The sun setting across the ice that lies between Ulukhaktok and our cabin in Mashuyuk our first night out. The ice was ever so thin and the crystals were of ineffable beauty, but my little digital camera can't do them justice.Did I mention Dan got crushed in the ice? Yeah...project's over I guess.A ptarmigan still with it's winter plumage. Hard to see, even though I did get pretty close. Guess the camouflage works, eh?

Me getting in, what would be, the last quality butt-sliding of the season.
An Arctic fox checking out what we were up to. He didn't stick around long though, and I only could snap a few quick shots before he eluded my lense.

Like the time in my life where I was able to look at avant-garde forms of art and see content and beauty, where before I couldn’t see anything of worth, so too I no longer define the beauty of a landscape simply by its lush vegetation.

As I’ve already mentioned, the land around Ulukhaktok and the cabin in Mashuyuk is pretty much a barren, desolate, and bleak wasteland. Now, I realize these words have pretty negative connotations, they bring to mind the dust blown farms of the depression; they bring to mind places without hope and without life. So it’s ironic that I can’t think of better words to describe a place that has an aesthetic that is so pristine and beautiful and where life flourishes in subtle nooks of the land.

There aren’t colorful flowers in bloom or magnificently tall trees, but there are LOTS of rocks. These rocks have a fascinating loveliness all their own. Some, like the one below, were totally out of place when compared to the rocks around them. It looks like it’s made of fossilized or compressed sand, while the rock it sits is something harder, maybe granite.

Below is another example of a misfit rock. Are these glacial deposits, or have the muskoxen just been doing this to screw with our minds?

Here you see an example of the shale that is all over the place. This stuff is what makes me think that at one time the plateaus we walked over were once at the bottom of the ocean.

You can also see some of the colorful moss (or whatever it is) that grows on all the rocks. Whatever the plant is, it reminds me more of coral, then it does moss. It is hard and dry, but it clings to the rocks.

This stuff gives some really brilliant splashes of colour to the landscape, even before the short summer season. There were lots of greens, oranges, reds, and even splotches of mustard yellow. The colours must be different species of the same plant. Each species grows in a specific area. For example, I always saw the yellow on the underside of rocks but only on one particular hill. The side of the plateau behind our cabin was covered with orange stuff, but no other colour.

Through one of the lenses of my sunglasses, the top of this plateau kind of looks like the surface of some far-off alien planet. Appropriate, ‘cause to a southern boy like myself Mashuyak is completely out of this world! (I know, this closing line is pure cheese, but it’s true!)

Ulukhaktok is north. Not as far north as the North Pole, but pretty far north. Far enough north that there is no vegetation beyond the small varieties of mosses, grasses, and shrubs that cover the landscape, crouching low and hugging the rocks to escape the wind. Up here there are no trees to break the wind that whirls around the worn hills and plateaus and whips the across the valleys, plains, snow and ice, and the waters of the Arctic Ocean.
On the land around Mashuyak there is nothing that gets in one’s way of understanding the age of the land. There are no paved roads with motor vehicles zooming (except the few snowmobiles and quads); no masses of pedestrians milling; no large buildings competing with the horizon, their glass windows reflecting the gold of the setting sun; and on the land it’s possible to stop what you are doing at almost any moment and hear nothing. Silence. In this atmosphere, you can climb up the ancient hills that are forgotten by all except the wildlife, the hunters, and the abstract concept of time, and feel awe. Feel like you are on holy ground.

By coming up here, we have come face to face with the staggering age of the hills and plateaus that were once not simply mighty mountains, but mighty mountains a mile under a prehistoric ocean. As millennia passed the water levels dropped and the mountains felt the sunlight and air for the first time. The Earth shifted on its axis as glaciers cut, carved, and ground the craggy mountains to give them jagged cliffs and carrying massive boulders from them miles away. As this process continued, humans and animals at various stages of evolution walked, ran, hunted, killed, died, ate, and were eaten in the arms of the land. Storms raged; wind howled; sun blazed; and seasons passed.

Here lies one of the most precious natural resources: experience.

But how do you mine that?

How do you tap in?

How do you interview a mountain? The most patient and dedicated seeker would be lucky to get a breath, let alone a word. Nevertheless, Dan and I are here to listen.

Insulated by my down parka and wrapped in the serenity and peace of the ancient land, I was in one of those rare spaces where I could consider my mortality. The mountains gain accolades because they have existed millions of years. I have the equivalent of a blink, and what will I do with it? A sobering thought and a grounding question.

Sitting atop some of those mountains for hours yesterday reminded me of visiting my grandparents in that you rarely go as often, stay as long, or listen as much as you should; and yet, you learn.

The word “community” is one that might bring several different meanings and/or examples of societal construction to your mind. To me it means a group of people who have common interests. However, it isn’t just the existence of these common interests that binds people into a community; it’s their REALIZATION that they share these interests and their ATTEMPT to communicate and cooperate with one another. And when I think about this, I wonder if the feeling of real community in contemporary North American society isn’t in danger of becoming a thing of the past. I mean, these days it seems that we communicate better with one another over email or the Internet around the world about various common interests, yet can’t talk with people in our neighbourhoods about things that concern us. Do you find?

Regardless, I think it’s safe to say that a place with a sense of community is not only desirable to all of us, but something that we can all intuit when we are new to a town. For this reason, I think that hamlets, cities, towns, etc. that give a feeling of community are sacred. And therefore there is something here worth examining in the context of the Searching for Dragons project.

In the project, if we’re looking at the way the humans relate to nature and place, then we must not only look at the places where humans connect spiritually with the land, but also why our spirits come to be so connected with any place, whether it be a mountain range or a city block.

But what is the magic formula by which we can create a good community? Part of it has to be infrastructure, planning, and design – especially for larger communities; yet, the existence of these things does not guarantee instant community. I would go so far as to say that those things are just the window dressings of healthy communities, and that without the existence of certain intangible and qualitative variables the community is doomed. What are the variables? People who care about the wellbeing of the people they live with. Sometimes they are in positions of influence, and other times they are simply those who command respect because of their experience or wisdom.

Again, perhaps what I’m saying here is intuitive to us, but I honestly never gave the issue of community much thought until our second visit to Aklavik. It was then that we had the chance to have extended and meaningful chats with two people who make Aklavik a strong community: school principle Velma Illasiak and elder Mary Kendi.

We can all understand that education of the next generation is so important, yet often many of the educational systems in place have a way of perpetuating certain problems among students as well as sucking the spirits of its teachers and administrators. As the principle of Moose Kerr School, Velma strives not only to make the environment for learning at school the best it can be (even as that ideal continually evolves), but also is not afraid to challenge the system to achieve that. By doing this she creates dynamic conditions that benefit the 151 K to12 students, the staff, and herself as well.

(photo: Here Velma is seen seated in her office. Behind her is a photo of former school principle "Moose" Kerr and his wife. Moose was a visionary for his time, and Velma is his heir. In a telephone conversation Moose, now retired and living in Ottawa, asked Velma "Where were you 30 years ago?")

What makes me say this? Many native communities have social problems, and many of those problems stem from the loss of their traditional culture – this doesn’t necessarily mean their traditional way of life (though that is a factor) but just knowledge of their culture before satellite TV, before snowmobiles, before residential schools, etc… Velma is trying to help her students bridge the gap between the realities of contemporary native culture and its history. Velma also wants to make every student buy into the kind of responsibilities and duties that transcend the school walls into the community. To do this she establishes goals and explains to the older students (grades 7-12) how those goals impact them. Making education more like a partnership between staff, students, parents, and the community. It also gives students the respect that they deserve, but which few of us ever learn to do.

Another initiative undertaken by Velma several years ago to strengthen the bond between the students and the community around them was to ask a council of elders from the town’s three native cultures (Inuvialuit, Gwich’in, and Métis) to established values to be instilled in the students. The council agreed upon seven principle values that help to create a positive social environment at the school: caring and humility, friendliness and kindness, respect, honesty and integrity, love and regard for your fellow man, sharing, and self-responsibility. These values and their purpose were then engraved in plaques and mounted at the main entrance where they are impossible not to glance at. And, would you believe? The students listened!

Velma is what all community leaders should be and what all members of any community should try to emulate: not just a manager of the present, but a steward of the future.

Another key element of a strong community is the visibility of its elders. You don’t have to be a genius to see that a connection to and an understanding of the past is essential to the success of the future. For the younger generation, that connection comes through our grandparents.

Many native communities face an upward battle when trying to preserve oral traditions mostly because of the impact of TV. Their battle is one that we all need to be fighting. In much of Western culture we often shunt the old into homes, bringing them out at opportune times like war memorial days, Christmas or similar big holidays. Furthermore our culture is now rife with a fear of aging; we are not allowed to grow old, but must fight against its physical and mental effects to make sure that we are taken seriously and not like doddering old fools. In some ways I think part of the problem is also that many of our elders, after so much experience, can become jaded or unmotivated to stand up and command the attention they deserve. Mary Kendi does NOT fall into this category.

(photo: Mary Kendi told Dan and I to call her je-joo (not so sure about spelling) which means grandmother in Gwich'in. Here we are with our je-joo.)

Despite her lack of mobility, at 91 years old Mary is still fully involved in her local community, as well as the larger community of the Gwich’in people. I cannot fully convey how it blows me away that outsiders like Dan and me could simply go and talk with her on camera for three hours, as we did, and have her not so much answer specific questions, but just tell us about her experiences. (And believe me! Three hours could have just as easily turned into 4 or 5 days!).

What did she talk about? For example, the first time she set a rabbit snare. She was about 12 and didn’t really have a clue, but her mother told her too. So she went obeyed, but ended up just playing. She lied to her mother, that she had set one trap. Giggles erupt from Mary at the memory.

Another topic was her arranged marriage to her husband. She didn’t really even know anything about the man, except that he was a hard worker - a very important trait when living in the bush. How did she know this? Why, because he had creased and wrinkled pants! A bushman with pressed pants was obviously not a hard worker! Ladies please take note: Dan and I both have wrinkled pants.

Mary talked about her husband’s death and raising her 7 children alone. She talked about how she would take her youngest children into the bush with her hunting and fishing and teach them by example. She talked about residential schools. She talked about close calls on thin ice. She talked about youth losing their connection to the land.

The most amusing anecdote she gave was about the first time she saw and heard a radio. She was in the bush, and a trapper brought a radio and a battery by dog sled. He set it up in their tent and placed the aerial in a tree, and then turned it on. When she heard the voices coming through she said that she thought it was people coming from Fairbanks (Alaska), and she tried to get the trapper to turn it off so that they wouldn't find them. However, when she understood how it worked she split her sides laughing. And again, the memory of this made her laugh again.

Finally, Mary told us a story about a time she went hunting caribou with no bullets. Most of the story we couldn’t understand because she told it to us in Gwich’in, but just to hear her speak those foreign words to us purposefully and without interruption, seemed like a tremendous privilege. When we are able to learn this way from our elders our lives are enriched beyond measurement.

These two amazing women are part of the reason that Aklavik just feels like a solid community. Not a place that is free of problems, but rather a place where the wisdom and leadership exist to deal with and solve problems. We all need to hold people like Velma and Mary in our minds as we go about our day wherever we live. We need to pay attention to, support, and emulate them if we want to have a healthy community.

At the beginning of last week we took advantage of the ice road still being in good condition and went back to Aklavik (which I've been told means "place of black bear") to meet with a few people. The first night we parked the van at the airport and when to do some shooting in the night sun.

Below you see the shore line of Aklavik which at that time was, and probably is still now, covered in deep drifts of blown snow. We were standing where the river ice road rises to enter the town. Here you see the boats of townspeople nestled in their winter blankets that bury them to the gunnels. However, you know spring must be near as many people were out digging the snow out of the boats and preparing for break-up. Far beyond this boat that looks as it's just in the trough of some frozen and snowy wave, you can see the hazy silhouette of the northern end of the Richardson Mountain range, which we passed through on our journey up the Dempster Highway.What is this? Why, it's the rare giant northern iron moth.
Actually, it's an old snow plough that overlooks the river road it probably helped to clear at one time in the past.
Dan and I drove out from Aklavik the next day to get a better look at the Richardson Range. The ice road went on, but in the last 20-odd kilometres we got a little worried because, as you can see below, the road narrowed to bearly the width of the van and provided no places where we could turn around. This is one of the dangers of having a heavy load and no four wheel drive up here. As the ice road wound on through the arms of the Mackenzie Delta, we considered our options: to attempt to turn around, get stuck, and dig ourselves out with the "Oscar" shovel or shift into reverse and back up the whole way to where the road was wide. After a few stops where we half-heartedly tried to turn around, we decided to just keep driving. Eventually our "courage" was rewarded when the road ended and there was a turn around.

So, I've eaten some interesting things in my time; muktuk ranks among the top of that list. Muktuk, or whale skin and blubber, is considered a delicacy among the Inuvialuit people. Last Friday, our host, Martin, secured some muktuk from someone at work.

Muktuk is the thick leathery skin of the whale (several layers of it, similar to our however many layers of skin) and part of the layer of blubber that lies beneath it. It's served in several forms, of which I know two: stink muktuk and fresh.

Fresh muktuk is pretty straight forward: it hasn’t been cured at all and is best served when the whale has just been killed – though it will stay good for a long time in a freezer. Whales are hunted in the short summer months, when the sea ice has melted and there is open water.

Stink muktuk stinks, because it has been put away to rot for a certain amount of time. This gives it a "strong" taste. If made well, it's "delicious" and if made badly it can cause botulism - yikes! click HERE to learn about that fun disease. Apparently, some communities make stink muktuk better than others. Other communities think they make it well but don't, and the ones that do make it well send it to them so they don't start an outbreak of botulism. Neighbourly of them, no?

On this night we had fresh beluga muktuk. Beluga is more common in the central and high Arctic, but bowhead is apparently a better catch. Below you see several chunks of muktuk with the, er..."traditional" condiment of HP sauce.
No time to be squeamish (well actually, there is always time to be squeamish)! Ok...here I go!Hmm…texture is strange. The skin is like a meaty cheese and actually tastes like a mild blue cheese. The blubber however is a little on nasty side. The fishy taste I didn’t mind, but the texture was not pleasing to me. It was at this point that I gagged a little and went for a little more HP sauce to help it go down. Verdict: not half bad! Especially when compared to all the horror stories we heard, not to mention the threat of botulism! I actually went back for two more pieces, though I did cut off the blubber. Below you can see a little better how the skin actually looks like cheese, almost like a really thick rind of brie.

The final stop while we were in Aklavik that day was a visit with Annie B. and Danny A. Gordon. A cabin that Andrea and the kids from Moose Kerr School used during the Fish Hole Monitoring Project was in need of some renovations. Danny A. was going to bring building supplies out by snow machine while the rivers were still frozen and do the work, and Andrea just needed to let him know what the situation was. So, as a bonus, we were invited in for dinner.

Annie and Danny are elders in their seventies, though it’s hard to say for sure as they are both so spry. Annie, a Gwich’in, and Danny, an Inuvialuit, are one example of cross-cultural marriages that likely served to strengthen the community of Aklavik back in the day when there was still a visible divide between the two groups. Both Annie and Danny are active members in the community, Annie serves on a number of committees and Danny is one of the more respected hunters in town.

If you are in Aklavik looking for Annie and Danny an important thing you need to know about them is that they’re one of several elder couples of Annie-and-Danny-Gordons. So, naturally if you are going to talk about Annie and Danny, you need to know WHICH Annie and Danny they are. Confused? Well, it’s all about the initials. From what Andrea said, it seems that they have been given middle initials to avoid such confusion. So Annie B. and Danny A. and I guess Danny C. and Annie—or something like that. Clear?

When we walked into the house, Andrea sat down with Danny to discuss the renovations, while Annie was just finishing preparing a caribou stir-fry. The air was filled with a savory aroma of fresh caribou, and Dan bent down close to the pan to inhale the delicious smell. To both of our surprise, Annie told him off for doing so. Dan apologized and proceeded to do the only thing he could to make amends: eat a big portion.

Dan’s actions reminded Annie of a time when some unnamed white man, who she invited into her kitchen, turned his nose up at the food which she offered. And yet, the next time he came (uninvited) and helped himself to not one but several bowls of soup. “I have no use for a man like that,” said Annie.

Beyond Annie’s personal story, lies a small lesson on the evolution of cultural norms in northern aboriginal homes. During the early part of the last century when white visitors were even rarer then they are today, it was normal for people to offer food, whatever they had, even if they had very little. However, when many such visitors saw that the food was not the “standard” they were used to, they reacted in the fashion typical a spoiled child, “EWWW!” Likely, quite an embarrassment to such gracious hosts. So it went, that people stopped offering food, even to each other, and it became understood that if you were invited into someone’s home, then you are just expected to take what you want.

Such a beautiful, open, and generous custom was a pretty foreign idea to guys like us who are used to waiting until being offered, but we learned our lesson.

As we ate our food, Danny talked about the hunting this past winter, and how the rats (muskrats) were scarce. Danny said that this might have been caused by a quick freeze where the ice got thick quickly, before the muskrats could maintain their “push-ups” (air holes in the ice). Apparently, this is part of a natural 10 year cycle. Last year they were scarce, this year worse, and maybe one more bad year, and then their numbers will bounce back. The same with is true with the rabbit population. However, I heard on the radio today (May 5^th) people talking about how, since all the natural resource exploration the numbers of such animals appear in definite decline. Perhaps, Aklavik hunters have the same thing to look forward to should full development go ahead on the proposed Mackenzie oil and gas project.

As you see, Danny and Annie sat side by side. And even if one was talking the other would not hesitate to add an anecdote or just start talking about something different. So, sometimes it was hard to know who to listen to.

As it turns out, Danny is also one of the people in Aklavik, along with Donald Aviugana, who know how to make traditional drums. Danny brought out one of his drums and explained how it was made, you can see it below. This skin of the drum he’s holding here is made of parachute cloth, not the traditional caribou hide, but Danny said its sound is good and isn’t affected by moisture or cold. Caribou hide will swell with moisture, and if cold, needs to be warmed up otherwise the sound won’t be of the same quality.

The whole time while we talked there was a constant ebb and flow of people, mostly youngsters, through the house. So many I lost count. I wondered if they were all grandchildren, or what? Andrea said that sometimes, especially if alcohol is a problem in other homes, children in the community will just go to homes that they know are safe. No doubt, this house is a place of safety and love.

Before we left, Danny brought us out to his workshop, where he kept his what remained of his winter catch. But he also had something else: a young owl (I think a great horned owl) that he had found dead on the trail while checking his trap lines. I guess it’s not common to find birds of prey just dropping dead, so he brought it home with him. He told Andrea about it, and she volunteered to have it brought to a lab so it could be tested for disease or what have you. This is one way in which hunters help to keep tabs on the land and wildlife.

This little guy that you see below is was one of two super cute pups sitting outside Danny’s workshop. He was very friendly, and Dan wanted him. Annie said he could have the other, but that this guy was her granddaughter’s. Dan was sad, but not for long.

On the way home and over the next couple days we both buzzed about what a great opportunity it had been for us to be introduced to this community and all these great people. And we resolved to return, if conditions on the ice roads permitted.

Later in the afternoon, we had some time before Andrea’s next appointment, so she brought us to the Aklavik old folks home (I can’t remember the building’s actual name). Andrea told us that this was a place she often visits while in town because the staff and residents are very warm and friendly. She said that the residents are great to chat with or have a good game of cribbage with. On this occasion though, she thought we would enjoy meeting one resident in particular: Mary Kendi, a 91 year old Teetl’it Gwich’in elder, known and respected for her beautiful sewing and knowledge of traditional stories.

When we arrived, Mary was sitting on her couch, working away at sewing something, and listening to the CBC radio program As it Happens. We knocked, entered, and were greeted by Mary’s big warm smile. She put down her sewing as she welcomed us, we introduced ourselves, and she told us to have a seat.

Below you see Mary chatting in a very relaxed manner, on the couch beside her is her sewing that lies against a photo of her and her granddaughter from some years ago. Mary says her granddaughter is planning to return to the north after being in Toronto (I think) for many years.

We asked Mary if she was working on anything special, and she said no, just keeping busy. Because she isn’t very mobile, she can’t be as active, and so she just makes a bunch of things with whatever materials are handy and these eventually get sold at craft fairs, though sometimes she gets special orders.

We asked if we could see some of her work, so she pointed to a box under her kitchen table and told us to pull it out. Below you see the contents of the box: several pairs of moccasins made of home-tanned moose hide, a pair of moose hide mitts, and a pair of beaver mitts.

Mary told us that over the years she has sold her work to people around the world. This didn’t come as much of a surprise because, as you can see, the bead work and designs are so beautifully intricate. This, even though her fingers appeared to be afflicted with rheumatoid arthritis!

In a bowl on the coffee table in front of her, we saw these (below) cute tiny pairs of mukluks. “Who wears these?” Andrea joked as she held them up. Mary laughed and said they were for broaches.

We sat and chatted with Mary for about half an hour and the whole while she was jovial and always cracking jokes, but some of what she told us about her life was no laughing matter. For example, her husband died—drowned—while fishing alone in the early 1960s and left her with three young children. To provide for her family she went out on the land to hunt and fish, just like the men. No doubt, she’s a woman of immense strength of mind and spirit.

Look at the smile lines around her eyes and mouth, and all the marks of time and experience. There in, like in the rings of a tree, lies knowledge that can never be recorded in any book or interview, but to be in its presence just made me feel good and miss my dead grandparents.