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