By the time of my 11pm shift on watch we were well up towards the mouth of Admiralty Inlet, sailing into a light headwind through dark and foggy skies.  Night-time darkness has been a relative rarity on this trip, but at this time of year the days are growing shorter at a rapid rate.  Steering a steady course under these conditions is considerably more challenging, since there are no landmarks to serve as guideposts.  Instead of being guided by a landmark, it was necessary to be guided by the wind, which proved considerably more difficult for a landlubber like myself.  Unused to the slow response to direction changes from the helm, I found myself continually oversteering, and zigzagging back and forth.  Grant, our captain, patiently guided me in developing the right touch, and anticipating the changing orientation of the boat, the sails and the wind.  With some practice, I gradually managed to reduce some of the wilder swings of direction, but have a long way to go before I can claim genuine competence in this regard.
The low visibility compounded the challenge of avoiding the “bergy bits” and “growlers” – fragments of icebergs that, although small, are nevertheless best avoided.  When you’re in a small boat in a cold ocean and many hours away from any possible rescue, the last thing you want to hear is something crunching against the hull.  All in all, despite the flat homogeneity of the terrain, it’s very difficult to fall asleep at the helm; there’s always something to watch out for.
My next shift was at 7am, and by then we were in Lancaster Sound, sailing through waters that were flat calm.  Lancaster Sound was failing to live up to its fierce reputation.  We were sailing on autopilot and my task was the relatively simple one of spotting and avoiding the occasional pieces of ice.
I had the time to think about where we are.  Anyone who has gone through the Canadian school system will have heard countless stories about the search for the Northwest Passage and its role in the European colonization of this vast continent.  Lancaster Sound is the eastern opening of the Northwest Passage, although it took numerous voyages to establish that it would prove necessary to cross over the top of Baffin Island, since Hudson Bay offered no practical western passage.

Lancaster Sound is a vast channel, more than forty nautical miles wide, and must have been a formidable challenge for Inuit hunters to cross on foot or by kayak.  However, it was attractive to these rugged hunters since it’s abundant in whales, especially the legendary narwhal (although they’ve proved elusive to us!).
Today, Lancaster Sound is the site of a proposed National Marine Conservation Area.  Further research and consultation with local communities will be required before this conservation area is formally established, but it will provide important protection for the narwhal, beluga and bowhead whales that spend their summers here.  Moreover, Lancaster Sound could provide the southern foundation for a vast multi-zoned complex of special management areas, aimed at conserving ecosystem resilience in a rapidly changing Arctic environment.  While summer sea ice disappears from much of the Arctic, and the period of annual ice cover shrinks dramatically, the high Arctic of northern Canada and Greenland – the ‘Last Ice Area – is likely to become increasingly significant in providing secure habitat for ice-dependent species.  Conserving this habitat – while allowing for responsible development – provides Nunavut and Greenland with a unique opportunity to demonstrate Arctic stewardship.

By Martin von Mirbach and Vicki Sahanatien, members of the Last Ice Area voyage
For the past few days we’ve been exploring Lancaster Sound, the eastern entrance to the Northwest Passage.  Our first sheltered harbor was in a protected bay on the southeastern corner of Devon Island.  A short shore walk took us to within close range of four muskox, but our arrival was noted with some displeasure before the biggest male of the group “walked us off” his property in no uncertain manner.
Wildlife were not the only occupants of this perfect harbor. In the 1940s this was the site of the Dundas Harbour RCMP post. The post buildings still stand and remain remarkably sturdy. Stone walkways link the buildings and lead the way to the nearby cemetery where two RCMP officers were laid to rest. Inside the main post building is a written commemoration to the young officers who manned the post.

People have used Dundas Harbour for many centuries. Prior to the RCMP, Inuit camped and hunted here. 20^th century and recent tent rings dot the shoreline and raised beaches, as well as evidence of ancient human use – the Thule. We found three Thule sod houses, intact with the bowhead whale bones that were used to construct the houses. We marveled at this evidence that many centuries ago the Thule hunted 70 tonne bowhead whales using kayaks and harpoons. Seeing these sites demonstrates that this region, like much of the Canadian Arctic is not and never was uninhabited wilderness.
Taking advantage of the continuing stable weather, we set sail that evening along the southern coast of Devon Island, The waters are almost entirely ice-free, except for the occasional iceberg, some of which are large and magnificent.

We sailed the Arctic Tern I overnight from Cobourg Island to Queen Aba Harbour on eastern tip of Devon Island. The wind was light but sufficient to sail until sometime after midnight – the wind dropped off and we had to make use of engine power. Jones Sound was free of sea ice but there were many icebergs to be aware of as we sailed. Icebergs are not sea ice, but the progeny of glaciers that reach into the sea. The icebergs we sailed by may have been locally generated, as there are many glaciers that dip their toes into the ocean

on southern Ellesmere Island and Devon Island, or they may have originated in  northwestern Greenland.
When sailing overnight we take 2 hour shifts on watch with the Captain or one of the mates. We assist by watching for ice, checking the navigation equipment, and steering the sailboat.  As we work, each of us takes in the extraordinary beauty of the sea and adjacent islands. The sunset last night but just dipped a bit below the horizon, which meant we did not experience darkness,  just a lower level of light. 24 hour daylight! Its presence permits us to continue exploring the most easterly part of the Last Ice Area around the clock.

Sea birds keep us company as we sail: thick-billed murres, black guillemots, glaucous gulls, and the most plentiful, northern fulmar. The fulmars appear to enjoy our company too, as they fly close by the sailboat: coming alongside, zooming past the bow and stern. We keep an eye out for the rare Ivory Gull as we travel. Our marine mammal observations have been sparse, with a single walrus checking us out at lunch while we were anchored in Queen Aba Harbour, and ringed seals popping up as we sail. We just began our 2^nd overnight sail, heading to Lancaster Sound. Our route will follow the southern shore of Devon Island on our way to Arctic Bay. The upcoming waters are known for their rich biodiversity and we anticipate observing whales, walrus, seals, polar bears, and many more seabirds.

Our captain, Grant Redvers, is nothing if not safety-conscience.  And that suits me just fine, especially here in Arctic waters, where rescue capacity is severely limited.  So when Grant “suggests” the best time to make an open water crossing, we are eager to accept his recommendation.  The sail from Cobourg Island in the mouth of Jones Sound to the southeastern corner of Devon Island, at the mouth of Lancaster sound, is one of those open water crossings.  And, after checking and re-checking the wind forecasts, Grant reasoned that the best time to start the crossing would be in the later afternoon, sailing through the night.
Whenever we’re underway there are always at least two people “on-duty;” including one of the core crew members and one WWF-appointed participant.  My “duty roster” was from midnight to 2am, so I took a wee rest after dinner, both in order to relax but also because the first part of the crossing was pretty rough, and lying prone in your bunk is one of the better ways to avoid seasickness.
As I was resting in my bunk, however, I noted the slow but steady change in the quality of light.  So I decided to go up on deck a bit early, to see if the sun would set.  On the one hand, we’re almost ten degrees north of the Arctic Circle, in a realm of continual daylight during the summer.  On the other hand, we’re exactly  two thirds of the way from the summer solstice (June 21) to the autumn equinox (September 21).  On the equinoxes the axis of the Earth is aligned with its orbit around the Sun, and everybody on earth gets twelve hours of sun.  The only exception to this is at the North and South poles, where the sun rises and/or sets at the spring and autumn equinoxes.
So, the question I wanted answered is – does the sun set on August 21^st, at 76 degrees north, or does it stay above the horizon?  There are, of course charts and programs that can give me this information, but I wanted to see for myself, so I bundled up against the cold and ventured on deck shortly after 11pm.  Sure enough, the sun was almost grazing the horizon, and by 11:30pm had set entirely, after a long an lovely sunset.

So, that answered my question, but also illustrated another interesting characteristic of light in the polar regions.  In the tropics, the sun sets at a sharp angle, so that it quickly becomes pitch dark after sunset.  In the polar regions, on the other hand, the sun sets at a shallow angle, so that even long after sunset it’s still just below the horizon, and so continues to illuminate the sky long past sunset.  This  is what filmmakers call “the magic hour,” but in the Arctic it lasts much longer than an hour, making for some lovely conditions to photograph icebergs in unusual light.
All in all, it made for a pleasant evening at the helm, and was a great opportunity for me and Pascale Otis, our awesome First Mate) to talk about all kinds of things while keeping each other awake and alert, and the boat on a steady course.

My final question of the night was this: when will the sun rise?  Will it rise again before the end of my shift?  Pascale checked the computer and provided the informed opinion that the sun would rise at 3:23am.  As for me, I didn’t get to see the sunrise, since when my shift ended at 2am I was all too happy to dive into my sleeping bag and slowly warm my toes.  Nonetheless, the experience vividly illustrated some of the fundamental characteristics that make the Arctic a special place.  Anthropogenic greenhouse gas emissions may be warming the Arctic twice as quickly as the global average, but the patterns of dawn, daytime and twilight remain utterly unchanged by the collective presence of seven billion of us.