Fifteen years after driving an ice cream truck from my childhood home of Minneapolis to Alaska to experience Arctic life, I am alone in the vast wilderness, wrapped in the solitude I craved for as long as I remember, just a sled, my dogs, and me.
The lack of response to my attempt at negotiation disappoints.
“Super,” I say with a tight, flat voice looking down at my swollen, frozen fingers.
“Ears, have you figured it out yet?” I ask.
Painful emotion swells in my throat making it difficult to speak. My tired, windburned eyes look to hers, eyes that reflect pure unconditional love and adoration.
“Yeah, okay, you’re right,” I say. “Might as well sleep for now. The answer is down the trail somewhere.”
We stay there for over twelve hours waiting for an opportunity to leave. The wind shakes the shelter cabin all night, letting up about ten o’clock the next morning. The visibility is still less than a quarter mile. The dogs are running out of food, so we need to keep moving. I hook them up, and we make our way toward Koyuk. Travel is difficult and slow. I switch out the leaders every hour to keep them fresh. Storms bring in large snowdrifts between the patches of glare ice, which takes a toll on the team. All we must do is make it to the next trail marker. Find the next stake, go after the next stake, make it to the next stake, and search for the one after that—because if I don’t, this will be the last one I ever find.
Dad’s Cabin
Garrison, Minnesota | 1988
Wilderness is not a luxury but
a necessity of the human spirit.
—Edward Abbey
It is a crisp morning. Dad is an early riser and likes to drink his cup of hot coffee out on the deck watching the world around him come to life. When I stay with him, I force myself to get up early so I can steal this time alone with him. We both sit in wooden lawn chairs, facing the lake, with a book in front of us. The loons call out to each other in lonely harmony. We take our noses out of our books to appreciate the stillness.
“Whatcha reading?” Dad asks. We’re both avid readers. During a recent fourth-grade field trip to the library, I stumbled across Jean Aspen’s Arctic Daughter: A Wilderness Journey. I checked it out and brought it to my dad’s cabin in northern Minnesota outside the small woodland town of Garrison. Minnesota is the Land of 10,000 Lakes, and we have almost private access to one.
I have been waiting for him to ask me about this book. In fact, I have been leaving it out on the coffee table as a hint for him to pick it up. If he reads it, I know he will take me to Alaska.
“Dad you really have to read this,” I say, unable to contain my enthusiasm. “Alaska sounds amazing. It’s a memoir of this daughter of a famous explorer who follows in her mother’s footsteps. She and her high school sweetheart set out to build a cabin and live off the land in the Brooks Range. They eat muskrats boiled in their skins, moose guts, and even maggots. Ew, can you imagine, Dad? She picks maggots off their meat before it can dry into jerky.”
“Wow. You enjoy reading about maggots?” Dad says with his usual humor.
“No, Dad, that’s just a detail! She’s tough to do that, right?”
I’d been attracted to the Far North since reading Jack London’s novel Call of the Wild, whose canine protagonist, Buck, is sold into service as a sled dog and the Robert Service poem “The Cremation of Sam McGee” with its mentions of northern lights and midnight suns.
I idolize my dad. He’s a tall guy: six feet seven. Even at ten, I fall for his same old tricks—only in my mind, they never get old.
Driving down a gravel road, he pretends to get his hands stuck on a coffee cup, so he can’t steer.
“Dad, grab the wheel before we crash! Dad, you’re gonna hit that mailbox!” My older brother, J.T., and I are in hysterics. “Dad, stop!” we scream at the same time.
All the while, he is driving with his knees, in total control.
“There’s that mean old lady from the doughnut shop that J.T. stole doughnuts from!” Dad says while cruising to the local store. “You better hide.”
We both do.
“I did no such thing,” J.T. protests. “That was you, Dad!”
Dad holds us down on the front seat. “Oh no! That poor old lady got eaten by a dinosaur!”
J.T. and I struggle up to see what’s going on. My brother is a big fan of dinosaurs. Of course, by the time we’re able to look out the windows, we’ve missed it (see fig. 1).
Sitting around the campfire later that night, we gaze up at the Milky Way, catch fireflies in jars, and eat toasted marshmallows. Dad announces that he has a new joke to tell us. J.T. and I both groan but then clap in delight. Dad prides himself on long jokes with awful punch lines.
“Once upon a time in a land far away,” he begins, “there was a mystical Valley of Thid. In this valley dwelled the race of Thids. These Thids had a very peaceful life full of meaning.”
At this point, Dad describes their peaceful way of life for eight full minutes.
“The Thids had a major problem though. Every night, a crazed giant stormed down from a nearby mountain and kicked random objects all over the village. This giant even kicked Thids, including the newest baby Thids.”
Dad describes the horror-filled nights of the poor Thids.
“The Council of Thids selected a diverse group to represent them and negotiate with the giant.”
It takes five minutes for Dad to describe whom they chose and why.
“The final selection of a soldier, a rabbi, a mother, and a politician embarked on a great quest.”
Dad talks at length about the quest.
“They found the giant. The group sat in negotiations, each presenting their argument why the giant should stop kicking Thids.”
Dad can stretch out a joke. It has gone on so long that the fire is dying. I pick up a log and put it on while Dad recounts the various arguments they made.
“The Thids assumed they were making great headway as the giant sat, listening and not saying a word. The council-appointed group, now feeling very accomplished, walked down the mountainside. They assumed that silence is acquiescence. Until the giant jumped up to run down and kick everyone off the mountain.
“The rabbi was last. Sensing his impending doom, he asked, ‘Why did you do that, giant? I thought we came to terms!’
“The giant pulled back his leg to kick the rabbi, but before his very large foot impacted the Thid, the giant said—” Dad chooses this moment to stop and take a sip of his Coke. I know the punch line is coming. “Where was I?”
“Dad!” we scream out.
“Oh, I know,” he says, “The giant said, ‘Silly rabbi, kicks are for Thids!’”
“Daaad!” J.T. and I groan in agony. “How could you do that to us?” We break out in endless giggles and eat another s’more.
The next morning, I set out on my daily hike to the nearby beaver dam to check on their progress. I pull socks up over my pants so the ticks can’t climb up my legs, and I put bug spray on my socks and baseball cap. Taking off at a run, I fly through the woods. I imagine myself to be a wood elf from the great land of Shannara, in my all-time favorite fantasy book. I wander through ferns, listen to birds, search for deer, and watch for anything out of the ordinary. Beyond the beaver dam beckons the land of the unexplored, the far reaches of the woods. Venturing out there makes me feel alive and brave. I find a place to curl up with Arctic Daughter and listen to the trees creak as they sway in the breeze.
I camp out that night in the woods. I pretend to be a great polar explorer surviving on nothing but my wits and the meager supplies in my fanny pack: a flashlight, bug spray, a few Tootsie Rolls, and some crackers. I need little food because last week Dad took us to a local park that offered a class on edible nature. I learned which berries I could eat and what leaves make tea. I am all set. I am less than a mile from our cabin yet feel t
he great exhilaration that comes with walking in the vast unknown.
I pitch my tent and love the freedom to read by flashlight late into the night. Any rustling noises outside the tent walls send me into a frenzy of what-if scenarios. What will I do if a big bear comes? a hungry wild dog? a thunderstorm? a murderer looking to hide? Not knowing what I would do, I spend hours coming up with an action plan for every possibility my imagination concocts. I resume reading until falling asleep.
At dawn I pack up my tent and rush back to the cabin. I love being outside in the morning, when I can be part of that happy stirring of the natural world waking. I love being in nature alone, but I love enjoying it next to my Dad even more. Deep down, I know I will live a life of outdoor adventure. I make it back to find Dad sitting on the deck drinking a cup of coffee.
“Hey! You’re back early. I thought you’d be gone all day.”
I sit down right away. “Hi, Dad. I finished that Alaska book. This is totally my new plan. I will live in a self-built log cabin on a lake, own a small plane, eat caribou, have a dog team, and thrive in the Far North despite the difficulties of living in the bush. I figured it out!”
Dad smiles, knowing I will have many such plans before I am old enough to achieve one. This one is different for me though. It is the blueprint for my future. Someday, somehow, I will come to know the peace, dignity, and grace that Aspen found through her years of close connection to that unforgiving yet nurturing land.
“Then you can come up and drink coffee on my porch, but it would be the real thing! The Last Frontier,” I say. “In Alaska. Wouldn’t that be cool!”
Dad says, “Well, Katie”—he calls me by my given name instead of using one of the bizarre nicknames he usually does, so I lean in and listen—“one thing about the wilderness is that it is always with you if you look for it. It’s in the sky, stars, birds, grass, and sun, whether here in Garrison, in Minneapolis, or in Alaska. If you keep that wilderness in your heart and nurture it, no matter where you are, you’ll always have the real thing.” Not one to be serious for long, he takes a sip of coffee and asks, “Did you see that bear last night?”
“Dad!” I say and pause. “Was there really a bear?”
And so, we go on.
Indiana Jones
Kampsville, Illinois | 1994
‘X’ never, ever, marks the spot.
—Indiana Jones
During the summer between my sophomore and junior years, I accompany a group of thirty-four high school students from all over the US, to Kampsville, Illinois, who want to study anthropology and take part in real archaeological excavations. It is here that I receive my first trowel. What appears to be an ordinary garden tool signifies my exit from the realm of childhood fantasy and entry into a field of substantive work with solid impact. This single trowel has the power to unearth secrets from tens of thousands of years ago.
Every day I get covered in dirt, my shirt drenched in sweat, my hands covered in blisters and trowel cuts. I love every second. When I’m not digging, I spend time with a student named Josh. Besides archeology, we share a passion for the wilderness and being outdoors. The two of us settle into a routine of early morning runs along secluded roads through seven-foot-high cornfields, watching the sun rise above the mist that fans out over the Illinois Valley. Josh recounts anecdotes about rock climbing near his home in southern Illinois, where he spends weekends exploring crags along the river bluffs. I am fascinated, hooked by the notion of rock climbing—and by him.
Two days after my sixteenth birthday, Josh plans a picnic for us on a plateau in the middle of a field. From this perch where we see across miles of breakthrough bluff tops and the rolling hills that surround the banks of the Illinois River, it is easy to feel transported to an age long past, lost in the vacuum of time. Even as we look to the past, Josh and I remain conscious of the future—both the near-term deadline imposed by our last day at camp and a longer-term togetherness we hope to share.
The connection between us feels like more than teenage flirtation. That night we commit to being together after camp.
Josh says, “One day, I’ll be beside you when you wake up.”
With a heavy voice I say, “Somehow, we will figure it out.” The challenge of living in different states overwhelms my sixteen-year-old capacity.
When the inevitable goodbye arrives, we both cry, laugh, and hug.
“We’ll see each other again,” I say.
Placing the bear necklace he wore for the past three years around my neck, Josh becomes serious. “The miles and borders between us will never change how much I love you. Things will change. We will too. My heart will always be for you.”
Countless young sweethearts share similar expressions, but despite our youth and distance between us, Josh and I resolve to develop a future together.
Cold
Biwabik, Minnesota | 1996
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
—Robert Frost
My passion during high school is cross-country skiing. During Christmas break with my high school ski team, I travel to the Iron Range of northern Minnesota, I view this as an expedition, preparation for my Arctic future, offering me the chance to challenge myself, working alone in the deep cold. We will stay for a week, training on the ski loops around Giants Ridge, in Biwabik (whose name derives from the Ojibwe word for iron) in the heart of Minnesota Nordic skiing country. We have the freedom to explore forty miles of well-groomed trails, cleared twenty feet wide, that weave through the Superior National Forest. The safe trails are self-contained, so we can ski alone or with a small group if we prefer. I prefer being alone. I can go at my pace, don’t have to talk or hear people talk, and can wrap myself in the stillness of the Northwoods, Minnesota winter.
After a couple of days, temperatures drop to thirty below. I am skiing the Biwabik trail, enjoying the tall pine trees surrounding me about six miles out from the lodge, when I come across a fellow team member, Amy. She is classical skiing and feeling ill. She is freezing and still a long way from shelter. I am skate skiing, which allows me to glide over the snow as if ice skating, so I’m moving faster than she. It’s four in the afternoon, and I am wrapping up my workout with about thirty minutes left to make it to the lodge before darkness falls and the kitchen closes.
I can’t leave her behind, so I join her at what feels to be a crawling pace. They groom the trails with classical tracks on the side and a wide skating lane at the center, so we can ski side by side. I try to keep her going with my witty banter.
“So, this is fun, right?” I say with a half laugh.
“Seriously?” Amy says, shivering through gritted teeth.
“Isn’t this everything we hope for? Adventure, companionship, and good stories to tell?”
“Yeah, not so much,” Amy says. “This is a mandatory trip. Wilderness and I don’t go hand in hand.”
I laugh out loud thinking she is joking. “Wilderness, hah! This isn’t wilderness. We’re on a groomed ski trail. Good one.”
Silence answers me.
Nordic ski clothes are designed to keep you warm while your body is moving. They’re tight-fitting to allow movement without added bulk or restriction, and they’re made of material that breathes while protecting you from the biting wind. The gloves need to be thin enough to fit the ski pole, and the ski boots are small with little insulation. This active clothing doesn’t keep you warm while out on a gentle stroll, and it isn’t long before I begin to feel the chill.
At this slow pace I can hear the crunching sound of my skis gliding over the diamond crystals of snow beneath the waxed surface and appreciate the hoarfrost icicles on the towering pine trees. A team of sled dogs lined out in front of me is all that is missing. The cold creeps into my bones. First my finger
s hurt, and no matter how many arm circles I do, the blood doesn’t reach my fingers quickly enough for them to keep any heat. My toes feel like ice blocks and are unable to move. The tip of my nose feels like a giant spider bit it. I triage the cold areas, trying to do things to warm up. I lose ground and my shivering becomes uncontrollable.
Amy and I are now in good company, freezing together.
“Fun you say?” she asks.
I try to keep up my good spirits. “Yeah, I love this. Fresh air is so invigorating. This is great for burning calories too.”
It takes us about two hours to get back to the lodge, and we arrive in the dark. Being raised in northern Minnesota, I am not unaccustomed to cold. Once inside the bunkhouse, our white hands warm and turn a deep purple. Pain shoots through my extremities as I regain my body temperature. The coaches throw Amy and me in a warm shower followed by buddying us up in a sleeping bag—cozy but effective. It is the first time I recognize in a tangible, corporeal way the real dangers of severe cold.
Dog Mushing 101
Kotzebue, Alaska | 2018
There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in
its hands. You seek problems because you need their gifts.
—Richard Bach
Let me tell you about Ears. Ears is now nine years old and the purest of companions one can find. When I am despondent, she consoles me. I think of her, and she looks up my way with her bright blue eyes with dark specks bordering her irises. Ears is an alpha female, meaning she enjoys fighting with every other gal in the yard who threatens her place in the world. The only human she wants to be with is me—pure loyalty. No dog or other human will dictate terms to her. While a serious sled dog, she plays inside with a giant green rubber ball, waiting for me to pick it up and throw it back to her. When I’m not there, she plays catch with herself (see figs. 2 and 3).
Ears has been my leader for six years and has never quit on me, even in the most difficult situations. Through blizzards, cold nights, long runs, and everything in between, Ears has been at the front looking back at me and smiling. Yes, dogs do smile. She exemplifies the true heart of a sled dog. She wants nothing more than to be leading the pack and looking out toward the next horizon with me at her side. While racing, we exhaust ourselves, but Ears has the fire within to stand up and keep us going down the trail with an enthusiasm I only hope to one day match.
Epic Solitude Page 2