Far-Flung Postcards is a weekly series in which NPR’s international team shares moments from their lives and work around the world.
Growing up in Canada, I always considered the Arctic part of my backyard, a part of the country’s identity and history. So I was overjoyed several years ago when I got what I considered a dream assignment: a week-long voyage through the fabled Northwest Passage, a series of waterways high above the Arctic Circle.
I was aboard the CCGS Louis S. St-Laurent, a hulking Canadian Coast Guard icebreaker affectionately known by the crew as simply the Louis.
Ahead of that excursion, I had been doing month-long reporting rotations into Afghanistan and Pakistan, and was feeling ground down. All that evaporated once I was aboard the Louis. I felt my soul replenish with joy as I breathed in the frigid, clean air and gazed out at the endless expanse of ice — there were no buildings or boats, nor any hint of humankind for hundreds of miles in any direction. The ice twinkled with the light of the sun, which shone 24 hours a day at that time of year.
My entertainment was the polar bears like this one that every day lumbered up to the side of Louis, cocking their heads as if curious about who these interlopers were.
It was breathtaking to be where so few people on Earth have traveled, to feel the thick ice crack under the ship, to watch the polar bears approach the ship, all the while knowing this swiftly changing hinterland would never be the same.
I think often of that magical time when I read about massive cruise ships or oil tankers now regularly making their way through the Arctic. It breaks my heart thinking about the impact on the pristine region. It’s selfish, but I’ll always treasure the time I had to myself at the top of the world — and the majestic creatures that call it home.
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