Going Beyond The Arctic Circle
By Cameron Webb
“Jesus Christ is staring at me. His imploring eyes
glare at me from the tattered fleece blanket. His
crucifixion scene is printed on. Blackened scars from
dozens of cigarette burns pock the blanket like a
gangrenous shotgun wound. Ironically, considering
the scene it depicts, the blanket is nailed to the wall
in a poor attempt to cover a shattered window.
Matt groans as I step over him and head for the
door. We have long since given up any hope
of making progress today. The storm outside
continues to unleash its cold, wet fury. I throw on
a few layers. My clothing already infused with the
‘lived-in’ stench known to adventurers and the
homeless alike.
A deep, dank smell of wetness infuses my nostrils.
Dozens of other once loved religious pictures and
postcards adorn the walls of the derelict hunting
cabin we have taken shelter in. The serenity of the
scenes they portray contrasts sharply with ‘Jeb’,
the name scrawled and circled in dripping blood
red paint that is etched across the wall in front to
me.
The smell is simultaneously disgusting and
comforting, like a warm embrace from an elderly
relative. I struggle into salt encrusted raingear,
cover all exposed flesh, and ready myself for the
hungry hordes that await me.
Two hundred and fifty miles north of the Arctic
Circle, deep in the wilds of Canada’s frozen north,
these are not the sights or smells I expected to be
waking up to.
All night rainwater has dripped from numerous fistsize holes in the roof. The sound of flowing water
has finally got to me. My bladder, beyond full, is on
the verge of revolt. I desperately need to pee.
Wriggling clockwise I search hastily for the exit to
the warm cocoon of my sleeping bag. Blistered
hands fumble painfully with the zip. My body, still
adjusting to the harsh reality of this trip, aches from
deep within. The first week of an expedition takes
a special kind of determination to endure, and an
even more special kind of sickness to enjoy. I am
obviously not that sick, because all I feel is pain.
10
The mosquitoes up here should no longer be
classified as insects. They are flying leeches, the
size of small eagles, with a vampire’s thirst for
blood. Going to the bathroom means offering up
your best bits as an all you can eat buffet to the
insatiable little pricks. Needless to say, its war -- and
we are losing on every front.
Before stepping outside I reach for the shotgun,
check the safety, chamber a round, and cautiously
sling it over my shoulder. If the mosquitoes aren’t
bad enough, we are permanently on high alert for
Polar and Grizzly bears. Outside an unsettling array
of massive paw prints and claw marks pock the
mud and sand.
Opening the door I’m relieved to see her still there,
a stark white hull sitting forlornly just beyond the
reach of an incoming tide. She looks pathetic, like
a child’s toy washed ashore by the angry sea. The
sight is a slap in the face, a not so gentle reminder
of the enormity of this undertaking.