by Chris Bray
‘Yeah,’ Clark joined in, ‘and how we’ll be able to be picked up.’
Dad’s email last night raised some important issues. With all the seaplanes on the island leaving in a few weeks, the only option would be chartering a large Twin Otter—if we could find somewhere for it to land—and failing that, a helicopter. Both very expensive and non-guaranteed options. ‘We really need to sit down and work out what we’re going to do,’ I said, reeling in the fishing line.
‘Okay,’ I began, snug back in the tent. ‘We can’t make it to the far side of the island, that’s clear.’ Clark nodded. ‘And really, we’re here for the experience, not the destination.’ Clark nodded again, although more slowly, knowing full well this was really just our own excuse to make us feel better about the former. ‘So …’ I went on, ‘we can either pull out right now, which is just a waste—we could get picked up on the third of September when the last floatplane leaves—or we could stick it out for the full 65 days and just see where we end up.’
We drew up a list of pros and cons for the two latter options to help us decide:
‘Well, it seems pretty clear which one has more pros and less cons,’ I said, grinning.
Clark was already laughing. ‘Seems we suddenly have 30 days of extra food,’ he said. ‘Shall I go and get some?’
‘Definitely!’ I replied, already salivating.
Clark raided the PAC, dumping bag after bag of food into the tent, and clambered in after them, eyes blazing with excitement and anticipation. Grinning like idiots, we melted an entire day’s chocolate ration into a mug of hot chocolate, and dug into handfuls of cashew nuts. We were as happy as kids in a candy store. But then, as Clark lifted a tortilla thick with peanut butter to his mouth, guilt came crashing down around me.
‘Wait … wait a sec,’ I urged, and I could see Clark battling inwardly whether or not to close his mouth around the tortilla before turning to me. At last he put it down.
‘This doesn’t feel right,’ I murmured, ‘after all the time and dedication we’ve put in for a 65-day expedition, all the sponsors’ money and everything, to cut this once-in-a-lifetime experience short—almost in half—basically just to save a few thousand dollars with a cheaper plane pickup and things like that … I think we’ll regret it. Imagine us back at home in a few short weeks, sitting there, knowing we could have been still out here on this adventure.’
Clark’s expression fell, and he nodded. ‘You’re right. That would suck.’
We sat in silent reflection for a time, horrified at what we’d just almost done.
‘So we’ll carry on,’ Clark stated, ‘and just … get as far as we can while still taking the time to experience and film it all.’
‘Yeah,’ I agreed, ‘I think that’s the right thing to do.’
We both sat looking at the pre-made peanut butter tortilla. ‘I guess that’ll have to wait until lunch,’ I said, hating myself as Clark forlornly packed it away.
We filmed building our new paddle this afternoon. It only has a small single blade and has a pretty short handle, but it’s a paddle nonetheless, and we’re quite proud of it.
We snuggled into our sleeping bags, for the first time ever camped in exactly the same place as yesterday, but finally with a guilt-free conscience, and a clear philosophy for the days ahead: to have an adventure.
DAY 17: Don’t run
So long as we hugged the tidal red algae band and didn’t veer into the boggy greenish algae areas, progress along the mudflats was good. Frustratingly though, Clark didn’t seem to have picked up on this, and he’d invariably wander into the green regions and squelch to a halt. ‘Why didn’t you go around it?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Well, I didn’t see it,’ he explained. Fair enough. Moments later he aimed for another.
‘Clark!’ I called, gesturing wildly, ‘go around it!’
He gazed back at me blankly. ‘Around what?’ he said.
‘The green bit!’ I said, drawing up beside him, ‘there …’ I pointed.
He looked from me to the green patch. ‘What green bit?’ he said, now looking concerned for my sanity.
‘There!’ I said, laughing in disbelief, ‘that’s all red—there, and that’s green. Yeah?’
‘Red!?’ he said. ‘That’s RED? It all looks green to me!’
I stared at him. ‘I’m colour blind,’ he said. ‘I am actually red–green colour blind, Chris.’ He wasn’t joking. ‘That is pretty funny,’ he started laughing, ‘I’ve been wondering why you’ve been zigzagging around all morning …’
After a good day’s hauling, at 5 pm we set up tent and I decided to go fishing. Ice-hopping out to deeper water, I started jigging the lure up and down in the crystal-clear water, expecting at any moment a silvery char to flash past and grab it. Glancing along the shoreline, I spotted a bunch of white rocks—or perhaps hunks of ice—scattered across the mudflats some 300 metres back along where we’d just hauled less than an hour earlier. I continued fishing. Scanning around as I idly flicked the rod tip up and down, I fixed my gaze once more on these white objects. I stopped jerking the fishing rod. Were there more of them now? Were they closer? I stared at the motionless forms for some time before shaking my head, laughing at my own paranoia.
However, just as I turned away, out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. Whipping around to stare, I watched transfixed as more and more white objects seemed to appear from nowhere and fan out across the mud. They must be caribou, I thought—they looked about the right size. There was something odd about the way they were walking, though, they weren’t prancing or trotting as deer do, they were more … loping along … like huge dogs! My blood ran cold as I suddenly realised what was happening—I was standing there, with nothing but a fishing rod between me and a pack of six, seven, eight arctic wolves, all pacing closer, and closer!
‘CLARK!’ I shouted. ‘WOLVES!’ Over 100 metres away, there was no movement from the tent, my yell snatched away on the bitterly cold wind streaming over the pack ice. The wolves heard me though, and stopped dead, all eyes on me, their ears as upright as the hairs on the back of my neck.
I’d read up on arctic wolves before we left, and the general consensus was that they shouldn’t pose much of a threat. Apparently, no one has ever reported a fatal wolf attack; however, as one of the wildlife officers in Cambridge Bay had bluntly put it to me, ‘There’s a reason for that—because they’re fatal, aren’t they!’ And considering that wolves can bring down fully grown muskox, and that these ones had just been stalking me, I decided that now wasn’t the time to test out just how amiable this particular pack of highly intelligent, adaptable, opportunistic predators was going to be.
Deciding I’d better get back to camp, I frantically reeled in my fishing line and moved to ice-hop back to shore. The moment I took a step, the whole pack started advancing as one. ‘CLARK!’ I shouted loudly every few paces, staring mesmerised at the multitude of wolves—clearly visible now—steadily closing the gap. ‘CLARK!!’
Finally reaching the shore, there was now nothing but 150 metres of mud separating me from the advancing pack, and panic lurched into my stomach. Various thoughts started flashing through my head. Don’t run from dogs. Keep walking. They can run a lot faster than you can, don’t give them an excuse. I shot a terrified glance over my shoulder—they weren’t running, just swiftly gliding towards me, but gaining fast. I’m actually going to be torn apart. Don’t think that—dogs can sense fear. How could I do this to Clark? ‘CLARK!?’ There was a hint of pleading in my voice now, and it scared me. Another glance back. Shit. They’re going to get to me before I get to the tent. Don’t run. Okay—run. Run!
With one last wild glance over my shoulder, I saw—as I knew I would—the whole pack shift into high gear, their broad paws digging into the soft ground as they accelerated, now bounding after me as I sprinted up the embankment towards camp. ‘CLARK! GET THE GUN!!’
About 50 metres away, the vestibule sliced open and Clark exploded fro
m the tent, shotgun in hand, eyes wide with fright. ‘WOLVES!!’ Vaulting our perimeter tripwire alarm, I saw Clark lower the gun and I looked back. The wolves had stopped, and now stood watching. As I dived for my camera, the lead wolf advanced a little closer, hesitated, and then turned away, with the rest of them following.
‘When I came out they all slackened and stopped,’ Clark said. ‘What … what happened?’ A chorus of spine-chilling howls cut off my reply, and we both watched in awe as the pack—now a few hundred metres away—lifted their muzzles to the sky and cried long, mournful howls. ‘That’s awesome,’ Clark breathed.
‘They keep looking at us,’ I said, trying to hold the binoculars steady in my still-trembling hands. ‘There’s nine of them … all pure white,’ I relayed. And with that, they turned tail and vanished over the skyline.
DAY 18: Bear tracks
It rained last night—a first. We’ve been pretty lucky so far, but then again, Victoria Island is actually classified as a desert. Thankfully it didn’t turn the mudflats too sloppy, and after some repairs, we headed off.
But it wasn’t long before I suddenly stopped dead. The PAC lurched me forward a few more steps, but digging my heels in, I ground to a halt, now standing right on top of the unmistakable tracks of a bear. I spun around, scanning our immediate surroundings and then the horizon more carefully.
‘Polar bear tracks!’ Clark said as he drew level. ‘The tracks lead in from the pack ice.’ They looked very fresh, too; unpitted from this morning’s rain. ‘He must have walked past while we were having breakfast in the tent.’ It was a sobering thought, our campsite easily within sight some 700 metres back. We kept our eyes peeled as we hauled onwards.
‘I hope we get to see one,’ Clark admitted of our biggest fear.
I nodded. ‘Yeah, me too, secretly. It’d be amazing.’
DAY 19: Darkness descends
Weak and battered after an endless day of nightmare terrain hauling, we finally clambered into the tent several hours after we’d normally stop. Clark was poring over the maps from within his sleeping bag, and I’d started writing my diary, when I realised I was squinting. I suddenly put down my pen and looked at Clark. ‘Hey, what’s different?’ I asked, fixing him with a quizzical grin. Blank. ‘Having trouble reading the maps?’ I hinted.
‘Oh, yeah! Hey, it’s dark! Well, dark-ish anyway—wow!’
It seems summer is coming to an end.
DAY 20: Muskox visit
We spent the afternoon hauling towards a distant esker 6 kilometres away, tripping wearily, waiting for knock-off time. During a nut break, a large, particularly shaggy old bull muskox wandered slowly towards us. ‘Wooo, look out,’ I jeered, ‘Grandpa’s coming right for us!’ Sitting there munching our cashews, we wondered at what point he’d spook himself and flee like they always do. But he didn’t stop. He just kept lumbering towards us.
We stopped chewing. We grabbed our respective cameras. ‘We’ve got moments left to live, I think,’ I said, grinning excitedly into the video camera. ‘Shit—he’s getting really close, actually!’ My humour faltered slightly. We watched in silent amazement as he ambled to within about 40 metres, paused and considered us with his bulging cow-like eyes. Great clumps of his soft inner hair (called qiviut) hung untidily from his long shaggy skirt of matted hair, swaying gracefully in the breeze. The Inuit actually collect and make clothing from qiviut—it’s the world’s warmest and most expensive natural fibre, eight times warmer than sheep’s wool and softer than cashmere. After a lengthy five minutes or so, the old muskox seemed satisfied, and unhurriedly turned and shuffled away.
DAY 21: Coastal mudflats
I woke at 7.30 and again at 8. I donned my drysuit and waded out into a nearby lake, casting the fishing lure again and again until I lost contact with my numb legs and had to wobble awkwardly back to shore, empty-handed again. Where are all the fish? We’re so hungry now, all the time.
Toiling from esker tail to esker tail, across the muddy bays criss-crossed with wolf, bear and caribou tracks, we’ve got quite a rhythm going. Each raised esker gives us something to aim for, and as we can’t see past it, it helps compartmentalise the day’s challenges into manageable portions. We’ve also learned not to look over into the next depressing expanse of mud until after we’ve finished enjoying the nut break atop each esker. It’s a silly little system but it helps keep us positive.
Sheltering from the wind, crouched behind my PAC’s wheel, I did our weekly live TV interview with Sky News, which was pretty exciting—it’s actually been a really eventful week, with wolves and bear prints …
We have decided not to tell anyone yet that the far side of the island is no longer our goal. I think people would feel we were giving up early. We’ll announce it later. Besides, we’re still struggling on out here, giving it our best.
We watched the full moon rise over the tundra tonight—it looks strangely squashed and glows surprisingly orange-red. The wind has died and it’s beautifully serene out here.
DAY 22: Rolling, rolling, rolling
We filmed the whole lunch procedure today—tick that off the list—and by 5 pm we had covered an impressive 9.5 kilometres as the crow flies, reaching a perfect campsite atop an esker just as Clark’s iPod battery ran out. Putting it on charge as we lay in our tent, we both melted some leftover chocolate ration into our mugs (the reward for near-inhuman self-control all day), pressed ‘play’ on our respective favourite tracks of tranquil music, closed our eyes and each escaped to our own world of bliss for just a few moments, wrapping our cold hands around our mugs and sipping our sinfully rich hot chocolates. It has become quite the ritual of late—the moment we look forward to all day.
DAY 23: Bear!
The quality of the kilometre-wide mudflats spanning the esker ridges deteriorated today, hauling was arduously slow and, unable to build up any momentum, we found each step a drawn-out effort. Two large muskox stood atop our first esker this morning, glaring at us as we toiled slowly towards them. ‘Are they going to run away or what?’ I panted, as we grunted our PACs up the side of the esker. Trying not to look at them, I couldn’t help marvelling at their horns—huge battering rams clamped tightly over their shaggy heads, sweeping up into sickeningly sharp points at their tips.
Suddenly one lowered his head and started rubbing it against his foreleg. Simultaneously, Clark and I shouted ‘Stop!’—we’d been warned this rubbing was a sign of extreme agitation and often preceded a charge. Our hearts racing, the pebbles under our feet started to grind and pop as the weight of our PACs started to drag us awkwardly backwards down the slope.
‘We can’t stop here,’ I managed through gritted teeth, struggling down on all fours so as not to lose control. ‘Let’s just … aim to pass them … keep going!’
It was a tense moment for all involved. In my mind I ran through my strategy if they charged, starting with fumbling for the quick-release toggles on my harness. Would I be quick enough? After what seemed like an eternity we reached the top beside them, and under their angry stare quickly carried on down into the next mudflat without pausing for a nut break.
‘That was dodgy,’ Clark grinned in spite of himself.
Passing more bear and wolf tracks scribbled across the mud, we eventually made it onto the day’s second esker where, grabbing our handful of nuts, we wandered ahead to inspect the next bay. Clark had just commented, ‘Oh, whoops—we forgot to bring bear spray’ when, looking around, I suddenly caught sight of a large animal silhouetted against the sky on the next esker.
‘BEAR!!!’ I shouted, instinctively, almost before I’d even realised it myself. ‘There! It’s a polar bear!’ Clark thought I was joking, until looking where I pointed, he saw it too.
‘Oh my God—it IS!’ Striding confidently along the esker perhaps 400 metres away, the huge white bear just exuded power and authority, clearly king of his domain. After a few transfixed seconds, I turned and bolted back to our PACs, shouting, ‘You grab the cameras and I’ll get a
gun!’ We filmed the bear plodding along, occasionally pausing to reach his long neck high into the air, drawing in some scent (not ours, as he was thankfully upwind), before he eventually lay down—half curled up like a dog—and apparently went to sleep.
‘I wonder if he’s even seen us?’ I thought aloud. I’ve seen bears at the zoo before; however, when there is no fence between you and a bear, there is an optical illusion called ‘bear-and-me-and-nothing-in-between’ that makes the bear seem at least ten times normal size, and leaves you feeling very small and vulnerable indeed.
It was now almost 5 pm and with the mist already rolling in, we decided it safest to camp rather than slog on through the mud, the only possible route forcing us towards the bear. Even if we made it past him, we’d then be upwind of him and he’d surely smell us. We set up the tripwire alarm with just a little more care than usual, and cautiously cooked dinner well away from camp in case the bear was drawn to the kitchen smells during the night. Sipping a mug of arctic tea, I watched the bear through binoculars. He was lying with his massive head upon his paws, looking directly at us.
Over dinner, Clark broke his unbreakable polycarbonate camping spoon. After we’d stopped laughing, I was able to melt the two bits back together with our trusty lighter and although shorter and reeking of burnt plastic, it seemed to do the trick.
As the bear hadn’t moved for over an hour, we eventually crawled inside the tent as evening fell. I wrote a website update relating our exciting predicament, and after agreeing to wake every two hours to check the bear alarm was still operational and that the string hadn’t snapped, we wedged a can of bear spray in each tent pocket, actually loaded the shotguns before laying them in the vestibule, wriggled deeper inside our sleeping bags and tried to sleep. With the binoculars, I can literally see the polar bear’s distant head while lying in the tent!