The 1000 Hour Day

by Chris Bray

  Eventually everything was all sorted, and our fully loaded PACs weighed in at 249 kilograms each, almost a whole kilogram lighter than our last attempt. However, this time we were carrying enough supplies for 100 days—almost twice the duration of our 2005 attempt—and after successfully test-wheeling our loaded PACs on the snow-covered tundra nearby, we started feeling increasingly confident that this time, we were ready. All we needed was a plane to take us out there.

  In between learning how to kite-ski with our old friend Brent, driving snow mobiles and eating wonderful caribou dinners, whenever I spotted a Twin Otter plane land at the airport, I’d hurry over and ask the pilots as they refuelled if they could do a side charter and drop us off, but again and again I was knocked back. They had either already flown their maximum allowed hours that day, or were in a hurry to head back to the mainland for their next job. As the days drifted on, patches of the snow cover around town started to melt away. In the days before we left Australia, the temperature in Cambridge Bay had been around minus 25 degrees Celsius, but since then it had rocketed up. ‘Yeah, when the temperature rises, it rises fast …’ Wilf nodded. No one else seemed very surprised at the early thaw, but with midday temperatures already sneaking above zero and the midnight sun no longer setting, I was getting worried. We had expected several weeks of nice solid ice and snow to haul over before our world turned to a giant slushy mess.

  It was starting to become a bit of a joke, and recognising us, the various pilots would just shake their head or give us the thumbs down signal before we’d even legged it halfway across the airport to ask for a charter. But on 29 May, having been in Cambridge Bay for nine days, we got some news from René. ‘One of the pilots was just in here looking for you,’ he said excitedly, ‘they’re doing a quick run back to the mainland, but after that they said they have just enough time to get back here and drop you guys out there. Better get your stuff together!’

  DAY 1 (30 May 2008): Finding the flag

  As we flew the 200-odd kilometres north of Cambridge Bay towards our 2005 end point, to our relief, the world beneath us turned from patches of melting snow into a smothering of pure white. Crammed in amongst the rest of our gear in the back of the Twin Otter, we both peered excitedly out the window, watching the plane’s shadow flit across the silent blanket of snow. The pilot veered towards a group of dark objects—a herd of muskox—which predictably whirled into their defensive circle formation as we droned overhead, and we even spotted an arctic wolf gliding swiftly across the barren white landscape. We couldn’t wait to get out there.

  Our pilot was unsure whether to land on the esker or the frozen lake, but after multiple passes, he opted for a section of the lake where he figured the snow didn’t look too deep, and with a ‘Let’s give it a go’, swung in for a very committed approach. Clark and I braced hard as the plane’s wheels began slamming into the crests of snow. Throwing the pitch of the props into reverse, the pilot, co-pilot and both of us stared transfixed at the large embankment wall surrounding the lake as it rushed towards us. We came to a heart-pounding stop right in front of it, and all leapt out onto the windswept, snap-frozen lake. ‘It’s a bit colder out here, boys!’ the pilot said, and grinning we nodded—with everything still well frozen, it looked perfect for hauling.

  We unloaded all the gear, and before we knew it, in a swirl of snowy prop-wash, the plane had galloped along the frozen lake and veered upwards—just clearing the embankment at the far end—and quickly vanished into the distance.

  Surrounded by what we hope is everything we’ll need to get from here to the other side of the island within the next 100 days, we set to work assembling our PACs, powering up our website tracking system, and eventually turned on our own GPS. ‘So, back where we were three years ago!’ Clark announced. ‘Almost, anyway.’ He frowned. ‘Dammit. It says the start—where we left the flag—is about 4 kilometres back that way!’

  ‘Let’s do it!’ We both shouted, brimful of boyish excitement. ‘I can’t believe this is finally happening!’ Shackling up and tentatively leaning into my fully laden harness for the first time on snow, to my euphoric delight, my PAC rolled obediently forward! It actually gained momentum and I could almost walk normally with it. Clark too had coaxed his PAC into a decent stroll. ‘That’s amazing!’ he laughed, absolutely beaming.

  Less than a minute later, however, we hit our first incline. As we tried to climb out of the lake basin, our smiles and laughter gave way to contorted grimaces and panting gasps so deep that the metallic taste of blood soon permeated my lungs. Starting to feel a little dizzy and nauseous, I felt my body was screaming out for me to pause. I started to slow and nervously shot a worried look over at Clark. Catching each other’s desperate glances, we simultaneously summoned the testosterone to continue forcing ourselves onwards and upwards, determined to avoid the psychological blow of not even making it up our first hill.

  We made it to the ridge. Just. ‘They … work!’ I puffed.

  ‘You know what?’ Clark managed, ‘I think we … might just get to the … far side this time!’ Ironically, we both knew the other was only pretending to be so upbeat—but already well-versed in the powers of positive thinking, we allowed ourselves to be buoyed by each other’s false optimism.

  After about an hour’s sweating and groaning we passed the furthest point we’d hauled to in 2005 and unceremoniously ditched our carts there while we went in search of the flag unencumbered. Wearily clambering through the snow, our legs really started to ache—totally unaccustomed to the motion of staggering through snow crusts that always give way at the most awkward moment for each step. The temperature dropped to minus 4.3 degrees Celsius as we floundered up the side of our unnamed hill, and there—to our great joy—we spied the aluminium bear alarm pole that we’d sealed the Australian Geographic flag inside.

  The stone cairn we’d built to hold it proudly upright had long since collapsed, presumably from the action of wind and snow, but there it was, lying in a sorry state of decay, our bright-red duct tape now faded to a flaky white gauze-like wrapping. ‘It’s amazing to think that we were the last people here, all those years ago,’ I murmured, cutting through the tape with our Leatherman and pulling out the plastic bag containing the flag and our little handwritten note. It’s hard to describe what it was like holding it again: when we left it, we had no intention of ever coming back for it, or ever being in this amazing place again—yet here we were.

  I set up the camera, and, posing for a shot ceremoniously holding the flag, we then watched in horror as the tripod keeled over in a sudden gust of wind, smashing my brand new $7000 Canon EOS 1D Mark III digital SLR into the nearest rock. Amazingly, it survived. After anxiously posing for a second shot, we carefully tucked the flag away and traipsed back to our PACs.

  It was already late in the day when we returned. We smoothly latched the two PACs together, set up our tents neatly on top and zipped them together with our custom-made linking fabric tunnel forming a sheltered foyer between the two, where Clark prepared a hearty dinner.

  Everything is unfolding flawlessly—we really couldn’t be happier. Our only concern is that there seems to be a lot of mud around here, not all of which is totally frozen, and so with temperatures now rising overall, we’ve decided to travel at ‘night’ from now on, when the sun swoops through the lowest and coldest part of its perpetual 24-hour orbit around us, to help ensure the snow and mud have the strongest possible frozen crust on top. It won’t last forever, though. Each ‘midnight’ the sun passes higher and higher above the horizon, and soon even these coldest hours will eventually rise above freezing, and when it does, there’ll be no stopping the terrain around us thawing into a sloppy nightmare! The race is on to get to some firmer ground before it all melts around us.

  DAY 2: First day of hauling

  After deliberately sleeping through most of the day, we woke at eight in the evening ready for our first day (‘night’) of full-on hauling. As I was wedging my feet into my frozen S
carpa boots, I happened to glance over to meet the unblinking stare of a pure white arctic wolf about 75 metres away, just looking at us. By the time I’d swapped to my epic 400-millimetre lens and Clark had emerged with the video camera, it had vanished as silently as it had arrived. We tentatively walked over to where it had been and spotted it loping gracefully across the snow, pausing every twenty or so paces to turn back and stare in evident wonder.

  We hauled for nine hours today, and it was a hard, hard slog. Both of us grew incredibly weary in the sessions between our breaks, and as I admitted into the video camera that I held shakily in front of me: ‘All I want to do is fall to my knees, vomit into the snow, close my eyes and go to sleep.’ We did actually collapse many times, but usually only because the snow crust gave way unexpectedly, and when we did, it took some time to muster the willpower to stand and continue. The physical exertion certainly rivals 2005 levels and we’re often near horizontal in our harnesses, slowly forcing the muscles in each leg to straighten and piston us forward, but unlike in 2005, we have actually made progress. We simply turned our iPods up a little louder, and kept telling each other that being the first day of hauling, our PACs would get lighter, we would get fitter, and also better at picking the most efficient route forward.

  As we hauled, the temperature hovered around minus 5.2 degrees Celsius (minus 18 with windchill) which kept much of the ground solid, except for the odd soft region of snow into which we sank. Encouragingly, though, while we ourselves then flailed pathetically around in knee-deep snow, behind us the enormous wheels of our PACs—though loaded with 249 kilograms—barely sank enough to leave an imprint. They are fantastic.

  Several of the steeper inclines today required us both hauling and pushing together to grunt each PAC up separately, which—although annoying—worked well. This part of Victoria Island is surprisingly hilly, which makes route selection critical. All too often today we had to down carts and walk ahead to suss out the best way forward,which wasted a lot of time and energy, but I’m sure we’ll get better at reading the terrain. It’s all just so foreign to us at the moment and we’re learning by trial and (a lot of) error.

  Just as we promised ourselves we would, we made sure that despite the pressure to haul, during each nut break we spared the time to walk over and explore the nearest interesting feature. After all, as we realised in 2005, that’s what a trip like this is about in the end. We feel far more comfortable with ourselves this time around.

  Eventually when we could haul no further, we decided to call it a day. Again we effortlessly linked the PACs together and (very smugly) set up the tent within about five minutes and climbed inside. It’s fantastic how well our systems are working! During the day we leave our Thermarest mattresses and sleeping bags inside the tent with the arching tent-poles still set up but all just folded flat and loosely strapped down underneath the solar panels. To set up camp, all we need to do is stretch out the little hooks we’ve sewn into the four corners of the tent and clip them into four pre-drilled holes in the PAC frame, and bingo—the tent stands up like a pop-up book, welcoming us inside!

  Compared to the soul-destroying 1.3 kilometres we managed on Day 1 three years ago, we are absolutely stoked that today we’ve stumbled a grand total of 7.1 kilometres ‘as the crow flies’ and just over 8.5 kilometres ‘as the PAC rolls’ (measured by a fancy bike computer fitted to our PACs). Considering that if we divide the 700-kilometre distance ahead by our 100 days of food, we really only need to cover 7 kilometres each day, we’ve already—on Day 1—exceeded our quota!

  It is quite surprising how quickly we’ve both just slipped back into expedition mindset. Sure, it’s still impossibly hard work out here, but unlike the start of the 2005 trip, we don’t feel so desperately out of our depth—in fact, I almost feel like I’m back in my element, free again in my world, and I’m absolutely loving it! It’s the same joy I discovered way back on my first hike—I love how usually insignificant things, like sipping cold water or lying down to straighten my back, all feel so good out here that they make me smile.

  DAY 3 (1 June 2008): Tough, but good going

  A record of 9.25 kilometres today! Disconcertingly, though, the melting snow crust seems increasingly unwilling to support us, and every step or two we’re now breaking through, which saps a lot of energy. The complete inability to judge depth, scale, size and distance out here in a world with no reference points continues to amaze us, as it did last time. Some eskers look like they go on for miles, yet take three steps and suddenly a huge void appears, requiring us to descend into a snow-filled valley and tediously struggle back up the other side, one PAC at a time.

  We both have painful bruises on our hips from leaning so forcefully into our harnesses, but despite the hardships, it’s a breathtakingly beautiful place. The perpetually low-angle sunlight casts the pastel pinks and purples of sunrise across the snow out here for hours. Every nut break reveals new discoveries: giant wolf prints to marvel at, a plethora of lemming jawbones to count, and the neverending question—‘Is that white thing on the skyline moving or not?’ With so many elements to take in wherever we look, it feels like we’ve reached a state of heightened awareness and—as I always do on such expeditions—I’m already feeling so much more alive.

  DAY 4: Our old friend Death Terrain!

  Waking just as the local ‘day’ was drawing to a close, we watched in awe as the thermometer plummeted from a balmy 3 degrees down to a chilly minus 6 within the space of 45 minutes.

  We’re getting more efficient at our systems, and were out of the tent and hauling by 9.30 pm today, which was great. Although the map said we were apparently following an esker all day, it lied—as usual—and we found ourselves plunging in and out of every conceivable type of terrain, ranging from the odd stretch of wonderfully frozen gravel esker, through long expanses of solid, ice-covered snow, plenty of softer regions where we sank up to our knees, and, yes, good old Death Terrain.

  As we stared out over the vicious concoction of random shards of ice-shattered rock—each one carefully aligned to cause maximum puncture-damage—the deep psychological gashes inflicted upon us by this terrain in 2005 suddenly reopened. Tentatively hauling my PAC forward until its balloon tyres pressed dangerously against the first limestone dagger, I held my breath. ‘Moment of truth!’ Clark shouted, and expecting nothing but the burst of escaping air, I threw myself forward in my harness, stepping awkwardly out across the jagged minefield. Behind me I could hear the huge tyres resonating with the sound of grinding rock fragments snapping and pinging out sideways as the PAC lurched and sprang from one stone knife edge to another. Miraculously, though, not only did the tyres stay inflated, but close examination of our Kevlar wheel covers afterwards revealed they still seemed as good as new. ‘Well, what do you know!’ I said, impressed. ‘Genuinely bulletproof!’

  As we pressed onwards, the temperature descended to a new record low of minus 9 degrees, covering our PACs and solar panels in a thick icy coating which we had to keep wiping off in a bid to harvest any available sunlight. My nose feels a little burnt, but I’m thinking that’s more likely to be from the wind than the ghostly outline of the sun that we spotted intermittently sliding around behind an ever-thickening veil of cloud.

  The wind was so bitterly cold during lunch today that the whole experience was actually quite traumatising. If we dared stand still to prepare our food, we quickly froze to the bone, but shuffling around there was absolutely nowhere to hide from it either; the deathly cold was omnipresent.

  Stopping for a nut break around ‘mid afternoon’ (Chris and Clark time), I happened to park my PAC side-on to the wind, and crouching down in the lee of one of its huge carbon fibre and Kevlar wheel rims, made a wonderful discovery. Not only did they act as a great wind break, but their conical shape actually seemed to reflect and focus what little warmth the sun offered, literally warming the space in front!

  ‘Clark!’ I waved him excitedly over from the trance-like circular track he was s
huffling around, and we spent the remainder of the break huddled together, basically doing our best to climb inside the wheel rim. Desperate times.

  I have noticed that Clark and I have very different hauling techniques. Clark has the slow and steady approach, while I have been progressing in a series of short, high-octane bursts, lasting only a minute or so, which would soon find me hanging in my harness catching my breath, only just ready to take off again as Clark drew level. It has been working okay—overall we both progress at the same speed and thankfully neither has to wait for the other—but I have to admit that by the end of each day I’m feeling increasingly shattered. Waking randomly during the last few nights, the first feeling that has been flooding my mind is dread—dread that it’s time to get up and face it all over again. Already empty, I was really starting to struggle inwardly with the thought of having to maintain my level of energy for the next three months …

  Today, however, I tried Clark’s tortoise technique, and it works a treat! Despite having punched out a new record of 9.87 kilometres as the crow flies (10.25 kilometres as the PAC rolls), I’m actually feeling good this evening! It’s a huge relief for me, a real load off my mind, and while chowing down on our new favourite meal—dehydrated Mexican Chicken from Back Country Cuisine—our optimism and morale has never been higher. As Clark commented, ‘I’m not even worried that we’ve run out of esker.’ (Even the map finally admits this.) ‘I guess tomorrow we’ll just head in the vague direction of Hadley Bay?’ It’s still a good 90 kilometres away, and there’s a tangle of several large lakes in the way, too, which we’re hoping will still be frozen, else I’m not quite sure what we’ll do.

  DAY 5: Hello frozen lakes!