Journeys to the Edge: In the Footsteps of an Anthropologist

The Very Edge of the Inhabited World

The Very Edge of the Inhabited World Eyes Yet Farther North Since my teen years, I had yearned to see the midnight sun of the arctic summer. The tundra would be carpeted briefly then with lichens, mosses, and uncountable millions of nesting birds. Although soft to the touch, all would look strangely crisp in the cool, slanting light of the never-setting sun. Early during my Dene research, I talked with my family about how the tundra beckoned me. For all of us to experience the real Arctic together would be impossible, they pointed out; the three of them would return to Missouri too soon. In their agile minds, though, my personal desire was quickly transformed into a more dramatic plan— but the precise opposite of what I had envisioned—for all of us. They suggested that we fly north for a break, but during the long night, say in December. What an idea! Rather than approaching the north edge of the inhabited world during its season of warmth and growth, we would venture there when harshness ruled. A place we might try to visit was Holman Island, an Inuit settlement (Eskimo is a rude, outsiders’ label) on the coast of Victoria Island in the Arctic Ocean. It had a community cooperative providing rooms and meals for visitors. Of professional interest to me, the community was near the size of the Dene one I was studying, but I was to find that the resemblance ended there. From my work site in the Northwest Territories, the round trip would entail 1,840 miles of flying, all in light planes. We booked it. The trip began with a fairly routine flight to Yellowknife, the busy 167 capital of Canada’s Northwest Territories. A night in a modern hotel there gave us our first taste of city life and our first opportunity for elegant dining in months. We intended to enjoy this break, especially the food. Because our supply of camera film was getting low, the stopover also provided an opportunity to restock before continuing. We held reservations for an early morning flight first to Coppermine, on the shore of the Arctic Ocean, then across Amundsen Gulf to our island destination. All went well in Yellowknife until a ringing telephone woke us at 5:00 a.m. It was a man’s voice.“Mr. Gardner?”“Mm.”“I’m calling about your flight to Holman Island. We’ve got to leave early because of the weather. Can you be at the airport in an hour and a half?” It sounded serious enough that we leaped into action. Our morning outing to buy film was an obvious casualty of this rescheduling. We showered as quickly as possible and bolted down leftover travel snacks from the day before, all the while puzzling over how the airline had found us. Faces around the room disclosed that I was not the only family member worried by the matter of weather, but no one voiced our fears. We raced to the airfield in an icy taxi, its crisp, crackling seats announcing that we were the first customers of the day. The good news was that we were to fly north aboard a STOL (short-take-off-and-landing) Twin Otter jet prop, a gem of a plane, fitted with plump balloon tires for putting down on snow. All but eight or ten seats had been removed so the rear half of the passenger compartment could be stacked with cargo. These goods were already in place when we arrived, and our fellow travelers were hurrying aboard. Although the airline experienced delays in readying the plane, the morning sun was still well below the horizon when we lifted off. But the faint light that foreshadows Arctic dawn was sufficient to show us that we were approaching the northern limit of trees.Those growing in the deep dusk below us were tough, stunted little things; we knew that in minutes all we would see was the endlessly white, windswept tundra. Our plane made good time on its northward flight, good enough that eventually we realized we would not be able to witness dawn that day. We were leaving our friendly sun behind sooner than expected and would not see it again for a week. While it had certainly been our goal to experience the drama of the endless night, coping with troublesome weather at the same time was not something we looked forward to. The plane descended toward Coppermine...