Date: 1.27.04

Pike's Portage

Journal 21

The cold, calm high pressure remained over us the past two days, as we toiled across the rest of Pike’s portage to Artillery Lake. It took us three and a half days to cover the 30 mile portage, which connects the Great Slave Lake to Artillery Lake and beyond. We worked out a system of teamwork in the literal sense that allowed us to negotiate the steep inclines. We went up one sled at a time, adding extra dogs, creating teams up to 15 dogs, and then all six of us would join in getting the sled uphill. Pushing and pulling, we huffed and puffed in this laborious, time intensive process. It gave me a chance to talk and joke with Eric and Aaron, who are always on the other sleds, and with whom I never get a chance to talk during the day.

 It can be an isolating life on the trail. Your life revolves around your tentmate or your sled partner, which for me is either Mille or Paul. So it was a fine social event, all of us pushing sleds up the hill in the hazy sun.

 Temperatures remain in the mid to upper minus 40’s during the day and night, and we have been spoiled by having absolutely no wind. During the day we were warm most of the time, and I often thought how pleasant is was having my warm blood circulate throughout my body, only to stop for a delay and be amazed at how fast my feet and hands got cold. It is so straightforward and easy to dress in the calm, it is just a matter of layering up or down or adjusting zippers. And we remain comfortable regardless of the activity. I’m sure we all gave thanks at various times for this windless blue sky and the sun, that bathed the scenery in various pinks and reds in its long twilight. It’s brilliant yellow during the day casts long shadows.

We traveled on long lakes connected by winding portage trails. This is steep country that often reminded me of the Brooks Range in Alaska. The cold pooled up on these low lakes, that were scoured out by glaciers. Often the lakes remained in gray shadows all day, the sun not high enough yet in the season to top the surrounding hills. The deep silent cold here produced vapor trails from the heat of the dogs and their breath. Like locomotives, they chugged across the lakes, leaving long vapor trails that caused the sleds in the back to disappear.

 After our departures, the thick mist filled the valleys like San Francisco fog. Pike’s Portage was memorable to all of us, thanks to the kindness of the weather and the camaraderie we experienced on the uphills.

Date: 1.28.04

14 Hours in a Frost-filled Tent

Journal 22

The fine dusting of frost rules our world for the 14 hours we spend in the tent. The frost is the same consistency as confectionary sugar, and it is everywhere. It steadily accumulates on the inner walls of our nylon tent, and we continually try to keep it at bay by brushing it off with a small hand brush that has a horizontal handle. I am actually quite intimate with this brush from my past experiences as a woodworker. It is the brush I always used to sweep the sawdust from my workbench. Luckily, I brought it along on this trip. I was hesitant at first, but once I asked Hugh if we should leave it behind, he suggested it would be a good idea to carry it. The brush has become the centerpiece of our comfort.

It is 6:30 a.m., and I just started the stove half an hour ago. At that time, the interior of the tent looked like a crystalline palace, absolutely everything covered with this fine, cold dusting. This is deposited overnight from the four pounds of water that we breath into our intimate atmosphere. Imagine getting up in your bedroom, it is 40 below, and your bedspread, your pillow, the clothing you left out is covered in this frost. It is pitch black, and your view of this scene is through the feeble beam of your headlight, dim because the batteries are frozen. Then, if you are on the expedition, in this tent, you start sweeping down the walls, that are in very close proximity. If you try to sit up, you have to crouch down your shoulders to avoid getting coated with this white rine. Getting up in the morning, the frost showers down on you, and your open sleeping bag if you didn’t zip it shut.

After the interior is swept down in the 40 below temperature, I light the stove. After a while, both burners manage to melt down the frost on the ceiling of our small, quaza-type tent. Then the ceiling begins to melt. This is finally followed by dryness at the top. We can tell the outside temperature by how far the dry line extends. This morning it is 45 below out, and it is dry near my head, but at shoulder level, when I try to sit up straight, it is cold and icy. As we boil up tea water and cook our breakfast, the frost advances again. It gets thicker and thicker on the walls. The brush is applied, and it is amazing how much frozen moisture we sweep away. We don’t really give it much thought, but as I was doing it this morning, I began to wonder what the average person would think if they lived in this condition.

I am always fastidious about keeping the frost off my sleeping bag. It is very difficult to dry out a sleeping bag, and any moisture will reduce its insulating value. We expect very cold weather ahead, and it is important to keep our bags as dry as possible, in order to stay warm at night and get adequate rest for the long, hard travel days. Normally, the head of the bag collects a tremendous amount of moisture from breathing. In just a few days the entire hood can ice up. But keeping a Patagonia fleece shirt around my head helps collect the moisture, and then I can dry it out in the morning and evening. This has helped a lot to manage the moisture problem. I’m sleeping very snug now. Thanks to a lot of maintenance, and a lot of brushing.

Date: 1.29.04

The Land of Little Sticks

Journal 23

We headed east off the 60 mile long Artillery Lake into The Barrens. Artillery is boundary separating the forest to the west and barren lands to the east. We are now traveling in a thin transitional zone that I call The Land of the Little Sticks. Here, dwarf spruce, either separated or in small bonzai-like clumps dot the sparse landscape. Each one has its own personality, having survived the battling winds and cold. Size is no indication of age, for these are old, old trees. Some will stand along, frosted from the storms, a testimony to perseverance. Many stand in family groups of three or four, the parents stand high among the offspring. I saw one knotted grove of 20, huddling closely around a glacial rock. I was tempted to snuggle among them and get out of the wind and the 70 below wind chill.

The population of these trees will dwindle, from 40-50 per square mile, to one per square mile, and finally to none, as the hardy spruce loose their grip to the Barrenlands. On clear, calm days, their deep green stands out in stark contrast to the white background.

Most often these trees are seen as silhouettes in blowing storms, each with their different shapes and personalities. It is often an ominous sign when the protection of the forest vanishes, like losing your down jacket in a wind. The Indians never ventured here, and the Inuit, spooked by tree spirits, stayed out. The Land of Little Sticks draws my curiosity more than any land feature I have ever seen. It is a testimony of survival for the spruce that live here. Each has its own character, and a testimony of the living spirit. We travel through the Land of the Little Sticks through the low sun, turned golden by the blowing wind.

Our activity of scouting the route and directing the dogs kept us warm, but our hands and feet quickly froze with any short delays. The dwarf trees were witness to our trespass into the land of the unforgiving. The smaller ones were sandblasted to the snow, and the taller ones had no branches near the ground. I admire their beauty as I pass by, their spirit etched in my mind.

Date: 1.30.04

The Barrens

Journal 24

We are now on the vast, treeless Candian Barrens, that extends from the Arctic Ocean on the Mackenzie Delta southeast to Churchill, Manitoba. The Barrens are the northern interior of the continent, shutoff from the benefits of the Pacific air. This area is the home of blizzards, where cold high pressure rules in the winter.

In the spring it is a bowling alley of pressure systems that wing both north and south, producing winds that make this the coldest region in the northern hemisphere. I was first introduced to the Barrens in 1980, when my friend Dave Olesen did our first major dogsled expedition, from Churchill to Baker Lake, Northwest Territories.

At first, its landscape was foreign to me.

Date: 1.31.04

Igloo Snow and Dog Snow

Journal 25

We are now in the Inuit land of snow. Snow is the essential building material for shelter that has allowed these people to survive and even flourish. They have over 150 names for snow and ice, the solid side of water that allowed them to evolve on these barren lands.

You cannot build an igloo anywhere just because there is snow. Building an igloo takes a certain type of snow in thickness and density. It first takes storm winds to break up the ice crystals and pulverize them into bits, which are then laid down into long, narrow drifts. Igloo snow is dense, and the clue to good building snow is that it squeaks underfoot. The snow is so compact that it is very hard to drive the end of a ski straight into it, even when applying considerable force.

The modern Inuit use snow knifes, steel or aluminum blades about three inches wide and a couple of feet long. The ancient Inuit used wooden knifes. I have watched Inuit men make igloos. They walk around back and forth, looking with their eyes and listening for density. They probe with the snow knifes, using quick stabs. When they reach an area of seemingly adequate snow, their thrusts become deeper and the walk in increasingly tighter circles.

Once thing they are checking for is even consistency. In order to shape the blocks quickly and evenly, it must be free from internal flaws, due to drift variation. Once the snow mine is found, they begin cutting and within an hour they have their comfortable home up.

I would take an igloo any day over the nylon tents. They are warm, quiet, and above all, don’t have the moisture problems that plague us. But building an igloo is not an option for us, because we are on the move. We are motivated to make a certain point, a village, at a certain time. This type of ambition would not be in the native psyche. Not being driven by the clock or calendar, they build their nightly camp out of snow.

Now dog snow is different from igloo snow. We are finally off the big lakes and are camping on land, and the dogs are very happy about this. Although their double thick fur allows them to sleep on ice comfortably, they prefer to sleep on ground. On the tundra, we have a low heather type brush that collects snow, and does not allow the wind to compact it like igloo snow in the open spaces. It is also like freeze dried snow. It is light and brittle, and you can dig a snow down to the ground with no effort. It also has dry leaves and twigs underneath that dogs like.

To help our canine friends out, we dig holes for them. They are always thankful for any extra effort we do for them. Affection and good deeds like this are as essential to them as food. And like humans, affection is food for the spirit. Once the hole is dug, they step in and move around and around, first in wide circles, and then tighter and tighter like a top that is spinning. This is how they make their nest. Finally, they plop down, comfortable and happy. After feed time, they settle down in the sled dog position, curled up with their tail covering their nose and eyes.

The dog snow protects them, and with their back to the wind they sleep like a child in a down blanket.