By Brian Borgford
The Icelandic Roots Writers Group wrote about summer memories for their April assignment.
Fort McPherson, August 1994
The sweat flowed from my brow as the low-hung sun beat on my hat and shirt as I jogged along the dusty gravel road. With a temperature of plus thirty-five degrees Celsius, it was no wonder that I was hot on a mid-August day. I delayed my run as late in
the day as possible to take advantage of whatever relief from the heat the evening provided. But the sun had no intention of taking a rest; it would be up all night. This was summer in the Arctic in the Gwich’in community of Fort McPherson, a two-hour drive along the dusty Dempster Highway from the Inuvialuit community of Inuvik. In the summer, the sun never sets. It just circles the sky, baking the ground without relief. Summer temperatures near forty degrees Celsius were not uncommon in this part of the Arctic.
Baker Lake, June 1996
The sun was low on the horizon with no intention of dipping further. Its weak rays provided some warmth as it beat on the back of my parka while the spray from the surface water flew by me. I straddled the passenger position of the snowmobile as the driver scooted across the frozen lake. It was June 21, the longest day of the year. It was midnight, and I was on the surface of the lake that serves as Canada’s geographic epicentre.
The irony of my situation hit me—midnight in the summer with the sun shining while riding on a snowmobile in the middle of a lake. How do you explain that to people who have never been to the Arctic?
The surface of the lake contained puddles of water created by the sun melting the ice. I worried about our safety, being in the middle of the lake on a land conveyance. However, a quick visit with some Inuit fishermen proved the ice was still well over three feet thick, based on the hole from which they extracted their catch.
Life in the Arctic continued to provide me with a lifetime of memories.
Photo:
Distance sign on the NW Territories side of the border, Dempster Highway
Murray Foubister