Conquering the Impossible

by Mike Horn

  And so I was already technically in violation of my visa, and I was put in a guarded residence. How Western of me not to have double-checked the dates! This sort of carelessness can be very costly when you are dealing with a powerful bureaucracy like they have in Russia.

  Just for starters, Vladimir and I were both given fines—eight hundred rubles for me and, for having found me a place to stay, five hundred rubles for him. Then the police turned the case of my expired visa over to the FSB, the former KGB.

  That same day a major and a lieutenant from the intelligence agency questioned me in Vladimir’s office. How had I arrived here? Who invited me? Who exactly was I working for? Why didn’t I have the required papers? I mentioned the name of the deputy governor, and I told them that a second visa was supposed to be on its way; but, of course, I couldn’t prove anything. The interrogation dragged on until three in the morning. I was exhausted, but I kept insisting that my file was in the hands of Alexander Borden. The FSB agents finally decided to try to call him and—miraculously!—managed to reach him. Borden vouched for me. He knew who I was and was astonished to hear that I had only been issued a one-month visa.

  The FSB wound up admitting that I was acting in good faith. Nonetheless, it was a matter of standard procedure at this point. I was going to be put onto the next plane for Moscow, and after that, back home. In short, I was being expelled from the country.

  It was nothing short of catastrophic. Once deported, I would be forbidden to return to the country for a year!

  * * *

  The next day Dmitry and I called Alexander Borden. The deputy governor fully appreciated the close call I had had with the authorities and committed to do what he could. In the meantime, Cathy contacted Ian Banner, one of our friends with the Richemont Group and the Laureus World Sports Awards, who reached out to Bernie Ecclestone, president of the International Federation of Formula One racing. Ecclestone in turn spoke with Viacheslav Fetisov, the Russian minister of sport. Fetisov called me to get an explanation of my situation and promised that he would intercede on my behalf. I had some key political connections, but it seemed that even they couldn’t keep me from being deported.

  * * *

  Bychkof, Fetisov, Borden. Each of them tried separately to persuade the FSB not to make my expulsion grounds for a year’s prohibition of my return. At least let me wait in Alaska for authorization to return to Russia, they argued. Unfortunately, my American visa was in my second passport, which had by now made its way back to Switzerland. And so the FSB couldn’t even send me back to the United States. Willing to try anything at this point, I offered to have my brother bring me my second passport with the American visa that would allow me to return to Nome.

  They agreed to this plan, and I called Martin right up. He hopped on the next flight to start his journey out to the Russian Far East.

  Before I knew it, I found myself before the tribunal that would determine my fate. The decorum was intimidating: a podium draped with red velvet, a Russian flag, neon ceiling lights. A line of judges, an official interpreter, and two magistrates made up the tribunal that would review my case and decide my punishment. Numerous border guards were called to testify. Vladimir served as my lawyer. I was seated in the second row, right behind him. The Coast Guard officers testified one after another.

  Since the proceedings took place in Russian, Vladimir translated for me in English that I wasn’t going to be fined. That was actually a bad sign because I then expected to be told not to return to Russia for a long time. But instead I got surprisingly good news. I wasn’t barred from returning to the country. The court recognized that I had been acting in good faith. As a result, I was authorized to leave Russian territory and to return whenever I liked—this time with the proper documents, of course.

  During the course of the ensuing, interminable formalities, the various parties filled out pounds of forms, in keeping with the cumbersome local tradition that I was starting to get used to.

  So I had been sentenced to go back to Nome to wait for authorization to resume my expedition across Chukotka. I had been hoping that I would be allowed to wait in Provideniya, but no Russian official could overlook the expiration of my visa. After all, a visa couldn’t be renewed on Russian territory except in cases where it was physically impossible to leave within the stipulated time—because of accident, bad weather, or the like—and, even then, only for the duration of the problem. That is what I explained to the residents of Provideniya who were sad to see me go, which touched me deeply. But the main emotion I felt was relief that my expedition wasn’t going to end here in this bleak outpost. I would continue. It was just a matter of time.

  * * *

  It was Thursday. I theoretically had until Friday to leave Russian territory aboard a Bering Air plane I would have to charter to take me to Nome. However, the airline officials told Cathy, when she called to charter the plane, that they would need three days to obtain permission to land at Provideniya. And since they didn’t fly on the weekend, I was stuck there until Monday. Problems began to develop once again.

  Amazingly, Cathy managed to accelerate the process. She pulled strings to schedule the plane for Friday, and since Martin was supposed to land Friday morning in Nome with my passport and American visa, he could just board my plane to bring them to me.

  The timing was perfect. Too perfect, as it turned out.

  The flight from Seattle to Anchorage was delayed, preventing my brother from getting to Nome on time, and preventing me from returning to the United States. Fortunately, Vladimir was able to persuade the authorities to extend my visa until Monday. That was something.

  * * *

  On Sunday my wife received an e-mail from the U.S. Bureau of Customs and Immigration, informing her that I was forbidden to set foot on United States territory, and that was the final word. They extended this order to my brother Martin, too, who was on his way to Alaska at that very moment!

  No one wanted me anymore in either Russia or the United States. It was as if I could no longer move in any direction, like a king who finds himself in checkmate.

  It turned out that the reason for turning me away was that I had entered American territory without reporting my presence. Of course their information was wrong! At the first American town I had reached, Kaktovik on Barter Island, I had reported to the authorities, who had informed the Bureau of Immigration. At first, Immigration had wanted to send agents to screen me but then decided against it, requiring only that I report my departure from American territory—which I had done just before leaving Point Hope.

  As for Martin, I knew that he had all the papers, all the stamps, and all the visas required.

  Cathy contacted the American authorities who had jurisdiction, and they quickly agreed that it was a mistake. The e-mail had been sent by an ill-informed and overzealous official. Crisis averted.

  * * *

  On Monday morning the Provideniya airport officials called me to say that the weather had cleared up. The plane was expected soon, and so was I. One hour later Martin stepped out of the plane with my passport. I showed my American visa to the border guards so that they could authorize me to board.

  Then the officer noticed that my Russian visa had expired three days before. I explained that it had been extended until today. Unfortunately, no one had thought to inscribe that extension on my passport. I no longer had the right to leave Russia!

  When I was informed that I had to start over from scratch, going through all the formalities of requesting an extension of my visa, I exploded. “Well, I’d like to know what you guys want! First you say I can’t stay here, you expel me from the country, and now you refuse to let me leave! Look at that plane! I chartered it just for this trip because you ordered me to! It cost me a fortune! And now what am I supposed to do with it? Send it back?”

  This outburst compelled the officer to call his supervisor, who just happened to have with him the official stamp to extend my visa. He stamped my passport, and charged me one
thousand rubles.

  To avoid the risk of being searched again the next time I entered Russia, I left all of my equipment—carefully packed—with Vladimir. A backpack was all the baggage I carried. Without bothering to open it, my friend Dmitry asked me solemnly whether I was carrying any forbidden goods or if I had anything to declare. I answered no, and this time it was the truth.

  After completing that last formality, I marched straight to my plane, passing between two lines of border guards whom I saluted as I passed. The soldiers surrounded the plane until it began to taxi. I heard the pilot’s voice as he identified himself and asked the control tower in Russian for permission to take off. The plane halted momentarily at the end of the runway and then began gathering speed for takeoff.

  We briefly flew over Provideniya before tipping the wing in a turn, heading due east on a course for Nome, Alaska, USA—a city where I had never expected to set foot again.

  * * *

  Time passed slowly—between Jeff’s cabin, Gerry’s trailer, and the Breakers Bar.

  Martin had first made the acquaintance of Jeff Darling, buying a new battery for my boat in Jeff’s auto supplies store. Jeff then invited him to a barbecue at his house where he had met Gerry Allan. And that’s how I happened to have two friends from the minute I arrived in Nome. I made lots more friends in no time, including Sandy, the woman who owned the Polaris Bar, and Olga, her mother, who was a big-hearted baseball fan.

  Like those I’d encountered everywhere else in Alaska, the people of Nome were remarkably generous to me, helpful in every way possible. Like so many inhabitants of the Arctic, they were sincere, straightforward, and considerate of others, in part because they live in such harsh conditions. To be here is to be a member of the family. There is no other way to survive.

  * * *

  At the end of September 2003, I still languished in Nome, where I had returned on September 10. Cathy, my sponsors, and most of my relatives doggedly pursued their inquiries with the Russians to try to move my case forward. My friend Dmitry in Provideniya also did his best with the meager tools available to him. Nothing seemed to be working.

  On a lark, Cathy also requested a one-year visa for me over the Internet to see what would happen.

  * * *

  From what you’ve read thus far, you might think that nothing works in Russia. The truth is that things just work differently. Russian time is different from time elsewhere, and you have to learn how to make Russian time work for you. You need to learn to be patient until just the right moment—which is impossible to predict—when someone, somewhere in the bureaucratic maze, decides that it is time to sign or stamp the form that you need.

  This game of patience is also a game of nerves. It’s a cloaked weapon that the Russian administration uses to discourage “undesirables” like me. Only one thing was certain about my bureaucratic struggles: trying to force the issue would be as pointless as Don Quixote’s fight against the windmills.

  * * *

  On October 1, I was informed that Cathy’s online request was granted and my authorization should arrive in two weeks. But in two weeks, it would have started snowing in Chukotka, and I didn’t want to be caught crossing the mountains through huge drifts of snow in whiteout conditions. I wanted to get across them before winter arrived.

  Later the same day, the problems were piling up faster than snow in a blizzard. Vladimir Bychkof, who had never stopped assuring me that things were moving in the right direction, suddenly told me that he was no longer in charge of my case. The FSB had told him in brusque terms where he stood when I was still in Provideniya: “No visitors, no problems. That guy’s not going anywhere.” But he kept working on my behalf only to tell me now that he was powerless? He was trying to get me to give up, too. There was no other way to interpret it.

  Could Vladimir be an FSB agent himself? Since they were clearly looking for any excuse to keep me out of the country, maybe someone had discovered that I had fought against the Russian-supported troops in Angola? But that was eighteen years ago! I was definitely starting to become paranoid. I couldn’t help thinking that behind this torturous process, there had to be something more than the basic Kafkaesque nature of Russian bureaucracy.

  * * *

  Then came good news for a change. Nikolai, the tour guide and sled-dog driver based in Anadyr, whom Vladimir had contacted on my behalf, would continue to work with me. Apparently my Web site had boosted his excitement about the project. Not only was he still willing to work as my chaperone—because I had to have one—but he was even willing to vouch for me officially.

  That was not an insignificant commitment. If anything happened to me—and especially, I suspected, if I broke a law or violated a regulation—he could forfeit everything he owned, as well as his civil rights. In short, the FSB could then destroy him.

  Admittedly, he was asking for one thousand dollars a month for his services, which is ten times the average Russian salary. But, after all, it did seem fair that there be compensation commensurate with the risk he was assuming. It seemed like a reasonable price to pay for my freedom.

  Not long thereafter, Nikolai called to tell me that the FSB had sternly warned him not to sign the document vouching for me as my guarantor. When he asked why, they told him that they were not at liberty to explain. He asked that this recommendation be provided to him in writing. They refused. And so Nikolai signed the document and officially stated that he was vouching for me. I admired his courage and I thanked him with heartfelt gratitude.

  * * *

  It was October 23, and the two-week wait that had been predicted on October 1 had long since passed. I still hadn’t received my authorization. I was beginning to think that the wait might really go on forever.

  If the stonewalling continued, I knew what I would do: I would go back to Provideniya under the guise of picking up my gear and provisions, and, instead of returning home, I would secretly set out to cross Chukotka. Once I was in the mountains, it wasn’t likely that they would call the army out to go after me. After all, I wasn’t really a problem for the Russian authorities except when I was right under their noses, forcing them to decide what to do with me.

  I would run a serious risk of being caught, which would almost certainly end my expedition, but giving up amounted to the same thing.

  * * *

  At long last, on October 23, I received a response from the Russian authorities that I was authorized to continue my journey across Chukotka starting on November 20. That was a long time to wait, but still, I was beside myself with happiness.

  I called Cathy to ask her to send me my winter equipment—at the end of November the ocean and rivers would all be frozen, and I would no longer need my kayak. And if she brought our daughters, we could spend a little family time together.

  * * *

  Nikolai was required to accompany me along the route established by the Russian authorities, all the way to Ambarchik, on the border between Chukotka and Yakutia. We agreed that he would not travel or camp with me; we would meet up at planned points a number of days apart. If everything went the way I hoped, we would almost never see one another. That way, I could continue to travel alone and still comply with the orders of the Russian authorities.

  The famous mountains of Chukotka continued to haunt my dreams, and I could already feel myself setting foot in this territory, one of the most remote and pristine places remaining on the planet. I knew that it would be terribly tough to cross this territory in winter, but months of inaction had built up such fury inside me that I felt as if I could move mountains—or at least climb over them in just about any weather imaginable.

  The interlude was over. I was once again equipped for winter travel. I had a few more things to check and I would be ready to leave. I returned to Provideniya to resume my journey.

  * * *

  Nikolai was supposed to fly in to meet me. But in the Anadyr area, around the Gulf of Anadyr, the weather conditions were so bad that sometimes planes couldn’t ta
ke off for months at a time. And so I was left to wait again.

  Vladimir Bychkof invited me to his wedding, and our differences were swept away. I had the pleasure of enjoying a real Russian wedding, which lived up to its reputation. We ate, drank, danced, and at dawn we were still at it.

  Nikolai finally arrived on December 12, and I had a chance to meet him at last. He was a “Chukchi,” meaning he was from Chukotka. He had participated in the Iditarod, the famous March sled-dog race that followed a thousand-mile course between Anchorage and Nome, and he spoke perfect English. Moreover, he had an American visa, which was unusual for someone from Chukotka. Apparently he had left his sled and his dogs in Alaska. At first he was planning to take them with him on our trip, but after thinking it over, he decided that traveling by snowmobile was the wiser choice.

  I had always assumed that, even though I had no other choice, at least I would be in good hands with this man, who was a native of the Chukotka Peninsula, a sled-dog driver, and a hunter. But when he got out of the plane with no gear other than his animal hides, I began to wonder. And when I discovered that, for his own security, he had recruited a second Chukchi named Ivan—the escort of the escort, as it were—I wondered some more.

  “I am responsible for my own survival, and you are responsible for yours,” I warned him. “I won’t give you shelter and I won’t feed you. You are entirely on your own.”

  “That’s fine with me,” he said.

  * * *

  Five days of preparations were still needed. I supplied Nikolai with a complete set of gear, which I had to teach him how to use, including a lesson on pitching the tent. I also had two snowmobiles for him and Ivan shipped in from Nome. Then we had to get the vehicles ready, assemble our sled, and draw up an inventory of provisions.

  The big departure took place on December 17, 2003—a long four months after I first set foot in Russia. I left Provideniya all alone; Ivan and Nikolai were scheduled to meet up with me later. It was twenty-two degrees below zero, and the white city and its frozen fjord made a much different impression than the one I had when I landed there for the first time in August.