Conquering the Impossible (36 page)

*   *   *

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 take 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.

Here, and in Nome, I had watched three seasons and four months go by—time that I could have used to reach at least the Lena River, which flows into the Laptev Sea, and to cross its immense delta before the spring thaw. But this was no time for regrets. I would be able to make some progress now, and that was what counted!

The whole town came out to watch me leave. In the crowd, I recognized “Dima,” the customs officer; Igor, the phys-ed teacher; Sergei, the dentist; and all the other friends I had made during my stay. Each of them had tried to persuade me to wait for spring before venturing out into the wilderness. I thought back to Arctic Bay and how my friends there urged me to take the same precautions.

I set off onto the harbor around which the city was constructed—it was my triumphal boulevard. The residents were clustered along the shoreline, and they cheered and waved encouragingly. They had all known that I would leave one day, but they had stopped believing it would actually happen. For that matter, they still refused to believe that I could cross the entire country on foot, since it was likely a journey that they would never undertake.

 

7

To Die Just a Little

B
ECAUSE THE RIVERS WERE ALL FROZEN OVER
, I had been forced to abandon my first plan, which was to kayak out of Provideniya. It was now also out of the question to follow the coastline on foot because the violent currents kept ice from forming in the Bering Sea.

The end result was that I would head toward the nearby mountains now, skirt them along their eastern flank, follow the coastline north for the few miles where it was frozen, and finally cut directly across the mountain range to hook up with the river that flowed straight to Lake Ioni.

My goal was to complete my tour of the Arctic Circle by the following Christmas. I was still sticking to my rule of never descending below the Arctic Circle, unless I was forced to by an impassable obstacle or bureaucratic problems.

*   *   *

At last I was entering the mountains of Chukotka. It was permanently dark this time of year. A strong snowstorm was blowing snowflakes from one mountain valley to another, and as I approached each pass I could feel a blast of polar air chilling my face. The rocky outcrops that stuck up through the blowing snowdrifts suggested this landscape's harsh brutality, while the frozen lakes lay dormant in thickening blankets of white. The countless valleys were punctuated by rocky massifs, sketching out an intricate snow-sunken labyrinth, which was constantly challenging to navigate.

Once again I felt as if I had traveled backward in time, and not fifty years, as at Provideniya, but at least a century this time. The landscape itself had a more primitive character than all the places I had already traveled.

*   *   *

At the end of the first day, I met up with my two companions nineteen miles north-northeast of Provideniya, in the little village of Novyi Chaplino, our first planned rendezvous point.

However, on the second day, on the pretext of going to get fuel at the village of Yandrakinnot, Ivan disappeared with his snowmobile. Something told me that we wouldn't be seeing him again.

On the fifth day Nikolai headed down the wrong valley and got lost in the mountains, so I had to go looking for him. My “guide” was apparently so unfamiliar with the terrain that he was endangering his life and my own. He had been born 180 miles north of Provideniya in a little coastal village named Nachken, but the Chukchis, like the Inuit, never traveled in the winter darkness and knew very little about how to read maps.

After twelve hours of searching and an entire day wasted on his account, I finally found Nikolai, trying in vain to climb a slope that was too steep for his snowmobile with the added weight of pulling his sled. Once he unhooked the sled, the snowmobile climbed the slope quickly and easily, and the sled plummeted down the slope. However, the snowmobile became lodged more deeply in the snow and still did not manage to reach the top of the ridge.

I spent four hours—at a temperature of twenty degrees below zero and in total darkness—climbing the hill myself, in a state of rage fueled by the certain knowledge every step was wasted effort. I seriously considered then and there abandoning my so-called guide and continuing alone.

When I finally got up to his elevation, Nikolai was sitting in the snow next to his vehicle, lost, white-faced, and clearly upset. He was a man in distress. My lips were frozen, but my anger had dissolved. Although minutes before I had wanted to kill him, I helped him get his snowmobile free and back on the road.