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Magnetic North
Vast is too small a term to describe the landscape. Measuring 24,786 square kilometres, Somerset Island is the 45th-largest island in the world. But the High Arctic is hardly barren. Rolling hills, expansive valleys carpeted in gravel, and cliffs that meet the low-flying evening clouds halfway mark the land-scape. There are ice caves, spring-fed waterfalls and a craggy 300-metre-deep canyon carved by the Cunningham River. Cresting a ridge to the east of Arctic Watch, we visit Gull Canyon. It’s a verdant oasis – a Shangri-La of the Far North. To the southwest, rose-coloured hills called Red Valley rival those in Utah for sheer drama. Overhead, the midnight sun casts everything in a golden glow. The history of the High Arctic is tattooed on the land. On the highest plateaus, we come across whale bones, some dating back, we are told, as far as 8,000 years. At Cape Anne, we visit the ruins of a centuries-old Thule stone house. It’s difficult to imagine the Thule, sitting in their tiny abode on the southern shores of the Northwest Passage, surviving even a single winter. The next day, we pass the Thule site again in a test of our own survival skills. It’s the third annual Northwest Passage Marathon, and I am recruited to be a personal guide for one of the eight runners, riding an ATV loaded with spare clothing, food, drink and pepper spray to fend off the bears. The marathon skirts Polar Bear Point, which today lives up to its name: A whale carcass has washed up on shore, and a pack of about two dozen polar bears are picking it clean. We detour, leaving the bears looking like distant white tumbleweeds. Five kilometres into the race, my can of pepper spray falls off the ATV. I don’t notice until much later. Then, around the halfway mark, the walkie-talkie battery runs dry. I am now completely unarmed. Fortunately, Hiro, a Japanese guide who has climbed Mount Everest, is with me. With his weathered face and quick laugh, he shares the Webers’ love of the High Arctic. He also has dynamite eyesight: He spots whales that are so far away they register only as minor ripples on the surface of the water. As Hiro and I ride through Red Valley, we stop to drink from streams and take photos of our marathoners forging ahead. Like me and Hiro, they’ve bonded. Sabine, a teacher from Berlin, and Cassidy, a decorator from Colorado, run lockstep to complete the entire 42-kilometre distance. The adventure is just beginning. Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net |
Photo: Mark Hacking
