Baffin Island, Part 6
God Enclosure
Hi Folks!
This is part 6 in my Baffin Island series. It works as a stand alone, but you may find it more interesting if you check the essays leading up to it.
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Love to you!
-tom
I’ve often joked that my dynamic with Kent represents the perfect sort of yin/yang travel relationship. His role is to locate our main destination and figure out how to smartly get there. Mine is to keep us alive upon arrival. Of course I am mostly joking, but there is some truth to it.
Kent is a keen and discerning researcher. A lifelong seeker of places off the beaten path. He diligently learns the local nitty gritty, then takes a lot of time to exhaust its history, language, facts, data points, weather patterns, and all the various nuances offered by the internet and guidebooks. On the trail, however, he’s more likely to take a National Geographic-worthy, award-winning photo with one of his three cameras than he is to stay properly hydrated. Which is where I come in. He gets me there, and I remind him to drink.
I’ve historically tagged along on adventures with Kent because I am eager to see and experience new places. The destination, to me anyhow, is generally irrelevant. Simply stated, if I haven’t been there, I want to go. But I have little to no interest in doing any advance research like he does. Where I shine is in my readiness for most anything. Whether rain or shine, hot or cold, easy or hard, I have tools and know-how to get shit done. This isn’t a brag, it simply is. I live for moments to embody this in realtime.
My readiness tendency is probably the result of learning how to camp with the Boy Scouts. Their motto, Be Prepared, still resonates as I fill my pack with snacks and other just-in-case bits of gear. It plays into my reasoning for creating on-trail routines that keep me and my hiking partners fed, fueled, and content. Truth be told, I disliked the Scouts as a whole. I mostly resented the leadership and loathed putting on the uniform. But still, being prepared remains thematic in my adventurous life.
The first 50k of Akshayuk Pass along the Owl River is mostly flat. But its marshes and bogs and tussocks create some of the most grueling flats I’ve ever hiked. The Owl River ends at the first of many pernicious moraines and marks the beginning of the second half of the hike.
This initial moraine, and all hereafter, are a compound fracture just waiting to happen. One minor misstep and snap, hikers get the ROI for costly search and rescue insurance policies. Traversing these rock piles is tricky enough without a pack, let alone with the heaviest one I’ve ever carried.
Kent and I cross over to the west side of the valley and follow the shore of Glacier Lake until we reach deep ribbons of the heavily flowing Norman River. I inspect its banks for an avenue of approach and come up with nothing. Kent suggests we look at the where the river dumps into the lake. I scout the route and make it across successfully.
It’s impossible from our vantage point to ascertain how many more minor crossings are necessary to clear the Norman’s entirety, but after navigating three we’re barely in the middle of it. The last braid forces us to find a spot upriver where I impatiently sidestep across the rapids. I take the last step in haste and nearly topple backwards into the rushing current—another reminder that everything can change in a blink. I look back at Kent and want to apologize for my near fuck up. These rivers are no joke. I really ought to be more careful.
I can’t keep my eyes off of Mt. Asgard. A twin-peaked cylindrical mountain with two flat-topped towers. And even though only one tower is visible from the valley, the spectacle of it is still anomalous compared to anything I’ve seen before.
Asgard, in Norse mythology, is the dwelling place of the gods. Like the Greek Mt. Olympus, the Viking’s Valhalla, like heaven. The word itself, Asgard, is the combination of two Old Norse words, as and garor, which literally translates to “god enclosure.” God enclosure is an apt way to describe this entire valley thus far, and from what Kent tells me, it’s only going to get better. “How could it possibly get any better?” I shout as I use my trekking poles to point at the 360° panorama of ominous vistas which, anywhere else on Earth, would independently inspire costly family vacations. This place is an accumulation of all the heavens.
We stop midday, just short of the Turner River—another major one we’ll worry about tomorrow—and stash our bags in preparation for a day hike. For the past couple days Kent has been talking up the possibility of hiking to the Turner Glacier for a closer view of Mt. Asgard. With six days left to do less than 30 miles, we’ve got nothing but time. But with no forewarning to consider what a glacier hike entails, I’m not as into this plan as Kent is. Had I known earlier the importance of this side trip, I’d be better prepared for the prospect of walking on the icy highway. But pulling this all together on the fly after an already full day seems a bit hurried. Plus, there's questionable weather on the prowl that will surely hit us soon. When? Who knows. But soon.
After weighing our options, we agree to walk for two hours, then turn back no matter where we end up. We set out on a craggy mountainside riddled with large stones, and quickly realize that the effort is much more of a mission than expected. We change course, opting for a lower approach, and after two hours make it just short of the glacier. “That’s good enough,” Kent says. “We can go back now.” I can tell this is not what he had hoped, and given our proximity I suggest we amend our agreement. “From here the glacier is like seven minutes away,” I say. “Let’s go touch it.” We do and I, at least, think it’s pretty goddamned magnificent.
We follow a trail of cairns back to our packs and set up camp. I filter water from a pool that smells like sulfur and debate whether or not I should drink it. I do, and mainly because I haven’t hydrated enough today. It starts to rain and we retire to our tents to wait out the storm. But before we go in, I tell Kent I wish we had concocted a better plan for our day hike. He does too, but says he saw all he needed to see. But I don’t believe him.
It rains all night and we delay breaking camp until there’s a pause in the deluge. It’s nice to not be in a rush. Nice to be able to take our time eating breakfast in our respective tents while chatting through the tarps about mostly nothing. Kent’s the first to go outside and reports that the valley is filled with low clouds. Where Mt. Asgard was yesterday is now a blob of fog.
We load up without getting poured on. And just as we’re about to don our packs for another southbound saunter, I extend my arms and walk towards Kent. He smiles, but he’s uncertain what I am doing. I get all the way up to him, arms still out, and say, “Kent, I love you.” He says it back, we hug, then load up and backtrack the marked trail towards the Turner River and all beyond.
“We should start every day like that,” I say. He agrees, and for the next five days, we do.
Great stuff— real adventure-it’s bit of Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth!
Love you Tom!