CBC videojournalist Saša Petricic is keeping a diary as he travels the Northwest Passage aboard the Canadian Coast Guard icebreaker Sir Wilfrid Laurier. As Petricic began his journal, the icebreaker had left its home port of Victoria and was near the Alaskan community of Wainwright, just southwest of Barrow. The National will be broadcasting stories about the high Arctic and how it is changing, beginning July 31.

Safe harbour in the Arctic

July 31, 2006

(Saša Petricic/CBC)

Herschel Island looks strangely out of place.

Sitting as it does in the Arctic Ocean — at the northern tip of the Yukon — I'd expected it to be a desolate piece of windswept rock. It is windswept. But as it came into view today, it looked more like a little corner of the Maritimes than an arctic outpost. It is green and lush, with cliffs on one side and protected bays on the other. It may be only 13 kilometres across, but it has its own herd of caribou (easy to spot) and a resident grizzly bear (best to avoid).

In its heyday around 1900, the island had 500 residents — mostly American whalers who spent the winter here so they could take advantage of the short whaling season every spring. It had missionaries and Mounties, and scores of traders.

The Inuvialuit have hunted and fished here for centuries and even today, elders and young people were drying caribou skins amid the little collection of wooden houses. No one lives here permanently any more. It is a territorial park, with rangers who stay in the summer and the Coast Guard, who come to maintain a series of navigational markers.

That's why we were here, aboard the Laurier. Armed with cans of fluorescent orange paint and tool kits, the crew members spread across Herschel Island to fix large wooded beacons that have faded and fallen over the winter. They are little more than wood and metal towers — decidedly low-tech — but they are important tools for the growing number of tugs and other commercial vessels that use this little corner of the Northwest Passage. In fact, barges and even oil rigs are often parked in the island's protected bays over winter.

If the Northwest Passage ever becomes a well-travelled commercial route, this is exactly the sort of safe harbour captains will be looking for. They'll find it, if they look for the Coast Guard's orange paint.

With this job done, the Laurier prepared to continue its patrol of the Western Arctic. I prepared to leave the ship, after more than a week aboard. I was impressed by the skill and professionalism of this small group of sailors who, in many ways, keep things operating in Canada's Western Arctic every summer — fixing beacons, helping break ice for barges that need to reach remote communities, and who even do search and rescue when required.

It still seems like an incredibly big job — in an incredibly big place — for some 30 people and one bright red ship.

Just leave the key under the mat

July 30, 2006

An isolated 1.3-metre high metal post on the tundra is the only sign of the border between Canada and the United States at the north end of the continent, between Alaska (on the left) and the Yukon (on the right). The icy Beaufort Sea is in the background. (Saša Petricic/CBC)

We actually had trouble finding the Canadian border today.

Now, I realize we're in the arctic — thousands of kilometres from any major centre. Nowhere near a gravel road, never mind a highway crossing. And I know I couldn't expect a smiling (unarmed) border guard welcoming me to Canada.

But, maybe we could have a sign? A flagpole? A big ice carving?

Instead what we DO have is a metre-high post made of weathered metal, firmly wedged into the soggy tundra. My Coast Guard helicopter pilot Len Shorkey had to fly right along the surface four times (swerving to avoid two moose) before we found it. In small letters, it says Canada on one side, United States on the other.

To be fair, the Americans don't have signs or flags or (armed) border guards here, either. And considering how hard it was for us to reach the Alaska-Yukon border on an icebreaker, I suppose this is not the likely route you'd take to sneak into Canada. Or to avoid declaring bottles of California wine.

Still, it seems you could.

In fact, because of the high cost of doing anything up here and the low likelihood of lawbreaking on a massive scale, the federal government's presence is minimal. Yes, the Laurier does patrol the arctic — as do several other Coast Guard vessels. And there is no question the people on board are committed to representing Canada, setting up navigational aids and helping arctic sea travellers however possible.

But this is a big place. And it's easy to feel there are few eyes watching out for anything.

There are high tech listening posts sprinkled across the north. We passed several of them. But they are remote controlled. Real people could take hours or days to arrive from RCMP posts in northern communities. Canada does have a satellite scanning the ground occasionally. But its technology is so old, it has trouble seeing the ship I'm on — an 83-metre vessel painted bright red.

Instead, trust seems to be the preferred approach. Today, for instance, the Laurier checked on a collection of barrels left by a gravel runway on the tundra. They are full of aircraft fuel. Every year the Coast Guard and several other government agencies make sure these are available for emergencies. They're meant for official business — like search and rescue — but in a pinch anyone can use the fuel. They're asked to please call a number to let the government know.

According to Coast Guard officials, it is a necessary practice in such a barren place — and the approach works.

The Arctic still seems to be a place where Canada leaves a key under the doormat.

Mixing oil and arctic waters

July 28, 2006

Crew member on the Canadian Coast Guard icebreaker Sir Wilfrid Laurier looks out over the icy Beaufort Sea, near Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. (Saša Petricic/CBC)

The lure of the Northwest Passage used to rest on its promise as the ultimate shortcut — a faster, cheaper link between Europe and Asia running right through the Canadian and U.S. arctic territories.

Now its lure rests on the bottom of the ocean, underneath the waters the Laurier sails today. They are calm, but may not stay that way for long.

Tonight we are in the Beaufort Sea, leaving behind the challenge of heavy ice for the land of heavy profits — oil and gas profits. Just a few kilometres from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, we skirt one artificial island after another. These are oil and gas platforms, drilling or searching for natural resources that promise to transform this corner of North America more profoundly than any gold rush.

A shrinking ice pack — something this area has witnessed for most of the past decade — only makes the resource more appealing. And it only makes it more likely that oil tankers will be deployed to this passage that's traditionally been considered too risky. Oil transport and arctic waters may soon mix.

Of course, all of this also applies to the Canadian side of the Beaufort. The Mackenzie Delta has been eagerly anticipating exactly the same sort of development for decades. With oil and gas prices at all-time highs, all kinds of drilling may soon be much more feasable than it used to be.

And where, exactly, is the border between the Canadian and U.S. sides of this sea of opportunity?

That may turn out to be a multi-billion dollar question. Ottawa and Washington have never agreed on an exact line, and this is where it gets complicated. Canada considers the frontier to be an extension of the straight land border between Alaska and Yukon. The U.S. says it runs perpendicular to the shoreline at the point where the land border ends: northeast instead of straight north. Both countries argue they have international law on their side.

Does it matter?

Until recently, it hasn't seemed to be a very important issue. Now, though, it may determine who controls a large part of the Beaufort, of oil and gas royalties, and of the Northwest Passage.

It also determines whether the Laurier finally crosses into the Canadian arctic five or six kilometres sooner, as we sail east for that border.

Seal skins and burritos

July 27, 2006

The Sir Wilfrid Laurier parks its bow on a floe near Barrow, Alaska.

All day the Sir Wilfrid Laurier has been parked on the ice, in much the same way you might park a canoe by pulling the bow up on shore. Except this eight-storey ship is no canoe.

The ice makes an unusual shoreline. At about nine metres thick, it sits on the bottom of the ocean a kilometre or so from land. It's hard to say how big it is, since the frozen whiteness stretches to the horizon.

I took a walk on it today. It's crunchy on top, like spring-skiing snow, but solid ice underneath with an unreal aqua glow. The mounds and curves look like something out of a Lawren Harris painting.

The ship kept watch all day to make sure the ice did not start to push toward land. The water here is just barely deep enough for the Laurier, which is dangerously hemmed in by ice on one side and the shallows off Barrow, Alaska, on the other.

Most of the crew, however, did not waste time watching the ice melt, but enjoyed a rare free day ashore, shopping for seal skin souvenirs and eating burritos at the local Mexican restaurant (yes, Mexican).

The cooks replenished the ship's supply of fresh fruit and vegetables. The Laurier may have been loaded with a tonne of potatoes, 8,000 eggs and 400 litres of milk when it left Victoria, but this is a long journey and the next supermarket is thousands of kilometres away.

The Canadian frontier is a bit closer, though exactly how close is disputed between Ottawa and Washington (more on that later). For now, we have escaped the heaviest ice and are making a run for the border.

A tricky run

July 26, 2006 (evening)

Laurier crewmember Ken Thomas maintains a watch over the ice pack that keeps the ship fenced in. (Saša Petricic/CBC)

Right now, right here, the Northwest Passage is barely as wide as this ship … and only eight metres deep, at best.

We have reached Barrow, Alaska, after a tricky run along the northern coast of the state. To our north is dense ice pack for thousands of kilometres. To our south the water not deep enough to navigate, even for the Sir Wilfrid Laurier, which has a relatively shallow draft of less than six metres.

We continue to crunch slowly through the ice, ignoring the temptation of open water immediately beside us, where we would scrape bottom. As it is, the depth-alert alarm goes off regularly on the bridge.

In the Arctic Ocean, these ice conditions are not unexpected, but they still seem unusual to those who have watched Arctic warming occur over the past decade, when the sea ice has normally receded by the end of June.

The warming has led many to predict that this sea lane — the fabled Northwest Passage between Europe and Asia — could soon be open for routine shipping several months of the year. That would mean huge savings of time and money for tankers and container ships that now pass through the Panama Canal.

Conditions this year are a reminder that the North remains an unpredictable place. Travel is almost always an adventure. The huge Russian icebreaker Kapitan Khlebnikov is stuck in thick ice some 50 kilometres north of Barrow with a boatload of cruise passengers. Like us, it is headed for Canada along the Northwest Passage, but its captain chose a more difficult route.

Tonight, the Laurier sits at anchor — or rather, parked with its bow sitting on a massive floe — less than a kilometre from Barrow. If all goes well, we will head for Canadian waters tomorrow afternoon. But in the meantime, the crew watches wind and ice conditions closely. If this massive ice pack moves even a little to the south, the Laurier could yet be trapped, with no passage clear to the northwest or any other direction.

Ice jam

July 25, 2006 (evening)

For the ship's crew, the day has been a long one – and not just because the sun never sets up here.

All day, Sir Wilfrid Laurier has been battling ice. First, the occasional chunk that the ship pushes aside easily. Then the bigger ice floes that could carry several houses. And finally, thick, dense pieces that are jammed together so tightly a hockey stick couldn't fit between them – never mind a 4,700-tonne icebreaker.

Capt. Mark Taylor studies ice flow charts on the bridge on July 25, 2006, as he tries to guide the Canadian Coast Guard ship Sir Wilfrid Laurier out of U.S. waters into the western Canadian Arctic. (Saša Petricic/CBC)

We are trying to get from U.S. waters northwest of Barrow, Alaska, into the western Canadian Arctic. That's where the Laurier is supposed to be patrolling the border and escorting commercial barges to isolated communities.

If it doesn't make it now, it could be a month or more before it can reach its destination. That's how heavy the ice is this summer, all the way to the North Pole and beyond.

Today, it looked as if the ice had moved just enough to let us slip through.

But this is a game of strategy … and Capt. Mark Taylor was taking no chances.

As he pushed the ship forward, he sent the Laurier's ice expert (the so-called Ice Pick) up in a helicopter to find the best route. This is a skill that uses the combination of technology and intuition that only a trained eye can deliver. Satellites help, but they are not nearly accurate or fool-proof enough.

I went along. And from the air, the huge ship really did seem insignificant in this frozen ocean.

The course was set. Open water was now in sight – at least one big stretch of it. But it would still take hours to cover the kilometre or so to get to it. That's how dense the ice is. The ship shudders as it moves forward and back several metres at a time. Even the captain admits it's being pushed to its limit.

Walrus watch

July 25, 2006 (morning)

Waiting at the edge of the ice pack today, it was just us - and the walruses.

Several dozen of them lounged in ones and twos and small groups, each on their own ice floes. Most looked lazily at the big red Canadian Coast Guard ship passing within a few metres and reluctantly slid into the water. Some didn't bother, as they sat in the bright Arctic sun.

A walrus. (Saša Petricic/CBC)

Aboard the CCGS Sir Wilfrid Laurier, we were also taking our time. Our path is still blocked from the coast of Alaska to the North Pole by a massive pack of ice, impenetrable by even the biggest icebreakers in the world. The wind is shifting, however, and ice experts on board think that might be enough to nudge open a small opening within a kilometre or two of shore. Just enough, they hope, to allow us to slip into the western Canadian Arctic.

For now, the ship is passing time, helping two Japanese scientists try to retrieve their measuring equipment from the ocean floor. It was placed there two years ago to collect data on currents and water temperature, critical information as they try to explain some strange weather in Japan lately. However, it seems the rough Arctic winters have taken their toll on the equipment as well. It's disappeared. The Laurier spent the day dragging lines and anchors along the bottom where the equipment is supposed to be - with no luck.

Helping scientists like these is a big part of what Canadian Coast Guard ships do every summer. The crew takes its role in Arctic research very seriously, and it seemed just as disappointed as the scientists at the loss of two years worth of data.

Stuck in the ice

July 24, 2006

Quick, send an icebreaker - we're stuck! Oh, wait. We're on an icebreaker. And we're still stuck.

The Wilfrid Laurier has reached just north of the northernmost point in mainland North America, the town of Barrow, Alaska. That's well above the Arctic Circle and about even with northern Baffin Island in Canada.

CCGS Sir Wilfrid Laurier (Saša Petricic/CBC)

Every summer, the Laurier leaves its home port in Victoria to sail around Alaska and patrol the Western Arctic. Its crew fixes buoys and other navigational aids along the border with the United States and helps barges reach isolated communities in the Northwest Territories and Nunavut.

Right now, we're trying to get back to Canadian waters. Trouble is, hundreds of kilometres of ice — chunks up to five metres thick — are in our way. Think of it as a massive slushie, stretching from the coast to beyond the North Pole, with only the occasional clear patch.

This is unusual. Over the past decade, the Arctic ice has been retreating, melting in spots where it never used to melt before. Indeed, some of the scattered chunks in our way have been frozen solid for many years. (You can spot them instantly by their bright blue tinge. The rest are greyish white.)

However, a particularly cold winter in Russia has brought more ice than normal floating our way. The extra bits don't alleviate fears of global warming up here. They just add another twist.

And it's not just the 83-metre-long Laurier that can't get through. The biggest U.S. icebreaker, the USCGC Healy, is frozen into the icepack not far from us. An even bigger Russian ship, the 123-metre Kapitan Khlebnikov, is also immobile just offshore from Barrow.

We, at least, are still moving around a bit. Testing the edges of the slushie for a route through, waiting for the winds to move the ice around.

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