the renewed significance of march break

INUVIK, NT

Although the words 'March Break' inspire a disconcerting sense of having returned to my childhood, the week–long holiday was a much relished opportunity to gambol and frolic in the newly brilliant sun and somewhat milder temperatures. (I qualify the latter assertion because March statistically has two more days with temperatures below –20° than February, though three fewer in the below –30° range.)

The playground I lusted after like the monkey bars in the older kids' section of the schoolyard was the Richardson Mountains. Here was where I hoped to find peace (of the inner sort) and powder (of the snowy kind), both of which proved to be in generous supply.

On an unrelated note, for those of you who wish to keep tabs on my plans for the future (PFFs), the UBC School of Architecture has decided that my application was insufficient to secure a spot in their 2005 MArch programme. Given my hastily prepared portfolio and patchy academic record, I can't say I really blame them. However, this development now requires the formulation of a new PFF. Possibly, it will involve pharmaceutical drug trials.

Take good care, folks.

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Midway between the Richardson Mountains and Inuvik is a place called Aklavik. First established as a Hudson's Bay trading post in 1912, it grew to be one of the Mackenzie Delta's most prominent communities, with over 1600 inhabitants by 1952.

Unfortunately, the settlement was situated on land prone to erosion and flooding, so the federal government decided to build a new community nearby and relocate Aklavik's population. While many would leave for the drier pastures of what became Inuvik, other residents adamantly refused this uprooting and clung to their riverbanks.

Aklavik still floods every ten years or so, and its population continues to diminish bit by bit, but I really did get a palpable sense of a community being bound together, and it wasn't just because the town's motto is "Never Say Die." My gracious hosts were fellow volunteers with the same organization as me, and through them, I got a chance to meet all sorts of wonderful folk. One highlight in particular was a party celebrating the crowning of this year's Rendezvous King and Queen, where I learned to say lots of inappropriate things in Gwich'in.

The streetscapes of Aklavik seem to manifest the town's character. The buildings are some of the most iconic I have seen in the North, their weathered textures and tired angles only adding to Aklavik's aura of resiliency.

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The Beavers head up into the hills. Though the programme I'm with is called the Northern Education Project, it was originally named Operation Beaver. Up here, the moniker has stuck around, to the accompaniment of much ribald humour. To the left of me are Dylan from Alaska and Jenn from Wales. Not pictured are Chie from Japan and Olek from Poland, who stayed back at the cabin for a lack of skis.

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Our cozy mountain home, seen here at sunset, was a cabin owned by the Hunters and Trappers Committee, and free for use by the general population. Well–insulated, furnished with an air–tight stove, it was just about as I would envision the Platonic ideal of an alpine hut. Given my druthers, I'd have stayed another week.

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While being on the eastern half of the mountains meant we encountered more hard–blown crust than we did light, fluffy stuff, certain south–eastern exposures would still yield paydirt... er, snow. And when the snow was good, was the skiing ever fun.

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I suppose this doesn't need much commentary, does it?

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tree rings and other postcards

INUVIK, NT

I cut down a tree the other day as part of a community outreach programme run at the school, which supplies firewood to elders. The tree, dead and at 25 feet one of the smaller we felled, had 328 growth rings.

Cetacean, at least in its raw form, is both mildly fishy and mildly elastic. When I responded to the initial offer of muktuk with an anxious "But its brain is bigger than mine," the laughing response was, "Not anymore."

Whiskey–jacks (from the Aboriginal 'wis–ka–chon,' also known as the grey jay and Canada jay) will eat out of your hand, but only after the battery on your digital camera has expired from the cold.

Even in the Arctic, people start to tell you that you need to shave and cut your hair.

Much peace and love, all.

Photo above: Nazca–like, snowmobiles tracks over the town's old dump.