Iqaluit in many ways is still a frontier sort of place, and it sometimes seems like it's on the edge of the world, or at least on the edge of the part people should be living on. It makes me think of the cold in my favorite Robert Service poem, "The Cremation of Sam McGee"
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
Over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
It stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
Till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
To whimper was Sam McGee.