Baffin Island, Part 9 (final)
Everything
Hi Everyone!
This post marks the end of a serial mini-memoir about my trip to Auyuittuk National Park in Nunavut, Canada. I am so grateful that you’ve given your precious time to my nine installments. Wow. Thanks.
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I love you all. Onward to the next adventure!
-tom
Ulu shelter stands at km 95 near the end of the Weasel. From here the braids of the glacial river flow into the South Pangnirtung Fiord and, before too long, join the Arctic Ocean. At 9:00 a.m. we’ll meet Peter, our boat shuttle driver, at Overlord West landing about 3k south of here. I’m excited to return to creature comforts, but only because that’s the plan.
It started raining around midnight and continues this morning. And just like every night of this trek, I slept hard and dreamed hard, which is weird because these days I usually toss and turn in the tent.
Something stirs me awake and I peek outside. The spot where Kent’s tent sat yesterday framed by Ulu Peak is now an empty patch of sandy tundra. A small cluster of Arctic poppies reaches skyward even as it’s pummeled by rain. I look at my watch—we don’t need to leave for another hour. But knowing that Kent is ready to go gets me cracking. With camp struck, I head towards the shelter. Kent, Louise, and Boris are inside killing time and staying dry.
I join them, and Louise asks me if I’ve had a chance to read the shelter’s journal. “There’s a song in there about moraines,” she says. I flip to it. In the tune of the old timey song, That’s Amore, I sing through a few verses while she and Boris add the refrain, “That’s a moraine,” an alternate version of Dean Martin’s famous chorus.
When we’re an hour out from pickup, we begin our final walk to the boat landing. As the fjord widens, I follow a line of rusty kelp. I occasionally stop to pick up a suddenly prevalent array of garbage, evidence of the human world we’re returning to.
I arrive first at Overlord West. The buzz of an approaching boat echoes through thick mist as proof our pickup plan is unfolding perfectly. I snap a few photos of the Nunavut flag planted on the point. Louise and Boris join me with armfuls of rubbish. Kent does too, not far behind.
The boat noses into to the rocky coastline. The driver is Peter’s son, Joseph. He’s helping out with park pickups while his dad awaits the arrival of divers who’ll survey Pangnirtung harbor’s thickening seafloor. Two other men in fur lined jackets offer a hearty welcome as we board the craft—they are Wu, a Chinese visual artist, and Luo, his documentarian, along for the ride.
Wu travels around the world collecting solitary brushstrokes from people in indigenous areas. He combines the individual strokes into one big piece to represent the community. “Everyone’s brushstroke is different,” he says. “And it’s fascinating to see how they reveal cultural values and beliefs.” I am struck by Wu’s work. And before I have a chance to gush, Luo motions his thumb towards Wu and says, “He’s really famous.”
I take a seat up front, less concerned about seasickness as I was on our northern drop off since this ride is significantly shorter and in mellower waters. Fifteen minutes in, as the boat rhythmically bounces over a small swell and salty spray licks through the boat’s front window, Joseph pulls out his phone and swipes to photos of his recent caribou hunt. “We went 400k south to where the herds are,” he says. “My daughter and I both got one from the boat. It was her first.” He also shows me an image of a walrus kill. Its tusks are more than a foot long, which Joseph says is pretty average.
We land in Pangnirtung and pay Joseph $175CAD each for the ride. Louise and Boris head off to the campground on the edge of town, and Wu and Luo assure us we’ll see them again tonight for dinner. Luo is staying at the B and B, too.
Markus our host, a retired German nurse who’s been in Pang for more than twenty years, is waiting for us at the dock with his Jeep Liberty’s trunk wide open. We toss in our bags and poles, and five minutes later we’re at his place. I’m suddenly disoriented. How are we in a warm home with comfortable chairs and a basket of communal snacks and a gorgeous view and suddenly too hot with all these extra layers on? How did all this happen so quickly?
“Can I offer you a coffee?” Markus says, as he hands us each a mug. Its warmth tingles my fingers. I blow on the rising ribbons of steam and watch the earthy foam shimmer then widen towards the cup’s edges. I look around at the smattering of surrounding details—a copy of the Tao Te Ching on the windowsill, a set of tall, two-toned blue salt and pepper shakers sits perfectly centered on the dining room table, a stark painting of a swimming polar bear hangs on the far wall, and, above the stove, there’s a Harley Davidson clock whose face says, “Ride to Live, Live to Ride.” All of these disparate things fit together just right.
I slurp the dark coffee onto my tongue. I look at Kent, then at Markus, and suddenly feel as close to the divine as I’ve ever been. To die now would be just fine. And maybe death is precisely what I am experiencing. Something ending so that something else can begin.
I thank Markus, and tell him I feel right at home here. He nods like he already knows. His smile is my father’s. My mom’s. It’s the knowing grin of ancestors and mentors—people whose influence on my life is permanent and vital.
Markus sets the pot on the counter and tells us to make ourselves at home. It takes a few minutes to realize we don’t need to stand. We can sit. And when we do, we look out the big windows over Pang harbor, up the fjord and towards the rigorous Pass we just traversed. Occasionally my eyes meet Kent's, and when they do, the story of our past ten days flashes between us. We need only let out a chuckle, a whispering laugh, to relive it all in an instant. A simple and repetitive, “Holy shit,” sums it up just right.
After a couple days in Pang, I’ve settled. I’ve walked nearly every street in town and spent a handful of hours in the Canada Park’s office using their reference library to correctly identify many of the plants we encountered during our hike. I’ve visited the grocery store too many times and consumed an array of exorbitantly priced snacks, my favorite being Nestle’s “Big Turk,” but also my share of mealy red delicious apples. I’ve learned that ulaakut means “good morning” in the Inuit language.
On a lull between guests’ departures and arrivals, Markus plops himself in a chair to absorb a few chore-free moments. He tells us that before he opened this bed and breakfast, another proprietor shared the three most important qualities of his business. First, mattresses need to be high quality. Second, eggs need to be made just right. And third, quality bread must be available at all times. Markus took this advice seriously and continues to build his own business around it. And though these qualities are important details worth paying attention to, there’s far more to the overall experience than beds and breakfast items.
I’ve spent the last twenty years helping entrepreneurs figure out how ways to grow their client base. We regularly discuss their version of Markus’ big three, but never have I been convinced that material items are enough to make a business unforgettable. Beds, eggs, and bread may be crucial necessities. They may even be what guests regularly mention in Google reviews. But they are not what wins hearts.
People are generally drawn towards things that somehow nourish their innate needs. People want to feel cared for. They want to feel loved. They want to know that others give a damn. That their presence matters. Markus and his B and B, like other magnetic entities, veritably does these things. The fact that he’s also giving his attention to beds, eggs, and bread only makes the stay extra special.
An output of good energy draws in the same. You get what you give. And in my short time at Markus’ B and B, every day was proof of this phenomenon. Every single person with whom I crossed paths gifted me with something I fell in love with. Mayah’s peaceful voice and poise. Her striking tattoos. Justin’s cabin-making skills and his artful photographic eye. Alison’s grace. Her smile and curiosity. Hayley’s room-filling laugh. The tears she held back when I surprised her with a birthday cake. Monty’s storytelling. Abigail’s calm demeanor. Sean’s willingness to show us the rotting walrus head at low tide. Arthur’s geniality. Boris’ kind eyes and thoughtful words. His dream to someday guide Arctic adventures. Louise’s whip smart intellect. Her desire to experience hard things, and also to give a report of no polar bear activity from the Parks Canada Office. Wu’s engaging smile. His wide open arms and swimmable soul. Luo’s cooking skills, his willingness to make the noodles less spicy. Snow’s no-nonsense. The softness of her laugh. Katie’s indelible assistance from afar. Markus’ quietude. His peaceful wisdom and profound ability to care. And also his Pang Specials, Felix and Max, who, like most dogs, are examples of unconditional love.
This trip has given me a chance to, once again, fall in love with Kent, my best of best friends. To appreciate fully his entire being. To revere our shared history and serendipitous reconnection. To open my heart to our utter realness, our playfulness. To welcome our mutual zeal to embrace our evolving masculinities. To delightfully allow, as two rough and timeworn men, for tenderness and intimacy. Our friendship humbles me to be better. I am grateful to have such a person in my life.
Due to the questionable weather that’s typical during Arctic summers, coupled with delayed flights and other travelers’ early arrivals, our three day stay at Markus’ place is consistently uncertain. Available accommodations at the B and B vacillate between our tiny room, the floor of the living room, and the outside back patio. Markus assures us this is how things roll up here—everything’s in a constant state of flux. One minute there’s a plan, but the plan is merely a shroud. It serves only to offer a facade of temporary contentment. Markus believes that to live up here, you need to accept, if not embrace, the daily lineup of twists and turns. You need to figure out a way to love being completely out of control. “Folks from down south generally have a hard time with that,” he says.
When a series of cancelled flights throws a wrench into the night’s bookings, Markus assures us that we can make it work, but we’ll need to collectively agree on a few things. “First of all," he says, “I can only allow Kent and Tom to sleep on the floor in the dining area if everyone else agrees it’s OK.” Everyone is fine. Which I have to assume is partially because we are all here, in this strange place, eons from our so-called real lives, eating and talking and breathing together for a short yet poignant time, after or before or in the thick of our respective journeys that have somehow caused us all to collide in, of all places, this bed and breakfast in this Inuit hamlet.
I wonder, what are the odds of us converging here together? What in each of our lives needed to happen in order for our disparate paths to mesh into one? The answer—everything.
And as a result, we now we have ingrained memories of touch and taste and laughter and service. Cooking meals for each other with whatever we can scrape up at the astronomically priced grocery store. Making pot after pot of French press coffee. Pouring the morning orange juice into tiny glass cups and placing them at table settings before people have even stirred awake. Trimming excess fat off the bacon so Markus’ dogs can feel, or rather, taste, the communal love, too. The little stuff, like always, amounts to big stuff.
Everything we’ve ever done in our respective lives has led to this strange and wonderful merging. And because of our everythings, our hearts will forever be pressed together.
On our last day in Pangnirtung, under the first blue skies for days and just hours before our flight is scheduled to leave, Kent and I set out with Louise and Boris to climb a nearby mountain for a far off view of Akshayuk Pass. We miss the turnoff to the main trail and end up by the town’s landfill. From there we bushwhack a route which ends up being too steep for a complete summit. We agree that we’ve gone far enough.
We stop at a point where the incline levels, then take a seat on mossy rocks and look out towards the deep fjord. Our fjord. Louise and Boris share some cheese and crackers from their daypacks. Plus their last few bits of French chocolate. We sit and eat snacks as a cool wind picks up and gathers ominous clouds to the south. I briefly worry about our flight, but my concern disappears when I remember that I don’t want to leave.
The view from here isn’t that great—higher would be better. But we don’t care. Because the hike isn’t about the view. Or being on the right trail. Or hurrying back. It’s about savoring moments with old and new friends. With the land. “Hey! Check out this mushroom,” someone says. And we all stop for a moment to marvel together at the tiny Arctic miracle.
We’ll always have the rotting walrus head, Tom. No one can ever take that from us.
This was an all-time trip my friend. I am grateful to have shared it with you. Let’s make sure there are more ahead of us.
Thank you for painting such a beautiful picture of your travels for us. I’m so glad your trip was so very wonderful!