, one that only a good-sized book or a short poem could describe. As the sun gave way to the occasional flat silver light of the moon and the temperature plunged toward -40, so we came to resemble hibernating bears, scurrying outside to absorb the breathtaking and dangerous beauty of the Arctic night for as long as we could stand it before various extremities would freeze up. One of the chief fears of the Inuit of Grise Fiord (Canada's northernmost community 80 miles to the east of our winter harbour) during the winter months is wind. Well, Hourglass Bay had wind in spades and it took no time at all for Northanger to become completely buried in the drifting snow that will build around any object that dares to obstruct it. We dug and we dug and we dug, but our resistance was virtually useless. Surrendering to the drift, we went about our daily business glorying in the fact that we need not post an anchor watch - the only place for the boat to go was down. And down she went. As the relentless drifting piled layer upon layer of snow on the ice, weighing it down, so Northanger sank stern first through the ice until water coming through the sink taps alerted us to the gravity of the danger. Feverish work with the ice chisel (which continued daily from February until May) loosened the grip of the ice on the rudder, allowing the boat to rise again. It was this which decided us to forgo the six-week sledging journey revisiting Otto Sverdrups final explorations to Axel Heiberg Island planned for the spring. All winter too, we harboured the fear of the ice breakup in spring, and wanted to be ready to deal with it, alone if necessary. The memory of those times, with Polaris high in the sky above will stay with us always. The rising of the sun in February was a bittersweet occasion: although the rising orb stunned our senses with its glory, it signalled the end of the singular experience of four months of darkness.
Spring was a time of carefree exploration of the environs of the bay. Encouraging temperatures and sublime light gave us impetus to don skis and pulks to see and photograph what we could not see in the dark! The remains of ancient Inuit campsites and villages abound in the area, as well as signs of Sverdrup's excursions. Limitless vistas were guaranteed wherever we looked. It was also the beginning of the time we hoped for and feared most; ice breakup… the greatest show on earth, participation required. By then, all other expedition members had left, but the timely arrival of two of our friends, Etienne Souille and Mike Sharp lessened our anxiety. Hourglass Bay, which had been a friendly but barren haven all winter now turned hostile. Still held fast by the rapidly disintegrating ice, Northanger caromed around the inner bay coming dangerously close to the numerous shoals. At one point she was thrown rudely onto a steep beach by the ice which had by now been replaced by enormous, hard pans of wind and current driven drift-ice from Jones Sound, still a churning white no-mans land. Using ice chisels we cut a passage to a patch of open water and spent the next tide watching in amazement as a half-mile long floe obliterated itself against the very beach we had been trapped on. With no respite from this sort of action in sight for some weeks we sought our only defence - take to the land! Just below the hut site was a tiny gut formed by a streambed that seemed to offer some protection. Losing no time we winched up the keel and squirmed our way into it. Too bad that the hut denizens had used it as an "outhouse" all winter. "Pooh Gut" saved our butts. Each high tide we spent pushing away the invading ice with poles, sleeping during the safe time of low tide when Northanger was high and dry on the beach. After two weeks a strong northerly finally drove the ice out of the bay and finding a clear horizon at last we quit the bay and put on all speed, first for Grise Fiord for a last visit with friends, then a headlong dash down ice-choked Glacier Strait in worsening weather to freedom in the North Water. More pack ice evicted us from the extraordinary Carey Islands and we drove southwards. Upernavik, Proven, Illorsuit, Umanaq, Qeqertarssuaq, Nuuk.
As the pages of this expedition reach the end, plans of future dreams are germinating. Planted ideas have taken hold and denizens of trips gone past are scurrying to organize our next sailing and climbing expedition. Next summers winds will take us back to Greenland, to Umanaq Fiord, replete with glaciers & mountains. From there, we plan to follow the retreat of the winter ice north to the Upernavik area, a place seemingly desolate and forlorn yet full of opportunity. Swathes of unclimbed walls span wild fiord after fiord, plunging from heights up to 3000 feet into the icy seas. To the summits, from the seas! But first, about that paint job......... No voyage is undertaken without the help, encouragement and generosity of others and the list of people whom have contributed to make the Otto Sverdrup Centennial Expedition such the success it was, is infinite. From jars of jam to major items sponsored, cash dollars and helping hands. Our heartfelt thanks to you all. Keri Pashuk & Greg Landreth Expedition members: The expedition members for the Canadian Arctic Wintering (1999-2000) OSCE are as follows: Greg Landreth - New Zealand - co-owner and skipper of Northanger |
It almost seems a tradition to be writing these newsletters in stormy anchorages. Our last, if we remember correctly was written a lifetime ago in the lee of Coburg Island at the entrance to Jones Sound, powerful williwaws hurtling down the glaciers onto us, our toenails dug grimly into the mud as ice promenaded past to its destruction in the open sea. At that stage we were not even confident of getting to Grise Fiord to pick up the two expedition dogs Bamse & Yukon, let alone making it to the end of Jones Sound to our chosen wintering site where the hut building materials awaited. Hearts in mouths, we made the icy transit to Grise Fiord, hoisted the jet-lagged dogs aboard, buried them under another couple of tons of food and gear and plowed our way to Hourglass Bay, Northanger now feeling more like a super tanker than a sailboat. How glad we were then to discover that Hourglass Bay was deep enough to enter and sheltered enough to spend the winter in. Spring, and ice-breakup was another problem in another world. Frantic preparations for winterising the boat followed, accomplished at the same time as the construction of the expedition's shore shelter, which had blossomed from a genesis as a rude emergency shelter, to a deluxe 6m x 4m insulated prefabricated hut. It became obvious that there would be a lot more work involved in living on the boat for the winter than in the hut and this gave rise to a lot of wrangling about who of the expedition members would stay where! Freeze-up came hard on the heels of the hut's completion.
April brought the departure of the sledging team of Graeme, Lars, Guldborg, Bamse & Yukon for the north, Lynda and Keziah (now turned three years old) for the south leaving us alone in the bay. Not for long though. Daylight and good travelling conditions encouraged many visitors to make the 100-mile journey from Grise Fiord and we came to delight in these visits. (When I was involved with Northanger's transit of the Northwest Passage many years ago, it was my one lament that there was never time to stop and be curious about the land and the people we were forced to pass by as we went on the way of conquest (Greg)). We made the most of the opportunity to learn of the Arctic from the people who live there, finding of course that a few months up there is in no way long enough. There is an element of excitement in discovering here that interpersonal relationships are unfamiliar and it is we who have to make the adjustment to fit our desires to the environment. This contrasts with Antarctica, where the landscape is equally hostile, but the people who have come to inhabit it are as familiar as neighbours. The arrival of the Grise Fiord school outing in late April nicely juxtaposed the nature of the Inuit relationship to the land against that of the European. There is a lot to explore here, but alas we must scurry away south to undo the travails of a single winter; they are still there albeit with the help of some of the better-adapted examples of modern equipment.
We tarried in these places as long as we dared, gathering ideas for future trips and blueberries for empty jam jars. Etienne and Mike finally had to leave us, so we were forced to replace them with a robot for the last brutal ocean crossing of the expedition, to Labrador. Serendipitously finding an autopilot in Nuuk we hastily installed it and hurried out into Davis Strait for our first two-handed ocean passage. Misadventures included wrapping our mainsheet tightly around the propeller while hove-to one dark and force-10ish night necessitating a cold swim to cut it free, a burst exhaust hose which filled the bilges with salt water, and surging past what had to be an iceberg in the dark. Landfall came at first light in the (to us) nostalgically named Ice Tickle where we sit waiting out this last windy tumult before winding up the expedition in St Johns.
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