THE CABIN

My socks are steaming, the heady vapour lazily ascending to the cabin roof, mingling with the smells of cooking meat, sleeping bags and my unwashed companions. LeeJohn Meyook is telling the story of a hungry polar bear that terrorised a community in the search for food, and enthralled as I am, the proximity of my own meal rudely intrudes on his gripping narrative. I am ravening; there is a wolf in my belly and I lust for that steak, just like the ice-bear.

Outside, the dogs lie patiently, curled up, free from their harnesses but collared to long lines anchored between the snow machines and sleds. They too are hungry, but they are quiet, for now. The weak sun makes a dash for the western horizon, as ice crystals scrape their way across the compacted snow, forming embankments around the snoozing dogs. The only sounds out here are the wind and the slapping of a lanyard against its flag post. As I wait, I reflect on the journey.

By invitation, I am in Aklavik, North West Territories, Canada, at the end of winter. I have a team of seven dogs, a sled, sleeping bag, extra clothing, snacks for me and the dogs and enough trepidation to last a lifetime. Soon we will set off. Three sled teams, three snow machines, pulling boggans, loaded with what for now seems like an embarrassment of provisions: food, huge quantities of food, first aid equipment, a satellite phone, fuel for cookers and snow machines. I notice, nervously that LeeJohn is carrying a rifle. We are leaving the McKenzie Delta, bound for the old whaling station at Herschel Island, now preserved as a museum and visitor centre. It should take a week of mushing, behind those exuberant dogs; born to run, to pull the sled and my bulk with a willingness and power that belies their placid nature. They have been fed, they can see the harnesses being brought over from the tents, where they have been kept from freezing solid and now the dogs begin to howl. They jump and pull on their restraint, begging to be harnessed and set to work.

I am in the lead and I have to stand on the brake to stop them tearing ahead. They jerk and leap forward and if I do not control them they may suffer a shoulder injury as the strain comes on the harness. Already one of them has contrived to slip off a bootie; I steer the sled over it and bend, the thick warm trousers resisting, and scoop it up. We drive into the teeth of a hateful wind, driving spindrift before it and obscuring the way ahead, only just visible in the meagre early light.

I think of what lies ahead. Seemingly endless grey, biting wind, retrieving and re-fitting booties, snacking the dogs, energy bars, trail mix. Mile after mile of pumping the sled with one leg, balancing on the rail, helping the dogs. Hoping above all to make the trapper’s cabin at Shingle Point. If not, the hell of the tent, damp socks, and a bed that would punish my already tender back…….

The following image is by kind permission of Derek Crowe, Professional Photographer, of Whitehorse Yukon Territory, Canada. Derek was a participant in this journey as well as the official photographer and essayist.

https://www.derekcrowe.photo