The 1000 Hour Day

by Chris Bray

  ‘It might be okay, though,’ Clark shrugged. ‘Let’s leave our PACs here and explore on foot.’ We’ve become so conditioned to PAC hauling—always walking the ‘wheelchair access’ route up the most gradual slopes, and avoiding all ledges and ditches—that it actually took a while to realise we were free. Soon we began deliberately scrambling up ledges, just because we could, and it felt great.

  We came upon another potential landing site a kilometre or so further along, but although flatter and broader (allowing for different wind direction landings?) it’s only about 150 metres long—still long enough by Willie’s standards, though. We took some photos, noted the GPS location and headed back to the PACs. It started to grow dark early tonight—possibly bad weather coming—so we set up our tent back at Airstrip #1, and climbed inside.

  DAY 52: No more hauling!

  I called Willie and explained both runway options to him. ‘I’m sure they’ll be okay … both of them,’ he said reassuringly.

  I repeated what I’d told him about the frozen tussocks. ‘Aren’t they going to be a problem?’ In his warm, kindly way, he dismissed my concerns. ‘What if you fly all the way out here and find out that you can’t land?’ I pushed.

  ‘Oh, that’s not a problem,’ he assured me, ‘I’ll just land somewhere nearby and wait.’

  I wasn’t even sure if I should be taking him seriously. ‘R-right. Okay. So, if you land somewhere nearby you’ll just give us a call?’ I asked. ‘What’s your satellite phone number?’

  Again he brushed these complexities aside. ‘Oh, I don’t have a satellite phone. If we need to communicate, you can, er, write in the snow … and I’ll drop messages out of the plane.’ I was dumbfounded, but I liked his style. ‘Don’t you boys worry,’ he said genuinely. ‘We’ll get you out of there.’

  ‘Do you know what that means?’ Clark said, turning to me, ‘We don’t need to haul any further! This is it! We’re done!’ He was right. Definitely cause for a second breakfast! Afterwards, we gathered the GPS, sat phone, EPIRB, shotgun, chocolate, nut rations, camera, and the tiny little 50-millilitre hotel minibar-size bottle of Grand Marnier liqueur that we had bubble-wrapped and dragged 300 kilometres across the Arctic for this very day, and set off to find a suitably scenic place to sit, indulge and reflect. We found a spot perched on the side of a precipitous slope overlooking what must be one of the most stunning views, if not the most stunning, I have ever had the privilege to see. Below us a silvery frozen lake lay neatly rimmed by snow-clad mountains and the sweeping, curved tail of the esker upon which we stood. Shafts of sunlight swept across the landscape from patches of bright blue sky overhead, and overall the effect was magical. We took a photo, arms draped across each other’s shoulders, holding the tiny bottle aloft, and, sitting on a snow-covered tussock, took turns sipping lidfuls between mouthfuls of chocolate. We have been dreaming of this moment for so long. Everything was perfect, the air was still, and the occasional perfectly star-shaped snowflake drifted down upon us as we proposed toasts and drank to many things. Amusingly, having not had alcohol for months and having burnt off most of our body fat, we managed to get a bit tipsy drinking half each of the contents of this minuscule bottle!

  Back at camp before dinner we both fired our shotguns under the guise of checking that they still worked, but really just to hear the amazing echoes reverberate for almost ten seconds. It’s not everywhere in the world where you can fire a bear-killing bullet in any direction you want! The freedom out here is complete. We prepared for our celebratory dinner, bringing out the packet of dehydrated Thai Satay Beef which we’d identified as our favourite early on, saving the last for today. It tasted so good, and following this, our second and final ‘dark chocolate cheesecake’. ‘I think today ranks as one of the best of the whole expedition,’ Clark murmured comfortably from within his sleeping bag.

  DAY 53: End-point ceremonies

  Minus 8 degrees this morning, and the world is getting increasingly white and barren. It’s amazing how cold it feels, most ski holidays are ‘colder’, but out here, with the wind, and when there’s no warm shower and raging fire to warm you back up at a ski lodge or something at the end of the day—it’s seriously cold. Some friends in Cambridge Bay have also been complaining of the cold, which, considering they’re headed for minus 45 degrees Celsius in a few months, sounded a bit strange until they explained that the beginning of winter up here is actually the worst, because it’s a ‘wet cold’ which feels far colder than the much colder but ‘dry’ climate of mid-winter.

  We decided to leave a small memento of our expedition in the form of a hand-written note wrapped in our Australian Geographic flag, sealed up and wedged inside one of our hollow aluminium bear tripwire poles. We’ll plant it at the summit of our ‘Gateway mountain’ that forms the passage we kayaked through.

  ‘What do I say in it?’ I turned to Clark lying next to me on his sleeping bag.

  ‘I dunno … formal but not too wanky, I guess. “This marks the end of our trip” kinda thing?’

  I dated the top and began:

  Here lies the Australian Geographic Society’s flag, proudly carried with us on the ‘Ocean Frontiers’ 1000 Hour Day Expedition—our two-man, world first, unsupported journey undertaken by Christopher Bray (22) and Clark Carter (21) to cross Victoria Island.

  We started our adventure on 31st July 2005 at 69 deg 51.696 min N, 100 deg 53.668 min W—the most easterly point of Victoria Island, from where we gave ourselves 65 days to get as far as we could towards the most westerly point, while dragging/paddling/hauling some 250 kg of equipment and supplies each in our home-designed and built PACs (Paddleable Amphibious Carts)—essentially a wheeled kayak.

  This point, atop this unnamed mountain, overlooks the spectacular endpoint of our expedition. A very fitting end to an unforgettable journey. We have arranged for a plane to fly in and collect us and our gear, leaving behind only this note and a flag as a monument to this adventure of a lifetime.

  We signed it, slipped it in a cliplock bag with the flag which we also signed, and hiked up the mountain. Even after hacksawing the bear pole into a point and pouring boiling water down it to soften the soil, it proved impossible to drive the pole into the frozen ground, so instead we formed a cairn of piled stones to hold it upright.

  ‘That’s not going to last two seconds when a muskox comes along and tries to run itself against it!’ I laughed, enjoying a steaming mug of hot chocolate on the summit as we surveyed our handiwork.

  DAY 54: Time to get out of here!

  For a change of scene and to get some last-minute pics and video footage of us hauling along, we packed up camp this morning and hauled gradually along the esker, leapfrogging the camera to get numerous ‘haul towards’ and ‘haul away’ shots. The finale came with us hauling from the distance and pausing in front of the camera to announce, ‘Well, this is it—this is as far as our journey takes us—our landing site is just (erm) over there …’ (point off into vacant space behind the cliff that the video camera is sitting on) ‘So we don’t need to haul any further!’ Handshakes, etc. It feels a bit fake mocking up these scenes, but hey, I guess that’s how it has to be done—without a film crew ahead of us, there’s no way to legitimately film such ‘moments’, is there?

  It legitimately was the most westerly point we’ve reached though—some 300 kilometres from the start, and cause for genuine celebration. In the evening after a mug of arctic tea we both fired a pyrotechnic bear-banger, which are a good substitute for fireworks, and managed to suck enough life out of the laptop battery to check emails. Dad reported a huge weather system brewing over in Siberia that is apparently headed our way, and he urged us to get out of here by 23 September—that’s in just two days’ time—as after that we might not be reachable for days.

  DAY 55: Dancing with wolves

  I called our pilot Willie this morning for his thoughts about the incoming gale. ‘Oh, hello Chris! How are you two boys getting on out there? It’s getting pretty cold b
ack here!’ He predicted that there’ll be no gale for at least 24 hours, but without elaborating, said ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow after dinner. Call me in the morning and let me know what the weather’s like.’

  With the end suddenly in sight, we went into overdrive ticking off all our last-minute to-do’s, and hauled back to Airstrip #1. The weather has eased (calm before the storm?) and is absolutely stunning. A perfect day in the Arctic. ‘This is such a fitting end,’ Clark said, speaking my thoughts.

  After setting up camp, I turned to Clark. ‘We always meant to sleep one night on the tundra, without a tent …’

  ‘The weather’s good,’ Clark agreed, ‘and it’s tonight or never!’ We decided to leave the camp set up so we could retreat inside if the storm hit early, but what better way to enjoy our last night in the Arctic than sleeping out in the open? The idea scared us a little, but as Clark pointed out, ‘It’s not like a tent gives us any real protection from bears anyway.’

  ‘We’ll look alarmingly like two big fat seals, though,’ I added, ‘wriggling around in our black sleeping bags on the snow …’

  While pondering this, I suddenly spotted movement on the distant hill behind us. ‘A wolf!’ I pointed, before diving for my camera. I’ve been hoping to see another one—there are so many tracks around here. It was a long way away, and even with the telephoto lens it looked small. As we watched, all of a sudden the rest of the pack just materialised beside the one we’d seen. It was amazing—just like my last wolf encounter—the rest of the pack didn’t ‘walk into view’ they just suddenly started moving and then we saw them, and realised they were there all along, motionless, watching us. The alpha male—the only pure white one in this pack of five—steadily jogged down the hill towards us while the rest hung back. Still in the distance he suddenly dropped out of sight and moments later just appeared, right there, on our slope, not 10 metres from us and our tent! We couldn’t believe it. When I swung my camera towards him, he now more than filled the viewfinder and I fumbled to change lenses and focus in the fading evening light, while at the same time we both edged closer to our tent, grabbing a can of bear spray and a large knife.

  Watching the wolf was just awe-inspiring. This enormous white dog, perhaps 1 metre tall at the shoulder, strode confidently right around our camp. ‘Strode’ is perhaps the wrong word: although he certainly exuded confidence and power, his motion across the snow was more akin to gliding, effortlessly moving with such fluid grace that his back and head—even his shoulder blades—remained perfectly level while his tall legs and broad, snowshoe feet blurred silently beneath. Intent on investigating our camp, he paid not the slightest heed to our calls or noises; drifting right up to our PACs, our bear alarm, places where we’d stood, he sniffed, scratched, looked around fearlessly—less than 5 metres from us.

  When he finally turned his gaze upon me, I could not look away. I was completely transfixed by the intensity of his dark, almond-shaped eyes as he scrutinised me. Staring into them, I could read calm curiosity, but more than anything else, startling intelligence. He was working us out, weighing things up, double-checking things, testing how close he could pass before we withdrew, and suddenly he padded off, perhaps 10 metres back towards the rest of his pack on the opposite hill, cast one look back at us, lifted his muzzle into the air and howled. A long, drawn-out, baleful howl, curling his tail around his flank in the final moments, as if squeezing out the last few seconds of air. Rooted to the spot, I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle as I lowered my camera. Beside me, Clark too was motionless.

  ‘It’s like he’s calling them over,’ I whispered as he howled again. The distant wolves shuffled around but did not advance, as if unconvinced. Finally they returned his howl, and after exchanging what can only be described as a howled conversation, with our wolf’s cries becoming increasingly pleading, he pierced us with one last, lingering stare, and padded silently off to join his pack. Reunited, all five then proceeded to lope away, at last disappearing over the distant skyline.

  ‘That was …’ Lost for words, Clark and I just stood looking at each other, shaking our heads in disbelief. Some 30 minutes later when we’d calmed down, we slotted back into routine, and wandered together the 500 metres to the (now thoroughly frozen) lake, and laboriously chipped through the top 15 centimetres of ice, withdrew the square ‘window’ plug of ice and filled up our water bladders. Laughing and chatting, we began walking back towards camp, when suddenly I saw two of the darker wolves appear again on the distant skyline. I turned to tell Clark, ‘Hey, look there’s … BEHIND YOU!!!’ Wheeling around, Clark locked eyes with the huge white alpha male wolf, less than 4 metres behind him.

  His surprise blown, the wolf simply stood there, waiting to see how we would react. My mind reeled. After the initial nanosecond of paralysing fear released me, my reaction was to stride calmly and confidently over and stand beside Clark. ‘How the f*&k did he get there?’ Clark whispered as we both flicked off the safety pegs on our cans of bear spray—the only thing besides the tomahawk we could use to defend ourselves. ‘What do we do?’

  His eyes still fixed on us, the wolf began circling us, closer, further away and then closer still, at times coming within 3 metres of us. Easily close enough, I sensed, to reach us with a sudden leap forward. Holding my can of bear spray between us, I dared him to make any sudden movements. But he didn’t. He just kept circling.

  Determined to show no fear, we advanced towards him, talking loudly. ‘Hey, Wolf! Get outta here!’ Unfazed, he held his ground, and it became a stand-off—every time we feigned a move left or right, he’d do the same, as if to cut us off. Unwilling to take a step back, we made a sudden lunge forward ourselves, testing him out. He flinched and ran a short distance, but quickly returned, and his behaviour switched. Right in front of us, he stretched out his front legs in a mock crouch, but poked his bottom high in the air, playfully wagging his bushy white tail above him. It was unfathomable. ‘It’s like he wants to play with us?’ Clark whispered incredulously.

  I kicked a clump of snow towards the wolf and he pounced and caught it in mid air, before re-assuming his position, tail wagging in delight. ‘It’s a classic “go on, throw me a ball” kinda pose!’ I said, still not sure how to take it. Incredibly, the three of us then ‘played’ in the snow for perhaps a minute or more, teasing each other, with him bouncing towards and away, tail always wagging, catching clumps of snow.

  But it soon became clear that while we might have been playing with the wolf, he was in fact only toying with us. Every 30 seconds or so he’d suddenly stop, all sense of play gone, and stare intently over in the direction where the rest of his pack should have been. They had vanished, and that worried me. While we could keep track of one wolf as he danced around us, and spray him if we had to, a whole pack would have been another story altogether. We got the feeling he was merely distracting us, waiting, while the rest of the gang were closing in, and he kept checking how this trap was proceeding, before flicking back to ‘play’ mode and bounding around us. ‘Let’s head back,’ I urged, and Clark agreed, sensing the same nightmare unfolding.

  Careful not to show any anxiety, we turned and walked towards camp, turning every three or four steps to confront the wolf and burst into a bit of a ‘play’ session, to which he always responded ‘playfully’, yet the instant we turned away, he’d fall into silent step behind us, sinisterly sneaking closer and closer. In the end, we turned to find him less than 2 metres away—we could have reached out and touched his shaggy white coat—and unwilling to turn our backs anymore we exploded into a very boisterous ‘game’ of mock charging and shouting, which startled him and made him back right off while we edged ever onwards towards the tent.

  Again he drifted closer, then again he froze and turned to the side to watch something we could not see. Waiting. Wondering—it seemed—why his friends weren’t showing up.

  When our tent came into view ahead, and our intentions became clear, he suddenly bounded ahead. ‘Is h
e trying to get between us and our camp?’ Clark wondered aloud as we hurried behind him, looking all around for the rest of the pack. He reached camp well ahead of us, and seized the opportunity to explore it unhampered, sniffing inside the tent and everywhere. Still alone, he didn’t try to prevent us reaching it, and when we did, he kept his distance and after staring intently for a long time at the distant hill, he silently padded off into the ever-darkening twilight without so much as a backward glance.

  ‘Yeah, how about we don’t just sleep under the stars tonight?’ Clark said, grinning. Crawling inside the tent we ate our dinner, and lay there, unable to sleep—minds buzzing from the experience.

  DAY 56: Home time!

  Expecting a pickup this afternoon, we woke early and made our celebratory ‘last breakfast’, consisting of our original full ration of oats, and our final ration of coffee that we’ve been saving especially. It was divine. Mid morning we gave Willie a call and relayed the good news that the weather still looked fine—no sign of the giant storm yet.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Chris, I can’t pick you up today,’ he said. ‘A local hunter’s gone missing overnight—I’m just about to start searching for him in my plane. It could take a while …’

  ‘Oh, that’s fine!’ I reassured him. ‘We’re fine out here, weather’s good and we’ve got food.’