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November/December 1997 issue	In this issue Table of Contents Editor's Notebook Feature: Mussel bound Feature: Global warming Write to Know À la carte Our Home and Native Tongue

It seems a small miracle, an arctic paradox, that beneath the icy austerity of northern winter, there should lie a hidden feast. They are called uviluk in Inuktitut, and if they are savoured in summer, in winter, fresh mussels constitute a rare and incomparable treat. Even the temperature in the caverns below the heavy cap of sea ice is balmy: four or five degrees compared to the brutal -35 degrees C outside. "When we miss the summer — because here we have nine or 10 months of winter — we go under the ice and we are happy," says Lukasi Naapaluk. "It's like Florida there. You can take your coat off."

The people of Kangiqsujuaq (kan-ger-soo-lu-ju-ak) on Quebec's Ungava Peninsula cannot say how long their forefathers have picked mussels beneath the frozen surface of Wakeham Bay. "Since before I was born, since before my father was born," says Naapaluk. According to the mayor, Ulaayu Arngak, aside from Kangiqsujuaq and one neighbouring community, no other villages go mussel picking in winter. "Their tide is not high enough," she explains.

As Naapaluk describes it, the ideal time for picking mussels beneath the frozen sea ice is in a winter that does not feature a lot of blowing snow, "good winters," as Naapaluk calls them. There is a window of no more than a couple of hours, day or night, when the tide has receded, and the best time to go is when the moon is either full or brand new. That is when the tide stays out the longest. Then the villagers head out onto the bay where the movement of the tides has pushed and pulled at the massive sheet of ice. The rocky bay bottom can be seen through some of the resulting fissures, and once a hole has been chiselled through the snow and ice, the mussel pickers can climb through and get to work. Often, says photographer Patrice Halley, they have no more than a single lantern or flashlight among them.

Naapaluk admits that the trip below the ice can be dangerous. There are stories from the distant past about two women who were not careful and drowned when mussel picking. Keeping quiet is another rule. "You're not supposed to talk loud under the ice," says Naapaluk. "If you shout, it makes an echo and makes the ice fall down."

Experience and intuition, however, seem more useful than watches or timers for warning of the tide's return. "As soon as we know," says Naapaluk, "everyone has to get out. Doesn't matter if they got enough mussels or not. If the ice moves, it could be blocked up top of us. It's really important to get out in time."

In spite of the danger — not to mention the increasing availability of food from the south — the fresh mussels are a compelling attraction. "The mussels are nice and fat at that time," says Arngak. "It's really practical and very interesting to see, to go under the ice."

Patrice Halley is a photographer based in Montreal. Augusta Dwyer, author of Into the Amazon, lives in Toronto.

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