The House & other Arctic musings

The landslide brings you down.

The Saint George's Society Cliffs are one of my favourite places out here. Spectacular red vertical cliffs that jut 600 feet out of Adam's Sound, they are right around the corner from where I live. This time of year we are often found standing below them on the sea ice, especially at the Gyrfalcon aerie tucked into their face. This photo from last year will give you a bit of an idea of scale (note Dave Brosha on the ice).

They are a crumbly cliff.  Thousands of years of freezing and thawing cycles annually drive wedges of ice in cracks, popping rocks off that tumble down the cliff landing far out onto the frozen sea. Often, especially after the sun circles away from the cliff face, you can hear or see rocks come loose and bounce down the face and out onto the ice. In 2008, I wrote about a rock fall that happened in between visits, hours apart.

Leah tells me a story about her grandparents camping across Adam's Sound from cliffs and watching part of the cliff face give way and smash into the ice, sending a huge splash up in the air, visible from some 5 to 10 kilometres away. If I was taking a guess I would think that rock came from where the Gyrfalcon aerie is. The cliff face is scooped out there, and looks less weathered than the surrounding rock, greyer.

I was last out there the Sunday before last, and made plans to go this weekend. This Sunday was one of those glorious spring days we enjoy up here this time of year. We dog sledded in the morning and the dogs had an incredible run. It is something to watch them, especially at the start when they hit 20 mph. It is impossible to wipe that smile of Travis' face.

In the afternoon, we joined much of the community, and several dog teams out at the iceberg for tea. Breaking one of the fundamental rules before heading out, I didn't check the camera battery, or put a spare in my pocket. A wonderful afternoon, with so many great photo opportunities it hurts. Dog teams + iceberg, yeah no potential there.   But while there a friend who just got back from a short holiday asked if I'd seen the landslide at the cliffs.

I hadn't and he pointed at the cliffs some 15 kms away and said "you can see it where that white strip is".  Sure enough, a light streak marked the cliffs where none had been.  We headed home, Travis joining one of the dog teams for a ride back on the qamutik. He will one day return the favour, passing along his growing skills with a dog team to some starry eyed youth.

After supper, he and I headed out to the cliffs. We hoped to see the Gyrfalcon, and I wanted to get a closer look.  Shortly after we arrived, Travis spotted one of the pair slipping away.  It had been perched further away from the aerie than we'd expected and I would have missed it if not for his sharp eyes. High up on another section of the cliff, perhaps 400 feet up, we found a Raven's nest. Somewhere, hidden from our view halfway up a Snow Bunting was belting out song.

But further up we found the slide. It had to have been spectacular to see. The scar on the rock reached to the top of the cliff, and rocks and what I thought was a dust field stretched far from the face, covering well over an acre.

What I saw as I got closer surprised me. The rock fall had smashed through a large area of the ice, turning the nearly smooth surface into a field of small iceblocks. The dust field, was in fact the splash zone.  The spray must have enormous to cover such an area. Someone standing below would not have stood a chance.

As I headed further and further out to try and get the scene in my telephoto lens we made another discovering.  The remains of Raven reduced to nothing but feathers. We have little doubt that it was the handiwork of the Gyrfalcons. And with that we headed for home, for with the Sun still high in the sky it was easy to forget that it was already passed someone's bedtime for school night.

Nemesis no more

It may surprise some people, given where I live, that I have never seen a Snowy Owl up here. Oh I've seen them in the south, on one of their irruptions, but never up where they are a common breeding bird. But I've never travelled to where they commonly breed, and have relied on chance to find them in their travels, foraging or moving from their breeding grounds. And chance has not been kind.

You see, for me, Snowy Owls are what are known as a nemesis bird, a bird that the fates seem to conspire against ones seeing it. Its not like they haven't been around, just that everyone would see one, but me. This year, due to the extremely good breeding year (thanks to an extremely plentiful year on the lemming cycle) Snowy Owls have been seen extensively in the south, as far south as Dallas Texas. A lot of juvenile birds, coupled with the crash of the lemming population meant that the birds were pretty far flung, looking for sufficient rodents to hunt.

Up here, we've also seen this bounty.  Well, others have also seen this bounty. At least three Snowy Owls wintered around here and succumbed. Two were killed by Ravens and a third was found dead of unknown causes. And from late winter through to now I've heard reports of at least one that has been around town. Everyone, well almost everyone, has seen it, with more frequent sightings as we've turned the corner to Spring. I've even seen video footage of the damned thing perched on a pole, taken by one of my son's friends on his iPod. Victor Bay, the dump, the road to the airport are all different spots where it has been seen. And I'd hear about it after the fact, "Did you see the Snowy Owl by the Hamlet Garage?" Why no I didn't, thanks for asking.

And its not like I'm not out looking.  We're out for a drive almost every evening. I make special trips when I hear of recent sightings. It just wasn't meant to be. Such is a nemesis bird.

Yesterday was another glorious spring day here. Temperatures are beginning to approach (but not quite reach) zero, but the constant warm sun makes everything feel warmer. Couple that with little or no wind and that makes it all but impossible to be indoors. Yesterday we took full advantage of it. 

In the morning we went dog sledding out to the St George's Society Cliffs, the dogs having their best run of the year so far. The two of them live to be in the traces, their excitement when they see the harnesses come out of the porch is intense. Yesterday they ran hard and fast from the moment they took off and you had the sense they would have ran all day if we'd let them.

After lunch we took our tea/coffee/hot apple cider/hot chocolate/instant something almost, but not quite, completely unlike lattes out further down the cliffs. We sat below the Gyrfalcon aeries, hoping to enjoy the bird's company. But they remained hidden from us and we were content to watch Ravens soar along the cliff face, almost brushing it with their wings.

Late afternoon we decided to take another run with the machines and leave the qamutiq behind.  We headed over down Victor Bay where Leah's parents are building a cabin. There was some debate about which route to take but my choice to go past the dump along the gentle valley in King George's shadow won out. As we got closer to Victor Bay I watched a Raven along the hills, and then saw another glide across my path further down. Only this one was pale.

My first thoughts were that it was gull as they have recently arrived back, but the flight wasn't right. It landed on a low ridge by the frozen river and I stopped and retrieved my binoculars from behind the seat. It was an owl. Obviously one that didn't get the memo that I was to be avoided at all costs. It was a juvenile or a fairly dark female, but unmistakeably an owl.  Leah had stopped and I handed her the binoculars and began describing where it was. About that time I realized my camera was hanging around my neck, and simultaneously the owl took off, disappearing behind the ridge. 

We headed over that way, hoping to get a better look and at least a record shot, but when we saw it again it was disappearing over another small ridge, and we decided not to pursue it further and cause it undue stress. As we turned and started off again for the cabin I'm sure a smile broke over my face. The jinx had been broken, Snowy Owls were no longer a nemesis bird.

Now about those Sabine's Gulls.

Pins on a map

This afternoon, as I walked from the plane to terminal in Iqaluit I looked back to a beautiful slim crescent moon, followed in the sky by Venus and Jupiter. As the sky has deepened tonight I can't seem to keep my eyes from drifting up to them. It is a nice way to (almost) end my trip. One more leg, tomorrow, and I'm home. 

I've been travelling this week for work. And I have travelled the length and breadth of Nunavut, and not just figuratively. From 73° North, south to 62°. From 68°W in the east, clear across into the NWT capital of Yellowknife.  It was eight days, for three and a half days of meetings.  That saw me stop in all three regions of Nunavut: The Baffin, Kitikmeot and Kivalliq and seven communities including two territorial capitals.

Some of the places were new to me, new pins in my mental map of Nunavut. Even though a couple of the new places, Gjoa Haven and Taloyoak, were simply stops at the airport enroute. Cambridge Bay, on the other hand was a welcoming place were we spent several days. Although I didn't get to see much apart from the hotel and the meeting rooms I liked what I saw in my short walk. I had hoped to get a chance to see and photograph some of the many Muskoxen in the area, but unfortunately they were quite far from town while we were away and time wouldn't allow it.

Travel isn't always easy up here, and there were glitches along the way. But that is all part of the experience of travelling in the Arctic. I spent time with fellow bloggers, Craig, Megan and a brief visit with Tara. People I usually only get to talk with through their blogs or facebook. We had good sessions, and I once again am coming back inspired by my fellow Economic Development Officers, men and women who I hope are appreciated by their communities, because of the awesome work that many of them do.

Checking in to my hotel tonight I found that I lucked into a huge corner suite, complete with a king sized bed. Alas there is no one to share it with. I miss my wife and kids.

I miss home. Tomorrow, barring any of those northern travel glitches and weather permitting, I will be home. And that is where I long to be.

Alone in the Dark, an Arctic CBC

It shouldn't be a surprise, given where I live, that it gets cold up here. The last few days have hovered around -30C, which is pretty normal for this time of year. It also shouldn't come as a surprise that vehicles really don't like the cold. A couple of days ago our truck gave up the ghost and refused to start, plugged in or boosted. It is probably the starter.

So knowing that I had a Christmas Bird Count to do today I planned on travelling by snowmobile. And although we have two, one of them was being used by Leah's brother. So this morning I went out to warm up the four stroke, but it wouldn't go. The battery was dead. This would be a Green CBC, done on foot.

At 11:00 am Travis and I set out.  He wanted to visit with his cousin on the far side of town, so he'd walk with me for the first section of the search. For those of you who do not know what the Christmas Bird Count is it is an annual count of birds that has been going on for over 100 years. It takes place every year between December 15th and January 5th and is one of the biggest citizen science projects there is.  Data compiled during the hundreds counts each year is instrumental in showing trends in bird populations.

Our route took us across the sea ice, my plan to count the Ravens at the dog teams, which are always good producers this time of year. There was a lot of activity at the teams, but not the type I anticipated. Pretty much every team had someone there, readying them for a race, and putting dogs in their traces. A lot of people meant no Ravens and by the time we left the sea ice we had only seen seven Ravens, silhouetted against the dark sky.

Yes it is dark, well twilighty now. We are only a week and a half from the Winter Solstice. The Sun's arrival is over four weeks away. I left Travis and headed to the dump.  By the time I reached the dump road I'd seen Fifty Ravens, and by the time I'd left there another seventy some more. The half moon was rising above the hills as I contemplated climbing up to the most scenic sewage lagoon in the world and try and find some ptarmigan.

At the end of it, I decided to head back to town and try for another species, for yesterday evening a friend let me know that he'd been hearing redpolls near his house.  Heading there would maximize my light for the search for a bird I knew would be around.

Turning back to town I discovered that the slight wind had been at my back on the walk out.  It wasn't much of a breeze but I could feel its bite as I headed back in. As I reached town I turned up to the highest street, next to the tundra below the hills that surround town. Almost immediately I saw what would lead to my first surprise of the day. For there were two young boys walking around the tundra above town, and they seemed to be stalking something. As I got close I could see that they were indeed chasing something, four Rock Ptarmigan, which were easily evading them. I did not expect to see them in town, and had given up getting to a place where they might be.

I continued on to my friend's house, where I hoped to hear the redpolls.  As I stood there I noticed a Raven jumping back and forth that seemed to be after something. And then a flash of white, and the binoculars revealed another Rock Ptarmigan, probably from the same flock and separated.  As I walked to where it was I came across the boy's footprints, so that is no doubt what happened.

But there were no redpolls, and I'd walked a long way in the cold and the thought of some hot stew and coffee drove me home. And to my next surprise for a species I had given up on.

As I neared my house I heard a twittering and looked up to see a flock of Hoary Redpolls flying overhead, almost right above my house! I quickly counted eleven, although there were more and they disappeared into the growing gloom. Then I put the charger on the snowmobile, played with the dogs, and headed inside.

And in the morning.

Two ravens flying with purpose to a destination they alone knew, came straight at me from far out over the bay. Behind them the pale blue sky was tinged with mauve and pink at the horizon. The first sunless morning of the season was breaking.

There is a quality of light here that staggers one. Sets you back on your heels. Those jet black feathers against that light made me suck in a breath and my gaze bounced between them, until they passed over head and my eyes returned to the horizon.

This will be my 13th winter here and the vistas never fail to give me pause, to take my breath away. Who needs the sun when your world is filled with skies such as these.

At the going down of the Sun

Yesterday the Sun set. And that's okay.

We'll not see the Sun again here in town until the 6th of February. That curious tilt of the earth (23 1/3˚ if you're interested) has carried the pole away from the Sun and into the Earth's shadow for the next three months.

If you've followed along you'll know that I don't mind the dark season. The dark season has it's own charms. It is never completely dark. Even on the Solstice we lose the stars (but not the planets) at noon. It goes by quickly, and the sky is painted with an every changing palate of colours. The stars seem closer here than anywhere else on earth.  Close enough to brush the imagination.

In six short weeks the twilight will begin to grow, and with it the anticipation, the sweet sweet anticipation of seeing that first sliver of the Sun peek over the mountatins across Adam's Sound. It is hard to describe, its rays aren't warm enough to feel on your face, but it warms the soul. I think its the constancy that comes from the reassurance that it will continue to return. No fears, the Earth eventually makes that turn and the warmth does return.

But it takes awhile, traditionally the month after the Sun's return is our coldest month. But every day as the Sun creeps higher above the horizon the promise of Spring returns.

Anticipation

I so cannot wait to be able to get safely closer to this iceberg, which will probably spend the winter locked in the ice near town. I know, I know, more iceberg photos. You'll just have to tough it out.

The Big Freeze

Arctic Bay froze yesterday, hopefully it will stay.  If the calm weather remains, it will.  Once again it is late from what I know as normal, the Thanksgiving Weekend.  My understanding was normal used to be even earlier before I got here.  The last six or so years have seen late freeze ups, from 3 weeks to almost twice that.

Late last night you could see that the grey ice had begun coalescing into new landfast ice, and this morning it was ice throughout the bay.

Though most of the boats had already been pulled up for the year the season wasn't done quite yet.

We've had windy, miserable weather for so long that many people were anxious to get out on the water. Anxious enough to bust through the forming ice to get to the open water in Admiralty Inlet.

Threading their way home after a long, and hopefully, successful day's hunt.

Perhaps

It looks as though there may be some sun shining tomorrow. It may be a good day for some photography at last.

Pulled

Today the remaining boats were pulled from the water, as it looks as though freeze up has begun to take hold. But for this wind the bay would be solid.