Читать книгу Crossing The Gates of Alaska: - Dave Metz - Страница 12

March 20, 2007, approximately eighty miles from Kiana

Fierce winds and bitter cold batter the northwest coast of Alaska through the month of March, making life almost impossible here. I don’t quite appreciate the weather’s severity until I step off the plane and feel the arctic air scouring my body. Except for the arctic fox, and perhaps a rare polar bear roaming in off the frozen sea, no large animals live out in the frigid air. Even ravens haven’t shown up yet. It’s far too cold.

Kotzebue is an isolated town on the tip of the Baldwin Peninsula, on the northwest coast of Alaska. It’s built on a large spit of land that juts out into Kotzebue Sound on the edge of the Chukchi Sea, dangling at the waves’ mercy. The region has a long cultural history of being settled by the Inupiat Eskimo. I don’t think Kotzebue is an Eskimo name, but it is an Eskimo village. It’s named after the Polish explorer Otto von Kotzebue who discovered the village around 1816. Though most of the residents are Inupiat Eskimo, I’m certain people of other origins live here now as well, moving in from other parts of Alaska and the lower forty-eight states, like Caucasians and perhaps other people indigenous to Alaska like the Yupik Eskimo. Even in the dead of winter the native people walk around without hats on and bare-hand everything, even icy steel. If it weren’t for their incredible tolerance for wind and cold, the rest of humanity just might forsake this place. But these people have made this part of Alaska their home, despite the hardships. Like most Alaskans they have adopted snowmobiles as their primary mode of transportation and ride them around with the throttle topped out. Everywhere they go it seems to be at full speed, and the younger generation has taken to racing back and forth across the frozen ice, like it’s the main activity in their lives. I wonder if they are losing touch with their culture and with wilderness by rushing their sedentary lives too much. It’s ironic how sedentary people always act hastier than nomadic people. I cringe both from the cold and from the mistake of forsaking nature.

The people here don’t seem to feel the bone-stabbing effects of the cold, and they can retreat into their modern houses and warm themselves. The appeal of our industrial, gadget-filled world has reached even this place—so far out on the edge of the North American continent that it seems like it could fall off into the sea and disappear. As for gadgets, I’m carrying a satellite phone with me just in case I get into trouble and want to return to the modern world myself.

When I walk off the plane in about ten-degree weather, I know Jimmy and Will must be suffering from chills, so I go inside the airport terminal and look for them. I find them sitting outside the front door of the terminal garage in their kennels. When I get to them they are distressed and shivering, so I drag their kennels inside the alcove of the rear door where it’s at least ten degrees warmer and out of the wind. Then I collect all my gear off the conveyor belt and call a van to pick us up. I have a lot of winter gear, so it takes me several trips to lug it all outside where my ride will come. I feel a social phobia wakening within me, because the terminal is small and crowded with a lot of people standing around. They are patient and wait for their baggage as I weave my way through them with my gear. I feel like a novice, battered by the cold, and I never make eye contact even though I’m taller than most of them. I get the feeling these people are scrutinizing me and I begin to second-guess the journey I’m about to begin. It seems so extreme. I don’t think people around here undertake adventures like this anymore. My innate restlessness and my undying urge to be on the move make me feel inferior.

My ride arrives and I load Jimmy and Will into the back of the van. The driver helps me load the kennels, but I don’t let the dogs out yet. When I do they will want to run around for a while, and it will be hard to get them back in. It’s better to wait a few minutes longer until I get to where I plan to camp. I have the driver take me a mile out of town where there is less noise. Even though there is only about a mile of road in the town, the driver appears mildly stressed and rushes to pick up and drop off passengers. The van passengers talk to each other quietly like they are acquaintances. I can’t quite understand what they are saying, and I’m not sure if they are talking in their native language or some form of accented English that I can’t decipher. An old native woman sits in the front seat on the passenger side and mumbles to the young man driving like she is a sage giving advice. She doesn’t look at him, just out the front window, but the man reacts as if he understands everything. I don’t know what she is saying. They all talk so softly, which is kind of a nice change when I think about it for a few minutes. There’s no gaudy talk and no one aggressively controlling the conversation. There’s simply the monotonic speech that I really don’t need to understand. When we get well out of town and everyone else has exited, I have the driver let me out. Then I unload my gear and the dogs. The snow crackles beneath my feet. I let the dogs sniff around to warm up and to relieve themselves. Their breaths leave two rising columns of vapor as they thread their way over the white, glistening tundra.

I erect the tent right away, about fifty yards from the main road. It’s a two-person, four-season tent made by Marmot. It’s made for extreme weather, and without it I couldn’t survive. The light wind that blows here constantly cuts right through me, and I’m concerned that it could increase at any time. I make sure to use several pieces of cord to tie off the middle section of the tent, to help stabilize it if the wind does kick up. I can’t risk having any broken tent poles or torn fabric out here. I would have preferred to stay in a motel my first night here to adjust to the cold shock, but there were none that allowed dogs inside. I can’t just leave Jimmy and Will out in this cold; they would freeze to death. Their fur isn’t thick enough to withstand this kind of cold without a tent. It will be better after they acclimate, but I keep them inside the tent with me at night to keep them warm and comfortable. The first half of this trek depends on them remaining strong and healthy because they will be doing most of the pulling. They will be the main driving engines that will help me pull about 200 pounds of food and winter gear in two separate sleds. I know even before I start that my journey will not be possible without them. I could pull the sleds by myself, but it would be much slower. I have so much gear to cope with the ice and cold, that the weight I have to carry seems ridiculous. For instance, I have a snow shovel for digging out a place for my tent each day and an ice axe for chopping ice from the river to melt for drinking. I will also be getting many more clothes and large quantities of cooking fuel before I set out.

March 21, 2007

Today I move my tent closer to town and set it up underneath the bridge where it’s more protected from the wind, and also so I have a shorter distance to haul my food back from the post office. Since I’m not accustomed to the cold yet, I underestimate its savagery and begin to stumble before I get close to town. It’s a rude awakening how it can knock you back and put your life in peril within a few minutes’ time. As I hike back toward town hauling all my gear, I get chilled and my toes start to ache. It’s only out of necessity that I decide to pitch my tent under the bridge. This is as far back toward town as I can get before I get into serious trouble. I lose my ability to function properly. My toes sting and I can’t get them warm no matter how fast I walk. I have to concentrate and work through the cold to set up my tent. My fingers aren’t working right. I have to unfold the poles and shove them into their tent sleeves while wearing my gloves as much as possible. I take a minute when I’m not quite done to pull each of my fingers out of the finger section of my gloves and curl them up into a fist while still inside my gloves. When my fingers all come into contact with each other I clutch them together to warm them up a little, and this gives me a few more minutes of time to work before my fingers go completely numb. But once I get the tent set up, I hurry in with the dogs to warm up. Once the doors are zipped and I’m out of the icy wind, I begin to feel better.

Later in the day, because my tent is set up and I know I have a place to hurry back to for warmth, I risk walking to the grocery store. I pet the dogs as I tie them up and out of the wind. The store sits off the ground on large beams, so Jimmy and Will can lay underneath where there is dry dirt. I walk up metal-grated steps and enter through double doors, which lead me to a lobby before I enter two more doors that lead into the main store. The air inside the lobby has to be about forty degrees warmer. My glasses fog up instantly, and the warmth causes me to overheat. I yank off my balaclava and stocking cap, and I unzip my thick jacket before I enter the final doors. The store is fairly large, so as I search up and down the aisles I start to sweat. I have to stop and take off my jacket.

I buy two gallons of white gas for the stove, a loaf of cheap bread, and a gallon of milk. “Going on a camping trip,” I say to the cashier, but he doesn’t respond, like he doesn’t hear me or care. I wouldn’t want to work a full-time job here. It wouldn’t allow me time to explore the wilderness around. After paying the cashier I put my jacket and hats back on before exiting the final doors. I move around the building to where the dogs are. They start sniffing my bags as I pack them up. “Come on, guys,” I say. “We got to go.” Then I grab the dogs, shuffle back over to my camp, and get inside the tent. I give the dogs most of the milk right away before it freezes, which it would do if I left it out overnight. It’s that cold, perhaps ten below now.

March 22, 2007

I sleep in today, snuggled in my two sleeping bags like a cocoon. I remain in my sleeping bags for twelve straight hours, nearly content to wait here forever until the spring thaw arrives. I don’t want to face the cold outside, or even the cold inside my tent. The thermometer hanging on the frost-covered wall of the tent reads twenty degrees and I know it must be a lot colder outside. Around one in the aft er-noon, the temperature on the wall of my tent where the sunlight is hitting reaches forty degrees; however, the corners are still encased in thick frost from the vapors in our breathing all night. I begin to stir in my sleeping bag and after a few minutes I sit up, brush some flaky ice crystals off my outer sleeping bag, and prepare to hike over to the post office from my frozen camp. The dogs don’t move a muscle and stay curled up under their sleeping bags until I’m ready to leave the tent. Here cold weather takes on a whole new dimension. If you don’t prepare for it on a trip like this, it could kill you when you aren’t paying attention.

I get fully dressed, boots and all, before I go outside. Then I haul my two sleds to the post office and find that all my packages are there. There is one box filled with lentils, oats, and a few freeze-dried dinners; one box with sixty pounds of dog food; one box of assorted meals that all require adding water; one box of energy bars and snacks; and one box of warm arctic clothes. I’m grateful to get the expedition-weight bib pants. They prevent any cool drafts from reaching the skin of my lower back since they reach so far up from my waist. This also helps keep my thermal shirts tucked in and snug against my body.

I hurry around to the back of the post office where I have the dogs secured out of the wind. They stand there motionless, waiting, but when they see me coming around the corner, they start wagging their tails and jumping up and down. Jimmy likes to throw his head back and forth like a puppy. It’s his way of inviting play and saying hi. Will never does this. He jumps up and down like he’s on a trampoline. “Okay guys, okay guys,” I say in a pleasant tone, “we’re going, we’re going. Don’t worry.” Then they jump on me and I pat them a couple of times before they calm down. I load up the boxes into my sleds, tie them down with some cord, and start towing them back to my tent. I saunter over the frozen bay along the bridge and let Jimmy and Will wrestle as we walk. They can play-fight with each other when they are standing still, walking a few miles per hour or running at a dead sprint. To them it doesn’t matter where they are or what they are doing. They want to wrestle all the time, like no other dogs I’ve seen before.

They’re handling the cold well; as long as they’re moving they stay warm and exuberant. I keep them on a long rope so they can romp around without running off to chase other dogs. Their capacity for play and their vigorous nature amazes me. Nothing seems to dampen their high spirits. When they see other dogs they want to run right over to them. If they were not on leashes, they would jump on the other dogs like they had known them their entire lives. The only problem is that other dogs usually get scared and freak out over an Airedale’s rough style. And if those dogs react aggressively back toward Jimmy and Will, who only want to play, they might start fighting. Airedales have a history of being used to hunt bears and mountain lions. Their lack of fear toward bears is one reason I picked them, but it could also get them into trouble. Airedales are well adapted for fighting and hunting, with huge teeth and a long muzzle that can clamp down over most other dogs’ muzzles. Airedales are flexible, with lightning-fast reflexes. They are quite strong for their size and have heads and necks that look disproportionately larger than the rest of their bodies. When they rush in for an attack, they always lead with their front legs up in an attempt to knock the other dog off balance before they risk bringing in their face and mouth for biting. Airedales approach situations with little fear. They don’t hesitate at all when they approach another dog or a wild animal. Wrestling with them is hard enough, and often the mere weight of their teeth and jaws will create a bruise on my arm.

Back at the bridge I unload all my supplies and put them into the tent where I can organize them in warmth. I melt snow on my stove so Jimmy and Will can drink. I have to do this at least twice a day because everything is frozen. I keep melting snow until the dogs have quenched their thirst and don’t want to drink anymore. Then I pour the remainder of the water into a bottle, and during the night I stuff it inside my sleeping bag so it won’t freeze and I can use it in the morning. I also put my stove in my sleeping bag; otherwise it will jam up with ice particles and not function in the morning when I’m groggy, chilled, and need to get it working quickly. At negative five to twenty degrees Fahrenheit I have no patience for a shoddy stove while I’m trying to wake up.

In the evening it gets dark around ten and we get ready to sleep. The night never gets completely dark, though. There is always some dim light giving a hint to the coming summer when for a brief period in late June, the sun will never set. Snowmobiles whiz by throughout the night. Many of these people are up at the oddest hours because they don’t really have to go to work the next morning, and late in the evening is when the weather is the calmest. One of the noisy machines drives by my tent about every fifteen minutes. This is the only point where they can get to the other side of the road without having to drive on bare pavement. Here they can simply drive on the frozen water as they go under the bridge. I don’t mind the people so much. If I were to get into trouble there would be someone around to go to for help.

Before going to sleep I write in my journal. I have to write with my gloves on because even inside my tent the temperature is too cold to expose my fingers for long. I wear three layers of thermal underwear, three pairs of wool socks, and a thick balaclava on my head, and a fleece hat over that. I also have on a vest and pile jacket, but still I’m a little cold. The dogs are wearing their jackets, too; the ones that my mother had made just for this trip. The dogs also nestle under an extra sleeping bag that I brought for them. I will give it to someone in a village in a few weeks along with other cold-weather gear when the temperature warms up for good. The entire floor of my tent is covered with two layers of pads to insulate us from the ice beneath. This is crucial when dealing with this kind of cold; a great amount of body heat can be lost from direct contact with ice beneath. I think it will be twenty below zero outside tonight and in the teens inside my tent. Occasionally the dogs get up during the night to change their positions, and in the process they uncover themselves. I’ll wake to feel them shivering against my legs, so I have to rouse myself to cover them back up. These dogs rarely whimper, so the only way I can tell if they are cold is if their bodies are shaking. If I don’t cover them back up, the cold might wear on them during the night, making the journey a little harder for them than it needs to be. I want them to be able to have fun on this trek, at least most of the time. I will need them as fresh as possible in the coming days, too, so keeping them warm, hydrated, fed, and well rested is important if I want them to pull my sleds with me. It’s critical if I want to trek across Alaska.

I hope Jimmy and Will will grow strong physically and mentally from our journey. Most of the time I want them to feel free—while I watch them carefully—and to know how to maneuver across a wild landscape. I think their nature will become more animated and amiable from all the exercise and sniffing around they’ll get to do. It’s a locked-up sedentary life I’m hoping to eliminate from their lives, as from my own.

March 23, 2007

Today I try to light my stove outside, but it doesn’t work. The cold wind extinguishes my lighter flame before I can get it to my stove to ignite the fuel. I get out my windproof matches, strike one, and put it next to the burner, but the stove doesn’t ignite. I strike several matches and put them next to the burner one at a time, but still my stove doesn’t ignite. I fiddle with it for about an hour before coming to the conclusion that I can’t take my chances on a junky stove like this. I want to throw it down and smash it, but I put it back inside my tent instead. I walk into town to call Julie and have her order me a new stove and a windproof lighter (it’s like a small blowtorch). I must have one that is designed to operate in severe cold, one that is designed to spill out liquid fuel onto the burner so I can light the fuel and allow the stove to heat up. The heat then will allow the pressurized fuel in the line to start burning as it hits the outside air.

Julie handles all the logistics back home that I can’t do here. She is the woman I thought I would never find in my life. She is the anchor to which all threads of my journey are attached. Without her it would be hard for me to complete my trek. I can’t depart until I have two stoves that function. To lose both my stoves or to have them break would be the end of me, because I wouldn’t be able to melt snow to drink, and building fires in the brutal wind would be nearly impossible. Besides too much wind, there isn’t any wood that is easily accessible. Only inside my tent can I stay warm enough to manage the arctic conditions when I’m not moving.

After warming up in the post office lobby while making my phone call, I mosey back to my camp under the bridge. There is no need to rush. I want to stay warm, but I don’t want to sweat, either. Moisture next to my skin will leave me chilled to the bone. I feel the warm blood oozing through my toes so I can slow down and still retain the warmth. When I first go outside, only the first twenty minutes require some intense exertion to warm up my extremities; aft er that I can slow to a comfortable pace.

Knowing that tonight is going to be bitter cold again, I pull my sleeping bags out of my tent to let the condensation evaporate into the dry, arctic air. They dry well enough while the wind is blowing, even with temperatures below zero. One good thing about cold air is that it usually has low humidity, and this benefits me in a number of ways. My clothes don’t retain as much moisture and my skin doesn’t retain sweat for long, so I don’t get very dirty. My glasses don’t fog up, my sleeping bags stay fairly dry, and the inside of my tent doesn’t hold as much vapor. Wood, when I start using it to build fires, will be normally dry and easy to burn.

I break down all the boxes my food arrived in and lay them on the bottom of my tent, under my pads, to insulate us even more against the frozen ground. Then I build a two-foot snow wall all around my tent and put chunks of snow on the bottom parts of my rain fly where it wavers in the wind. This should protect my tent from the wind and give me at least five more degrees of warmth inside. “Just like paradise,” I say when I’m done.

I got Jonny eleven years ago with the intention of taking this journey, or something like it. He arrived by plane from Alabama, numb with loneliness from being uprooted from his family. I wish I had driven out to get him. I could have spent a few days getting to know him before I took him away from all that was familiar. He was only eleven weeks old and almost completely black, but as he grew older, the tan around his shoulders and over his legs began to stand out.

I worked several odd jobs over the years and attempted to get to quite a few wild places on earth during my years with Jonny. When I traveled north, I took Jonny with me. When I went south to tropical climates, I left Jonny home in Oregon with friends or family. I went places most people have never even heard of, like the Tama Abu Range of Sarawak on the island of Borneo and the Mackenzie Mountains in northern Canada. I had a difficult time seeing journeys through, though, because often when I would get to a place I would discover that it wasn’t remote enough for me. Part of the forested habitat would be badly fragmented and all the people would be too dependent on a capitalist economy, not on their traditional mode of gathering food. I traveled to Peru three times. I kayaked both along the Amazon River outside of Iquitos and up the Los Piedras River in the Madre de Dios region to search for the Yora Indians.

I searched for the nomadic Penan Indians in Borneo, walking alone in the mountains for several weeks through pure, primordial forests that boggled my understanding of nature. Pliable vines with sharp hooks would latch on to my clothes as I tried to slide by, and hordes of leeches held firmly to my skin. I followed old signs that the Penan had been there—their overgrown trails and abandoned shelters—but I never found them. I returned the following year to hike into an even more remote region of Borneo’s mountains. I was lost for three days and meandered along densely clad, jungle ridges somewhere near the headwaters of the Adang River. I had to climb high up into trees to look for ridgelines off in the distance to figure out where I was, just like I had practiced in Oregon. Sometimes I felt so disoriented that I thought my compass had to be broken.

I went to Venezuela to hike in the Guiana Highlands, hoping to find the nomadic Hoti tribe, but I barely got away from the Orinoco River before I turned back. I boated across Brazil, from Peru to the ocean, thinking about finding the Awa Guaja tribe near the end of my trip, but I got mugged in Belem by two young men. It was my boiling frustration of traveling across the Amazon jungle for two weeks in a boat loaded with obnoxious Brazilians and not getting out into the rain forest that made me so heated. Normally mild mannered, I was like a bomb waiting to go off. I drove my muggers away aft er I pummeled one man’s jaw with my fist. They lost their nerve about robbing me and once I calmed down I lost my nerve about traveling to outlying regions of Brazil with so many hostile and unpredictable people around.

Jonny and I traveled to Alaska a number of times. I resolved to finally find and spend a long period of time roaming in a wild land, surviving on my own like humans had done for a million years before. I wanted to fish in the rivers and lakes, and collect berries in the summer, but mostly I simply wanted to hike across the unmolested land, day after day, free to go whereever I chose. Alaska seemed to be my last chance to immerse myself in wilderness, and after having spent many months in Alaska over twenty years, living there and traveling there, this was going to be my best adventure in nature yet.