I find it impossible to adequately convey just how jaw dropping beautiful the land is up here. I feel that way about the scenery right around town, but it is scenery that I see daily. On those far too few occasions that I get out traveling farther afield, well, I become all too aware of how inadequate my mastery of the English language is. Superlatives fail me.
This past weekend found us south bound by snowmobile on the annual fishing derby, and as the kilometres roll by I become increasingly mesmerized by the scenery. Towering mountains, precipitous cliffs glowing red, deep valleys, the shock of the dark blue sky lit by endless sun against the glistening white of the ice and the clouds. As we go my head is on a swivel trying to drink it all in. We pass a frozen river, tumbling down a face of granite worn smooth and scarred by ancient glaciers. It glows an impossible blue light, pale and yet vivid, decorated by the icicles born of a battle between the great warmth of the sun and the air temperature still trying to stay below zero. All the while dozens of Ringed Seal bask on the ice, raising their heads warily watching us pass. The closer ones slip down their aglu, no doubt dancing an aquatic ballet beneath the sunlight roof of sea ice.
This is, quite simply, one of the most beautiful places in the world.
Our first night is spent in a place I've never been before, Ijjujuarjuk. I know the beauty of this place will never translate into my photos, not near well enough.
Once we had camp established everyone set to fishing (there's about eight feet of ice there). I was more interested in exploring. And although my brain told me that those cliffs were a lot farther away than my eyes were telling me, I allowed myself to be seduced by my eyes. I quickly had supper heated up and out of the way and I struck out for them, walking easily on the hard drifted snow.
I set about making a beeline for a low ridge, thinking it would take me below the cliffs. The night was warm and I was still dressed in traveling clothes. So with not wanting to over heat and with a strained back from lugging around lugging around jerry cans earlier I walked slowly. As I walked the cliffs never seemed to get closer, although I had clues to their distance. (The ridge I was making for is that darker horizontal line a third of the way up the photo below).
I walked on past Leah and the others who were busy fishing, snapping photos as I went. As I left the flat of the lake and the land began to rise up before me I realized that I still had a long way to go. Some where I heard a Snow Bunting singing in the evening light. I imagined this place in a couple of short weeks, the wide expanse of gravel looked like a plover paradise to me, large expanse to hide the scrapes that hold their cryptic eggs, and easy access to fresh water.
I continued up the rise to the ridge that was my goal. The reality was that I was a long way off from standing at the cliffs. They towered perhaps 350 or 400 metres above. I stopped and stripped off my parka, futilely scanning the still distant cliffs for falcons, enjoying the play of light on the fissures and edges of the cliffs. But I cooled quickly in the shadow of the valley and bundled up again and laid down on the gravel enjoying the view. I had walked perhaps a couple of kilometres only, but it was getting late.
I followed the river course back towards the lake an camp, picking up souvenirs for my children, delicate pink quartz. Part way along I heard a snowmobile along my inbound path. Leah had begun to worry and had come looking for me. The trip back took much less time. I collected two very tired young fisher kids, it had been a long day, and we settled back at the tent while Leah fished a little longer.
After water for tea was set on the coleman and we snacked we settled in. Few sleeps are as sound as those in a light airy tent after a day out of doors. Before long we'd be on our way again, further south to another lake. The hissing of the coleman stove soon proved too sedating and cocooned in my sleeping bag I drifted off, dreaming of the plover's nests artfully hidden amongst the stones.
Comments
5 responses
Arctic Bay has to be the most beautiful place I’ve been on Baffin Island and I love to see your photographs.
This description took me with you and I wish I was curled up in that tent!
Wow! Looks like an awesome place!
Happy blogoversary 🙂
Kia ora Clare,
What a great write up of an amazing place. When I first saw that photo with the two cliffs in the distance I thought I bet those cliffs are much further away than they look. A cool centre piece for the post. To have your kids there is just so special. I too felt like curling in a warm sleeping bag in that tent. Kia kaha.
Cheers,
Robb
thanks Lesleigh. You’ll get no arguement from me on the beauty of Arctic Bay.
Thank you Teena, and thanks for the reminder of my Blogoversary. I would have missed it otherwise.
Kia ora Robb. We are both luck to live in a place where we can connect to incredible places.
I really don’t think it’s your grasp of the English language that is the issue, Clare. Some things are so much bigger than us, no language we can come up with could possibly do it justice. I believe there are many people with a much richer understanding of the north, purely because of your wonderful storytelling.