Books like The Right to Be Cold — picked by fans

Terese Marie Mailhot’s raw account of her traumatic childhood and its enduring consequences took my breath away. A nearly lifelong Alaskan, I am acutely aware of the social problems afflicting Indigenous communities; in fact, I’ve done research on the topic.

Yet, I have never read a more honest, painful, and beautifully written testimonial by an Indigenous person about her experience with childhood poverty and neglect, substance abuse in the home, sexual abuse, and resulting poor self-esteem and self-doubt. Mailhot, who was raised on Seabird Island in British Columbia, began writing her memoir as mental health therapy and it became a process of self-discovery.

Her experience highlights the effects of historical trauma on Indigenous individuals and communities, as well as the prevalence of maltreatment of Indigenous women. 

The vivid depictions of the exquisite Arctic landscape, of Inupiaq social life and culture, and of the tender relationship between the cleric author and his Athabascan/Dena’ trail guide Walter Harper thoroughly engrossed me. I found the British-born scholarly author’s tone and voice utterly charming, and his sincere appreciation for the Inupiaq people and their culture deeply moving.

This book shatters stereotypes of ethnocentric missionaries who went to destroy Indigenous languages and cultures and sought to “change Natives into white men.”  It illustrates the variability among missionaries and denominations that introduced Christianity to the peoples of the North. As a historian, I strive to “complicate the narrative” for my students. This book, besides being a fascinating read, brilliantly complicates the narrative of missionary history in Alaska.

I love Jill Fredston’s exhilarating mix of thrill-seeking, adventure, and the heightened experience she attains from being out in nature, together with her appreciation of the Arctic land- and seascape and its peoples. She illustrates the affirmation she draws from pushing herself to her limits in rowing and how escaping from the mundane activities and responsibilities of everyday life clears her head to allow for introspection.

She suggests, as well, that navigating the sometimes harrowing, even treacherous, conditions at sea or on rivers offers lessons for navigating challenging work and life situations. Most of all, I appreciate the encouragement the book offers to step away from our daily routines to enjoy the rejuvenating effects of fresh air and natural settings. 

Sherry Simpson’s adventures in Alaska’s wilds are less “extreme” than Jill Fredston’s, but her writing about her experiences is even more thought-provoking. I love her notion of “wayfinding”–of relying on one’s own navigational and cognitive skills to explore nature or ideas. Equally intriguing is her concept of ground truthing–walking the land or going through a process oneself to really “get it.” She contrasts the understanding that personal exploration cultivates with the information maps provide. No comparison!

These ideas raise the question: how well can we comprehend the experiences and realities of others if we haven’t ground-truthed them? Clearly, having immersed oneself in a foreign culture can foster empathy, but I want to believe that, short of that, with goodwill, one can recognize others’ humanity.

I appreciate the genuine Inuit voice of this story of creation, so I researched the author.

Rumolt is active in the Inuit community and teaches elementary school there, but her education was started by her grandmother’s traditional tales. The book is in spare text in the tradition of the storyteller. The art is primarily black and white with touches of color, all the more welcome as a surprise.

In the end the story is about compromise and friendship and a beautiful introduction to a unit or theme of creation, seasons, or mythology. 

What struck me most was the use of simple language to portray powerful intimacy and connection between human and animal, and by extension, environment. Murphy’s humorous dialogue, together with sparing, often ironic, descriptions, struck deep into my heart. The play starts in 1535 on an ice shelf up north—when an Inuk widow risks her life to save a lost one-eared polar bear cub on an ice floe, and adopts him. In the last scene five hundred years later in the oily waters of the Northwest Passage, the same bear—starving and cruelly injured by eco-tourists on a cruise ship—struggles to keep from drowning. No one on the ship cares. No one weeps for him. But I did. I wept for him and for his world destroyed by apathy. 

Perseverance, and an unwitting courage against all odds; that’s the essence of Farley Mowat’s People of the Deer.

Mowat’s book immortalizes a small band of Inuit as they traverse the barrens of Canada’s eastern Arctic, enduring starvation, punishing winter conditions, and a sociopolitical system bent on eradicating their five-thousand-year-old culture. This book shattered my perception about how I see myself as a Canadian, and injustices inflicted on indigenous peoples.

Written over seventy years ago, People of the Deer is testament to Mowat’s insight into a travesty that continues to this today, and tells me we still have a long way to go. 

This book is a history of American polar expeditions and their relationship with the Inuit who helped them survive the Arctic.

It is vividly written and balances both outsider and insider views of the Arctic, showing how different they can be, in an incredibly authentic way. It’s a sad book that stays with you for a long time.

I have re-read this multiple times and still love the cold menace of this literary thriller set in Copenhagen and Greenland.

Høeg didn’t just bring the icy landscapes to life—he also opened up a whole new world of Inuit culture and life in the Arctic seas. I loved learning all these quirky facts, like the many names the Inuit have for the different types of snow.

I also adore his anti-heroine Smilla, who is a fascinating blend of contradictions: ruthless, analytical, and blunt to the point of rudeness, she is also noble, brilliant, and unexpectedly compassionate. One of my all-time favourite characters.  

I was swept away by Gretel Ehrlich’s profound fascination with Greenland as expressed in this book; I read This Cold Heaven in great gulps over the course of a single weekend.

In its masterful weaving of natural history, Inuit lifeways, and personal experience, the book stands as a powerful, compelling testament to the far north and inspiration to me as a writer.

In addition to expressing a unique, deep love of the landscape, Ehrlich offers her experiences living with a community of Inuit Greenlanders, whose ancient and persevering culture lives and thrives in one of earth’s most stunning, and most overlooked, land- and sea-scapes.