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.

A Hip Trip

There was no aux cord in the car in 1991. Air conditioning wasn’t even a standard feature, at least in the class of sedan my parents could afford. As such many of my summertime childhood memories revolve around daydreaming in the backseat, window down with a breeze through my hair, as we listened to songs on the radio. The lyrics of which I was too young to comprehend or understand their lasting imprint on my life.

AM was a mixed bag of golden oldies and angry citizens calling into conservative talk radio shows that claimed to give a voice but aimed to cause dissent. These stations were reserved for long-haul road trips throughout Western Canada and the Dakotas when radio signals were weak and they were the only thing we could pick up.

FM was much better to my ears, as it featured songs that seemed relevant to the energy of the times. And it was through these stations that artists I didn’t naturally gravitate towards provided the soundtrack to my life. Artists like The Tragically Hip, who are so engrained in Canadiana lore (and radio playlists) that it’s sometimes taken for granted how woven their work is into the tapestry of our lives. I can still see my father behind the wheel, arm relaxed on the driver-side window, with their music playing through the speakers as the heat of the sun guided us down Highway 9 to a day in lake country.

At the time, I didn’t know that Bobcaygeon was a township. Or that I would one day cross the 100th meridian to live in the Paris of the Prairies where Wheat Kings reign. Now that I’m older, these lines hold deeper resonance linking lyric to memory to sense of home. I seek them out for comfort, as nostalgia often provides in abundance (albeit with a shot of sadness for what once was). I may not have the carefree spirit I once did, unaware of the ways of the world and the people who inhabit it, but I now fully comprehend that it’s a good life if you don’t weaken. Soldier on.

A recent news story brought together the appreciation of these lyrics with my love of design and vintage travel artwork. A Hip Trip is an absolutely beautiful set of limited edition posters featuring Canada reflected through their music. Graphic artists John Belisle and Adam Rogers did a phenomenal job of bringing them to life and also inspiring me to elevate my own game as a designer. This is the type of work I would like to create; work that is artistic, meaningful and showcasing a refined sense of craft and skill.

In the meantime, these are going to look amazing framed on my walls.

Your Occasional Ham

My best friend of the past four months is keeping me busy. Being in advertising/design, I’ve also gotten to put him in some of my work (earning those treats).

Ham at six months (©2024, Deborah Clague).

Ham at six months (©2024, Deborah Clague).

Ham at six months (©2024, Deborah Clague).

Ham at six months (©2024, Deborah Clague).