EVERY SUMMER in Gimli, Man., hordes of people don chainmail tunics, grab their swords and shields, and launch the Yrsa, a dragonheaded Norse longship, into the waters of Lake Winnipeg. The heat hasn’t driven them mad. It’s just, well … they’re Icelandic.

For the past 120 years, the steadfast descendants of Icelanders who first put down roots in Canada in the 1800s have been gathering on the August long weekend to celebrate their heritage at one of the country’s oldest festivals, the Icelandic Festival of Manitoba. But swords and ships are just one reason thousands of people rally here from as far afield as Alaska and the United Kingdom.

On a hill beside the waterfront, Vikings set up a traditional encampment where they re-enact battles, cook lamb over an open fire and make chainmail bracelets for brave children. “This year they’re planning to train some kids how to battle, too,” says Shelley Narfason, the festival’s executive director. “One of the best things is that pretty much all of the events are free.” And even though Manitoba is home to the largest Icelandic community outside Iceland, anyone can partake.

“Amma” is the Icelandic word for grandma, and at Amma’s kitchen pavilion, the menu features dainties such as ponnukokur — a crêpe filled with brown sugar — and rúllupylsa, locally-made lamb sausage served on hardy brown bread that’s baked onsite. To work off the meal, play a round of Fris-Nok. Created by a local 30 years ago, it’s a Frisbee game in which competitors protect their team’s empty bottle from being knocked off its pole-top perch by the opposing team’s Frisbee.

Afterwards, mingle and cool off on the dock while listening to live bands such as Toronto indie rockers The Sadies. And then it’s brennivin time! Also called “black death,” brennivin is Iceland’s national drink, a schnapps-like liquor that’s sold at Gimli’s Manitoba Liquor Control Commission outlet.

Go to www.icelandicfestival.com for more information.

— Graham Lanktree

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Outfitted in hard hats with miner’s lamps, coveralls and rubber boots, we emerge from the cramped cage into the dank cold of a rock-lined tunnel. The walls are pitted from dynamite blasts, and the beam from my lamp illuminates a danger sign.

“Welcome to the Hollinger Gold Mine,” says our guide, Claude Beaudin, a bearded jolly giant decked out in blue coveralls and eyes that match. “When Benny Hollinger and Alex Gillies went prospecting in 1909, they never imagined that Benny would slip on some moss and uncover the mother lode — a 60-foot-long, 6-foot-wide surface vein.”

A century later, retired miners including Beaudin take visitors into the depths of what was once Canada’s richest gold producer, located in the Northern Ontario city of Timmins. From 1910 to 1968, more than 3,000 miners dug nearly 1,000 kilometres of tunnels and carted out roughly 550,000 kilograms of gold worth $400 million (a fortune when one considers the price of gold when the mine was at its prime).

The tour continues and we descend deeper, stepping over train tracks and ducking low, overhanging rock. Beaudin points to a shaft of daylight. “You see that?” he asks. “Say goodbye to it, because you won’t see light where we’re going.”