Conquering the Impossible (22 page)

Before I had time to process what had happened, I was on my way again. Because I had been pushing my body's limits further and further, I had flirted dangerously with death without even realizing it. It was time for me to forget my obsession with the goal I was trying to achieve and refocus my attention on the absolute priority: survival.

I was constantly trying to grab just a few more moments of rest on the ice, like a child in the wintertime asking for five more minutes' sleep before getting out of bed. And because I was constantly pushing the limits further and further, I had come close to not getting up at all.

And yet I had gotten back up. And I knew what that meant in the final analysis—that I hadn't really wanted to die, not for a second. Dying meant giving up, and giving up amounted to shirking my responsibilities. It would be like throwing in the towel and saying, “It's harder than I expected, so I'm going home.” Or else, “I'm dying,” which amounted more or less to the same thing in these circumstances.

I thought back to the final expeditions of Greely, Nansen, Amundsen, and Franklin. After Franklin's ship was ground up by the ice, the entire crew set out on foot over the ice field. It was springtime, but the climate was still harsh and they all died of exposure. I had thought carefully about all those tragic deaths. While storms and other “fortunes of the sea” were the original cause of distress, there was one common trait linking all of these explorers' grim fates. It is soothing to die in the Arctic when you have reached the limits of suffering. The temptation to give up was almost irresistible. I knew something about that.

But man's determination to live is stronger than any other force. It is much stronger than anyone could imagine. And I also knew a little something about that.

*   *   *

By now I was beginning to understand why the people in Arctic Bay, and everyone that I had met since leaving there, had tried to persuade me not to venture into this icy hell. They were certainly right, but I couldn't say that I was sorry that I had ignored their advice. Little by little, I was beginning to get used to the suffering that this remarkable journey was forcing me to endure, to the point that I was starting to enjoy the sensation of overcoming the pain a little more each day. This agony was not a real agony for me, otherwise I wouldn't be there.

I was trekking through such inhospitable terrain not only to attain a goal, but also because I deeply loved the world through which I was traveling; because I love nature when it is at the peak of its violence and magnificence. When nature in all its grandeur forced me—in all my tiny insignificance—to endure the worst conditions imaginable, it was also accepting my presence into its fold, and that was a great honor. I had paid an extremely steep price for admission to this frigid theater, but I had the place to myself and could watch the action unfold on my own private stage.

*   *   *

Two foxes appeared out of the blue, practically at the tips of my skis, streaking across the landscape as if I weren't there at all. They were chasing after an Arctic hare in total silence. The two foxes, some of the fastest animals in all creation, barely touched the ice as they ran, churning up a cloud of powdery snow behind them. After they had caught and killed their prey, leaving nothing more than a small red stain on the infinite whiteness, one of the two hunters proudly held up the hare's head, as if to say, “I caught it!”

Later I saw two giant hares mating so enthusiastically that they were aware of nothing outside of themselves, not even me, though I was close enough to reach out and touch them.

One day, when I was struggling futilely to find enough wind to be pulled by my kite, a large red fox suddenly appeared just a yard away from me and sat calmly in the snow, observing first me, then my kite, with evident fascination. As soon as I uttered a sound, he vanished with an almost cartoonish “whoosh!”

Another fox stuck his head out of his den as I went by, then popped back into hiding. I could only make out the red tufts of his eartips, and his eyes, which seemed to be asking me, “And just what do you think you're doing here?”

Leaning over the edge of the ice, a polar bear waited patiently for its prey. The instant a seal's nose broke the surface to breathe, the bear sank its claws into the seal's throat with blinding speed, lifting it like a grouper on the tip of a harpoon and dropped it onto the ice at its feet. The bear placed one paw on the stunned seal's head to brace it and then sliced it open lengthwise with the tip of one of its razor-sharp claws. Several gallons of warm oil spilled out onto the ice. The bear repeatedly dipped its paw into the oil and licked it off until it had slurped up all of the seal's oil. The bear gobbled down the sealskin for dessert and with lordly nonchalance abandoned the seal meat for the foxes to devour.

I felt as if I had walked into the middle of a wildlife show on the Discovery Channel or National Geographic. But this was nothing more than everyday life, peaceable and cruel, funny and spectacular, flowing on uninterrupted around me, the uninvited guest. The native creatures of the Arctic and I shared one simple priority: survival.

*   *   *

On certain days when the snow was perfectly smooth, I would zip along over the white surface like a paintbrush over silk, with giant strides that would each move me forward the distance you might cover with a long jump on the moon. I would lengthen my gait, stretching out each lunge to the extreme limit, fully aware that inches lost now would add up over the course of a day to miles that I could have put behind me. If I extended each of my strides by four inches, the twelve thousand total miles of my journey would be covered a month and a half sooner.

The sense of euphoria I felt, which erased my exhaustion and seemed to lighten the weight of my sled and my body, came partly from the fact that I was finally getting close to Committee Bay. Soon, very soon, my interminable detour would be coming to an end. Soon I would be moving out of the path of the polar bears' migratory route, leaving the mother bears to suckle their young in peace deep in their snowy caverns. Soon I would be setting my course westward once again.

Until then, however, I would continue to have to be on the lookout for bears, and the blinding icy haze was not particularly reassuring.

My heart made a sudden leap in my chest when a huge shadow moved furtively through the mist a few feet away from me. Then there was another, and yet another.

In this pea soup it was impossible to tell what those shadowy shapes might be—but I had a nasty hunch. I wanted to stop so that I could watch silently and try to figure out exactly what I was dealing with and find a way to reach safety. But if I were to stand still, exposed to the elements at a temperature of eighty degrees below zero, I would quickly turn into a block of ice.

I could try to escape, but in what direction? The shadows grew in number, proliferating, racing by on all sides. This many polar bears traveling all together—it was impossible! This whole spectacle must be an illusion, the unfortunate result of collateral damage to my long-suffering nervous system caused by the extreme cold. After all, humans weren't meant to live in these conditions for extended periods of time, and perhaps there were secondary effects I knew nothing about. I had undergone just about every physical ordeal imaginable, but this was the first time that I felt as if I were losing my mind.

Finally, after several slow, terrifying minutes the silhouettes became a little sharper until I could finally see that they were … caribou. A herd of caribou. A vast horde of caribou passing all around me and heading in the direction of Sabine Island.

The presence of caribou usually attracts wolves, but with this much choice meat on the hoof, I had no reason to fear that the wolves would pay any attention to me.

*   *   *

On February 14, back in Switzerland, Annika and Jessica picked up the receiver even before their mother could get to the phone, having seen the number of my satellite phone appear on their caller ID. “Don't forget to wish Mama a Happy Valentine's Day!” they whispered to me, in unison.

*   *   *

Committee Bay, at the far southern tip of the Gulf of Boothia, was well-known as a focus of ice field activity. This was ground zero, where the most significant currents of pack ice all converge and create impressive stacks of giant blocks of ice. Here you could see genuine eruptions of the ice pack with fissures spreading at terrifying speed, often in many directions at once, and with full-fledged ice quakes to go with them.

During a banquet of raw caribou meat and seal liver that we had eaten on his hut's dirt floor in Igloolik, an old Inuit friend of Simon's told me that one day, when he and his father were on their way to Kugaaruk on the same route that I was following now to Sabine Island, the ice they were crossing at Committee Bay had suddenly begun to shatter violently on all sides. They turned around and hurried back toward dry land, but the gaping crevasses opened and expanded faster than their dogs could run. Simon's friend made it to shore just in the nick of time, but his father was too slow and was swallowed up with his sled and dog team.

I had heard plenty of stories like that about many different places in the Arctic. But Committee Bay had an especially terrifying reputation among the local population.

I was especially happy and relieved to reach the end of the bay on February 17, 2003, in the midst of an ever-so-slight mild spell. I solemnly regarded the spot where a very small stream ran out from the mountains. It was an unremarkable place that held all of the significance in the world for me. Finally! Ever since the month of November I had done nothing but tramp south on a detour along the shores of the Gulf of Boothia. This was the exact spot where I would finally be able to start heading west again—toward my goal. That day would remain one of the most important days of the entire expedition, and possibly one of the more significant days in my life.

Making it this far during the Arctic winter had made me happier and prouder than if I had made it to the North Pole. I had crossed the most hostile region on earth, in the most challenging time of year, in the most inhuman conditions that could be found. Moreover, the only previous knowledge that I had of the Arctic winter was from tales of bygone expeditions.

*   *   *

That day I turned my course westward and did my best not to dwell on the fact that the ice blocking the Bellot Strait back in October had transformed a short, seven-day sail into a four-month-long detour.

The icy fog lightened slightly. The temperature was almost imperceptibly less harsh. After a few days, the pale winter sun skimmed just over the horizon, a little less timid with each day's appearance. Along my course, which ran north past Sabine Island, the ice was completely smooth and practically free of snow. A veritable freeway lay ahead of me across the frozen solid southern tip of Committee Bay.

But it was still a long, long way to Kugaaruk, and the route was full of potential hazards. I decided to stick to my old practice of relying upon the experience of my elders, and so I consulted one for guidance. Through the Royal Canadian Mounted Police I was able to reach Ron, a policeman in Kugaaruk, who made a special effort to help me out—thus making up for the bad impression that his colleague from Igloolik had made. He put me in touch with Makabi Nartok, a full-blooded Inuit familiar with travel in this area. I asked Makabi whether I could head north-by-northwest across Committee Bay to get to Kugaaruk along a more direct route.

“Every season Committee Bay is different,” the Inuit elder said. “But one thing always true: further north you go, bigger risk meet bear, open water, ice mountains.” In short, he recommended that I go to the south of Sabine Island and keep heading west until I reached the western shore of the bay. Only once I was over dry land should I head north.

I was having a hard time accepting this, despite my respect for those with local expertise. It's hard to change one's basic nature. Until I had bashed my own head against a wall, I couldn't accept on faith that the wall was there.

With the frustration that I had built up over the last few months and the certainty that, after the mountains of the Melville Peninsula, I was going to be traveling across flat terrain without any obstacles to block the wind, I decided to listen both to Makabi and my own instincts. I would continue north of Sabine Island and then cut over, heading slightly north of due west.

On the satin-smooth skating rink of southern Committee Bay, I zipped along at ten, even twelve miles a day with a dexterity and speed enhanced by the slight rise in temperature. It was dark out and visibility was low, but the icy fog had lifted. Twenty-four hours later, the weather had cleared up completely. The clear visibility allowed me to gaze out and see in great detail the immense clutter of giant ice obstructing the horizon—directly in my path.

There was still time to pay heed to the voice of wisdom—Makabi's voice, in this case—and to turn back to the South. I never considered it for a moment and continued toward the obstacle in my path.

I spent three full days in the midst of that giant's game of dominoes, sweating blood and water to haul my sled over ice blocks of all shapes and sizes. The clearing weather was accompanied by a plunge in temperature, which made the ice dry, rough, and as sticky as sandpaper soaked in resin. Like a stubborn mule, my sled refused to move forward. I pulled, I pushed, I shouted at it. I was painfully aware of all the time I was wasting in this labyrinth, and I cursed myself at the top of my lungs: “Makabi told you not to head northwest, didn't he? Next time you'll listen to people who have lived here their whole lives, instead of doing everything your way!”

But I couldn't bring myself to turn around. I would stick to my decision, even if it meant spending the next month climbing over huge blocks of ice, hauling my sled up behind me.

*   *   *