Chapter Fourteen

I found it difficult to get up after all the partying, but with the day bright though very cold, I ate breakfast and took off. No question of a barometer in Christian Bay, and this next leg of my trip went through fairly deserted territory so I left feeling nervous, hoping the weather would hold. The bravado with which I had started was evaporating; I couldn’t stop myself remembering tales of travellers whose bodies had been found after the spring melt. I wrapped my scarf around my face, for the glass had fallen to minus thirty or more. The sun was blasting onto the dazzling snow, so I secured round my head the spectacles I had fashioned from a branch with only slits to see through, whittled by one of my parishioners.

We tore along all morning, and soon began to cross a stretch of deep bay, with the far cape a thin line in the distance. Much shorter to make straight for that, but did the ice hold solid all the way across? I decided to leave that to my faithful Tuck and, to cut off a few miles, I pointed the team straight across.

After a time of easy travelling I found myself dozing off. Something awakened me and behind I saw a great tower of cumulus bearing down from the southeast. The sky had darkened without warning because thunder’s omen never sounds in midwinter, frozen land being too cold to encourage contact with electrically charged clouds. Coming fast, I saw.

If we were caught out in the open by a real thumping blizzard which might imprison us for three or four days, it would finish us off, me and my dog team. We had to find shelter. And find it fast.

But in which direction? The shore lay a good hour away to the north. Anxiously scanning it, I saw neither houses nor woods. Should I still head in there? Perhaps deep beyond the shore might lie a stand of spruce offering shelter. Would we make that in time? No, for spruce was not a surety. To the southwest out in the Gulf, I made out a couple of islands. A fishing shack or two might have been built there for summer fishing. Should I take a chance and head toward those, hoping for an abandoned camp? But was there time for that either?

Trying to remain calm, I pondered the situation. I watched the storm clouds bearing down, flat black underneath, and tumbling high and white above like some great animal poised to leap. Closer and closer came the front, pursuing me and my team, and with it, a chilling damp that ate through my clothes.

I knew fishermen often left their summer camps unlocked because nothing remained to be stolen or pilfered, not that anyone here would do such a thing. All right, try the islands, I decided. I shouted to Tuck, “Ak ak!”

She paid no attention. I called again louder and she glanced over her shoulder as if to say, have you gone mad? But she did veer out into the gulf in the direction of the islands. Those clouds were really sweeping down after us with minds of their own, as if bent on our destruction. Quite a buildup of wind, I knew, and just as I grasped that thought, the air became bitterly cold, almost beyond bearing. This was a race I was not enjoying, much as I had revelled in team competitions back at Mutton Bay.

I yelled for the dogs to go faster, but they continued at their normal pace. To me, with that storm bearing down, they seemed to be positively dawdling.

I called again, slapped my hand on the komatik, but to no avail. Nothing for it but a touch of the whip. I got it out and tried to crack it in the best teamster fashion. No such luck. I yelled again in frustration, and whipped hard at my pittuk dog, Rob, the closest, and the one ahead of him. They gave yelps and struggled to increase their pace, but without much effect. I screamed at the team, frustration boiling up. After a few more tries, I was able to make the whip crack. Tuck looked back again as if to say, what on earth are you up to, Jack? But she did increase her pace and the whole team began to speed along, fanned out before me, straining at their traces. I shouted encouragement, checking over my shoulder, and tried to shun any idea that we might not make it.

About half a mile from the island, the first flurries struck and the wind tore at us. We’d soon be stranded out in the middle of nowhere. Alarming indeed! But I made out a tiny black square against the sky. A house for sure. Out of reach, most probably. I shouted at the team.

Snow flew up from the paws of the scurrying dogs and a lump struck my eye, causing it to water. And then, would you believe, that froze on my cheek. What a pickle! I had dropped my scarf from my face to shout and now my nose and cheeks had likely gotten frostbitten. I knelt on one knee, leaning low to reduce the wind drag, and used my free leg to kick us along yet faster. I don’t mind admitting I was scared. Then didn’t the dogs stop? I yelled at them, but saw they were rolling over in order to get the snow out of their eyes, and off we went again. My mind tumbled with thoughts of what to do if we were indeed caught out here.

The snow swirled heavily around us. This whipped-up drifting made the going even harder. I began to panic. But what more could be done? Prayer seemed the only escape route. And pray I did. Out loud.

I felt a bump, which meant we had struck a reef of rock which perhaps indicated the edge of the island, and then the faithful Tuck raced on over the bumps that indicated, I was sure, uneven ground. Yes, we had reached the island. When I could hardly see anything before my face, the dogs pulled up the komatik in front of a fishing camp, nothing more nor less than a shack that had presumably housed a whole family in the lovely summer months.

I leapt up onto the narrow house bridge, or veranda, and thank heaven the door opened. I went quickly back and forth to bring in provisions, wondering what to do about the dogs. This could all pass overnight, or stay three or four days, not uncommon hereabouts. If I were to get out alive, the dogs must be cared for, fed, and kept safe.

Under a stagehead, I decided — surely there’d be a stagehead down at the water’s edge. I made my way through the drifts and peered. Yes, piled with snow, the end blown clear, a good-sized stagehead. I came back to release the dogs from the komatik and bring them down. I tied the sealskin traces around the stagehead beam and one by one pushed each dog into the space under the stagehead, by the rocky shore. When the last dog was safe, I turned but could not see my camp. I wiped the snow from my face and peered again. Only thirty feet away, already it had disappeared.

Now what? Stay with the dogs under here? No, no question of that. But if I didn’t hit the camp, I could wander for hours, and freeze to death. Against my better judgement, I struggled up through the drifts, falling a couple of times. When I squinted through the blizzard, I still saw nothing. Should I keep going? Suppose I missed the shed by even a few feet, I could pass it, go on and on, and end up lost, frozen, just another North Shore casualty.

Make a try, I thought. And then, somehow I struck the end of the low house bridge. I clambered up, got inside, shook the snow off, and took in my surroundings. A barren room, with an out-of-date calendar and a faded religious picture, a dishtowel hanging on a hook by the stove. Yes, delight of delights, a stove. At least I would not freeze tonight.

But a stove needs wood. No wood inside.... Better check round the back, I thought, and forced myself outside again into the gale of snow. With an arm out, touching the walls to stay close, I made a circle of the house. No wood anywhere.

These islands produced no trees so all firewood had to be carted from the mainland — not a commodity to lavish around. So I had my nice stove, my dry matches, but no wood. The kindling I carried to begin fires in the woods would not last twenty minutes.

No way to heat myself a cup of tea. I got out cold bread and tacky molasses and sat on the floor to munch on it slowly. The house was already shaking, the wind whistling through the cracks between the boards. A fine home for the summer, no doubt, but hardly made for winter.

Seal meat for the dogs, yes. Better get it out to them before we’re quite shut in, I thought, and so I unwrapped some I had brought in from the komatik. I forced the door open, but could see nothing beyond two or three feet. With the fierce wind and the snow swirling, I was facing a whiteout. No hope of finding my way to the dogs. I’d heard stories of men dying within ten feet of their homes in such conditions. I wanted none of that.

I pondered what to do, and then came up with the idea of tying a spare dog trace around myself. I got one from my komatik box, secured one end around the heavy stove, the other round my waist, and out I went.

After three paces, didn’t I fall off the platform. But as the snow was deep, no harm done. I picked myself up and went in the general direction of the stagehead. After being quite surrounded by whiteness, my foot stepped on air, and I hurtled down, striking my head on a rock or chunk of ice, and blacked out.

How long did I lie there? I only know that when I came to, I found myself buried under snow. Dizzy, I struggled up, blood trickling into my eyes. But I heard a dog sneeze only a few feet away, and started to crawl on hands and knees over. Then I remembered, blood! Yes, don’t go too near. They’ll smell it. What would happen to me, then? I didn’t trust them.

I tried to staunch the blood from my scalp. I never dreamed so much blood ran just under my hair. What a copious flow! But I packed snow on it and pressed hard. After a while in this blizzard, the wind whipping me with coarse grains that stung like salt actually froze the bleeding. Surely that would keep the smell down.

I picked up the meat, pushed it ahead of me, and crawled closer. I threw some in, and heard their wolfing sounds as they gulped it down. Using the sealskin trace, I pulled myself back to the camp, got inside, and shook off all the snow. Mitts off, I rubbed my hands together to warm them. Now my nose and cheeks began to hurt as though they’d been badly burned. Frostbite, yes, but here, out of the wind, they had begun to thaw and with that, the pain started. My head did not bother me much, though it kept throbbing. In this cold, the blood would dry and the wound be staunched.

Nothing for it but try to ignore the frostbite. Darkness had set in; no candles here, for sure. I always travelled with one so I found it and got it alight to give me time to wrap myself in blankets. Only slightly better than being outside, I said to myself, for the wind was driving the snow through cracks and under the door.

What a night it turned out to be — the worst of my life, without any doubt. I was afraid the whole rickety camp would blow over. Such a horrible force of wind, rocking the timbers, shaking the camp on its meagre foundations. At one point I heard a horrible crash: the stovepipe had blown down.

Fortunately I had no fear for my dogs, being under the stage. But for myself, the windows kept rattling, the timbers creaking and rustling, and the wind howling like a savage spectre. Yes, I admit I was rather shaken.

How I ever slept through that storm, I have no idea; I would awaken and drift off again. Perhaps the ghoulish shrieking and battering of the wind felt somehow comforting, knowing that the Almighty was much in evidence. Or was that just the result of my dreamlike state? Perhaps, if I prayed, I might finally have this visitation for which I longed.

The next morning before dawn, I awoke with great hunger. Lighting the stub of a candle, I was able to cut off bits of frozen salt cod from one of the chunks I had brought and tore at it with my teeth. I ate some snow because I was thirsty, and then I set about trying to plug the more ominous cracks: the komatik box I pulled against the door, and found a loose board which I leaned against the one window whose pane was missing. I jumped up and down, beat my arms around my body again and did deep knee bends to get the blood circulating. It felt as cold inside as out, but at least in here the wind did not gust so violently. My nose and cheeks still hurt from the frostbite and I rubbed snow on them, lots having blown in through the various openings.

No sign of the storm abating, so I contrived to sit near a window when the light grew sufficient and read the Bible, which might take me outside of myself.

Of course, with freezing fingers, I turned to Second Corinthians, St. Paul’s most personal chapter, for I knew he too had done a lot of travelling. When he wrote it in Ephesus, he’d been there before and all around, even back to Jerusalem. I hoped to find something that might help me through the coming days. And before I had read far, in fact in chapter six, I found what I was looking for. I read it over and over, and then paraphrased it in my mind:

Indeed we want to prove ourselves genuine ministers of God in whatever we have to go through — patient endurance of troubles or even disasters; having to work like slaves, having to go without food or sleep. We want to meet all this with sincerity, with insight and patience; with sheer kindness by the Holy Spirit; with genuine love, speaking the plain truth and living by the power of God.

And then I skipped to the next bit:

Never far from death, yet here we are alive, always “going through it” yet never “going under.” We know sorrow, yet our joy is inextinguishable. We have nothing to bless ourselves with, and yet we bless many others with true riches. We are penniless, and yet in reality we have everything worth having.

I wished I had my copy of Pilgrim’s Progress with me, for this certainly fit with Mr. Christian’s journey. In fact, I was reminded of Apollyon, the monster, whom I could very well imagine howling around this little camp. How did he overcome that beast? I think it was by persevering and meeting the situation head on and not turning back, and as I saw it, I could do nothing else. I hoped it would produce the same result. After all, I do remember the Christian saying, from the prophet Micah, “When I fall, I shall arise.”

And that is how I got through the day: reading, leaping about beating my arms and hands, marching with my knees up, anything to keep warm, which I made into a kind of game, and then dozing off. I wondered how many days I could keep this up, being freezing cold and hungry, but the signs of abatement began to make themselves felt late in the afternoon. Might it indeed be coming to an end? Lo! By sunset the wind had died down and I ventured outside.

What a glorious snowscape! So very white, so pure, a late low sun struggling to throw a few golden rays across the contours, gilding the monochrome a deep bronze. I searched the horizon for sight of some kindred soul struggling like a polar explorer over the ice with his dog team. But of course I was alone, quite alone. And a long way from any habitation. I was tempted to remain standing against the wall, just drinking it all in.

But the dogs! Time to get their food. My head wound had long dried, the blood caked solid, so I considered myself more or less healed. It throbbed a little, but no sharp pain. I went to retrieve some of the seal meat and poured cod oil over it. The komatik itself lay under a great drift that camouflaged it. In the rapidly sinking sun, I cleared some snow off and got one of my rackets. I stepped off the bridge into a deep drift, and then trudged over to where I thought I might find the stagehead, where I heard my team rousing and stretching. Using my racket as a spade, I unearthed the wooden platform. I dug some more, got to the open cavern beneath, and threw in a good supply of seal meat. Although they hadn’t been working, they fell upon it with their usual ravening.

Then I returned to my house bridge but before going in, turned once again to take in my location. Snow had arranged itself in exquisite drapings — delicate ridges scrawled across the island in some ancient Aramaic, or heaped up into tiny fetching peaks, smoothing out blemishes, blending land and sea into one vast softened parchment. Out across the gulf, the flat ice lay unbroken by any tracks, all wafted into whorls of indecipherable tracings, so pristine and pure. The setting sun, now lower, threw its beams and shadows at different angles, highlighting the ancient script written in the snow’s own cuneiform, so delicate that it appeared virginal, almost holy.

I wondered if paradise were like this? We always think of it, or the afterlife, as being rather more like butterfly-filled gardens. But nothing could approach the utter purity and cleanliness of all this. I felt bewitched, intoxicated, even delirious with the extraordinary beauty that some great Writer of the Snows had scrawled into my northern landscape. Even the dogs had not stirred from under their stage to mar the pristine purity.

Yes, it was cold. I could hear the house crack as occasional gusts flicked their icy whips against its flimsy walls. But on the whole, calm prevailed, although I heard the faint tinkle of ice cracking over the thin air, icicles snapping, and those delicate sounds one associates with winter, which would be impossible to describe for someone who does not know the Far North.

Feeling immensely cheered that we had weathered this storm and that I had made the right decision to head for an island, I went back in and again chewed my way through some dried codfish, which apart from the salt was tasteless to the point of absurdity. But with my appetite returning somewhat, it felt good just to have tough gristle to chew on.

After the outdoor light had faded and the candle I had lit began to burn low, the sight of a moon out the window drew me to the door. I rose rather stiffly and slipped out.

The low half-moon sent sharp rays over the luminous drifts. The shadows themselves, now dark blue, gave me an alternative view from the earlier setting sun. I leaned back against the door, blowing out my breath and watching it drift up in a cloud and disappear. I revelled in this moonlit experience. Was I not blessed to be on this island set apart from all others, lonely and gaunt, casually draped in glittering snow on its great tableland of the gulf? Such a shame that only those who are handed God-given challenges, as I consider myself to have been, are the ones to whom moments of great joy are often bequeathed.

I looked up. Oh my! Such vast black interstellar spaces above, who could not marvel at them? Singly and then in growing clusters, the stars began to emerge. Those same stars were of course winking at my family in the Gaspé. Would I have a letter from them when I returned to Mutton Bay? In any case, duty prompted me to get down to writing them with a full report. When I had left in August, my mother had hinted I might be having a little brother or sister in the winter, and I was anxious to know the results of that.

Such a pity that our Lord had not appeared to mankind in northern climes such as this, for then he could have himself experienced such extraordinary fresh moonscapes. And those Northern Lights, which I have not mentioned for we have them in the Gaspé, though not so vivid as here, dancing across the heavens in displays of celestial brilliance. I never ceased to marvel at them, night after night, willowy wafting curtains designed surely by the Lord of all to show us His predilection for beauty and harmony. But then I reflected that He is in all of us, and through me, He must be also rejoicing in my solitary, but yet by no means lonely, happiness.

After a long time of standing, I’m not sure how long, I became conscious of being more than usually chilled. I went inside in and closed the door, and then proceeded to do some warm-up exercises, beat my hands around my body and leap about. I had to prepare myself for bed and knew I should not get under blankets this chilled. Whatever had possessed me out there, I wondered, as I began to pant with exertion? A big day lay ahead tomorrow, I knew, and I had to force myself into a good deep sleep.