ARCTIC SUPPLY SHIP

Greymouth Evening Star, 14 October 1933, Page 3

ARCTIC SUPPLY SHIP

A YEAR'S ISOLATION. News lias reached London that the Hudson Bay supply ship received damage west of Point Barrow, ant had been towed back for repairs. lhe letter, dated August 2, added: “I do not expect she will get in.” “Will she get through?” All along the fifteen hundred miles of barren Arctic coastline from Herschel Island to King William Land isolated White men are asking that question, foi in August the yearly supply ship is due (writes D. M. Pierce, in the “Daily Telegraph”). 11 off-shore winds prevail the Polar ice-pack will be held off Point Bairow, opening a narrow passage through which the steamer may race in and out. With luck, that channel may remain clear for three whole weeks. Hour after hour lonely fur-traders, and trappers stand watching on the hilltops behind their posts, sweeping the sea with telescopes for that faint, almost transparent feather of smoke which announces that the sinister Point has been cheated again, and dispels the fear that another weaiy twelvemonth must be endured without news from “outside.” For supply ships do not always gtt through. The Arctic and the Lady Kindersley were lost within a few days of each other, and in 1931 the popular Baychimo went the same way. Since that year the wreck ot the Baychimo has been seen repeatedly, sometimes even from the shore, drifting about the Arctic Ocean in tho grip of the Polar ice. Long before the supply ship can possibly arrive the trader has been preparing for her visit. Every inch of his store, walls, and even ceiling, has been scrubbed clear of its accumulation of winter grime, and is now as clean as hound’s tooth. All the articles of barter have been labelled and arranged neatly on the shelves; mouth organs, gaudy tasselled I’Assomption belts, tea and amunition. The flag of the Hudson Bay Company is brought out, ready to be hoisted on “the day.” , In spite of the White mans sellimposed look-tout, it is usually .an Eskimo who first sights the incoming vessel, and rushes downhill waving his arms and yelling, “Ooomiak-puk, oomiak-puk! ” Bedlam breaks out at once. Men, women and children crowd out of their tents, shouting and chattering. All the dogs howl. The people don their finery and hurry down to the beach.

EXILE’S GLORIOUS HOUR. There they bundle into their sealskin kayaks and paddle out to sea. Well in the forefront of this noisy flotilla is the trader, with an offering of fresh fish for the crew of the ship. Perhaps there is quite a dangerous sea running, but everybody is much too excited to worry about that. As the anchor splashes down and the cable goes whirring out, the trader grabs at. a rope ladder and goes up the ship’s side like a squirrel. At the top of the ladder stand' the captain and the district manager, sometimes even the Fur Commissioner himself. These are often the first white faces the trader has seen since the year before. As soon as it is politely possible the exile skims his mail, the bulk of which is usually in inverse ratio to'the 4number of years he has spent “in the Circle.” Having found out who is married and who is dead, he returns on deck and looks for old friends among the passengers and crew. Usually he finds plenty. Here and there are grizzled oldtimers who hade eternal good-bye to the Arctic only the year before, men whose hard-earned savings have melted. away in a few months’ spree in Edmonton and Vancouver.

There are missionaries, bearded and clean shaven, according to sect. Constables of the Royal North-West Mounted Police lounge over the rail, in scarlet tunics, yellow-striped trousers, and Stetson hats. On their heels glisten the spurs which will discommode no horses for a very long time to come.

In a buzz of gossip, question and answer, the trader soon disappears again with his friends, old and new. Hospitable bottles make their appearance, and soon from the bowels of the ship rise the strains of that doggerel classic of the Arctic, with the haunting refrain, “We’ll be happy when the iceworm nests again.” This iceworm is a mythical creature said to be captured by boiling ice until it falls out. The tact that the singers include Swedes, Germans, and French Canadians, with often only a rudimentary knowledge of English., adds the charm of variety to the countless verses of the ballad. ’

But the stay of the supply ship is anything, save a period of revelry for the single-handed fur factor. She may remain off his post from a few hours to a couple of days, and during that time he has all his stores to land and check. Then there is the year’s accumulation ol skins and furs to be taken aboard, neatly sewn and sealed in bales, corded with unmistakable Hudson’s Bay red Manila rope to prevent pilfering, and addressed to London.

Many months later those pelts will grace shop windows in Oxford Street, in Paris and New York. 1 here is great excitement in seeing whether the orders for goods sent back to civilisation have been promptly executed. Many unexpected articles find their way into the Arctic Circle in response to the whims of White men and Eskimos: ice-cream freezers, gclf clubs, and, on one occasion, a Ouija board! This occult contrivance was later employed to explain the nonarrival of a supply ship.

BULLDOG TEAM

It prophesied' that she would turn up in three days. Actually the steamer had already been wrecked off Point Bai row, and no ship came in that year at all. Belief in the supernatural suffered a considerable setback in the Arctic. Ono native sent out for a team of bulldogs. He had seen a photograph of a show champion in a tattered old illustrated paper, and had noted its bread chest with approbation. Strong dogs like that would' be excellent for drawing sledges, he concluded, sagely. Fortunately, someone in Vancouver had the sense to know that such shortcoated animals would die like flies as soon as the cold weather set in, so the bulldogs never arrived.

Eskimo Mike, my own interpreter until I had mastered the vernacular, sent, out for a microscope, -which someone had described to him. It cost him 150 dollars, but he was quite satisfied with the transaction, and spent days examining certain small insects which were very easily obtained. Another sent out for a barrel of

“Kompoosh.” He owned a boat with a small engine, which had seen a lot ot service. Naturally the cylinders were badly worn. He was told that his decrepit engine lacked compression, and so attempted to purchase a cask of that efficacious fluid. The “Kompoosh, however, never left Vancouyer. Perhaps the bulldogs drank it. The supply ship also brings in each white man’s annual ration of spirits, and' must not exceed two gallons. This arbitrary limitation has induced certain Arctic unregenerates to order two gallons of pure alcohol, on the principle of multum in parvo. The potent spirit is mixed with condensed milk, and known as polar bears’ milk. Some hardy trappers are even said to like the taste of it.

Amongst other eagerly awaited importations are apples and oranges, at approximately £6 a crate, eggs, chewing gum and tobacco. Medical supplies arrive regularly, for the fu,r trader treats all the Eskimos in the neighbourhood of his post. There are dolls to be distributed among the native children, fountain pens for blubber-eating aboriginals who cannot write, and coal at £4O a ton. When the last crate has; been hoisted ever side the trader makes his farewells and returns to his rocky beach. While the anchor cable comes slowly clanking in the supply ship hoists her flags and lets off a shower of rockets. The jangle of her bells, and the screeching of her siren echo far over the empty hills of the mainland. Cheers and last messages ring across the widening stretch of water as the vessel gathers way. Soon she is just a smudge of smoke on the horizon — then she is gone. The post settles down for another year’s isolation. Just for a moment, maybe, the trader’s weather-beaten face works with suppressed emotion. Once again be has forgotten to send out an order for tinned asparagus.