CHURCHILL, Man.–"Not too soft, not too hard," is how Joseph gently describes what he's looking for as he pokes a slender copper pole into the frozen southern shores of the Hudson Bay – a two-hour dogsled trek from Churchill (three bars, five restaurants, five motels, and a friendly Post Office that will stamp your passport with an inky polar bear).

"You have to be able to saw the snow and it still must hold together as a solid block," he explains.

We're trudging through deep snow and frozen aqua-coloured tide pools (along with Joseph's wife Mary, and puppy Melot) in the Canadian transitional zone between tundra and boreal forest, where the view is nothing but vast expanses of blue and white (sky and snow), translating into a stark, icy beauty that almost brings a frozen tear to the eye. Joseph and Mary (the Inuit favour Biblical names) are guest instructors this week at the cozy Dymond Lake lodge.

This is our home base for great hospitality – fresh baked cinnamon rolls, almond-crusted Arctic char, red wine and caribou soup – plus snowshoeing and snowmobiling outings.

But, I've got other things on my mind: It's minus 40C, for one, and I am wearing seven layers of clothing, including three jackets and four pairs of pants (a personal best.) And for another, I'm about to make my very first igloo.

In case you don't already know, igloos are snow dome winter homes mostly built in the central Canadian Arctic, where snow blocks are laid around in a circle on a firm field of snow, and are used by the single hunter or small group, usually built far out on the winter sea ice for temporary shelter.

Today, the snow is quite shallow by the tidal shore so we'll be slicing the blocks longer and shorter than would be the norm, but it's a good spot as "the snow is warmer here," explains Joseph.

"Because the ice is made of salt water. It protects it. More windproof."

He says when he's travelling "up north" (he and Mary live in Repulse Bay, about 800 kilometres north of here, so Churchill is akin to a beach vacation for them) he wears a canvas parka so that the snow sticks to it.

"When I asked my Mom to make me a traditional parka, she made it out of canvas because with the snow, it's the best insulation."

Which is the same logic behind this igloo we're about to build.

While organizing the build, Joseph and Mary briefly speak Inuktitut.

"Do you mind if we speak our language for a moment?" asks Mary.

With a suitable spot agreed on, they revert back to English and Joseph draws a perfect circle around himself with the business end of that copper pole, and we all set to work.

"Even today most hunters sleep in igloos because they hunt and travel," says Mary.

"A small one takes about an hour to make."

Once it's built, modern hunters plop a Coleman stove in the middle of their snow domes, which they use to cook and stay warm.

Back at the lodge, Mary had shown me a traditional floor lamp, a saucer-shaped vessel fashioned from carved stone, filled with burning seal oil.

We start to saw out snow blocks with an all-purpose handsaw. The blocks are as firm as cement, but a little lighter at about 10 kilogramss.

"We'll start with 10 and will use about 30 in the end," says Joseph.

Mary and I set to work sawing and dragging, while Joseph has the equally taxing job of lifting and constructing.

As I slice away, Mary encourages, "You're better at this than our people!"

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I can't tell you why, exactly, but this ranks as one of the proudest moments of my life. I'm busting with Canadian pride and have unearthed yet another useless talent (I also happen to be an excellent pogo-sticker.)

"My parents first met in an igloo," Joseph reminisces. "My grandfather arranged their marriage. They met in the igloo but my mother's parents didn't like my Dad so said no to the marriage. But she disobeyed them and ran away with his dog team."

Back then they didn't have houses at all, he explains.

"They had sod huts in the summer and igloos in the winter."

A traditional snow knife would be made of wood and caribou antler, or way back when, whalebone. Today, Joseph is using a small machete he bought at the co-op store in Repulse Bay.

The thickness of the snow blocks is key to making a successful igloo.

"I cut those ones too big," confesses Mary after a brief Inuktitut tête-à-tête with Joseph.

"If the top ones are too thick the igloo will cave in."

Together, we work our way around the circle; the inside is sliced and sawed into blocks, leaving the hollow to become the home.

That night, we lay caribou hides down, covering the snowy floor, placing a candle in the middle. That wee twinkle illuminates the dome like a snowball packed with fireflies.

Up through the smoke hole the Northern Lights are in full bloom, prancing across the sky like sheets of flinty gauze, their colors muted – just mellow greens and sheer whites – and are followed by a singular shooting star.

Mary loves sleeping in the igloo.

"So cozy, with the skins on the ground and the sleeping bags. And in the morning you wake up and it's so white and pretty and your tea is right in the middle, waiting for you."

Amy Rosen is a Toronto-based freelance writer. Her trip was subsidized by Travel Manitoba.