Clare Kines's equinox birds (Mar. 2009)
Who: Clare Kines
Where: Arctic Bay, Nunavut, Canada
Link: Where the Gyrfalcon isn't and Where the Gyrfalcon isn't (Conclusion)
Report:
Where the Gyrfalcon isn't
Although it is difficult to imagine temperatures in the mid minus twenties as springlike, Friday saw the arrival of the Spring Equinox. The world tilted so the equator was on the same plane as our orbit around the sun, and all the world enjoyed the same photoperiod (briefly). Now as the pole begins to point towards the sun, those of us lucky enough to live in the High Arctic will soon enjoy longer and longer days and in about a months time it will no longer get truly dark at night. More than this, the sun feels warmer, and despite the temperature of the air it feels balmy on a calm day.
Friday was such a day, and I was determined to take advantage of it, to celebrate spring, and to go seek out some birds of the Equinox. I grabbed the camera, brewed up a thermos of coffee, and made arrangements for a snowmobile, both of ours being down for the count. I picked up Leah's brother's machine and received last minute instructions ("add a little oil to the tank", "you'll find it is a lot tippier than your skidoos", that sort of thing)
Around Uluksan Point there were several Igluit on the ice. It seems as though there was iglu building lessons here, some of the structures were rather crude. Crude but better than I could do, and I again resolved to learn that skill, this spring if possible. Somehow the first day of spring seems a better day to make resolutions. It is even more of a day for new beginnings than New Years.
I continued out to the Gyrfalcon Aerie.
It is early and normally I wouldn't be looking for them to have returned so soon, but this year there were two sightings of Gyrfalcons here in January and I now believe that at least some winter in the High Arctic. The machine off I scanned the cliffs, but there was no Gyrfalcon here, the white wash at the nest and the favourite perches the only sign that they were here at all. Several times I was fooled by snow on the rock, masquerading as the bird, but it was not to be.
There was a lot of snow clinging to the face of the cliff, in fact I was reminded of the paintings of a woman whose name escapes me right now. Looking at the cliff I half expected Native Ponies, Warriers and wolves to resolve out of the scene,
and that (for what ever reason) reminded me to look about me, there was, after all, a Polar Bear in the area just last week. But no bear resolved itself out of the frozen sea behind me. The only thing lurking out there was a large iceberg in Admiralty Inlet, perhaps some 15 or 20 kilometres away.
The silence out here is penetrating. It is one of the phenomenom up here that amazes me the most, and one of the reasons I love being out on the land alone. It was broken however, by a Raven calling from high up the cliff face. I searched for it, for it could be the only bird I'd see on the trip. There, near the top, perched on a jutting rock, was one of my favourite birds, my constant avian companions, singing for no one. No one apparently but me.
As I walked to the cliff face there, lying in the snow,
was a tangible sign of death, and the renewal of life, that seemed appropriate this day. I don't know if the bone lying here was scavenged, or the remnants of some prey, but it nourished some other animal, and life is reborn.
Along the cliff face there was evidence of just who may have left the bone there,
for an Arctic Fox had been walking along the edge, hunting perhaps. More likely just taking a route along the warm cliff face, out of any wind as he moved from one point to another.
My best opportunity to find the Gyrfalcon had come up empty, so it was time for me to move along also, to see if I could find another white bird, farther up past the cliffs.
After leaving the Gyrfalcon Aerie I headed west towards Admiralty inlet, paralleling the cliffs. I kept one eye on the cliffs, looking for that telltale flash of white against the red rock. As I neared the end of the cliffs I noticed the black stain where the water falls down the face of the cliff come summer.
I remembered recently Leah telling me that she used to camp near this waterfall with her grandparents when she was a young girl.
Sure enough a broad raised beach appeared just beyond the waterfall, it would be a good place to have my coffee. I turned the machine around and walked towards the shore. A lemming, enjoying the warmth of the returning sun to emerge from his tunnels beneath the snow, somehow found itself on the wrong side of the tidal cracks.
It wandered along, what to it would be a yawning crevasse, searching for its way back.
It would be a spectacular place to camp, with two waterfalls at one end to provide fresh water and the background music to sleep to, a spectacular view, and a broad flat area for tents. Tent rings abounded there, and something else. It was the final resting place of Just Jusi Qavavauq.
A reminder that life has gone on here for a long time. Qavavauq passed away before I was born, some three years younger than I am now. I do not know the circumstances behind his death, but life was tough up here, forty-seven wasn't that young back then. I could, probably with a little digging, find out more. He has children living here.
I don't know about his name,
but in my mind the following conversation played out "His name?" "Qavavauq" "What's his first name?" "Its just Qavavauq." "J-U-S-T- Qavavauq, got it.". Of course it may very well have been his first name, I really don't know. His grave does look out over some pretty spectacular country though.
Edit: Last night I chatted with one of Qavavauq's granddaughters, and she remarked that the inuktitut on the headstone translated to "Jusi". I don't know why I didn't bother to read the sylabbics, but what is more is that the name says "Jusi" in English as well, not "Just". I can't believe that I mis-read that so much, and over and over again.
I sat in the warmth of the sun, looking over that spectacular scene. Dressed for riding on the snowmobile I was far too warm for sitting in the equinoctial sun. I took off my fur hat and found that my balaclava underneath was soaked in sweat, I took it off and laid it beside me to dry or freeze dry. And so I sat, warm and content, trying to erase some of the paleness of my face, listening to that profound silence, inhaling deeply the aroma of my coffee. Coffee that probably in the last year was berries ripening under an Ethiopian sun. What an amazing land we live in. I turned to Qavavauq's grave and raised my cup silently, thanking him for sharing his piece of the Earth with me. And then it was time to press on, for there were other birds to search for.
I was headed to the mouth of Adam's Sound, a point called Nuvuaq. It's actually one of two points called that near here. They have longer names to distinguish them, but I can never remember then. The land is lower here and I planned on looking for ptarmigan, before heading back home. At the first opportunity I turned off the sea ice and head up the hill.
And then came my short sharp reminder about how quickly things can turn south on you up here. As I climbed the bank I turned a bit to avoid a large rock coming my way. That was all it took and the snowmobile tipped. There was nothing I could do to stop it from going over, and down I went.
I wasn't quite perpendicular to the hill, and as the result fell slightly down hill beside the machine. It wanted to keep rolling and it took all the strength I could muster in my left arm to keep it from rolling over me. Pushing against it until it came to rest I strained (slightly) something in my left hand. But that wasn't the worst of my troubles. My left foot was pinned under the machine, the edge of the running board across the wide part of foot. The weight of the machine growing. It hurt but I was pretty sure that nothing was broken. I strained to pull out my foot but couldn't. Constant pressure against the machine with my left hand kept it from pressing harder against my foot. Pushing hard I could relieve some of the pressure, but not enough that I could free myself. I settled down to think about my options.
I was probably fifteen kilometres from town, with not much prospect of anyone coming by soon. I did have my satellite phone tucked inside my jacket, keeping the battery warm, and I decided that I could retrieve it with little trouble. It was in the warm sun, and dressed warmly, albeit a little sweaty so I wasn't going to freeze in the short term anyway. My hand and foot hurt, but I was pretty sure there were no serious injuries. People knew where I was going, and roughly when I intended on coming back, the snowmobile was bright yellow and I wasn't hidden from view. All in all, it wasn't as bad as it could have been.
So after a bit of a rest I again pushed the snowmobile away from me, but after a couple of tries I knew I couldn't free my foot like that. However, I could feel my foot coming out of my boot, and decided with a good effort I could free myself if I left my boot behind. So I rested, and tried again. Success, I relieved the pressure on my foot enough I could wiggle it free from the boot and the snowmobile.
When I tried to right the machine while trying to keep my bootless foot from getting wet or plunging it into the snow however I couldn't get enough purchase to push the machine past the tipping point. I took out the phone and set it on a rock, contemplating that phone call back to town. Instead I got down and was able to dig snow out from under my boot enough to pull it free. I then shifted the machine around so gravity wasn't working as hard against me and managed to right it.
Trying to continue up the slope just got me stuck so I pulled and ran the machine out of the deeper snow and down the hill behind me. From there it was a matter of turning around and heading back down to the ice. I decided to give up finding any birds other than Ravens for the day, they would be my Birds of the Equinox, magnificent birds that they are. I looked around, had one last cup of coffee and slunk back to town, perhaps more aware, but doubtfully wiser.
Text and photos copyright © 2009 Clare Kines, used with permission. Originally published at http://kiggavik.typepad.com/the_house_other_arctic_mu/2009/03/where-the-gyrfalcon-isnt-1.html and http://kiggavik.typepad.com/the_house_other_arctic_mu/2009/03/where-the-gyrfalcon-isnt-conclusion.html.
