The Arctic, Part III

During the 20-minute drive from Churchill proper to the tundra buggy loading dock, we encountered a number of white pick-up trucks racing down side roads. “They are also searching for polar bears” announced the guide, although I wasn’t certain how successful they could possibly be. The noise and speed seemed counterintuitive to sneaking up on anything. Up above in the sky were endless helicopters doing the same thing. At first I thought they were there to monitor the landscape, tracking bears that were, perhaps, getting too close to the townsite. Nope. They were also full of tourists. The brief window of opportunity to see the world’s largest land predator in the wild was a calling card for many. Because of this, I would bet the population of Churchill was double the time I was there.

Tundra buggies are a unique form of transportation specific to Churchill, Manitoba. The first tundra buggy was actually invented by Frontiers North, the same tourism company I was traveling with. They are large and can fit roughly 40 passengers, each seat offering a great unimpeded view. There is also an outside deck. They have one washroom at the rear of the vehicle that can only be used when stopped. There are no barf bags offered on board. I highlight these last two details because I have never, ever, felt so nauseous as I did riding one.

Now I love amusement parks and other thrill-seeking activities. The higher and faster a rollercoaster, the better. This, however … this slow, bumpy ride just didn’t sit well with me. I felt sick and on the verge of losing my lunch the entire time we were moving. Considering I was one of the younger people on my tour, I couldn’t show this weakness though. The retirees would have laughed.

And despite being slow, the ride was jarring at times. We got semi-stuck in an icy half-frozen ditch, our driver having to hang his head out the window to ensure we were clearing it and could continue on our journey. At one point it felt like we were very close to tipping over and another passenger inquired if it had ever happened. The driver confirmed that a tundra buggy has never tipped over. They aren’t built that way. As they weren’t equipped with seatbelts, I trusted he was telling the truth.

At about thirty minutes in, another passenger excitingly called out a sighting of a bear. Everyone moved to the left-hand side of the vehicle straining to see where it was. Those with binoculars confirmed it was true. And then I saw it. Far (far) in the distance, I could see a creamish four legged creature slowly walking across the tundra, the gait very obviously of a bear. It felt amazing. Had I not seen anything else that day, I would have felt I got my money’s worth. Little did I know though, that the day was just beginning and I would have a first-class seat to the natural predation habits of the wild in the Arctic.

The Arctic, Part II

For those fortunate to spot a bear in the wild, either grizzly or black, you will typically only see one. Perhaps you are really lucky and witness a mom rearing her cubs. Most of the bears I have encountered in the Rockies and the unspoiled wilderness of northern Saskatchewan have been solo males hanging out by the side of the road wandering in and out of a forest in search of food. Their territory clearly defined (and defended).

In Churchill, Manitoba, however, I did not just see one bear.

Or two. Or three.

At Polar Bear Point on the shores of Hudson’s Bay, I encountered more than a dozen bears some of which were within sightline of each other. More than a dozen of the largest land predator in the world all around me as I watched them safely from the observation deck of a tundra buggy. It was absolutely awe-inspiring. Had I been on the ground though, it would have been absolutely terrifying.

Growing up in Manitoba, the lore of Churchill was well known. I knew that they were the polar bear capital of the world. I knew there was a “jail” outfitted for wayward bears that frequented the townsite. I knew that Halloween was particularly harrowing, not just out of fear towards ghosts and goblins but the very real possibility that children would encounter a polar bear while trick-or-treating. Late October and early November are the time of year they encroach upon the townsite en masse while waiting for Hudson’s Bay to freeze over. This is where they continue their journey through the winter months in search of food (mainly seals). Some of this may scare people off from visiting the northern port town but I always had it on my bucket list.

I booked my tour in the Spring and embarked last week.

Landing in Churchill, I felt a sharp winter chill as soon as I disembarked the airplane. The northern tundra was very different from the prairie landscape I left behind. Trees, mostly black spruce, only flourished on one side, a result of the harsh wind and debris that blows inland from Hudson’s Bay resulting in a perfect visual of just how wild and untamed this part of the world is. The airport itself was quite small and I had a moment of surprise when I saw Manitoba license plates on all of the vehicles; it felt so different than any place I’d ever been that I momentarily forgot it was, in fact, the province I grew up in.

Boarding a bus, I made my way to the Frontiers North tundra buggy hub, a 20-minute excursion from Churchill proper. On the way, we passed the infamous polar bear “jail” (né holding facility), an abandoned ship named the MV Ithaca that had been sitting in the harbour since 1960, and I learned of the townsite’s history as a military base and testing site.

My adventure was just beginning.

Departing a North Caribou Air flight after landing in Churchill, Manitoba (©2024, Deborah Clague).

The boreal forest flourishes only on one side, a result of the harsh wind and debris blowing inland from Hudson’s Bay (©2024, Deborah Clague).

The Arctic, Part I

Checked an item off my bucket list this week by visiting Churchill, Manitoba and experiencing a polar bear safari. It was an amazing, captivating, wondrous trip of a lifetime, the magic of which I’m not sure I will be able to properly articulate with words:

At Hudson’s Bay, Manitoba (©2024, Deborah Clague).

Churchill Airport, Manitoba (©2024, Deborah Clague)

A warning for visitors, Churchill Airport, Manitoba (©2024, Deborah Clague)

Hitting the tundra (©2024, Deborah Clague).

One of the first of many bears spotted, Churchill, Manitoba (©2024, Deborah Clague).

A mom with her two cubs, Churchill, Manitoba (©2024, Deborah Clague)

Very (very) large paw prints are found all over the tundra at Polar Bear Point, Churchill, Manitoba (©2024, Deborah Clague).

The main routes of the Frontiers North tundra buggies, Churchill, Manitoba (©2024, Deborah Clague).

One of the most amazing experiences of my life was having lunch (not being lunch) with this dude, Churchill, Manitoba (©2024, Deborah Clague).

A mother polar bear with two cubs, Churchill, Manitoba (©2024, Deborah Clague).

Churchill, Manitoba (©2024, Deborah Clague).

Polar bear in Churchill, Manitoba (©2024, Deborah Clague).

Fifteen

A bespectacled young girl, age fifteen, whose interests include learning about dinosaurs and the mysteries of the ocean’s depth. She has a soft spot for animals, in particular dogs, who provide her with a sense of calm and safety. She sometimes feels like an outsider and yearns for a sense of belonging amongst her peer group. At times she is naive to the true nature and intent of others.

These words could have been written about me at fifteen. I was a shy kid who used to skip classes to go to the library and read about subjects I was actually interested in, like palaeontology. Rebellious, I know. I wasn’t popular and never really felt like I belonged although I did have a small band of similar misfits that formed my social circle. I was happy to finally graduate high school and become an adult with a life free of whatever bias and conformity I felt in my high school’s hallways. I will be forever thankful that I went through my teenage years in the decade before social media became a poison in our lives.

But the bespectacled young girl I opened with did not.

There was a time in the early 2010s when a number of Canadian news stories involved young girls taking their lives after being sexually coerced, assaulted, blackmailed and cyberbullied. Amanda Todd is one. She was just fifteen when she committed suicide. And Rehtaeh Parsons, aged fifteen when she was gangraped by a group of boys then bullied by her community–peers and adults alike–after photos of the assault were widely shared on social media. She committed suicide at sixteen after the taunts and abuse followed her wherever she moved to escape.

I recently finished reading My daughter, Rehtaeh Parsons written by her father. Each page made me feel a little bit sadder than the last because this young girl reminded me a lot of myself at that age. She had a curiosity about the world that was endearing and hinted a bright future. She had a heart that showed empathy and care towards all living things. All of this so needlessly cut short by individuals without remorse. At times, Rehtaeh’s story reminded me of the Salem witch trials and the absolute ugliness under the surface of a society hellbent on hating and punishing women.

Insight into the multiple ways she was failed by the education system, the healthcare system, and the police force just left me angry and it is with much respect I extend to Glen Canning for calling it out and attempting to get justice for his daughter. These girls should still be with us, blossoming into the women they were meant to be.

1:12am in Coronach

When I was younger, I was much more acquainted with the night. My body and mind tested itself with how many sunrises I could chase, as though watching them paused the effects of time. But at some point, slumber–and the worlds I experienced within dreams–became more valuable.

With age, the night now seems foreign. I’d almost forgot just how magical dusk could be. Awhile back I would play a game before bed, peering out my window to count the stars. I never got higher than seven. The ambient light reflecting from my small prairie city simply too strong to properly showcase the wonder of the universe above. But now with a second (comparatively desolate) place to call home, it is easy to count entire galaxies.

Taking Hampton out late at night in rural Saskatchewan, our back door has nothing but a security light illuminating the immediate space. Everything beyond is a wall of black. The deepest, most dense shade of black I’ve ever seen. It is all-encompassing and unnerving. Especially when you realize there is also no sound. Being an urban dweller, I’m used to the sounds of the city such as traffic, industrial white noise and the occasional wails of drug-induced psychosis. But there is never, ever the sound of nothingness. It is both the most beautiful and haunting thing.

As I stare into the void, I feel it could swallow me whole. It’s impossible to see my hand in front of my face, yet I sense something out there. There is life under cloak of darkness hunting and being hunted. Through heightened senses, I try to catch a branch break or the subtle bristle of the tall grass parting to ensure my dog doesn’t become the latter. Up above, a perfectly preserved sky consisting of millions of twinkling lights reaffirms our existence and provides solace from the shadows.

In Coronach at 1:12am on a Friday night, this is the world that reintroduced itself to me.

On the Road ... Again

It is often remarked that in certain parts of Saskatchewan you can watch your dog run away for days. The east-west artery that is Highway 1, Canada’s main roadway from coast-to-coast, certainly lives up to that landscape. It is mostly flat and devoid of trees, just vast prairie and endless sky interrupted with the occasional small town. And dog. Because fifty minutes prior, a dog was the only thing concerning me on this stretch of road. A random dog walking along the side of Highway 1 by Whitewood that I felt was not long for the world if he were this foolish. Highway speeds are 110km/hr with most going faster. Even in perfect conditions, it is impossible to stop on a dime.

Driving along, I continued listening to a true crime podcast as Ham slept in his doggie bed in my backseat. Winnipeg back home to Saskatoon was a long car ride for him and I tried breaking it up with plenty of stops to stretch. Our next one would be Regina for dinner but we had over an hour to go. Passing through Indian Head, SK, I counted down the time again marvelling at how flat it was and how far I could see. In particular, I started to note how I could see a semi in the distance approaching the highway from the northside. It didn’t appear to be stopping. And neither was a Ford F250 heading into Indian Head from the south.

“What are these fuckers doing” I thought to myself lowering my speed to approximately 90km/hr as I tried to predict if they would pause before crossing. They didn’t. The Ford F250 crashed into the front driver’s side of my Volkswagen as I slammed on the brakes attempting to stop in time. My immediate reaction after this was to look up at the semi, facing what I initially believed to be my impending death. Instead my eyes locked with the shocked glance of two Punjabi drivers who looked like my car just magically materialized out of thin air. I quickly did a turn onto the same road to avoid being hit from behind and started to panic when I realized I couldn’t open my door. I was not aware of the damage yet and terrified of being trapped if my car caught fire.

I’ve had moments of fear in my life. I’ve had moments of anger. Of anxiety. This incident–this collision decision–culminated in a variety of emotions all at once. Including gratitude. I may have been shaking violently but both myself and my puppy weren’t badly hurt in the moment (the real physical pain would settle in a few days later). We were alive.

The driver of the Ford F250 admitted fault and was charged appropriately. He also shared that he didn’t look in my direction as he was also watching the errant semi. Those drivers didn’t stop at all.

❤️

When speaking of the beauty of this great country, most would inevitably reply with the Crown Jewels of our nation: the dual Rocky Mountain townships of Banff and Jasper, Alberta, topographic wonderlands of sweeping mountain vistas, lush forest and aquamarine lakes that leave an imprint on all who visit. I’ve been lucky to visit many, many times. As a western Canadian, these places feel like home. They are home. This past week has brought much sadness as one of those Jewels was tarnished by wildfire.

I reflect upon the wonderful memories had and look forward to the day I can create new ones.