by Chris Bray
Heading towards the river that we are to follow inland from here, we came across a small, steep esker. A flock of ptarmigans suddenly alighted upon the tundra in front of us. Clark had already seen them and stopped, while I quietly unshackled, loaded my shotgun and snuck up on them, closer and closer, my heart pounding. The instant they took flight I fired. BANG! Two of them lay dead on the ground. I picked them up, waiting for the guilt to flow, but as I looked back to see how Clark was taking it, I saw him already hurrying over with a Leatherman.
‘Three-course dinner tonight!’ he said, beaming. ‘Pasta, then rice, then ptarmigan burritos!’ Placing each bird on its back, I pulled a pinch of skin, slit an opening and neatly peeled the whole skin away, feathers and all, revealing two smooth, unbloodied breast fillets beneath.
Our three-course dinner was literally to die for (poor little birds), and our bodies were craving it. By the time we’d finished our mug of arctic tea for dessert it was midnight, and I climbed outside in the pitch dark to hang a leak before bed. We’re now experiencing over nine hours of darkness each night, and the daylight is shortening by about eight minutes each day.
While staring absent-mindedly up at the stars, something caught my attention. Patches of the sky were glowing green. The harder I looked, the brighter they became. Shimmering green curtains of light were waving slowly across the night sky. I dived back inside the tent, shouted, ‘The aurora!’ and re-emerged with my camera and tripod.
It was beautiful to watch, but excruciatingly cold outside, and soon Clark retreated to the warmth of his sleeping bag, while I tried not to freeze to death in pursuit of a photo. It required a three-minute exposure, and unable to do this without a remote, I had to switch to ‘bulb’ mode and somehow hold the camera’s shutter button down for three minutes without holding and wobbling the camera. Feeling in my pocket, I found a shotgun bullet and, using a rubber band, wedged it in to depress the shutter button—it worked like a charm! After each exposure the cold had sucked all the life out of the camera battery, and I had to take it out and, although freezing myself, warm it up under my armpits before trying again.
DAY 38: Heading inland
It’s funny how rare and important big rocks are out here—providing something tangible for us to aim for, and shelter behind. It seems animals out here are also drawn inexorably towards them; most have wisps of muskox hair rubbed off on them, feathers on top of them and plenty of fox, wolf and lemming scat all around. ‘It’s like they just want something to go to the toilet behind, hey!’ Clark grinned. We have noticed this amusing phenomenon ourselves too. When the need strikes, we grab the toilet paper in one hand, shotgun in the other, and start walking until we find something—anything—to crouch beside, even if it’s just a shoebox-sized rock that provides neither shelter nor privacy. Interestingly, the cumulative effect of so much attention is particularly nutrient-rich soil around such boulders; consequently they are always bursting with plant life, even flowers. Little oases in the desert.
We eventually reached the elusive river and after lunch we converted the PACs to kayak mode and dragged them in. We’ve been worried it’d only be a shallow creek, but it is a decent river, 6–10 metres wide, shallow with rapids in parts, but mostly deep enough to paddle.
We spent all afternoon trying to work out how best to progress up river. Paddling against the current got us nowhere, and hauling, wading in drysuits was slow and became impossible in deeper sections. We tried tying a long rope to the bow and walking along the riverbank well ahead of our PACs, but they invariably became snagged on the shore. Pondering this conundrum over a nut break, we both suddenly had the same brainwave.
‘Let’s tow them up the middle of the river, with—’ Clark began.
‘—one of us on each bank!’ I finished. Shoving my remaining walnuts into my mouth I rigged up the rope and we gave it a try.
It worked a treat! One PAC tied in tow behind the other, we just walked along opposite banks, each holding a rope, guiding the PACs through the deepest channels in the river. There was the occasional shallow bit or rapids that we had to walk back and manhandle them past, but for the most part, it was little harder than wandering around during a nut break. I even fashioned a comfortable handle for the end of my rope from a caribou antler we passed!
We didn’t get all that far today, but now that we’ve finally worked out the ultimate way to travel upstream, we’re hopeful for good progress tomorrow.
DAY 39: Hauling up rapids
Although increasingly windy, the first few hours of river travel went well today, and we even ran well ahead and set up the video camera to film us lining the PACs up the river. As we pulled closer and closer, however, trying not to look in the direction of the camera and ruin the shot, I couldn’t help noticing that I couldn’t see the camera and tripod at all. Across the other side of the river, I could see Clark straining to see over to my side where we’d left it, right on a bend in the river. It wasn’t there. Staring now, I could see one thin stick poking up at an angle. It was the leg of a collapsed tripod.
‘Oh, shit!’ I shouted, unshackling and running over, sick to the stomach, while Clark flailed across the river behind me. With my video camera already electrocuted, and this one having just fallen from about shoulder height, our documentary hopes would be ruined.
Lifting up the battered camera that had detached from the tripod and tumbled across the tundra—thankfully not quite reaching the water’s edge—I saw its little red ‘recording’ light still glowing. Unbelievably, it had survived. After scraping out all the mud and grit from its hinges and buttons, we excitedly reviewed the footage. A particularly violent gust of wind had simply blown the whole thing over. ‘We’re so lucky …’ Clark breathed, shaking his head in disbelief.
By lunch we were having to painfully lift-pull, lift-pull the PACs an inch at a time over more and more rapids. Pushed to our limit, again and again we almost decided to convert to wheel mode and haul along the horribly bumpy, soggy riverbanks instead, but always just ahead the river seemed tantalisingly deeper, at least until it had lured us around the next corner, where we’d be faced with just one more rapid, then coaxed around the next bend by seemingly deeper water. It was exhaustingly slow, and at each rapid the slippery rocks twisted our ankles and bruised the soles of our feet.
Having just heaved our way up a particularly bad rapid, my patience was wearing thin. ‘Oh, for f&%k’s sake! There’s another one!’ I cursed harshly and Clark too spat the dummy. ‘That’s it– we’re hauling.’ It actually took some time to lift our PACs up out of the now rather steep-sided river, and by the time we’d converted to hauling mode it was 6 pm and we didn’t have an ounce of strength left in us. We decided to call it a day.
DAY 40: Getting hungrier
Miserable weather, overcast, windy and rainy as we hauled beside the river over tedious, shockingly lumpy, tussock-studded terrain. One consolation we did notice was that hauling is starting to get a little easier—probably a combination of the PACs getting lighter and us growing stronger. While it’s still impossible to build any kind of momentum on this ground, meaning that achieving any progress is a constant grind, we are at least able now to doggedly absorb each brutal lurch from the PAC and just force our way steadily onwards.
We made it to a large lake we’d been aiming towards for days and, climbing a small rise beside it during a nut break, gazed out over the view below. ‘I wonder if anyone’s ever climbed this before?’ Clark mused. It is certainly possible we are the first. We haven’t seen any sign of Inuit tent rings for over a week, indicating we’ve crossed out of their usual haunts, which followed the caribou migrations and other sources of food. ‘Imagine if we’re the first people ever to look down over this view …’ It was an exciting and humbling thought.
I trolled my fishing line behind me for the first 4 kilometres as we paddled across the lake, but apart from catching the line on the bottom a few times, I got nothing. Having almost had an argument earlier today when Clar
k lost sight of a ptarmigan while I dug out the gun, we have noticed that food—or the lack of it—is starting to test us as much as the terrain.
DAY 41: Getting colder, too
With a series of long lakes to cross before things start to freeze over again, we pushed hard today, paddling several more. During a break I called the pilot who was originally going to try and find somewhere to land and pick us up from the far side of the island. I chatted to him about the possibility of getting a plane from Cambridge Bay to land on a long esker we’re hoping to reach in a week or two, and pick us up from there.
‘That’s a possibility, yes.’ I could picture him chewing it over. ‘There’s not much else around, but the plane would need tundra tyres even to land on that esker, and I don’t think they have any planes equipped with tundra tyres. Not in Cambridge Bay.’ This was unfortunate news. ‘I’ll ask around for you, Chris, but you might have to charter a plane all the way from Resolute instead. But that might be expensive,’ he added.
It’s now a record low of minus 3.5 degrees outside, and we’re camped snugly beside yet another lake as I warm my hands around a mug of hot chocolate. Whenever it’s cold now, my fingertips still burn painfully where they got frost-nipped before. I really hope they return to normal one day. Rehydrated ‘Chicken Gumbo’ tonight—whatever that is—smells good though!
DAY 42: Sub-zero paddling
The temperature stayed below zero all morning and many of the puddles we hauled past were frozen over, and even the mud pits felt firm underfoot. Just when we’d started to get our heads around the various types of terrain out here, it’s all changing! As Clark hauled past what he took for a shallow frozen puddle, one of the wheels on his PAC broke through, sinking in so deep it took both of us to heave it out. Snow lurks in most of the crevices and shadows now and our condensed breaths have even started to freeze onto our moustaches and beards, forming little beads of ice.
We ate lunch overlooking the first of three major lakes between us and the distant start of the esker, still a week or more away, and which we have to reach for a plane to pick us up. Hauling down to the shore, I made to start unloading some weight ready to convert to kayak mode. ‘Wait,’ Clark interjected, ‘let’s see if I can lift it without unloading—it’s got to be getting lighter by now.’ It certainly was, and without having to unload and re-load, the entire conversion took only a couple of minutes, including donning our drysuits.
We paddled across the lake, and opted to stay in our drysuits to haul the 750 metres across to the start of the next lake, which involved a hot sweaty uphill climb, and then a fairly worrying descent, with our PACs forever trying to push us forwards, faster and faster.
‘Whatever you do,’ I shouted ahead to Clark, who was leaning backwards in his harness trying to brace himself so as not to be steamrollered from behind, ‘just don’t let it make you run!’ He shot me back a wry grin, and I knew he was imagining the same disaster I was.
Miraculously, we made it down to the next lake without any broken legs or arms, converted once again to kayak mode and pushed off. As the temperature fell, I saw splashes of water on the deck of my PAC freeze before my eyes. By the time we pulled out on the far bank some 3.5 kilometres later, mini-icicles had started to form.
We lowered the wheels down for another short haul before slipping into the third and final lake for today, this one 2 kilometres wide. My watch alarm reminded me to call Sky News for another live TV interview partway across, and so I dug out our Iridium satellite phone and chatted away as the now quite gentle breeze spun me slowly around, and a handful of ducks circled overhead quacking excitedly about this curious intruder. Incredibly, Sky News still haven’t asked the obvious: ‘So, looks like you’re not going to make it to the far side then?’ Brilliant. When I at last hung up, my paddle had frozen to the kayak.
DAY 43: Frozen shoelaces
I woke to the sounds of frosty sheets of snow sliding down the side of the tent over my head, melded with the tinkling fall of fresh snow. Today was the coldest hauling yet, and passing a herd of caribou, I noticed their old brown summer coat now hanging in ribbons from a fresh grey-white coat ready to blend in with the snow of winter. Overhead, huge Vs of migrating geese now constantly honk their way southward, while we still trudge steadily north-west. ‘Maybe this time it’s not just a cold snap …’ Clark commented, reading my mind. All the animals here either seem to be leaving, or battening down their hatches ready to face the Arctic winter. All except the lemmings, that is; they seem content to remain conspicuously brown year-round, and we both almost keep treading on them daily as they dart from their holes.
Exhausted at the end of the day, and now within striking distance of the esker, we found that our shoelaces were so frozen that we literally had to get out our Leatherman to work them free. ‘Yep,’ Clark said, grinning, ‘you know it’s winter when you need a pair of pliers to get your shoelaces undone!’
DAY 44: Frozen in
By 8 am it was blowing a screaming gale, snow building up in a long tail behind our tent. ‘Bad weather day off?’ Clark enquired hopefully.
‘For now, anyway!’ I replied, glad he didn’t want to head outside just yet either.
‘Bags not going out and collecting some water for breakfast!’ Clark added, a smug smile on his face as he wriggled comfortably in his sleeping bag.
Outside was surprisingly cold at minus 7.2 degrees—the coldest yet—and minus 31 degrees if we include windchill effects. Despite all my layers, it took my breath away, and burned my nose and throat. The large lake beside our tent—which only yesterday had been lapping water—had now almost completely frozen over.
Staggering over to the edge with a tomahawk, I took a swing at the surface. With a loud chink a split appeared, and after a series of strikes, I managed to wedge out a hunk almost 5 centimetres thick, only to find that the lake had frozen solid all the way to the bottom here in the shallows. I gingerly took a step out onto the ice, and shuffled my way out a few steps towards where I hoped it would be deep enough to find liquid water underneath. The wind, roaring past me, increased, and I suddenly found myself sliding—being blown—out across the ice towards the centre of the lake, where in the distance I could see open water, and a particularly chilling death.
I crouched down but on the frictionless smooth ice I was still accelerating! Using the tomahawk as an ice axe, I slammed it hard into the crust of ice to anchor myself. Fragments of ice flew into the air and screamed past me like shrapnel in the wind.
Using the tomahawk in this way, I eventually managed to crawl my way back to shore, and found a place where I could chip through the ice, revealing about 3 centimetres of silty water beneath. I hastily scooped up a few cups, one thimbleful at a time, before hurrying back to the tent and diving inside, a shivering wreck, my fingertips feeling like they were being crushed in a vice.
We passed the intervals between meals playing games of boxes and writing to-do lists while the wind continued to howl, explosively shaking the tent. When even hangman failed to keep me entertained, I ventured outside for a brief ptarmigan hunt, but returned soon after, frozen to the core, without anything to show for it. After a mug of arctic tea, we finally ran out of food for the day, and thus reasons to stay awake.
DAY 45: What if it doesn’t get any better?
Looks like another day stuck in the tent—it’s just far too cold outside in this wind. How long can it last? I had to smash through about 8 centimetres of ice to get some water today! In the afternoon we grew restless and decided to go for a walk to find some ptarmigan. We ended up staggering about 3 kilometres around the lake, and found nothing. The whole world seems to be devoid of life now.
Between food breaks I backed up some photos, culled some others. Clark set up the video camera on a tripod outside and we did a video diary, until a particularly savage gust of wind blew the whole thing over just as I was trying to relate how crazy the wind is out here. Miraculously, the video camera survived, again.
Af
ter dinner we lay in our sleeping bags trying to go to sleep as the wind raged against the tent. ‘I’m worried that this isn’t just a passing storm,’ I said, voicing both our thoughts. ‘We’ve spent two days waiting for it to get better, and it’s just … not.’
Clark nodded, ‘If anything, it’s getting gradually worse. Maybe this is just the way it is from here on in.’
It was a disturbing thought. ‘If it is,’ I said glumly, ‘we’d better try and make it to that esker fast, while we can. We can’t get a plane to land anywhere around here!’ We’ve solemnly agreed to head on tomorrow, storm or no storm, else things could start to turn a little desperate.
DAY 46: Facing the storm
Nineteen days left till our 65 are up! We’ve decided that our pickup date is now close enough that we can start writing our food craving lists without it just being a cruel torment. However, with more pressing matters at hand, we rugged up and faced the storm outside, our sights set on reaching the first part of the esker, only 6 kilometres away. ‘So let’s hope we get there,’ Clark confided to the video camera.
The wind had eased a little, reducing the windchill to around minus 20 degrees Celsius. At last, all packed and ready to go, I walked up to where I’d casually jabbed my hiking poles into the ground three days ago, and tried to pull them out. They were stuck fast, frozen solid into the now concrete-like ground. I literally had to cut them out of the ground with the tomahawk. The PACs themselves had also frozen to the ground and it took both of us to break the wheels free.
‘All right, let’s do this!’ I shouted, throwing myself forwards into my harness, and beginning the slow march across the increasingly frozen, barren white landscape as wind and snow tore around us.