Dempster Diary Update 11

The Eighth Day - Innuvik


I must admit that the MacKenzie Hotel (named after Sir Alexander Mackenzie who visited the site where Inuvik now exists on July 19, 1789 on his historic trip down the Mackenzie River) was quite nice: a businessman's hotel, no doubt, certainly light years removed from the rather homey (and occasionally shabby) accommodations I had both patronized and passed by during this trip.  The rooms were clean, the halls and lobby and facilities had that scrubbed looking appearance that comes from being both new and maintained.  On the other hand, I noted with some amusement that the tables in the dining room (which were supported by had a center pillar resting on a wide pad) were liberally streaked with mud from the people staying here, which no-one had bothered to clean.  I make no further comment except to snicker a little.


All this aside, the plan for today was to figure out what to do.  I started calling around early (which was no great chore, since the sun made its appearance around five this far north, even this late in the year) to get myself on a flight to "Tuk".  This proved to be a little more challenging than I had anticipated because the listed agent no longer did the tour, and the number he gave me for a replacement operator was not answering.  I swore and went for breakfast, then headed out, camera in hand, to check out the Visitor Info Center, which was within spitting distance of the Mac.  I passed my car on the way, and ruefully noted how bespattered and absolutely filthy it was...washing this baby was going to be a chore. 

The visitor's center was an interesting architectural construction (see my pic above).  I spent a fair bit admiring the statue that fronted it.  Once inside I drifted around looking at the handicraft, the stuffed animal exhibits and found myself engaged in a fascinating discussion on the matter of the land settlement claims and agreements that the First Nations had signed with the Government, and what the curator, a handsome middle aged Innu lady of extreme dignity, had felt, both then and now. To my surprise, a lot of bands and peoples had come to their own agreements with the government, separate from the great land claim that created Nunavut, and split the (rather ill-defined) NWT into two massive pieces.  Many bands fought for their own patches and traditional grounds, separate from each other, because they felt that a central provincial government in Yellowknife (let alone Iqaluit) could not possibly understand or represent their own localized interests. Her opinions had swung in the opposite directions since, she told me, but that was more because she had come to believe greater power came through combined effort than the "each to his own" approach.


We discussed the town, the different dialects of languages spoken, hunting and wildlife, and, of course, how to get to Tuk.  My plans started to look bad because the only agency currently operating a tour, operating out of the Nova Inn, noted there were seven seats left that morning, but when two campers dropped in to the visitor's centre and we talked about it, they said I should hustle because there were only two places left.  Well, I hustled, but it was all moot, because $385 for the trip or not (my wallet groaned), the weather had closed Tuktoyaktuk. They tentatively said to check back at 6pm, but shrugged and admitted that they held no hope of things clearing.  Wrong time of year. Bad weather.  Shit happens.


Well, this was a blow, no doubt.  I'm not saying that Tuk was the great hope of my trip -- I had always intended to wrap things up at Innuvik -- but I had wanted to stretch things, obeying the same impulse such as I had had in Alaska, where I had looked with such longing at the sign pointing to Fairbanks and Anchorage, and this had looked like something easy to do.  Because the weather had been so fine on this side of the Richardson Mountains, I figured....well, what the hell.  I figured wrong.


This is where Plan B came in (I'm a great proponent of both Plan B and, where possible, Plan C).  It drives my family nuts the way I plan multiple scenarios and "what ifs".  Me, I think them indispensable. I'd rather do my worrying and thinking and planning in the quiet confines of a peaceful state of mind, rather than under the pressure of a major crisis (which is usually when you need them most).  So, as usual, I just turned 90 degrees and did Plan B, whcih was to run around Innuvik.  And there was no shortage of things to do, not least because I also wanted to buy my gifts here (yeah, I'm a tourist...despise the breed m'self, but here I had no options, really) and simply photograph the place.  Fortunately, the town being so small, it's fairly easy to walk around, though later, to get to the edges and the more residential areas (often ignored by us camera totin' snappers) and fuel up, I did take Petunia as well.




It turned out to be a lot of fun, in its own way.  I'm not the most affable individual in the world, as many have noted, but something about being out of my element brings out what little of my gregarious nature as exists, and I struck up conversations left right and centre in the stores I patronized, or the people I bumped into.  "Hey, nice tattoo...where'd you get it? Is there a place around here?" or "How do I get to.." or "Where is...?"  or "Where can I find...?" or even that old chestnut "May I take a picture?"  The last caused me most difficulty, not least because I dislike asking such a question.  But I did, on one or two occasions.  Of course, having a heavy chunk of iron like my Nikon in my hand did help me be taken "seriously" since it was clear I could brain them with it as easily as take thewir picture.  It was fun, though.

I started at the visitor's centre and worked my way down MacKenzie Road.  The Notre Dame church shaped like an igloo was closed so I could not go inside (much to my frustration). The Northern Store (fondly remembered from my days in Kujjuuaq) deserved a visit, not least because I wanted to see their Pizza Hut operation.  A franchise here just tickled me to death, and their pizza wasn't bad at all.  I went into four different arts and crafts stores looking for stuff, and finally found what I wanted in Northern Images (an Innuvik sweater for myself) and another mom-and-pop store whose name I cannot recall, where the small soapstone figurines of an Innukshuk (was there ever a symbol more closely identified with the arctic and the Innu than this?) and a crudely executed (and therefore more appealing) momma and baby polar bear. Yes I would have liked to buy something larger, more "finished", more expertly put together -- the choices were varied and the artistry and workmanship wonderful -- because there were beautiful works on sale. Innu in kayaks out hunting, seals and polar bears and combinations of all these...but facts were facts and I knew that a six hundred dollar price tag for the medium sized pieces and a thousand uip for thew more intricate ones, was simply too much right now. 

I mention one last stop, and that was Boreal Bookstore, which prompted another one of those discussions and conversations that make trips like this so worthwhile.  I browsed the largestr selection of books dedicted to Northern themes I had yet seen -- biographies of explorers, how-tos on survival, small places and their history, photographs both old and new, books on animals and plants and oh, so much else. I spoke at some length to the owners, one of whom had just driven north from Calgary as I had, and explained to me why the Cassiar Highway (the 39) was so crappy, and suggested that the pre-eminent guide to the North West of Canada was a fat tome called the Milepost, which not only listed the roads, the hotels and the greasy spoons, all of them, but the conditions of the highways.  As a one-stop shopping item, it couldn't be beat, and looking through it, I could see why she said so.  We talked about raising kids this far north (theirs were both in Calgary) and what  winter was like, the roads, getting supplies...I admire people like this immensely.  Something about the quality of life they lead makes an excess of lucre pleasant, but not mandatory.  It's a different *kind* of life from that of the cities, as I've remarked previously. Sure TV and video games exist, but there appears to be more of a sense of community in these places which I, not knowing any of my neighbors to the right or left of me in Calgary (they keep changing) occasionally miss.


Anyway, after this I picked up Petunia from the hotel and scouted for fuel, washed the mud off a bit and drove around the town.  Innuvik is in the East Channle of the MacKenize delta, at 68 degrees N Latitude and 133.5 W longitude (Vancouver is ten degrees further east), 200km north of the Arctic Circle and just a whisker south of the treeline. This creates interesting architectural choices: houses are the box shaped prefab units I've seen all over the north, but brightly coloured as anything, and the insulated utilidors that keep water ands sewage from freezing (I haven't seen that since I left Central Asia).  Most houses are on piles to avoid melting the pemafrost.  I just drank all this in and had myself a good time...what can I say.  I won't be back here again for many years, and want to store up as many memories as I can.

And that was pretty much it.  Feeties were hurting from all the walking. I checked with the agency, and yup, Tuk was still socked in, and so that last hope vanished, and there was no point putting off my return to the Mac any longer. Back I went, and, with a somewhat heavy heart, began putting my stuff together for the trip back to Dawson on the morrow.