A SOFT GNAWING sound and heavy footsteps on the gravel beach woke up both Panipakoocho and me in the middle of the night. The noise came from outside the rear wall of our tent. It wasn't dark; we were almost 1,000 kilometres north of the Arctic Circle, at the top end of Baffin island, where the summer sun never sets. It did not take long to figure out the meaning of the disturbance. Something was eating our supply of fresh meat, and the most likely culprit in these parts was a polar bear.
In an instant we were on our feet, outside, peering cautiously over the tent. The bear looked up, rather demurely given the circumstances, and dropped what little remained of a hind quarter of caribou. But he stood his ground, staring back at us from five metres away, as if inquiring after our intentions. It was obvious this was a hungry bear. As he had nearly finished the offerings of arctic char, whale blubber and caribou that had been neatly arranged on the stoney ground, there was some cause for concern that he might turn to . . . well, you can be sure that I, at least, contemplated what might happen. Panipakoocho, on the other hand, was unshaken.
The Inuit hunter and the bear looked at each other for a silent moment before Panipakoocho took the initiative and fired a warning shot high into the air. The bear apparently was unimpressed. Panipakoocho took aim and fired into the stones just beside the bear, once, twice and a third time. Finally the bear turned and walked a few metres away. Then, as if to remind us that this was his territory, he stopped and looked back one last time before ambling off toward the glacier cutting down into the sea from the hills behind our camp.
The most remarkable part of the whole episode for me was that we then crawled back into our tent and easily fell asleep. Had I been alone, sleep would have been impossible. The event underlined the extent to which Panipakoocho is part of this land. He sensed intuitively that the bear would not return that night, just as he knew exactly how to scare it away. He exuded such confidence that I too could sleep soundly.
A week earlier, we had departed from Pond Inlet in an open boat powered by a 75-hp outboard engine. Since then, we had been travelling the waters of Eclipse Sound, Navy Board Inlet and Lancaster Sound off the north end of Baffin Island. It was mid-August, the only month when such travel is possible; most of the year the sea is frozen. Still, we faced biting winds, swallowed icy salt spray and were stranded once on a sandy spit for 36 hours. It was, as they say, no picnic. But life for Panipakoocho and the other hunters of Pond Inlet is never easy. They, like their ancestors, depend on the bounty of the land and the sea.
That traditional dependence persists. Our food and the food of people in the summer hunting camps we passed was caribou, char, narwhal and seal. Seal is the mainstay. Panipakoocho's family -- his wife and five children -- consumes up to three seals a week.
Unlike their ancestors, however, Panipakoocho and the other residents of Pond Inlet depend equally on goods imported from the south. They live in a mixed economy. In order to buy the essentials for hunting -- a boat and motor in the summer, a snowmobile in winter, plus the gas and ammunition -- Panipakoocho's wife works at the Pond Inlet hotel. Occasionally, when they need extra cash, Panipakoocho works too, driving one of the trucks that regularly delivers water or pumps out waste at every house in town.
It was the same in every camp we visited: at least one of the hunters had a wife back in town who was earning money to support the hunt. It is a formula that works, but it is possible for only a limited number of Pond Inlet's families. There are simply not enough jobs to go around.
It used to be different. "Ten years ago," remembered Panipakoocho, "I saved and cleaned every sealskin to sell. I got about $35 a skin, enough to buy gas and bullets for the next trip." Since the collapse of the sealskin market following the 1983 European ban on imports of some seal pelts (particularly those of white-coat harp seal less than two weeks old), under one percent of the income in Pond Inlet comes from sealskin. The meat is still needed, but many of the skins are simply thrown away. Hunting is no longer a self-supporting operation.
It is but one example of how modern industrialized society has come into conflict with the traditional Inuit way of life. Pond Inlet is a community that remains as closely linked to the old ways as any. But at the same time, it is a community that has learned better than most to deal with the new.
The elders say this is because the people of Pond Inlet have always taken pride in their self-sufficiency. Elisapee Ootoova has lived in or near today's townsite for most of her 60 years. For a while in recent years she thought Inuit were losing control of their lives. Now she says, "It seems we have recognized the problem and can see the solution. I feel very happy about the future." By this she does not mean that everything is rosy, but that the youth of Pond Inlet are coming to realize the importance of keeping traditional values alive, as a source of strength for the hard times that seem to lie ahead.
"We used to say, if you cannot build an igloo, you are not ready to get married," said Ootoova, gazing thoughtfully out the window at the range of mountains that embrace Pond Inlet. She was speaking, in the subtle language of Inuktitut, of a level of comfort with one's environment that makes for a life beyond mere survival. A young Inuk may no longer need the old skills to survive in the Arctic but, in Ootoova's opinion, learning the traditional ways of this land is crucial to their sense of belonging here.
The future is not going to be easy. Today, half of the 1,000 residents of Pond Inlet are under 20 years of age. Given present birth rates, in 10 years the total population will be close to 1,500. The work force will double in size, but the number of jobs will probably increase only marginally. Hunting, it would seem, may become even more important as a source of food.
Inuit dependence on wildlife is at the centre of current controversy about the future use of the Northwest Passage. Lancaster Sound, the traditional hunting area for the people of Pond Inlet and the eastern entrance to the passage, is one of the most prolific wildlife areas in the world. Polar bear, seal, walrus and narwhal thrive here.
But resource exploitation threatens this ecosystem. There is pressure to keep the Northwest Passage shipping lanes open longer, using a powerful icebreaker to facilitate the extraction of ore and oil at sites farther west. About 20 companies hold oil and gas permits near the mouth of Lancaster Sound. Increased shipping will bring a greater risk of oil spills. According to a government study a few years ago, it is in this stretch of water that the "iceberg hazard is probably higher than any other region of
Canada's arctic archipelago." At the farthest extent of my sea voyage with Panipakoocho, I sat on a hill overlooking the 100-kilometre breadth of Lancaster Sound and counted 39 icebergs with the naked eye. The largest showed above the water a mass of ice about the size of a 15-storey apartment block -- only a hint of the massive underwater hazard to navigation.
Other threats of increased shipping include new leads through the ice that may alter patterns of animal migration, and an unprecedented level of undersea noise. Every hunter I spoke with seemed hard pressed to say which of these three perils he feared most.
Anaviapik, an elder who worked with scientists studying the arctic ice years ago, and whose wall proudly displays an honorary doctorate from Brock University for his contribution, is convinced that underwater noise frightens sea mammals away. "They are very sensitive to even little noises. I've noticed the impact of outboards and snowmobiles which have arrived during my life. The effect of loud noises from big ships would be terrible." Scientists agree that narwhal, in particular, are very sensitive to sound.
The issue in Lancaster Sound revolves around the pragmatic use of the environment by people. Industrialized society confronts a hunting society. Who has the right to decide for which economy the region should be exploited? Compromise seems unworkable,
or at least unlikely; one or the other must prevail.
It is in a world dominated by such unresolved conflict that the young people of Pond Inlet have grown up. Most have been encouraged to learn some of the traditional skills, which for centuries allowed Inuit to survive on the land. Yet their school system and teachers, imported from Southern Canada, prepare them for jobs that may not be available.
In a discussion at the school with Grade 10 and 11 students, it was important to them to be recognized simply as modern kids. "We don't travel everywhere by dog-team or live in igloos," several protested. In fact, such images seemed laughable to them. They insisted that they listen to the same music and have many of the same problems and pressures as their counterparts down south. Yet one fellow, who confessed a compelling affinity for heavy metal and hard rock music -- only a little behind the times -- added, "It's hard to keep our traditional values mixed in with what we are today."
The youths see the growing number of unemployed, and it worries them. A few turn to soft drugs, alcohol and glue sniffing, but such problems are far less prevalent in Pond Inlet than in many other northern communities. Most of the young people hope that getting an education will be some kind of solution for them.
Pond Inlet is lucky to have a high school; few Inuit communities do. Starting with the 1990-91 school year, a full curriculum up to Grade 12 is available there. As a result, "a larger number of students are getting into the high-school program, staying in it longer, and being more successful," said David Parks, the principal who has been teaching in Pond Inlet for 12 years. Yet, he added, "attendance is still a challenge."
"I believe the young generation is trying to continue the traditions, but they're holding on with two hands, one in each world," said Simon Akpaliapik on a Sunday evening after church. He expressed pride and comfort in the fact that his grandson, whom he taught, is skilled out on the land -- a good hunter able to survive on his own. In the way that many Inuit elders do, he reflected back on the past with a mixture of pain and joy. It was a simple life, but one attended by ample suffering. "In a camp many years ago (before the move in the 1960s to communities such as Pond Inlet) we were all related and we all worked together. We shared everything. Now, in the communities that co-operation is gone. In some places hunters are selling their meat, even to relatives. That is not happening here. In Pond, there is still more sharing than in other communities." It is common in this town for a hunter to announce on the local radio station that he has just returned with surplus of meat should anyone be in need.
Pond Inlet is set apart in many ways, as several residents pointed out. It was the first Inuit settlement to restrict the importing of alcohol in the early 1970s, a self-imposed measure. Since then it has taken the lead in addressing other social, cultural and environmental issues. That strength of leadership has carried it through the difficult 1980s, and seems to give its residents a confidence for the future.
People of every generation speak of the future with optimism, even as they approach the economic hurdles of the present. The reality is that a loaf of sliced white bread in the Pond Inlet Co-op costs $3.25, a banged-up apple or peach is 95¢, a can of pop $2.25, and an Eskimo Pie (no kidding!) sells for $1.25. A 75-hp outboard motor lying at one end of the store had a price tag of $6,760 (compared to $4,600 in central Ontario). The cost of living is high. Jobs are scarce. Social assistance is a way of life for some.
So hunting remains essential to life in Pond Inlet. There is no reason to believe that will change in the foreseeable future, and that underlies the deepening concern among residents for the environment of the Lancaster Sound region.
Some 150 kilometres from Pond Inlet, I sat looking over Koluktoo Bay at the end of an inlet that more than half of the world's narwhal population uses every summer as a post-calving nursery (no one knows why). It was the camp of the hunter Kadloo. He too looked out over the silent water and assured me that this environment had not changed in his lifetime. He feels less certain about the future. But for this year, at least, he knows the narwhals will come and he will be able to hunt as he has always done.
It began with the sound of rushing air just offshore. Seven whales swam slowly past. Their breathing was loud and rhythmic. Only one of these narwhals had the characteristic clockwise spiralling ivory tusk of the male. Their dark grey backs broke the surface only briefly as they rose to blow and breathe. In less than a minute they were gone. An hour later, seated in a small boat floating noiselessly in the middle of the bay, we were surrounded by a thousand narwhals. They grunted and sighed and whistled endlessly as they dived and surfaced all around. It was the noise, more than the sight, that was striking. For half an hour they continued their tireless search for food, and then, as if on cue, they disappeared, leaving us alone with the still water and quiet air. But the narwhals had returned, and they would spend the next few weeks feeding in the area. For the hunters it was a signal of the start of their annual whale hunt, one of many that the land and the sea continue to provide to those who know them. Understanding those signals is the essence of being Inuit.
A few days later, when I tried to fathom Panipakoocho's reactions to the polar bear intruder, he answered me with a simple statement. "I live outside. I know." He does, and the next generation will too. Even as they build bridges to the modern world, they still recognize the signals of the vast land and sea that surround Pond Inlet. In this Inuit community at the top end of Baffin island, the enduring connection to the land remains strong.
