Kings Of The North

A new years eve night in the Canadian Northwest Territories

The clock ticks at a quarter to 9 on the living room wall. I’m sweating buckets into my boots despite taking off my ski mask, gloves and unzipping my parka. I am sliding around the living room floor, enjoying the texture of the soft carpet between my toes and the plastic bags wrapped over my socks.

The smell of chocolate muffins fills the air, on inhaling it’s like being in a bakery. It’s not like I’m waiting for my friend to get ready, in the living room.

Tonight it’s -40 C, not including the wind-chill. Frost lines the glass around the window, reminding me of the ice road dad and I crossed on our Skidoos, the week before.

I hear a thudding sound behind me, of footsteps coming up the stairs from the basement. My friend, Thomas, is geared up and ready. Weighing in at about 150 lbs and at least 30 of that weight a solid mass of winter gloves, jet-black ski pants, parka, and -60C rated winter boots. We both knew the rating was fickle. When your feet got wet it was game over. That’s why we put bags over our socks, tucking them in at the ankles.

To keep them dry. Wet feet could easily become a problem, in the winter, for someone growing up in the Northwest Territories of Fort Smith.

“Ready,” He says after a brief, breathless pause at the top of the stairs. I motion to the front door and reply, “Let’s do this.“

He pulls it open with a quick jerk, inches worth of ice giving way reluctantly, like opening a frosty freezer door.

A blast of wind fills our faces, assaulting our cheeks with a splay of tiny knives. It was a lot colder than -40 tonight. With that wind-chill, it was probably touching easily on -60 degrees Celsius. In that kind of weather, pulling off a glove meant frostbite in under a minute. Without some blood pumping to keep us warm, no garment in the world would keep us warm very long. Fortunately, where we were going tonight, there would be plenty of opportunity for that.

On Dec 31st, just hours before New Year’s. Fireworks were scheduled to start around 11 PM; an annual show put on by the people of Fort Smith.

This year, we will be skipping the crowds and sneaking up through the trails, using the cover of darkness and our knowledge of the surrounding trails. From that position, we would climb a tree and watch the display.

Hence, the open door to our frigid destination. Which we warily peered out from.

About 10 seconds passed before Thomas and I took one last deep breath of cookie-scented warm air… and dove into the clutches of an icy winter wonderland.

I felt the air stolen from my lungs as if drinking the last gulp of hot coffee from a cup; they stole the last bit of heat I had been storing beneath my ribs. A short pause later, and the winter smell filled my nostrils, a deep breath of cold air passed over the tongue and filled my nostrils as if I took a deep gulp of ice water. I could hear my friend’s footsteps up ahead, crunching down the soft packed snow beneath his footfalls.

It was only a few feet before we plunged into pure darkness. Until our eyes adjusted. A glance to the heavens and I see the stars are out. It’s a clear night. Legions above us are the purest white stars, glimmering like the eyes of millions of spectators, gazing down at us from above. Frigid winter air cut at me again, and I pull up my scarf, tucking it into my hood. I had my face covered but was thankful for the wind, as it helped me find the gaps in between the fabric. If there were any gaps in my coat, I now knew exactly where. That sub-arctic wind would let a man know exactly how vulnerable he was, and where. Like water, it flowed, unstopping through the air.

We walked silently for a few meters, still warm in our chests and putting a few well-placed footfalls in the snowbank. Walking in the snow was a technique, you had to do it just right so the snow does not enter your boots.

Across the way, I see the wind begin to pick up and billow snow over the road. There came a time in the winter where you stopped seeing the road and the ice just began, slickly coating over the top like fresh glass.

Like spirits dancing across the road, the wind gave life to the billowing snow dunes and sent them dancing up McDougal road, at a sprint that rivaled ours by a supernatural clip. As if inspired by this rate of progression, we picked up our own pace, crossed the road, to make our way up Ax Handle Hill. Our lungs throbbed but stabilized quickly despite our lumbering gait up the hill.

Down the snowy trail, we walked, a muted royal blue reflecting in the snow of the dark skies. Within the depths of the darkness, the odd flicker of light sparkled between the trees. As if winking faeries were darting in between our peripheral vision. The arctic is truly the home of Canadian diamonds. Our trails are full of them, lined to the brim: moonlight reflecting off of the snow made us feel like kings, awash in our riches of the land. We were bathing in the light of the stars, above, and our path was lit from the diamonds lining the silent trail.

On we walked, our boots crunching in the snow, the only audible noise in the deep, dark woods. Only to be interrupted by a wash of color overhead, an aurora borealis ribbon shimmering above. Light gray gave way to purples, then shimmering green and pink. As if following us towards our court, where the wizards would light fireworks and we would enjoy the colors lighting up our kingdom, watching from atop its shadowy turrets.

A regal place is the north. Where any may come and try to stake their claim, of an unwritten origin, as if the land had nothing to do but oblige to their will. It did not matter, as the land belonged to no one, and listened only to the weaving, fresh rivers that split the territory in two.

Alas, we are all royalty here, if you had the potential to recognize it within. For you have to have a bit of magic in your spirit to see the kingdom, otherwise, it would appear to the uninitiated as a frozen wasteland. But not to us, and not that night.

Tonight, we were kings in the great halls of the subarctic taiga, joined by merry dancers and ancestors alike in our court. As the trail flowed through the woods, so did we, in our regal cloaks lined with down and fur hoods. Before long we approached a slide in the land, leading down to a valley by the river bottom. It was here, on the Slave River, that we listened to the crack of the ice during the spring thaw. Where we launched boats in the summer, and courted our women during the autumn amongst the falling golden leafy trees. However, on this winter’s night, the trees were blackened like dark stone turrets. A top those turrets, we would be gifted by a display from Merlin himself.

Up the “turret” we began to climb. Stair by stair, we scaled every branch until near enough to the top to have a good view (but not to be spotted). 
Upon reaching the top, we gazed out and noted the “wizards” had begun to take a position at the base of the hill, their dodgy steeds idling nearby. For several minutes, we waited, which soon turned to several more.

From below we hear a voice; “F**k, it’s too cold. Nobody’s going to show up. Anyway, in this wind, I can’t get anything lit! Let’s go home! Fireworks display is canceled for tonight.”

And so it was.

Yet we silently sat, swaying in the breeze, atop obsidian turrets and watched as our kin faded away, the lights from their trucks disappearing in the distance.

Fortunately, we were not alone, as we had brought our merry dancers, and they began to take their positions in the night sky above. Ready to make a show for us and the spectating stars above. Sprawling greens gave way to vibrant purples, then the orange, and the red. When suddenly; Light blue streaked by the crowds of stars; a meteor shower had begun.

It was time to wish in a new year

*To the future of our northern kingdom.*