Date: 1.1.04

Cold Mornings

Journal 1

It's pitch black until 8:30 a.m. Our tent is like a cold, nylon cave. The walls flap in the wind, and my breath billows out, hitting the pages of this journal, and expands like a cumulous cloud. The vapor shudders in unison to the flapping of the frosted walls.

Another shock wave passes underneath. It promises to be another cold morning, packing up the sleds.

Date: 1.1.04

The Rumble of Cracking Ice

Journal 2

The wind picked up last night and the temperature dropped, causing the ice on the Great Slave Lake to crack violently. The contraction of the ice is a sign that the temperature is dropping. The tremors on large lakes can be quite loud. And this is magnified when you are sleeping right on the ice. You can hear the tremors coming, traveling through the ice like ground thunder. It shakes the tent, rumbles by like a freight train in the night. There is no danger, but some of the dogs don't know this.

Date: 1.1.04

First Morning' s Alarm Clock

Journal 3

To my surprise, the alarm actually went off on the first morning, at 6 a.m. The alarm clock was sitting out by the stove, and at these temperatures the batteries usually freeze up, silencing alarm clocks. I pondered sleeping with the small alarm clock near my head to keep it warm, but decided last night to test the lower range of it’s annoying electronic beeps.

Date: 1.2.04

Sounds in the Deep Cold

Journal 4

Yesterday was cold and clear. I watched the sun rise from the flat horizon of the Great Slave Lake, a perfect yellow orb silently rising in the cold. It scutters not far off the southern horizon for its five-hour appearance. It gives off no heat, and its brightness is feeble, castling long shadows that dance on flat lake surfaces as a caravan of dogs and people pass into the infinite horizon.

On these cold, calm mornings, our dogs look like steam locomotives, the intense cold sets up vapor trails from the heat of their bodies and their breath. These vapor trails in the deep, still cold will linger, marking our route. In this cold hushness, sound travels far. Normal conversation can be heard from half a mile away. I warn my teammates to be careful about what they say about everyone. The constant sound is the encouragement of the dog drivers - Hup, hup, hup! Gee, gee up there Axle, good boy.” With this Hup, hup, hup! we slowly march 3,000 miles to the Atlantic Ocean.

Date: 1.2.04

Journaling in the Cold

Journal 5

It's pitch black until 8:30 a.m. Our tent is like a cold, nylon cave. The walls flap in the wind, and my breath billows out, hitting the pages of this journal, and expands like a cumulous cloud. The vapor shudders in unison to the flapping of the frosted walls.

Another shock wave passes underneath. It promises to be another cold morning, packing up the sleds.