Our plane landed on the icy runway in Resolute Bay amid a flurry of fine-grained snow whipped into the air by the jet engines. I stared out the window surprised at the darkness that embraced the tiny settlement. It was mid-March and I had been told over the phone two weeks ago that I could expect nineteen to twenty hours of daylight by the end of March. I had hoped to begin my journey to the pole in long daylight hours so that I could see the polar bears more easily. I climbed down from the plane to greet Bezal, our host, and even before the usual salutations I asked with anxiety, "What happened to the daylight?" "Be patient, it'll come," he assured me. I hope so, I thought to myself. It could be a bit tricky living with polar bears in this darkness.
We loaded my two seventy-pound red duffel bags onto his pickup truck, stuffed two more smaller bags and my camera gear inside the barely warm cab, and began the five or six-mile drive from the airport to the village. Resolute is really two settlements; the one surrounding the airport is known as the Base and consists mainly of government buildings, while the village is an Inuit settlement of small wooden houses clustered together along short, narrow streets that wander aimlessly without any real direction.
Bezal and Terry's High Arctic Inn is at the edge of the village, and we arrived in time for Terry's plentiful dinner. We ate family style, with a half dozen other guests, who were dumbfounded when they learned I was going to walk to the magnetic North Pole.
After dinner I began moving all my gear into the inn's garage where my sled and skis already sat in a corner. A few of the guests wandered over, obviously to check to see if they had understood me correctly. Two men from Germany who had come to hunt seals were appalled that a woman would actually try to walk to the pole. They looked at the .338 magnum Winchester rifle and the flare gun I intended to use for protection against polar bears and laughed. "This has far too much kick for a woman your size, you need something smaller." I drew myself up to my fu11 five feet three inches and told them, with as much conviction as possible, that the gun had been recommended to me by someone who hunted big game in Africa, and that I had joined our local gun club so that I could practice. Actually, I wasn't really sure that I had the right firearm. I had never before been given so many conflicting pieces of advice in my life.
Meeting Charlie
"Three or four dogs will be enough I can teach you." Tony was trying to convince me to take a dog team. I told Tony I still didn't want a dog team but I had been wondering about taking just one dog to walk alongside me to warn of approaching bears during the day and be on guard at night. With a look of great relief Tony grinned and said, "I've got a dog you can take. He's trained to warn the village of approaching polar bears and he knows how to take care of himself."
When I agreed to at least take a look at the dog, Tony left and returned with a big, black, docile husky. l fell in love with him at first sight. I had no idea what he thought of me. I suppose he didn't care who owned him as long as he was fed and taken care of. He didn't look particularly brave or ferocious and I wondered just what kind of experience he might have had with polar bears. I wondered too how he would hold up to the rigors of my journey. He knew even less than I did about what we might expect along the way. But there was something about him I thought l could trust and I decided to take him with me. I bought him from Tony and when I took his chain he came to me willingly enough. Perhaps he thought he could trust me too.
This dog, like most Inuit dogs, had no name. I decided to call him Charlie and the first thing I had to do was find a sheltered place for him to sleep. I couldn't take him inside the inn with me, I knew better than to ask. Inuit dogs are never invited indoors. But now that Charlie was mine, I didn't want him left un cared for out on the ice. After hunting around I found a rather sad looking boat that was used when the ice thawed during the short summer. The boat was stuck fast in the solid ice, leaning at a precarious angle its torn canvas awning frozen in a fly-away position. I tied Charlie to the stern and he lost no time jumping inside. I fed him, then watched as he finished his dinner, curled up inside the boat, and fell fast asleep.
The next morning I was up at first light to go back to the boat and greet my new friend. Inuit dogs lead a harsh life. They're not treated as pets, but rather as animals that have to learn how to survive. A piece of frozen seal meat is tossed to them two or three times a week and they chew ice while living tied to a four-foot chain. They're given no shelter, even during bitter midwinter Arctic storms. I had more humane ideas about how to treat Charlie, but the local Inuit weren't used to seeing a dog fussed over and some expressed the opinion that l would ruin him. Nevertheless I continued with my fussing in the hope that Charlie would learn to love and trust me. After all, my life might depend on his loyalty.
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