Subzero Saturday

It's been around the -30° mark this weekend. I heard someone say today: "You know it's cold when the snow squeaks." 

I know it's cold when the moment I step outside, I become immediately aware of the presence of my nose hairs. 

This morning I was trapped inside my house due to the door being frozen shut. I tried for a good 15-20 minutes to yank the door open, but to no avail. Luckily, I've got people nearby so I called for reinforcement. My pal Emily had to bodyslam her entire weight into the door to dislodge it. This whole time the cat was screaming at me to let him out into the -32° outdoors.

I have such a vivid memory of one of my first encounters with squeaky snow. It was in Qikiqtarjuaq, Nunavut which is located on Broughton Island, a small island off the Eastern coast of Baffin Island. From the hotel we were staying in, you could see icebergs out on the sea ice. My coworker and I decided we should go for a walk to check out the icebergs. Naieve as we were (and Quallunaats; the Inuit term for "white person"), we assumed that the icebergs were within a kilometer or two away, max three. We walked across the sea ice for a couple hours only to realize we were not even half way to the icebergs. Doing some quick mental math, we decided that we couldn't keep marching for another two hours and then return before sundown. On the trek back, we deliberated about finding a snowmobile we could rent the next day to get out to the icebergs. As we marched back to our hotel (looking much closer to us than our original target), I became accutely aware of the crisp squeak under my foot with every step. I imagined the harshness of the conditions in which Inuit endured/survived for millenia and continue to this very day. As I pondered this with every squeaky step, I became more and more baffled and awestruck at the strength, tenacity, and the resillience of Inuit. 

That night, I fell asleep in the warmth of my gas-heated hotel room - a modern convenience not available to pre-colonial Inuit - and far less sustainable than the qulliq (seal oil lamps). As an aside; the Qulliq has become a symbol of feminism and demonstrating the strength of Inuit women. 

An exerpt from Andree Gracie's writing: "The Qulliq: A Life Source" (https://proudlyindigenouscrafts.com/2021/06/25/the-qulliq-a-life-source/)

Traditionally, it was the woman's role to tend to the flame of the Qulliq. It was extremely significant as it provided warmth and heat in the home, it would dry wet clothing, it provided light in the darkness of winter and it was the source that cooked food. The Qulliq has done this for thousands of years.

I'm reflecting on how so often my blogging is inspired by what's happening in the weather. I realize that I am far less connected to the land and the elements than Inuit are/have been, yet I realize that weather patterns and seasons have more influence over me than I might ever know. 

There were fresh rasberries, pineapples, and bananas available at the grocery store today, at 50°N in January. Despite this highly globalized world I live in, I am still at the mercy of the weather. I was unable to leave my house this morning. Had to cancel the fitness class I was signed up for.

I've been sticking close to home the last few days... obsessively checking the wood boiler and loading it with logs. Shuttling the propane torch between our heated pump shack and the fire shed so that it can fulfill it's purpose in these -30° temperatures. It's felt nice to remove the pressures off myself of doing anything other than surviving. Not comparable to the lighting a Qulliq and seal hunting kind of surviving, though.

Feeling grateful for trees we use to heat our home; that I benefit from globalization for fresh foods in the winter; and for the opportunity to slow down and keep close to home in the name of "survival".