Conquering the Impossible (27 page)

This natural compass was more effective and more reliable than any other navigational tool at my disposal. At these very high latitudes, even my GPS indicated a distance to North Cape that was always approximately the same.

*   *   *

During my long days, which had extended to more than eleven hours, I never stopped discovering and learning new things. My daily observation of ice crystals, their size and shape, indicated the slightest temperature variations, and the shape of the clouds warned me of upcoming shifts in wind. My brain never stopped processing all of this available information. I spent part of these long stretches of time examining questions of course and navigation from every angle. I spent the remainder of the time thinking about things I had never had the leisure to consider in such depth in my daily life. Freed from the madding crowd, undisturbed by any distracting movement or visual stimuli, unhampered by material concerns other than my daily slog, my mind was completely open, and I used it to dissect or ruminate on this or that aspect of my life. Or else I became absorbed in more general reflection. My imagination was churning incessantly, and it kept me from losing my mind in the solitude and silence.

*   *   *

If I could keep up this pace, it might be possible for me to reach Tuktoyaktuk before the delta of the Mackenzie River became a marsh. If so, I might be able to traverse it on skis and put off my change of equipment until later. This would keep me from getting bogged down in a situation where the breakup of the ice makes cross-country skiing dangerous and where my kayak would risk being wedged and crushed between the surviving blocks of ice. This intermediate season is the hardest time to travel in the Arctic. For that reason, no one bothers to do so—no one but me, that is.

Spurred by the prospect of crossing the Mackenzie Delta before the full-blown thaw, I put the pedal to the metal and really covered some distance—as much as thirty miles a day. One day, when I was able to use my kite, I beat my daily distance record for the Canadian segment of my trip—with fifty-six miles in a single day! That was in spite of visibility of almost zero and wind-induced spills that pulled me across the ice on my rear end.

*   *   *

I wasn't the only creature anxious about the change of seasons. This was also the time of year when the caribou hurried to cross Coronation Gulf to reach their summer grazing grounds on Victoria Island before the thaw. Their long, single-file lines would run across my path until I got close, and then they would scatter in all directions. Thanks to my kite, which allowed me to move as fast as they did, I could follow them, catch up with them, and slide along next to them. I heard the clattering of their hoofs on the ice and their rapid panting, and I could see the uneasy gleam that danced in their round eyes and the effects of the breeze that played in the silky sheen of their hair. I was one of them. It was magical and exciting.

But I stayed focused. In soft snow, with my heel not fastened to my ski, using a kite is a dangerous exercise—not recommended when traveling solo. If I slipped into a hole or hit a block of ice and dislocated my knee, it would be a catastrophe. So I decided to give up using my kite on days when the wind was favorable but visibility was low. The farther I advanced, the less willing I was to run risks that weren't absolutely necessary.

As I drew closer to Lady Franklin Point, the southwestern extremity of Victoria Island, the coughing noise of an engine announced the unexpected arrival of a helicopter. When the pilot spotted me, he veered toward me and set down a few yards away. It was Anton, my supplier of military maps.

“I'm just coming back from the DEW Line station at Bernard Harbor,” he told me. “There is plenty of open water over there, and I don't even know how far it extends.”

I sighed unhappily. Bernard Harbor was very close, right across my route.

But then Anton added, “There is a slim chance you can get through if you travel along the far southern edge of the strait. Unfortunately, the ice is very rough there.” I didn't care. There was hope.

The Bernard Harbor station lay a mile or two inland. It was one of the unmanned DEW Line monitoring stations that also serve as refuges and usually contain food supplies for those awaiting rescue. In order to encourage me to go that way, which I hadn't planned to do, Anton had left extra provisions there just for me.

“Have yourself a little feast and a good night's sleep on me,” he said.

*   *   *

The closer I got to open water, the more worried I became. If I couldn't get through, I would have to retrace my steps and head south until I reached the mainland, an enormous detour that would ruin all my plans for Tuktoyaktuk and the Mackenzie Delta. And God only knew what would happen after that.

To keep these worries at bay, I continued to cover my daily marathon distance—and even more on certain days. I continued past Lady Franklin Point, and the route still looked fine. Pushing on, I camped right in the middle of Dolphin and Union Strait.

At daybreak the seals had transformed the ice into a solarium. I had fun seeing how close I could get to them; it was difficult, because seals are highly suspicious. A quick inspection of the openings that they had made in the ice confirmed my suspicion: the ice was thin, which was how they had penetrated it so easily and probably meant that it ended not far away. Prudence suggested that I head south, but I couldn't help being drawn northward.

I continued on my way. Visibility dropped from hour to hour. Suddenly, when I was still two and a half miles from dry land, I felt that my skis were not supporting me as well, that they were strangely sinking beneath me. An instant later, chills of horror ran up my spine as I realized that I was no longer marching on ice—I was on a layer of snow “floating” on the water! At low temperatures a thick layer of snow doesn't fully melt when it hits the ocean.

I had fallen into one of the most treacherous traps of the Arctic! The transition from ice to snow was nearly unnoticeable—so subtle is the difference between the two. Usually, in fact, you don't even notice that you're standing on mushy snow until it is too late.

Should I turn south? But how far would I have to go before I found a more solid surface?

Should I turn back? But marching back over the same snow would amount to tempting fate.

I decided to keep on going toward dry land and pray that the gods of the Far North would be on my side. I moved forward, trying to tread as lightly as possible. But I hadn't gone fifty yards before, with a muffled crunch, the ground gave way beneath me. I was falling.

If I fell in, I would have nothing to grab onto to haul myself out of the water, only soft snow. I would be stuck in the water, and that would be the end of me.

In the fraction of a second during which I felt the snow open up beneath my feet, I had the reflexes of a parachutist. I curled up and began to roll, but on my side, so that I landed, skis in the air, on a surface that was still solid. But it began to crumble beneath my weight, too, so that the opening in the snow quickly expanded. I tried to spread out my weight as much as possible by continuing to roll, haphazardly and as quickly as possible, despite my skis and my sled. The snow continued to open beneath me until I clambered onto a pile that was a little thicker and stronger. At last, I was on solid ground. Saved!

However, my sled was in the water, and the sea was rapidly transforming the snow all around me into a gooey slush, and I was stuck on a little island about the size of a dinner table. To make things worse, I was soaked through. Luckily, it was “only” thirteen degrees below zero, and the snow that stuck to me when I rolled through it absorbed the moisture, which kept me from freezing to death on the spot.

Should I turn back? Continue on toward dry land? Should I veer north where, according to Anton, there would be nothing but open water? Regardless of my choice, I would be almost certain to fall in. So, I might as well stay on the same course and push on. And that's just what I did, walking on eggshells the whole time, trying to distribute my weight as evenly as possible. I did my best to find a rhythm—a completely fluid stride with no bumping or stumbling—trying to be as light as a feather.

I employed a tactic used by polar bears, which picked up only one leg at a time to spread their weight out over three points of support. I spread my legs and moved forward gingerly, as if my private parts were hurting me badly, without picking up my skis or moving them too far apart, which could have made me lose my balance. My three-hundred-pound sled followed me at its own distinct pace, floating on the water I left in my wake, sparing the spider web of snow below me any further burden.

One thing was certain. If I fell in the water—for good this time—I would toss my fuel and my food into the sea and I would use my sled as a boat—even if it meant paddling for twenty hours with my shovel to reach dry land.

From snow pile to snow pile, excruciatingly slowly, I inched my way closer to the mainland. It took four hours: half-a-mile per hour. And the last fifty feet, walking a tightrope as I weaved my way among the ice blocks bobbing against the shore, took a full half hour. I was wearing a jacket of ice, but the exercise had warmed me up. And Bernard Harbor was just twelve and a half miles away.

I wouldn't be reaching it that evening, though. After four miles, my body failed me. I barely had the strength to pitch my tent. And yet, once I was inside the tent, I wrote another letter to my daughters. I felt the need to talk to them because, once again, I had come very close to never returning home at all.

More than anything, I was angry at my own stupidity. I couldn't forgive myself the lack of judgment that had come so close to costing me my life. I shouldn't make that sort of mistake, not at my level of experience. Nevertheless, beneath the sense of frustration there was a vague but growing sense of confidence that now there was nothing that could keep me from succeeding.

*   *   *

The next day I woke up to one of the worst blizzards I had experienced since the beginning of the expedition. I skied forward, practically lying flat on my belly as I went because of how far I had to lean forward against the power of the gusting winds. I couldn't see the tips of my skis, and I was navigating by the angle of the wind hitting my face. Pressing my nose against my GPS in order to make out its indicator, I read, “Destination reached.” I raised my head and looked around. Total whiteness. Then the curtain of snow parted briefly, and Bernard Harbor materialized right in front of me.

It was strictly a military outpost and operated like all the stations along the DEW Line, without any personnel on site. The station consisted of a building topped by a white radar dish. The structure, roughly the size of a small house, could be seen on a clear day from sixteen miles away. Peter and Anton had given me not only the exact location of the outpost but also the security code to open the door and the telephone number to call once I was inside to report my presence—all confidential information.

“Hello, Mike,” said the voice of the soldier at the other end of the line. “Anton told us you would be coming. He left you something to eat. Enjoy your meal. Give us a call back, just to let us know when you leave.”

The noise of the generator kept me from sleeping, so I camped outside at the base of the radar tower, where I waited a day and a half for the blizzard to die down. I enjoyed the break and toasted the health of Peter and Anton.

*   *   *

Once the weather improved, I set out to traverse the eighty-seven miles to another station on the DEW Line: Cape Young, at the foot of Mount Davy on Amundsen Gulf. Just as I was leaving the peninsula to climb down to the ice again, Anton's helicopter, bringing American military personnel and engineers to inspect Cape Young, flew overhead once again. Camera flashes went off as the aircraft hovered around me and set down nearby. Four uniformed men burst out of the chopper and came running toward me, exclaiming, “Unbelievable! It can't be true! You told us about him, but we didn't believe you!” and so on. They all offered me their lunch boxes, without worrying about the fact that they would be feeling hunger themselves in a few hours.

Soda, bananas, apples, chocolate, freshly made ham-and-cheese sandwiches—in short, these lunches had everything I had been missing most since leaving Cambridge Bay a month before. It seemed as if the entire population of Arctic Canada was taking turns feeding me and making up for the shortcomings of my courier service.

Before taking off, Anton warned me that enormous quantities of pack ice had formed along the coastline. I didn't let it worry me much. From now on, I knew that I would get through, whether on dry land or on ice.

There was a danger more formidable than pack ice: grizzlies. Global warming was pushing their habitat farther and farther north, where they were starting to encroach on polar bear territory, causing some serious tensions between the two species. Anton had seen some in the Cape Young sector. Because the ice was starting to melt, they were moving along what is known as the flow edge, whether that meant following the coastline or the banks of a river, wherever their prey might be likely to come to play or breathe. To make things worse, this was the season when mother bears and their cubs were emerging from their dens. Because of all of this, I would have to be on the lookout.

*   *   *

After leaving Bernard Harbor, I made excellent progress along the coast, covering average daily distances of twenty-eight to thirty-two miles without even making use of my kite because the wind was in my face. The pack ice wasn't bad, and I got around the obstacles I encountered without too much trouble.

One day, when the wind shifted a little, I hoisted my kite. Moving along at a good clip among barriers and obstacles as hard as concrete was no simple matter. As I was zigzagging along, I occasionally found myself with one ski in the air, trying to regain my balance. More than once, my sled got caught behind me, causing some hard falls. I improvised some nice jumps off of snowpiles and bumps in the ice, using them as springboards.