Eight thousand years ago, the vast plains of the tundra that buttress Cunningham Inlet were under the sea. We can see this as we hike among the fossils and shells on its distinctly seabed landscape. Once past the rocks that have been gathered downstream by the river, the ground becomes soft and spongy with moss, sprouting tufts of grass like hair on the face of a teenage boy. A finger-thick branch of Arctic willow, growing low to the soil, might be a century old. Only the hardiest of life can survive here. Alpine sorrel (with leaves that taste like strawberry), Arctic poppies, and glossy yellow buttercups whisper a fragile beauty in this unforgiving starkness.
We hike along the blue river that cuts through Gull Canyon, spotting boisterous Arctic hares on the mossy green slopes. There’s no need to carry a water bottle; we simply drink from the streams. Mucks, the insulated rubber boot of choice at Arctic Watch, prove invaluable across this terrain. At one point, they magically keep water out after a river crossing that went up to my knees. I haven’t had such appreciation for a product since I discovered the iPod.
Five Arctic Creatures that Turn White for Winter
For greater warmth and protection against predators, animals in the Arctic go through a remarkable transformation in the winter.
Arctic hare: brown and black during summer months
ermine: world’s smallest weasel flips brown to white
Arctic fox: nature’s most northerly fox is brown-grey in summer
barren ground caribou: predominantly brown in summer, predominantly white in winter
rock ptarmigan: moults brown to white in winter, keeping its brown or black tail
We walk to Sunday Lake (“because we used to visit here on Sundays,” explains Josée) across a badlands landscape, discovering the scattered remains of bowhead whales miles inshore. Arctic fox cubs were spotted in a nearby den a few weeks ago, but today it is abandoned. The white skull of a baby fox on the tundra is a reminder that life is tough in the wild, and only the strongest survive. We walk past more bones. “Members of the Franklin expedition?” I joke, recalling the ill-fated British mission to discover the Northwest Passage, a mission that scattered the frozen, scurvy-ridden, and emaciated remains of 129 men throughout the region (see page 501).
A strong, biting breeze is picking up, so we return to the Watch, appreciating the hot roasted veggies and sweet desserts more than ever. Some primeval instinct has given me a huge appetite, as if it expects no further supply planes to arrive.