The House & other Arctic musings

Whose siding are you on?

With the roof in place it was time to get the cabin closed in. And the first step in doing that was getting siding on.  We used panels for siding, and they install onto the strapping that covers the Tyvek.  As mentioned in a previous post this creates channel behind the siding, so that any moisture that gets through can drain away and not rot the wood. The siding needed to go on before the windows could go in, and as you can see in the photos, the two happened together. Siding would go up, the window opening cut out with a router, and the windows would go in.  We used reclaimed windows, so it was a bit of a mishmash of style, but it all works.

With the siding on much of the building, and the windows all in, it was now the end of September. Time was running out quickly to get it completely closed in, and the long winter's pause. 

Thirteen ways

A poet I follow, mostly on his channel (stack?) Poetry Unbound on Substack, is Pádraig Ó Tuama. In his latest post he speaks about Wallace Stevens' excellent poem, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, and the entire genre of poetry it inspired. If you are unfamiliar with the poem you really should search it out. 

In his post Pádraig asks: What it is that you feel the need to have 13 ways of looking at? 

No need, but it did inspire me to pick a topic and write my own Thirteen Ways poem.  Many topics it could be but it might not be a surprise that near the end of the journey of building a cabin I wrote... Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Cabin

I

Tent rings border this cabin
Ancient lives
Also knew the beauty of this place

II

Sawdust coats my face
And slivers hide in my skin
A sore back belies
How much joy building a cabin brings

III

A cabin looks small
Against this land

IV

When the saw stops
Silence begins appropriating
This space
In answer, out before the cabin,
Narwhal exhale
Stars wink on

V

I see the flaws I made
The joint not tight
The moulding covering a mistake
Phoenician flaws
Because the cabin’s beauty
Lies not in perfection

VI

Crossing the river
Ravens circle me
My blackbirds
So stopping on the far side
They also pause
Raucously giving me news
Telling me it wasn’t them
That shit on the cabin’s window

VII

He paddled here,
Nuvumiutaq.
In a qajaq
Made of skin.
Eight hundred years
Before I sought his ghost
Looking out
from a cabin
Made of wood

VIII

Avingaq is my son
And a lemming.
It wonders why
I built a cabin
On it’s meadows.
The lemming. 
My son knows.

IX

An iceberg
Blocks the view
The blue
Lights the cabin
And dances.

X

Time slows
On the cabin deck
You can see it in the light

XI

Bare rafters bathed in gold
The entire coast in colour
Pipit calls from the peak
Air is cold but the cabin
Covered in warmth

XII

Hare knows
There is no danger
In my footsteps
On the snowy climb up
He stands stoic
As I reach the cabin
Closing his eyes
As I pass

XIII

The bones of this place
Run deep
To the beginning of time
And the first
To sit where sits the cabin
And watch whales play

Eulogy

It has been over five years since my dad passed away. He has always been the man I most wish I was. And, as is often the case when we lose people, I think of the history that is lost when they go, like a library disappearing. I still find myself to this day thinking "I should call dad, he'd know that... oh". 

The other day I came across the words I spoke at his funeral and I thought I'd share them on here. In part so there is another place they can be found, when my internal book of history is lost.

Two things.

First of all, I will not make it through this without breaking down.

Secondly, my dad was a teacher.

All parents are really. And I don’t mean the stuff they set out to show you, like how to change a tire, make soup, drive a car. How to cast your hook just under those overhanging willows where the big fish lie. But the stuff they teach you by being. By living.
About the time I became a father I learned of a passage written by Umberto Eco.

“I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren’t trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.”

We are formed by little scraps of wisdom. Well, hopefully wisdom. And dad taught me much by living his life as I believe it should be lived. He remains the man I most wish I was. Today I want to share with you two of his most important lessons.

Live life with humour. Live so you can ignite that same twinkle in your eye that always seemed to reside in his. I honestly don’t think that dad loved anything more in this world than to make someone smile, even if that smile took the shape of a groan. And that twinkle would rise even when times were dark. Because making someone smile is important work. Life can be dark, facing life with humour and grace keeps the light going. It eases the weight of others. And just as importantly, eases your own.

Dad jokes are a noble calling.

The other lesson is this, be kind. Even when it isn’t easy. Especially when it isn’t easy. It’s easy to be kind to those we love, our neighbours, those who look like us, those who hold our views. Be kind when it’s hard. Dad would. Because it matters.

We had a relative who could be difficult to love. Ornery. Liked his drink. I found him down right mean. And at the end of his days, in care, when it would be easy to leave him to others dad would visit, and care for him, and show him love. I remember well dad’s anger at a doctor who treated this man as something less. Because dad knew that everyone, everyone, deserves our kindness.

There’s a series of books by Terry Pratchett, fantasy novels. The one called Reaper Man is about Death. Not dying death, but Death, the Grim Reaper. So I guess it’s about death. It contains a line that has resonated with me.

“...no one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away...”

Ripples. We all leave ripples behind. The people we touch, the deeds we do. Some of us leave the water almost still, but they are there. Others send their ripples far into this world.

I want my dad’s ripples to last, to not die away. To last beyond me. Beyond my children. So here’s a challenge for you. You’re here, I assume, to honour dad, remember him. When you leave this place do two things. Make someone smile. But more importantly be kind to someone. Not someone easy, but someone who challenges you. Someone who struggles. Someone who looks different than you. Someone whose idea of love is different than yours, but maybe not really so different. Someone who sees this world from a different place, who might not have had the same ladder to stand on. Someone you’ve grown estranged to. Someone without a home of their own.

Be kind.

Ripples. Make some ripples.

 

Jungle memories

It's been a long time since I travelled.  Really travelled. Flights out of here are expensive, and Leah has a strong fear of flying. But this story harkens back to a trip to the Ecuadorian Amazon.

Most people think of the jungle as impenetrable. A tangle of growth, vines, thick with green.That’s only the edges, a stream bank, or a tree fall, a clearing.The canopy, a hundred feet up or more, is thick. Trees competing for light, filling every available inch with greenery, it blocks the light from reaching the jungle floor.  So there’s not much growth below. Huge tree trunks, shadow loving shrubs and plants make it park like below.Tree falls are important. Imagine a one, two hundred foot tall tree falling, crashing to the ground taking out other trees, ripping a hole in the canopy, spilling light to the jungle floor. Plants, seeds and seedlings wait for this moment and grow, racing for the sun. Trying to race each other, too be taller, to out compete their neighbours to eat sunlight.Sit quietly in a shaft of light in a tree fall, with red on your T-shirt, and a hummingbird might visit, flying inches from you, as a Hermit did me, eventually flying up to my face washing wind from its wings over me, trying to figure out what strange manner of flower I was.

So one day, one of our group wanted to check out some bats.  Our guide had told her there were some bats roosting in a hollow tree trunk nearby.This lady was in her 70s, and wanted a close look at the bats to try and identify the species. I tagged along because, well, nature.The plan was to hike to the tree as it was getting dark, put a butterfly net over the entrance, catch the bats, ID them, and then release them.

Darkness comes quicker near the equator. The Sun approaches the horizon straight up and down, not on an angle as it does here. Sunsets are short. As we walked to the bat tree darkness was falling. In the twilight, in this parklike setting, an orange glow blinked on, drifted, and off. Then another. And another. Fireflies, larger than ours, and orange not green, they drifted amongst huge tree trunks. More and more until they were everywhere. Little ethereal lanterns winking in and out of the world, weaving through the trees as far as you could see before the jungle faded. It was, quite simply, one of the most magical scenes I’ve ever faced. Forever seared into my mind’s eye.

There are ants everywhere in the jungle. Insects of every sort, filling every niche you could imagine, and niches you can’t imagine. Butterflies of neon blue the size of your palm, the size of my palm, that shimmer in dappled light. Moths, day flying, and those that like the dark, colourful or camouflaged, some with clear wings and bodies bright with colour. And the social insects... bees that, given the chance, would drink your sweat, seeking the salt it hides. Wasps that make tunnels on trees, staying inside for the safety of being out sight. Wasps that drum on their hive, together, in a building rhythm warning intruders that they will suffer their anger if they continue to press. And ants. Tiny ones, the size of these letters you read. Ants that taste of bursts of lemons if you pop them into your mouth, an effect of their chemical defence, citric acid, useless against your tastebuds. Those that farm fungus, growing on gardens of a mulch of leaves that they harvest from high above the ground, moving them along on highways painstakingly cleared on the forest floor. Their colony of thousands upon thousands sometimes eight feet deep, a city of sisters, genetically identical but sometimes with several different castes wildly different sizes and features each with its own role. Army ants, so relentless in their hunting that whole species of birds have evolved to take advantage of them, following the swarm, making their living catching insects and others fleeing the relentless colony. A family constantly on the move that is it’s own nest, forming a ball each night around it’s queen, her eggs and their pupal family. A bivouac in which they are their own shelter. And the largest of the ants, the Bullet Ant, sometimes called 24 hour ants because that’s how long the pain from their sting lasts. They are an inch or more long, unmistakable among the many species of ant. A fearsome reputation, not of aggression but born of the efficacious nature of their defence. A sting described as searing, burning, intense.  Not only that but chemicals the ant releases when it stings, induce other Bullet Ants nearby to do the same thing. 

And this story is about Bullet Ants as much as it is about bats. 

Once we had gotten to the hollow tree we got set up.  The opening in the tree was shaped like an inverted "V" with the base on the ground about as wide as my shoulders, and the point about two feet high.  We set up the net over the opening, covered the parts that the net couldn't and waited. And waited. Nocturnal insects began coming out of the hole, huge green katydids, beetles, moths, but no bats.  After awhile we figured that the bats were probably aware of us, and would stay inside. So a new plan was hatched. I would lie on the ground, shimmy my head and shoulders inside the tree and shine a light up. Hopefully that would allow me to get a photo of the bats with a small digital camera of the bat enthusiast. 

But as I was about to lay down on the ground, I notice a large ant crawling about in the space. And another. And another.  Bullet Ants! About an inch long.  So I did what any scaredy cat would do, I began trying to hit them with the flashlight I was holding. 

"What are you doing?" cried the woman. "Don't hurt them." But... I replied, those are bullet ants, their sting is incapacitating. "Give me that", and with that she grabbed the flashlight, laid on her back amongst the Bullet Ants, and shimmied into the opening, while the others in the group shrugged and waited for the screaming. 

After a bit she shimmied out, brushed herself off and said that there were about four bats, but she was unable to tell what species they might be. Not one sting, and my reputation as the brave Mountie, unafraid of the Tarantulas and other creatures in the jungle, in tatters.  Brought down by a few ants. 

Postscript: I did, on this trip, get bitten, or stung by ants. Little tiny ones, that left me dancing in the dining room shedding my shirt after I'd leaned on a railing that formed a highway for them. 

That Iceberg is blocking my view

At the end of August that year, I arrived at the cabin one afternoon to discover that a large iceberg was grounded offshore in front of it.  Distances and such can be hard to judge here, things seem a lot closer than they are.  But to give you an idea this iceberg was 80 feet high above the water line.

And the damned thing was blocking my view.

This view from the drone give a better idea of the size of this iceberg, which would be a medium sized one.  In case its not obvious you can see the cabin on shore.

The iceberg moved around Victor Bay for a long while, eventually heading out into Admiralty Inlet just before freezeup.

Apologies

Yesterday the Federal Government apologized in Arctic Bay, to people relocated from Kinngait, Pangnirtung, and Mitamitalik to Dundas Harbour on Devon Island. Devon Island is the largest uninhabited island in the world, and to promote sovereignty the Canadian Government created an RCMP post there from 1926 to 1931 and 1945 to 1951. In between the two periods of an RCMP detachment the Hudson Bay Company leased the buildings and tried to establish a trading post there for about a year before abandoning it.  Inuit families were relocated there from 1937 to 1948. Inuit families also accompanied the RCMP members for all but the first year of establishment. You can read the CBC news article here. 

I was unable to get to the ceremony because of work, but by all accounts it was a moving and profound moment in the history of our community. The Minister of Indigenous Relations and Northern Affairs, Gary Anandasangaree, delivered the apology on behalf of the Canadian Government. Isaac Shooyook, who lived at Dundas Harbour as a young boy, was one of the people who spearheaded the push for an apology for the relocation, which like all of the Arctic relocations was filled with false and broken promises. Essentially these relocations were all about using Inuit as human flags to promote Canadian Sovereignty. Shooyook is an amazing individual, and you can read a bit about his history starting here. 

I was headed to the celebration afterwards, and I had been asked to photograph it. It was supposed to start at 7, but when I arrived I found that they had started early, and were just wrapping up. Still that little bit of celebration was magical, and it is always a joy to watch the kids square dance Inuit style. The laughter and joy in the place is always magical.

 

I guess it needs a roof

Building alone brings challenges, and forces you to be innovative. There are times where you need that extra set of hands, that just aren't there. So, sometimes you need to make them. 

Sheathing the roof was the part of the build I was least looking forward to. The roof pitch is steep, its almost 45 degrees (42 to be exact), and plywood sheets can be awkward to handle. A 1/2" sheet of plywood weighs about 18 kgs (40 lbs) and acts like a sail in any sort of wind. The lowest line of sheathing would be the easiest, as I could reach it from a ladder or scaffolding. After that, means getting on the roof, without sliding off and falling. So, I started with the easiest job, and that was getting sheathing on the porch, a much less pitched roof and only two sheets.
So in order to get the sheets onto the roof, and not slide down and cut me in half. My solution was to screw small pieces of wood onto the rafter tails, that extended above them. Then I could lift the sheets up the ladder, lay them onto the roof and they'd not slide off.  Then it was simply a matter of positioning them, and nailing them in place.
Once I had the first rows done, it was more or less time to figure out how I could, safely, get the other rows up, and nailed into place. Some of it could be done from the porch roof, and some I could reach, but clearly that wouldn't be enough. 

They make a hook system that attaches to a ladder, allowing you to hook it over a peak of a roof and work off the ladder. They make them, but clearly I couldn't run down to the store and pick up a set. I did end up ordering one, that arrived to late for this portion of the build (although they'd come in handy later on). So... I made a set. Now these were heavy af, and awkward, and I needed to change the angle of the hooks when I moved from one side of the roof to the other. (It's probably not clear why, so a brief explanation... when hanging the ladder onto an unfinished side, the ladder hangs on the centre ridge beam, when hanging on a side with sheeting in place it hangs on the sheeting, a difference of 42 degrees.)

I built these hooks on with Soviet engineering concepts: Over build the heck out of it and hope it holds together. But they did the job, and gave me a workout at the same time. I spent a lot of time going up and down ladders on this project, and this certainly was the case here.  The basic process was to get a sheet of plywood up on to the aforementioned jigs/stops. Reposition and then push it further up so it could catch the edge of the lower sheet of plywood, climb a ladder, then get onto the hanging ladder. After that the sheet would be put into its final position, nailed, the hanging ladder would then be moved across to finish the nailing across the entire sheet.

Typically I'd only get a sheet or three up in a session, along with perhaps some other fiddly stuff.  So this part of the project took awhile. About three weeks awhile. But eventually, the entire roof got sheathed in, and I finally had an enclosed cabin.

Running on photons

This past weekend we switch over completely to solar at the cabin until (hopefully) the dark season.  During the day the panels run the electricity and charge the battery, and after the sun goes down, it switches over to battery.  Amazingly even after the sun has set the panels are still contributing. The other day is was getting quite dark and the volts were still trickling in, I mean not much at that point but I was surprised.

When I took this photo the panels were still producing 170 volts into the inverter. At that point both the panels and battery were supplying the power to the cabin.

Now that we aren't running the generator we've left the heat on all the time, which means we can make quick trips out after supper to do an hour or two of work (currently that's painting trim). Its nice walking into a warm, quiet cabin. 

Its a wrap

Continuing on with the history of the cabin build... After the roof joists were up, it seems that the next job up would be getting that roof sheathed. But there were other things that needed tackling and, quite frankly, I wasn't looking forward to that aspect of the job. 

Now not every joist was done. The last few on the south side, next to the porch and above the deck, were still off. I'm a little fuzzy on why, (this is a year and a half later) but I think I needed material. But onwards and upwards. So the next big job tackled was the weather membrane. 

You can think of a weather membrane as a Gortex jacket for the building. The most common one, and the one I used, is Tyvek.  Now a weather membrane is designed to keep moisture away from the wood, so in that case its like the rain shedding properties of Gortex. But like Gortex it has a breathability to it, allowing water vapour to escape. So any moisture that does make it into the wooden shell escapes through the Tyvek. It is also windproof, helping to keep the cold out. 

Tyvek comes on rolls, and is stapled onto the sheathing. So you wrap the building in Tyvek, stapling it as you go. And because it is intended to be a complete barrier, you tape the seams, any holes, and the edges. 

There were still pieces of sheathing added to the gable walls before this job could be complete. And the Tyvek needs to be secured and covered.  You might have noticed that we Tyvek'd the walls before raising them, which is much easier than when they're vertical. But because winter happened and the Tyvek was left exposed the wind ripped our Tyvek off. Staples do not provide much holding power. 

Again, much of construction is about protecting the wood and materials. So you don't just slap siding against the Tyvek. Moisture would get behind that siding and eventually destroy it. So before the siding goes on you put strapping over it.  The strapping are strips of wood that follow along the studs (and around windows and door openings). This creates a gap between the siding and the weather barrier. This strapping is open at the top and the bottom, so that any moisture that does get behind the siding can drain out.

Some where along this process I also managed to get the remainder of the roof joists up, and figure out the joists for the porch and get them on. And once the cabin had been wrapped (missed the opportunity to say "once we'd wrapped up this job", or did I?) It was time to tackle sheathing the roof.

A warning for sailors

It was quite the sky this morning.