Nearly 250 kilometres north of the Arctic Circle, the Inuit hamlet of Gjoa Haven is a cluster of candy-coloured houses sprinkled in a sugary, snow-crusted landscape — an unlikely place to grow vegetables.

But a wind- and solar-powered hydroponic greenhouse called Naurvik, or “the growing place” in Inuktitut, is creating new possibilities for food production and renewable energy.

Naurvik is more like a Martian space pod than a conventional greenhouse. Rather than reaching for the sun under wide windows, plants hunker in insulated steel shipping containers under magenta grow-lights.

Inside, the air is thick with tropical humidity as Inuit women carefully water, prune, and harvest.

Vibrant greenery of sorrel and sunflowers jostle like an emerald carpet, while other plants burst from the shelves laden with bell peppers and strawberries.

“It’s like, for me, taking care of babies,” says technician Kitty Kogvik as she works in the aisle.

It is a bucolic scene, but crystalline frost at the doors reveals a quiet war between two extremes.

Outside, a wind battered scavenging arctic fox is a darting puff glowing against the black of the post-sunset afternoon.

The overnight temperature, -40C, is normal in Gjoa Haven’s long, dark winters. It’s so hostile to most vegetation, there’s been little reason for Inuit to garden—neither women working was sure they even could.

But project manager Betty Kogvik, was hooked with her first planting.

“I can’t believe this was just a seed,” she says, recalling how it felt to harvest the healthy romaine. “It was so amazing. Oh my God, it was just amazing. And tasting it, it was so fresh.”

It’s a joy Ms. Kogvik loves to share, relishing reactions when she delivers the hyper local produce to elders, children and families in need.

Her community has partnered with Arctic Research Foundation, Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada, National Research Council Canada and Canadian Space Agency to develop Naurvik, which means “growing place.”

Boasting Canada’s northernmost solar and wind cells, it’s similarly self-sufficient. When daylight gets short, the wind tends to pick up and a diesel generator supplements as a last resort.

“What you want to do is make renewables and solar what’s called the ‘firm power,’ the power you use first. And then when you need more, you use diesel,” says Chris Henderson, CEO of Indigenous Clean Energy, a non-profit that supports Indigenous participation in renewable energy.

Typically, diesel is used first in the remote north, but even without the environmental costs of its carbon emissions, diesel poses problems. Shipping inflates cost, and weather can interfere with barge deliveries. In 2015, the Pangnirtung community had to shelter in the school for warmth after their diesel powered station burned down. Older projects can be loud and spew airborne particulates, and Arctic spills are very hard to clean up.

Changing to renewable energy can be an opportunity for communities to own infrastructure. Rather than paying for energy “the earnings for that project also stick in the community,” says Mr. Henderson.

Naurvik began in 2019 with three containers and has expanded to five, with two more housing a workshop. Now that technicians are fully trained, production is going to ramp up this spring— the elders are asking for more food.

In line with that goal, the CSA has contracted two companies to develop a training program for Naurvik technicians that draws on traditional and Western knowledge and is intended to keep operations and research goals on track.

Inuit, who have been living off the land for 5000 years, still depend heavily on hunting, fishing and gathering, typically sharing “country foods” among friends and family.

But since colonization, change has resulted in endemic food insecurity—more than half of all Nunavut households experience food insecurity according to 2017-2018 Stats Canada data.

A detailed 2007-08 Inuit Health survey reported 70% of Nunavut households are food insecure, compared with less than 10% of all Canadian households.

In the Gjoa Haven Northern Store in February, four litres of milk and a loaf of bread cost $12.49 and $9.29 respectively. Even working full time, Ms. Kogvik and her husband can struggle with their grocery bill—the big-hearted couple often has more than 15 people for meals.

Hunters also face challenges. They may lack gas money, or have to travel farther as change arrives in arctic ecosystems.

It took hunter Johnny Tavalok eight shots with a .22 Magnum rifle—one shot for every year he had then been alive—to kill his first caribou. Mr. Tavalok still grins when he remembers the pride of that moment. “I couldn’t stop smiling. And I kept smiling at anything and everything, no matter how hard I was trying to hide my smile. I kept smiling. Even at the ground.”

That day his family feasted on his harvest and he learned more about being Inuit. But no one knows for sure how caribou, or the culture connected with them, will adapt to a changing world.

Scientists are monitoring climate impacts but caribou are complex. On one hand, warmer temperatures could mean more summer food for the adaptable species; on the other, migration could be more difficult, freezing rain could ice over winter forage and caribou could face more parasites, biting bugs and resource competition.

Mr. Tavalok also inherited a set of hunting clothes, first photographed for a 1980′s story about his dad.

In the yellowed clipping, the elder Tavalok, dressed from his hood to his mukluks in caribou hide, stands under the headline “Everyone loves Tommy”.

Now, the aged caribou fur is thinning and losing warmth, but his late mother’s skillful stitches are still tight—her work still protects him.

Lately a temperamental snowmobile has kept him home, unhappily unable to hunt.

So his food has been from the grocery store, while his brother helps provide country food for their elderly dad.

Down the road from Johnny’s house, the Arctic Research Foundation is hosting a feast as a sign of respect for the community.

Elders and children are the first to arrive but even as the gym starts to fill, it seems there will be too much food.

As they line up, everyone leans in to see the cornucopia—arctic char, whitefish, roast muskox, and muktuk crowd the table next to turkey, ham, potato salad, cole slaw, bannock, bread, pies, and cakes.

In the middle is a pile of just picked Naurvik leaves in sandwich bags.

At first, the greens seem to be second choice to country food and sweets, but before long people are eating them up, undressed and fresh.

Soon, the table is empty and bellies are full of country food, store food and fresh local produce.

While people are happily fed, feasts are so much more than food.

In the dark freeze of winter, the shared meals bring people into the warmth of community where they can care for one another. Sharing burdens and resources brings resilience.

Tonight, sadly, there is a tangible loss. While everyone eats, they are also grieving the unexpected death of a respected elder – together. Elders especially are keepers of language and cultural knowledge, and the loss underlines how important it is to pass these on to younger generations.

The planned dance is postponed, but the next day the people are back. Like the colourful court lines, children criss-cross the blonde hardwood floor, dancing, laughing, chasing.

In the cacophony, Simon Hiqiniq, 71, sits quietly, waiting under the basketball hoops.

First, there are throat singers. Then a large circular drum is set in the centre of the room and singers take their place in plastic chairs.

Their songs are pitched low and repetitive for the drum dancers who weave and bob, rhythmically striking the taut membrane.

Women, men, and children take turns dancing the circle until finally Mr. Hiqiniq picks up the drum.

He is dressed in sealskin kamik, a smart black jacket, trimmed with bold white, and a wavy blue belt. His short hair reveals his hearing aid, and the music reveals his practiced skill with the drum.

The irrepressible children finally settle, resting for a moment on their stomachs and elbows to take it all in.

The moment the drum is put away, they will be back on their feet, dancing along to bouncing, fiddled jig music – another relic of European influence Inuit have made their own.

These external influences coexist with the ancient parts of their living culture, like slurpees with arctic char.

Near midnight, mostly young dancers still bop enthusiastically in the now darkened, still packed gym.

Notes from a different kind of classic – Norman Greenbaum’s 1969 Spirit In The Sky – slip away into the night with families making their way home.

Tomorrow, hunters and gardeners alike have work to do.