Umingmak: Stuart Hodgson and the Birth of the Modern Arctic by Ootes Jake (author)

Author:Ootes Jake (author) [Jake, Ootes]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Indigenous People, Northwest Territories, Canadian History, Canadian Government
ISBN: 9781777010119
Google: 59qUzgEACAAJ
Publisher: Tidewater Press
Published: 1901-11-15T23:31:50.008183+00:00

Part Three:

Emperor of the North

Chapter 16: The Next Thing to God

June 1969

It’s said that the North has only two seasons—winter and summer—since fall and spring are so abrupt and short. To mark the seasons, each year a rusty old car was dragged onto Long Lake, close to the airport. Residents would bet on the date the car would fall through the ice, marking the arrival of spring. After the first rain shower, the trees would bud and within days leaves would sprout, marking the beginning of summer.

Summer in Yellowknife is a time of renewal, revival. The sun barely sets beneath the horizon and enough light remains in the sky for almost any outdoor activity to continue twenty-four hours a day, a condition that persists for about eight weeks. At midnight and into the wee hours of the morning, people mow lawns, garden, paint fences, have barbecue parties or picnics, often by one of the many northern lakeshores. Yellowknife’s golf course is as busy at midnight as at noon. It’s an exhilarating time of year.

The intensity of the summer season helped Barb and me forget the gloom and darkness of winter as we cruised in a small aluminium powerboat on Back Bay. Short-sleeved shirts, shorts and sun hats were a welcome change from heavy duffle coats and fur outfits.

Barb closed her eyes and threw back her head back, relaxed. “I love this!”

“We deserve it. After surviving a Yellowknife winter we damn well ought to stay up all night, every night while summer lasts.”

I reflected on the winter trip through the Arctic. “You know, there are more problems up there than you can shake a stick at, and not a solution in sight. I don’t know how the Eskimos exist in a land that appears to grow nothing or bear anything. They must be the most resilient people on earth. They seemed appreciative of our visit and of Hodgson’s promises but now we have to fulfil his commitments.”

I cut the motor to absorb the silence. But soon we were slapping at squad- rons of mosquitoes. If Yellowknife has the most glorious summer, it also boasts the biggest and most prolific mosquitoes. These were not the pests I’d experienced in the Ottawa Valley; these were the B-52s of the bug battalion, and there were thousands of them, at times making it impossible to enjoy the outdoors. I slapped on more insect repellent and started the motor again, heading toward Old Town. It was well after midnight and still broad daylight.

The activity around the wharves and supply sheds continued, even at this hour. We studied the brazen little huddle of buildings that grew like hog bristles from The Rock and the Bush Pilot’s Monument.

“It’s changed just since we’ve been here,” I said.

Not so long ago, hardly anyone in Canada knew of the Northwest Territories and this little mining town. Now, it was becoming known as a vibrant capital with a busy airport, a noisy main street and a list of visiting dignitaries that was growing by the week.

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