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I went on a trip with my friend Boogie, a few years ago, to his cabin, about 75km from Tuktoyaktuk. We were travelling by Ski-Doo. After staying overnight at the cabin, we rode another 70km to Inuvik to pick up supplies with our komatiks (sleds). After loading up, we headed back for the cabin. At one point Boogie stopped and suggested I lead for a while. I would look back frequently to make sure he was following. When looking back about an hour later, I discovered he wasn't there. I stopped and waited. And waited... and waited... I finally decided to turn around and backtrack. He was nowhere to be found. I returned to my original position and waited again, about an hour.

Before leaving for the arctic I had watched the movie "Lost in the Barrens", an account of the adventures of two boys who became separated from their party, lost in the endless, featureless tundra and lakes of the high north. My mind now raced back to that movie and a wave of terror swept over me. I was lost in the barrens, with no guide, completely alone in a hostile and unfamilar place. "Dear God, I could die up here, and they'll find me as a frozen popsicle in a few years, or what's left of my carcass after the wolves finish with it." After a few minutes I decided I really needed to get a grip and calm my mind. I took inventory of my situation. I had five gerry cans of gas, or five days of travel with my Ski-Doo. Yes, but in which direction? I could make the situation much worse by travelling the wrong way. I had the sled and tarp, which I could flip over to build a make-shift shelter. I had a 20ga shotgun and three shells, not much good against Polar Bears, except perhaps to hasten my end by pissing them off. I had $3,000.00 of food on my sled. I wouldn't die of starvation, at least. I'd be nice and fat when the Polar Bears happened upon me.

The sun was setting and the chill of the arctic night was creeping into my bones, even through my thick parka. I had to keep moving. And then I remembered some advice my Inuit boss, Jimmy, had given me, one night while we were stranded in his cabin during a fierce storm. He told me that if I was ever lost, I should trust the spirits (instinct, sixth sense). "You close your eyes, then turn round, maybe ten times. When you think you face home, you mark the snow with your heel. You keep your eyes closed and do it again; maybe five times. Each time you make the mark in the snow. You open your eyes. If the marks mostly point the same way, then the spirits show you which way you go. You watch the sastrugi (drift marks) so you stay on course." I figured I had nothing to lose. Sure enough, the marks were pretty much all pointing the same way. I revved the Ski-Doo and headed off in the direction my heel marks had pointed. An hour or more passed. All I could see was the narrow shaft of my headlight on the snow, my eyes focused on the direction of the snow drift patterns.

And then, I could see another headlight, coming in my direction across a lake. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Whoever it was, they could help me get back to Boogie's cabin, or home to Tuk. It was Boogie. "Whoa, you get me worried I have to call your mother and explain how I lose you and I never find you again. Lucky thing I keep looking for you, huh?" As we were about to travel, I had to ask, "So, was I heading in the right direction?" "Yeah, you heading for the cabin. You do okay for a white man."

The next day I drove my Ski-Doo off a cliff, but that's another story. (To be continued tomorrow)

(Continued from Lost in The Barrens)

The next morning, after a huge breakfast, we went ice fishing on the lake outside Boogie's cabin. His son Lucky and I drilled holes in the thick ice side by side, unwrapped the strings from our fishing sticks and began jigging the shiny spoons in the dark water below. For some reason we weren't very lucky in our fishing, which I found comical considering I was fishing with Lucky. An hour or so passed and Lucky came over. "I'm bored," he said. "We should maybe do something." "Like what?" I inquired. "Maybe we ride your Ski-Doo." I agreed that we could use a break and fired up the Ski-Doo.

"Where should we go?" I asked. "Up there," Lucky yelled over the engine, pointing to a hilly area covered in small willow bushes. As we began to climb the hill the snowmobile bogged down in the soft spring snow and we began to sink. "Go faster," Lucky shouted. I gave it more throttle and we shot up the hill, the skis gliding on top of the snow's surface again. A second later, I screamed in horror, "Jump!" We both leapt from the Ski-Doo as it left the edge of a bluff into the air. We tumbled some fifteen meters down the steep snowy slope, slowed by the willow brush we crashed through on the way down. There was a sickening crunch and a few thuds as the snowmobile hit the ice and bounced several times. Fearing the worst I walked over to my machine. The engine had died and pieces of it were lying on the ice. "Wow, good thing it land on the track," Lucky exclaimed. The windshield and fiberglass cowling had been held on with rubber bungee fasteners. I clipped all the pieces back on, fired it up and took it for a quick spin around the lake. It seemed none the worse for wear. Lucky hopped on and we went around the tip of the peninsula back to our fishing holes. "How come you told me to drive off that cliff?" I inquired. "I thought you would know the area around your cabin." He just shrugged and laughed, "Guess I forget about that place." "Well, that about does it for the excitement for today," I joked.

I was in a hurry one day to get to the door, while living in Tuktoyaktuk for 15 months, slid in some half-melted snow in the porch and slammed my little toe into a wooden platform that held our boots. It was very swollen and I think I broke it. The next day I had plans to go on a week long hunting trip with my Inuit friend Emmanuel. He came by to pick me up in the morning and I limped along with him to his boat, wearing an oversized boot. We traveled along the coast of the Arctic Ocean for about eight kilometers and set up camp on a small peninsula. Emanuel set up his traditional cotton duck tent with driftwood poles and I set up my geodesic expedition tent. When we were done he came by and smirked and shook his head, making some remark about my stupid white man tent.

We had a quick lunch and then headed out by boat again. He wanted to kill a few seals to feed his dog team. We came across a few ducks and I shot one, planning to make a curried duck soup that night back in camp. As we came near the duck, floating in the water, he suddenly turned the boat around and opened the throttle. "What are you doing?" I demanded. "We never picked up my duck." He told me a storm was coming in and that we must head back to land immediately or we would be in serious trouble. I looked at the sky and back at him. Everything looked fine to me and I shook my head, puzzled. Within minutes, our tiny aluminum boat was bouncing up and down in high breakers and I was frantically bailing with a large coffee can. We made it safely to shore, but nowhere near our camp. We began walking across the rough tundra, and came upon a camp of tents. Within minutes we were warm and hung up our soaked parkas to dry. Six or seven hours passed and as suddenly as it had come, the storm left. I thought we would now take the boat back to camp. Our boat had vanished in the storm, floating somewhere in the ocean. Emmanuel told me that the peninsula would be inaccessible until the waters went down, so we would have to hike back the eight kilometers to town. Needless to say, it was an excruciating ordeal with my damaged toe. Three days later we were ready to hike back to camp. A friend had come across his boat and had tied it up near our camp.

I hobbled across the eight kilometers of very rough tundra back to camp. To Emmanuel's dismay, his tent had blown down and the contents were spread across the peninsula, some items were floating in the ocean nearby and some gear and supplies had been swallowed up by the storm entirely. I was delighted that my expedition tent had lived up to the brochure's claims of extreme weather resistance. I zipped open the front door and crawled inside. My sleeping bag was perfectly dry. My food was still in the bag, completely dry. "So how's your tent?" Emmanuel snorted. "Oh, just fine," I grinned. "Would you like a cup of tea and some lunch? He took a seat on my dry sleeping bag and Thermarest mattress." As he took a sip of the warm tea, comfortably seated on my dry camp bed I inquired with a wink, "Stupid white man tent, eh?"

One evening, during my fifteen month stay in Tuktoyaktuk, I went to visit my friend Boogie. He was putting some food on the table and inquired if I had ever tried Ooksook. I told him I hadn't and foolishly volunteered that I'd try anything once. He smiled mischievously and disappeared into the enclosed porch, returning with a white plastic ice cream bucket. I was sitting in the living room and could see him opening it in the adjoining kitchen. Within seconds I nearly fell off the sofa from the pungent stench. "That's Ooksook?" I inquired. "I'm not so sure I want some now." "Ah," he replied disappointedly, "You said you would eat some."

My word is my bond and I wasn't going to welch out. A few minutes later, everything was ready for our feast. There were pieces of raw Arctic Char on one plate, slices of Quaq (raw dried caribou) and a bowl of what appeared to be half-melted lard.

"How do you eat it?" I inquired. "You dip the Quaq into the Ooksook, like chip dip." I had eaten Quaq often, but now picked up a slice hesitantly. I dipped it in the Ooksook and waited, thinking. It occurred to me that the best strategy might be to pop it in my mouth, chomp on it a few times and swallow it immediately, trying not to taste the offensively smelly dip. I proceeded on that course and had it down in seconds.

Evidently, my stomach wasn't all that impressed with it, as it attempted to wretch it up in several heaves. I managed to hold it down. "You want more?" Boogie asked excitedly. "Put hair on your chest." I assured him I would gladly die hairless rather than eat that vile stuff again. "Why would anyone eat that?" I inquired. "Keeps you warm when it's cold." Thinking about it, that made sense. Well rotted whale blubber, three years in the decay process, would be predigested fat, entering the blood stream in only minutes.

Later, Boogie reminded me that I enjoy old cheddar and blue cheese. I suppose Ooksook must also be an acquired taste, but one I choose not to cultivate.

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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.

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A few years ago I took a break and went to the high arctic for fifteen months. I lived on the land with the Inuit for periods of time, living off game and fish.

One day I was out hunting with some friends and one of them pointed to a pond, some distance away, asking me if I'd seen the ducks land. Being one of the few white men up there, I was often the butt of their jokes, so I wondered if they were pulling my leg. One of the hunters was a pastor at the local church. I looked to him and he nodded, indicating there were indeed ducks in the pond.

I grabbed my shotgun and began my trek towards the pond over the rough tundra. When I got there, sure enough, there were three ducks. The natives would likely have waited until all three were in close proximity, shooting them all with one shot. Being a kabloonak (white man), I felt that would be entirely unsporting. I flushed the birds into the air. To my dismay, they split at hard angles. I shot the far left bird but discovered the other two were already out of range for my 20ga. 'gentleman's gun'.

I picked up the single duck and headed back to camp. When I returned I could hear them howling with laughter. "What now?" I demanded, a bit annoyed. "Silly white man." one of them replied, "On the way back you stop and look at your duck. Oh, nice duck! While you look at the duck them other two fly right over your head and land right back in same pond. Ha, ha! Great white hunter, the great white wolf of the north." I never lived the nickname down.

Over time the name became inextricably linked with the many fond memories of my northern adventure. When I returned to the south I began signing illustrations and airbrush artwork with White Wolf and my design company became Whitewolf Design & Media Group.

Visit Travels North for more information about travel to the arctic.