Churchill, Manitoba

The train clunks heroically into Churchill and we get our first glimpses of the town: a big grain elevator and various port structures, a huddle of small homes and connected apartments, and some businesses, built shipping-container style (one can't be too particular when dealing with arctic temperatures, I suppose. Even now, late summer, the days have been around 8'). The town is located where the Churchill River meets Hudson Bay, in northern Manitoba. It's been twenty-four hours since we saw people or buildings along the rail line, seems longer.

This place feels frontier-like to me. The few trees are short and straggly (near to the bay, the wind and ice have shorn all trees of one side of their foliage), the uncurbed streets are lined with dirt patches of similar width, where snow accumulates during winter. The locals get around on four-wheelers, or raised utility trucks. Across from my inn I witness a disturbance in the street, where an amped-up fellow is throwing rocks at a home and challenging the inhabitant to come out and fight (*insert colourful language*). A young RCMP officer is there in a flash and dispatches him, with admirable composure, into the back of the truck.

You also exist in astate of semi-vigilance due to the presence of polar bears. The peak tourism season here is October and November, when the bears return from the land and make their way out onto the frozen bay. Tourists pay premium prices to ride in huge trucks out over the rock and tundra and see the bears. All coastal areas outside of the town have signs warning not to proceed any further, and townspeople generally keep their doors unlocked, should anyone need to make a quick entrance. 

Thus, my first afternoon in Churchill found me wandering around hesitantly (would the river road be safer than the coast? what about the port?), when local tour operator Fred picked me up. 'There's some bears around, want to catch one?' he grinned. Fred was Inuit/Scots ('last name McGilvray'), a fairly common mix due to all the Scottish fur-trappers who made their way to Manitoba. Fred showed me some of the interesting (and peculiar) local attractions: 'Miss Piggy', a C46 plane that crash-landed in the 70's, a looming shipwreck off the coast, bits of rocket poking out of the bogland (Churchill was a site for rocket research and other atmospheric studies), and an eskimo dog farm, where around seventy furry creatures live outdoors. Earlier today, a bear had scratched a worker on a ladder up at

 the Research Centre, and a helicopter was whizzing around, trying to find the culprit. I gather that the bears are more curious than aggressive (the scratcher had two cubs with her and was no doubt protecting her young), but the Parks and Wildlife sensibly promote a strict stay-away policy. Bears that come too close to town are tranquilised from a helicopter, taken to the polar bear 'jail' to sleep it off,  and then air-lifted far away in the hope they'll keep away. We didn't see the elusive mama bear, but on the way back to town, Fred took a dirt road leading along the bay for a while, then gently eased off on the accelerator as a white spot in the rock grew larger. We kept our distance, but seen through the binoculars the bear was a fine fellow, around 900 lbs, snowy white and perched elegantly on a ledge. He watched us calmly, then blinked and looked away. I certainly didn't expect to be so lucky!

Day two I wake feeling a little more adapted to surroundings. I'm staying near the railway, and the nightly soundtrack consists only of the soft hum and clank of freight trains and the sweet honking of Canada geese. They are everywhere, and I watch them in flight constantly, the up-angled bodies and dark, beating wings. I visit the Eskimo museum, which tells stories of local life predominantly through Inuit sculptures. The museum also has great cultural objects and specimens - more taxidermy: excellent! - including a huge walrus and muskox. I drop into the Library and try my luck with a paper - 'sometimes we get five days worth in one go', warns the lady at the pharmacy. I meet some folks in my wanderings - kind-eyed Greg, who's squatting down near the river and looking after a huge raven he saved from cruel kids, the local priest Father Albert, Walter, an artist from The Pas who is exhibiting in Churchill. Each night I eat Arctic Char, a local fish which similar to salmon in appearance and taste.

And now it's almost time to be back on the train. I'm happy to be moving on, but a little melancholy too, nostalgic already for the brisk northerly blowing straight off Hudson's Bay which makes my nose red, and the Bay's distinct mood changes.