Crossing The Gates of Alaska:. Dave Metz
day when I went hiking at Drift Creek, I dropped one of my shoes in the water while wading across the creek. It was January and cold outside, so I needed that shoe to be able to hike the five miles out of there. I chased that shoe down the creek for about a mile while wearing the other shoe. The wool sock on my other foot got wet from running through the creek, flopping around, smacking the bedrock like a pancake. I stumbled over boulders during my chase, jarring my back, but always that shoe seemed to remain just out of reach. It was a cheap sneaker and I was surprised it floated so well.
I ran right through the middle of a picnic that a young couple was having on the dry bedrock along the creek. I apologized as I ran by with my flapping sock smacking the ground. “Sorry, but I lost my shoe in the creek,” I said as I ran by. They were polite and said it was okay, even with Jimmy and Will jumping on them. Once I caught up with my shoe, I waded out into waist-deep water to retrieve it before it got away again. I realized then how injured my back had become. I had to lie down for about an hour because the pain had grown too unbearable to sit up. I knew by the severity of the pain already that I was going to be laid up for several days. It was agony hiking out of there and then driving back home, but somehow I did it, hiking slowly and gritting my teeth.
I was flat on my back for the first week in severe pain wondering if I would ever be able to exercise again, not to mention trek across Alaska. But gradually I was able to do more each day and the pain began to subside. After a month I was training on my bike and lifting weights, getting ready for this journey. I rode at an easy cadence on my bicycle trainer every other day and walked down a forest trail on the alternate day so I could let Jimmy and Will run around to stay fit, which they had no problem doing. Within the last two weeks before the start of my journey I was able to increase the amount of weight I was lifting and do some good solid intervals on my bike to develop leg strength. But I never got back into the kind of shape I was in before my accident. I never missed working out for more than a few days in a row. It had always been one of the constants in my life, like dogs and wilderness.
CROSSING THE SEA ICE
When I stop for the night I have to dig out a spot for the tent with my snow shovel. The snow has a fairly hard crust, but it’s too weak to support my weight. The surface below is dry and grainy, like fine, white sand. The snow is impossible to pack down. I dig almost to the tundra beneath so I can set up my tent on something solid. If I set my tent up on this grainy snow, a large depression will form under my tent whenever I sit in one place too long. You would think that aft er sitting in one place for a while the snow would pack together, but it doesn’t. You keep sinking until you reach solid earth, so it’s best to dig out the snow before you make camp and not have to worry about it later. I dig for thirty minutes. First I have to break apart the hard crust on top with my shovel, which is made of plastic and too cheap for arctic ice. I crack it within the first five minutes. “Oh, that’s great,” I say. I should have invested in a better one, but I can get by without it if I have to. After I break open the crust, I scoop out the grainy snow underneath. Much of the time I scoop it out with my hands that are covered with my huge arctic mittens. I put my hands together and shovel it out between my legs like a badger. I finish the job before my shovel falls apart completely, and then I set up my tent and get in for the night.
During the night I shiver for a long time. I sweated too much during the day. I think some moisture may have collected in the thermal layer that hugs my skin. I check my feet and find a spot between my toes where moisture has formed, and I wipe it dry with my fingers. I check for irregular discoloration or blistering, but I don’t find any. In severe cold I can’t make any mistakes. If I do I could get frostbitten toes or even die from hypothermia and frozen tissues. The warning signs of hypothermia are subtle. One is confusion, and with no one to tell me how I’m acting, I may not be able to tell I’m in trouble. The signs can appear rapidly, so I always have to pay attention to how I’m feeling and act to eliminate any body discomforts before they get worse. I’m anxious to get away from this peninsula and into the trees where I hope the wind won’t be so severe and the threat of freezing to death less.
Even snuggled in my sleeping bags, I get so cold during the night that I almost panic. I cannot warm myself. I know if I have to I can light the stove to warm up the inside of my tent as a last resort, but I wouldn’t be able to keep it going for long. Then I would be right back to where I am now, shivering dreadfully. I decide to curl up into a tight ball and ride out the cold. I know I can endure this cold for several hours as long as there is no wind and I remain dry. I change the thermal shirt next to my skin. I do it quickly so I won’t lose any more body heat than I have to, and though I can’t really detect much moisture in my shirt, I don’t want to take any chances. It’s astonishing how just a slight bit of moisture can make you so cold in weather like this. Changing my shirt seems to help some, and I snug down the hood of my sleeping bags and make sure they are tucked over my face so that no part of my body is open to the frigid air. Then I wait. And I shiver. I don’t know how long I lie here before the sun rises, but just after I feel the first bright warmth on my tent, I stop shivering and begin to warm up again. This tent is good at trapping solar radiation and turning it into heat I can use.
Jonny and I came here almost nine years ago in the month of June. I wanted to hike across this section of Alaska and the Brooks Range like I’m attempting now, but we started too late in the year. I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to hike across this kind of terrain—the tussock mounds slowed us down. We crossed the Baldwin Peninsula when there was a large network of lakes dotting the land. It was merciless, spongy ground to walk on, and mosquitoes plagued us to no end. It took twenty-seven days to hike from Kotzebue to the village of Selawik, a hundred and fifty miles away, when I thought it would only take us two weeks. We became hungry and thin toward the end, and at one point I was forced to build a log raft to float across two wide channels of seawater to reach the village of Selawik. I built it out of driftwood I found along the shores of Inland Lake, which is just an extension of the sea that has penetrated inward. I crossed the channels and walked in waist-high water for six miles towing the log raft behind me before crossing one final channel near the village. I arrived in town knowing that I would have to attempt this journey another year, and that I would have to begin in March or April when the land is still frozen hard. It’s much easier to travel over. That experience made me understand how important it was to travel the low, coastal ground when it is still frozen.
March 29, 2007, seventy miles from Kiana
We finish crossing the Baldwin Peninsula and in the late afternoon arrive at the edge of the massive Hotham Inlet. I stop and gaze out over the ice while a light wind drift s across my face and stings my nose. I hesitate. “We have to cross it to reach the mainland,” I say to the dogs. The mouth of the Kobuk River, which is on the other side, will lead us far into the interior of Alaska before we turn northeast toward the mountains of the Brooks Range. It’s frightening skiing off onto the sea ice heading for the other side when I can’t see the land ahead. It’s miles across, and all I see are the white clouds floating above and the white ice below laid out before us. To go down the peninsula and around would be about 200 miles, and not really an option. I don’t have the days to spare when I’m trying to cross Alaska in one season before freeze-up again in the fall. I won’t have my cold-weather gear then, and I also have to return home for a job. I just hope there is land over there like the maps tell me. I take a bearing with my compass by taking what I believe is my known location on this desolate point of land, and compare it to my map. Then I find the point of land on my map where I want to reach on the other side (I can’t see the land on the other side so navigating is harder) and line the arrow of my compass up appropriately. Knowing my present location and the location I want to reach tell me what compass direction I need to follow. “Just follow the little red arrow,” I say. “Nothing to it.” I always prefer to be able to see my next destination, which is often just a hill on the horizon. Then I can simply point the arrow to it and keep on that course even if clouds roll in and obscure it. With land being so far away, following a tiny red arrow off into the abysmal, frozen ocean alone takes nerves of steel, and I’m a bit freaked out. But it’s cold and I’m chilled, so I shove off. “There must be land over there somewhere,” I say to myself as I take a few more strides forward to the buried edge of the frozen sea. I stop to rest, but it’s windy and cold so I don’t sit down, and we don’t