Fighting to Win

   Tradition is a variable. Frame Kayaqs, for example, have traditionally been built of wood, usually spruce as it was readily available, light and easy to work with despite it's strength. Fallen trees have ended up drifted all along the coast of Alaska, in addition to cedar and hemlock, and so have through history been the most ready source of construction material, when it appeared - which wasn't as frequent as you moved farther north along the Arctic coastline.
   The rivers help, however, with their discharge of anything that falls in, and with their amplification of the currents can distribute driftwood considerable distances.
   One learns quickly to utilize as effectively as possible anything available to survive, as the small bone harpoon head on my desk testifies. In the Arctic, as with any other remote survival circumstances, you live by the rules, and you fight to win.

   Traditionally, then, one uses the best you can get to make things work - just because bone, ivory and stone where used before, didn't stop the native inhabitants from seeing the obvious benefits of iron and steel tools, and rifles over harpoons. They wisely kept the wisdom of their past, by adapting to the future. And they've done a far better job at it than most cultures have.

   Some techniques have proven themselves over time, and have advantages not to be forgotten when you really consider what you are up against there. Even today, you can easily find yourself hundreds of miles from the nearest human being, not to mention civilization. So if anything goes wrong, to put it right you either have it, make it, or do without it to keep going. Things can get brutally simple sometimes.

   So survival designing the ice maiden for her home environment is more than just building a traditional boat. What we are about is what makes a Kayaq unique, and becomes who and what she is as a creature of the sea. You can't just think of that casual weekend paddle - there's nothing casual about paddling the Arctic. One paddler who wrote about his paddle there openly admitted getting out of the water when the waves got knee high. I can't fault him, really, though if one's experience and ability is that limited they really shouldn't be there in the first place. The survival fact is he recognized his limitations, and wasn't foolish enough to push them. So, bottom line, he survived. And that's the name of the game.

   Come back alive. Period.

   So, with that thought in mind, the process of creating life begins with life. Which requires a name, as my children have, and so must she. When originally planned as a double, since my Wife Kim and I didn't have a canoe at the time, she was more like a Norse Dragon ship. When Kim and I started to restore the cedar canoe for our trips together, however, she suggested that I allow myself the privilege of creating the Kayaq I've wanted to build for years, but have been unable to. As a result, the Dragon Ship slimmed down, and the mentality of her purpose changed with her. She's become a peaceful joy for my family memories, and a hope for our future. So, now she has a name.

   Keilidgh Irene.

   Having a name gives life to something that otherwise becomes an object, and is treated like one. If you are going to stay alive with what you have, you cannot afford to get that casual. You don't want to get stupidly possessive, but you do want to treat what you have with respect, and consider anything and everything possible that you could encounter, and how to deal with it.

   If you have a tendency to treat your Kayaq more as a living creature than as an object or tool, you'll be more careful with her, and think out her needs so she can continue to function through anything you may encounter together, much more thoroughly. Because as long as she stays alive, you do.

   That simple.

   Back to design, then. Tradition has been wood, and in this case, the frame will also be wood. It is more readily available for repairs out there, can often be reconstructed with what you have on hand - fire, water, a knife and some string - and can be worked with your hands. Keep it simple.

   And since she will be smaller now, I can utilize either an aluminum shell for the hull, which is light and resistant to the abrasion of salt ice as well as the beach compositions, or to a ballistic cloth, which is tough, flexible even in extreme cold and wet weather, and can be repaired quickly in even remote circumstances. Both are simple, strong and seaworthy.

   No metal as fastenings, except where as in the case of the aluminum shell the tig welding is required. Today's nylon and synthetic cords are as tough or better than metal fastenings, won't work loose in a seaway, and can be worked, again, by hand. For something this small, metal fastenings are a needless complication, especially as the ties are protectively enclosed within the kayaq's shell.

   Where pins are needed to align and fasten larger units, tree nails do the job very well, which are wooden pins fashioned for the purpose. They are inserted snugly into the holes drilled for their use, the pieces are formed tightly together, then a wedge is inserted in the slots cut into each end of the pin, and driven into the pins across the grain until solid. Then they are cut off even with the surface of the pieces joined. When done with care, and the appropriate woods are used for the purpose, they hold every bit as well as any metal fastening, though carefully especially in building boats due to the need for the care in aligning the grain of the wood properly to prevent shearing, or snapping apart, the wood under stress. With metal, even a novice can plunk a metal shaft in a hole and tighten a nut to the bolt. Some will even remember the washers.

   One thing I do use in the joiner work of the end pieces is a marine sealant, such as is produced by 3M company, such as 5200 or the like. The sealant works as an adhesive to glue the joints together in a flexible bond, and once clamped together, will dry forming the joints into one solid unit without the abrasion of dry wood to wood joints. The ties are more likely to stay tight and hold their structure together better, while still able to work with a seaway and not come apart. I usually only use it for the larger end pieces that see the most working stress and impact, which enables a quicker and easier repair of the smaller frames, etc. as they can be more easily removed and replaced. But the choice is up to the builder. I would rather not have to try and carve that sealant out of a hole once it's dried. Just working with it on surface joints is hard enough.

   Then the frame, once locked together as a tied unit, is ready for the covering, as mentioned in previous articles. When ready to sew the fabric cover on, you'll want to have a sailor's palm handy. You'll need it.

   Each phase of the design, every piece of wood, every stitch in the covering, bonds you with the creature you are creating. She has life because of you, she will live for you, and you will stay alive because she will fight for you. But only as well as you care for her. That's why there's more to it than just the name. You give her a name, then she has an identity.

   And a place in your family.

   Then, when you are out there, you aren't alone any more.

   You're still together, as a Family.

   And believe me, sometimes that simple fact can make all the difference, between living and trying, or giving up and dying.

   Been there, done that.

                           Welcome to the Family, Keilidgh Irene.

                                                 -WKD

Ice Maiden

   The stability was well proven, when my friends Don and Marilyn Reid came to our home on Kodiak Island. It's the only single kayaq I know of you can stand up in.

   They needed some stable kayaqs to paddle in our waters for a few days and do some photography, before returning to their home on the North Island of New Zealand. We had become friends after meeting on our Alaskan ocean ferry Tustumena, while they were vacationing after skippering Mike Ball's diving operations off the east coast of Australia, but this was the first time they had had a chance to try my kayaqs for any extended period of time. They enjoyed several days along our northern shores and channels, finding the puffins especially humorous when they tried to take off the water after a full meal. (My wife had also found them to be in like character, so when she decided to paint one, she gave them some dignity in "Puffin's Formal Portrait". A fantasy, of course, but she had fun doing him that way!)

   The life on the water and surrounding tundra has in their turn, fascinated me in many ways. Yet when there one cannot forget the basics - such as where you are while enjoying that fascination. I needed a solid nav watch to help, and knew that the usual would not handle the strain. There's no greater equalizer on equipment than the stress of the working ocean environment.
   So I turned to Don, who as a Skipper for Ocean Tugs would understand what I needed. He didn't let me down, recommending the Sector watch to take with me. His council was good, the stainless unit standing up to not only the sea, immersed and hammered as it was while kayaqing, but also years later through my service in the shipyards - with only an occasional change of batteries and one cleaning.
   But it was the friendships I gained through association with their company that made the memories special, and Jonathan Nettelfield proved to be chief amongst them as their North American Director. The friendship we forged through our Arctic years went well beyond the watches, and his family likewise. Those two watches are with me still, and the Titanium is on my wrist now as I write.
   Time and distance is everything on the water, and having these watches has stood me well when I had my hands full with building weather. A good case in point was my run from Demarcation Point into Canada. This was a time that the design of the boat and the navigational aids had to hold up.
   I had only been on the water barely two hours, having crossed the Canadian Border when the weather began to pick up - again. Within the next three hours, the previously modest swells were running at six to eight feet high, and the wind blowing at well over 35 knots. The shallow approaches were what were steepening the swells, and after several hours I was also learning as I passed, that the openings which would have normally been available to get out through, had been cut off from me by the surf crashing over the bars. The only refuge left that I could count on was behind Herschel Island, over 50 nautical miles from where I had started. To say the least, I had my hands full.
   By the time I reached the Island, I had been in the boat over 16 hours without a break. What awaited me, however, wasn't the relief I sought - the seas were plowing forcefully into a spit across the small bay I needed to reach to get out of this. As I approached, the seas were steepening and by watching along the shoreline to my right the waves could be accurately measured. And, just as I was realizing that the 10 + foot waves, which were burying my kayaq and me up to my chest, were going to drive me relentlessly into the bar, an opening appeared that would let me through and out of the surf - if I could quarter across the swells enough to reach it.
   Fortunately, the kayaq proved up to the pounding, and maneuvered the seas well enough to allow me a shot at the entrance to the beckoning calm beyond - only to run as I shot for the opening right into an opposing current! The river behind the bar was feeding an ebb tide, which needless to say was only worsening the conditions I was in by piling the seas higher against the wind. I fought for over a half hour just to get through the small opening and into the protection of calm water behind the bar.
   Once in, I sought a spot where I could get out of the boat, only to find a barren land grizzly patrolling the shoals. No brainer as to my next decision - I bid him good fishing, and went down the coast past his domain, then turned up into the bay at the end of Herschel Island itself - and right into the wind. For another hour and a half my 19 foot kayaq and I fought against it, my paddles against the unhampered wind and choppy seas. It was better than the alternative, however, and after working nearly an hour and a half to cover less than one nautical mile, I was finally able to crawl out of the boat. We had been struggling together for over 19 hours, and camp sounded really good - with warm soup!
   I have a general rule of thumb when kayaqing - always set up a full camp at the end of the day's run, no matter how tired you are. If there was ever a time I was tempted to just haul out the one man bivie tent and crash, this was it. But experience has taught me that the weather can turn only too quickly, and what you are caught in could prove to be your shelter for a long time. And if you've been sweating for several hours...?
   I set up a full camp.
   Room to rest, clean up, eat, enjoy light and a good book, stretch out. I've been accused of being too well equipped, but I've lived a subsistence lifestyle and know the difference in what is necessary and too much.
   And in my humble opinion, a roomy tent and a warm meal is not too much to ask. Prior planning prevents poor performance. Wet and miserable does not an intelligent person make. Especially when you know better.
   Here is also where the kayaq herself makes the difference, as it is in her design that the abilities to carry her cargo in a seaworthy fashion begins. I felt a sincere gratitude for my Yupik Grandfather's council in this, given many years ago. Grandpa Tim told me something then I would never forget.
   He had just taken my 17 foot hunting kayaq out on Lake St. George, (in the state of Maine), and had returned my boat to me. At 80 he was still hunting moose in Alaska (which was our home then), so wanting to try out the kayaq didn't surprise me one bit. As we were walking away, he put his arm around my shoulder and told me he had liked the boat, because it wasn't as unstable as the skin boats he had grown up in. I remembered that he grew up being stuffed into the older skin boats as a boy with his mother, and paddling the same boats himself as a teenager. So his next council I took to heart, when he said,"Remember, Bill, that the Kayaq is first and foremost a vehicle of transportation. If you ever forget that, you will not have a kayaq - you will have a toy." Then he smiled, patted my shoulder, and walked to the car.
   With that, knowing his history, he was telling me that the kayaq (not kayak, as is pronounced by outsiders, or gussucqs) was as important to a families' ability to provide for themselves then, as the car or truck is to a modern family today.
   And when returning to my Island home in Old Harbor, as I used my kayaq to hunt and feed my own, I found again the realization of his council to me that day so long ago.
   So the kayaq I am forming now is crafted under my hands in his memory. As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, family is everything to me. And though my blood ancestors are Crow and Irish, his warm friendship over the years has kept that part of our family alive for me, and I feel that even now. I miss him. So I tie each knot remembering his council. And knowing that this Kayaq will make him proud.
   She's going to be 18 feet long, shorter now as my wife has expressed a desire to double up in our canoe I'm also restoring, and paddle our kayaqs as they are. I actually don't mind, as this frees me to make this Kayaq an extension of the builder, as tradition would have it, making her distinctly my own.
   The cedar byforcated bow is attached to the keel now, which is close grained fir formed and ready to have the cedar stern piece attached later. The bow stands straight, solid and ready for a life in the sea which she has been formed to embrace. The Arctic I have lived is in her creation, and the wealth of her heritage is going into her lines.

   I think Grandpa Tim would approve.

                                           -WKD

       
  

Crystal Cathedrals

   Brownlow Point was a barrier that had hung in the distance, as a promise of safety from the approaching ice that July day over a month previous. The wind and ice had other ideas, however, and as related in the first entry, had turned into a corkscrew to cut me off. 
   Now, as I approached this mid August morning, the ice had changed it's strategy. Towering chunks of ice sculptured by the elements were mobilized by the encouraging of the wind, to cut across my path and push me relentlessly into the shore. If I didn't make it past the Point, it could be weeks before the wind shifted and pushed them away to allow my passage through - weeks that I did not have. 
   If they moved at all.
   I bent to the paddle, blades winging into the spray as I pulled with a will in a desperate race to beat the crowding ice. The encroaching pack swayed around me, rolling with the swells as it steadily slid closer into the last opening left. Grinding as a staggering wall into the shallows, they pitched and rolled as they hovered over me. Then the growlers moved out from hiding behind them, to ground and bump their way around the bergs towards the Point. 
   The shallows would not stop the approaching growlers, though they were breaking up in the steepening swells as they began to mass towards the shore.
   But the way the pack was closing in, it could easily stop me.
   I was surrounded by those swaying towers as I made a bid for the only opening left to me - the surf crashing over the bar extending from the Point. If I timed it wrong, the Kayaq's hull would grind to a halt against the bar between the waves, allowing the next breaker to crash over and roll me. But if timed just right...the fan tail stern lifted her up... back paddling hard now to ride the crest for the next, larger swell. Feeling her slide back, then stagger, to lift on the next - This had to be it - Bending into the force of the building sea with everything literally riding on this wave, the sleek hull lifted, hesitated, then shot ahead. The bow protruded from an immersing wall of water, as the submerged Kayaq raced amidst a foaming, turbulant breaker towards a barrier naked of the very water desperately needed to pass. Then the entire wave explodes against the bar - and the Kayaq shot through, carried to slide almost nonchalantly, like a duck settling into a pond of calm, undisturbed water. 
   Taking off the sunglasses to clean them, I turned to look back at the swaying monoliths behind me now, as they bumped and rolled against the bar. The growlers remained to ride the swells around them as they ground to a halt against the shoreline. Before me the water was open, and a calm lagoon at Thompson Point awaited the evening, with a playful Arctic fox in his brown and light tan tux there to greet me. 

   These were the memories that further the design before me now. The tundra wind, the grinding, hammering ice and sea - She will be of either composite construction in aluminum, or of a nylon ballistic cloth and wood, to live again as a creature amidst the sea. Here her challenges are not as intense, but life can be. And as my Wife travels with me often enough, upon the very seas that could care less about any of us who travel her expanse, it falls upon me to design and build her well. Because we never know when or where she may be required to fight to survive, and us with her.

   She is still inquiring after me..?
   And I'm listening.
   A good designer always does...
-WKD       

Ice Breaker

   Her bow is reaching up as I stand studying her, as if asking a question to the skies...

   The beach before me is an avenue of broken chunks of ice along the shores of the Beaufort, crystal boulders and small hills sparkling in the brilliant Arctic sunlight. The beach is torn with the surf, too rough for a loaded Kayaq.
   But the channel running behind the beach is calm, and had an opening allowing me it's access. I beached behind the roaring wall of water, behind the glistening pebble expanse that reached shining as far as I could see under a partially clouded sky. The sun's rays reach out through the apertures as fingers of light radiating through the wet, frozen sculptures before me, wrought by the fluid fingers of an invisible God made real in the gleaming artwork...

   Her bow is still extended in hope, rising up before me, pleading for release from the confinement of her birth. To reach her potential, to stretch her graceful length across the waters of our Arctic home...
   Home, it has always been, hard but honest, uncompromising in it's integrity, demanding the best from me. I realize that now.
   A sea and tundra wind that speaks a silent language to the heart, without the shroud of civilization's confusing noise.
   Is my reality there something of enough worth, that anyone else could want to even begin to understand the emptiness I feel now without it? 
                                                         Maybe, 

 but then...

    Why...?
   -WKD

Water Dragons

   A long day can mean more things than one. The lightning flashes across the tree tops around my attic office, while thunder keeps my 115 lb. Chesapeake Retriever/ Sheppard's ears perked. It will be a long night for him.
   It's already been a long day for me, but I wouldn't feel it so much if I had been working on the Kayaq. As it was, I was getting things in order to get back to her. In a small shop, space is at a premium, so to continue what has been started I have to stay organized. Especially being ADD.
   I love working in wood. I cannot escape the feeling of life that comes into a wooden boat under your hands, especially as it is a living substance coming into it's being in a living environment. A Kayaq is in the water, not on it as with most other boats, and so is more the life of the water you are, with her, a part of. As the sea lions who often follow me are only too aware.
   For the Dragon Lady, that routine started with a trip into the timber, where a logging crew had just felled the trees in a small area close to our former Washington home. I got a kick out of the lumber boss, when I asked for permission to come on their land and cut out some knees for my boat. He asked, "Is it a war canoe, or a peace canoe?"

   I replied that, as it was for my Wife and I, it would be a peace canoe, because this was something we both enjoyed. He laughed and told us to go ahead, and pull as many knees out of the roots they had left as we wanted. We thanked him and his crew, then went into the area to locate the roots with the special curve and grain we needed. I was hoping for cedar, but there weren't many to choose from - so when my Wife, Kim, called out that she had located some we might be able to use, we went right to work. They were fresh felled and solid, so we were hopefully optimistic as I cleared out the area around the base and began the cut.

Plunge cutting is serious business with a chain saw, as any timberman knows, especially in the tricky footing around so much fallen timber. The space had to be carefully cleared and the wood cleaned as far down as possible, to afford a clear cutting area, as well as getting rid of the surface abrasion of rocks and dirt, etc. A dull chain saw doesn't work very well, especially when shaping the piece after it has finally come free.
   I try to cut off the sides while still attached to the base of the tree, as the piece I am working with is more solid, and much safer to work with. It also allows me to get a better view of the condition of the wood, and the lay of the grain. If it's in poor condition or twisted, or splintered from the felling as is often the case, it has to be rejected - something I would rather find out before going to all the work of pulling the piece out - especially before getting it home.

   The shaping is done while still locked into the original form held by the tree - and has to be scoped carefully, because the wood when released from it's part of the tree's base, will move as it drys with the lay of the grain. So it has to be cut in line with the grain, so the stress in the grain is pulling together evenly, which helps to prevent not only distortion, but checking and cracking as the wood drys and cures. I will oil my wood once home during the curing process, preferably with teak oil, as it penetrates well, dries slowly, and works well after it dries. I can also draw my form out on the flattened sides, which allows me to see how the piece will work with the lay of the grain, and check the measurements as it dries.

You can see the shape and lay of the grain appearing as the wood is cut back. I never cut too close to the specifications for the finished piece at this stage. I allow for the extra stock for trim and finish work.
   You'll notice Alabama, our cat standing vigil - he's a story all to himself. Finding him in my wood shed with a bullet hole in the head was only part of the story. But even with only one eye, he was still a force to be reckoned with - as the village dogs found out only too often.
  

   As it cures, after it has been oiled several times, and had at least a few  months to adjust itself to the stresses of it's new shape, it can be worked carefully into it's finishing form. I oil it and let it dry between workings, to prevent checking or cracking, and to preserve the shape and condition of the wood. The end result can become a striking work of art, as can be seen by the closeups of first, this piece of wood formed into the Dragon Lady's byforcated bow, and in the following pictures of my daughter's 15 foot Hunting Kayaq, before it was covered.

Then came the day when Mother and Family
 had to try out out, before it was sent to Alaska for my youngest Daughter's 21st Birthday!

A work in process to a work of art, capable of feeding the family. Which I have done for several years, as a subsistence kayaqer in my home village. Most people don't even know what that is - I'm realizing that I am a survivor of the breed that still uses the kayaq for what it was originally designed and built for.

My beautiful Wife uses the vessel now, and looks a lot better in it than I ever did!

  

And so the Dragon Lady also earns her stern piece, pulled together with her new byforcated bow into the fir keel and gun'l rails, and finally locked together as a unit. A beginning of a new Kayaq, and a new life, as another work of art is born.

And I have a feeling my Wife will have a new name for her...which, with her, I know will be good.

Very good.

-WKD

Water Dragons

   Today was less than I had hoped, but was a preparation for the next entry nonetheless. When a thunderstorm threatens, and your Jeep's top is down (I mean completely off!), your priorities change somewhat. So the outline for today was compiled, but tomorrow will see the completion of the finished article, with it's photographs. Life is what happens when your planning something else.
   I will, for those interested, be taking the time to lay out the procedure for pulling together a wood frame kayaq. I've started on another one, a double for my Wife and I, that measures 24 feet Length over all, 36 inches at the extreme beam, and draws 08 inches at load capacity. Her byforcated bow reaches up like the dragon prow of my Norse Irish ancestors' ships, 24 inches above the bottom of the fir keel at the top of the finish cap. And that, with the fantail stern piece, are of both of cedar native to my Wife's home state of Washington, as is the close grain fir gun'ls and keel. She will be a serious ocean hybrid, sleek and seaworthy. And built to carry a load. 
   We've called her the Dragon Lady.
   It seems to suit her.
   - WKD  

Fire and Ice

   I remember standing outside that night after completing a vehicle's document inspection. It was - 80 degrees F, no wind, and the endless Arctic night had been clear for some time.

   Was.

   While outside, the skies had begun to come to life. Tired of the apathetic demeanor enforced by their frozen environment, they decided it was time to throw off the chilling countenance of the evening in a dazzling display of brilliance. When I turned to retrace my duty post, I was wonderfully spellbound by a sight that, though so familiar, has never ceased to fascinate me. The Aurora Borialis had trumped by far the Arctic evening's entertainment.

   And was doing a spectacular job of it.

   That wondrous display of sparkling, dancing colors has etched itself in the gallery of my memories, even along with the other events of my emancipating seclusion there. So it was not a surprise to me, that as I reflected on Solus in his Arctic environment, and Kola standing on the Bridge of his People's Transport Starship while orbiting a war torn Earth ("Lightship", Amazon.com), I could see them there as I wrote. The memories were a flooding relief, and the writing became an open gate from which the elation could illuminate my struggling hopes. The landscape of diamonds glistening across crystal snows enveloped me, and I was in a world free of the crushing demands of the present difficulties. Only for a moment, only a glimpse, but still there, whenever I needed the reprieve.

   I could appreciate how Solus felt with my view from below, but I had a special opportunity present itself over a year ago, allowing me to see that same wonderful display from Kola's viewpoint, as he would have seen those lively, dancing lights while orbiting earth. Thanks to the generousity of the International Space Station, they have offered for public perusal a view of our Home from their orbit - right through, as the last segment shows, a beautiful display of the Northern Lights. Whenever I struggled to capture in words what "Lightship" needed to say, I would play this back again. It takes me home, to a world beyond ourselves, and into the hope we believe. And in so doing, we create our realities.

   -WKD

Decisions...

Peter Semotiuk has been referred to as the Voice of the Arctic, and the Watchdog of the North. We have never met except by our conversations over the phone and mail, but during those years I have come to respect him. He's polite, but there's no nonsense in him. The Arctic is his life, and he knows better than to take any venture coming into his regions lightly.
   After coming back from my second venture to Tuk, he and I were engaged in a conversation about my experiences, and he asked the question, "Bill, are you coming back?" I told him I knew I would be, it would take a bit to rebuild myself so I could return, but I loved the Arctic and there was no way I could stay away for long. I knew I would return. he listened politely, then replied simply, "That's good."
   We discussed the ways of traversing the passages, my favor for the Kayaq still overriding any modern means of coming through, to which he agreed. It was the best way to come through and really gain a feel for the Arctic. Every other means just passes by, without being the Arctic. It. I realized to him, was the difference between being a passenger, and experiencing the life.
   I couldn't agree more. Neither would have Vicki Jason, who struggled through considerable hardship to cover the first part of her trip, then returned and finished with solid common sense and vigor. She, too, as her family, were wonderful examples of that Spirit of respect that a sense of that wilderness engenders within the soul. As has been said of Alaska, there's no middle ground. You either respect its ways and love it, or fight and hate it.
   It was a heartbreak to learn that the woman that had been so encouraging to us had passed away. I only knew that cheerful voice on the phone, and never had the chance to finally meet her personally. I don't want to endure that same sadness with Peter.

   I know that all I would have to do is start. He'll know.

   The Tundra Telegraph will do the rest.

   -WKD

Respecting their Home

I've often been asked why I haven't written a book, about my years in the Arctic especially. The answer is rather simple, actually. Because I'm a visitor to the region of their Native home. It is with the consent and support of those who have lived for centuries in this Arctic wilderness that I am here.
   To think that, by visiting for a season of my life, I am somehow entitled to present myself as a hero of some kind, worthy of special recognition to those elsewhere in the world, is to me disrespectful of those whose ancestors are buried here. They have for generations endured the primitive conditions no one else could endure, in a region no one else wanted or cared about, raising their families and preserving a culture that has survived every kind of deprivation and invasion. And have come out of it as savy as anyone else in the modern world.
   I see those of the Siberian wastelands with the same respect. Their ancestors not only come from the populations native to the area, but from those who often were left with, shall we say, no other alternative but to somehow survive and make it work.
   That I was raised as a Bush Alaskan, a villager for many years of my residency, from the time Alaska first began her struggle from emerging as a Territory into statehood, gives me an appreciation, for want of a better word, of the unique struggles associated with this type of existance. A village is literally a family, with all of the complexities that come with it. Their privacy is, to me, something to respect. And to exploit that by turning their trust into a means to generate an income goes against my grain. I certainly would resent someone who, being an outsider unfamiliar with my home and family, took it upon themselves to promote themselves as a judge entitled to draw a sum for their convictions - observations made in ignorance and often disrespect.
   There are those who, in a sincere desire to learn, come for the very reasons the native population still live here. There is a fascination in growing with others whose resourceful determination manage to create optimisim where none would seem likely to exist. The Northern cultures struggle as others, yet with a whole different climate of adversity, while still finding strength in each other that lends an enlightening perspective on life. I want to respect that diversity, by preserving it - and them - the only way I know how.
   By respecting with gratitude the privilage of being here, of being allowed the freedom to move again in the rhythm of Their land, and strengthen myself again in the pure simplicity of Their wilderness. And the honesty that still prevails in nature there. Taking the memories, and leaving the rest as I found it.

   Because I may have to come back again. And it would be good to find it still as I found the Arctic then - Their Home, with Their Welcome.

   And Peace.

-WKD

Arctic Mists...

   This was a journey into a new beginning. Into what, I didn't know.
   I would soon find out.

   I turned 46 while standing on the ice clogged shores of the village of Kaktovik, watching the ice make it's gradual migration into the Eastern Beaufort. It was still packed together, growlers that shouldered each other like reluctant cattle out into the vastness of their Arctic Ocean pasture. The wind never stopped, thankfully for the caribou. They were already feeling the relentless suffocation of their gnawing, swirling clouds of insect pests, haunting their every move. As I paddled the herd's vast expanse of shoreline refuge, the corpse of each exhausted animal run to death by these relentless hordes would occasionally reveal itself. The grim reminders of each march into a sandy grave would leave it's unforgettable imprint on my mind, as I would drift in reverent silence beside a tombstone monument of huge antlers pointing futilely to the sky. The bodies were untouched by the predators scouring the tundra, whatever their composition, until the bolder opportunists finally realized that the hooves and massive antlers were no longer a threat. Then the move to match the needs of the land would prevail, and the cycle of life would continue to it's inevitable conclusion. 

   The tundra shores were my home now, as well, with all that the self reliant isolation entailed. I had lost everything else that had held me. The survival gear within the tiny world of my kayaq was all I had left, and the world of ice and wind was the breath of life for me now. Without fully being able to comprehend what was before me, all I knew for sure was that I had a journey before me, a different destination than I had originally planned, and an unknown future. 

   How unable to predict was my preception, that this shore, the wind off the pack ice, and the uncertainty was what was molding me for a creation of years to come. For the experiences that followed began to register within me, a comprehension of something I had to give to others.

   But it had to start with me. Because if I didn't get it, no one would.
   So began the battle against the demons of memory and war, of loss and futile anquish, and a reconstruction of the man fighting to emerge free of the chains that the failure of civilization and human fraility had imposed. My own failures, my own weakness, my own memories and conflicts. Because here, in my Arctic Monastery, I couldn't run any longer from the war in my soul. It was here I would fight, and either win, or lose. I would have to face myself, alone. And here I would afterward walk out with a peaceful purpose, secure in myself as a man - or destroy myself in the failure of my dreams. 
   In other words, I would come out into a world with my glass half full, as part of the solution - or half empty, as still part of the problem. 
   I looked at the tiny 19 foot kayaq, compared to the field before me. The storms I knew, the boat I knew - the future I didn't, only the God that had chosen to allow me these trials. How solid was my faith, in myself, my equipment, in what I was about to do, in why I was doing it?
   Why the Arctic - again? Because this time I needed her. I needed to move again with the rhythm of the land and sea, and let tomorrow take care of itself. Somewhere else, with someone else. Right now, I needed the solitude, to sort things out, to be open with myself without interruptions from the outside. Right now, the only voice I wanted to hear was the wind. People could come later. But right now, today, I had my hands full with too much else. All I really needed now, was to fill them with a solid ash paddle, my mind with the present, and my heart with the memories. Then deal with them as they came, until the march of yesterday left only a finishing parade of clear tomorrows and the virgin dawn of a new beginning. 

   So that second of July, I pushed off after my morning tea, with only a dim chance and a bright hope. Everything I had to try and win was with me then, my faithful Kayaq, my years at sea, my Bush Alaskan upbringing, and my faith in one Being that I knew would be there, to help me sort all of this out. 

   And by the time I was moving within the company of the cool boundries of the ice lined leads, I knew I was right. The adventure had begun again, in earnest.

   No doubt in my military mind.

   I was where I was supposed to be.

-WKD

Advance Warning

   I watched Greenpeace lose their grip, from my vantage on Collison Point, as they tried to clash with the Arco tugs pulling their Drilling Platform into place that August day in 1997. Then a few days later, I watched again as man learned how puny he is to the advance of nature itself.
   I awoke to take care of my camp, and noticed that the top of the Brooks Range was covered in snow. The next day, it was on the foothills, and the third day, I was paddling in it. The weather moves fast in the Arctic, and if you fail to take that into consideration, if you do not watch all that goes on around you, the consequences can be less than pleasant. Here we are not in control, and as mentioned before, we are not on top of the food chain.
   The beauty of the Arctic is in it's raw discipline. You move with the rhythm of the land, and she in turn moves with you. That's the way it is - no hype can cover for the honesty in her ways. She has nothing to hide, and no reason to. I've seen that in some of the blazing beauty of the frozen waterways, and the stark landscape of her sobering winter artistry...

Beckoning...
Amber Fire radiant through
                          Sparkling Crystal Lace;
Brilliant the Morning when it comes, stealthy in It's own
                                                                       Time and Space
to Define the Virgin Majesty of
                                          peopled shrubs and whithered trees,
Bowed in frosted subjection, while robed serene to the Soul's awakening
                                                                                                                                      into a
Diamond Eternity...
                           Together.


   So it is.
   And was, as it turned out, the harald of the storm to come, and which welcomed me into Kaktovik.
   Into the second stage of the journey...and new life.
-WKD
                                         

Keilidgh's Edge

Mystic...
Morning's Shadows glisten across each silent winging blade;
Tender the Mist...
That softly delegates it's caress along the slender form to
                                                                                  the supple waves,
                                                                               and
With Baited Eagerness it lapping heartily flows along
                                                                           the
Timeless Depths of graceful Majesty...and all, so
                                                                     to Share
Her wonders selflessly with me in Elegant Reverence,
                                                                           and
                                                                      Symphonic Harmony...
                                                                                                    -WKD

Survival Designing

   The Fourth of July.
   Before I encountered the ice, I had awakened from a sleep that, settled into on a deserted spit of sand, was peaceful and serene. That ended the following morning, when a flock of seagulls, seeing the tent, landed and surrounded my shelter in the hopes of a free meal. As many as they could get away with.  
   And they didn't play by the rules - with their young fledglings to plead the way, and the supervising adults to coach them, they managed to coax some eggs and fish out of me before I escaped.
   So much for a peaceful breakfast, which is my main meal for the day - for the simple reason that going to bed after your main meal can and will bring unwanted guests into your camp, when you are least prepared to handle the intrusion. They simply catch the scent and follow it in.
   By having my main meal just before I break camp, however, they arrive at a clean site - which, in the case of a barren land Grizzly, is a lot better than the alternative.
   The gulls, however, expressed their gratitude for my generosity by not bombing my campsite, so I didn't complain. 
   Happy Birthday, America!
   
   The Chukchi had the right idea.
   The rest of the kayaq may have been rather unstable without ballast of some sort, with it' v-shaped bottom, but the stern was a fantail design that lent itself to far better handling in a following sea than the conventional, and easier to build, traditional double ended configuration which today's recreational kayaks still use.
   I'm glad I listened to the Elders. The region of the Kamchatka Penninsula is no place for mistakes, any more than the Arctic itself.

   When I built this 15ft. 02 in. Arctic Hunting Kayaq for my youngest daughter, it incorporated the use of the Chukchi stern with the byforcated bow customarily used by the people of the regions where I grew up. It's spruce frame is tied together with nylon line soaked in very hot water, then allowed to cool and dry on the open frame before sealing it in acrylic resin. The soaked line pulls tight when tied, only just enough more when it dries to make a difference. It's not a lot, however, so there's no substitute for doing it right. The tighter you tie it, the better. I've also used rawhide soaked the same way, which tightens quite a lot when it dries, but only for kayaqs I build for museum pieces. The nylon lasts longer, and doesn't work loose again if it gets wet, once properly tied off.
   The hull framework is then covered, for our purposes up North as both an insulation and for shock absorbing properties, with a half inch thick closed cell foam mat - nothing more, really, than some inexpensive sleeping mats for ground cover while camping. A 24 oz. ballistic cloth is stretched over the frame (a much lighter cloth could be used, depending upon the intended use for the boat - and whether it is intended for fresh or salt water exposure), and sewn together with nylon cord, then the entire fabric shell is sealed in several layers of a form of rubberized concrete sealant. The first layer is cut, or mixed with a thinner so it will soak into the fabric before drying, then the layers on hull and deck come afterward over several days. On this boat, I used seven layers after the first soaker, on the hull, and four on the deck. As the sealant is not that heavy after drying (the boat completed was barely over 35 pounds - and remember, this includes the wood frame, which in a Pacific Eskimo design totals 56 pieces of wood), more could be applied, especially on the hull. (I'm wearing my Poly Thermals in this shot, which takes my 158 lb. frame and makes me look like twice that! But believe me, they work, and I stay warm.) 

   This is where the foam cover is such a benefit, because it covers the ties and frames with a forgiving layer that contracts and compresses around the frame as the cover shrinks with the drying fabric, protecting the lines and framework from exposed hard spots that will chafe with the abrasion of use. 
   This boat was built much stronger than it perhaps had to be, but it was started as a gift for my (then) 12 year old daughter, and I wanted it to last her. She's in her mid twenties now, has had the finished kayaq for several years, and refuses to part with it. And after how that design served her father, I can't say that I can blame her.

  
   The first week of August found me back on the shoreline of the Beaufort, watching the Midnight Sun dip into the horizon that it had been trying to evade for several months. It was a reality check for me, because after several years of serving year round in an Arctic assignment prior, I knew firsthand what those winter months entailed.
   And that I didn't have much time left to reach the Village of Kaktovik, my winter stopping point on Barter Island, Alaska. The first snow would make it's appearance in less than three weeks, and while I knew I was equipped to handle it, I also knew better than to tempt it.
   My new boat was 19 ft. long, and built of fiberglass and epoxy resin with an Airex foam core - basic technology compared to what's out there now, but solid and much better against the abrasive sea ice. She is 28 inches wide, and drew barely 6 inches loaded with her full capacity load of just under 150 pounds (she could easily carry double that, but for reasons I will explain, I limit my load weight). I have a general rule of thumb when loading a kayaq, especially when I'm traveling alone - never load your boat with more weight than you can carry alone up a mountain slope for at least one mile, in any configuration you chose. For me as a Bush Alaskan, that weight includes a rifle, because I'm going into a region where I'm not on top of the food chain.

   Any more weight than that, and you risk having the sea in a bad surf pulling your boat and equipment away from you, as you're trying to get out and away - and if it's waterlogged, it's too much to drag up a slope out of the way. Loading is everything - especially when that's all you've got.
   The double paddle is of solid Maine ash, with 3.5 inch wide blades nearly three feet long. Wood, because it feels better in the cold for a better grip, it's easier to maintain and repair in primitive conditions, and long without feathered blades because fat, short blades are useless in shallows, especially in muddy deltas that those kind of blades will scoop up, throwing the balance out and stressing the wrists. The long, narrow blades can skim the surface with more of their full blade surface area for power, with less drag and offer less windage aloft - helping stability. 
   The tent was double wall, domed and secured with ballistic bags that I could fill with beach sand and clip into the tent's peg rings with stainless steel clips. Pegs are useless along the coast of the arctic, especially in the frequent windy conditions I've been accustomed to camping in. I stow the tent in it's bag so the clips are at the opening, allowing me in any wind to secure the first corner clip to a full ballistic bag, then as the first shell of the tent is extracted from within it's bag, another clip is secured to the second bag, both into the wind. As the tent is pulled out, it is flattened and spread out into the wind and secured to the rest of the full bags until the entire tent shell is secured and ready to raise. The rain cover is extracted in the same manner, clipped onto the previous arrangement, again starting with the weather (wind) side first. In this manner, with practice, a tent can go up in better than 60 MPH winds without tangling or being lost.
   As for you guys on the mountains, thank you for introducing me to Titinium hollow Ice Pegs - when I was stranded on the ice flow mentioned in the previous blog entry, those pegs worked, even with my stiff hands. They secured my camp in the same manner the ballistic bags did, and saved my life. I still carry them.
   So the list will go on, as the blog does, each in it's turn. But however loaded, I still had to go to sea.

   Once or twice, you can say it's coincidence and get away with it. When things keep coming together, however, in the small as well as the more difficult, you know Someone is making His presence know. And it's time to pay attention. 
   Another thing. Christians are too often viewed as arm chair Bible perusers out of step with life. Thumpers of the highest order when you want a rousing argument, but out of touch with what's going on around them, and afraid to live. Can't see what's out there, don't want to know, in their little world, thank you very much.
   Reality Check.
   I'm out there fighting well over 45 knot winds (that's 50+ mph, folks) blasting off of an ice field that's trying to cut me off from safe clear water and freezing the hide off my face, through a maze of shallow sand bars and no place to pull out. The season's far enough along that I've already weathered my first snow storm, things are getting serious and the ice is racing to claim me along the ranks of Franklin's crew.
   No, Thank You.
   The fan tail stern is lifting me like a duck over the twisting, following seas as they boil around me, and the deadrise in the slender hull allows my weight to settle comfortably low, with firm shoulders in the turn of the bilge of the hull lifting the kayaq comfortably through the crests. We're doing it.
   But it's getting dark and looking ahead, I can barely see that the only way left through this mess is right through a churning mess of water standing on it's head, where the current is colliding with itself only a half mile in front of me. Not a pretty picture. 
   And the ice has cut off my retreat.
   Again, just when I'm realizing I'm going to be spending the night in this fiberglass cocoon, I come alongside a miracle - a tiny calm lee tucked away into the sand bar of Aray Island, almost invisible in the twilight.
   You use what you have, and it proved just enough. Warm soup, warm bed - I could see the lights of the village ahead coming on for the night - but it wouldn't be mine tonight. But the lee worked, and at least I was out of the storm. I learned once in the village, that the roofs were blowing off of the construction projects being built before winter set in.
   And I was out kayaqing in it.
   A flat calm bay awaited me the next morning, however. The snow flakes grew so large and thick that I couldn't see more than a kayaq length ahead of me by the time I had my bearings and had shoved off. But it cleared an hour later, revealing my direction to be true, and leading me into the channel around Barter Island.
   Have you ever been in a place so featureless, yet so enchantingly wonderful, that it fades into a continuous landscape like being within a picture in a frame, surrounded in a world without any seams? You feel like you're on a small pond, all you can see is the little patch of water around you - yet you're paddling forward, watching the bank, but it doesn't ever seem to move or open up to anywhere - you're just there, in a little pond following you in the middle of all this tundra, wondering if it will ever end.
   Then you notice, way off, a little log of some kind, and gradually a way opens to set you free. And the world makes sense again.

   The village is humanity once more, after the silence of the ice and the tundra wind. They understand.
   But no one when you return to the South understands why you have an attitude, because you have nothing to say, when they want to know so much.
When there's nothing in their life to relate to, how do you explain? And when you try, they just don't get it.
   Finally, you adjust to some degree, but once you learn to move with the rhythm of God's creations you are never the same. Being a real Christian is that way. It's not an attitude, it's a way of life, through life, no matter what comes.
   Just like the ice. Always calling you.
   Always real.
-WKD