Epic Solitude

by Katherine Keith

  —Richard Bach

  Getting to the Itens’ camp entails a one-and-a-half-hour flight from Anchorage to the coastal city of Kotzebue. Iñupiat people have called “Kikiktagruk” home for at least six hundred years, and it was the hub of ancient arctic trading routes long before European contact. The population of Kotzebue is close to three thousand people, 96 percent of whom are Alaska Natives. The community still has deep roots in subsistence hunting and fishing, an integral part of its seasonal activities. Its location is ideal, situated between the Arctic Ocean via Kotzebue Sound, Noatak River, and Kobuk River. Hotham Inlet, also known as Kobuk Lake, fills up the space between Kotzebue on the Baldwin Peninsula, the rivers, and Selawik Lake. Friends of the Itens pick me up and put me in a boat. We cross Kobuk Lake heading east on a metal skiff for two hours, which puts me twenty-five miles east of town at Fish Creek.

  From the shores of Kobuk Lake, we trek across the tundra permafrost for three miles with black spruce surrounding open tundra that stretches to the distant mountains. I arrive at camp, nestled in a wooden oasis, surrounded by a meandering creek. The place is far more beautiful than I imagined. The Itens have at least ninety dogs, thirty-five of which are puppies under six months old. Twenty-seven dogs are Iditarod competitors.

  I arrive to find caribou skulls, fish heads, and a bearskin on the porch. A caribou, gutted, hangs outside the front door. It’s like walking onto the set of an episode of Grizzly Adams, my all-time favorite TV show growing up. An ongoing challenge of my childhood was that the show aired at the same time as Sunday school. I’d petition my mom to stay home and watch, insisting that Grizzly Adams was teaching me far more about God than school ever could. Now, thirty miles from the nearest Catholic church, my lessons will go on uninterrupted. Freeze-up starts in two weeks. It will be a month for the ice to be thick enough to travel on. During that time, we cannot receive supplies.

  Iditarod musher Ed Iten and his wife, Ruth, put me to work. They have two children, Quinn and Katie, eight and eleven years old. After spending a day sorting through hundreds of dog booties, I realize the mundane, mindless tasks and chores are all part of an intricate system vital to the main goal of dog racing. When I have my dog yard, I must know all this.

  In off-hours, I have the chance to explore the vast land. Peter, a construction worker from Scandinavia, and I take two Icelandic horses on a four-hour jaunt through the tundra. We cruise up a nearby ridgeline to the west, follow it north until we cross Fish Creek, then continue northeast to a valley. My mount, Tova, is very headstrong but adjusts to riding well. Traveling across tundra tussocks is difficult. It is marshy and mucky, with islands of dry land few and far between. We lunch on smoked fish and cheese. Conversation with Peter is difficult due to his thick accent, making only the most superficial chats possible.

  On the way home, I spot a couple of caribou, which turn into a herd. We tie up our horses and sneak down to the meadow. Peter pulls out his rifle and takes a successful shot. I watch as life escapes its body. Peter guts the caribou, then places its still-warm heart and liver in my hands to carry home. Since moving to Alaska, I abandoned my vegan ways for more affordable and practical eating. This animal will feed us for two weeks at least, which poses an ethical dilemma. Is subsisting on local game more ethical than buying a burger in the store? If I am taking the life of an animal to support my own, shouldn’t I at least show it the respect of being a part of the process? Buddhism is clear on the matter: it is not acceptable to kill animals for food. But I also need to balance out moral precepts with my survival. My only recourse is to consider that when my life circumstances change, I will give back and make different choices, try to reset my Karmic debt.

  Coming home, I finish chores. I scoop dog poop from the yard for two hours and socialize with the puppies. I run three groups of puppies: one onto the tundra via the dog trail, one to the ridge, and the tiniest pups out to the pond. After feeding ninety dogs, I presoak breakfast, then chop and stack firewood.

  I hear the dinner call at nine thirty—early tonight. Caribou stew with biscuits nourishes my body. It is my night for dishes, and before me lies a monumental stack. Water is boiling on the woodstove. I pour it into two stainless-steel bowls: one to wash and one to rinse. I drag my sore body up to bed at eleven thirty, tired to the bone. Various aches and pains course through my body as I drift away to sleep. The next morning, my head pounds with exhaustion. Perhaps it is the quiet ringing threatening to replace everything I’ve known. My need to be alone, even here, surprises me. I look forward to the peace and solitude of winter running.

  With camp four miles from the boat landing across tundra, there is no easy way to transport supplies until it snows. Gear gets carried on our backs, on horseback, or via dogsled. Today, horses will bring up the gear. It’s a gorgeous fall day with a slight crusting of ice on the water puddles along the trail. I saddle Sodie and head to the beach. Coming back, wind blows the tarp securing the packages. Sodie spooks and throws off half the load before trying to run away. Lesson number one about getting horses to do the heavy lifting: tie stuff down.

  Ed, Ruth, and I decide that building a round pen will establish a proper horse-training program to saddle-break the younger horses. A round pen requires two dozen fourteen-foot log poles. I start by digging postholes through a foot of frozen clay and permafrost. I haul up three buckets full of rocks and sand from Fish Creek, then cut down all the trees within the circle. The Itens have ten poles to get started with. We need a dozen more. The distance is too great to haul the remaining poles by woman power alone. Time for the horses to step up.

  I begin the process by using Sodie to haul back the first pole. It is a hair-raising record trip. Sodie is unstoppable at a full sprint, hauling a tree behind and me on top. Upon arrival at the pen, I am shaking with adrenaline but happy to be back in one piece with a pole.

  I take Sodie back for a second pole right away. We need to face our fears. Using a bungee, I tie the next log pole to her. She spooks, running in frantic circles around a tree. The pole flies off, and my already-swollen ankle gets kicked. We limp home without a pole, but the reward is a stunning orange moonrise.

  Tova gets the next turn but doesn’t want to cooperate. He feels higher up on the dominance chain so listens accordingly. Can’t say he’s wrong. This time, I hold on to the rope rather than tie it to Tova. Bad idea. Tova takes off, and the pole meets up with a stump. It catches, but Tova doesn’t stop. The rope tightens around my hand, and my body flies off the saddle, leaving one of my big cold-weather waterproof boots still stuck in the stirrup. An unhappy ending.

  Back in the saddle, I keep trying to hold the rope but it slips through my hands. I halt Tova to pick up a long stick to snag the stranded rope. This bad idea doesn’t work and only results in me sprawling headfirst into a tree. Tova books it all the way back to the stables, leaving me alone to follow our trail during heavy snowfall. Not willing to give up, I elect to go on another painstaking pole ride. My punished wrist, sore and weak, cannot tighten the saddle as needed. I secure the log pole around the saddle horn this time. Halfway back, the saddle falls sideways, and off I go, straight into another tree.

  I take the next two days teaching Tova to stop and stay with leg pressure commands. We now have five inches of beautiful powdery snow. At last, the magnificent freeze-up arrives. The mornings are darker, and the nights longer. I take Tova out and cut down a few more log poles with a chain saw. I rig up a hobble for him, and we walk all the way home without a pole to test it out. I fight a losing war with these huge horses. There must be a way to outsmart them, to beat them at their own game. Ready for a pole, we try again. Tova and I fight for three hours in a sheer battle of wills. I get him near the log pole, and he slows down somewhat. The instant I touch the rope, however, he bolts, hell-bent for home. I yank with one arm on the hobble rope while the other arm tries to turn him around with the reins.

  I tie Tova to a tree, so he can’t move. I
put the log on the saddleback, hop on, and get the hobble straight. For twenty minutes, I work to unhook Tova from the tree while I am on his back. The instant I do, wham! Off we go. My wrists are unable hold on, and we are out of control. We are halfway home in maybe five seconds. I lean far forward, my body weight off balance as I try to hold the hobble. Tova comes close to a tree, the branches come close to my face, and smack! Down I fall. I roll away to avoid the huge fourteen-foot pole Tova is dragging. I walk home, my head bowed, to find Tova waiting for me out at the pond with the other two horses. Happy to see he is not hurt, I backtrack to find the log that fell off about a mile away from the round pen. I bend down, put the spruce pole on my shoulders, and carry it to the pen myself. Way simpler.

  I receive a mix tape in the mail from a friend who helped me during my hospital stay in Minneapolis. A year has passed since the cutting began, leaving still-visible scars. I remember lying in the hospital bed, listening to this soundtrack, hoping to find a place of peace where I might regain strength and sanity. Here, above the Arctic Circle, my life is no longer a living nightmare. The threat of self-extinction seems far off, obscure, and absurd. Certain words or phrases still trigger flashbacks, but they have become more manageable. Arctic solitude highlights all shortcomings and sensitivities. My thoughts can get trapped in the past, leading to a few days of total exhaustion, negativity, and pain. Dark periods exist, but instead of months they now last only days. I hope that perhaps even these will pass. Flashbacks and self-harm don’t belong in the life I am building.

  I study the art of running a team of dogs and surviving the Arctic winter. A month after I arrive, I drive a small dog team for the first time solo. Two weeks later I am on the runners of a fourteen-dog team. There is no turning back. The lifestyle completes me and transforms all my past goals and dreams into something better.

  Mummy

  Fish Creek, Alaska | 2000

  Could a greater miracle take place than for us to

  look through each other’s eyes for an instant?

  —Henry David Thoreau

  It’s Halloween. Alexa, the neighbor girl, comes over, dropped off by her Tata Louie’s dog team. A neighbor from ten miles away, David Keith, drops off his eight-year-old son, Alan, while I am busy with dog chores. Alan spends the day with us making Halloween preparations. Kobuk Lake is still freezing up, so no one can make it to town. This Halloween is without candy, so we plan a treasure hunt. I create clues and decorate them with colored paper. Ruth makes donuts and snow ice cream. We put out dehydrated apples and apricots.

  I am out in the dog lot hiding clues as darkness descends. I hear a snow machine pull up away from camp. I am worried that someone is broke down or stuck. I hike out to investigate, when I spy a bulky mummy. I conceal my laughter as the tall, mysterious figure, wrapped with materials from a first aid kit, makes its way to the house. The mummy lingers outside the front door for over ten minutes until someone opens it. It roars in a deep baritone voice. Ruth screams! Chaos ensues as kids run out to see the mummy, laugh as they realize who it is, and unwind him to reveal a six-foot-tall gentle giant of a man.

  I walk up to the cabin to get the treasure hunt started and introduce myself. The instant my eyes meet his, I fall in love with him—just like that. Staring into his eyes, I feel more at home than I have in my twenty-two years. Five seconds go by, then ten, then twenty.

  I reach out my hand to introduce myself.

  “Um … ah … hi. I’m Kat.” I can’t even talk.

  He extends a long right arm to shake my hand. His warm, muscular hand grips mine in a firm shake that becomes something of an embrace. I imagine that same hand reaching out to grab my neck and pull me into a deep kiss full of longing and hunger.

  “Hi. I’m Dave,” he answers.

  I continue to stare at his handsome, rugged face with a solid five o’clock shadow, maroon hooded sweatshirt, and KOTZ Radio baseball cap.

  “Alan is a great kid,” I say, cringing a little at my lack of originality. “I mean, he is so funny. His jokes are the best. He makes everyone around him happy.”

  My cheeks are hot as I blush. Still staring, I force myself to release his strong, safe hand. I don’t want a day to pass without him. I want Dave to rescue me and save me from myself. He is the safe harbor that my rocky ship has been long searching for. I picture the rest of our moments together, the details upon which I will build my life. My future path lies parallel to his, poor guy. I wonder if he is ready.

  Throughout the Halloween evening, there is so much laughter my sides hurt. Kate, Quinn, Alexa, and Alan all try bobbing for apples with their hands tied behind their back. They end up soaking wet. As the night progresses, I become enamored of Dave’s easy laugh. Time flies by, yet everything seems to pause. He is an open person with a deep nature and an astute mind. Dave was born and raised in central Washington and is knowledgeable about any subject from archaeology to geology to mechanics. Dave is a single parent to Alan. They live at a camp about nine miles from the Itens on the north shore of Kobuk Lake (see fig. 14).

  After Halloween, Dave comes over every day. I am enthralled during his visits, and afterward wait, without patience, for the next one. They come over for Thanksgiving. I take the entire day to cook, making everything from scratch. Dave arrives at two o’clock all cleaned up, better than the rest of us, with jeans and a T-shirt. My stomach flutters when I think of him and when we are close. When we talk, our eyes lock, and I get lost in the depths of silent communication. The solitude of camp life accentuates the feelings of a budding romance. I know something binds us. Doing what is as necessary as breathing, we have no choice but to fall in love.

  Iditarod, Mile 153

  Rainy Pass, Alaska | 2014

  Well, give me a team and a good lead dog

  and a sled that’s built so fine,

  And let me race those miles to Nome,

  one thousand forty-nine

  Then when I get back to my home

  Hey I can tell my tale

  I did, I did I did the Iditarod Trail.

  —Hobo Jim, “The Iditarod Trail Song”

  The infamous Steps involve steep and technically challenging switchbacks. The Iditarod trail crew works hard to make the trail safe. Our team has no problems with the Steps, but others do. One musher, Jake Berkowitz, breaks his gang line, and the front fourteen dogs go down the Steps by themselves, followed by Jake with his sled pulled by two dogs. The Iditarod Insider catches this unfortunate situation on video to our great amusement.

  It is clear upon arrival at the Rainy Pass checkpoint that the trail ahead to Rohn is dangerous and technical. The first mushers get injured or damage their sleds or both. The checkpoint officials recommend teams proceed with caution or consider staying in Rainy Pass. I alter my race strategy by cutting the team’s rest in hopes they won’t be at top strength going down through the Dalzell Gorge. Given the extremely steep descent through the Gorge, a strong team will turn uncontrolled chaos into disaster. Leaving early might also allow me to navigate more trail during daylight. The trail leaving Rainy Pass climbs high into the mountain pass until it arrives at the gorge. The low-snow conditions require days of hard labor by the Iditarod trail crew to make conditions passable.

  “Martin Buser is first into Rohn and has a broken sled,” a cold-looking volunteer says with an Alabama accent. He is trying to do me a favor by keeping me up to date with the latest trail information. “Plus, Scott Janssen even broke a leg.”

  My body tenses up as I try to decide if I want to listen or turn away and stay ignorant. I look to the mountains with a crystal-blue sky darkening under the weight of a setting sun that crashes into a deep orange horizon. Deep down, I can’t wait to hit the trail. I get to run dogs through the Alaska Range—Who gets to do that?—fear or no fear.

  “We’ve got this,” I say to myself rather than the volunteer.

  Unable to sleep, I walk up through the line of s
leeping dogs to check on their breathing. Summit, the regal leader, is playing around, trying to dig up some old food buried in the snow. He seems interested in the female leader in the team next to him. His slate-gray fur stands up on the back of his neck as the male from that team notices Summit’s interest and takes considerable offense. I sit on the straw next to him.

  “Come here, old boy,” I say to Summit, showing him that my lap is open. I reach down to massage his ears. He leans into me with quiet satisfaction as his body relaxes into the bed of straw.

  “Attaboy,” I say to soothe both his nerves and mine. If we can keep calm, happy, and confident, we will be much better off in the miles ahead.

  I put booties on the dogs and get ready to go. Knowing we can’t stop anywhere on the trail ahead, I carry a bag of meat snacks up to the front of the team and throw out a half-pound piece to each dog. They jump up, wag their tails, and bark. I check the condition of each dog and make sure their harnesses fit. I whistle to the team, asking them to stand up off the straw. Time to leave the checkpoint.

  I call out “Gee!” and “Haw!” to steer the leaders to the trail heading toward the Alaska Range. Once on the trail, they know it. They put their weight into the harness, and enthusiasm ripples off them and rolls back into me. Regardless of what lies ahead, we will cope. The trail ahead holds nothing that can hurt me more than I have already. I dare this trail to beat me when life has yet failed to do so.

  Sheefish

  Fish Creek, Alaska | 2000

  However many holy words you read,

  however many you speak,

  what good will they do you if you

  do not act upon them?

  —Gautama Buddha

  By the end of November, day three of forty-below temperatures, cold penetrates the house. Even inside, I wear two pairs of socks; three pairs of long underwear; four tops, including a fat sweater; and a hat. I am chilled to the bone. It is hard to stray from the woodstove. My nose is raw from overexposure. Dressing to go outside in this weather involves donning a massive, bulky suit, boots that are three times my usual size, a beaver-fur hat, a thick neck warmer, three glove liners, and huge travel mitts eight times my hand size that extend up to my elbow. I learn how to survive—no, thrive—in this harsh climate, this magical place. The atmosphere is exhilarating. Breathing alone provides a natural high.