Ice Cloud Fusion

On the flight from Ottawa to Iqaluit, Leanne bagged the window seat.
"Look, Louise, it's hard to tell the difference between the cloud and the ice now."
I peered out of the window to see clouds drifting down onto a mosaic of ice, clear blue sky above.
Nigel B piped up, "That is a lot of white. It doesn't look like the Pennine Way!" Nigel looked concerned. He admitted he hadn't been skiing before and hates the cold.
The previous night, while my fit room mate Susanna, told stories about her trips to the North Pole and Baffin Island, I felt a knot twist in my stomach. I worked out that the last time I had been skiing was ten years earlier in a rather swish French resort. As we walked out of Iqaluit airport it looked like we had landed in no man's land. This was no French ski resort. All I could make out were what looked like aluminium shacks. I took a deep breath. "I like the taste of the air," I said, trying not to slip on the ice. A sign for a shop caught my eye: Fantasy Parlour. I guess when it's this cold and remote people need to have fantasies.