. . . And Jesus Said, “Feed My Sheep”

Coppermine Adventure

As we headed in the direction Gary's compass indicated, leaving the town of some 600 people behind us, I took comfort in the fact that my husband had a very good sense of direction (unlike me) and had been a Scout Master in his late teens, handily using his compass to find his way through unfamiliar tracts of forest.
Except that there were no trees here. In every direction all we could see was a vast expanse of white.
"How do you know exactly where to go?" I asked.
"I look for the markers laid out on the trail which the Eskimoes use," he said. (That designation was perfectly acceptable back then, being as it was more than fifty years ago.) "Each of these markers is different and guide the way at timed intervals, such as the old airplane strut standing upright in the ice which you'll see in a few minutes.' I made up my mind to keep a sharp eye on the horizon for that airplane strut.
"Also piles of stones along the way at intervals which I believe are called "Inukshuks," he continued, "or sometimes the shape of the ice ridges* we'll see along the way marking off the miles."
I didn't respond, still not quite convinced, but hoping he was right.
"I've been listening and watching carefully," he said. "Don't worry, we won't get lost."
I breathed a sigh of relief and decided to relax as I sat behind him on the skidoo which was pulling all the worldly possessions we owned behind us (for all intents and purposes) on the komatik.
When we reached Dead Man Island (Gary was right; he DID know the way!) we first unpacked our belongings and set up the tent, noting with some dismay that the sky had become leaden with cloud, not bright and sunny as when we had left. We hustled to get the job done as we had learned that storms and white-outs can occur up North with little or no warning.
We managed to get it set up just in time. As I was putting the teapot on the Coleman stove to heat water for tea and coffee, Gary stepped outside to check that all was well. "I need to check those tent pegs," he said, "to make sure they're going to hold." When he reemerged, his expression alerted me that all was not well.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Looks like there's a storm brewing," he said. "We'd better batten down the hatches. Don't worry, we'll be alright. We have shelter now."

*( Places where the ice splits open forming trenches of open frigid water, several feet wide.)

It wasn't even three minutes before the storm's fury hit full force.
"Oh no! The tent's not going to hold!" he said. One side had opened up and was flapping furiously in the howling wind.
As it began collapsing around us, Gary headed for the corners to try and bolster the poles attempting to hold up what remained. I did a "Spread Eagle" on my stomach using hands and feet to trap as many of our pots, pans and essentials as possible while the rest blew away across the frozen ocean.
All I could do was throw up a quick prayer to Heaven, "Lord, help!" Even though we were living for the Lord minimally, at best, my Christian upbringing had taught me, "Trust in God; He will bring you through the worst storms life can offer."
At that very moment, I heard a scratching noise coming from the tent flap behind me on the side which had somehow escaped collapse. I opened the flap and there was the dearest face I've ever seen peering in, an elderly Inuit lady whom I vaguely recognized but had never met before, motioning me to come with her. "Him too!" she said, pointing to Gary who had his back to us and was still wrestling with one tent pole.
Unknown to us, this dear couple had seen us depart from town and were worried that we might run into trouble. They had followed us at a safe distance so as not to arouse suspicion, and had set up their own tent beside us. As the storm roared around us, we hadn't even heard the noise of their skidoo or their voices as they did so. Nor had Gary seen their tent and skidoo only feet away when he went outside to check the tent pegs, such were the white-out conditions.
Once inside their tent, the lady motioned for me to sit on a low stool with a sealskin cushion, tenderly took both of my feet and placed them near her "warming oven," unwrapping my mukluks as she did so.
"Feet...Brr!" she said sympathetically.
We carried on a conversation as best we could with the very limited amount of Inuit we knew and her broken English. Tea and bannock never tasted so good as we waited for the community Bombadier to come and pick us up. This astute couple had alerted the government administrator before leaving town that they were going to try to help two crazy Kablunas (white people) who had gone camping on the land during storm season. Which fact we were not aware of, that there are times when it is good to go camping up North and times when it's not.
All of which has given me a healthy respect for paying attention to times and seasons. More than the average person, I suspect.

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Jesus said, "You will know by the signs and seasons that it is near, even at the door."
What is near, even at the door?
His coming again for His Bride, the Church. That's you and me , friend. Perhaps our ears need to be attuned to any knocks (or scratchings) we hear in this hour. We don't know who might be at the door.

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