The weather forecast for Iqaluit, Baffin Island couldn't look better for this weekends Arctic Landscape Photography workshop that I will be teaching alongside two of my favorite photographers, @eboomer and @cjonesphoto. Only a few spots left!

A post shared by Sarah Mcnair-landry (@sarahmcnairlandry) on Mar 29, 2017 at 8:29am PDT

Instructors Curtis Jones, Erik Boomer, and Sarah McNair-Landry share tips below, while showcasing their student’s photographs taken during the course. Curtin, Boomer (as he is known amongst friends), and Sarah are all accomplished photographers, whose work collectively has been featured in publications like National Geographic, Canadian Geographic, Vice, and many more. This was the first time these artist-adventurers put together a photography course - and they were willing to share their top tips with readers of Finding True North!

Photograph of the crew from left to right: Pam, Sarah, Dan, Curtis, Paul, Pam, Renata, and Boomer (missing Frank who took the photo). Photograph by Frank Reardon.

“I love photographing snow. For some, the winter months signal a retreat from outdoor creative pursuits, choosing to hibernate in books and fireplaces. But with a little effort and a few tips, you can beat back the cabin fever and let snowy conditions become your photographic best friend," says Curtis.

Here are a few tips to keep in mind if you want to level up your snowy photo skills:

1. Simplify composition

Use snow to simplify the composition. It’s like a big white blanket for busy landscapes and a real treat for minimalist junkies like us. Find your subject and let the snow work its magic to eliminate distracting elements.

Sometimes the best shot is not the big wide landscape, but to instead focus on the small details often missed right under our feet. Photograph by Renata Mares.

2. Shoot in black and white

Embrace the beautiful contrast of striking dark objects atop crisp white backdrops. Think about shooting white snow against dark objects, against white backgrounds. This will help you create layers and depth in your images.

With the second highest tides in the world, Frobisher Bay creates a moonscape backdrop. Photograph by Rae Sirotic.

3. Shoot a little over exposed

Your camera will read a snowy scene as too bright and try to grey everything out. To get nice bright white snow, add a 1/3 to 1/2 stop exposure compensation. If you're not sure how to do this, dust off that old camera manual you’ve been using to prop up the coffee table and get to work.

An early arctic morning, this image captures the cold mood of the arctic. Photograph by Frank Reardon.

4. Motivate

It’s no secret that the northwest winds that blow across Frobisher Bay can drop the temperature well past -50C in the winter. And standing still while adjusting a tri-pod to capture a desolate landscape can be a challenge.

The key to taking beautiful landscape photos in a harsh environment is one thing: motivation. It doesn’t matter how well you know the settings on your new camera, if you don’t get out there and try – you’ll never get that shot.
 

The northern lights are often uncooperative, moving or disappearing as soon as the shot is framed. They take patience and persistence to shoot well.Photograph by Paul Billowes.

5. Shoot during the golden light

Yes, the instructors forced their six brave participants to crawl out of bed at 4:30 on a Sunday morning to be on location by 5:15am (after shooting northern lights late into the night). But that is what you need to do to capture the golden light.

The strong winds dropped the wind chill down to -42C, as we waited for the sun to rise. Photograph by Pamela Wood.

6. Have fun!

Have fun, play around, try new tricks. And most importantly get out there and shoot.

Photographing a cold sunset, Erik Boomer sacrifices the hot chocolate for the shot. Photograph by Daniel Coulombe.

What are your top Arctic photography tips? Let us know in the comments!

It took me just one visit to decide to get a monthly pass ($109 per month) to the Iqaluit Aquatic Centre, forgoing my previous membership at the Racquet Club ($124 per month, plus $535 initiation fee). And it's not only because the Aquatic Centre is shiny and new. Read on to see what I love about the Iqaluit Aquatic Centre, what I kind of don't like as much, and what I think they can do to be even better.

The Good

The Hours

The Aquatic Centre is open from 0630-2200 on weekdays, meaning that for the first time in recent memory (mine), Iqalummiut can get a workout in before the workday begins. And it's open continuously between those hours, which is a gamechanger for those of us who don't work a GN schedule. Check out the week's opening hours on the City of Iqaluit Recreation Facebook page.

Designated Swim Times for Different Groups

Family Swim, Adult Lane Swim, Open Swim - all of these options keep pool use manageable and organized, for staff and users alike. Want to swim laps without worrying about bumping into a splashing toddler? Tuck into a lane during adult-only blocks. Need to entertain a few hyperactive ten year olds? Bring them to Family Swim. There's even a Women's Only swim slot.

Fitness Classes for All Levels

I'm the type of person who benefits from instruction, else I end up spending too much time taking selfies instead of sweating. So far, I've tried three of the Iqaluit Aquatic Centre's group classes, and I've enjoyed them all. There are options for strength training (try Get Ripped), cardio (try Cardio ESP), seniors (try Silver Sneakers), water fitness (try Aquafit), and more. The instructors are certified, energetic, and clearly happy to be teaching in a great space. Take a look at the schedule for the week of January 30th below.

Ooh, and spoiler alert: swimming lessons are coming soon!

Alcohol-Free and Family-Friendly Environment

It's so great to see a space in Iqaluit that caters to families, from the aforementioned Family Swim times to the inclusion of a family changeroom and children's pool area. And for the childless amongst us, it's nice to have a space to socialize that isn't a bar. Gym date, anyone?

Healthy Food Options

If you do want to drink something, how about a tropical smoothie at the snack bar? Managed by Big Racks, this takeaway spot offers fresh wraps, smoothies, and milkshakes. Everything is made to order with healthy ingredients like grilled chicken, tuna, and fresh fruit and veggies. Except for the milkshakes, which aren't exactly healthy, but hey, everything in moderation, right?

Salad bar!

The Not As Good

I say this all with the complete understanding that no facility is perfect, and that the Iqaluit Aquatic Centre is still going through some growing pains. But, still, an honest review will have a few qualms, and I really do just have a few.

The Changerooms

My one issue with the otherwise very nice locker rooms is that the same changing rooms service the pool and the fitness centre. That means the floors are generally wet and pretty slick - particularly annoying when you're wearing socks and planning to go to the weight room.

Wet Towels and Wet Suits

Carrying a wet towel or bikini in your backpack is hella gross, and doing so at -20C is somehow worse. A towel service would solve this problem, but apparently the City had looked into it, and the option wasn't feasible. I would take a little bathing suit dryer for now, though!

The Sauna

I love saunas, so when I heard that the Iqaluit Aquatic Centre would include one of the dry version, I was stoked. Unfortunately, I think the whole sauna plan is a bit off. First, the saunas are located poolside, rather than in the changing rooms. I...don't know why they did this. It takes the privacy away from sauna use, which is typically done nude or semi-nude.

Secondly, the doors are glass with metal handles. Another ding against privacy, but also, metal handles plus 95 degree heat equals burnt hands - and this actually happened, causing the closure of the saunas until the handles can be retrofitted.

Suggested Improvements!

Not necessities, but here are two ideas that I think could improve the already great user experience at the Iqaluit Aquatic Centre.

An App

The gym I go to in Toronto has, among other perks, a really awesome app. I can use it to view upcoming classes, book a bike, track my progress, and more. The calendar view let's you see each time you've checked in, which is super motivating in terms of getting you into a routine. And schedule changes are updated live in the app, so you know right away if your favourite course is cancelled or hosted by a sub. The app also streamlines the check-in process by use of a barcode, negating the need for a separate pass or sign in list.

Branded Clothing

I see huge marketing potential for the City, if they are to create some sweet swag and sell it at the membership desk or next to the snack bar. Zip-ups or hoodies, I think, would do really well, and I know that I, for one, would proudly rock a retro-style one-piece swimsuit with the City of Iqaluit logo on the front.

Have you been to the new Iqaluit Aquatic Centre? What do you think of it? Let me know in the comments!

Header photo courtesy of the City of Iqaluit Recreation Facebook page.

*****

Year Two, Chapter Two: There is Life After the GN

At my farewell party, someone remarked that it must be bittersweet for me to leave the Government of Nunavut (GN). “No,” I said candidly, “it’s all sweet.” It was just me that was bitter.

I left the GN in early March 2014, but I began my search for a new job in January. I started much the way I had found my first job in Nunavut - by asking around. Obviously, I wanted to be out of the department, but I also felt stifled working for the government in general. There were the deeper issues I wrote about in my last two blog posts, the bureaucratic hypocrisy and systemic failures, but much of my motivation to exit the GN had to do with personal, lifestyle choices. The blog was growing rapidly, and with that growth came opportunities like speaking engagements and creative projects. Plus, I wanted to travel more. Basically, I found working nine to five didn’t align well with my more entrepreneurial and adventurous tendencies.

Thus, I began reaching out to (the few) individuals I knew who didn’t work for either one of the territorial, municipal, or federal government to see what options were available in town. Some of them worked for not-for-profit organizations; some of them started their own businesses. In the latter category is Neil Christopher, co-owner of Inhabit Media, Nunavut’s only publishing company, who at the time was ending his tenure at the college to focus on the business.

“I don’t have anything more concrete to tell you, except that there is a place for non-government work in Iqaluit,” Neil said to me when I confided in him my desire to leave the Department of Health. “And I think you can find it.”

A few days later, I received a message from Neil. “Hey, you should hear from Tony at Atiigo soon. I told him you were on the market for a job.”

And I did receive a message from Tony Romito, co-owner of Atiigo Media, a communications firm located in Iqaluit. I first met Tony and the Atiigo team through my job at the GN; we contracted the firm for the massive overhaul of “I Respect Myself,” the Department of Health’s sexual health promotion website. I was the project lead and worked very closely with Atiigo’s designers to come up with an incredible theme and interface for the site. As I wrote in an earlier chapter, it is considered one of the GN’s best websites.

After speaking with Neil, Tony wrote to me saying that they were considering creating a new position, part public relations, part social media manager, part office administration. Atiigo wasn’t entirely sure what this position would look like, and felt that the candidate could and should shape the description anyway.

“I know you’re a hard worker and you’re smart and passionate,” Tony said to me over the phone. “We’ve really loved working with you, and would love to see you on our side of the table.”

I don’t know how to explain how much of a confidence boost these conversations provided. Here I was, feeling useless and unappreciated in my office, and someone I had hired was telling me that I was not only good at my job, but so good that he was interested in hiring me. Tony wasn’t only offering me a job and financial security; he was also reinstating my sense of self worth. Justin and I discussed the opportunity and both felt that whatever it was, Atiigo would be better than what I had going on at the GN. Armed with this tenuous security blanket, I ended my time at the Department of Health in March of 2014.

Over the course of the next month, Tony and I began to shape this new post, based on his company’s needs and my skills (a novel concept, eh?). What we came up with was a half-time role, loosely focused on marketing and client relations. I moved into the Atiigo office in April, and there I found what I hadn’t at the GN: a surrogate family, with all its quirks and idiosyncrasies, made up of creatives - with a dreamer or two thrown in to keep things exciting.

In addition to giving me a safer, friendlier environment to work in, from day one my role at Atiigo was steeped with flexibility, in duties, in time, in space and place. I was only required to work twenty hours a week, and I generally chose my own hours; eventually, I also started working from home, and then from wherever in the world I was, from Toronto to San Francisco to Istanbul and everywhere in between. This flexibility gave me time to experiment with other ideas and inspirations - and experiment I did.

Mainly, I focused my extra time on the blog, which was growing rapidly in readership and clout by early 2014. And this effort I put into Finding True North? It had paid dividends in terms of career progression - and maybe even career distractions.

That spring, I received an email request from an event organizer asking if Finding True North could provide catering services for an event in Iqaluit. I said yes, and started what was for the next few months a fairly lucrative catering business, making tangy salads and creamy kulfis and vegan curries for arts organizations, not-for-profits, and research groups holding meetings in town.

In the summer, I was recruited by the team at Arctic Kingdom to be the guide on city bus tours. This evolved into also leading adventure tours, like boat and ATV trips. Generally, I was there to entertain clients with my witty banter and facts about Iqaluit and little anecdotes about living up here. Once, I had to steer the boat and though everyone survived, my repute as an adventure tour guide was shattered. Still, in the fall of 2015, at what we know now was the height of his campaign, Justin and I led Thomas Mulcair on an ATV trip through Sylvia Grinnell (and by “through,” I mean, far enough into the park that you couldn’t see the parking lot).

This was also the time when I really started to hone my freelance journalism skills. I had tried my hand at pitching before, but I didn’t really understand the process or how to create a hook. Now, after starting a blog and doing some commissioned work, I had a bit more experience and leverage. My first real attempt was with Vice, a pitch about Yurt Fest - and it was positive! Patrick McGuire, who is now the Managing Editor of Vice Canada, wrote me back to say that hey, Vice was coming up for Yurt Fest, and that we should get in touch to talk about my pitch and their project. This started my relationship with the publisher, one that I have kept up until today.

Not knowing exactly what this Vice visit would entail, but thinking it was a good opportunity for the blog, I asked Sara to meet me for lunch. “I wrote to Vice about Yurt Fest and they’re coming up and I think we should wear coordinating costumes,” I told her. She laughed, agreed, paused.

“I think leaving the GN was the best decision you ever made,” she said to me. She was right.

*****

I am absolutely overwhelmed by the response to my post about why I left the GN. In the hours after I published the piece, I was inundated with dozens and dozens of messages, expressing condolences, sympathy, anger. So many of the stories were from fellow Iqalummiut who had experienced the same, worse, so much worse while at the GN. I sat reading the notes, feeling connected and broken at the same time.

I think it’s important to acknowledge the layers and layers of privilege that allowed me to take my leave from the GN. I was bullied and I was frustrated - but I was also in an emotionally and financially supportive partnership (with housing!), and had little financial pressure or commitments. I could take a chance.

Also at play here is my status as a southerner. I could leave the GN and experiment, knowing that if things didn’t work out, I could go “home” (though after nearly eight years living outside of Toronto, I do question the concept of home). This brings with it a certain type of privilege - the privilege of low responsibility. And I’ve seen this in real time, with myself and other southerners, who bounce from job to job, housesit to housesit, shirking commitment in favour of the probationary, looking for a fit instead of trying to fit in.

I think this is likely different for lifelong Nunavummiut. If you’re a Northerner who wants to remain in Nunavut, your options for jobs are limited. The territorial government is the largest employer, with the highest salaries - an important factor, considering Nunavut’s high cost of living. Even if you’re willing to take the pay cut (I made 30% of my GN salary when I first started at Atiigo), your options are limited, as there are very few non-governmental organizations or companies in the territory (though this is changing as more and more entrepreneurial factions are coming in, especially in Iqaluit).

The dominance of the GN over the job market in Nunavut can and does contribute to a culture of fear that cripples many from coming forward with the type of complaints I had, and the ones readers have been sending me. There is always that worry that you won’t be believed, and that even worse, you will lose your employ. If you’re fired from your GN job, you must wait at least two years before applying for another job with the territorial government. Imagine: two years of mortgage payments, kids who need new shoes, exorbitant grocery bills, and two-thousand-dollar plane rides down south. Now, you tell me, if you were being bullied at the GN, could you afford to step up and make a complaint?

*****

“Are you all ready for Kuujjuaq?” Tony asked me. It was early fall of 2014. I had been with Atiigo for about five months, and had done my job of marketing the firm, boosting their social media presence and even landing Atiigo a cover story on DesignEdge, Canada’s leading design magazine. But my trip to Kuujjuaq had nothing to do with public relations.

“I’m stoked,” I answered him.

I was excited because I was flying down to the capital of Nunavik, Quebec’s Inuit region, to present Atiigo’s proposal for a sexual health campaign to the regional health board. I had worked with Nunavik’s sexual health staff in my position at the GN, and when they decided to revamp their sexual health program, they tracked me down at my new job.

Along with my colleague, Diana Bulley, I met with administrators, program staff, and nurses from Nunavik to explain exactly why they should hire Atiigo to do the content development and design for their sexual health website and strategy. I spoke passionately about my previous sexual health work, tying it into social marketing best practices and using examples like the “I Respect Myself” website (which the Nunavimmiut loved), and really teasing out the lessons I had learned while working as the Sexual Health Program Coordinator at the GN. It felt like I was reigniting.

We found out a few weeks later that Atiigo was the successful proponent for the re-launch of the Nunavik Regional Health Board’s sexual health campaign. I was to lead the project from Atiigo’s end - the first step in redefining what remained my amorphous job description with the company.

Sexual health advocacy is still a passion of mine. In recent years, it feels like it has been reduced to a little fire, overwhelmed by blogs and hashtags and TeeVee. I hope that once I figure out what it is exactly I want to do with myself, I will be able to integrate that penchance back into my life, because I know and I feel that part of me is just waiting for its chance to light up and burn.

*****

Year Two, Chapter One: Why I Really Left the GN

“I don’t really like people from Toronto.”

That was one of the first things a new co-worker said to me, on my first day of work at the Government of Nunavut (GN). Though inappropriate, I brushed it off (to be honest, Torontonians are kind of used to hearing it), but in hindsight, it was perhaps an early warning sign of things to come.

I was the territory’s new Sexual Health Program Coordinator. In my last post, I talked about thinking it was the perfect job for me, a blend of my educational and professional background (Masters of Public Health and years doing sexual health counselling and workshops).

I entered my new role with, I am sure, a jaunty outfit and an equally jaunty disposition. As I toured the office and met my new co-workers, I remember feeling excited, motivated, inspired. Here were all these others humans, interested in the public’s health, and we were going to work together to bring wellness to Nunavut.

It didn’t take long before I started to see the cracks in the system. Some of these were systematic - I questioned their mandates and role in the community, the antiquated (teetering on problematic) methods of community health delivery - while others were more functional, like poor communication channels and siloed divisions. Add to this all the weirdness of having a colonial-style government system in an Indigenous territory, and you have a cocktail of bureaucratic flops. But it wasn’t the bureaucracy that got me in the end; it was the bureaucrats.

In general, I liked my colleagues, but there was always one person who I seemed to rub the wrong way (and in turn, vice versa). I can’t tell you how much I have speculated, alone and with others, as to why she and I never got along, but the truth is, sometimes there is no explanation for human relationships (though if you want an educated guess, it was some mixture of insecurity and misunderstanding).

It started with microaggressions from that one individual. Interrupting, condescension, snide comments about my clothing, lifestyle, presence in Iqaluit; it was annoying, but so were many other things about the job, and it didn’t affect my work flow. And anyway, this person didn’t work with me directly. I chose to ignore.

Then came one of the GN’s infamous reorganizations of the organizational chart, and this one saw the individual I had been getting so good at ignoring enter into a middle management position. Honestly, this came as a shock, especially because there were more qualified, longer-term, Inuit employees who could have filled this position. Why they were overlooked, I cannot say (though I speculate as to some of these reasons in a section below). What I did note was that this newly promoted person gained the ear of my supervisor, and with it an increase in power which seemed to grow in tandem with her distaste for me.

I remember distinctly the day I knew I was in trouble. I walked into my supervisor’s office for a routine check-in, and we spoke briefly about my file and projects. I had generally felt that we had a positive relationship, and she had awarded me a lot of autonomy on my projects. This day, though, she said she had some other business to discuss.

“I hear you’ve been calling Aeroplan while at work,” she started.

Taken aback, I stammered, “What?” She repeated her accusation. “I don’t have any Aeroplan trips coming up and generally Justin does our bookings,” I responded, still a little stupefied. “Who said this to you?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

“Okay, well, I also hear you’re on Twitter a lot,” she continued. At that, I had to smile. “Yeah, I go on Twitter a lot. It’s kind of how I take breaks, instead of smoke breaks or coffee breaks,” I explained. “Is there an issue with the quality or timing of my work? Am I not getting things done as I should?” She had no comment.

As politely as I could (and trust me, this took some effort), I said, “Perhaps next time someone is talking to you about me, you can ask them to talk to me first to resolve the misunderstanding.” My supervisor immediately became defensive, spitting back at me with, “I’ll handle these situations how I think best.” What was I to say to that?

I left her office and pulled a colleague aside; we went into the lobby with another trusted co-worker and with hot, angry tears rolling down my face I relayed what had happened. I was humiliated, frustrated, and at a loss of what to do. One of my co-workers suggested that I watch myself, be careful with what I do and say and how I behave, for the next little while. It seemed like the best thing to do for my job, but the worst I could do for my self-worth.

In the coming months, the harassment continued and expanded beyond personal attacks and started bleeding into my ability to do my job. I was ordered to change seats, exchanging my open, shared desk space (with a window!) for one of the smallest, darkest cubicles - even though my original spot remained vacant. I always felt like someone was watching over my shoulder (in case I tweeted too much?). And then, I started being treated as though I was incompetent and incapable, without any real feedback or critique about the actual work I was producing.

In reality, my performance was quite the opposite: one of my major projects was to overhaul the department’s sexual health website; the redesign I led is regularly hailed as exemplary, a precedent for other site designs. Also, a lot of my job involved collaborating with community-level staff, and though they were always effusively excited to work with me, I don’t remember any of them being called in to comment on the program or approach, ever. Where was the due diligence on the part of my supervisor? 

Working with others was always an important part of my integration strategy. As a Nunavut newcomer and outsider, I felt odd and awkward and inadequate to run the program entirely on my own, and so, I didn’t. To create my work plans, I conferred with Theresa (because of her role as Territorial Community Health Representative Coordinator and her background with sexual health), regional directors, epidemiologists, and community-level nursing supervisors. I also regularly touched base with the previous Sexual Health Program Coordinator, who had created the entire program.

Despite all this volunteered time spent with counsel, I was informed that I was “in need of some guidance” by my supervisor. She assigned me to a few staff members, including the individual who so clearly disliked me (I have no doubt that this was her idea). They would go over my suggested work plan and make recommendations (but, was that not my manager’s job?).

I went into my first “working group” meeting like I would a courtroom. I collected emails and testimonies from community-level staff across the regions to defend my work plan. I brought out the survey responses from Community Health Representatives about the workshops I had held the following year, all of which indicated that yes, I was doing something right. I even asked Theresa to summarize her thoughts into a report, which she did, detailing the conversations we had had about the program. Basically, I brought proof.

None of this mattered, though. As soon as I sat down with the “working group,” it became clear that there would be no “working” on anything - the decisions had been made, clearly by one person. The other members of the “working group” barely got a word in edgewise, and I can’t fault them for acquiescing to the oppressing behaviour; survival sometimes requires silence.

Not one person made reference to the thoughtful, detailed recommendations Theresa had provided for the sexual health program. At the time, she was one of maybe two Inuit in a non-administrative position within the department.

*****

This type of workplace harassment and bullying is not uncommon in the GN, and in many ways, what I experienced is not its worst form. Thomas Rohner at Nunatsiaq News recently published an excellent series on the phenomenon (check out part one and part two). He found stories of bullying so severe that its victims were left with mental and physical health issues. Sadly, the harassment seems to disproportionately affect Inuit employees (including them being overlooked for promotions, as happened in my department), a disgraceful hybrid of intimidation and racism.

I read Thomas’ piece and thought, hey, at least my experience wasn’t that bad. But you know what? It was still pretty awful. I remember coming home drained, despondent. I hated going to work. Normally chatty and social, I stopped attending work-related functions and participating in conversations at the office. At one point, I wondered if I should leave Iqaluit.

For anyone who hasn’t been the victim of bullying, all of this may seem pedantic. Why didn’t I do something, or say something? If I was good at my job, then why pay heed to one crappy coworker?

What you need to understand is that this type of behaviour can only exist within a larger system of intimidation and corruption. It’s easy for me to pin all my disdain onto the one individual who really had it in for me, but the truth is, she was part of a system that allows these behaviours to exist - and so was I. When bullying goes unchecked, the entire environment becomes contaminated, toxic. 

I consider myself an experienced target, having faced bullies in some form since about grade five until well into university (I remember watching Mean Girls and thinking, “Who was spying on me in the high school bathroom eating lunch?”). I’ve learned that bullying doesn’t have to define you, but it will always affect you - and the people around you. I know that in those dark days where the harassment was deepest, I was not a great coworker and I was a subpar version of myself as a partner; I am still sorry for that.

I’ve also learned that there are certain factors that facilitate bullying, and I think the environment within the territorial government has many of these traits. First, there are the embarrassing but very obvious “class” distinctions of Nunavut: Northerners and Southerners; Inuit and non-Inuit; Southerners who have been here longer than X number of years and all the Southerners newer than them.

Then, realize that the GN suffers from chronic understaffing, which is sometimes remedied by unqualified hires, some of whom occupy their unmerited positions with an insecure guard. Expanding on this, there is a “last one standing” mentality that promotes some of said unqualified hires to supervisory positions; anecdotally, these individuals are the most likely to feel vulnerable in their jobs, while holding the most power over others.

And finally, despite it being vibrant and exciting and unexpected, Iqaluit is still a really small city, meaning separating the personal from the professional is nearly impossible. It’s like being in a GN high school, except nearly everyone goes home for lunch (so no washroom stall meals for me).

When you throw all of these factors into the petri dish that is the territorial government, the reaction is part identity crisis, part self preservation, part inexperience, and a whole lot of entitlement. No surprise then, that the interface of these factors can result in the type of bullying I describe here, and that was documented in Nunatsiaq News.

*****

My tenure at the GN ended not with a bang, but with a whimper. I was called into my supervisor’s office for another routine check-in, the both of us equally detached and disconnected from our working relationship. After the usual pleasantries and rote lists, I made a few requests, one of them being permission to take Level Two Inuktitut lessons. I had completed Level One not long before, with the amazing, amazing Myna Ishulutak as my instructor, and I had done really well. The course was covered by the GN, and professional development was also listed clearly in my work plan.

Despite all this, my supervisor rejected the request. “You’re on a CSA,” she had the gall to say, “and the course ends after your next renewal period.” Even after all I’d experienced, this response shocked me with its bureaucratic hypocrisy. Here I was, working a job for nearly a year and a half, requesting training that would help me do my job better - and I was denied based on the crooked contract I had been offered by the GN.

For those of you who don’t know, a CSA, or Casual Service Agreement, is four-month contract the GN can sign with an employee for any unfilled position. In the Collective Agreement between the Nunavut Employees Union and the GN, there is a clear protocol for CSAs, which states that they cannot last longer than four months and cannot be used in lieu of establishing a full-time, term position.

And yet, this is exactly what each and every department does. It’s a not-so-well-kept secret that CSAs require less scrutiny and human resources to fill; essentially, an employer can handpick a candidate and then hand them the job. Employers say this helps fill necessary positions during lengthy full-term hiring processes, which I think is partially true.

For the employee, a CSA is a quick entry point into working for the territorial government. Though they take a risk signing a contract with no job security, it is generally understood that CSA workers should be treated like term employees, with access to benefits like healthcare and training. After 18 months of (prohibited) CSA renewals, I had an expectation of this unspoken rule; I never anticipated being punished for engaging in a contract that benefited my employer more than it benefitted me (though, as I type that sentence I think, should I have been so surprised?).

Ultimately, this denial was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. You can insult me and kibosh my ideas; you can annoy me into aphasia; you can test my self-worth and esteem; but take away my opportunity to learn (and with Myna!), and you’ve got yourself a problem. At the end of that four-month period, I did not pursue the option of renewal.

The department put forward funds to throw me a build-your-own ice cream sundae goodbye party, but never asked me to explain why I decided to leave (I wonder why). Consider this my exit interview.

*****

I think it’s important to say that I don’t regret my time at the GN. It was where I met Sara, who started this blog with me. It was there that I was given the opportunity to travel and meet many wonderful Nunavummiut I wouldn’t have otherwise. It paid me well. And, if anything, working for the government gave me the chance to test working a 9-to-5 office job. Spoiler alert: I haven’t had another one since 2014.

Trigger warning This post alludes to trauma.

*****

Year One, Chapter Four: Doing My Duty Travel, Plus, How This Blog Started

Thursday, March 7, 2013 (Rankin Inlet)

About to finish the first leg of my cross-territory journey. I know I’m learning about a million things a minute, but it’s so entrenched in the experience that I can’t clearly articulate anything.

My first job in Nunavut and my first full-time job ever was with the Department of Health at the Government of Nunavut (GN). For a year and a half, I was the territory’s Sexual Health Program Coordinator, a title that seems really, really fitting considering my educational and personal background. I studied public health, with a focus on sexual health promotion, and have been working as a sexual health and/or assault counsellor since I was in grade eight (yes it does suck that you have to kind of be both of those things if you want to work in this field). I was really, really excited when I joined the Health Promotion division; I remember telling Justin that I thought it was the perfect job for me.

Early in my tenure, I was able to organize a number of community visits to provide training and support to frontline healthcare workers across the territory. It was my first time visiting other communities, and the trip took me to quite a few: Rankin Inlet, Kugluktuk, Cambridge Bay, Coral Harbour, Chesterfield Inlet, and Pangnirtung (plus stopovers in Yellowknife). It was incredible. I feel so, so lucky to have been able to get out of Iqaluit, for both professional and personal growth. And those aerial views of Nunavut - wow. From my notebook:

Saturday, March 9, 2013 (flying over Cape Dorset)

Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between land and sea. In the winter, Nunavut, “our land,” grows to include its frozen lakes, rivers, and bays. The “land” itself is, in a way, fluid and changing, not hindered by shoreline, not bound by ground, solidifying into its own new state.

I did the trips with my colleague, Theresa Koonoo, a nurse, community health specialist, and fellow sexual health advocate. Theresa, who is originally from Pond Inlet, has spent a lot of her career travelling and studying across the North, and also in the south. To be honest, Theresa was kind of assigned to escort me, the n00b, ostensibly to help with logistical and programming support. I knew the trip would be challenging in ways and I was so relieved that Theresa was there to help; I did not anticipate just how much and in how many ways that help would be required.

Theresa and I left Iqaluit with general expectations of what we were going to do and what we were going to talk about, and I, at least, was completely blindsided by the actual conversations we had with community members. With an intensity and honesty that belies desperation, we encountered many, too many, disclosures of trauma, abuse, assault. I need not get into details, because those stories are not my stories to share or represent; suffice it to say I was both humbled and stunned to be privy to these discussions.

It wasn’t the first time that I encountered these colloquies (remember, I had worked as a counsellor for the better part of a decade), but it was the most direct or impactful encounter to date. Unprepared but not resistant, I did the best I could to appropriately and authentically represent my employer, my purpose, and myself. Often, I would turn to Theresa, to gauge her processing, to follow her lead.

This is where I also spiralled into an existential crisis that I think (I hope) is common amongst southerners in Nunavut, or aid workers in places we deem worthy of receiving aid, or anyone else who goes to “help” in a place where the outcomes have very little impact on their personal development. What, really, was I doing there? I looked disparagingly at the materials I had brought with me, the kit, the condoms, the posters and pamphlets created by people and companies that had likely never even heard of Nunavut; who did I think I was, and what was I perpetuating?

What I was, was a settler stressed by Indigenous histories and reliant on an Indigenous woman (as if they don’t have enough of a burden to bear as it is) to give me support and access as I struggled to deal with realities that are not part of my cultural identity, but certainly are a part of hers. It goes without saying that her presence as an Inuk also lent me clout and, more importantly, trust that I may not, as a qallunaat, have rallied on my own. I felt like a fraud and a chump.

It wasn’t until I came back from duty travel that I started to process the weight and reality of what we had witnessed. I know now that I experienced both shock and secondary trauma, the latter of which manifested in bouts of confusion, anger, and helplessness that I still deal with today. On top of that, I began questioning my role in the department, the department’s role in promoting health and wellness, and wellness itself as a social construct in Nunavut. 

Unsure of what to do but sure in my need to do something, I met with my supervisor and told her everything that I had heard and seen, and all the things that I was trying to forget.

I told her about my sleepless nights.

I told her about the sobs that crept up on me when I was driving, eating, talking to someone.

I told her about the voices and stories I did not think we should ignore.

I told her plainly that I did not think the direction and content of our sexual health promotion program was adequate or relevant to the needs of the population.

And she listened as I told her these things and more. She responded with care and validation, and an honest concern for both myself and the people I’d spoke to. She told me to put it all into a report, and I did. It was the first and last time I wrote about that experience, until now.

*****

By the end of that summer, I was becoming more and more disenfranchised with my job at the GN. There were several internal and external factors that made my time there frustrating and unfulfilling (more details on that in a future post; hold onto your butts for that one!), and this left me feeling disconnected, and unsure of my purpose and place in the city itself.

Discontent and yet still inspired by what was happening around me (just not at work!), I started coming up with solutions to my stymied creativity. I bought a new and better camera and vowed to take more pictures, and I started sending out pitches to publications as a freelancer, mostly little pieces about what I was seeing and experiencing in Iqaluit.

Truthfully, at the time, I wasn’t very good at pitching, and even if I had been better, the stories or ideas I had didn’t really fit into the publishable categories of mainstream media. They weren’t news items or travel guides or anything like that; they were just interesting (at least to me) observations and anecdotes about the city I was starting to get comfortable in.

It didn’t take me long to jump onto the idea of self-publishing. I’d had a blog before (no one read it) and I was comfortable with social media (I was active on “Iqaluit Twitter,” which when I first moved up is how I started easing into Iqaluit’s community IRL). Plus, I saw a gap in the Iqaluit web scene: it was the only capital city in Canada without any sort of a place blog. Toronto, for example, has several, like Torontoist, blogTO, She Does the City, and more.

With that idea sorted out in my head, I thought it would be easier and better if I had a partner. Long-term readers will know that that person was Sara; what you don’t know is how it all came together. To start, I texted Sara and asked her if she wanted to meet and chat about something; she agreed, and we decided to go to The Legion (first mistake).

We were sitting at a table on the loud side (second mistake), about to get into it when, as happens often at The Legion, a stream of friends and coworkers and acquaintances came in. In between greetings and hugs, the DJ started up with a classic Legion set: mainstream hits that were popular six months ago (old enough to be out of date, not old enough to be a throwback). Sara and I were swept up in the sweaty dance party that only The Legion can provide, and suddenly, it was closing time, and we never spoke a word about the blog.

On the five-minute drive back to Sara’s apartment, I gave her a truncated pitch of what I wanted to do, finishing as I pulled into the parking lot of the eight-storey. Always keen (which is why I asked her, obviously), Sara exclaimed “I’d love to blog with you!” before stepping out of the car and into the cool August night. It is just one of many important relationships that have been made at or immediately after leaving The Legion in Iqaluit.

*****

I went to see Theresa at the Department of Health a few months ago, carrying a memento from our early travels together. We both burst out crying and clung to each other when I pulled it out. Sitting in the lobby of the building where we first met, on a weekday afternoon, in the light of the afternoon sun, all those moments and memories we shared - so many of them so heavy and many others so easy and pleasant - came back a little too fast and much too hard. I know people, some of them my former coworkers, passed us tangled in tears and whispers; I thank them for letting us remain undisturbed, ugly and raw in that moment.

There is something fundamentally icky about working for an institutionalized government whose job it is to administer, regulate, and monitor a mostly-Indigenous population - especially if that government itself is then governed by the same body that tried to control, nay, abolish Indigenous nations barely two generations ago (ie. The Feds). It should come as no surprise that imposing a colonial-style government on an Indigenous population that is still fighting the effects of colonization will come with some growing pains - but the distribution of weight does not need to come down on only some of us.

Ultimately, you can bury your head in the snow and run on intention alone, but the truth is we are all, every one of us, problematic in innumerable ways. It is only when you’re actively and incessantly questioning the system that you stand a chance of making any fundamental, radical, brilliant change. The type of fluidity and flex in Nunavut’s landscape that I so lovingly noted above is equally valuable for its people, permanent or otherwise.

This doesn’t mean non-Inuit or southerners don’t have expertise or experiences to share in Nunavut; I just think it’s important to always be aware of the power dynamics involved in our interactions, in the North and really, everywhere. Even if maybe, you won't always get it right (I sure don't), at least you tried to be a part of something better and different.

To this day, Theresa is the only GN employee who has ever spoken to me about the incidents of that trip. I assume my report remains on file with the department.

If you or someone you know has experienced trauma, here are some resources.

Nunavut Kamatsiaqtut Helpline: 1 800 265 3333
Kids Help Phone: 1 800 668 6868
CMHA
CASAC
Pauktuutit
TRCC

*****

Year One, Chapter Three: The Snowmobile Crash

Once or twice a year, government offices in Nunavut hold something called an IQ Day for their employees. “IQ” stands for Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit (generally translated to mean “Inuit traditional knowledge”), and the day usually consists of an outdoor adventure with some cultural presentation or teaching. In May 2013, my government department had organized an IQ Day trip to go ice fishing, by snowmobile.

If you’ve read the last installment in this series, you will know that Justin and I started with only one machine between the two of us, and really, it was Justin’s. What you may not know is that I was a fairly hopeless snowmobile driver when I first came up - but Justin was good at it from day one (of course, because Justin). Unfortunately, Justin would be out of town at the time of our planned IQ Day.

“Do you think Justin will let you borrow his machine?” a co-worker asked me. “Well…” I started.

Flashback to three weeks before; Justin’s family was in town for a visit, and he had borrowed a friend’s machine so that we could take his sister out to Tarr Inlet. I was driving Justin’s sled, nervously following the siblings from our house towards the sea ice. We came to a shallow valley, still in town, framed by pipelines. Justin took an angled right up the side of a hill, leaning towards the top, passing the pipes and coming down the other side. After a deep breath, I tried to do the same, at the same angle, with the same lean. But gravity and skill were not on my side, and I found myself barrelling sharply down the hill, stopping only when the ski of the machine grazed the bend of a pipeline.

With this memory at the front of my mind, I tentatively asked Justin if I could borrow his snowmobile. He hesitated just slightly before responding in the affirmative. “Let’s go out for a ride so you can practice a bit,” he suggested. We did, on a bright, sunny day with lots of fluffy snow, nary a pipeline in sight. I did fine.

A few days passed; Justin flew out west, leaving me alone with the machine and my apprehensive aplomb. I woke the morning of IQ Day and checked the weather. It had rained the night before, encasing the snow in a layer of slippery ice. When I went outside to start the machine, I realized that the rain had also seeped around and under the snowmobile’s track and skis, essentially cementing it to the frozen tundra. Try as I might, no amount of jumping or shaking or screaming would dislodge it from its icy restraints.

Despondent, I went inside to text a few friends in a final plea for help. I waited, sitting still, sweating in my snowpants. My co-workers were likely already en route to the destination. I wasn’t sure if I could catch up to them; I took off my parka.

Then, ting! A message. “Hey yeah I can come,” it read. It was from Christine Wilson, Justin’s co-worker, friend, and one of the best outdoorspeople I know. She drove up to the house and clomped out back to the machine in her big, camo-print boots. Legs astride, she began rocking the machine, as I had done before, except with a force and deliberateness that I had not been able to muster. Within a minute, the snowmobile had cracked free from the snow. Christine started the engine and drove it down and around in a figure-eight, her left knee resting bent on the seat, and parked the machine in front of me angled downwards.

Grateful and excited, I started up the sled and inched my way down the steep hill behind my house. I crossed the somewhat busy road at the bottom and came up towards the gas station. The snow was slippery in parts, and I’d have to stop once in awhile to jimmy the track towards a spot without ice to gain some traction. Each time I did this, all by myself, I felt confident and competent. Until I came to The Hill.

Yes, that same hill I had bungled just weeks before, the one with the thick, twisting pipelines that rose ominously from the ground. I stopped at the base and took a deep breath before trying to do what I had seen Justin and so many others do: bank up the side of the hill in a smooth arch. I was off to a good start, making it further along the ridge than I had before, when just as quickly, I was slipping down towards the base.

To my absolute horror, I felt myself careening towards a pipeline; I applied the brakes but it made no difference - the machine’s treads couldn’t get any grip on the slick snow. I slid right into the junction between two pipes, stopping when the front of the snowmobile was pinned below the one running horizontal, the right A-arm wrapped around the one lodged vertically into the ground.

Within seconds, two men were running towards me, calling out, “Hey! Hey! You okay?!” Stunned, I mumbled, “It’s my boyfriend’s machine...he lent it to me.” They repeated, “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Is there someone you can call? A friend?” There was, and I did. As the shock wore off, I called Christine again, getting her voicemail and leaving a frantic message. Only 20 minutes had passed since she had dislodged the snowmobile behind my house.

Minutes later, Christine called me back. Like the two men before, she was concerned about me - was I injured, did I know where I was? - but my focus was on the machine. “I broke it. I broke it!” I cried. “Stay there,” Christine demanded. “I’m coming.”

She drove her car over with another friend, Erika Marteleira. From the road, they would have seen two crumpled heaps in the snow, one made of plastic and metal, one of flesh and bone and tears. Carefully, Christine and Erika lifted up the human mess that was me and urged it towards the car. “We have to bring you to the clinic,” Erika said. “But the machine…” I protested weakly.

I spent the morning in the hospital, answering the medical staff’s questions about my various body parts. I had a bruised pubic bone and minor whiplash in my neck. The doctor told me that I may feel a lot of pain in my arms and shoulders the next day; I thought that it couldn’t be worse than the pain in my heart. The weather was just getting nice, and now, Justin would be without a snowmobile and easy access to the land. I was (rightly) scared that he would be disappointed with me and I was (unfairly) scared that he would stop loving me.

By ten o’clock, I decided to call Justin, who was three hours behind in Vancouver. He answered, his voice muffled by morning drowsiness. “I crashed the Skidoo,” I whimpered over the phone. “What?” He sounded more alert now. Trembling, I explained what had happened to quiet on the other end of the line. Then, “Why did you go out, after all that?” 

The icy snow. The machine frozen to the ground. My increasing tardiness. My oh-so-apparent lack of skill. So many reasons why I should not have tried to go out that day, and only one that made me do it: I wanted to try to do it on my own.

Before I moved to Iqaluit, I lived my life quite independently. I travelled alone to places in Europe, Asia, and Africa. I had lived on my own as a student in London, England. I was (and still am) a pro at public transport. The daughter of a single mother with a demanding career, I had been used to living life with little supervision or utilitarian support since early high school. Whatever I needed to do, I did, by my own volition. I saw myself as the epitome of feminist modernity, the emancipated woman who didn’t need no one for nothing.

But then I came to Iqaluit entrenched in monogamous coupledom with a man who was far better suited to the culture and characteristics of the city than I was. He had thousands of hours on an ATV; I didn’t have a driver's license. He came up with a snowmobile and guns; I came up with spices and books. Within the first few weeks and months of Iqaluit life, I found myself leaning on him heavily, to drive me somewhere, to take me on the land, to show me what kind of gear I needed to bring.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I love and appreciate Justin for the patience and perseverance he demonstrated in those early days of our relationship. It was he who taught me how to drive a car (and a standard, no less), how to fish, how to shoot a shotgun, how to change a spark plug, how to camp. His attitude on adventure absolutely altered me as a person, imbuing me with a love for the outdoors and adrenaline and (mild) physical labour. I am indebted to him for that.

Still, it’s hard to shake off a lifetime of self-reliance, and I never stopped wanting to do things for myself. That’s why I took the snowmobile out that day. I wanted to try and do something completely outside of my comfort zone, without the comfortable crutch of Justin by my side.

Ironically, my snowmobile crash did yield quite the ambitious DIY opportunity for us both. Immediately after the incident, I assumed I would have to buy Justin a brand new machine (which I have offered to do many times over the years), but while I was in the hospital, Christine texted me saying, “It drives! We drove it out!” The darn thing was still running, and by some miracle it made it to the shop, that miracle being the father-daughter duo of Jim and Christine Wilson.

Over the next few months, Justin and I would spend much of our spare time under the tutelage of Jim in his garage. Trust me when I say you couldn’t ask for a finer teacher. Jim is the ultimate handyman, as well-versed in small engine repairs as he is with farm machines and well, everything else to do with tools and vehicles. Slowly, carefully, Justin and Jim took apart what was left of the snowmobile, inventorying what was usable and what had to be replaced. It was this way that Justin learned much of what he knows about snowmobiles; since then, he has continued to tinker in Jim’s shop on various machines, generally with Jim at his elbow. Jim, who is as patient as he is knowledgeable; Jim, who speaks to me as he would anyone else about technical matters, never once condescending or curt upon discovering that I am clueless on the subject.

For weeks after that crash, I would open the curtains in the morning and burst into tears if it was sunny and warm. The glint of light off the snow was so sinister to me, an ironic reminder of what I had writ. Turning from the window, I would look at Justin imploringly, my forlorn face better than any weather app; he knew the day was bright and perfect for a ride. “It’s okay,” he’d say. “It’s going to be okay.” I still don’t know if he meant the machine or me.

Post-crash, I was too nervous and guilty to take the helm, especially if driving in town. To ease me back into it, Justin would chauffeur us out onto the sea ice and then switch seats, letting me drive on the flatness of the frozen bay. Eventually, he bought me a 1999 Yamaha Bravo, a rusty little machine that we had to reupholster ourselves, and which maxes out at 60 kilometres an hour (Justin’s machine can easily break 100). I think it’s the best snowmobile in the world.

The Bravo under my butt, I gained confidence also from the encouragement of friends like Christine, Jim, and Erika, who were still willing to bring me out for a ride. As it turns out, everyone has a snowmobile horror story - and truthfully, some can be much worse than mine. Always wanting to be autonomous, I started spending time at the gym working on my upper body strength so that I could move and pull start my machine all by my lonesome. And while I can never call myself a natural, I do believe that with practice and effort, I evolved into a competent, enthusiastic snowmobiler.

It took several months and a lot of MacGyvering, but Justin and Jim managed to salvage that snowmobile, getting it good enough to go by the winter. As Christine said, it drives - but it has never been the same.

*****

Year One, Chapter Two: My First Snowmobile Ride

“Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath.” - Matt Groening

My first snowmobile ride happened in early December of 2012. Iqaluit was comfortably blanketed with a thick layer of fresh snow, which is uncommon at that time of year. Just before noon, Justin received an invite from Joel Fortier, his long-time friend, to go for a snowmobile ride. Noon, when the sun was the highest in the day; noon, just two hours before sunset.

Joel is in many ways like Justin. Quietly intelligent, a little bit goofy, loyal and honest. Joel, who grew up in Iqaluit, is also the one who inspired Justin to move North (so if you don’t like my being in Iqaluit, take it up with Fortier), and his advice and assistance made the transition easier for us both. Like many people who were raised in Iqaluit, Joel is a very competent and enthusiastic outdoorsman; generous, too, because he would show Justin the ropes - and let me tag along sometimes.

On this day, we were headed to Tarr Inlet, about nine kilometres southeast of Iqaluit. Later in the season, the route to Tarr Inlet is usually well-marked by many, many snowmobile tracks, but on December 8th, 2012, no one had been out there since the latest snowfall. And so we carved our own path, Joel in the lead, Justin following with me clinging to his back (we never did use a two-up on the machine, and to this day, I prefer holding on to the driver if I have to be passenger, rather than sitting on a second seat).

It was, as I said, my first time going out on the land, and my first real ride on a snowmobile. Despite my naivety, I received zero instructions on proper riding technique or etiquette beforehand; instead, I was doled out muffled instructions or cautions over Justin’s shoulder as we sped towards Tarr, some of which were lost in the engines’ roar and the winds and the wool over my ears.

We reached a peak and Joel stopped. I looked down. I saw a steep drop, but just how steep or how long, I couldn’t really tell; when everything is covered in snow, depth perception is tricky. Joel started driving down and I watched him lean heavily, almost entirely to one side. Justin turned to me before following and said, “Just do what I do, okay? Just do exactly what I do.”

What, exactly, I had to do was lean deep, hold tight, and hang on. At some points, Justin and I were both nearly hovering on the right side of the machine, balancing precariously on a shelf that was meant for a pair of feet, not two. (I notice that couples tend to buy Grand Tourings or Ventures, machines that are meant for, well, two people, but we had a Renegade Adrenaline, a snowmobile that is decidedly meant for one.) Anyone watching us would have seen synchronicity on the outside, two perfectly paired riders moving in unison, unaware that behind our goggles, only one pair of eyes was wide open with terror and only one of us forgot to breathe.

Breathless, we arrived at Tarr Inlet and stopped. If you’ve ever heard anything about Nunavut, you know that the vistas are unparalleled. But there really is something indescribable about seeing and being on the nuna for the first time - but I will try. After all the bumps and bends and big risks, Joel brought us to what was at the time the most incredible space I had ever seen. My vision was filled with valleys and peaks and plateaus, all smoothed by the same crisp air I was now pulling into my lungs, the snowy edges highlighted by the sun’s final moments in the sky.

The winter light disappears quickly, and with it the day’s warmth. I had been in Iqaluit for just over a month, and was embarrassingly ill-equipped. I didn’t have a proper snowmobile helmet, one with a shield for your face, so I went out protected by Justin’s snowboarding helmet with my hood pulled over and a balaclava across my mouth. I wore the winter boots I’d had in the city, waterproof and cute and a little snug because that looks even cuter, a total joke on the tundra, where cute offers little protection from Arctic winds that make -14C feel like -34C. It was the first time (but not the last) I lost feeling in my digits, my nose, my ears. I was at once in awe and in excruciating discomfort.

We went home a different way then we’d come, less precarious, more direct. The light from our machines in the now dim darkness revealed tracks; someone else had been out there, too, but we’d never seen them. Riding through the mountain passes towards town, I buried my face into the cold canvas of Justin’s parka to block the wind, tears freezing inside my goggles as I cried against the pain in my face, feet, and fingers. I went on at least one more snowmobile trip with inappropriate gear until I buckled and bought big, burdensome, bulky boots rated to -100C. I never regretted them.

Justin and I spent countless hours on that snowmobile, most often with me on the back, travelling to cabins or the floe edge, going hunting, or just zipping around aimlessly. I told his co-worker once that I thought it was annoying for Justin, to have me always hanging off his back, that maybe we should get a second seat or another machine. She smiled at me before looking away. “No, you won’t always ride like this together,” she mused. “Hold him tight for now, and ask him to drive faster.”

*****

From my notebook, on the experience of riding a snowmobile:

Friday, December 14, 2012

I kept thinking “trust.” Trust and intuition. Do they go hand in hand? Maybe not. Intuition is a sense of knowing; trust is rooted in hope. As a backseat snowmobiler, I am mostly fuelled by the latter. I don’t have clear vision, dominant control, or even a sense of purpose.

But I am not merely a passive passenger, as you are in a car. My body is as much a part of the machine as Justin’s. Every turn depends on the bend of our bodies; the shifting of our weight urges the sled against gravity, counters the reaction of friction and mass.

And that’s where the intuition comes in, more on the driver’s part, but I need to read, follow, and anticipate his decisions as well. Right there is where I hover, on the cusp of trust and intuition.

It’s kind of like being in love.

To do this, I will be publishing a series of mini-memoirs this October leading up to the anniversary date, touching on some of the major moments from my first four years in Iqaluit, starting with stories from year one in week one, year two in week two, and so on. Compiled from the scraps of my memory, with help from emails, text messages, diary entries, and a healthy dose of imagination, these little reflective essays are the most personal pieces I have created since Finding True North started (and perhaps the most narcissistic; but I guess having your own blog is the ultimate symbol of millennial narcissism, isn’t it?). I hope they fairly represent a place that has absolutely given me the most formative experiences of my life to date.

Much love in advance to the cast of characters who sparkle in these stories as they have in my life; I endeavour to do you justice most of all.

*****

Year One, Chapter One: Getting There

I’ve previously written about why and how I moved to Nunavut, but I’ve never really touched on the experience of those final moments before I left. I split my passage to Iqaluit from Toronto over two days, and I think about them often and fondly, for how much I understood about what I was about to do, and what I was willing to leave to chance.

My journey began on Tuesday, October 30th, 2012 in Toronto. I remember it as being just the perfect autumn day, a crisp 12 degrees and sunny. I hadn’t lived in Toronto for an extended period of time since early 2009, and so I packed the few worldly possessions I had left, in with brand-new base layers, wool socks, and puffy mitts. I hoped my eight-year-old Canada Goose parka would suffice in actual Arctic conditions, and not merely the simpering cold of Toronto winters (as an aside, I had skipped winter for the last three years, spending Canada’s cold months in places like Europe and Asia; and here I was, flying straight into nine months of below-zero climes).

I was to take the train to Montreal and catch my flight to Iqaluit the next morning. On the day I left Toronto, my entire family came with me to the VIA station. I remember jokingly saying goodbye to my iPhone; I couldn’t say goodbye to my dog. I can’t remember if we took a cab or walked to Union Station, but I am sure I made my brother do all the heavy lifting.

And heavy it was. Once at the train station, I was informed that my overweight bags were truly over in weight. VIA Rail trains won’t accept any bags over 70 pounds, even if you pay, even if you tell them that you’re going to the Arctic forever and you absolutely need everything you packed because where will you get suede stilettos in Iqaluit? (Real question: when will you need suede stilettos in Iqaluit? Answer: all the time.) In the end, the blender and a few articles of clothing were abandoned, haphazardly, to the care of my mother. I never again saw the blender’s lid.

Once checked-in, I turned to the tear-stained faces of my family, which is very, very small and very, very close. Not once did they fear for me in Iqaluit, this unfamiliar destination of unknown safety or comforts. No, their disquietude came from a nagging feeling that I would find something there that would keep me, away from them. I’ve always thought I was spellbound to seek home in places of which I am not from; they’ve always thought that, too.

Boarding the train, my greatest concerns did not centre on the journey north, but east. You see, I had to change trains in Dorval, and I was trying to figure out how exactly I would get two very heavy suitcases off the train and onto the platform during the cruelly short time allotted to make the transfer. Years (and dozens of oversized luggage transfers) later, I can’t help but smile at this baggage-based trepidation; it was the start of the standard love-hate relationship every Nunavummiut has with checked bags.

Seated next to my cumbersome cases, I watched Eastern Ontario and Southern Quebec whiz past my windows. Again, it was an exemplary fall day: colourful leaves still clinging to trees, bodies of water dark blue in anticipation of the coming cold. The bittersweetness of farewells was wearing off, leaving only delicious anticipation. I think I texted Justin the entire train ride with minute-by-minute updates of my emotional surges. This included a very pragmatic text which read, “There are no trolleys at the Dorval Station.” (You’ll be happy to know that the transfer at Dorval went smoothly, thanks to the help of a fellow passenger who was not going to Iqaluit and so had reasonably-sized bags with her.)

That night in Montreal, I met with friends and gorged myself on gourmet pizza, crispy pig parts, chocolate in hot and truffled forms, and whatever fresh fruit we had on hand. I wore no jacket (it was 19 degrees in Montreal!) and stayed out much later than I should have, considering the impending day’s significance. But I don’t remember feeling daunted. I woke early the next morning to a very pink sky, boarded a bus to the airport, and sent a stream of excited texts to Justin, ending with, simply, “Turning phone off! See you in Iqaluit!”

*****

Sometimes when the strain of adulthood sneaks up on me, I like to remember myself as the young woman who dragged two 70-pound suitcases across train tracks and tarmac to a place that couldn’t be further from where she started, incited only by love, of a man, of adventure, and of self

To celebrate the season - the first one made independently by the now one-year old Qanukiaq Studios - the team created a hashtag and contest.

Based on your tweets and posts, here's what was being said and done during the #QanurliPremiere last night!

Viewing Parties

#qanurlipremiere visitors!

A video posted by Vinnie Karetak (@arviamiut) on Sep 5, 2016 at 5:13pm PDT

Today I am sick, so just me and my kids watching new episodes of #qanurliseason5 by ourselves. Kind if fun though! #qanurlipremiere

A photo posted by Thomas Anguti Johnston (@angutij) on Sep 5, 2016 at 5:23pm PDT

Watching the @QANURLISHOW #QanurliPremiere pic.twitter.com/D4zVUknz8x

— Letia Obed (@LetiaObed) September 6, 2016

Our #qanurlipremiere party @qanukiaq

A photo posted by Stacey Aglok (@aarluk) on Sep 5, 2016 at 6:53pm PDT

Behind-the-Scenes Reminiscing

Behind the scenes #Qanurli #s5 #Qanurlipremiere #qanukiaqstudios As seen in #episode2 pic.twitter.com/z0VlOUJ7dv

— Miali Buscemi (@RedWebbedFeet) September 6, 2016

We can't wait to see the #QanurliPremiere September 5 @ 7pm! Catch it on @APTN (keep an eye out for our animation)😄 https://t.co/4p3E3N1W7O

— Taqqut Productions (@Taqqut) September 2, 2016

Cable TV Envy

Can the tv-impaired buy dvds of the series yet? #Qanurlipremiere

— Laakkuluk W. Bathory (@Laakkuluk) September 6, 2016

Or streaming video, oh wait.

Inuktitut Lessons

As I've written before, language preservation is so important in Nunavut and other Inuit communities, and Qanurli? is part of the fight for its survival. Also, translating English words literally into another language is a common pastime of any other-language speaker (I do it all the time with my brother in Bangla), precisely because it is so simply and stupidly funny (lol at Justin Napaaqtuq [tree] Tasi [lake]).

General Giggles and Glee

Watching @QANURLISHOW on @APTN #qanurlipremiere pic.twitter.com/je5kMqzxPN

— Letia Obed (@LetiaObed) September 6, 2016

Two episode #Qanurlipremiere was awesome.

— Kyle Sheppard (@Maqaiti) September 6, 2016

Watching @QANURLISHOW #Qanurlipremiere 😂 cannot stop smiling and giggling.

— riit strickland (@riit_strickland) September 6, 2016

You don't have to be Inuk to get Inuk humour. #Qanurlipremiere on @APTN at 8pm EST and 7pm CT tonight!

— Alethea ArnaquqBaril (@Alethea_Aggiuq) September 5, 2016

On Trend Trending

#Qanurlipremiere trending #ftw #Inuit #Inuktut #Comedy pic.twitter.com/BEOi3W6dbQ

— Mahaha Comedy (@MahahaComedy) September 6, 2016

Qanurli? airs every Monday night at 7:00 CT on APTN North, and every Tuesday on APTN everywhere else. Check out the Season 5 trailer or their latest newsletter to get a feel for Season 5, and be sure to follow them on Facebook for the latest news, photos, and posts.

It goes without saying (but I will say it anyway) that moving to Nunavut has changed me as a person, but not necessarily in the rote, functional, cold-weather ways you'd imagine. That's why, this Nunavut Day, I decided to write about all the deeper, more intrinsic ways Nunavut and Nunavummiut have affected me, for the better and likely forever.

Happy #NunavutDay everyone 🎉🎂❄️

A photo posted by Finding True North (@findtruen) on Jul 9, 2016 at 9:13am PDT

Courage in My Colour

"I love your skin colour! Can I adopt your baby?"

The above statement is paraphrased, but it's essentially what I heard when travelling to other communities in Nunavut soon after I arrived. The latter part is almost entirely facetious, but the comment on my brownness? Absolutely genuine, making Nunavut the first and only place I have ever been, in the entire world, where people celebrate and admire my dark skin.

I was born in Bangladesh, which is part of the quite diverse and complicated region we know as South Asia. As a whole, South Asians have an unhealthy obsession with white or light skin - a messed up offshoot from colonization and the caste system. Women and men use skin-lightening creams, stay out of the sun, and lament any deepening of melanin like it's a disease.

Add to this Western society's general deference to white people, white skin, and white culture, and you have a very clear message: lighter is better. Unless you're white, I guess, in which case, you should tan. Except white people turn golden and I am always just brown.

As I've grown older, I've worked against this cultural racism, for my own confidence, for my own justice. I am dark and I don't mind. I like my tan lines. But I know that for the most part, the world does not consider my colour ideal.

Now imagine my surprise and joy when after a long skidoo trip, a co-worker would comment, "Oh hey, nice goggle tan! Did you go out on the land?" A deeper shade is seen as a badge of exploration; the unevenness of skin colour is a sign of the elements. And it doesn't seem to matter that I am browner by nature - Nunavut has reminded me to be proud of the skin I am in, whatever its tone.

Appropriate Cultural Appropriation

This is related to the first point in a way, but delving a little deeper. Inuit are fiercely proud and protective of their culture, heritage, and ethnicity. They fight to preserve their language, they live for the land, and they know and sing their songs clearly, loudly.

As an immigrant who never quite found her diaspora in Canada, this connection and responsibility to one's traditional culture has been inspiring. Nunavut is quite possibly the only place in North America where the dominant culture is not Western-European. For a racialized person, that's amazing.

Obviously, I have learned to appreciate and advocate for Inuit culture; it would be hard not to, if you live up here and pay attention. However, the more interesting side effect has been a surge in my own desire to understand my culture and heritage. I speak my language (Bangla), but now I want to know our traditional songs and stories. I know the histories of the lands I come from, but I want to see how the struggles of my ancestors has influenced my place in the world. And I am learning all that and more, through my family, through the internet, through the network of Bangladeshi women I am creating day by day.

Three Bangla girls in a bathroom = Balentine's Day?

A photo posted by Anubha Momin (@_anubha) on Feb 14, 2016 at 7:00am PST

Oh, What's in a Degree?

Almost four years ago, I moved to Iqaluit and started working for the Government of Nunavut. Suffice it to say that after a year and half, it became clear that I am not a bureaucrat.

Thus, in March of 2014, I said goodbye to the nine-to-five and went headfirst into the world of part-time, freelance, entrepreneurial work. I had a (very) temporary catering company. I started an amorphous, undefined, evolving job with the good people at Atiigo Media. I wrote articles and sold photos. Sometimes I was a tour guide. And I blogged like I had never blogged before. And as 2014 became 2015, things really started changing.

Without rambling too much, I now have a perfectly undefined career that involves film and television production, writing, performing arts advocacy, and various entrepreneurial skills. I interviewed our current Prime Minister and acted in a movie that premiered at Cannes. And I still blog, though not as much as I blogged before.

And what does this have to do with Nunavut? I've thought about this a lot, and what I think is this: Iqaluit and Iqalummiut gave me the space to experiment and find out what I am good at; not what I studied, not what I trained in, but what I have a flair for and interest in.

This could have happened somewhere else. But the reason it happened in Iqaluit, the reason it is maybe easier in Iqaluit, is because in my experience, people don't hold you to systematized standards or expectations - especially in the creative space. The Qanurli? crew didn't mind that I'd never worked in television before, let alone as a Production Manager (spoiler alert: not an entry-level position) when they hired me. Qaggiavuut had no qualms with my lack of experience with championing the performing arts when they invited me to be a Project Manager. None of the (Southern and Northern) film or TV crews I've worked with has ever asked for my CV.

Instead, Iqaluit is a place that has embraced outside-the-box thinking, likely because no box could contain her nuances. It's all about the DIY, problem-solving, trial-and-error methods here. And it goes without saying, Finding True North has been a great networking tool for me, and quite possibly stands as a type of CV and sample of work.

So, it doesn't matter if you studied neuroscience and not fine arts, or if you have never seen a callsheet in your life. People up here have been willing to see potential over credentials, and a body of work over a body of evidence. And this fact has essentially changed the course of my career, and my life.

Idle Know More

Alright, enough about me (though this is a personal, reflective piece all about, well, me). As my final paean to Nunavut, I thank her and her people for graciously educating me and other non-Inuit settlers on the realities of the Indigenous experience in Canada. I can without hesitation say that my time in Nunavut has propelled my knowledge of Indigenous issues and achievements in ways that I did not expect.

I am utterly, humbly grateful to the wonderful souls who take the time to talk to and teach me. It's not their responsibility to educate us outsiders, but when they do the act does not go unappreciated. I know that because I live in Nunavut, I am more accurately, holistically aware of the challenges, solutions, and demands of Inuit specifically, and Indigenous peoples generally. And for that, I am a better settler, a better Canadian, and frankly, a better human.

Nakurmiik Nunavut.

Yes! For only $25, you can own your very own Finding True North toque. The toques are custom-knit, high quality, one-size fits all, and obviously super stylish.

There are two ways you can get your hands on these:

1. Unikkaarvik Visitor Centre
2. Saimavik Studio

The hats are super limited - each location has a set number - so get one now!

And the winner of the new, limited edition Finding True North toque is...@aarluk! Thank you to everyone who shared the Facebook post. Toques will be available for purchase very soon. Stay tuned.

A photo posted by Finding True North (@findtruen) on Jun 19, 2016 at 10:53am PDT

And what if you're not in Iqaluit? Just hold tight - I am sorting out shipping and delivery options and hoping I can get these babies out to all the corners of the world soon...if there are any left, that is!

AND, if you do purchase a toque, take a selfie and tag it with #FTNtoque! I'd love to see and share the photos.

1. Follow @findtruen on Instagram.
2. Use the hashtag #alianait2016 when you post photos from the festival.
3. Finding True North will repost the best photos of the day.
4. The three reposts with the most likes will win some amazing prizes!

So what are these awesome prizes you could win? Well...

GRAND PRIZE: For the repost with the most likes on Instagram.

• TWO tickets for each of Alianait's fall concerts (Twin Flames; Hawksley Workman and The Jerry Cans)
• Alianait swag bag

SECOND PRIZE: For the repost with the second-most likes on Instagram.

• TWO tickets to an Alianait concert of their choice (must be in the 2016/17 season)
• Alianait swag bag

THIRD PRIZE: For the repost with the third-most likes on Instagram.

• Alianait swag bag

Contest starts June 29th, 2016 and ends on July 3rd, 2016 at midnight. Winners will be announced on July 5th, 2016.

Looking for some inspiration? Check out last year's top photos!

Wondering how to make the most of the festival? Download their easy-to-use new app, for Android or iOS.

Visit Alianait online to purchase tickets, and check them out on Facebook for more information. The Alianait Instagram contest is open to anyone with a smartphone (including Alianait volunteers!), though obviously anyone who gets paid by Alianait or is named Anubha Momin in not eligible.

Designed by the wonderful Yulia Mychkina, this awesome logo is everything I imagined. I had a really vague vision of using a toque as a logo, because Canada/Nunavut, and Yulia ran with the concept and made something that I think is just perfect. I am so glad that I can finally show it off!

In addition to the new logo, you may have noticed that Finding True North also has a whole new look! The entire blog has been revamped to be more modern and clean and user-friendly, thanks to the skills of Travis Daley of Asukuluk. I can't thank Travis enough for the time and energy he has poured into this site build.

Now back to that logo. You have likely noticed that it's a toque. Well, guess what? I had toques made that look exactly like the logo.

Logo toque/blue steel photo by Mark Aspland.

The logo hats are limited edition and they will be available for sale soon, but right now, I am giving one away, to celebrate Finding True North's new look!

To win a Finding True North toque, simply:

1. Share this post via Facebook.
2. Make sure your post is set to public so I can see it.

On Friday, June 17th, I will draw one lucky winner from all the shares and huzzah - new toque for you!

Thanks to everyone who has helped grow Finding True North. I can't wait to share more updates and stories with you on this new, pretty platform. In my toque, of course.

If you haven't heard of it, Two Lovers and a Bear is a feature film set in the Arctic. Directed by Kim Nguyen (who was nominated for an Oscar for his film Rebelle) and starring Tatiana Maslany and Dane Dehaan, the movie was filmed in Iqaluit. Not only that, Two Lovers and a Bear was produced by Iqaluit's own Ellen Hamilton and features dozens of Iqalummiut as cast, and even more as crew. And this includes...you guessed it! Me!

Here is the artwork for our teaser poster for #cannes, by amazing graphic designer #juliegauthier

A photo posted by Two Lovers and a Bear (@twoloversandabear) on Apr 29, 2016 at 5:33am PDT

Thanks to the support of the Government of Nunavut (special shoutout to Linda Qaqqasiq here!), a handful of Nunavummiut were able to travel to Cannes to take in the premiere. I've been in the star-laden city for nearly a week now, watching movies, eating cheese, and enjoying the weather. But tonight - tonight was the premiere, and that's what we all really came for.

So, how was it?! First, here are some responses from the premiere and the after party, which, of course, I live tweeted and snapchatted. And just keep scrolling for my take on the film (completely unbiased, of course). For the entire story, make sure you follow me on Snapchat and Twitter.

I'll be sharing updates LIVE from the #TLB premiere tomorrow! Snap or tweet me your q's! #cannes2016 pic.twitter.com/61uBXtayGW

— anubha momin (@_anubha) May 18, 2016

REACTIONS AT THE PREMIERE

.@tatianamaslany at #cannes2016! #TLB snapchat: an00ba pic.twitter.com/WzhgsPfYa0

— anubha momin (@_anubha) May 18, 2016

Jenny Soucie before the #TLB premiere, calm and ready to go. pic.twitter.com/vckDoMAeK5

— anubha momin (@_anubha) May 18, 2016

Johnny Issaluk before the #cannes2016 premiere of #TLB. pic.twitter.com/OGPO5Z8TGt

— anubha momin (@_anubha) May 18, 2016

Talking to Kim Nguyen, director of #TLB. His movie just premiered at #cannes2016! pic.twitter.com/fCS3OOUBBf

— anubha momin (@_anubha) May 18, 2016

Julia from #Nunavut Film at the #cannes2016 premiere of #TLB. pic.twitter.com/PRtPyZmOz7

— anubha momin (@_anubha) May 18, 2016

.@danedehaan, star of Two Lovers and a Bear, reacting to the premiere at #cannes2016. pic.twitter.com/yUIAmb7EPR

— anubha momin (@_anubha) May 18, 2016

My Take on Two Lovers and a Bear

Obviously this is a really hard review to write. I acted in the film (I played the airline agent); my partner acted in the film (Skidoo Friend #3); my boss is the producer; I took Dane Dehaan on his first and only official tour of Iqaluit. I am too close to the film to be anything but biased.

In addition, I honestly spent the first twenty minutes looking for people I know, places I recognize, sounds and scenes that remind me of Iqaluit. Each time a familiar face or house appeared on screen, I jumped a little in my seat from glee. Once that novelty passed (or rather, all the Iqaluit cameos were completed), I found myself immersed in a film that, despite my intimate knowledge of its parts, left me touched, entertained, and most surprisingly, surprised. In a good way!

What won't come as a surprise is that the visuals of the film are, frankly, stunning. Endless tundra, shivering snow drifts, ethereal northern lights; it's what we expect and know of Nunavut on film. But Nunavut was well-represented by more than just her natural beauty this time: the Nunavut cast held their own against the veteran stars. Kakki Peter is effortlessly empathetic as Sherrif Tokov, the film's third biggest part - so much so that after the screening, I had people asking me if Kakki is a real cop in Iqaluit. And Joshua Qaumariaq absolutely steals his scene as an affable, bluesy-crooner (life imitating art, eh?) at a party.

Also deserving of a shout out are all the amazing stunt drivers, especially Christine Lamothe and Aidan Stanley, who rode in place of Tatiana and Dane respectively. Those must have been some cold, cold days skidding around and over the frozen bay and mountains, and these two made it look easy.

Now, go read some reviews by actual critics:

Hollywood Reporter
Variety
Screen Daily

I am extremely grateful to have been part of such an exciting project, from the filming to the festival to the premiere. My deepest thanks go to Kim Nguyen for casting me in his film - my first professional acting gig!

When it comes to thanks, I think I speak for all the Nunavut cast, especially those in Cannes, when I say that no one deserves more accolades than Ellen Hamilton. Thank you for bringing this movie to Nunavut; thank you for doing Nunavut justice at the production table; thank you for working so hard to bring three actors to Cannes; thank you for believing in the performing arts in the North. Two Lovers and a Bear owes a lot to you - and so do I.

I write this post with such a heavy heart. This afternoon, GoSarvaq, a new airline that was offering affordable flights between Iqaluit and Ottawa or Halifax, announced it has had to shut down its operations two weeks before they were scheduled to start flying.

GoSarvaq launched in April with an introductory fare of $499 between Iqaluit and Ottawa or Halifax. After a public survey, Sarvaq announced that this special pricing was going to be their de facto pricing, meaning Iqalummiut (and Ottawamiut and Halifaxmiut) would have an option to travel that cost less than half of the competitors' standard rates.

Unfortunately, GoSarvaq was faced with an unpredictable predicament: the two major airlines began offering seat sales rates as low as $299 one way between Iqaluit and Ottawa. Undercut and unable to gain enough volume, GoSarvaq pulled the plug on their service - and any sense of competition in the local airline industry.

Frustration moved quickly through social media channels, as Iqalummiut reacted to GoSarvaq's announcements. Many started by pointing out the obvious: Nunavut airfare is dictated by a monopoly.

A monopoly on air travel is not capitalism, #Nunavut lost today with @GoSarvaq announcement we can only hope they find a way to get back up

— Will Hopkins (@will_hops) May 6, 2016

@CanadianNorth, @FirstAir drop Iqluit-Ottawa fares up to 75% ahead of @GoSarvaq's upstart. price-fixing? #Nunavut https://t.co/9JeeyjDtjv

— thomas_rohner (@thomas_rohner) May 6, 2016

Maybe once a year a group of people should threaten to start their own airline and we can get some seat sales in Iqaluit.

— Craig Welsh (@towniebastard) May 6, 2016

Some expressed frustration not only with competing airlines, but consumers themselves, who chose to buy the cheaper seat sale prices, rather than GoSarvaq's standard affordable fare.

Consumers' role in fate of @GoSarvaq highlights fight between nearsighted self interest and longterm collective benefit. Vote NO on May 9.

— Taha Tabish (@taabai) May 6, 2016

Amidst the anger and bitterness, Iqalummiut also extended their thanks, sympathy, and consolation to GoSarvaq.

Everyone should Stand up & give @GoSarvaq a huge applause. They did fight a good fight.

— Frank ✈️ Reardon (@FrankReardon1) May 6, 2016

Very sorry to hear about the @GoSarvaq team closing shop.

Business is tough in Nunavut and they're in one of the toughest.

— Jae (@RadicalOmnivore) May 6, 2016

Thanks for the try @GoSarvaq!

— Kenneth Bell (@Iqaluitkid) May 6, 2016

#fairprices what could have been... Thanks to @GoSarvaq for giving it all with Blood Sweat & Tears! #unfaircompetitionpractices

— Steven Baillie (@FrigidDuck) May 6, 2016

Others predicted the worst.

The worst being, status quo.

Oh look, @FirstAir and @CanadianNorth have already raised their prices. Stay classy, folks...

— Craig Welsh (@towniebastard) May 6, 2016

Running a small business, startup, or not-for-profit in Nunavut is not easy. GoSarvaq has proven this in real-time. Here we had a truly Inuit-owned company, headquartered in Nunavut, staffed by local employees, with a strong business plan and all the heart and soul it requires to get a business off the ground - and they couldn't takeoff.

For what it's worth, my experience with GoSarvaq has been a pleasure. After attempting to book flights online and getting errors, I reached out to Brian Tattuinee at GoSarvaq and within a few days, he personally called me to secure seats to Halifax for myself, Justin, and Heffley the dog. Brian went out of his way, calling after work hours on two occasions. That type of customer service should be recognized. I only wish I had said so earlier, though I don't think my little endorsement would have held up against the powers that be.

So, what can we do about this? Well, if you agree with the sentiments presented above, you can send an official complaint to the Competition Bureau via this form, as GoSarvaq suggested. Like the fate of GoSarvaq itself, these complaints only stand a chance of affecting change if enough people participate.

In a more tangible way, what we can do as Iqalummiut is look around us and notice the small businesses and local organizations that are trying to make it in this tough, tough market. Shop local, if you can, even if it costs a little bit more. Put your money where your house is, and show the rest of the world that you believe in Nunavut - even if the odds are against the lot of us.

We may not be flying as planned, but we will not stop fighting for fair and affordable fares in #Nunavut.

— GoSarvaq (@GoSarvaq) May 6, 2016

Spring in Nunavut means warmer weather, longer days, goggle tans - and an annual increase in search and rescue operations.

Not surprisingly, the highest number of incidents on the land happen in the spring months of April and May, because this is when most people venture beyond town and onto the tundra. An increase in traffic, combined with unpredictable weather and thawing, can lead to dangerous situations, especially if people are unprepared.

Unfortunately, according to the 2014-15 Nunavut Emergency Management Annual Report, not many of us are prepared. Fifty percent of the search and rescue calls received in Nunavut are the result of individuals running out of fuel or a mechanical breakdown. Only 41% of the people who required search and rescue help in 2015 had an emergency communications device. In addition to difficult conditions for both travellers and rescuers, the bottom line is that taxpayer’s money is being spent on search and rescue in the territory unnecessarily.

"As of this week, we're at about ten or fifteen more searches than where we should be, " says Ed Zebedee, Director of Protection Services, Community and Government Services. “That means 2016 is on par to surpass the number of search and rescue incidents last year.”

Ed Zebedee stressed that SPOT devices, pictured here, could really help aid search and rescue efforts.

This is one of the reasons the Government of Nunavut (GN) is putting a lot of effort into Emergency Preparedness Week this year. Check out Tukisigiaqta, the GN Climate Change Section's fun and informative quiz, for your chance to win a GPS, or some Nunavut Climate Change Centre (NC3) swag.

The GN is also running a contest on Facebook called Parnaksimajunga, meaning, "I am ready." Just upload a photo of yourself with something you use to be prepared on the land and tag it with #parnaksimajunga, and you will be entered in a draw to win a GPS - an essential part of your emergency preparedness kit. Make sure to set your post to public so it’s visible to everyone!

And of course, there's this post! I asked the folks at NC3 and the Emergency Preparedness team about safety prep, and we came up with this list of six things to do to before you go on the land in Nunavut.

1. Always bring an emergency communications device with you.

This is important, even on short trips. Emergency communication devices include SPOT or a satellite phone. Make sure the devices are in working order before you leave, and bring extra batteries. Also - practice using a SPOT or sat phone, before it's an emergency!

For those of you who don't have one, a SPOT device allows you to send messages to pre-programmed cell phone numbers. The messages are "I'm OK," "Help", and "SOS."

Two different SPOT devices that are loaned out to travellers by the GN.

Newer SPOT devices even let you post updates to social media channels, which is super handy. But, it's still important to send updates to someone who you know will be checking for your messages - just in case none of your Facebook friends notice your status updates.

Ideally, you will have two or three people on your list that you can text with periodic updates as you travel. For example, if I am not with my partner on a trip, he will send me texts saying "I'm OK" while he is on the land.

SPOT devices can be borrowed from your local HTO. If you have a programmable SPOT, Ed suggests programming "I am delayed" as your special message.

Note that while smartphones are great, you should not rely on them as your only source of a map or directions, unless you are staying very close to town and in range for connection. If you are going to use a cell phone while out on the land, make sure it will work in the area that you are travelling to.

2. Always bring a wayfinding device with you.

A GPS, a map, and a compass: you shouldn't leave home without all of these. Before your trip, test them out, and make sure you know how to use them!

3. Share your route.

Note down where you plan to go, and how long it will take to get there, and ensure someone who is staying in town has this plan. Ideally, whoever has knowledge of your trip route will also be the person or people you program into your SPOT.

This is such an important step, that can't be taken lightly. It is the people who know your route who will be responsible for contacting search and rescue if you are MIA. Before you leave, work with them to plan a time to notify the authorities if you are overdue. For example, you may expect to reach your destination around 7PM, at which point you will send an "I'm OK" message via your SPOT. But if you don't send that message at 7PM, how long should your friends or family wait before contacting search and rescue? Make sure they know that - and you do, too.

4. Have a travel buddy, or two.

There is safety in numbers. Two heads are better than one. Teamwork makes the dream work. You get my drift.

Making Friends in the Arctic. For more arctic anecdotes, follow me on snapchat: an00ba

A video posted by Anubha Momin (@_anubha) on May 31, 2015 at 7:01pm PDT

5. Check the weather. Then check it again.

We know weather can change quickly. Try to stay on top of Mother Nature by checking the weather forecast at various intervals before your trip, starting about three days before you plan to leave. And it's not just the start day you have to worry about; it's also your return! So, be as sure as you can that the conditions will be okay for you to depart and return safely.

If you're looking for a good website to track weather systems, I've recently had a number of people recommend Windyty.

6. Always prepare for at least 72 hours on the land.

Unfortunately, weather forecasts can be wrong, throwing a wrench into your careful trip plan. And that's just the start of what can go wrong on the land. Machines break down; people get hurt, or worst, lost. And sometimes, you need to call in for help.

If you are ever stuck on the land, know that your best chance of rescue will be if you are prepared to survive for at least 72 hours. This is how long it can take for a search and rescue team to locate you, pending weather, human resources, and tracking.

What's in my backpack.

As a start, here are a few things you want to make sure you have with you on the land (a longer list of my survival essentials can be found here):

• Fuel: Think about how much you will need for your planned trip, and then bring more!
• Clothing: Bring extra warm weather clothing, in case the temperature changes or your clothes get wet or damaged.
• Food: Like with gas, you should think about how much you will need, and then pack plenty of extra meals.
• Water: Same as above.
• Camping equipment: Stoves, tent, sleeping bags, cooking tools; whatever you may need to spend a night or two on the tundra.
• Spare parts and tools: An extra belt, spark plugs, rope, and whatever you need to keep your machine running.
• First Aid Kit: This is a given!
• Extra batteries: Bring enough and the right ones for all your battery-powered devices.

To find more information on planning and packing, visit Northern Search and Rescue or read the Government of Nunavut's list of outdoor travel tips. To learn more about Emergency Preparedness Week, visit the Get Prepared site. And please, leave a comment and share how you stay safe on the land in Nunavut!

In a recent post, I wrote that Iqaluit is a very popular destination for film and television production. And of course, you can't make TV or movies without a celebrity or two, and we've been visited by many, from A-listers to teen heartthrobs to up-and-coming stars. But none of them have been quite as special as actor and comedian Will Sasso.

Will, who is most famous for being on five hilarious seasons of MadTV, is in Iqaluit to play a role on The Grizzlies (full disclosure: I am working on this movie, but I have not yet met Will), a feature film about the real Kugluktuk Grizzlies lacrosse team. But, once a comedian, always a comedian, and Will has been making Nunavummiut laugh - hard - thanks to Snapchat.

Note: If you have Snapchat, I recommend you follow Will (username willsasso). And hey, snap me, too! My username is an00ba (those are zeros).

Anyway, Will has been snapping away, and in doing so, has proven that Will Sasso in Iqaluit is everything you want from a visiting celebrity. Here's why. All images taken by Will Sasso.

Arnold in the Arctic.

Will is known for his Arnold Schwatzenegger impression, and he used that, in combination with Snapchat's face swap feature, to make this video. It's been viewed over 2.1 million times on Facebook; at least 1,611 of those are from me.

He appreciates our local landmarks.

This is but one of our three Timmies.

The "is the line too long to check my mail?" peek.

Classic.

He goes shopping at North Mart.

And he posts gorgeous black and white photos like this.

And this.

And this.

One more...

Basically, Will Sasso in Iqaluit is the best because he's clearly loving it up here, having a great time, and sharing it with the world. I haven't seen anyone do it better - and might not, until the real Arnold comes up.

You hear people say it all the time, don't you? Iqaluit is just not like your average small town. Still, people marvel at many of the realities of the city, namely those that seem too cool, too cosmopolitan to be part of a place with only 7,000 people. I myself am guilty of coming up with false assumptions, only to be pleasantly surprised by Iqaluit and her denizens. And so, here are six things about Iqaluit that I think will surprise you; feel free to add more in the comments!

1. There's a lot to do in Iqaluit.

"There's a yoga studio up here?!" I've heard this so many times while doing tours or welcoming visitors or newcomers. Yeah, we have a yoga studio, and kick-boxing, and hip hop lessons. There is an active curling club in the winter and an indoor skatepark in the spring and summer. Plus tae kwon do, ultimate frisbee, gymnastics, and so much more.

If the arts are more your thing, we have a regular concert schedule featuring international artists and Canadian favourites, courtesy of Alianait. The folks behind Mahaha put on several stand-up comedy shows a year, bringing in big-name comedians like Elvira Kurt, and even bigger laughs. The Visitor's Centre hosts free film and cultural events weekly, and the Nunatta Museum is awesome. You can also take a number of evening classes at the College or learn to sew at Tukisigiarvik.

Sounds like a lot, eh? And I probably haven't even covered half of the options of what you can do in the city. And this definitely doesn't include all the volunteering options!

2. The city is diverse, in many ways.

If you've read my Black History Month post or any of the interviews in the Being Black in Iqaluit series, you'll get a taste of the complex and evolving multiculturalism of Iqaluit. As Tammii T clarified in her interview, yes, there are Black people up here - alongside many other cultures and ethnicities, all layered with the indigenous culture of this territory.

Of course, diversity isn't just skin deep (ha). Iqaluit is now home to Nunavut's first mosque. The Iqaluit Pride Society is growing and hosting more and more events, from all-ages proms to sold-out parties and other special events (the last one even featured a Bieber-Drake parody dance choreographed and performed by yours truly).

3. We have shawarma, and it's good.

Iqaluit has a restaurant called Yummy Shawarma and it serves shawarma and the shawarma is, in fact, yummy. Of the restaurants in town, this one seems to surprise people the most, perhaps because they assume remote places in Canada don't tend to have much more than burgers and fries. See previous point for an explanation as to why international cuisines make sense in Iqaluit.

4. People wear heels.

I don't know why this one is so surprising for so many: people in Iqaluit can be fashionable. A night at the Legion will feature heels, ties, miniskirts, and dress pants. There are also so, so many formal events, from balls to banquets to galas to concerts, that give you many opportunities to dress up. As I wrote in one of my first posts, "I dress pretty much like I did in Toronto," except I have a lot more outerwear now - and I rely on giant sweaters almost all year.

What I will say is that, in my experience, Iqalummiut do not give a hoot what you wear, and that is different from some other cities or places with a more see-and-be-seen attitude. So, while residents can be fashion-forward, there is little to no pressure to follow southern trends, or any trends, unless that's your jam.

5. The movie theatre plays awesome indie flicks.

I guess this ties into the assumption that small and remote means uncultured. (Who came up with that anyway? Was it Toronto? If so, I'm sorry.) I hope the previous points have shown you that that is not the case. And here's another argument against the stereotype: Nunavut's only movie theatre, The Astro, runs art films, plus they regularly play locally-produced features, alongside Hollywood blockbusters and Oscar favourites.

This totally makes sense to me, as the theatre is independently run, and with no competition, is free to play whatever they want. I'm just glad they choose to bring up random little movies and support local filmmakers. Also, The Astro has the best popcorn.

6. Iqaluit is a hot bed for film and TV productions.

I like to call Iqaluit "Hollywood North North" because of it's ongoing and increasing foray into small and silver screen productions. There are local players, like CBC North and Qanurli?, creating Inuktitut programming for a local audience. But there are also national and international production companies flying in and out of Iqaluit (and the rest of Nunavut) to make documentaries, movies, TV shows, and more. Why, just in the last two years, there have been four large, expensive feature films shot almost entirely in Iqaluit: Heaven's Floor, Two Lovers and a Bear, Iqaluit, and (happening at the time of publishing) The Grizzlies.

NunatsiaqOnline 2015-05-15: NEWS: Producer to promote Iqaluit-shot Arctic drama at Cannes http://t.co/8sOtcmSpeL pic.twitter.com/iyTM3hGDfV

— Nunatsiaq News (@NunatsiaqNews) May 15, 2015

The influx of film and television productions has created a (burgeoning) industry within the city, with more and more Iqalummiut gaining skills in video arts, management, acting, and more. I know more than one person who makes a viable income just from working on sets - and that's, I think, a really great surprise.

What things about Iqaluit have surprised you? Let me know in the comments!

So I know what you're thinking: Why are you writing a guide to lip care in cold weather? Well, there are a few reasons.

1. Because I want to.
2. I live in the Arctic, which is super dry.
3. I almost exclusively wear liquid lipsticks, which are concurrently the most drying lip products and most likely to highlights dryness or chapping of the lips.
4. As such, I have over the last years come up with a pretty great lip care routine to deal with dry lips, and I know which liquid lipsticks are the least drying in one of the driest places. So, let's get started!

Oh, and a note on the products mentioned! I tried to list items that are available online and that ship for free within Canada, and more specifically to Nunavut.

Lip Care Routine

To keep your lips healthy and smooth, try these steps!

Stay Hydrated

Drink lots of water! Lips can very quickly show signs of dehydration. As with most body care, what you put on the inside is much more important than whatever you're applying on the outside.

Exfoliate Your Lips

This will remove dead skin and promote regeneration. I do two types of exfoliation, starting with a daily (or twice-daily) gentle scrub with my toothbrush. And I mean gentle! You don't want to tug at your lips; just lightly move your clean toothbrush in a circular motion over your lips after you brush your teeth.

For a more intense exfoliation, I use a lip scrub about once a week. Recently, I've been using the Citrus Enzyme Lip Exfoliator from the Eminence Lip Trio ($60 at Beauty Sense), which I received as a gift from my very thoughtful brother. But normally, I use a DIY scrub. There are lots of great DIY lip scrub recipes online; here's mine:

2 parts sugar (white or brown, or a mix) 1 part coconut oil (you can also use olive oil) Optional: 1 part honey; 1-2 drops essential oil

Mix the sugar and oil together to form a paste and store in a container (this stuff can last for months). Once or twice a week, use a small amount on your lips, rubbing with your fingers in a circular motion. The sugar will gently scrub your lips, and the oil gives you some hydration. Plus, the stuff tastes pretty good.

Note: If your lips and the skin around them are sensitive, use brown sugar; it's less abrasive.

Use Good Lip Balm!

After your lips are exfoliated and rinsed, they will need some moisture. Try to find lip balms that are all natural and don't contain ingredients like petrolatum or palmitates. These don't allow your lips to breathe, and they're kind of gross  (I mean, the former is petroleum-based; not something you want to consume).

To be honest, I've debated the organic/natural lip balm advice, namely because the lipsticks I wear are not all natural - so does it matter that my lip balm is? Ultimately, I have decided to use natural products on my lips as much as possible, because it just seems like the healthy thing to do, to balance out some of the chemicals that come with my makeup products (which, at least, are not tested on animals).

When it comes to lip balms, my school of thought is that you need two types: one with sunscreen (this is a must!), and one without. For the sunscreen version, I love, love, love Jack Black's Moisture Therapy Lip Balm with SPF 25 ($9 at Sephora). It's absorbs quickly with very little shine, and comes in a variety of flavours (though why they bother selling anything except the Black Tea option is beyond me; it's clearly the best). Justin and I both use this product, and we both can't say enough good things about it.

I also like having a lip balm without SPF for nighttime or post-exfoliation use. Again, I am currently using the Citrus Lip Balm in the Eminence Lip Trio (the entire line is all natural), but normally, I just slick on some Burt's Bees. If you do want to get a natural lip balm, look at the ingredients. It should just be a blend of oils, maybe with beeswax, and that's it.

Lip Therapy

This is not a necessity, but if your lips are dry, or if like me, you wear hard-to-remove, drying lipsticks, you may want to inject your pout with a little extra love. The Eminence Lip Trip includes a Lip Comfort and Plumping Mask, which is intensely hydrating. I also love First Aid Beauty's Ultra Repair Lip Therapy ($15 at Sephora). Like the lip scrub, you only need to apply a mask or deep conditioner to your lips once a week.

The Best Liquid Lipsticks for Dry, Cold Climates

If you've spoken to me at all in the last year, you've heard me raving about liquid lipsticks. Why do I love them so much? First, the ones I use dry completely matte. And then, once dried, they do not transfer. I mean, nothing on your glass, nothing on your clothes, nothing on your lovers. Usually, I have to maybe touch up my lips once a day - even if I eat and drink and kiss. I'm pretty low-maintenance with my beauty routine, so I look for efficiency and durability. Good liquid lipsticks have both in spades!

Now, as stated in the intro, liquid lipsticks are very drying. There's no way around that. They go on as a liquid, and then dry to a powdery, matte finish that accentuates lines, chapping, and dry spots. Doing a lip care routine will make your lips smoother so matte lipsticks will look better, but what can we do about the inherent drying nature? Nothing really - except use products that are less drying!

My ever-growing liquid lipstick collection cobtains a number of brands, but again, I will focus on the ones that can be shipped to Nunavut for free. Here are the available-in-Canada, free-to-ship-to-Nunavut liquid lipsticks I am comparing:

Kat Von D Everlasting Liquid Lipstick ($24 at Sephora) NYX Lip Lingerie ($9 at NYX) NYX Soft Matte Lip Cream ($9 at NYX) Sephora Cream Lip Stain ($18 at Sephora) Stila Stay-All-Day Liquid Lipstick ($31 at Sephora)

And the least drying liquid lipstick?

Soft Matte Lip Cream by NYX! This liquid lipstick is one of my favourites. It's very comfortable to wear, long-lasting, and cheap. It's not as pigmented as the Kat Von D or Stila options, which are amazing and I still wear them all the time, dryness be damned, but you can build it up with a few layers to get some great coverage. The colour line is huge, too, with each lip cream named after a different city. My most-used colour is for sure Copenhagen (a dark berry), though I also love Monte Carlo (classic red), Morocco (bright orange), and Seoul (purple) - which all happen to be cities I've visited IRL, which is fun.

Also really fantastic, and nearly just as good as the Soft Matte Lip Cream, is NYX's Lip Lingerie line, which is also cheap. I love Beauty Mark (milk chocolate) and Honeymoon (grey-ish brown). The Soft Matte Lip Cream gets a higher rating also because of its colour selection (the Lip Lingerie line is all nudes). NYX ships for free if you spend over $45, and they ship fast. I put in an order on a Wednesday and it was in Iqaluit by Friday!

I also regularly recommend Sephora's Cream Lip Stain (Marvellous Mauve is my favourite colour from this collection). It's more drying than the NYX options, but still quite comfortable. However, it is double the price, so if you're new to liquid lipsticks, you may want to experiment with the NYX offerings first!

So what about the Stila and Kat Von D lines? Well, they're known for being some of the best liquid lipsticks, ever. Kat Von D's colour range is to die for (some colours are impossible to find; Lolita is one of them, and also a favourite of mine), and Stila really started the liquid lipstick trend. The products look fabulous (I'm wearing Stila's liquid lipstick in Ricco below), but, they are drying, and I really feel that when I'm wearing them in Iqaluit. You can still wear them (I do); just note that you'll feel them on your lips, especially after about six to eight hours of wear. Both are available from Sephora, which ships for free anywhere in Canada (and fast!) if you spend over $50.

When your lipstick matches your buttons and your armchair and the buttons on your armchair.

A photo posted by Anubha Momin (@_anubha) on Jan 29, 2016 at 9:50am PST

One final tip: I usually start my (pretty basic) makeup routine by putting on a layer of lip balm, and then doing my brows, eyeliner, and mascara. This gives the lip balm time to absorb, and I finish with my liquid lipstick choice of the day. This really helps keep your lips from feeling mega dry, and gives a smooth base for your lip colour.

I hope this little guide has helped you figure out your routine for lip care in cold weather! I'd love to hear your tips; leave them in the comments.

If you're looking for ways to achieve health and wellness in Iqaluit, you may have already stumbled across Finding True North's Iqaluit gym guide, which compares the two biggest public gyms in town. But what if treadmills and weights are not your thing? Or maybe you're a transient or temporary resident who isn't ready to commit to a gym membership. Perhaps you want to try something new! Whatever your reason, there are still plenty of ways to get a workout in Iqaluit without stepping into a gym. Here are three of them; add more in the comments, please!

Saimavik Studio

Recently, I worked on a piece about healthy living in Nunavut with Christine Lil*Bear Lamothe, co-owner of Saimavik Studio. Saimavik's regular schedule includes a variety of yoga and pilates classes, with some specialty classes, like kids dance or family sessions, offered in between. Most of the sessions are drop-in, or, you can guarantee a spot by registering online.

What's great about Saimavik is that the studio has different pay options, depending on how much you think you'll use the space. For first-timers, a drop-in class will cost you only $8! Check out the Saimavik Studio Facebook page for promotional pricing, too.

AMBA's Hip Hop

What I really love about this program, and what I think makes it so different from any other fitness-y option in town, is that Anne-Marie brings her love for dance beyond the studio and to the stage, recruiting previously inexperienced dancers from the classes to perform with her at a number of functions throughout the year. It's a great confidence booster for those involves, and a really awesome addition to the arts scene for the spectators.

You can register for multiple classes or drop-in when you can ($20 per class). Check the Saimavik Studio page for AMBA's Hip Hip schedule, or send Anne-Marie a message on Facebook!

NunaFit

Another new addition to town! Created by Hasan Mane, who describes NunaFit (featured in the header photo) as a "fitness and wellness movement," the organization offers Muay Thai/kickboxing programs and circuit training out of the Nanook School gym. They offer a flexible evening and weekend schedule, with youth- and women-only options. And they have all the equipment you need to get started!

If you haven't tried Muy Thai or kickboxing before, NunaFit offers free trials. If you dig it, you can choose one of a few pricing options to continue: $100 per month (12 classes) for the women's classes, or $150 a month for the full beginner or advanced training option. Full details and information on personal training available from the NunaFit team. Head over to the NunaFit Facebook page for more information or to get registered!

Have you tried any of these programs for health and wellness in Iqaluit? Leave a comment, or suggest another option that's worked for you!