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500 pages, Hardcover
First published February 4, 2017
…Broughton Island. Cape Dyer. Cape Mercy. Brevoort Island. Loks Land. Resolution Island. Cape Kakaviak. Saglek. Cape Kiglapait. Big Bay. Tukialik. Cartwright.Before the advent of GPS, navigation required the accurate measurement of both space and time. You would think that Ed O'Loughlin's ambitious historical novel of polar exploration would succeed with both: it is replete with maps; and it begins with the (true) discovery of a chronometer belonging to one of the one of the most tragic of arctic expeditions, that led by Sir John Franklin in 1845. But the reader requires navigation too. O'Loughlin's journeys take him to both hemispheres and many countries, over a 175-year span, switching with dizzying speed. Alas, though fascinated by the subject, I could hardly keep up. I found myself careening from segment to section without much overall sense of direction. This is a book about navigation whose own navigation largely fails.
Do we believe in these places? she wondered. Was that it? Does it matter so long as we can say their names?
Ivan followed the ancient fur trail north through the Tombstones, along the Porcupine River, then up the Bell 'till he reached Summit Lake—that heart-shaped mirror of the continental divide, which feeds its still waters to two different seas. From there, he followed Two Oceans Creek to the head of the Rat River. And it was there, amid the tumbled rocks and willow thickets of that treacherous stream, that he received the first great shock of his journey.The author does much the same with time. He starts by framing the loss of the Franklin Expedition in 1845 with a contemporary story about a man and a woman who have come separately to the far north of Canada's Northwest Territories, each in pursuit of a quest they do not fully understand. But in between the modern sections, he will visit every intervening decade, bringing in just about every well-known name associated with polar exploration, and equally many no one has ever heard of. He will give equal weight to two Esquimaux presented to Queen Victoria, Scott's death at the Antarctic, a meeting between Amundsen's former mistresses, the early history of telegraphy, two world wars, the last days of Nazi Germany, the Cold War DEW (Distant Early Warning) line, Sputnik, and references to a never-explained clandestine agency known only as Room 38. Hey, throw them all in, the more the merrier, never mind if the reader gets confused!
The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
If you look at the maps of the Arctic, the Antarctic too, you'll see the same people's names repeated over and over again. And most of those people were connected to each other. Maybe stories converge at the poles. Like the lines on the map.
It was the sky above that shocked him. The sea ice, the western mountains, the island where he stood, were shades of black and grey and pastel, like a half-remembered dream. But the abyss above him blazed with life and business. Far above, a band of nacreous cloud caught the last of the year's civil twilight, a gauzy patch of iridescent pinks and mauves. The stars burned so fiercely that it seemed to Oates if he held his breath he would hear them. They shone so hard he wanted to duck.
A globe was round and you couldn't fall off it. But a map was a map, a metaphor, full of judgements and choices and victories and regrets; a map was built on backs and heuristics and mistakes and lies, cracks through which you might, just maybe, somehow slip away.
In a journey shrouded in mystery and intrigue, Sir John Franklin’s 1895 campaign in search of the Northwest Passage ended in tragedy. All 129 men were lost to the ice, and nothing from the expedition was retrieved, including two rare and valuable Greenwich chronometers. When one of the chronometers appears a century and a half later in London, in pristine condition and crudely disguised as a Victorian carriage clock, new questions arise about what really happened on that expedition—and the fates of the men involved.