I finished work early on a beautiful Spring day in Tuktoyaktuk. The sun's rays were bright on the arctic snow and I squinted even with my dark 400nm sunglasses. When I arrived back at camp I checked the cupboards and refrigerator, looking for a bit of inspiration for dinner. I decided that ptarmigan a la orange on a bed of wild rice might be tasty fare for that evening. I grabbed my trusty 20ga. Winchester Model 12 from the wall and headed out the door to fire up my Ski-Doo.
A few days prior I had noticed some ptarmigan (arctic grouse) in the willow brush about a kilometer down the coastline of the Arctic Ocean, near the mouth of the McKenzie. The sea ice was still nearly seven feet thick, but changes in weather had opened some rather large leads (cracks of open water). On several occasions I had to travel well out of way to skirt these leads. Small ones I would simply jump with the snowmobile. The ink black water was very cold and death by hypothermia usually comes within three to five minutes to any hapless traveler who falls into the sea in these conditions, tempering any curiousity I may have as to just how big a lead I could successfully jump.
I found the ptarmigan where I had last seen them and shot two birds for dinner. I unzipped my parka because of the sun's warmth and took the hood down. Only a few weeks remained in the snowmobile season and I decided this gift was not to be wasted. I headed further along the coast, exploring the shore and little coves. I spotted some movement in an inlet and raised the binoculars to investigate. A small arctic fox was picking his way along the shoreline. I decided to move closer. The fox froze, studying the approaching intruder. Often instinct dictates that remaining motionless, hiding the white coat in the snow, is the best strategy. It's the one he opted for.
As I reached a distance approximately half way to the fox my snowmobile's contact with the surface suddenly changed. Everything became smooth. The engine's raspy high pitch drone lowered a semitone. Terror gripped me as I grasped what had happened. My Ski-Doo was driving on open water, covered by a thin skin of windblown snow. If I slowed even slightly the machine would cease to plane and would surely sink to the bottom of the sea. If I sped up, responding to my fears, I could spin out on the surface snow, again sinking the snowmobile. I held the trottle steady for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, I felt the thud of the track slamming into the edge of the ice. I was back on a solid surface and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
The fox was just ahead and I nudged a bit closer and killed the engine. The fox looked alarmed. We just looked at each other for a minute and then I spoke, "You're in luck today, my friend. Had I been an Inuk (Intuit), you'd be dead and in my sled. I suppose we're both very lucky to be alive today." The sound of my voice sent him trotting away. He stopped and looked back one final time. I tugged the cord to fire up the Ski-Doo and headed home to prepare dinner.