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Extracts from Karl's diaries covering the Winter 2005 /06 from the point where Karl and Dimitri prepare in Fairbanks, Karl’s move back to Unalakleet on the coast to complete his walk around to Cape Prince Wales and start of the crossing. He meets up again with Dimitri in Nome and they continued on together from there. We are woken, seemingly a few moments later, by the room's telephone and a call from the desk where Ramey awaits, wanting to know why the two puffs are still in bed. A minute later Ramey and Geoff crash into the room as we reluctantly dress and gather our stuff. All four of us then venture forth into Anchorage city centre to find some food. Later in the day we moved to a new location, very nice lodgings that are a popular haunt for mustering expeditions and the like, with a long history of well-known adventurers as guests. My reason for meeting up with Dimitri and Ramey in Anchorage, as opposed to flying straight into Fairbanks, is to meet up with a guy called Troy Henkels. Earlier this year, in March, Troy and a Belgian companion, Dixie Dansercoer, made an attempt at crossing the Bering Straits, leaving from the same point that Dimitri and I will. They had prepared for the attempt for three years but soon after setting off were swept southwards by the moving ice, back around the coast of Alaska and out towards the Bering Sea. After nine days they had to be airlifted from the ice pack by helicopter. Dixie was back in Belgium, however Troy lived in Anchorage and I believed that Dimitri and I could learn a lot from this guy. He knew we were coming and so I gave him a phone call to let him know we were now in Anchorage and would like to arrange a meeting. We were also fortunate in the fact that Art Mortvedt happened to be in town for an Artic wild life conference. You may remember from the last chapter that I'd stayed at Art's house when passing through Manly last winter, but unfortunately he'd been down in Punta Arenas at that time. Art is an expedition logistics expert who generally works at the North or South Pole aiding scientific expeditions or the more crazy polar adventures. Finally we all meet up in the coffee lounge of a small supermarket not far from our hotel. There's Dimitri, Ramey, Geoff, Art and his lovely wife Dee, Troy and myself. For the next couple of hours or so we go into the details of Troy's and Dixie's attempt. The pros and cons, equipment, etc and bounced new ideas off each other amid a table-top of maps, pens and coffee cups. We end the session with a list of highlighted points and a much better idea of the task ahead. It has given us what I'd hoped for, a set of clear aims and objectives to reach, plus a sketch plan we can now work on. We'd been made aware of a number of factors most notably, the improbability of success. Also the dangers that catch you in a moments notice. It became apparent to me that we will have to move at night, a fact that would have been unimaginable before this meeting. After the meeting in Anchorage we've more than a good idea of what the plan is and just what equipment we'll need. So the shopping begins in earnest, and nothing for an Expedition such as this is cheap. There’re radios in harnesses, new skis and boots, new clothing and head gear, plus some new dry suits. With the Helly Hanson survival suits that I have at the moment it means that one has to don the suit before crossing the stretch of water and then remove it once on the other side. It also means that if you do fall through the ice then there is obviously no time to get your suit on and real problems ensue. Troy recommends Kokatat Gore-Tex dry suits, which being breathable means we can wear them all the time, removing the two above problems. We'll need some thermal diving gloves to go with the suits as well. There are two major factors to consider, which although we knew about before, really came to the fore during the meeting. The first are the ice conditions and the obstacle these will create, although there is very little you can do about them. Secondly is the amount of distance that can be lost while sleeping from sundown to sunrise. Dixie and Troy could lose up to 20 miles in 'negative' drift (drifting south)...in one night! Basically Dimitri and I want to go East / West and yet the tides will be taking us north or south. I'm going to call any northwards drift 'Positive', as at least we will still have land on either side of us. Southwards drift will be 'Negative', as we shall be drifting away from the land and out into the Bering Sea, as did Troy and Dixie. To help alleviate this problem we have to keep moving well into the night, and this seems insane. At some stage we shall need to rest and sleep, even if it's just 'power naps'. Then of course, there's always a chance of being jumped by bears in the dark. It quickly becomes apparent that we'll need to use night vision equipment, the newest generation of NVG's (night viewing goggles). Those presently being used by the military are very good and military spec equipment will be able to cope with the cold. Just how the hell we're going to get hold of the stuff is another matter, it's too expensive for us to buy. We decide to use monocular NVG's as these seem to offer the best of both worlds. A full set of NVG's restrict peripheral vision and create a tunnel effect, plus these are known to create fatigue in troops that use them for a long period. Soldiers prefer to use the monocular version in tactical situations. The monocular can be swung down in front of one eye to get vision in the dark and then let up and out of the way when not required. Combined with these we shall be using damn good head-mounted lamps. It's apparent that there's a lack of access to timely, up-to-date information covering conditions in the Bering Straits. That place is all about fast flowing dynamic ice movement. There is no set route across the Strait, as no sooner do you think you found one that it's gone. The ideal would be 24 hour air cover feeding you info on route findings. Not being millionaires this isn't going to happen to us and besides there's no guarantee that a plane could fly in the stormy conditions that can be the norm on the Straits. There are weather satellites that will update weather situations every six hours and ice reports every other day, but none of this will really help us on the ground in the here-and-now. So I begin to think about the possibilities of using a helium balloon to lift a small micro camera into a position from where we might be able to get a bird's-eye view forwards, thereby getting a good idea of the immediate ice conditions facing us and allowing us to make better, quicker decisions on route finding. Luckily at the coffee shop I meet some people who know just what we need. Cliff Smyth is a part-time model aircraft flyer and uses micro cameras in some of his aircraft. Not only that but he has a large helium balloon on which we could mount a camera set up for tests. However, as the weeks progress we realise that the winds on the Strait means we have little chance of using a balloon as these have a wind speed ceiling of about 20knots. I continue to look at this problem. Friday, 30th December 2005. I now have a last set of hills to climb before a flat run into Shaktoolik, but my God, these hills turn out to be a bit of a shocker. The vast majority of the daylight hours are burnt up on the one last hill. It just keeps going up and up, one false horizon after another. I whinge and whine to myself like a schoolboy who has just been punished, whilst paddling in a sea of negative thoughts. Needless to say on reaching the top I find that it drops away very steeply for some distance and turns out to be a rough ride. I even have to wade across the open water of a stream in a valley bottom. Anyway, I'm now on the edge of the flats, about 14 miles from Shaktoolik. The sun is setting and the wind picking up. The plan is to push on just a little way to find a place to pitch tent as I'm feeling wiped out by that hill work and then push on to the village tomorrow. However, now that I'm in the open, and the dark, the wind really picks up speed and the world gets ugly. Driving spin drift begins to reduce my visibility and I decide that rather than trying to pitch tent in this I will push on to Shaktoolik. I'm walking on a glass like icy surface, patchily covered with driven snow. Very quickly what I can see of the 'snow-go' tracks are being blown away or covered. Large drifts of snow begin building up and my pace slows. Sometimes, even though I'm using my head lamp, I can't see the ground. I have been using my clear goggles but they keep misting up and I find I can't use them at night. I have to remove them and this leaves me blind for a good portion of the time with a frozen face full of the driven snow. The wind howls in from my front right, increasing in strength and reaching 30 knots. I'm getting very tired now and begin to struggle. Somewhere out there, in the darkness behind me, the sled, although only weighing 150lbs, now feels like an anchor. I then lose the 'snow go' trail completely, find myself in deeper snow and have to fight for every forward pace. I push on for a few yards, pauses for a breather, then push again. Once the trail is lost you then have to break your own trail and this both slashes your speed and demands a damn sight more energy. With more hope than common sense I wander left and right hoping to stumble across the ‘snow go’ trail again, but by now I'm screwed with this visibility. From time to time I check the GPS to see what kind of progress I'm making and each time it's a bitter blow to morale. Like a ship in the night I then spot lights up ahead. Snow machines coming my way. I'd never been happier. They end up about 500 metres to my left and seeing my head lamp, stop as I push towards them. It seems to take a lifetime to reach them. A man and woman, a couple that had passed me earlier in the day on route to Shaktoolik and now on their way back. They ask if I'm OK. Naturally being British I stoically assure them that I'm just fine. Surely the fact that I look like death warmed up is purely a figment of their imagination. The truth be known, I'm probably a lot closer to just breaking into tears and asking for my mother. The good news is they had shown me a trail again and cut a fresh path. I'd been frustrated by hard cornices of driven spin drift which had been similar to someone laying 18 inch concrete beams diagonally across my path every few paces. Though clutching this straw like a drowning man, I'm still feeling pretty beaten up. The hours are passing faster than the miles. My flasks of hot drinks have long run out. I set off as best I can however, before too long this new trail is lost to me again. I pop two caffeine pills and had already eaten my chocolate yet just felt dead on my feet. For Christ's sake, it's only 14 miles from the hills to the village, what's wrong with me? As I stand arguing with myself I feel my eyes close and I start to nod off. My eyes then snap open as I catch myself, then automatically begin to move forward. Even standing still for just a moment means I can feel the cold creeping quickly into me. I can see a dim glow in the distance through the haze of the blown ground snow, which should be Shaktoolik. The sky above me is clear; I can even see the stars. The next few hours really take it out of me and I begin to doubt whether I can make it to the village at all. I feel cold all the time and just want to sleep. I will find the trail and then lose it, find it again only to lose it once more. Eventually though I find a section that leads me up onto a bank right on the coast line, a natural sea wall. With no protection from the wind up here the blown snow has piled up in banks over 5 ft high and creates a real challenge for the sled and I. Since setting off on this last leg I could have been using skis but have been torn between using them or not as the trail so often changes from soft deep snow to hard ice. Try to conjure up the picture of a penguin walking.... well, that's me with skis on. I don't know whether they would help or hinder me at this point. My 'ski shoes' are out of the equation at present. Yesterday the skins came loose on both of them and I haven't the glue to fix them at present. The wind blows my sled off to the left and I have to be very careful to ensure that it doesn't get blown off from the wall and down into the ice and driftwood that seems to make up this wall. The wind continues to batter away and any objects, such as the small bushes that grow on the right hand side of the bank create snow bars in their wake, 7ft wide and 4-5ft high, it's incredible. I mutter to myself as I stumble like some delirious drunk, while the faint, distant light of Shaktoolik never seems to get any closer. Suddenly I'm yanked sideways onto my arse, but before I have a chance to stabilise myself I find I'm being dragged across the snow. Wide-eyed I grasp for anything that will stop this slide but my hands flail wildly in space. It stops and I turn over to see that my sled has gone over the sea wall. Somewhere in the darkness, over the edge, the sled moves again. The ropes go tight and I take the weight. What the hell is happening over that lip? I must think now before making any moves other than getting a foothold and steadying myself. It occurs to me that I have a knife on my harness and I actually consider cutting the sled loose. Within a couple of seconds I'm thinking more clearly and reason that it can't be that bad. There are no large drops around here and the sea wall isn't that high. I muster my strength and begin pulling.... nothing moves. I try again, and yet again, then feel the sled react. What's making this harder is the fact that I'm not using pure rope to haul the sled, but a combination of rope and elastic. This makes pulling on flats or hills smoother work but in this situation it's no help at all. I scramble to my feet, working my way down the rope and finally see my sled down below among the driftwood. Although I realise we're in no real danger, it's going to be a real bitch to get it back onto the sea wall again. So it proves. With the sled finally back on top I sit with it in the snow, exhausted. Almost immediately I begin to fall sleep before snapping out of it and realising that this will be a fatal error. I dare not stop moving. Numb in mind and body I eventually reach 'old' Shaktoolik. This is just a collection of old abandoned houses and cabins, left there when the inhabitants moved the village further north due to erosion. By now I'm desperate to put an end to this madness, get out of the wind and sleep. But I continue to argue the point with myself, half convinced I should force myself to push on and reach the inhabited village, by now only a mile or two away. But a mile or two is beginning to seem almost unthinkable. Just crash in one of these old cabins until the morning! I cave-in to the temptation, stagger to a halt and unhook myself from the sled before setting off to investigate the cabins. After only a couple of paces there is a terrifying howl from the darkness right in front of me. Within a split-second there seem to be dogs everywhere, snarling and howling through the haze of the blown snow and darkness. Their eyes reflect back the light of my head lamp as they move around me, fanning out to my left and right. It's obvious they are loose and not tethered, a fact that makes me extremely nervous. A lot of the sledge dogs seem to be half wolf anyway and as I hook up the sledge and begin to push on, a whole pack comes out of the darkness. I take the initiative and jump forward, screaming and flailing my ski poles which seems to give me enough time to get the hell out of there. Tell you what.... maybe I'll just press on to the inhabited village. Numb in mind and body I eventually reach 'old' Shaktoolik. This is just a collection of old abandoned houses and cabins, left there when the inhabitants moved the village further north due to erosion. By now I'm desperate to put an end to this madness, get out of the wind and sleep. But I continue to argue the point with myself, half convinced I should force myself to push on and reach the inhabited village, by now only a mile or two away. But a mile or two is beginning to seem almost unthinkable. Just crash in one of these old cabins until the morning! I cave-in to the temptation, stagger to a halt and unhook myself from the sled before setting off to investigate the cabins. After only a couple of paces there is a terrifying howl from the darkness right in front of me. Within a split-second there seem to be dogs everywhere, snarling and howling through the haze of the blown snow and darkness. Their eyes reflect back the light of my head lamp as they move around me, fanning out to my left and right. It's obvious they are loose and not tethered, a fact that makes me extremely nervous. A lot of the sledge dogs seem to be half wolf anyway and as I hook up the sledge and begin to push on, a whole pack comes out of the darkness. I take the initiative and jump forward, screaming and flailing my ski poles which seems to give me enough time to get the hell out of there. Tell you what.... maybe I'll just press on to the inhabited village. " You all right?" " Well.... actually no, I'm feeling a little rough and was hoping you might be able to help. I just need to get out of the wind." He opens the door and beckons me inside, where I just sit on the floor, panting. A native woman appears, a baby in her arms. I really do feel such a dickhead getting these people up in the middle of the night and consequently keep apologising for my behaviour. Before I summon up the gall to ask if I can crash in their house, my saviour invites me to stay, thank God! In the seven years I have been walking I cannot think of one day that has been anything like this one. This night I have been pushed to my limit and have been severely tested. I had almost quit on more than one occasion, almost willing to just sit and fall asleep in the cold rather than move another foot. In the warm room the skin around my eyes now burns but I don't remember thinking about anything. Monday, 2nd January 2006. This morning things don't look much better, but at least the wind has slowed a little. It's a cloudy dull day and there are no signs of a trail, just flat bleak windswept Arctic tundra. I decide to give up the search for any snow-go trails and just bite the bullet. I am going to have to break a trail to Koyuk, north across the Norton Bay. No big deal to navigate just a bitch to do in this snow. I left Shaktoolik with only three days food and fuel so I'm in no mood for time wasting and need to get on the move. Standing still I'm just burning up calories. I turn north and go for it. As I can travel in a straight line to Koyuk this route could save me some time. I'm not sure just what the ice condition is though and had had varying reports. From what I had seen from the aircraft on the way into Unalakleet it looked patchy. Going is slow, hard work, the snow inconsistent. Soft in one spot, hard in another, with frozen bars of spindrift creating an uneven surface. The light also creates a shadowless, featureless image so that it's hard to see texture on the ground, making it easy to miscalculate your step. The surface looks like a flat white sheet of paper but in fact is nothing like it. I become frustrated by my pace, yet as the sun disappears the surface suddenly changes. It now becomes smoother and easier to travel on. I'm walking using my head lamp again and can now make out the lights of Koyuk some 20 miles north. Before seeing this light I had been navigating by using the bars of spindrift snow that formed solid strips across my path, like clock hands at 1 o'clock. However, the snow disappears and the surface becomes smooth ice. Wow! It had never been this good. I’m overjoyed, singing along to my MP3 tunes, which I can just hear over the roaring winds. Somewhere though, in the back of my mind, alarm bells ring. If it's too good to be true, it probably is! I become somewhat nervous as the surface of the ice becomes reflective. The sky has cleared and the new moon is up. Looking back I can see its reflection, as though on water. Beautiful, yet menacing. But ahead are the lights of Koyuk, ever beckoning the moth to the flame. If only the surface would continue in this fashion. I cannot see that far ahead of me, the limited beam from my head lamp giving me just a few feet. The light from the moon is not strong enough to aid me. The surface feels solid beneath my feet so on I go. As if in a nightmare I suddenly feel the ice flex beneath me. I step back, but it’s already too late. I'm going through. I manage half a turn to my left then crash into the water to the top of my legs. I scramble back towards the sled but the ice gives way again and this time I'm in up to my chest. I don't know how I did it but like a cat out of hot oil, I just seem to leap out of the hole. As I rise to my feet my right leg punches through the ice again and by now cold water is hitting my skin. It had taken a number of seconds for the water to get through the layers of clothing. I crawl a short distance then pull the sled back about 50ft. Quickly, without even really thinking about it, I begin unpacking the tent, my hands already painfully cold as the wind bites hard. Luckily there are no delays in getting the tent up and I quickly get my stuff inside. I fix the stove together and try to light it, but something is wrong! The flame is not what it should be. I give the fuel bottle a few more pumps but there's nothing more, yet I can smell the strong odour of fuel. A quick examination detects fuel jetting out of a broken seal and forming a pool on the bottom of my tent. I look at the flame now, wide eyed, expecting an all-consuming fireball in the next breath.... nothing! I blow on the small flame to extinguish it, but it remains lit. I blow again with this same result, a sense of panic gripping me as I realise that this potential disaster could ignite at any second. The flame goes out! I'm shaking, but I don't know whether it's from the cold or the fear. I quickly mop up the spilt fuel and switch over the bottles, my hands beginning to fumble as I struggle for any sensation. Finally a flame roars as the stove comes alive. I whip off my wet /freezing clothing, dry off, don my dry clothes and get into the sleeping bag. However, the night is far from over. I now have to dry what I can. Certainly my jacket, gloves and outer windproof jacket. I have spare socks, trousers and base layers etc. I had been wearing my ski boots so they are out of the picture but I have my bunny boots. I find I'm extremely nervous when wondering just how thin is the ice I'm sleeping on. There's an image in my head of all those Alaskan crabs down in the inky black sea right below my sleeping bag. If my tent goes through the ice I've had it. It would be a miracle if I even had chance to get out of my sleeping bag never mind the tent. Needless to say, I sleep little, sitting bolt upright when I hear something or feel the ice move below me. Every now and then the ice will move in a wave-like motion across the tent, as though I'm on a waterbed. Tuesday, 3rd January 2006. As soon as there's some light I open up the tent and look around....Mother of God! I climb out and tiptoe around as though on glass. This ice is thin, new ice that's recently formed. Sea ice is different from its freshwater counterpart in that it's very flexible and spongy. It initially forms in small platelets that freeze together then form large plates and then pans. I can clearly see the ice I'm on is new with the platelets that form this plan clearly on view. In some places I can see the sea below me. This is really quite freaky! I pack and slowly start moving south, back the way I'd come. I'd woken to find the tent was only 10ft from open water. As I walk, tentatively, waves on the sea ripple the ice under my feet, stopping me in my tracks, not daring to breathe. After about a hundred feet I can see that the route I'd taken onto the ice is now just open water. I also have open water to my rear and left. To my right is the open sea.... just how the fuck did I manage to get out here? As I look at these open areas in disbelief, two sea lions pop their heads out and stare at me. Oh, you've got to be joking, this is just too much. The pan that I'm on seems to be connected to the main pack ice in three places but I find that none of these areas can take my weight and between them is open water. I very carefully try to make my way off the pan using one of the 'bridges' but have to leap back when I feel the ice give. There's no doubt about it, I'm marooned, trapped for the time being. I stand for a while, thinking. Koyuk is still 13 miles away across the bay, while the nearest patch of coastline is 9 miles. My options seem somewhat limited. If I make a mistake now I'm straight into a whole world of crap. Where're all the dry suits and specialist equipment now then! The Kokatat suits have gone back for repair and my original dry suits have been sent on to Cape Prince of Wales. I'd intended to do this leg of the journey travelling light and fast, emulating those endurance racers, of which Dimitri is one, that followed the Iditerod Race trail last winter. They crossed over this bay, however that was in February / March. I guess the ice must have been a lot thicker then. The wind continues to blow strong and cold. The seals pop up again at another point. Loathe as I am to do it, I will have to call time on this one. I don't know where this ice is going to wind up. I set up the sat phone and speak to the lady controller in Nome. She states that there are no troopers available and could I call back in 15 minutes. So I do, still no troopers. Half an hour later another call gets me an answering machine. I now try contacting a different station and have better luck, getting passed straight to a state trooper. I explain the situation stressing the fact that it's not an emergency but I'm definitely in a pickle and someone should know about it. The trooper seems to agree, then asks if I feel I need assistance. I take a deep breath, hating what I have to say next but then say, " Yes". Let's get this over with. The trooper then has to go through the correct channels to more officers in Nome and periodically I can phone back to see how things are shaping up. It's all taking a bit of time but I have stressed that I'm OK and there is no immediate emergency. An hour or so later a light aircraft flew in from the Koyuk direction, does a couple of low circles around me then leaves. I contact the Nome station but they don't know who this is. Apparently they are sending a helicopter. I just stand around now, very frustrated, more than a little cold, cursing at the seals. Quite suddenly I hear a loud popping noise, then a rhythmic hissing sound coming from the south-eastern corner of my pan. I move slowly in that direction, and see that my pan is being forced into, then under, the main ice pack. The new ice in that area is forced into the air in huge wet slabs, folding over then breaking off in large sections. I'm watching a pressure ridge form right in front of me. This is absolutely awesome to see and the noise is nothing short of crazy. Sometimes it howls like a pack of dogs, then a high-pitched scream. It hisses like a boiling kettle to the accompaniment of grinding giant gearwheels. I become even more interested when it rapidly occurs to me that the colliding ice is creating a possible escape route. I can see my pan moving under the new ice like a large white sheet and not far beyond that there's more stable looking stuff.... if things just keep moving!! I put a call into the state troopers explaining that Mother Nature herself may have got me out of the situation, however he explains that the helicopter has already been tasked and will have left Nome already to be with me within the hour. There will also be snow machines coming out from Koyuk and Shaktoolik....Bugger! My luck holds and for the next 15 minutes I slowly inch my way over the binding ice, then ease myself on to the main pack ice. Eventually I manoeuvre onto safer ice and into a field of massive pressure ridges. I now move as quickly as I can to the south and east towards the shoreline. Before too long a plane appears overhead and begins circling again. By now I'm out of the pressure ridge field, on to old snow-covered ice and can see the lights of the snow machines racing towards me. The locals seem happy that I've made it out and I explain what has happened, before apologising for dragging their arses out there. However, they appear none too perturbed, light up some cigarettes and chatter on about the ice. From out of the west comes a chopper which puts down next to our group. Again I explain what happened to the crew, but as with the others they seem quite happy, saying what else could I do. One says, " Hey, that's why we carry sat phones, to make sure we can pull ourselves out of situations like this." They then head off home. I now follow the ‘snow go’ trails north easterly towards Koyuk and it's quite late when I finally manage to find the main trail, which runs north-south. Hell, it's a real good one and I'm over the moon. Now on this trail I move well and put some distance in. It had been a real pain pushing through deep snow for a number of hours to get to this point in just my bunny boots, so I push on as quickly as possible to try and make up for lost time. I eventually get too tired to carry on and call it a night. When I check my GPS I'm surprised to find just how close I actually am to the place I had fallen in. I'm about 3 miles north and 1 mile east. During the night the wind drops and snow begins to fall. 'Christ! I think, there goes the trail'. Thursday, 12th January 2006. I set off for Golovin and then White Mountain, about a 4day walk. I had been briefed on the overland route from Elim. Normally at this time of year you could go along the coastal ice until reaching the Walla Walla public cabin, where the Iditarod trail starts going over land again. However the wind has blown the ice away from the coast, leaving a lot of open water and forcing me overland. Not long after starting out I find a fork in the trail that I don't remember anyone talking about. So I go for the best marked route, which in fact takes me down to the Walla Walla cabin. Needless to say, I should have taken the other route that would have taken me around the cabin on to the high ground. I push on past the cabin aiming to get as far as I can tonight, hopefully at least half the way to the next way point, Shelter Cabin, on the other side of the high ground. From Walla Walla I start climbing up and up in the darkness, finding that the fresh blown snow has covered any tracks there had been. It had also been very overcast today and in those light conditions it's hard to see any surface texture, even right in front of your feet. Following ‘snow-go’ trails gets harder and harder. You know when you've come off the trail at once, because your feet sink straight into the snow. Snow machines passing over this will compact and create a trail that will form a hardened path, well, hard enough to walk on without snow shoes or skis. Off the trail, movement becomes pathetic without skis hence my obsession with finding and keeping to trails. By the time I reach the top of the first hill the trail has disappeared. There's a lot of cursing and hissy fits as I thrash back and forth looking for it. I won't be able to see it but will feel it underfoot. After perhaps 30 minutes or so I find a trail and push on into a night that’s become as dark as hell. However, after a few hours it occurs to me that things aren't quite right. Now, these trails never follow what is marked on the map as 'winter trail', but generally you know they head in the right direction. There will be one reasonably defined trail from village to village, with perhaps the odd smaller trappers trail in the area, but it's normally easy to spot the difference. Tonight though this trail has been moving north far too long. I had expected it to drift left and westwards at some point but it has not. I can make out the coast to my right and begin to get worried. I'm not sure in fact, but I may have stumbled upon my original trail out of Elim and am now heading back. Being mightily pissed off, I decide to tent up until tomorrow morning so that I can see what is going on. Luckily some guy on a snow machine comes by heading between Elim and Golovin and so solves the issue for me. I now know for sure that I've screwed up. Friday, 13th January 2006. As I push on back the sun breaks through the cloud creating shadows that allow me to pick out the trail clearly for up to half a mile in front. The climbing continues for quite some time and I resign myself to a lot more when most surprisingly, after coming around a peak, I see that the hills to my front are falling away and I'm looking out across Golovin Lagoon. Things pick up somewhat from here and the trail improves. Once down on the shoreline I find the trail is marked with orange tipped stakes and the wooden Iditarod tripods. I push on until finding the 'Shelter Cabin'. I had not expected to be able to use it, but there is a good supply of wood with which I fire up the old stove and sure enough it warms up nicely. These cabins are very basic small empty places with a wood stove and maybe an old wooden bed frame, but over the years I bet they have saved the lives of a good number of mushers, hunters and adventurers. Saturday, 14th January 2006. Friday, 20th January 2006. Today I'm back on the coast and face a notorious 30 miles, wind battered stretch. This leg is well known to the Iditarod mushers and I'd had plenty of warnings about venturing onto this part of the coast as it's prone to having the laid snow whipped up into ground blizzards. I find a cabin as I approach the start of this stretch that is there just in case things are looking grim. However, I don't need it so push on. I'm surprised to see that all the snow has been removed from along the shoreline, no snow at all! The snow machine trail just vanishes into sand and mud, forcing me inland to seek snow and ice. Next to the coastline is a seemingly endless string of frozen lagoons, the surfaces of which have been polished smooth by the strong winds, turning them into perfect ice rinks. I find, of course, that they are virtually impossible to walk on. I just can't get my footing and the wind is still strong enough to push me sideways, right off the ice. I'm literally pushed back onto the mud and sand, which is bloody hard work to move over. This continues into the evening until I quit. Thursday, 2nd February 2006. We had set our watch alarms, intending to wake early and make up some distance, but neither of us heard them go off. Buried so deeply in the sleeping bags, you can hear next to nothing above the roar of the tent thrashing around in the wind. As it doesn't get light until 10:00 it's difficult to gauge just what time it is. However, we do manage to get on the go before midday today. Dimitri is obviously still struggling to find his Arctic legs but we are making a better pace. This is the time to do it, with hard, clear ice and clear sunny skies. It's only what I would describe as a little windy but with temperatures now as low as -42C, a 10mph wind equates to -68C, and believe me, this really sucks. I begin to feel that I'm poorly equipped to deal with this temperature. Dimitri had brought a windproof jacket from the US for me as I intended to maintain a balanced temperature by not wearing too much when moving, and therefore sweating, just having enough on to stop me from freezing to death. However the windproof doesn't seem to be up to the job. It's too short, exposing my midriff, and the hood will just not stay up. Fortunately, I had learned before I got to Nome how I needed to improve my facemask. Dimitri is learning that it's a balancing act. Already I can see burn marks appearing under his eyes and around the top of his nose. Even covered, the air will burn off all the skin around the nostrils as ice forms under your mask. A facemask with only a vent that completely covers your face and mouth is nice to start with, as you can keep warm air in the mask, circulating as you breathe. Unfortunately this causes your goggles to mist up and if you remove them then your eyelashes begin to ice over with the warm air from inside the mask and you can't see beyond them. Eventually, ice starts to encroach on the whole facemask and it becomes useless. I modified my mask by cutting a hole to breathe through in place of the vent. This allows most of the moist air to escape without misting the goggles. Unfortunately, it also allows the air to burn my lips and nose more, but that's the price you have to pay for being able to see. Friday, 3rd February 2006. A lot of pissing about means a late start again and when we do get going it's at a pretty slow pace. The wind is up, giving us a hard time. The worst of Dimitris frost bitten fingers is starting to look pretty nasty. The day drags on. I still wear my light walking clothes which means I really need to keep moving at a good pace. Consequently, almost instinctively I will shoot off but then have to wait until Dimitri catches me up. We barely make 10 miles before it's time to start thinking about where to sleep. Reaching a place called Cape Douglas I decide that it will be a good idea to pitch tent on the southern side of the Cape, up against the shoreline, as the wind is blowing in from the north. Here we can expect some shelter in amongst the 8ft pressure ridges that have been pushed up against the cliff face. It looks ideal. On hearing the ice move, creek and groan, Dimitri asks if it's not a better idea to try and move more inland. However, I can't see a way to get inland and as we are only 10ft from the cliff I'm happy that this is OK. We may well be on the shore anyway as this ice could have been pushed up over the sand. My major concern is keeping our flimsy tent out of the wind. To go any further would put us on the north side of the Cape and into the full wrath of the wind. " No" say I, " We'll be fine." Up goes the tent and we hunker down. As the night goes on the winds begin to rage. I'm worried that we'll suffer structural damage to the tent and start losing poles. With a deafening roar, it thrashes about all night like a wild animal. Eventually I hear Dimitris muffled voice from somewhere deep in his sleeping bag. " It's 9am, what do you want to do?" The storm is still raging and the tent is being flattened on top of us. " Lets stay here and we'll ride this one out." I reply, while thinking, Christ, if this is a sheltered spot imagine what it must be like around on the other side of the Cape. The day just seemed to get worse and I become really worried that at some point the tent will fail and we'll be in big trouble. We just lie in our sleeping bags, wrapped up tightly, hoping for the best. I have been expecting a change in the weather at some point as it's been unusually cold for this part of Alaska. For some time now, a high pressure system has hung over this area keeping these cold temperatures in situ. Finally, a low front is moving in and with it will come warmer weather. However, for now it is also bringing these horrendous winds. It's a real pain to be pinned down like this for countless hours and come the evening my back is killing me. I slip my hand out once in a while and grope around for a packet of peanuts or something similar. Other than that we do not eat or drink. We pee in bottles, a common enough practice in tent life, yet I still manage to spill my bottle in my sleeping bag today... very unpleasant. Snow covers a good portion of the inside of the tent! As we are fully zipped up I haven't a clue as to how it managed to find its way in here. Sunday, 5th February 2006. The storm continues all night and we take a pounding. This morning it finally eases off and we determine to make a move. Forcing ourselves out of our bags I peek outside and am shocked when I don't recognise anything. The pressure ridges have gone! " Dimitri, look outside, can you see the coast?" " Yep, it's just a little ways off." " Thank God for that, somehow we seem to have moved. We'd better get a move on and get out of here." We cook a meal then boil up some water, pack the kit away and finally I get out of the tent. I'm certainly not prepared for what I see. Way off, over by the horizon I can see the tops of mountains in the distance. That is the main land!! Checking my GPS I find we are 28 miles out to sea, south-east of King Island!! We must have been drifting for many hours. No wonder the wind felt so strong in our 'sheltered' spot. Talk about stunned. Attracted by my gasps Dimitri gets out of the tent. We actually can't resist a laugh, but soon sober up as the implications begin to hit home. We are surrounded by ice but not particularly good ice. Directly to our east (between us and the mainland) are patches of open water. The full dilemma has now sunk in and I have to say I'm well pissed off. We are in some sort of trouble. How long would it take us to drift back to more solid ice, if at all? We were running short on food before this but now we are screwed. We begin pushing east and straightaway run into wet snow and ice, then extremely dodgy ice which stops us. I am left with but one option as we will never really make it back to the shore anyhow. I had seen and heard of this kind of thing before. There would be miles of open water offshore and storms will clear the coast of sea ice. We will have to be airlifted out of here. For crying out loud! I briefly consider drowning myself as the easier option but then make yet another call to the State Troopers. We move back to the position where we had woken this morning as it looks the safest place. In the meantime the troopers dispatch a helicopter. At first it was going to be a Black hawk but they can't muster a crew as it's Superbowl Sunday and everyone has been drinking. So they send a chopper from Evergreen Helicopters (again). It's with us in about an hour and puts down right next to us. It's a tight squeeze but by folding the seats up we manage to get ourselves and both sleds aboard. A close thing mind you, we were close to leaving one of the sleds behind. It's decided that Dimitri will fly back to Nome with the helicopter to have the frostbite looked at then catch up with me in Teller or Wales. This will also take the pressure off me to an extent as I can carry on with all the food and fuel. I'm dropped off 2 miles from Cape Douglas and the chopper leaves for Nome. On the ground the wind still howls but now distinctly warmer. I hit the coast and find a different world, no sign of sea ice at all, just clear open ocean for as far as the eye can see. I push on back up to the Cape and I'm surprised to find that where we had camped had been a dividing line. From 5ft north of our tent site all the ice remains. Everything south of that point is now out at sea. Had we put the tent up just a few yards along the cliffs, literally yards, we could have saved ourselves all that drama. Not to mention expense, as the Expedition is going to have to pay for this recovery and that will be far from cheap. Then of course there's going to be the local press, they must love me by now. I can almost see the headlines now and shudder. 'Read all about it, that Brits gone and done it again!' North of Cape Douglas I can see ice out to about four miles with water beyond that. Meanwhile, moving inland I can't see at all as I'm in a 'white-out' storm. I stumble into a herd of caribou sheltering in an inlet. As they stampede and kick up the snow it's as though someone's pulled a white sheet over my head. It continues to get worse as well, to the point where I'm virtually blind and can't see a thing. The neutral grey light hides any details in the snow so I cannot see the ground in front of me, even at my feet. You really don't know whether you're staring at a white wall or into infinity. There's neither depth nor detail, simply nothing. I repeatedly fall and stumble on the uneven ground that is criss-crossed with invisible piles of wind driven snow. Nor can you see the cliffs along the coastline. Someone suddenly removes the ground from beneath me and there's a brief moments freefall before I slam in and roll. I manage but one gasp before the sled crashes into me from above, leaving me stunned on the snow. Slowly I come to my senses and sit up. I brush the snow from my face and test my limbs. Everything seems to be still there and working. I look up but can't even see what I've fallen over which completely freaks me out. Where the hell am I? The cliffs along this stretch of coast are not that high but it feels as though I had just fallen from the moon back to earth. There's so much adrenalin running through me now that I probably couldn't feel any pain anyway, but this has scared the crap out of me. I soon work out that it's not the cliffs I have fallen off but a wall of snow extending out from the cliffs. I had walked up on one side and then off the shear drop of about 10ft. From this point on I begin walking as though in a minefield, while at the same time thinking about finding a place to tent up and hide. I find myself on the sea ice but then begin to climb? After taking only a couple of more steps one leg suddenly goes through the snow and into a small crevasse. Somewhat surprised I pull myself out, take two more steps and then go in up to my waist. What the hell is going on? I pull myself out then crawl back to peer into a huge hole, deeper than I am tall, with water in the bottom. Jesus Christ! I've fallen onto a different planet. I don't know this place, nor do I like it. I find some driftwood sticking up through the snow and decide to tie the tent to this. The wind is still howling and it's a real fight to get the tent in place, maybe taking an hour to pin it all down as best I can. I had made about three miles north of the Cape but I'm thoroughly done with this crap. Thursday, 9th February 2006. Teller. Saturday, 18th February 2006. N65° 23.732' W167° 15.285' We find the snow deeper today and the coastline getting ever trickier. I'm very nervous in this blowing snow and bad visibility, remembering the whiteouts I'd had around Cape Douglas and the falls from the cliff and into those small hidden crevices. As we make our way to Lost River we almost walk off a high drop at the edge of the river estuary. I notice I'm moving a lot more cautiously than Dimitri, who is more willing to take risks than I. I guess he's not had my experiences...yet. This whiteout stuff just scares the pants off me. The wind and snow continue all day and eventually we run out of shore then find ourselves in a real mess. We are now wedged up against high cliffs that drop straight into the sea. And as for the sea itself....try and pictured this. Take one seemingly endless car-park and fill with wrecked white vehicles, six deep, then garnish with refrigerators. Half fill your car-park with semi frozen water and cover with a thick blanket of snow. Leave to set overnight. My blood runs cold just looking at it. With no other option we venture out on to the mass of pressure ridges and soon establish, from the word go, that this is going to be unworkable. We make no real progress at all, the going miserably slow. It's like a minefield. We probe the snow and ice in front at every step with our ski poles, for often beneath the snow is open water or a crevice between slabs of ice. It's hard to find a place just to put your feet, and then pull these damn sleds. We quickly learn we have to stay on the tops of the pressure ridges. The storms have not left one flat area intact, forcing the ice up against the rocks until it had been pulverised. Having said that, the harder it gets the more determined we become not to let nature beat us when this close to our goal. We force ourselves to attack the ice and keep moving. Dimitri, in daredevil mode, ventures down from the tops of the ridges, tempted by the possibility of a smoother path... or any path at all. There are patches of open water all around and we know that many more lay hidden. Tempting fate, Dimitri will push out until the world drops from under his feet. It is exacting work and we take it in turns to lead. Now it's Dimitris turn to lead again and he finds himself in a dead-end, hemmed in by thin ice. As he turns to withdraw the ice gives way and in he goes. By the time I have scrambled from my harness Dimitri has managed to pull himself out, gasping and cursing in French. My first reaction of course, is to erect the tent... but where? After a few moments looking at each other and thinking about it, Dimitri shrugs it off and says as long as he keeps moving he'll be all right. So despite his soaking we push on, but not long after that Dimitri goes in again. Now we both find ourselves laughing, though verging on hysterically. Dimitri is lucky of course, (if you can call it luck), that this is the warmest day we've had in a while, just above freezing. A short time ago it could have killed him pretty quickly. It's good for Dimitri but not for our progress in general. Before it grows too dark we find a patch of ice that looks as though it can take our tent. Neither of us is thrilled by the idea of sleeping on the sea ice again, even under the best of conditions, so we warily keep a watchful eye on our surroundings. All through the night the wind blows hard and the snow keeps coming. Sitting in the tent and looking at our maps, it appears we could be in trouble. At our present rate we'll run out of food and fuel in the area of small settlement called York, well short of Wales. We consider retreating and finding an inland route but that means backtracking a long way and also losing a lot of time. The decision is made to push on and see what a full day of this stuff will bring. Both stoves now blast out heat and wet clothes hang like a steamy, jungle canopy from the roof of the tent, swaying back and forth as we are buffeted by the winds and snow. Tuesday, 21st February 2006. N65° 37.280' W168° 05.120' The day starts with a good climb up onto the end of the Continental divide, then following the high ground to avoid climbing in and out of re-entrants along the coast. There is no wind at all, not a whisper, but it's cold, -17C. We are moving swiftly now and have Wales in our nostrils. We hit Cape Mountain, and pass the old radar stations, relics of the Cold War, yet still maintained. Picking up a snow-go trail we see that it leads towards Wales. The pace is quick, yet it seems to take forever to get around that mountain. Images of my first days walk spring to mind, looking back at Punta Arenas as it disappeared, in the days when I was green as grass and full of beans. The journey so far had been everything it was supposed to have been, and much much more. But for all that this 'coming in day' is supposed to mean to me, ultimately it's just another leg and not the end. In fact not by a long shot. Wales, (population approximately 130) finally comes into view, I stand for a while waiting for Dimitri to catch up and eye this village at the end of a world. There is just a fleeting moments contemplation. A feeling of pride? Achievement? The crunching of skis and ski poles from behind snaps me back to the real world. Come on! There are things to do. Multimedia, warm the batteries and prepare those cameras that rarely seem to work. I try getting footage of this great day, my hands cold, these damn ski boots crippling my feet and my frozen nose running. The video camera fails within moments, to be followed swiftly by the stills camera. We prat about with the batteries with our numb, fumbling fingers to no avail. Bugger it! We push on. There's going to be no dropping to one knee in the Arctic water or weeping tears of joy before planting a Union Jack. We are met by a snow machine and its rider, Dan Richard junior, son of our contact here. He congratulates us on making it and points out how to find their home, stating he will meet us there. The first thing to strike me at this point is the fact that you can easily see the Diomede Islands and, though 23 miles away in the middle of the Bering Straits, they look so damn close. As though on a good day, you could put on your running shoes and be there in an hour. We find Dan Richards place and discover that he's not in the best of shape. He's been fighting pneumonia for the past number of days and is still quite ill. We'd been planning to stay at his place however it's out of the question as Dan has enough on his plate, so we speak to the school principal and are allowed to stay there for as long as we need. We haul over to the school and set up shop. Over the next couple of days we collect forwarded equipment from Dan's place, the Post Office and Frontier Flying. 15 boxes of supplies and equipment are waiting for us and very quickly the janitors workshop transforms into the Goliath Expedition's base. We find that the storms have pushed the ice away from the Peninsular, creating a large area of open water but for the meantime this does not concern me. Firstly we have to get ourselves prepared and wade through a long list of 'things to do' which appears to be getting longer instead of shorter. In no time at all the fact that I have reached the end of America's means little. There is so much work and more pressing demands on my attention. Then, of course, there is Catalina. Words like 'The end of the Americas' are unwelcome and make me nervous. To me the Americas will never end, not in a million years. So here it is, crunch time, that second gap. Now we have to prepare, watch, wait and pick our moment. Hopefully that will be sometime between now and 15th March. Our aim is to move forward aggressively, cutting down rest to a minimum. Being stationary on the Straits means being carried away from the objective by the tides. We know the odds are stacked against us. No one here believes we can make it. They've seen it all before. One guy even told Dimitri he would bet $10,000 against it. That's right people, you keep it coming. You can only fuel the fire. Victory is having the means plus the will to fight, and at this point it bleeds from our skin. If there's any luck going spare we'll be there to pick that up to. Like our forefathers before us, when the whistle blows we go over the top, bayonets fixed. Do what thy manhood bids thee do, from none but self expect applause. He noblest lives and noblest dies who makes and keeps his self-made laws. Sir Richard Francis Burton.
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