Halloween

Never underestimate the power of candy. This evening saw a stream of kids beat a path to my door despite freezing temperatures and harsh gusts of wind. I have just returned from the Halloween dance, which saw a terrifying assortment of vampires, ghouls, and old men descend upon the gym.

The week has ended on a sluggish note. The western Dehcho has been hit by unusually heavy snow - more than anyone can remember coming down at one time. In my yard it is already thigh-deep, and it just keeps falling. Getting to and from school has been a bit of a chore, and both the teachers and children have felt it. Friday was fun, though, we took the afternoon off and watched scary movies, while Cindy baked a batch of Halloween cookies. Wayne is supposed to be heading to for Yellowknife tomorrow, assuming the plane can get in, which means I get to have a gang of sugar-crazy kids to myself for a few days. Wish me luck!

Good Morning, Beautiful

This morning I decided to take advantage of the sunny skies and go for a walk along the river. Along the way I encountered this fellow; I said hello, but he wasn't much for conversation. Instead, he let rip with a rumbling fart and wandered off down the road.

The Land

I have always felt at home in nature; much of my childhood was spent camping across Canada, and growing up in a city like Vancouver meant forests and mountains were never far away.

Living in Nahanni, though, has made me realize that most of the nature I have known has only been the somewhat artificial wild of national parks, camping grounds, and military training areas. Controlled places with rules and regulations, where you can look -- but can't touch.

Up here, things are different. The sheer scale is difficult to get your head around, especially the knowledge that beyond the 90 or so people in town there is nothing but forest and rivers and mountains for hundreds of kilometers. Even then, our "neighbours" are similar islands in the midst of a vast wilderness.

This is a land of plenty, though, for those who know where to look. Today I listened to an elder describe how in his youth his family would move up and down the river, hunting and trapping. In the winter they would move by dogsled, and in summer they would construct birchbark canoes. Light and fragile, they would take the family about a day to make, be used for about a week, and then abandoned and a replacement built.

The land gives you all the tools you need to survive - and not only survive, but live well. Whenever I talk with the older people around town and ask them about the past, they always recall life in the bush as the happiest time of their lives.

I know I will never match the knowledge and experience of these old Dene, but I intend to make the most of my time here and learn what I can.

Tthenáágó

In ages past they called it Tthenáágó - "strong rock". It looms over everything we do here, serving as both gateway and guardian of the Nahanni country. Every morning I wake to see the sunrise playing across its face, and at night I watch for the languid clouds of the aurora unfurling above the horn of its summit.

With every passing moment the river ice grows thicker, bringing me that much closer to the day when I can cross and explore its slopes.

Why strive to crown that cruel crest
And deathward dare?
Said Mallory of dauntless quest:
'Because it's there'

Haircut

This morning I made the mistake of looking in the mirror, only to find benign neglect had made me rather shaggy. It's not Halloween yet, so I really have no excuse to be scaring the children...so I decided to shave most of my hair and trim the beard. I think it turned out alright, and apparently my new look is the talk of the town. Seriously.

The past few days have seen thick snowfall but warmer temperatures. Clumps of damp snow have collected in the trees, weighing down the branches and drooping them across the paths and trails. Once the temperature drops they will freeze in position, which means Wayne and I will have to spend a few days clearing the way with a chainsaw.

The river is nearly completly frozen, and soon it will be thick enough to cross. The snowmobiles are out now too, and even as I write this I can hear the snarl of their engines outside. The school has an old skidoo that I'll be able to use, so once it gets repaired I'll take it out for a spin.

Moosehide Coat

The other day, Wayne told me a story that was both hilarious and sad, underlining the cultural disconnect between North and South in Canada. We were discussing traditional Dene artwork, and he pulled out a moosehide jacket made for him by Elsie, one of the local elders. Warm and sturdy, it still carried the faintest scent of woodsmoke. I admired the intricate beadwork pattern on the chest, swirls of blue and green curving into the shape of flowers. What in the South might be derided as camp or kitchy is a regular adornment of traditional clothing up here. In a land that spends three-quarters of the year shrouded by winter, what could be a better expression of vitality than the petals of a flower?

Incredibly, the coat was made entirely by hand. No sewing machines, no artificial fabrics, no metal needles. The bead pattern was done directly through the thick moosehide, rather than the easier method of using a felt base (a common shortcut in commercial beadwork). In a traditional craftstore, a coat like that would sell for more than $2000.

Wayne told me how he wore it on a trip to Nova Scotia, not long after it had been made. As he went shopping, the fresh-smoked hide gave off such a powerful smell that people would look around, scratching their heads and wondering what was burning. One store actually phoned 911, and Wayne turned around to see firefighters marching in and evacuating everyone.

On the way back North, he had to fly via Toronto. He tried to bring his jacket on the Air Canada flight, but the hostess took one sniff and said he couldn't wear it in the cabin. It would have to be put in a garbage bag and tossed in the cargo hold. Needless to say, this was a very precious piece of clothing and he was reluctant to let it out of his sight. He asked if there was any insurance if it got damaged or stolen, but the hostess just looked him up and down and said, "Oh, don't worry. Nobody in Toronto would want to wear that."

Such a comment, rude at the best of times, is made even more awful by the complete ignorance in which it was made. I think the saddest thing about the slow death of Dene culture is that most people in the South don't even know what we're losing. Certainly I had no idea, and now I fear it may be too late to stop the slide.

Luxury

My plumbing has finally been installed, so no more late-night dashes in the snow! Wayne and I have spent the weekend working on the bathroom itself, installing gyprock walls, caulking the shower, and laying tiles. I'll post some pictures once it's finished.

Names

Today I was chatting with Earl Hope, the fellow who is installing my plumbing. He was telling me how back in the 40's and 50's the government decreed that all the local natives must take on European-style names. They were given the freedom to come up with their own, and today you can find some rather unique surnames around the Dehcho. Moosenose. Couch. Or my personal favourite: Beaverhole.

Shots Fired

Last night I woke to the sound of gunfire. Apparently some of the wolves had been lurking near the Betsaka's place, trying to get at the dogs. They took a few shots, but apparently didn't hit anything.

Mail-Order Madness

The mail finally arrived, 5 days late. One of the items that came in was the annual Hammacher-Schlemmer Christmas catalog, and out of curiosity I flipped through and had a look. The items range from the interesting-and-potentially-useful to the downright bizarre. Here's an example:

BETTER MOUSE TRAP - $129.99

This is the most advanced rodent extermination system available. Mice are drawn to the trap by peanut butter or bacon bits (not included), and to reach the bait the rodent must walk across three electronically charged plates that sense the mouse's presence and instantly kill it. After the mouse expires, the shock chamber automatically rotates and deposits the mouse in a receptacle, keeping it hidden from sight. The device automactically resets to capture the next rodent and the receptacle holds up to 10 mice before it has to be emptied.

Shock Chamber? Extermination system? Wow, now I can unleash a rodent holocaust in the comfort of my own home! I like how this infernal contraption is considerate enough to hide the charred and smoking remains of the once happy little mouse after it concludes its gruesome work (in a "receptacle", no less. Just call it a Corpse Box and be done with it). After all, we wouldn't want to offend the sensibilities of Johnny Urbanite! No no, just hide the evidence and keep your conscience clean. Then again, not so long ago I was elbow-deep in a steaming pile of moose guts, so perhaps my perspective is a little skewed.

And don't even get me started on the atomic solar watch (seriously), or the remote controlled tarantula.

River Ice

Winter is here, in all its bleak beauty. There is nothing quite like standing on the banks of a northern river in the blowing snow as rafts of ice drift through the inky water. It is collecting in great slabs along the shore, groaning in protest when stirred by an eddy. Before my eyes, jagged fissures erupted and vanished across its ever-changing surface as the ice tightened its hold on the flow of the Nahanni. The locals have pulled in the last of the boats, and it will be long months before they can be used again.

Thanksgiving

The long weekend has been most welcome. Friday night saw the gauntlet thrown down and (Floor) Hockey Night in Nahanni Butte descend upon the gym. George had organized a tournement and it proved quite popular. I played for a bit, and my speed and strength compensated somewhat for my awkward West Coast hands. What can I say? My childhood was spent on the baseball diamond and the football field, not a frozen pond.

Had Thanksgiving dinner with Wayne and Cindy tonight, which was lovely. Ate some pricey turkey, but it can't really compete with the $200 turks they were selling over in Arctic Bay. Meanwhile, the kitchen is looking pretty barren, and the general store has been shut for the last week or so because the heater is broken. Time to go hunting.

Boots

Life in the North requires quite the collection of footwear. One must variously contend with heat, mud, ice, snow and lethal cold. Here's what I use to get by up here:

These are my Magnum tactical boots. Tough but lightweight, they have served me well in both the army and my civilian pursuits.

These chunky beasts are my MEC Kilarney hiking shoes. Heavier and more durable than the Magnum boots, they also provide better support and are well-suited for jaunts in the wilderness in late summer/early fall.

Meindl Spitzbergen mountaineering boots. Handmade in Germany and rated to -40C, they can be fitted with crampons and will serve as my daily footwear once the cold sets in. Rugged enough to handle bushwacking in the frozen forests, they will allow me to get around once the river freezes over.

These monsters are my Baffin expedition boots. Rated to -100C (!), they weigh a ton but are surprisingly comfortable. They will be invaluable once the weather sets in: we are having a mild fall, which means we are in for a harsh winter.

Cloud and Cold

This was taken early in the morning a few days ago, on the walk to work. I caught a break in the weather that lasted only a few moments before a wall of cloud moved in and hid the Butte from view once more. Since then the sun has appeared only briefly, while the days grow cold and colder still. The snow has changed from the light powder of a fresh fall to a hard, granular ice that freezes in thick murky sheets on the ruts of the road and around the school. The field outside my cabin is covered in a thick rime, bending the tall stalks of wild grass under its weight. At night, whenever the moon manages to appear, it ignites with the glitter of a thousand miniature stars.

The North does not get as much precipitation as one might expect, and each snowfall brings only a few cm or so. Often the "snowfall" itself is an illusion, born of flakes swirled from the ground by the wind. It persists, however, and over the course of a winter it will eventually collect and compact in great drifts several feet deep.

Delayed Landing

Ah, the joys of northern airfields. I can see it now:

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. We are unable to land at this time because of a herd on the runway..."

I live about 200m from the landing strip, but I could smell them from here.

Lovely.

Communication Breakdown

The town power station has a nasty habit of jumping from surges to blackouts, which takes its toll on electronics. Case in point: the modem has been fried at work, so my ability to get online will be limited for a while. A replacement has been dispatched, but it will probably take 2 or 3 weeks to arrive. Until then, I have to rely on whatever ghostly traces of wireless signal I can get from the Band Office.

Nightfall

The days grow short and night falls swiftly. The temperature drops and the wind picks up, carrying with it the promise of snow. Standing on the doorstep of my cabin, I can feel the true cold waiting out there in the dark, beyond the mountains. Soon it will be here, and the world will change.

Drum Ceremony

This afternoon, an elder named Michael Cazon arrived from Fort Simpson to lead us in a dedication drum ceremony for the gathering circle. Much of the town showed up, which was good to see, and we spent about an hour circling the fire and listening to his stories. Throughout the ceremony, it was the little details that spoke to me - how the sacred fire must be ringed with 13 stones, one for each phase of the moon, or how the drummer must always face south because the songs are drawn from the north. We made an offering to the spirits: moose meat, berries, tobacco, tea. The smoke took on a sweet scent, and as he chanted and hammered his drum I watched it curl up and away into a darkening sky.

Michael was once the Deputy Grand Chief of the Deh Cho First Nations, and since then he has dedicated himself to helping his people reconnect with their identity. Throughout the ceremony he stressed the importance of taking pride in the past, and the need to hold on to the old ways. I have grown pessimistic of late about the long-term survival of Dene culture, but men like him show me there are at least some who are commited to saving what they can.

In the evening we gathered at the gym to play hand games, a traditional Dene team sport of sorts. In the past it was used as a form of friendly competition for bullets, furs, toboggans, or other goods. The games are simple, but very enjoyable. Using signals and gestures they are based around hiding objects in one of your hands, while your opponents have to guess which one. Michael chanted and played his drum as we competed, and it was nice to see the kids getting so into it.