Snowblind

It was mid-afternoon before Simon caught up with Jeff. The scientist ignored his presence for several minutes before acknowledging him with a rude grunt. ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’

‘I had to detour around Viola’s animals,’ Simon explained. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Help me get the dimensions of this rock face.’

Jeff pulled a cloth measuring tape from his sack and passed the end to Simon. ‘Hold this right here.’

It took twenty minutes to make the measurements the geologist wanted. Jeff made careful notations in his field book. ‘See that outcrop over there?’

Simon nodded.

‘Make the same set of measurements on it.’ Jeff threw the tape and the notebook at Simon.

With no one to hold the other end of the measuring tape, Simon was forced to go to elaborate lengths to fix it in position. It took twice as long to complete the second series of data. From time to time Simon paused to admire the spectacular scenery and watch Jeff, who seemed to be drawing portions of the rock face. When Simon finished his task, he peered over Jeff’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t you just take a photograph?’

‘Differences between the layers are so slight the salient characteristics are lost in a photo.’ Jeff traced his stubby finger over the rock face as he spoke. Simon made out the indicated features with difficulty. ‘See the marginally larger grain in this horizon, and the softer texture indicated by the more extensive weathering?’ Jeff asked.

‘You could bring out the texture in your drawing better by shading,’ Simon suggested.

Jeff slammed his book shut on the drawing and whirled to face him. ‘When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it. I’m the geologist; you’re the hired help.’

‘Just because I’m not a godalmighty scientist doesn’t mean I’m a complete idiot!’ Simon snapped.

Jeff stared at his antagonist for long seconds with icy contempt, but then, like wax softening, his expression changed. ‘Can you draw?’

‘Yes.’

Wordlessly Jeff handed over his book, and pointed at the rock face.

Simon outlined the features Jeff had indicated along with a couple of other subtle differences. In a matter of five minutes the job was done. Still without a word being spoken, Simon returned the sketchbook.

The geologist studied the drawing, then, looking Simon straight in the eye for the first time, he said, ‘Thank you. It’s perfect.’

Motioning Simon to follow, he clambered a few feet higher to a wide ledge and then turned to offer a hand to his companion. Simon didn’t need the help but took it as a gesture of peace.

‘Can you do the same for this section of the rock?’ Jeff asked, indicating a roughly square area about a yard wide.

‘No problem.’

‘Would you label the sketch F-133?’

Simon nodded. He accepted the book but declined the pencil. ‘I carry my own,’ he said, pulling a stub from his pocket.

Gradually their tension eased, and by the time Simon had made six sketches conversation came easily. Jeff gave Simon an elementary geology lesson of the area. ‘The rocks talk, Simon, if you’re only able to hear them. I can look around and know how this land has changed over the millennia. I can tell this part of the world was once a tropical sea, once a beach. For a long time it lay crushed under millions of tons of ice, and when the ice melted it took tens of thousands of years for it to bounce back. In fact the land here’s still rebounding.’

It was late in the day when they gathered up the equipment and split the thirty pounds of rock samples between them. By the time they reached the lake, Viola and her musk oxen were specks in the distance so they were able to take the short way around.

‘You were here last year?’ Simon asked as they climbed yet another hill on their route back to camp.

‘We all were, except you, of course.’

‘Who was radio operator?’

‘Phillip Loew. We’ve all returned except him, though I guess he’s still here somehow.’ Jeff smiled a tight smile.

‘What exactly happened to him?’

Jeff shrugged—no mean feat with the heavy pack. ‘No one’s really sure. It was last September … We were all going about our business as usual when an unexpected storm hit. Wally and I holed up at the IBP station—those two quonset huts on the horizon. The others were close enough to camp to get back. All except Phillip. We never saw him again.’

‘I assume you searched …’

‘Naturally. But the winter had come to stay and conditions were difficult. The RCMP searched too, and when they couldn’t find him they insisted we leave immediately.’

Conversation ceased while they forded an icy stream. Jeff wore waterproof, insulated boots, ideal for the terrain. Simon looked at them enviously. The squelching sound he made as he walked attracted Jeff’s attention. Clucking his tongue, he scolded, ‘That’s no way to operate here. You’ll end up with frostbite at the very least. Tell you what: I’ve a spare pair of boots exactly like these. If they’ll fit you can have them.’

‘If necessary, I’ll amputate my toes to make them fit. Thanks.’

Trying to ignore the pain of his blistered feet, Simon again turned his mind to Phillip’s disappearance. ‘Wally and Joan didn’t like him … ? Phillip, I mean,’ he asked.

‘No one did,’ Jeff replied with a short laugh. ‘He was a pain in the ass. A real know-it-all.’

They laboured up the endless succession of low hills and forded the icy streams between. From one rise he spotted Anne in the distance, leaning on a pole. Her drooping posture suggested she was as tired as he was.

‘I’m surprised you came back to the same spot after such a tragedy.’ Simon returned yet again to the missing man.

‘I didn’t want to, but not because of squeamishness. I’d rather expand my studies to another site. However, I was overruled.’

‘You’re a civil servant, aren’t you? What are you doing in this university crowd?’

‘Habit, I guess,’ Jeff replied. ‘I hooked up with the bunch from Bellwood College years ago when I couldn’t get travel money from the Geological Survey of Canada. It’s much cheaper to piggy-back on an existing expedition than to mount your own.’

Simon manœuvred his rifle from one hand to the other. He was certain it was gaining weight. ‘You don’t have a gun with you. Didn’t Colonel Fernald say we were to carry one at all times?’

‘It gets in the way. I have an arti-sim in my pocket. I’ll put my faith in that.’

‘Viola has hers,’ Simon commented.

‘Sure, but she’s following those damn musk oxen all the time. I avoid anything on four legs.’

Dressed again in warm, dry clothes, Anne crouched at the side of the pond and packed up the wet things Joan hadn’t been able to carry. A whole day wasted! Only two sites chosen in twelve hours and her meters weren’t installed yet. In earlier years she and Tony worked eagerly together, choosing sites they used jointly. It had been one of their dreams to work together. But even last year, the collaboration was half-hearted on Tony’s part. The decay in their relationship began before that. But exactly when, and why?

Sniffing dolefully, Anne began the trek back to base camp, her mind two years into the past. How happy she and Tony’d been up until then! She conducted her research in an annexe attached to Tony’s lab and spilled over into his territory, but he didn’t care. In fact he joked to the other faculty members that his wife was better known than he was and the wrong one was getting paid. Somewhere in that year something went wrong. Tony changed.

After his radio check that evening, Simon emerged from the tent to find Joan in a foul mood and cursing Wally Gingras with every breath. The man wasn’t there to defend himself.

‘That prick!’ Joan steamed.

‘What did he do?’ Viola asked.

‘He won’t collaborate with me, that’s what! Here I am, studying bacteria on this godforsaken island and he won’t even let me sample one of his dung heaps!’

‘There’s no shortage. Use another pile,’ Simon said flippantly.

‘It’s not the same. He’s going to have all kinds of data I need … breakdown rates, compositional profile, and so on. But will he share his data? Oh no. I told him I’d be happy to put his name on any papers I wrote but he still said no.’

‘You know he never co-authors papers,’ Viola pointed out reasonably. ‘He’s a loner.’

‘Well, it’s a pretty silly attitude if you ask me.’

‘I don’t know. He’s famous in his field so he must be doing something right,’ Jeff threw in as he joined the group.

Joan grunted ‘Of course you’d defend him instead of me …’ She stomped off in a huff.

Eric and Wally didn’t appear for the evening meal. Viola and Simon tried to keep a conversation going but finally subsided in defeat. Joan and Jeff spent their time glaring at each other while Anne and Tony sat apart from the rest, speaking to no one, not even each other. Compared with what was to come, it was a convivial evening.

CHAPTER 3

Polar Bear Pass was experiencing unseasonably warm weather, the temperature frequently reaching two or three degrees Celsius. It was a comfortable working temperature for most purposes and Simon was anxious to put the mild spell to good use.

‘The coast is only about six miles from here, isn’t it?’ Simon asked one night at supper.

‘About that,’ Viola agreed.

‘Think I’ll go have a look tomorrow.’

‘You only have twelve hours between radio checks and it’ll take you three or four hours to get there and the same to get back,’ Eric warned. ‘Hardly seems worth it.’

‘That still gives me a few hours to spend there. I want to see some belugas or seals or something like that.’

‘You won’t see much from shore except birds and you can see them here,’ Tony chimed in. ‘You should stay near camp in case one of us needs you.’

‘But, Tony, you’re always telling me how unimportant I am. Now you think I’m indispensable?’

‘Hardly!’

‘Then I’ll go. You’ll have to struggle on without me.’

‘Why don’t you take one of the rubber rafts?’ Anne suggested. ‘The blue one folds up small for carrying and then you could go for a paddle when you reach the ocean.’

‘That’s a great idea. I’ll do that.’ Simon rubbed his hands together.

‘I might need it tomorrow,’ Joan objected.

‘Then you can use mine,’ Anne replied calmly. ‘I’m going to be doing microscope work.’

Joan glared at Anne and Simon in turn but said no more.

After two hours of strenuous walking, Simon could see the coastline. Three or four hours—Eric must be a slow walker! Simon smiled and picked up his pace even more but the shore didn’t seem to get any closer.

‘What is this? A time warp?’ he grumbled as he checked his watch. Over three hours and still the ocean hovered on the horizon. Simon’s buoyant mood dissipated as he slogged on, determined not to give up.

His mind turned southward. He’d made arrangements to speak to his sergeant by radio while he was on holiday and all of a sudden he wanted to hear Bill’s gravelly voice. He wanted to know what was happening. Although one of the reasons for coming to Polar Bear Pass was to get away from the cloud of uncertainty hanging over him, now he felt too isolated. Had the board come to a decision? Did they believe Delio’s story? Would he be suspended … even charged with assault? Simon felt his fists clenching. Delio’s type didn’t deserve to live.

And his father … how was he? Simon knew the old man hated unfamiliar surroundings. Duncan and Pam would take good care of him, but still … Simon rubbed his chin. He realized he’d soon have to put his dad in a nursing home but he wasn’t looking forward to it. Even with his memory all but gone, his father instinctively fought the idea. Simon smiled ruefully. He was damned either way. Overwork or guilt would get him, but guilt was beginning to look easier to take. He couldn’t cope much longer and the expense of home nursing help was prohibitive. Simon trudged along on autopilot, his mind hundreds of miles away.

He was sweating when he finally arrived at the coast, but it was well worth the effort and his spirits rose. The sky was bluer than he would ever have believed possible and the ice was either clear like crystal or blindingly white. The emerald waves, crested with froth, were transparent as well and at times he could see the sunlight through them, giving him a glimpse into an alien world.

Simon took his time inflating the rubber raft, working the foot pedal rhythmically as he absorbed his surroundings. When that small task was accomplished he perched comfortably on a sun-warmed rock and munched a granola bar. This was more like it.

He marvelled that he could smell the utter cleanliness of the air. Granted there were flowers, tiny clumps of seaweed, and salt spume, but it was none of these which he smelled, at least not individually. It was better than any of those. Simon breathed in great lungfuls, feeling the tingle right down to his toes.

His pencil flew over the pages, capturing the mystique of the landscape with a minimum of strokes as he frantically tried to gather everything into his sketchbook. Rocks and waves, lichen and gulls, ice and whales, delicate flowers and overwhelming vistas were pulled from his surroundings and restrained in two dimensions of black and white and yet they lived. To Simon these two hours were worth two years of rock-carrying, post-pounding or dung-sifting.

When he had satisfied his need to draw, Simon turned again to the raft and manhandled it over the slippery rocks to the water which seethed and raced between the black boulders. The light craft bounced on the waves and Simon almost did the splits when the raft leapt seaward while he still had one foot on shore. But at last he was safely launched and he paddled three hundred yards from shore before relaxing to survey the scene.

Almost immediately he spotted a pod of narwhal swimming towards him. Through binoculars he watched them twist and turn fluidly in their element, staying just below the surface except when they came up to blow. Simon could feel the mist of their breath on his face. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their hoarse cries carried on the wind.

Gradually Simon realized the seat of his jeans was wet. He glanced down to see his raft riding low in the water and waves washing over the side. Hell, he was sinking! Frantically he searched for the leak. Not the valve. Not under him. Not on the gunwales. His probing fingers searched over the side and down under the water line but within seconds they were numb from cold. He felt what he thought was the hole but he couldn’t be sure.

He watched the dancing bubbles in horror. Were they getting more numerous? Was the hole getting bigger? He shifted, trying to see the gash but with every move the waves washed inside faster and the raft settled deeper into the water. It no longer danced on the waves but rode sluggishly, reluctantly, up and down on the swell. The shore looked a long way off.

The repair kit! With a rush of relief Simon remembered the repair kit kept in the pouch of each raft. The patches were supposed to stick even to wet rubber. Keeping his body as still as possible, he stretched to retrieve the kit from its storage place. Nothing. Simon leaned forward, recklessly causing a flood of water to wash in board. His fingers scrabbled in the corners of the pouch but it was no use. The repair kit was gone. He was in real trouble.

Tentatively he began paddling, altering his stroke in an attempt to minimize the water he was taking aboard while maximizing his speed towards shore. With narrowed eyes he tried to gauge his progress. It would be close. Should he swim for it? Simon tried to recall the statistics he’d read about survival times in arctic waters. Why hadn’t he paid more attention? Was it thirty seconds or thirty minutes?

‘Not thirty minutes,’ he decided aloud. ‘Five minutes, maybe?’

He tried to judge the distance to shore—two hundred yards at least. But he’d been terribly mistaken in his estimate while walking to the coast—maybe he was wrong again. And he wasn’t a strong swimmer.

‘You’re a fool to be out here alone,’ he cursed himself as he fought panic. ‘Paddle, idiot.’ He paddled desperately, awkwardly, trying to ignore the slopping of the water as it gurgled around his numb legs. The bottom edge of his jacket was submerged now and it acted like a wick, pulling the water upward, soaking his vest and shirt. Only his fear was keeping him warm.

The rubber boat was slowly folding up around him, trapping him in a rubber strait-jacket. He had to stretch to reach up and over the edge of the boat to keep the paddle in the water. The pressure of the collapsing boat was squeezing his legs painfully. When shore was still thirty yards away Simon knew he would soon be unable to kick free of the boat’s ever tighter embrace. He gritted his teeth and used every ounce of his strength on the puny paddle. Simon’s muscles were screaming in protest and the water was up to his chin when the bottom of the raft dragged on the stones. For a moment he was too dazed to realize he’d made it to shore but at last he staggered to his feet, fought off the raft, and struggled for the rocks. He collapsed in a wet heap, shivering with cold and exhaustion.

Ten minutes later, teeth chattering uncontrollably, Simon knew he would have to move. If he stayed still he would die of hypothermia. With numb fingers he fumbled at his zipper, then let the jacket plop to the hard stone where it lay weeping on to the gravel. He pulled on the dry toque he’d left on shore and each hair on his head was grateful for the warmth. He jumped up and down flapping his arms like an arthritic penguin.

‘I’ve got to get dry,’ he whispered hoarsely. He looked around. There was nothing to burn and besides, his matches were useless now. Why had he spurned the waterproof kind?

He stripped off his soaking clothes and wrung them out as much as his numb fingers could manage. Then with a shudder he wriggled back into the damp garments. Not much of an improvement, but it was the best he could do.

‘Camp,’ he mumbled. ‘Camp,’ he repeated clearly, forcing himself to action.

It was a nightmare journey. Time after time he stumbled and fell because his feet were too numb to feel the uneven surface. He was getting colder, not warmer, and a rime of ice formed on the seams of his clothing. The sun had disappeared behind an ominous cloud bank. ‘You don’t want to join Phillip Loew as a permanent resident,’ he told himself as he scrambled up yet another hill. ‘One more hour. Walk just one more hour and you’ll be home.’ He descended the next slope and splashed through the inevitable stream at the bottom. A thin film of ice tinkled into a thousand crystals.

‘Simon? Simon?’

The voice penetrated Simon’s daze at last and he peered around for the source.

‘Simon!’ Anne hurried up to him. He faltered to a halt. ‘Oh my God,’ she cried. ‘You’re frozen!’ She briskly rubbed his arms and back, stretching her slender arms around his shivering body. ‘You poor thing,’ she murmured.

Gradually his shivering diminished to the point where he could talk. ‘Thanks.’

‘Can you walk now? We must get you back to camp.’

Simon nodded wearily. ‘I know. How much farther?’

‘Not far. Come on.’

‘Had a good close look at the water, did you?’ Eric asked when Simon appeared at supper that night.

‘Too close.’

‘Let that be a lesson to you.’ Eric’s goatee bristled righteously. ‘We don’t need any accidents this year.’

‘Serves him right,’ Joan remarked. ‘He’s supposed to be working.’

‘You should be thanking me, not criticizing,’ Simon retorted. ‘If I hadn’t taken that raft you might’ve been the one to sink.’

‘I only go out on ponds and most of those aren’t more than waist deep. And I wouldn’t have lost the raft.’

‘You shouldn’t have gone out alone,’ Jeff chided. ‘One of us should’ve gone with you. We know the dangers.’

‘The rest of us have work to do. I know I have no time to spare for sight-seeing.’ Tony sneered at Simon.

‘Let’s just be grateful he’s still alive,’ Viola exclaimed as she executed a final flourish to the vigorous back rub she was giving the victim. Simon drew his blankets tighter and cradled his hot chocolate. Would he ever get warm?

‘It was thoughtful of Anne to go looking for you.’ Eric directed his words at Simon but it was Tony he watched.

‘Especially since Simon wasn’t even missing,’ Tony hissed, glaring at his wife.

‘I wasn’t looking for him,’ Anne retorted, ‘but it was lucky I was out that way.’ She stood up, her hands on her hips. ‘What’s wrong with you people anyway? You’re acting like you wanted Simon to have an accident …’

Tony had the grace to blush but neither Joan nor Eric turned a hair. ‘Don’t be melodramatic, my dear,’ Eric said in his most irritating manner. ‘Sit down and finish your dinner like a good girl.’

Anne gritted her teeth and stomped off.

Viola clucked her tongue. ‘Don’t bait her, Eric.’ She turned to Simon. ‘I’ve made you some more hot chocolate.’ Viola thrust yet another scalding mug into Simon’s hands. ‘We’ll get you warm, don’t worry.’

As Simon drank his chocolate he glanced again at Wally. Wally hadn’t contributed to the conversation but his yellowed eyes darted among his companions as if seeking hidden meanings in their words.

When Simon woke the next morning, even his feet were warm. For a few minutes he lay in his bag, savouring the comfortable glow in his fingers and toes. He squinted at his watch and groaned. Seven-thirty. He heard muffled clatter. The others were already up.

After a static-filled radio check, Simon grabbed a couple of chocolate bars and headed out in the direction of the IBP station where Wally and Jeff had waited out the storm which killed Phillip. This station lay in a north-easterly direction from their base camp, and its two small quonset huts huddled in the middle distance. Like all things on Bathurst Island, however, it was farther away than it looked and it took Simon an hour and a half of brisk hiking up and down the long low hills to get there.

Until now he had avoided visiting this vestige of the International Biological Program because he instinctively resented its human blight on an otherwise barren and wild landscape. It comforted Simon to know that when his expedition departed they’d leave no sign of their intrusion; no building, no hearth, no garbage. It would be as if they’d never come, except for a few less insects, bacteria and plankton, and a few minor scars on the unyielding rocks. They were even careful not to thaw the permafrost under their tents, keeping the atmosphere indoors only marginally warmer than outside. He smiled as he remembered Viola telling him about the radio operator on a previous expedition.

‘That private was so lazy,’ she railed, ‘he just stayed in his tent all day. Stove going full blast. Can you believe it? All the way up here at government expense and all he does is sit in his goddamn tent? Two radio contacts a day—that’s all he did. Wouldn’t even help carry gear.’ She brushed a hand through her grey hair. ‘Anyway, he got his comeuppance. His stove melted the permafrost under his tent and he woke up one morning in a swamp. I laughed so hard … Problem was, the darn swamp kept spreading like mould on bread till we all had to move our tents.’

By the time Simon jogged up to the IBP site, he’d unzipped his parka and shed his heavy mitts, retaining only the thin gloves he usually wore inside them. His scarlet toque was riding high over his ears like a rooster’s comb, so he swept it off and crammed it into his pocket.

According to Jeff, Polar Bear Pass had been intensively studied during the United Nations organized year of exploration and research. Scientists posted on Bathurst Island had semi-permanent quarters and a rough runway had been scraped into the terrain. A squat, ladder-like aerial, minus its windsock, was all that remained of the airstrip and the two low grey huts were the remnants of the camp itself.

These huts, side by side, were each about five metres long and two high at the vault of their curved roofs. The door on one gaped open on a lone hinge and Simon peered into the gloomy, empty interior. There were no windows, and the dark, cold tunnel enveloped him in its sense of desolation. Simon slammed the door shut but as soon as he let go it clanged open again, echoing hollowly across the barrens. He approached the second hut almost reluctantly and gave its door a tentative shove. Nothing. He fumbled at the frozen latch and with difficulty swung the hasp free. A good shove from his shoulder made the stiff hinges screech in protest but the door opened. He stooped and entered.