By Donald M. Taylor
None of this can be appreciated without knowing the context. Never mind the distal context involving travels exactly half way round the world and exactly the inverse of my hemisphere, and 180 degree difference in temperature. It is the proximal context that counts here. The course began in below zero weather at remote Inuit Village A on Day 1. On Day 3, I left that course in full swing and boarded an Air Inuit, Twin Otter, plane to way below zero Village B, via Villages V, W, X, Y and Z. A day of presentations in Village B and the plan is to awake the next morning and plane back to Village A where the course can be picked up and continued as if there had been no break in the action.
Everything is unfolding according to plan. The Village B presentations have been given, the work day is done, and home I go, or at least what will serve as home for my scheduled one-night stay. Home in this case is actually a real home, not my home, but Roland’s home, or more accurately Roland’s castle. It is known as Roland’s castle, not because it looks like a castle, for truth be told it looks like every other box-like home in the Arctic. It is Roland’s castle because it sits on a ridge majestically overlooking the small village, the bay, and in the distance, mountains of pure rock and snow. But Roland is away from his castle for an extended period, and so it is home to my three-person research team for the week, and for me, just the one night.
But before waking up in Roland’s castle for the journey back to Village A, evening activities and the normal, and needed, eight-hour sleep are compromised by the carefully hidden restless anxiety that haunts every traveler in the Arctic--will there be a flight the following day? It is the fourth day of May but the weather is blizzard-like on this spring day.
The evening routine is familiar. Much discussion about supper where a consensus develops: It will be Coquille St Jacques prepared with, if we are lucky, one-third of the necessary ingredients. But first supper must be earned by engaging in a make-shift, non-contact kick-boxing class in the living room. One of our research team is a seasoned kick-boxer and so has us kicking the air in unison, to the right (higher), to the left (faster), straight ahead (one last time). Luckily no one is maimed and the furniture is still intact, although we all feel maimed and not very intact. But not long after, supper is attacked guilt-free, followed by our rented movie, to finally laze about and unwind. But eyes constantly dart to the windows, to the hard evidence about the weather, and always the unspoken question: Will there be a flight tomorrow? Only very occasionally will someone raise the issue of the weather and its potential impact on travel the next day. It’s as if voicing the uncertainty might bring bad luck, jinx the flight. But everybody knows that the weather-travel question is on everyone’s mind, and everyone knows that the question is on everyone else’s mind. This is the reality of travel in the Arctic.
At 7:00 AM, the gaggle of residents at Roland’s castle is jolted into a new day by the shrill of the telephone. The voice at the other end delivers a short, clear, but not unexpected message: “No plane today”. A quick glance outside confirms the obvious. The snow is falling, the wind is howling, the ceiling is low and the mountain not visible. And this is down in the village, let alone on the high plateau outside the village where the airport is located. Immediately I go into coping mode; relaxed on the outside, but inside plotting the rescheduling needed, the course adjustments to be made back in Village A, and how I can make most constructive use of time in Village B. I pretend it’s no big deal, but one by one the research team finds a moment to commiserate. They know full well the hassle factors associated with unpredictable travel, just as they know you have to cope or you would drive yourself, and everyone around you, nuts.
Just as I am sipping on by now my second coffee, making a lame joke about being on holiday, someone spots the school truck coming to a stop a short distance from the castle. Deep snow prevents the truck from getting any closer to the castle, so out jumps the school administrator flapping his arms like a frightened goose pantomiming that he has come to take me to the airport. I frantically grab bags, throw on my “spring” coat and unceremoniously depart Roland’s castle high on the ridge. Reaching the school truck requires half dragging bags along the snow while each step sinks into snow up to your thighs. Not a good start when all you are wearing to protect your feet are a pair of dilapidated Asics running shoes, but then remember this Arctic trip followed closely on the heals of a journey to one of the hottest climates in the world. Poor excuse I know and clearly my reputation as a seasoned arctic traveler is under severe threat—who am I kidding, seasoned maybe, but I’m a slow learner.
Once at the airport, or more accurately “air hut,” travel looks maybe, perhaps, potentially, possible. The snow is falling, the wind is howling, the visibility is low, but there is no CROSS-WIND and that’s the key. An hour is spent peering out the air hut window following the exploits of the snowplow making pass after pass along the short, gravel runway trying in vain to stay one step ahead of the snow. And then the keeper of the air hut tells us handful of passengers that the flight is delayed, with no hint of for how long. As if by magic the school administrator enters the hut assuming that I will want to go to do something constructive at the school while I wait. So we throw bags in the back of the truck and head down to the school. But how did he know about the flight delay? I don’t ask, just like I don’t ask how I will know if and when there will be a flight. But sure enough, an hour and a half later the administrator has found me in the school library and has me back in the truck where we once again gather in the hut for the flight.
I don’t ask about how he knew the flight was coming in, just as I didn’t ask how he knew the flight was delayed. Air travel in the north is a vital life-line; it is the only means of transportation between villages. Everybody in a small, isolated, Inuit village knows the comings and goings of every single airplane. Word travels fast and the administrator would no doubt be informed from several sources about the details of the flight, and not because he is an administrator with someone who is scheduled to fly. Everyone in the village knows every detail of the flight’s progress, or lack thereof. The administrator leaves promising to return if there are more delays or indeed the flight is cancelled.
Forty-five minutes later we are informed by Ms Keeper of the hut that the Twin Otter will make a pass over the village and attempt to land. This is a familiar ritual. The twin will begin its descent hoping that at lower altitudes visibility will improve to the point that the pilot can attempt a landing. If visibility is still too compromised the pilot will pull out of the landing pattern at the last second, gun the engine, gain altitude and continue on to the next village without us. We see nothing, but distinctly hear the Twin’s engines, and then only the drone of the wind. And then like a tall ship silently emerging from the mist comes the outline of an airplane, the airplane, my airplane.
Off we go and the news is good. The weather is so bad that we will not be able to land at Villages Z, Y, X, W, and V on the return schedule, and instead we will head straight for our final destination, Village A, where the course awaits. The delay in schedule will thereby be made up, but one is left to contemplate the disappointment among travelers and those waiting to receive the return of their friends and loved ones whose villages were bypassed due to inclement weather.
So what’s the punch-line here? A tight schedule, a few uncertainties, but in the end, I was where and when I was supposed to be. And surely anyone who travels with any frequency has a horror story to tell. True, but to understand travel in the North is to understand that my voyage in and out of Roland’s castle was the best and most efficient scenario anyone could hope for. All too often delays due to weather can affect travel for days, as can mechanical difficulties where repairs are made so challenging given the isolation and severe weather. Like I said, travel in the North is an unpredictable escapade, and by extension psychological challenge to all Inuit and Non-Inuit who must travel regularly. I tip my hat to these regular travelers, the pilots, mechanics, support crews and the families who wait patiently. Now, where did I leave my parka and arctic boots? Even in May they can be a necessity if you want to visit Roland’s castle.