#the terror adjacent

[anne-is-confused]

seb armesto: more people watched the terror for the first time in '24? you reckon that's because—

edward ashley: NETFLIX!

armesto: —because the world is sort of in perpetual existential peril now, like with covid and such?

[neylo]

@laissezferre thank you for this post

It inspired me to paint James Clark Ross in his later years. It feels ironic how everyone remembers the heroic polar explorer, yet forget the man broken by unimaginable tragedy.

I tried inking as it felt like a good medium to convey the chaos and grief.

PS: There is some Easter egg hidden in the dark and messy room

Edit: I realised I posted this on his birthday and I feel horrible.

[cockroachesunite]

James Fitzjames in his letter to John Barrow Jr. 10th July 1845

(transcript from May We Be Spared To Meet On Earth)

[twakiju2]

I CAN’T WITH THEM LMAOOOO

(From “Icebound: Franklin’s Lost Expedition”)

[falling-through-a-trapdoor]

I do sometimes wonder if James Clark Ross had led what became the Franklin Expedition, the way the admiralty wanted him to, would it have ended the same way? I wonder if he ever felt guilty for not going or blamed himself… and I wonder if Ann felt guilty by extension because she was the alleged reason he didn’t lead the expedition. I’m sure the letter where Crozier said “James I wish you were here, I would then have no doubt as to our pursuing the proper course” probably haunted him.

[the-penalty-box]

Arctic Drive Field Notes #4

Or: we finally touch the Arctic Ocean. (Yes, that's ice on the horizon! It was actually much closer to the shoreline a couple of weeks ago, so its seasonal recession is pretty recent. The leads are well and truly open, boys.)

There are lots of roads, buildings, and topographic features in this part of the world named for a certain flavor of 19th-century Arctic explorer, as you can see. In the Northwest Territories, when things carry fragments of the name Franklin, they tend to be referencing the Man-Who-Ate-His-Boots era. (You know, his first terrible expedition.)

I'm fine getting into that, but in this entry I really want to talk about the indigenous peoples who live and work in and sustain these communities, because one has to.

Let's start with Inuvik, whose population these days is over 65% indigenous (and about 25% white). Most (but not all) are Inuvialuit Inuit or Gwich'in First Nations. Native art and culture is dominant here in a tangible way, but maybe that's how it feels to someone like me; sadly, where I'm from, indigenous culture is often relegated to the sidelines, an optional thing for those who want to give the appearance of care or interest.

This is a sculpture outside of the Arctic Visitors Center on the eastern edge of town. I tried to track down its name and artist, but it looks to be a collaborative effort commemorating an arts and culture festival.

The front of the central market was covered in neat murals, too (some of them with potent messages).

We stopped at a craft store and gift shop whose proprietor at the register was a very old native woman. As she slowly rang me up, we talked a lot - mostly about seasons and bears. We have bears where I live, too, but not like this; she told us about a recent episode where a grizzly had peered into her living room and she'd had to scold her dog for starting to growl (which would not have de-escalated the situation). Then she explained the syrups and teas I bought, and we were on our way.

The teas, by the way: both wildcrafted herbal teas used across the Canadian Arctic, one a cloudberry tea for vitamin C, the other a crowberry tea "for hypothermia." I'll try them the next time I feel like I'm freezing to death or coming down with something.

Oh, and I bought a horror anthology written by indigenous authors, many of whom are from neighboring Nunavut. I'll probably save it for a fall read later this year.

Tuktoyaktuk, then! Another bone-rattling dirt "highway" will get you from Inuvik to this little settlement on the Arctic Ocean's Beaufort Sea.

Tuktoyaktuk, or Tuktuyaaqtuuq in the Inuvialuktun, means "resembling caribou." The name comes from the legend of a woman who watched a herd of caribou walk into the ocean and turn to stone; these caribou are now, apparently, the reefs visible at low tide.

Also called "Tuk" for short, this was the first Canadian indigenous settlement to reclaim its original name in 1950 - previously, British colonizers called the town "Port Brabant."

I tried to get a sense of the local languages, but there seem to be so many variations, all of them unfamiliar to my English-first brain. English and Inuvialuktun appear on signs simultaneously; some dialects are also spoken in Nunavut.

The Beaufort Sea is apocalyptically harsh and frozen most of the year - or at least, historically that was the case. Climate change has shifted things a bit. Normally, a narrow passage 100 kilometers wide would open in late summer, but now those periods have extended. The Beaufort is supposed to be an important regeneration hub of Arctic sea ice, which rotates into and feeds the greater Arctic ice pack.

We could still see quite a bit of ice in late June, at least, but it was also pretty warm.

(The air was warm, not the water. Of course we touched the water. Had to. I've taken some cold fucking cold plunges before, but the Arctic Ocean is...well, the Arctic Ocean. You just go numb wherever you've touched it, and then slowly a dull ache rises in your bones that becomes increasingly knife-like for half an hour. If you're into that - and I'm not saying I'm not - go for it.)

We stayed on the shoreline until the mist rolled in. It was a really special experience, and I'm still contemplating it. Not many people get to stand here, even if they want to.

The latitude of this position is a little higher than 69° N, and it's the farthest north one can possibly drive in a contiguous straight shot on this continent. It's about the same latitude at which the cold boys of The Terror and Erebus met their end.

And, now, if I can get (even more) serious for a minute:

While I entered this journey already aware of my luck, support, and privilege, I feel it's best to discuss that directly here. I am white. The reason I get to travel to strange places and work in the arts, to even nurture those urges with a BA way back when in a country where nobody can afford school now - this isn't just because I work hard. It's the product of having had an advantage for generations.

Indigenous peoples and whole communities have had their ways of life disrupted, their mobility restrained for generations. In Tuk, you can still see the BAR-3 "Distant Early Warning" radar station where the US, along with Canada, essentially established itself as a policing force in the era leading up to the Cold War for its own purposes, building the installation because they couldn't be told not to, occupying it because they could, and all while controlling the people who already lived there, in their own space. Tuk was also a victim of Canada's residential school project, which you may have heard of.

I rarely talk about these things anywhere online (I much prefer real-world discussions as I find them more productive), but these travel posts have felt like a weirdly safe space and this aspect of the conversation feels absolutely necessary here.

So often, when I see another white person attempting these thoughts online, it comes out in the form of a reshared meme either going "we suck amirite" without actually digging into the meat of anything, or giving the appearance of caring about marginalized peoples in the most flaccid, "friendly reminder!" kind of way. It feels, to me, like a subconscious seeking of absolution.

But, you know, nothing can absolve us of this, and this discomfort is something we all have to sit with.

There is an echo that is not lost on me, concerning my position when I visit distant places and write about them. I want to believe that taking only photographs (and buying teas consensually) is the least aggressive, outermost ripple in that wave of behavior carried across time.

Up next:

We absolutely get stuck in the Arctic.

[pretendingday]

he was the what

[i-am-countess-olivia]

Witches at the Bottom of the Bay

Late last summer, during what would become their final diving season, the Parks Canada team exploring the wreck of HMS Erebus recovered from the ship's presumed steward's pantry this object:

The pitcher caught my eye. It is a beautiful thing, heavily ornamented despite its quotidian use, and well preserved considering it spent the last 175 years at the bottom of Wilmot and Crampton Bay. Only the lid (as indicated by the two dark notches either side of the lip) and the handle are missing.

I know nothing about Victorian pottery but it didn't hugely surprise me to learn jugs like this were mass produced by the time Franklin sailed his doomed ships from Greenhithe. So I went on eBay and bought one for myself in the same colour. Total cost: £42.78, including shipping.

The pitcher was made in William Ridgway & Co’s Church Works factory in Hanley, Staffordshire. It is stamped with the date 1835 and a number indicating its size. The Fitzwilliam Museum, which holds an example, tells us it would have been used as "a popular household mainstay for water, beer milk and other liquids which might now be kept in bottles, cans or plastic jars".

The relief mouldings which cover the pitcher (likely by modeller James Leonard Abington) show scenes from the popular 1791 poem "Tam O'Shanter" by Robert Burns. Tam, after a night of drunken carousing with his mate Souter Johnny, sets out into a storm astride the mare Meg and before long happens upon the Devil and his crew having a wild knees up in the ruins of Alloway Auld Kirk. Discovered, he flees but the witches fly in pursuit and poor Meg has her tail ripped off by Nannie the witch, who earlier had so distracted Tam with her dancing and her "cutty sark" (short shirt).

This last dramatic scene seemed to be a particular favourite among the poem’s many depictions, even inspiring the great Romantic painter Eugène Delacroix:

The pitcher recovered from Erebus' tragic wreck also shows Meg being robbed of her tail by Nannie — but it is only when examining an undamaged example that we learn the scene is actually depicted twice: once on the pitcher’s bowl and again on its handle, which is shaped like a horse's tail being grasped by a hand.

So unless the handle was also recovered by Parks Canada (but not pictured), then I suppose somewhere at the bottom of the bay west of King William Land lies Meg the mare's tail, still in the witch's icy grip. The Devil always gets his due.