Journey to the Far North
The land where the sun never sets
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The Tuktoyaktuk shore
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By Jack Hamann
Special to CNN.com
Editor's note: Correspondent Jack Hamann and his wife Leslie spent several weeks exploring some of the breathtaking boundaries of the Far North, including the Bering Sea, the Aleutian Islands and the Arctic Ocean. This is the fourth story in a four-part series.
INUVIK, Canada (CNN) -- We are low on gas and even lower on oil. We have no radio, no flares, no phone, no food, no fresh water. We do have plenty of mosquitoes.
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At 5 in the morning on the Arctic Ocean's Beaufort Sea, the water is calm, the wind silent. A bright red sun that never fully set is rising again, the flawless finish to the most drop-dead sunset/sunrise we've ever witnessed. For two hours, we've been playing tag with belugas, the ethereal white whales that gather in the shallow waters of Kugmallit Bay to give birth and breed.
Ten minutes ago, Johnny, our guide and skipper, searched through a cache on a remote sand spit, searching in vain for a spare quart of oil. To the south, the tiny hamlet of Tuktoyaktuk was too far away to be visible.
"Shall we try to make it back?" Johnny asks.
"What are our options?"
"We have no other options."
Johnny fires up the outboard engine, and the skiff rears its bow like a waterlogged stallion. Fingers crossed, we roar south. Suddenly, our puny boat slams to a dead halt, as if Johnny has somehow defied physics by hitting the brakes on open water.
We have hit a sandbar. The engine sputters and dies.
There are far worse places to be marooned than Kugmallit Bay in the middle of summer. Our predicament may be unsettling, but the setting is so beautiful, it would be a waste to lose our cool.
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Arctic Ocean, 5 a.m.
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Whatever happens, happens, and we place our faith in Johnny. We wait, filling the moments with recollections from the day before.
A tourist in Tuk
To be a tourist in Tuktoyaktuk -- or Tuk, as everyone calls it -- we first had to get to Inuvik, Northwest Territories. At 3,300 residents, it's the largest Canadian town north of the Arctic Circle, the end of the line for the Dempster Highway. In Inuvik, we found a modern community with a modern airport, modest hotels, a few restaurants and shops more attuned to residents than tourists. The population is a mix of Inuit, Gwich'in (one of the five tribes of Dene Indians), whites and Arabs.
Because Inuvik is built on permafrost in a region that can range from 70 degrees Fahrenheit to 70 below, all utilities must run above ground. Large interlocking conduits, straight out of a Rube Goldberg blueprint, carry water, power, gas and sewer in and out of each home. Few roads are paved.
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Johnny at the helm
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Arriving in late July, we were lucky to be in town for the 30th Annual Arctic Northern Games. Men and women compete in events you won't see at the Sydney Olympic Games: ear pulling, bannock (biscuit) making, knuckle hopping and seal skinning. Most events emphasize skills that were at one time important for survival on harsh ice floes or in boreal forests. For example, in one competition, women get down on all fours, drop heads ear to ear, and push each other's shoulders in a wrestling match patterned after maternal musk-ox maneuvers.
In 1984, the Inuvialuit became the first aboriginal Canadians from the Northwest Territories to negotiate a comprehensive land claims settlement with the Canadian government. Most of the millions is invested in health care, education and oil exploration, but a small amount is used to promote tourism, especially in the villages that ring the Beaufort Sea in the Arctic Ocean. That is how we came to Tuk.
Arctic tours
The Arctic Tour Company is owned by Roger and Winnie Gruben. Roger Gruben, 46, was raised in Tuk as a hunter of whales, caribou, polar bears and geese, but became a radio talk-show host after attending college and returning to Inuvik. From 1984-1994 he was arguably the most powerful person in the Western Arctic as CEO of the Inuvialuit Regional Corporation, the group founded on the millions from the land settlement.
Now, Gruben contents himself with tours. He was one of the most extraordinary hosts we've ever had for an overnight stay.
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Above-ground utilities in Inuvik
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Before taking a dip in the surprisingly warm waters of the Arctic Ocean, we sat at the Gruben's kitchen table for a lunch of caribou soup and bannock, a sort of arctic scone. Our host passionately defended his village's annual whale hunt, making little effort to hide his resentment toward Greenpeace and others who oppose native whaling and seal hunts. Gruben, who considers himself an outdoorsman and entrepreneur, worries whether his grandson, Travis, will want to continue the family tradition of hunting up to 40 caribou each winter to help feed Tuk's elders.
Winnie Gruben, also 46, is a Gwich'in Indian, a former social worker who struggles with the internal assaults on Tuk's native culture: unemployment, gambling, alcoholism and suicide. As part of our paid tour, Winnie explained the art and culture of her village, including a hands-on display of elaborate clothing, jewelry and carvings.
The Gruben home would fit comfortably in any North American suburb, with a modern kitchen and full array of computers and televisions. We watched a comedy show on the Aboriginal TV network, then tuned in later to watch Major League Baseball on satellite TV. The game pitted the Toronto Blue Jays against our hometown Seattle Mariners -- an unexpected treat on the shores of the Arctic Ocean.
When bedtime finally came, the Grubens slept on the living room couch, turning their own bed over to their guests. That was a first for us.
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Winnie Gruben models wolf fur
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We set the alarm for 1:45a.m. so we could see the sun "set." We woke to see a bright red ball nudging toward the horizon, throwing a blaze of yellow, orange and purple on the clouds, sky and ocean. Because we were so far north, the sun would simply sit on the horizon for the next three hours, never letting the sky grow dark. We had not yet fallen back asleep when word came that the winds had died; it was time to go see the whales. It was not yet 3 a.m.
Heading south
Now, hours later, our skipper Johnny tugs again and again at the outboard engine's rope. Everyone is silent, privately praying that the sandbar hasn't ruined the propeller. Chauncey and Alison, a mother and daughter from Montreal, joke darkly about whether we'll end up a real version of TV's "Survivor."
We wait. Five minutes feel like 30 as the engine hacks and dies, hacks and dies. Somewhere in the invisible distance, we smell the faint aroma of burning wood from fishermen smoking their catch.
The engine sputters, then gurgles back to life. We cautiously hold our applause as Johnny points the boat south. Everyone waits for the thud of the next sandbar; it never comes.
The most northern point we've ever visited on the globe is now in our wake, and for the rest of our journey, the compass will only point south.
If you'd like to ask Jack Hamann a question about his trip, send him an email at cnnjack@aol.com
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