Part 3 ‘You never know when we might have a superhero night’

In the heyday of Cold War snooping, upwards of 300 personnel staffed the Arctic’s front-line listening post. But the numbers dropped considerably as it became possible to gather and send electronic information remotely, and now there are fewer than 80 people here in Alert’s surprisingly lively version of the dead of winter.

Since a 2008 cost-cutting, half the number consist of civilian support staff who look after the power plant, the water supply, on-station transport, the cramped and very basic college-dorm-style accommodations, and a kitchen kept busy defying the notion that Alert is a hardship post.

Made-to-order omelettes in the Igloo Gardens dining hall draw breakfast lineups and the frequent special-occasion feasts such as the change-of-command dinner might include wapiti in mushroom sauce, a roulade of Arctic char, and roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, followed by tiramisu, all served on Alert’s own special china and washed down with Merlot.

For a few hours, it’s easy to believe that you’re not on the very edge of nowhere.

The change-of-command dinner gave residents and visitors a chance to chat and get to know one another.

The difficult side of Alert’s wintry isolation is so disproportionately obvious to its residents – separated from families, friends, faithful pets, reassuring routines, comforting surroundings – that they go out of their way to erase all traces of loneliness.

The “mess committee,” as the station’s social convenors are called, organizes nightly games of euchre, cribbage, darts, pool and bingo. On Friday, it’s TGIF comedy night (or DMCV for francophones). There’s a movie club, a video-game group, a tanning bed where you can get your Vitamin D ration, board games of all kinds, a sewing club, a wood-hobby shop, off-road biking in the summer along with hiking to the local ice caves, geocaching and a little fishing, a gym and weight room, too many sports competitions to count, and even a coffee society occupying a fragrant niche in the newly renovated library – you can buy one of their souvenir mugs at the well-stocked Alert Trading Post.

Artifact: A pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from an American Cold War ration pack, circa 1956-57. Recovered in 1996.

There’s even the beginning of a museum, as the artifacts and souvenirs that have been collected over Alert’s 65 years of operations accumulate into a vivid if sometimes eccentric history of Arctic daring. The disparate collection includes the Vancouver 2010 Olympic torch that was carried to Alert, relics from the 1991 and 1950 plane crashes, a stratified piece of Siberian spruce that found its way to Ellesmere Island, an old pack of Arctic candles (“May be chewed, similar to chewing gum, to promote sustenance in the event of an emergency”), Lucky Strike cigarettes from an American Cold War ration kit, a tin of hardtack, dated c. 1900, with an annotation from the explorer who found it: “One of the tins was sound and the hardtack was no more inedible than 50 years ago,” and a collection of dinner plates from the original HMS Alert, the ship that wintered in a nearby bay in 1875-76 and gave its name to the station.

“If you’re bored up here it’s because you’re boring” — Thomas Williamson, civilian employee whose job is to keep Alert within Nunavut's strict environmental regulations

No one who deliberately chooses such an out-of-the-way existence, from the HMS Alert’s explorers onwards, could ever be described as dull or easily contented.

Artifact: Residents of Alert like to say that local Arctic hares run around on their hind legs and eat lemmings. A stuffed specimen occupies a place of pride in the officers’ lounge.

This deliberate denial of boredom goes into overdrive during Alert’s 12 Days of Christmas celebrations. The non-stop festivities included an ugly-sweater competition, a masquerade ball, a murder mystery guessing-game, volleyball, ball-hockey, dodgeball and capture-the-flag tournaments, a shorts-and-T-shirt roll in the snow, tricycle races through the station halls, and a parade of homemade Christmas floats (first prize went to the Star Trek-themed float – the level of technical expertise at Alert makes it a showcase for Trekkie talents).

People who know Alert only from its absurd position on the map have trouble comprehending the heightened reality of a place where everyone is devoted to keeping everyone else’s spirits up. When MCpl. Rivest-Muir was asked by incoming ops-team colleagues for advice on High Arctic necessities, he answered:

“Well, make sure you bring a pair of slippers and a housecoat. And a Hawaiian shirt and a funny costume – you never know when we might have a superhero night.” — Master-Corporal Nickolas Rivest-Muir, Communications Specialist

Cpl. Graeme Fotheringham was one of the Trekkies on the Christmas float. As a radar technician, he normally deals with airfield communications but at Alert he branched out into managing audiovisual equipment. On the station’s awards night, he was called forward from his AV booth to receive a commemorative coin for outstanding contributions to morale – an old-fashioned military term that permeates Alert’s family values.

Morale is perhaps the most-emphasized word on station.

To maintain morale, counsellors like rabbi-chaplain Captain Bryan Bowley are regularly sent up to Alert.

Among Cpl. Fotheringham’s many contributions: He expanded the station television system, finally making it possible for Alert’s eight or nine Coronation Street devotees to get their weekly TV fix.

“We were able to get the satellite feed up here and make sure it was available to them on Sunday mornings, because they like to be kept in the loop. Personally I’m not a fan, but it’s not about me. This has a big impact on the station: It’s about making sure morale is high for the people here.” — Corporal Graeme Fotheringham, Radar Technician

Morale-boosting takes many forms. MCpl. Rivest-Muir subbed as station barber, brought the PA system to fire-alarm readiness and increased bandwidth to give his colleagues more Skype time with their families.

Alert is child-free by necessity, and the effect of this absence can eat away at parents doing their jobs and serving their country. So just before Christmas, MCpl. Rivest-Muir created the Santa Connect telephone line. “All the kids called up and left a prerecorded message with Santa, which the parents and aunts and uncles up here could listen to. We got on Skype, and Santa replied back to the messages, and there was Mummy or Daddy with Santa. And I was dressed up as Santa – the great thing for me was connecting with other people’s families.”