Summer! Short but Sweet

 Sofia Jain



As darkness begins to show itself again, the snowmobile have changed to speedboats, and the tuques to bug spray. After what seemed like weeks of rainy 4 degree days, last week the temperature was finally getting into the double digits and the fog was breaking up. The warming tundra is green and smells sweet and spiced. With the warmth the mosquito have become much more numerous. They are just everywhere; falling flattened out of my notebook, escaping into my apartment out of my backpack, flying into my mouth only to be swallowed. I’ve come to love the refuge I find in my bug shirt.

Last month when I jokingly asked someone, “So when does summer happen?”. He replied, “The third weekend in July.” I thought it was a joke then, but now I’m not so sure. Last weekend the temperature rose to about 20 degrees, but with the Arctic sun it felt warmer. It was wonderful: eating outside with other researchers, borrowing a kayak to go for a little paddle. I even jumped into the river and was almost glad for the numbness it caused because for once I was not itchy and I didn’t feel the pinch of new bites as I scrambled back under my bug shirt.

 

But alas, tomorrow is August, and with it should come cool temperatures again. I cannot believe how little of summer we saw. People say it’s unusually cool, but the elders say this was how it used to be.

Many of the plants are beginning to fruit now, but there are also many late bloomers.



Rhododendron tomentosa
 (Labrador tea) in fruit

Dryas integrifolia (Mountain Avens) in fruit



Diapensia lapponica in fruit



A walk around town

Sofia Jain

You step out the door, dropping your sunglasses onto your nose and pulling on a tuque. You jump over a puddle of cigarette butts, used diapers and pop cans. Looking up as you land safely on the other side, you are struck by a beautiful view over the tops of the roofs of the bay; a soft fog rising of the water turning the hill behind it a watercolor blue. You shrug your shoulders against the cold wind. Making your way down the hill you pass a raven chatting to himself in a complex dialect that sounds like electronic raindrops and dog barks. A car stops to let you cross the road and you become engulfed in dust as they continue on their way. A stream of kids skid by on their bicycles shouting war cries. A lady stands blowing puffs of cigarette smoke into the air. You follow a little stream filled with plastic bags. Its banks are lined with bright pink, yellow and white flowers. You’re ears fill with the sound of rushing water and house construction. You stop at the store to pick up a few things, trying not to let your mind linger on the prices...

 

Packing your oatmeal and apples away into your backpack, someone holds the door open for you. You’re body vibrates as a plane flies only tens of meters overhead. Arriving at the beech you pick your way over the dried kelp, a rotting seal fin, a broken hunting riffle. You can smell the brine of the bay as you pass some beached sea ice and some boats eager to get out on the blue bay. The tide is out, so the water's edge is almost a kilometer away. The tides here are second only to that of the Bay of Fundy. Carvers drill shapes into their soap stone in old sea cans or wood huts along the beach road. A lonely puppy waddles up to you pawing the air. You pat its soft fur. A boy watches you from where he hangs under a house. All houses are built on metal poles in Iqaluit to prevent the heat from the house in winter from melting the permafrost and causing the ground to shift. A group of women walk by giggling. A baby gurgles from his snug spot behind his mother in her Amauti. The sun breaks out and it’s suddenly warm enough to take off your jacket; some mosquitos drift by on cue. The bay lights up and the fog dissipates. The sled dogs howl at you from where they are tied up along a stream. A stray dog runs along, steeling some food from the others and causing havoc. You decide to take a short cut up through the tundra. You hop over the ditch and duck under a pipe bringing petrol up to the power plant. Clambering across the rocks died neon orange and electric green with lichen, you come across tiny flowers, a forgotten hat, a stroller, a worn out sleeping bag and a fallen tent. You stop to steady yourself and catch the last part of a snow bunting’s tune. You proceed without applauding. A butterfly flaps by as you crunch over a patch of snow. The sun is shrouded in clouds once again. Cold rain stings your face. You run up the last bit of tundra, down to road and jump back over your welcome mat. Unlocking the door you pray for a new pair of shoes to have appeared in the entrance announcing that you will have company for the next few days.

 

The world of the very small

Sofia Jain

 

Well, summer has arrived. Though it’s somewhat an exaggerative use of this warm and sunny word. The only things that makes it feel like summer is the sound of mosquitos the smell of sunscreen and of course the flourishing plant life.

The past few weeks have been greater than zero so it’s an improvement, and temperatures have pushed up past 10 degrees in certain happy moments. Though Iqaluit has been engulfed fog and drizzles from the humidity off the melting ice.



Moss (I wish that I could identify mosses)

I’ve found having to spend so much time on my hands and knees, cross-eyed, trying to determine whether the hairs on this plant are branched or stellate and whether this plants flower is cream or light yellow, has given me an immense appreciation for the small.





Vaccinium uliginosum (Bilberry)

Rhododendron lapponicum (Lapland Rosebay)





Erigeron eriocephalus  (One flower fleabane)



Armeria scabra (Sea thrift)

Phyllodoce caerulea (Blue mountain heather)

The Trials of Being a Botanist

Sofia Jain



Not to demean the wonders we are seeing nor how much I love my job, but while hunting for plants can be exciting and rewarding, it also has its difficulties. Probably most troublesome is the weather. The wind spends most days attempting to flatten you. It has been a reasonable temperature of late, but with windchill it still feels like winter. There was one day where I felt like my cheeks were being blown back as if I was a dog with my head out the car window. The wind grabbed some pages out of my notebook and whipped them away into the nearest pond before we could scramble after most of them. On most days I couldn’t tell you whether I’m too cold or too hot, but it’s definitely not in between. I get sweaty from the exertion of hiking around, but the surface of my skin is numb and sore from the endless wind pulling the heat away, and the occasional pelting by sleet.
There was one glorious day without wind nor cloud on July 1^st. New flowers were popping up left right and center. It was hard to keep moving rather than laze about in the sun. Then They came; floating effortlessly on the breezeless day, alive with the warmth and thirsty. By lunchtime we were back in our layers to shield us from the bloodthirsty rather than from the cold, and there I was swatting away with 3 bites flourishing on my forehead. 
Worst of all perhaps are days like today, where I wake up to this...


Really? A blizzard on July 3rd?



Getting over the tundra can also be troublesome. When we first got here there were banks of snow between us and the snowless ridges with our exposed subjects. Some of the banks were taller than I am. These could be trying to get over. One moment you would be doing fine and the next your entire leg was swallowed by snow. When going downhill, it was often easier to just slide down on our bums. And, when down was not the way to go, we sometimes resorted to rolling over the snow which involved a lot less sinking then putting all our pressure on one foot. In one instance, my leg ended up in a river under the snow and came back out without a boot. Several minutes and wet mittens later I had a boot full of ice cold water back on my foot and we called it a day. As the snow melted it became easier to explore new places, though it was more difficult to find the same sites again because the landscape underneath the snow was unrecognizable, and it was not easy to return home without feet sopping wet from the streams of snow melt. Bare tundra is not any easier to walk over when it's something you are doing for hours every day. Tundra is really hills of boulder jutting out and every angle with a sprinkle of spongy plants. I’ve rolled my ankles more times than I can count.

Really, my mind glances off these difficulties, barely taking notice, because it’s so busy taking in all of this.

 

July 1st Rhododendron lapponicum
 (Lapland rosebay) and
Pedicularis hirsuta (Hairy loosewart)

Astragalus alpinus (Alpine milk-vetch)

Saxifraga tricuspidata (Prickly saxifrage)