Snowblind

The dream had a musical score, too, a wild, disembodied wail which gradually penetrated Simon’s consciousness.

‘Huskies. In the Inuit village around the headland,’ Anne explained.

Simon looked around. Although the army encampment was still enshrouded in mist, the higher land beyond was momentarily visible through a break in the fog. Endless hills of stones disappeared into the mist. Even the hardy arctic plants had given up on the place, leaving the field to the never-ending gravel. And the grey fog was the same depressing colour as the landscape. ‘Why would anyone live here?’ he wondered aloud.

‘The Inuit didn’t pick this spot themselves. They were relocated from northern Quebec to make way for the James Bay hydro project.’

‘It sounds like a government idea.’

Anne took his arm. ‘Don’t look so glum. Polar Bear Pass, where we’re going, is nothing like this. It’s paradise in comparison.’

‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ Simon replied as they started back. ‘Are you looking forward to this expedition?’

‘You bet! My specialty’s arctic plankton. It’s a little difficult to study that subject at good ol’ Bellwood U.’

‘Do you come north often?’

‘Every year, money permitting. We were at Polar Bear Pass on Bathurst Island last year too.’ Anne kicked a pile of gravel with her booted foot. ‘I go where others are going—to sponge transportation, food and lodging.’

‘Do you think we’ll get there today?’ Simon asked, remembering the Colonel’s gloomy forecast.

Anne studied the sky. ‘Maybe. Colonel Fernald told us to be packed and ready to go by ten-thirty this morning.’ She laughed. ‘I feel for the guy—he didn’t really want to see us again, you know. Not after last year.’

‘What happened?’

Anne looked at him, her head cocked to one side. ‘Your relative—the one who fixed you up for this gig—didn’t tell you?’

Simon shook his head. Another score to settle with Sylvester?

‘One of our group, Phillip Loew, got lost last time,’ Anne explained. ‘We never found him.’

Simon halted in his tracks. ‘You mean he just vanished?’

‘Not exactly.’ She ran her fingers through her hair and then shook it back into place. ‘It was late in the year … end of September … and we had a blizzard. Phillip never made it back to camp. The army, the RCMP, everybody looked for him but we never found him. Must’ve frozen to death.’

Simon gave a low whistle. ‘No wonder Sylvester forgot to mention it. He knows I’m allergic to dead bodies.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Thousands of square miles of nothing and I have to head for the place with the corpse.’ A busman’s holiday for sure.

They approached the camp where a bustle of activity surrounded two helicopters. Under the watchful eye of Warrant Officer Beaulieu, the other members of the expedition were cramming the mountains of gear into these machines. Tony glared at his wife, who stiffened momentarily but turned away without saying anything. She and Simon pitched in as they all scrambled to be ready for the first signs of the fog thinning.

CHAPTER 2

As Simon watched the two helicopters disappear into the cobalt blue sky, panic momentarily gripped his heart. There’s nothing to worry about, he admonished himself. You’ve left all your troubles fifteen hundred miles to the south … nothing but peace and tranquillity for four weeks.

Simon was standing a little apart from the others as the choppers took off but the huddled group was visible out of the corner of his eye. They too were watching their link with the familiar world vanish.

Eric was first to shake himself free of the spell. ‘Let’s get this camp organized!’ He pointed down the gentle slope. ‘Four sleeping tents in a circle with supply tents off to the side.’

Eric took command, barking orders with more force than Colonel Fernald had mustered. Simon joined his tent mate, the unprepossessing Wally Gingras, to put up their shelter.

The army had supplied large, circular tents of heavy green canvas. All the poles and pegs were neatly rolled in the cloth but Simon couldn’t find the instructions.

Wally hurled impatient directions at Simon. ‘Over there … no, there …’

Simon tried to steady the centre pole while Wally pounded pegs into the frozen earth with a small wooden mallet.

‘No, not like that! It’s not straight,’ Wally complained. Simon bit his tongue and swung the tip of the tent post a millimetre to the left.

‘Hold it now! There. That’s got it. No … not quite …’

Standing back for a better view, Simon thought it looked fine, but Wally still wasn’t satisfied.

‘It tilts to the left and we’ve put the doorway on the outside of the circle. We’ll have to fix it.’

‘No way,’ Simon protested. ‘It doesn’t lean and I want the door facing the scenery, not the neighbours.’

‘But it’s facing into the prevailing wind.’

‘Then we’ll keep the flap down.’ Simon stretched his cramped arms. ‘I’m going to unpack my equipment, Wally, so if you want to change the tent around, do it yourself.’ Simon made his way back to the mound of supplies.

‘Hey, you, Hollingford!’ Jeff, his disapproving scowl glued to his face, loomed up behind him. ‘How about helping with the supply tent?’

‘Sure thing.’

‘Put it here.’ Jeff let the tent bag fall at his feet and walked away.

‘You’re welcome,’ Simon said under his breath as he bent to unroll the kit. He struggled for some minutes to do the impossible before he heard a chuckle in his ear.

‘Need some assistance?’ Viola asked. ‘Joan and I finally got our tent up so I’ll help you while I’m still in practice. I forget from year to year how to erect these damn things …’ In minutes the tent stood taut and tall.

‘There.’ Viola smiled. ‘Teamwork. Now let’s move the food into the second supply tent.’

By eleven that evening some semblance of order had been established and Eric called a halt for the night. Although the sun still rested along the southern horizon they were tired and anxious for sleep.

‘Who’s for cocoa?’ Anne asked as the activity level died down.

‘Me,’ they chorused. Every sleeping tent had a single-burner Coleman stove and she and Jeff each brought one out into the circle and lit it with practised skill. As they waited for the water from the nearby stream to boil, everyone found something, a collecting pail or sample crate, to sit on. Simon felt the cold penetrating through his windbreaker now that he’d stopped moving about. He donned the government issue green parka and white mittens. Others did the same and they looked like a chorus of green frogs perched on their respective logs.

‘Just like last year,’ Viola commented with satisfaction.

‘Not quite,’ a nasal voice intoned. ‘Dear Phillip isn’t here to annoy us.’

‘Wally!’ Anne said, shocked.

‘Don’t give me any of that “don’t speak ill of the dead” crap, Anne. You can’t tell me you miss the bastard.’

‘That comment is in very poor taste, Wally.’ Eric spoke with authority. Wally spat between his boots, following the script of a ‘B’ movie.

‘Phillip himself was in poor taste,’ Joan declared with characteristic vitriol. ‘Thanks to his stupidity, I lost three weeks of field time.’

‘You can’t accuse him of stupidity,’ Viola put in quietly. ‘No one knew that storm was coming up. It could just as easily have been you lost out there in the blizzard.’

Joan tossed her head. ‘Not me.’

Anne shivered. ‘Poor Phillip. Do you suppose we’ll find his body?’

Her husband snorted. ‘The RCMP spent three weeks last year looking. If they couldn’t find him then, we’re sure not going to find him now!’ He shifted around so that his back was towards her.

‘They didn’t even find his pack …’ Anne murmured, red-faced.

Joan sprang up from her crate and planted herself in front of Eric. ‘I think Phillip came to a fitting end. It’s appropriate a man willing to sell out this land to an oil company should end up having his body here. Maybe in a few million years he’ll be oil!’ She stirred her hot chocolate so savagely that it slopped out on to her parka. ‘Shit.’

‘You’re exaggerating,’ Eric protested. ‘Besides, he was my son. Have a little consideration for my feelings.’

‘Your stepson, Eric, there’s a difference,’ Wally said in a voice hollow with pain.

‘A technicality.’

Joan put her hand on her hip and pointed her finger at Eric. ‘Don’t try to con us. We all know you couldn’t stand each other!’ Eric shifted his feet, ready to spring up but Anne leaped into the breach. ‘Have some more cocoa, Eric,’ she urged, waving the pot of water and a drink packet between the potential combatants. Eric hesitated momentarily, but relaxed again. Joan laughed harshly and headed for her tent. Simon felt a twinge of disappointment—the conversation was just getting interesting.

Before turning in, Simon decided to uncrate the radio—his major charge. The tent farthest from the circle contained the scientific stores and doubled as the communications centre, a grandiose name for one short-wave radio. The instrument was well wrapped in bubble pack inside a heavy crate. Colonel Fernald’s radio operator had provided instructions but basically the radio was idiot proof. Twice daily Simon was to check in with the army camp, once at 0800 and once at 2000 hours, starting the next morning. He’d have to be up early to erect the aerial in time for his first report.

Carefully he set the radio on a sturdy crate which had contained the emergency medical supplies. Joan, as the senior Red Cross graduate present, had taken these to her tent. As well as the usual disinfectants, splints, antibiotics and painkillers, there were several ice-packed vials of blood for emergency use. Duplicate medical histories of everyone had been provided—one copy Joan kept next to the medical supplies and the other Simon now hung on the side of the radio. He skimmed the medical histories—nothing interesting—and they showed an average cross section of North Americans with respect to blood type—three A’s, four O’s and a B.

Easing herself silently into her sleeping-bag, Anne tried not to disturb her husband who lay, similarly shrouded, on the far side of their tent.

‘So you finally decided to join me.’

Sighing, she answered. ‘Viola and I were completing the sanitation facilities.’ Why am I explaining, she asked herself? It’s my right to go to the toilet! But anything for peace.

‘I heard you. So did everyone in camp, I expect. Do you have to keep the rest of us up half the night with your stupid chatter?’

‘Good night.’ Anne wiggled farther into the down bag as if hoping it would shield her from her husband’s inexplicable anger and her own silent misery. Sleep was long in coming to both sides of the battleground.

Simon finished rigging the aerial before anyone got up. The wires drooped like a clothes line between the supports. Functional, if not artistic, he decided. When Anne appeared, Simon had just completed tying a series of makeshift red bows on to the thin wire.

‘What do you think?’ Simon asked, indicating his contraption.

‘Colonel Fernald would have you peeling potatoes for a year! Good thing you’re not in his outfit!’ Anne giggled.

Simon enjoyed the friendly banter they exchanged when Tony wasn’t around. ‘I’m anxious to see if it works. I wish Eric had let me set up last night.’

Yawning, Anne headed for the sixth tent where they’d stored the food boxes. ‘I hate the way the sun shines in the middle of the night. I have trouble sleeping when it feels like high noon, don’t you?’ she asked, stooping to enter the tent.

‘I can sleep anytime, anywhere I get the chance.’

‘Let’s see …’ Anne pried the lid off one of the crates marked BREAKFAST. It contained thirty-six white cardboard boxes, each labelled in bold red letters. The first layer read ‘mushroom omelette’, the second, ‘bacon and eggs’, and the last, ‘sausages’. ‘What takes your fancy, Simon?’

‘I’ll try the bacon and eggs.’

‘I’ll have sausages,’ Anne decided, removing two boxes. ‘I’ll boil some water.’

Simon bumped into Joan as he headed back to his tent.

‘What’s this rat’s nest?’ she jeered, pointing at the sagging aerial.

‘My “rats’ nest” is your only link with civilization,’ he retorted. ‘Be careful how you insult it!’

By the time the water was boiling, everyone was up. They all hovered around the two stoves set up in the middle of the circle.

‘Let’s see what we’ve got here.’ Viola ripped open her meal box and tipped out the contents. ‘One chocolate bar. One packet of instant coffee. One packet of orange crystals. Crackers—I’ll keep those for later. Plastic cutlery, napkin, cream and sugar packets. And this.’ She held up a slim foil package about eight inches by five. ‘This is bacon and eggs?’ She eyed it doubtfully but dropped it into the pot of water to heat.

While the eight foil pouches simmered in the water, the others sipped coffee or hot chocolate.

Jeff turned to Simon. ‘What’s your job in real life? Obviously you’re no scientist.’

‘I’m a policeman.’

Several heads jerked up.

‘Sylvester didn’t tell me that,’ Eric accused.

‘That’s where I learned how to operate a radio.’

‘Hell! Here I am, trying to get away from the Establishment, and who comes along but a damned cop!’ Joan shook her head in disgust.

‘I’m on holiday,’ Simon protested.

‘Once a cop, always a cop.’

‘Policemen aren’t needed up here,’ Wally mumbled. ‘Should stay where you belong.’

‘Breakfast must be ready by now,’ Viola interrupted, shooting Simon a pleading glance.

Simon’s lips thinned but instead of retorting he gingerly gripped the corner of his package and lifted it out of the hot water. He slit the top of the envelope and squeezed up the contents. His bacon and eggs emerged as a rectangular pressed grey mass with unidentifiable bits of brown embedded in it. He sniffed cautiously and nibbled a corner. He wrinkled his nose.

‘Well?’ Eric demanded.

‘Tastes like cardboard with a chemical aftershock.’

‘It can’t be that bad.’

They all reached for their pouches. Anne’s sausages were a suspicious reddish grey and laden with nitrates. Viola’s mushroom omelette resembled the bacon and eggs but had grey bits instead of brown.

‘We can’t live on this!’ Eric exploded. ‘No wonder the army used us as guinea pigs—there’d be a mutiny if they gave this stuff to their own men!’

‘They’re poisoning us with chemicals.’ Joan spat her mouthful back into the pouch.

‘Maybe the other meals are better …’ Anne ventured. Tony glared at her and her voice trailed off.

In the end, they ate chocolate bars and instant beverages for breakfast and didn’t linger over the meal.

They shoved all the combustible garbage, the boxes, paper packets, and napkins into one carton, and the foil and plastic into another. What they couldn’t burn, they’d take with them when they left.

As the others bustled in and out of the storage tent in search of stray equipment, Simon tried to raise the Cornwallis Island army camp on the radio.

‘This is Victor Echo 8735. Come in, Viking,’ Simon intoned.

‘Thinks he’s Lorne Greene,’ Jeff commented under his breath as he squeezed by the communications centre.

Loud static crackled in Simon’s earphones. ‘This is Victor Echo 8735,’ he repeated again and again, fine-tuning the frequency knob and fiddling with the other controls.

At last he removed the earphones and turned off the set. While he re-examined his antenna, Jeff stood to one side, pointedly examining his watch.

Simon went over to him. ‘Go on ahead, Jeff. I won’t be long once I’ve got the radio tent to myself. I’ll catch up.’

‘I doubt it. I travel fast.’

‘I won’t be long behind you,’ Simon said. ‘Surely you can start your sampling series without me.’

‘Certainly I can. You’re not conducting the survey, you’re carrying the specimens.’

‘I promise I’ll be there to lug your stuff around, Dr Jost,’ Simon responded through gritted teeth.

‘Do you know where the cliffs are, Hollingford?’

‘I have a topographical map. If you mark the spot, I’ll find it.’

‘OK, but I can’t say you’re off to a good start,’ Jeff commented, turning on his heel.

‘Don’t take any notice of the old fraud, Simon,’ Viola advised him with a friendly slap on the shoulder. ‘He talks that way to God. I’m heading north as well, though not with Mister Personality. Don’t scare my musk oxen!’

‘It’s more likely to be the other way round,’ Simon laughed.

An hour later Simon sat back on his heels, mission accomplished. He was free to haul rocks for the next twelve hours if he hurried after Jeff. But instead, he drew a small sketchbook from his pack and began a line drawing of a burst of fragile yellow flowers pushing up from a tuft of leaves in the gravelly terrain. The Almighty Jeff could wait.

A half-mile upstream, Anne Colautti marked off a tiny pond for the installation of a conductivity meter and a temperature probe. But her mind wasn’t really on the job at hand and this distressed her. Until recently her work could always take her out of herself, erasing any non-scientific problems from her mind, but not any more. Instead of taking careful notes describing why she’d chosen this site as representative of an ice-wedge polygon locale, she was sitting on the cold earth, hands tucked into her parka sleeves, on the verge of tears. At least she was alone.

Pull yourself together, woman. Anne hauled her hip waders out of her bulging pack and struggled into them. As usual, she hadn’t been able to find a pair small enough to fit and, even with layers of socks, her feet were lost in the boots. She hitched the straps over her shoulders, knotted them a few times to take up the slack, and then fastened them in front.

Now encased in unyielding rubber, she moved awkwardly and almost fell as she slid into the pool. ‘Damn.’ A gurgle and a slurp were followed by a rush of bubbles breaking the surface as her boots sank to the ankles in the ooze at the bottom. She leaned over to get her probes from the bank and then started forward. But the suction of the bottom marl held tightly and, when she lifted her foot, the boot stayed behind. Its rubber leg tripped her up and, fighting for balance all the way, she fell with a splash.

‘Damn! DAMN! DAMN!’ Her voice shrilled with an edge of hysteria, and as it echoed she caught the note. ‘Dear God. I’m losing control!’ Anne bit her lip hard. ‘Relax. Breathe. Be calm.’

She was sitting neck deep in frigid water. Her full boots weighed her down and her jacket floated up around her ears. But the shock of cold helped her focus and she soon wiggled out of the boots and stood up. She stripped off her sodden jacket, hurling it to the bank in a dripping arc. The probes followed. She felt around in the now murky water for the boots until her hand closed on the knotted straps. But the pond bottom didn’t release the boots without a struggle and her feet were again ankle deep before the boots pulled free with a rude burp. She swam the three strokes to shore, hauling the offending footwear behind and clambered up exhausted and shivering on to the bank.

‘Where are you, Tony?’ she sniffed. Other years he’d been there laughing at her awkwardness but ready to rub her dry and kiss her warm. Now, dripping water on to everything, she rummaged in her pack looking for the skimpy towel she’d brought. Her teeth chattered like a machine-gun as she stripped off her clothes. She had to get back to camp, but the urgency of the situation didn’t galvanize her as it should have.

‘So I freeze to death. So what?’ she muttered, pulling on the thin jumpsuit she’d packed as a precaution. Who’d care? Who? Not Tony. Not the university. Not anybody.

Hot tears coursed down Anne’s cheeks. But with a determined fist, she ground the salty pools from her eyes and hauled her mind back to the present. Only her hiking boots were still dry. She managed to pull them on but her fingers were too stiff to do up the laces. She’d just emptied her pack to use as a jacket when a voice hailed her.

‘Problems?’ Joan jogged up. ‘Fell in, did you?’

Anne nodded jerkily.

‘Here. Put this on.’ Joan unzipped her coat and handed it to the freezing woman.

Anne huddled into it. ‘Thanks.’

‘Been crying, have you?’

‘No. No, it’s just water.’

Joan shrugged. ‘I heard you swearing. You sounded pretty upset to me.’

‘Wouldn’t you be upset if your boots were too big and they got stuck and you fell in?’

‘You should be better prepared. Unless, of course, you want to do a Phillip Loew impersonation.’

‘Are you going to help me or not?’ Anne sputtered through her blue lips.

Joan shrugged again. ‘OK. OK. What do you want me to carry?’

‘My clothes, my meter and those damn boots.’ Anne kicked at the offenders.

‘Get going,’ Joan ordered. ‘I’ll bring them along.’

Anne, resolutely keeping her mind on her destination, headed for camp as fast as her frozen joints would allow.

Eric had come to Polar Bear Pass to study shore birds, but on this first day he headed inland. His binoculars and cameras swung from his neck in true birder fashion but Eric didn’t pay any attention to the scenery.

‘Damn Wally …’ he muttered, kicking a stone into a shallow pond. ‘Why can’t he let Phillip rest in peace?’ A worry line creased his patrician brow. ‘And Joan’s no better,’ he announced to a nesting plover who fluttered with agitation as he passed. ‘Always stirring the pot …’

Eventually he worked off his spleen. He slowed to a more leisurely pace and began scanning his surroundings, peering left and right with more intensity than the scenery merited.

Equilibrium restored by his art, Simon set off to join Jeff. Before leaving camp he’d studied the map. Half an hour, he decided. Forty minutes tops. But as he walked he discovered the deceptive nature of the terrain. The tops of the rolling hills were covered with gravel and lichen and were easy to walk on, but as he descended each slope the ground changed. In places it seemed to be cut into foot-wide polygons, separated from each other by grooves about two inches wide and four to six inches deep—a pattern well suited to twisted or broken ankles. Farther down, near the bottom of the valleys, he encountered a spongy, sedge-covered surface, succeeded by shallow ponds or creeks. His hiking boots, suitable for the high ground, were useless for forging the water barriers and within a few hundred yards Simon’s feet were drenched. For each slope he descended, there was another to climb. After a half-hour of hard slogging the six tents still looked close.

Another hour and a half of strenuous hiking brought the unimpressive cliffs into reach. But between them and Simon a small blue lake nestled in a fold of hills, cutting off direct access. The shorter way around was to the west, but a herd of musk oxen grazed there. Viola’s herd? Simon halted in indecision, watching these prehistoric-looking animals as they browsed in the reeds.

Beside the lake Simon caught sight of a bulky pack, Viola’s by the colour, but he couldn’t see her. When he noticed a flash of light off to the left he searched for the source and saw Viola lift her binoculars to watch the herd. As she did, the sun glinted off the lens. For a while, he watched the watcher as she nimbly followed the musk oxen, making skilful use of the sparse cover and staying strategically downwind.

Viola was carrying one of the .22 calibre rifles, but a quick look at the animals told him they wouldn’t be stopped by such a light gun. Putting his hand into the pocket of his parka, Simon fondled his artillery simulator or ‘arti-sim’. It was a large firecracker which made the sound and light of an artillery attack but didn’t actually fire anything. The idea was to scare off attacking animals instead of killing them. He also carried a .303 rifle which was much more effective on large game, but a lot heavier and more awkward to carry than he’d anticipated. Simon sighed and headed the long way around the lake.