Epic Solitude

by Katherine Keith

  Dave holds up a long wooden pole to push away the ice and grins, “Us cavemen can do a lot with simple tools. Get to town before the opportunity disappears. I’ll be fine. Talk to Dickie. He’ll know what to do.”

  Our friend from Kotzebue, Dickie Moto, always seems to know what to do. Phillip is the first to jump out of the boat onto the ice floe. Not wanting to swim, Alan and I dance from one iceberg to the other. Growing up at camp makes Alan a tough kid. He takes large leaps in stride and runs ahead of me. An hour later, we make it to the beach.

  Alan fist-pumps the air. “Yeah! We did it!”

  Phillip searches for a bush.

  Looking back at the boat, Dave seems so far away now, trapped in the ice. While Dave can handle any situation, much of this one is out of his control. We start the eight-mile-long trek into town.

  Three hours later, we get to Dickie’s house and plan. Dave needs access to food, water, extra clothes, and a VHF radio. An airplane flies over to drop off a float bag of gear. Alan and I stay in town while Dave drifts along with the slow-moving ice. Two days later, and still stuck, Dave passes by on parade before the entire town. Another boat, in the same predicament, joins him. The two boats become the talk of the town. Dozens of people on Shore Avenue with cameras and binoculars point their fingers at the spectacle. Dave seems safe, and I talk to him every few hours on the VHF. The boat’s outboard has minor damage but nothing more.

  Ice travels in front of town before making its way to the deep water of Kotzebue Sound, where it dissipates. Dave finally gets clear after being stuck on the boat for over fifty hours. Once free, a search-and-rescue boat gets him and tows the boat in. Together, we enjoy our breaded pepper chicken and chocolate milkshakes after the longest trip to town on record. On our way home, I tell Dave the real reason I wanted to go to town. A visit to the hospital has confirmed my hunch: I am pregnant.

  Wood

  Kobuk Lake, Alaska | 2002

  Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.

  After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.

  —Hsin Hsin Ming

  Freeze-up lasts from mid-October to mid-November. The summer birds migrate south, and the hours divide themselves equally between the day and night. This is prime caribou-hunting season because we can hang the meat up outside. It freezes by itself, and there are no flies or mosquitoes. I prefer the quiet of winter to the high-energy busyness of summer. Winters are still and filled with a comforting darkness that surrounds you, wrapping you in its embrace. The stars, the northern lights, and the full moon circling the sky provide a mystical backdrop to outdoor activities.

  Dave has an Alpine snow machine with two tracks that make it perfect for moving around in the deep snow of the hills. When we travel in our backyard, there are no trails; we make our own. This is easier said than done when the snow is over six feet deep. The Alpine can break trail on steep slopes while maneuvering around logs, stumps, trees, and everything else. It’s an impressive piece of machinery.

  Dave takes the Alpine, while Alan and I take the Ski-Doo. Both machines pull durable wood flat sleds built by Dave for hauling logs. The Alpine pulls two of them, one long and one short. This combination allows him to carry logs over twenty feet long, which we need for the house. House logs must be large, round, and straight. Alan and I carry the smaller logs for firewood.

  After making it to the base of the steep hills at the woodlot, Alan and I wait at the bottom so that Dave can climb into the hills to look for the next section of timber. Dave finds a gully high in the hills that other folks, looking for firewood, tend not to access. The code of the North dictates you don’t pilfer someone else’s woodlot.

  We spend days back in the woodlot. Dave and I have chain saws while Alan picks up branches and moves logs out of the way. My experience felling trees, being none, requires that I learn on the job. Dave is extremely skilled at logging and has no problems going for large trees over two feet in diameter. Our harvested trees are old, dry, and dead, so we won’t have to wait years for the curing process.

  I get the snow machine stuck in snow at least a couple of times during the day. Alan and I, using a shovel, dig it out to the best of our ability—humbling. Dave doesn’t even need the Alpine to pull it out. He knows how to do it and makes me appreciate his skill.

  After working for a couple of hours, we start a fire. Spruce twigs and needles serve as kindling. They sound like Rice Krispies, and smell heavenly. We roll logs around the fire, sit down, take a break, and warm our hands by the fire. Thermoses of coffee, hot chocolate, and plenty of food allow us to stay out over long days. I bring dried caribou, salmon, sheefish jerky, trail mix, and sandwiches made on homemade bread. We tease Alan as we laugh and cool off from the sweaty work. The woodlot silence permeates our small group. Branches creak and groan in the wind. Even in winter, birds find a reason to sing.

  We tie up our load down at the creek bottom. Getting home, we off-load the logs into piles. Dave has piles set up for the roof section, wall, and foundation. For the sides of the house, logs need to be at least eight inches in diameter. The foundation logs and support logs need to be over a foot in diameter. It takes the three of us to move massive logs around. Leverage and creative thinking benefit us as we shimmy the logs onto piles. My protruding belly reduces my ability to help with this part. I can use my “plus one” weight for leverage but am not much help when it comes to pushing or pulling. The firewood gets thrown in a different pile. I chainsaw the logs into eighteen-inch-long pieces for the woodstove (see fig. 20).

  Dave hoists all the logs with block-and-tackle-style rigging or brute strength. This becomes interesting when putting the logs on the roof. We build the house in a semicircular pattern with the round walls facing the south to mirror the curvature of the beach and to allow for maximum solar exposure during the winter. The house is forty feet long by twenty-five feet wide with one story. Dave manages this with the creative grace of an artist.

  Our Littlest Angel

  Kobuk Lake, Alaska | 2002

  She needs wide open spaces

  Room to make her big mistakes.

  —Dixie Chicks, “Wide Open Spaces”

  Up to seven months pregnant, I practice yoga, standing on my head daily. It is hard to no longer act like “one of the guys.” I can’t drink coffee or whiskey or go out on rough boat rides. I don’t quite enjoy being pregnant, despite my excitement about being a mom. Worse than that is being subjected to the impracticality of maternity clothes. I should write to Carhartt and ask them to launch a line of maternity work gear. Those flimsy stretch leggings paired with one of those awful, butt-covering, cutesy dress shirts will not cut it while fishing for salmon, building a greenhouse, or working in the woodlot. Pregnant Alaskans work and need the comfort and practicality of durable gear.

  We find out that our baby is a little underweight as she nears full term. I go to Anchorage for the four weeks leading up to her birth. While not on full bed rest, I receive a definite calm-down order. We decide it will be better to give birth in Anchorage, where we have access to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU), just in case. Anchorage doctors induce a couple of weeks early.

  Dave makes it down to Anchorage to be there for the delivery. My mom and thirteen-year-old sister, Cindy, come to be a part of this miracle. On February 28, 2001, we meet our tiny daughter with her shock of red hair. Madilyn Maxine Mackenzie Keith. We call her Madi for short. The doctors discover that she has a hole in her lung, a pneumothorax. She spends two days in the NICU until the hole heals and she has a full lung capacity. I am a new mother, full of naive love and blissful unawareness that anything can ever go wrong.

  Madi soon is healthy enough to leave the hospital. Dave and I plan to take Madi home to Kotzebue, but since her birth coincides with the starting week of the Iditarod, we drive my mom and Cindy to downtown Anchorage to watch the dogsled teams go by while I cradle newborn Madi swaddled in
cozy knit blankets. I wave at two Kotzebue mushers, Ed Iten and John Baker, and wish them both good luck down the trail. I appreciate their part in the Last Great Race and Madi’s first great day.

  Dave, Cindy, Madi, and I arrive in Kotzebue still in full-on winter mode and need to travel by snow machine to get home. After stopping first at a friend’s house to get a parka large enough to allow me to hold Madi in my arms inside it, Dave drives us home.

  Dave loves spending time with Madi. The first month revolves around celebrating her arrival, learning how to be a mother, and trying to get sleep. It is also a time to learn how to balance the demands of hard physical work with fierce protection of this fragile new life. Living out at camp is demanding. There is no running water and no constant source of electricity. There aren’t any cars or car seats to put your baby in, no Wal-Mart when you run out of diapers, and no doctors when your baby has a fever. There are no new mom groups and no play dates. No internet exists to look up answers. The phone connectivity is minimal—a party line, meaning anyone can pick up the phone and hear what you’re saying. If you want to visit with anyone, it means taking a snow machine or boat into town, which also means putting your newborn baby in a risky situation.

  To entertain Madi, and ourselves, we have two dozen chickens. Dave built a nesting box for them outside a window close to the woodstove so they can enjoy the heat. Watching the chickens vie for the best spot and slip off their pegs when they fall asleep is far better than any TV sitcom for a good laugh.

  I am accustomed to having the freedom to choose what I want to do next, which is no longer possible with a baby. Boo-hoo, right? The pressures of chores and work wears on me. I can’t stand watching Dave do all the hard work, despite his insistence on doing so. The transition is difficult for me. Sitting around the house waiting for a baby to wake up from a nap challenges my way of thinking. For all the inconveniences, the rewards of the peaceful lifestyle and of bringing our kids up in an alternative lifestyle keep Dave and me eager for the future.

  While Madi is little, Dave’s nephew Dean comes up to help, along with Cindy. Cindy is still in school and has homeschooling to keep current. My dream is to keep her until summer. We all fall in love with this little girl: Madi brings light wherever she goes. Her favorite pastime is to suck on the long beak of a little loon doll given by Grandma to remind her of the fact she has 50 percent Minnesotan in her. This loon becomes a second pacifier to her when she needs help to sleep. Madi sleeps in the bed between Dave and me while Dave works on hand-carving her crib. Our remote camp offers plenty of arms to hold her.

  Iditarod, Mile 795

  Koyuk, Alaska | 2014

  I just pulled out of Safety

  And I’m on the trail alone

  I’m doin’ fine and I’m pickin’ up time

  And headin’ on in to Nome.

  There’s no sled tracks in front of me

  And no one’s on my tail

  I did, I did, I did the Iditarod Trail!

  —Hobo Jim, “The Iditarod Trail Song”

  The dogs and I are stuck at the Shaktoolik shelter cabin for eighteen hours. Freezing and hungry, we cannot delay any longer. We make our way, trail stake by trail stake, for the next thirty-five miles. I arrive in Koyuk shaken up but surrounded by curious school kids asking questions and wanting my autograph. One special young girl helps put out straw for the dogs. Her eager attitude cheers me and helps me realize that I have to suck it up and keep my head in the game. The dogs look solid, feel great, and are eating well. The storm was harder on me than them. There is still a race going on.

  The trail from Koyuk to Elim is beautiful, hard, and fast most of the way except for the new snow drifts. We leave at night, the dogs’ favorite time to run. My team is the first out of Elim and takes the burden of breaking out the trail. After ten miles, the faster teams behind me catch up and break out the remaining trail.

  The trail from Elim to White Mountain is difficult—history paints a picture of mushers and teams breaking down—not only for the large amount of hill climbing but also for crossing sea ice between Golovin and White Mountain. The intense climbing makes the views all the more rewarding. The final summit is one thousand feet up to the height of Little McKinley. There is no wind the day I cross Golovin Bay, so the glare ice poses no threat as the team is able to maintain adequate traction without the complicating sideways force of wind.

  At White Mountain everyone takes an eight-hour mandatory rest before tackling the remaining seventy-seven miles of trail to Nome. The trail to Safety requires yet more climbing up through the Topcock Hills. After the summit, the trail drops for two miles to the coast. There is little snow on this descent again and my sled brake gives out. I careen down steep, rocky side slopes with an excited dog team and no way to slow them down. I stop a couple times by giving commands to the dogs and tip my sled over to wire the brake together. Dropping to the coast, we move north through the “Blowhole.” Conditions deteriorate to ten-foot visibility with the wind blowing forty miles per hour. The dogs need to cross glare ice with sand and snow drifts. The wind blows the sled sideways into tripods and tree stumps and anything else in between. Close to Nome, we still have many obstacles to overcome. The dogs do the best they can, and we make painstaking progress.

  The checkpoint of Safety is twenty-two miles outside Nome and a scary point for mushers. The dogs recognize the roadhouse as a checkpoint and are eager to investigate the straw and happy vets. People often come out to cheer the teams on, and the dogs would like to join the party. I need to drop a dog, Heineken, who has a sore wrist. The remaining dogs think this is a great place to hang out for a while to escape the storm. Three hundred feet past the checkpoint, the dogs decide that instead of their usual seven-and-a-half-mile-per-hour pace, they want to go four and a half miles per hour. If only they knew we are less than three hours from the end.

  I stop to consider the situation. By consider, I mean I sit on my sled to cry out loud for a good ten minutes. After my pity party is complete, I switch around the dogs and put in new leaders. Even if I have to push the sled the whole way, it is better than sitting on the sled crying like a baby in the middle of a snowstorm. four and a half miles per hour is what we do all the way to Nome. I kick, run, and pole with everything I have left (see fig. 21).

  People drive out on the roads to cheer the team on. The dogs and I feel the excitement building. We drop onto the sea ice and the siren blows to welcome the next dog team to Nome.

  The trail goes up a small hill to the front street of Nome where fans holler out “Good Job!” and “Congratulations!”

  We are the thirty-second team into Nome, but I feel like a champion. The Burled Arch, marking the finish line since 1975, beckons us in, where a crowd awaits. Amelia, my daughter, is there, waiting to ride on the sled with me to the finish line (see fig. 22).

  My mom is there crying with relief. I tell her not to cry because then I will. This is a total celebration. We made it. I relish the sheer feeling of accomplishment that comes from making it 1,049 miles to Nome despite the exhaustion, frustration, and disappointment we had along the trail.

  “I did, I did, I did, the Iditarod Trail!” Hobo Jim’s lyrics come back to me.

  We park the team in the dog lot. It feels like a piece of me is taken away as I watch them go, knowing our great adventure together is at an end. Eight out of fourteen dogs finish the race. Summit, Ears, Joy, Neo, Huffy, Ghoulie, Papa, and Lightening all deserve medals. Summit and Ears led together for 90 percent of the race. They did an incredible job keeping us safe and on the trail. Knowing the dogs are being cared for, I go to a hotel room; take a long, hot shower; eat a delicious meal; and enjoy the company of family and friends. After a few days of sleep, I am now restless. I look outside at the clear, sunny day and recall the gorgeous days climbing through the Alaska Range and when I first came in to Unalakleet to see the ocean coast. I dream about the next adventure.

  Helpl
ess

  Kobuk Lake, Alaska | 2002

  Love is the strongest and most

  fragile thing we have in life.

  —Vanessa Paradis

  It is a morning like many others. The house is cold and quiet after shutting down the woodstove so the fire wouldn’t die overnight. Dave and I lie together on the outer half of the bed, giving the inner half, boxed in by the wall, to Madi. Madi stirs after waking up twice that night. Dave jumps up to put wood in the stove and warm the house before we get out of the covers. I prop up pillows against the back wall and cradle Madi in my arms.

  “How did you sleep?” I ask Dave.

  “Like a baby,” he says as he leans over to kiss Madi on top of her fuzzy, red-haired head. “Well, not like our baby.”

  I nurse Madi while Dave makes coffee. The house feels alive with warmth as the aromas of ground beans and the sounds of crackling firewood fill the air. I am not feeling eager to get out of bed. Dave turns on KOTZ Radio and NPR News tells us about events around the world. As our only source of news, I hang on every word.

  Dave comes into the back bedroom. “Are you ladies ready for some toast?”

  Deciding that it is worth getting out of bed, I stifle a yawn and respond with a yes that sounds like a mix of yeah, yes, ah, and ugh.

  I put on a pair of sealskin slippers that Dave and Alan gave me for Christmas. Changing Madi’s diaper takes only a moment. I dress her in warm pajamas and swaddle her in a blanket. Madi and I assume our rocking chair by the woodstove, where I can prop my feet up near its door while holding Madi in my lap.

  Dave looks at us. “I think you have the better part of this deal. Maybe I should hold the baby while you put on some toast.”

  Holding his arms out to Madi, it is clear he wants daddy-daughter time. Happy to oblige, I hand her over. My bladder reminds me of my own needs, so I dress for a trip to the outhouse. I put on sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a camouflage pullover winter jacket, a wool hat, fleece gloves, and my heavy winter boots. Overall, I look like I am attempting a trip to Mars. Outside now, it looks like I am on Mars. The early morning is still black, and the cold spring air is harsh as it enters my lungs. The moon is absent from the sky allowing me a full view of close to a zillion stars. Packed snow defines the outhouse path. It needs no door because it faces into a thick grove of trees. Pulling down my pants, I cringe as I know that sitting down on the ice-cold pink foam board is going to not feel super good. Taking a moment to appreciate my surroundings, I allow my body to relax into the natural beauty around me even in this wintry Arctic March morning.