Returning to Churchill, and, The things that happen

Churchill, Manitoba, Canada.

"I've met many people whose lives were more noteworthy than mine. They had great stories to tell, and did tell them, but failed to put them in print. And now they're gone."
-Bern Will Brown, Arctic Journal

Returning to Churchill.

Four days ago.

After a 600 kilometer late night fuel delivery run from Flin Flon to Split Lake - seven barrels of jet-A rocking back and forth in an enclosed van, twenty more on a trailer behind, cigarette in mouth, coffee in hand, rugged gravel road, but thankfully no flat tire - my flight to Churchill left Thompson in the morning. The hour-long flight was felt luxurious - quiet, safe, snacks were served, and I got to read that same day's newspaper, the first time I'd been able to do so after a summer spent in the bush.

The flight was a thank-you gift and was considerably shorter than the 24 hours it would've taken by train - there are no roads to Churchill. Although the thought of a full day to sit, think, and not have to answer to anybody sounded appealing, the free air travel was welcome.

I was greeted at Churchill airport by my new employer and we drove into town to the tune of smalltalk and CBC Radio. That hour in the air was only thing that seperated my summer seasonal job and my fall seasonal job but the change in scenery gave me a breath of fresh air. The last three weeks I had been working in near solitude at a remote fishing lodge, my summer home that is packed with people during the season but becomes lonely come September, and it was good to see a face that wasn't my own in the mirror.

I had travelled to Churchill in July where I had met my new employers and had been offered a job for the fall. I would only accept the offer several weeks later. At the time of my first visit my mind was a jumble having narrowly escaped a forest fire, with over 20 people I was responsible for, just a week before. But the town, and my hosts, had sent me back to work with a fresh outlook. Returning now felt like I was coming back to something I knew well although I had only visited for three days the first time.

This time I'll be here for at least eight weeks and in that time the temperature will drop significantly, the snow will fly, and I may very well be spending more time with animals than humans - particularily a motley crew of sled dogs who I'll be caring for, but also running after moose and running from polar bears, the arctic beast that people from all over the planet come here to see.

The Things That Happen.

There's a pathology to writing down the things that happen to you. It takes you away from the everyday and puts you in a place that allows you to transcend the present. I find a struggle to believe the things that happen to me are of enough worth to spend the time putting them into words. Perhaps that is just the excuse I use not to write, despite being familiar with the overarching power of the written word and the clearmindedness that comes along with it. I tell people to write everything down that happens to them, whether in a private journal or for an audience, but it's a rule I rarely practice myself. I rarely write down anything that is not meant for an audience and maybe the need to have my words bounce off somebody else is one of my faults as a writer. Brown, who spent over fifty years in Canada's Arctic, writes of the people more noteworthy than him who told great stories but failed to write them down and now those stories are lost. If Brown, whose northern exploits are nothing short of exciting, had the same nagging feeling of his life story not being exciting enough to warrant being written down, then clearly I am not alone. But he wrote anyway, in volumes, and has managed to pass down half a century of history and experience to whoever cares to open his Arctic Journal.

Perhaps we shall write.