arctic circle

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Pingo

(From Norah's diary)

Nicolas and I walked to the edge of the village.
He said he would stay at our encampment and continue
his meditation. I begin to walk alone now. My pack
is light, only tent and sleeping bag, food, and journal.
I sweat a bit in the hazy sun. After less than ten
minutes an Inuit man stops his pick-up truck. We have
met before, he remembers my name and asks if I need a
lift. We drive to the end of the road. Gravel road, and
then nothing. A drop-off to the marshy tundra flats. I
thank the driver and grab my pack from the back. He
roars off. Now I am alone.

To the north is ocean. The rest is land. Not solid land
with boulders and trees. Tundra is wet, sinking under
steps. I walk for a long time. Ahead, the Pingo, the only
height in a flat scratchy landscape.

An Inuit woman told me it is possible to walk to the Pingo.
There is a small landbridge, she said, I'll find it easily.
I walk until I am hungry and cold. My feet squoosh with
water, my pants are wet and chafe my knees. Why stop though?
I squat a few minutes, get back up again. Quiet, very quiet.
No mosquitoes, no birds, no leaves. I remember that there
are grizzlies here. The Inuit thought I was crazy to go
walking without a gun, telling me gruesome stories of eaten
children. I am a little afraid, so I make loud human noises
and keep my eyes scanning.

After walking farther, I can't find the way. The Pingo is
close, so close. But damn it, this Pingo is an island. I am
almost ready to swim. I throw down my pack. The arctic has
no poisonous berries, so I fill my stomach. Grumble, stomp,
yell, where is the bloody landbridge!?

I throw down a twig. It points northwest. Looking this way,
I see that the tundra becomes golden, scattered with long 
dark lines. Smiling, I realize these are ATV tracks, leading
probably to the landbridge.

A short walk, I am across and at the Pingo base. Sand slides
down one side, dry bushes roll along and I expect to see
cacti. Hiking the last few meters up, I hear the hoarse
laughter of ravens. They follow me, swooping so low I can
hear wing feathers.

The Pingo is big on top, ten tents could easily live here in
harmony. I see Tuktoyaktuk far in the east. The ocean in the
north sings to me, runs to me, ignores me divinely, rushing
on cold and violent, pure for me. What a wind this ocean
throws out! I lean into it, watch ravens fly backwards. Now
I am cold, now I feel the arctic. The tent is a kite, flapping
and bouncing rebelliously. "I am not your shelter!", tent
yells, "I want to dance into the ocean!" I fashion weights
from heaps of sand and stones, anchoring the tent to be my
blue nylon castle on the Pingo.

A helicopter comes from the south, flies over low, so I can
see the pilot's face. A Canadian military helicopter, red and
bright white. It does a U-turn, hovers over me, I wave and
smile, the pilot gives me a thumbs up and leaves for good now.

A violet twilight sifts down. I cook rice and carrots,drink hot
black tea. I clean up, brush my teeth.

Exploring the Pingo's top, I see Nicolas' bootprints everywhere.
He came yeterday, for his alone-time. When I asked him how it
was, he smiled and said, "Great, you will see." Nothing more.
I do see now. This is more than solitude. I am not alone, in
fact, I am with the wind, the ravens, the ocean, the land. I
am a creature who needs shelter, food and warmth. Keeping my
body moving and alive is the experience of living. Not thoughts,
not words or theories. The breath of the land is essential to
my staying alive.

Resting, I have a vision. I am still, my limbs losing their
borders. Flesh and land are the same particles. I ask myself
about other humans, will I ever feel intensely for one again?
After leaving Nicolas, do I stay alone and inside of myself?

No, I see a blond man. He is a little angular and bigger than
me. He is clean.

This is all I see, and I am surprised. A blond man? No blond
man in Inuit Tuktoyaktuk. I have never ever had blond lovers.
I doubt this vision. Why not a vision of a killer whale, or a
grizzly bear, or a deer through aspen trees?

By the morning I have forgotten the blond man. I walk up to a
thick fog. I can see less than a meter ahead, no way to walk
back now. I meditate and write in the tent until it clears.
Hiking back, I am bouyant. I remember who I am. Who I am without
clothes, people, projects, maps. why I stay alive each day. Why
breath is sacred and the earth a lung.

Much easier hiking back; I know the way. Through the amorphous
soft land, again wet on my feet and legs. I walk through an
icy creek and completely give up on being dry or warm. Smiling,
even laughing, cawing with the ravens, jumping with the wind.

Close to the village, an Inuit man picks me up and drives me to
Mona Nautchiuq's Fur Shop. I march in, the shop is full with
the afternoon planeload of tourists. Mona sits at her table,
calls me to her. She was certain I would have been eaten by a
grizzly or drowned in the Arctic. The tourists mill about,
asking Mona prices and stories for the dolls, moccasins, bone
carvings. I talk to some of the tourists. One of them is a
blond man.

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