On our recent visit, everyone asked the same question: “Bet you see a lot of changes?” Certainly, the population has exploded — from 1,500 to close to 10,000. In Iqaluit, the hills and ridges to the north and east that sheltered the tiny “lower base” community I knew are now lined with high-rise apartments, multi-storey office complexes and hotels. Along the shoreline, family homes are now squeezed into every tiny cove, inlet and rocky shelf, each offering a breathtaking view of sweeping Frobisher Bay and the rolling, treeless hills beyond.

The political changes are equally striking. We are welcomed into the beautiful iglu-shaped legislative assembly by Premier P.J. Akeeagok, who was still a teenager in 1999, and Eva Aariak, a former premier (and also teacher, community leader and businessperson) who is now commissioner of Nunavut — the territorial equivalent of a lieutenant-governor. Their ceremonial mace, a symbol of British parliamentary authority, is an ivory narwhal tusk nearly two metres long, engraved with animal carvings and set with precious stones from all parts of the territory. In fact, every corner, every adornment of that building speaks to the Inuit reality in Nunavut and Canada.

I recall a time when legislative members — always men — were appointed by a federal minister in Ottawa. Now, a fully elected assembly, with six women and 16 men, sit in a chamber where tanned sealskins drape the chairs and tables. In 25 years, these officials have breathed life into the Nunavut vision articulated so long ago by ambitious and committed leaders like Tagak Curley and John Amagoalik. But the heart and soul of their Nunavut vision articulated so long ago is happening just as much outside government as within.

A few blocks away, commitment and obligation to language and cultural preservation is on full display at Pirurvik, a homegrown Inuit learning institute whose centrepiece is a comprehensive Inuit language education program for both students and language teachers.

Leena Evic launched the institute more than 20 years ago. Mary and I have known her for much longer. They sit side by side at the head of a large rectangular table surrounded by a dozen other women, each wearing the traditional amauti, a woman’s parka with the large hood flowing down the back to protect and carry a child. Leena compliments two of the younger women, who have recently sewn their first amauti. These skills are taught in a program called Reclaiming the Whole Woman.

Scattered the length of the table is an array of seal and walrus hides displayed to showcase the stitches used in sewing watertight clothing, a skill as vital to survival in the harsh elements as building an iglu in a blinding blizzard.

Also there is Robert Hanson, a young man who sits behind a small soapstone qulliq (seal-oil lamp). Hanson is taking a series of courses as part of Reclaiming the Whole Man, and his presence acknowledges that, for the Inuk hunter, fine sewing skills and the ability to light and tend the qulliq may be the difference between life and death. But in the home, it was the woman’s responsibility to keep the fire burning.

Leena jokes about the irony and necessity of shortcuts, pointing out that the shallow basin of the qulliq is filled with cooking oil for today’s demonstration. After taking Arctic cotton from its waterproof sealskin pouch and shaping it to form the wick, she smiles as the flick of a Bic lighter produces a candle-sized flame.

Tending the fire takes a steady hard and sharp eye. Speaking softly in Inuktitut, Leena offers advice on mixing and massaging the dried tundra cotton and moss, then coaxing it gently along the rim of the inner bowl to encourage the elements to combine to form a dancing ribbon of flame. She explains that, according to Inuit legends, the straighter and more even the flame, the more the woman is at peace with herself. It’s clear to everybody in this room that Leena is serene.

A few hours later, we meet Robert Hanson again, this time in the basement workshop of the Qajakkut Society, where a group of young men are reviving the art of traditional qayaq (kayak) making. The skeleton of an ancient south Baffin sealskin craft is laid out — the gunnels and ribs have all been hand-shaped, lashed and tied with sinew in a way that makes the qayaq strong and flexible. The skills and knowledge on display have been passed on through generations.

Like Leena with her cooking oil and lighter, Robert shows off the small practical shortcuts he uses in concert with traditional knowledge. Today, he uses a power drill to bore holes in wood (traditionally, the frame might have been whale bone or driftwood) and taps wooden dowels into a carved hardwood triangle that secures the top rails, keel and bow.

Upstairs, the Heritage Trust Board outlines ambitious plans for the Nunavut Inuit Heritage Centre, a cultural and heritage complex that will be part museum, part archives and all cultural showcase. The building is designed to resemble a sweeping snowdrift that will blend into the south-facing hillside. It will take a lot of time and money to complete this project, but work on collecting, researching and documenting the region’s history is in full swing.

Another massive and ambitious on-the-go project is the Place Names Program. Look at a map and consider that Nunavut has more than 100,000 kilometres of coastline — nearly half Canada’s total. Then consider all the bays and inlets along that coastline. Skin qajaqs and qamutiqs have been skimming over these waters, land and ice for thousands of years, and the people of this land have been naming all the places they go. The Nunavut Heritage Trust is working to restore tens and tens of thousands of traditional names on Nunavut’s maps. A geographer’s dream or nightmare?

One frightening change for this territory is brought into sharp focus in a dozen photographs we took outside during our celebratory visits to Iqaluit and Qikiqtarjuaq, a community of 600 off the east coast of Baffin Island.

The visit to Qikiqtarjuaq happened on April 3, 2024. It was a magnificent day to be outside. The sun was bright, warm. Locked in the harbour, a giant iceberg — a great source of 10,000-year-old ice for tea and drinking water — was sitting waiting to melt. The 72-year-old hunter and Canadian Ranger Stevie Aulaqiaq described the situation plainly: “This is June’s weather. We no longer know what is happening and we can no longer depend on our traditional knowledge to travel the ice.” My most clear memories from my early years in the Arctic just a few decades ago in the 1960s is that April temperatures never rose above the minus 20s and 30s.

To me, these photos are worth a thousand troubling words. Many of us are in shirts or sweaters, perhaps a vest. There are no gloves or hats to be seen. In old photos, our frozen breath would have been clouding out the smiling faces. Trained to smile, in these sunny 2024 photos we forget there is little in the soft warm southern breeze to smile about. It’s fair to say there are few places where the effects of climate change are more visible and more unpredictable than the Arctic. Climate change is very much part of the public consciousness and conversation throughout the territory.