It was the end of April, and it was supposed to be the end of winter. But once again, I had to refrain from putting my thick winter coat on the very top shelf of my wardrobe. I was already looking for the first barbecue party with friends, but the north was calling me—the Great Canadian North—and how could I say no to going back to the floe edge? So, I packed my winter coat, my diving and filming gear, and headed to a small village in the remote north called Pond Inlet. It was one of the isolated hamlets where the only road was the sea of either water or ice.

Hot steaming rainforests had been replaced with ice palaces and blue green glaciers; kangaroos and cassowaries had been substituted with penguins and seals; and my beloved shorts and singlet had been passed up for down jackets, heavy-duty waterproof overalls and beanie. About the only thing that was consistent was the intensity of the sun, which had proceeded to turn me the color of a diner plate-sized Antarctic isopod—not a good look, I assure you.