Fear and Awe at Northwest Passage Journey's End

[Editor’s note: This summer The Tyee followed the journey of four Vancouver-based adventurers as they attempted to become the first people to row the Northwest Passage, a 3,000-kilometre journey through one of the harshest climates on the planet. The goal? To raise awareness about climate change. The passage, which connects the Atlantic and Pacific oceans through the Arctic Sea, used to be covered with thick pack ice that made crossing a feat even for purpose-built ships made to withstand it. However, global warming has melted the ice to a point where, the men believed, their specialized rowboat the Arctic Joule could cross, finding its way around ice floes. A human-powered vessel has never made it through the passage in a single season -- and alas, at the journey's end that remains true. Rower Kevin Vallely explains what happened, and why for him the attempt was worth it.]

The expedition of the Arctic Joule is now complete. We rowed a distance of 1,872 kilometres across the Northwest Passage from Inuvik, Northwest Territories to Cambridge Bay, Nunavut -- a distance shorter than our intended journey of some 3,000 kilometres to the community of Pond Inlet on Baffin Island.

Our goal was to make it to Pond Inlet by mid-September, since the reduced light, colder temperatures and harsher storms of early fall would swiftly shut us down. Arriving in Cambridge Bay a solid 50 to 60 days travel time shy of our goal made our decision to cut short the expedition very easy. High winds, erratic weather and sea ice made life difficult enough getting there, and moving forward would have been foolhardy.

We took the journey to bring awareness to the profound effect climate change is having on the Arctic. Some critics have suggested that our truncated journey speaks to the contrary, but nothing could be further from the truth. Our slow progress due to the wind and weather demonstrates the difficulties of rowing in an Arctic environment, not the existence or non-existence of climate change. This year, the minimum ice extents -- an annual snapshot of what the minimum amount of sea ice looks like on any given year after a summer of melting -- will be a staggering one-third less than what it was 25 to 30 years ago. Even in an anomalous cold year, as 2013 has proven to be, the ice is significantly less than in years past.

Through this expedition we've experienced the Arctic in a truly unique way. We've had the privilege to speak with the people who live here and hear their stories of a changing climate. And they've told us lots.

Surprise grasshoppers, berries and bears

Floyd Roland, former premier of the Northwest Territories and current mayor of Inuvik, speaks of winters that now begin a month later than when he was a kid and of strange and inconsistent weather patterns that were once far more predictable.

Elders Billy and Eileen Jacobson of Tuktoyaktuk speak of winters shortened by a fortnight at either end, of grasshoppers in the Arctic and of grizzly bears and wolverines further north than ever seen before.

Daryl Nasagaluk of Tuktoyaktuk speaks of beavers now appearing in Arctic waters, damming the rivers and destroying the run of white fish.

Hank Wolki in Paulatuk speaks of the thinning sea ice that surrounds his community and of the dangers of winter travel within a warming Arctic.

Marlene Wolki of Paulatuk speaks of a shifting winter season, of picking blueberries in late September during a time when the land was once frozen, of an ice-free Darnley Bay in October, something unheard of when she was young.

Brothers Joe and Steve Illisiak in Brown's Camp tell us of grizzly and polar bears interacting, of the new hybrid bear on the scene -- the pizzly and the grolar, of rarely seen pods of killer whales prowling their waters.

Joe Ohokannoak of Cambridge Bay tells us of grizzly bears on Victoria Island, of ravens now commonplace where once they never ventured.

The Arctic is changing and it's changing dramatically. We know this because the people that live here tell us so.

'Ilira'

The Inuit have a word, "ilira." It has no equivalent in the English language, but it's a word that defines our journey.

Ilira is the sensation you feel when you glide down the waters of Franklin Bay under a setting sun, with sulphurous plumes of smoke erupting from the hillsides beyond and a giant bow head whale surfacing just metres away. Ilira is the feeling you get when you go to sleep at night facing a mirror-smooth ocean bay and awake to a cauldron of sea ice, churning and grinding in its place. Ilira is the sensation when a nine-foot barren ground grizzly stands on its hind legs, discovers you're there and slowly walks towards you. Ilira is the sensation of rounding a precipitous rock-walled cape in gentle seas, knowing that bad weather is on its way and in seconds your world could be chaos.

Ilira is the gentle flush of fear that comes with awe. Ilira has defined our journey through the waters of the Northwest Passage.

The expedition challenged us in ways we couldn't have imagined, and at many times we were afraid. We feared the huge chunk of multi-year ice intent on running us over in Franklin Bay. We feared the frightening mix of wind, storm and current that gave us an unwillingly up-close and personal view of the grinding pack ice of Darnley Bay. We feared the southerly wind so strong it pushed us helplessly into the Amundsen Gulf, our oars powerless to its force.

But with the fear also came awe. We wondered at a beluga whale rising inquisitively from the surf mere metres away. On a secluded bay we never intended to visit, we wondered at the ruins of an ancient Thule site, a people that once inhabited the region. We wondered at the sight of the horizon twisting, bending and turning upon itself as the heat and cold from air and water played games with our minds.

The expedition has come to a close, but part of me will always remain up there in the cold waters of the Arctic, locked in that wild and barren landscape, a landscape on the cusp of major change.