I wrote this post more than a week ago. Its publishing today coincides with the final hours of anticipation before my and Kent’s trek southbound through Akshayuk Pass in Baffin Island’s Auyuittuq National Park in the Canadian Arctic. More than 18 months of research and preparation is soon to become real.
At some point tomorrow morning, weather-permitting, Qikiqtarjuaq local Billy Arnaquq will boat shuttle us 3 hours from his 600-person village into the Davis Strait and to the far end of the North Pangnirtung Fjord. There’s a chance we’ll see bowhead and beluga whales en route, possibly even narwhals. I’ll keep an eye out while hoping my guts don’t get barfy from the inevitable swell. The older I get, the more sensitive I am to seasickness. Shoot, the older I get, the more sensitive I am to most everything.
Billy will drop us off in polar bear territory, and we’ll promptly follow the park service map’s suggestion to head 5k south “as quickly as possible.” That word quickly is laughable, because hikers hopping tussocks and sill while sloshing through wet bogs against potentially brutal headwinds will do nothing quickly.
I have no interest in lingering at the starting point. Grandiose icebergs be damned, I intend to hop off Billy’s boat and start charging directly south along the Owl River. This will likely be the one and only time in my life when I’ll be in a polar bear’s natural habitat, and yet I hope to see not a one. Not even from afar. Knowing they are out there is terrifying enough. To see one in in real life will only intensify my fear.
The distance between the northern and southern terminus is a 100k. On any of the hikes I’ve done recently on the Appalachian, Colorado, or Arizona trails, I’d knock out that span in 3 days, max. But from what I’ve read, the miles out here are slower. Almost too slow for me to comprehend. How does one hike 1 mile per hour? I feel like the effort to go that slow is commensurate with an effort to go fast.
The first half of the journey is without trail, and through a landscape that’s covered in snow for the majority of the year. The ground will be terribly wet. The sort of swampy morass that will suck off a shoe. The sort of wet that softens flesh into the consistency of butter left out for too long at room temp.
Getting lost here, I’m told, is quite impossible. We need just stay in the valley and it’ll get us to Overlord West at the southern mouth of the Pangnirtung Fjord. The most challenging aspects of this journey will likely be the myriad river crossings. We will endure more than ten fords of frigid waterways fed by glacial runoff whose depth and flow are tide-dependent. Which means we’ll succumb to very early wakeups so we can hit these obstacles at low tide (around 6:00 a.m.), after which they get too sketchy to traverse. Since the sun rises at 3:30 a.m., 6:00 will feel like lunchtime.
Of course I have no idea what to actually expect with this adventure (or any, really). It may be hellish, or it may be glorious. I’m playing out details of both scenarios to alleviate as many surprises as possible.
We’re planning to be on trail for 10 days. I’ve acclimated my body to my 50+ lb. pack by taking a bunch of local training hikes. My body is a bit wrecked from it all. Sore knees, a wonky back, and a twinge of plantar fasciitis in my left foot. Normal stuff.
Yesterday, rigged to my massive pack and taking wide strides, I passed a couple runners on the trail, one of whom joked, “Out here for long?” Another guy later on asked, “You got someone in there?” I’ve grown used to feeling like a spectacle as I train for my various excursions. But it most always leads to interesting exchanges with strangers, which become the highlights of the prep.
While crossing the Pass, I’ll eat 2 lbs. of food every 24 hours. Which means I’ll end the trek with a ~30 lb. pack. I definitely look forward to lugging a lighter load. But even though we’ve already got Peter Kilabuk, our southern end shuttle driver, aware of our expected finish day, I will still do all I can to embrace the idea of taking things slow. Because surely the trip will be over in a blink, no matter how it shakes out.
As our long and slow days pass, my body will harden. The thrill and freedom of being feral will overtake me. And though I’ll want to, I’ll actively try not to push. I will savor this once-in-a-lifetime journey, even though it may very well not be a one-and-done. Some places are magnetic like that.
I’ll wish for full moon shadows on Monday the 19th. I watch for wolf prints. For signs of caribou and weasels. I’ll fall to my knees at the foot of Mounts Asgard and Thor and Odin. I’ll perhaps wonder why I do such hard things, maybe even curse that I do. But it won’t be long before I repeat prayers for the smallest delights resulting from having distanced myself from the routine of my life. I walk, eat, and sleep. My favorite sort of living.
There will be daily magic in spotting the route’s emergency shelters. My spirits will lift as we approach these signs of progress. It doesn’t take long to feel like the last human on earth, and these beacons will offer proof of life. Proof that civilization has not left me behind. But such reassurance will be short lived, and as we depart I’ll note pangs of sadness. With each elapsed landmark, I’ll appreciate the sinking feeling that comes with loss, knowing that it is necessary for growth.
For years I’ve included a daily practice in my morning routine. Before getting out of bed, I lay prone with my eyes closed. I say a handful of I am statements. I am strong. I am smart. I am ready. I am patient. I am grateful. I am thoughtful. I am curious. I am safe. I am careful. I am prepared. I am aware. I am lovable. I am love. I say these things and allow myself to feel the words. I am.
And lately before getting up to start the day, I’ve imagined my difficult yet graceful stepping across terrain that, only today, I will step on for the first time in my 52 years alive. It’s time for us to get acquainted, me and this land.
It’s time, too, for me and my oldest friend to get reacquainted. To witness together the valley’s fullness, the relentless power of its physical and emotional grandeur. Such things should not be done alone. For safety, sure. But also because the echoes of memory are richest when there’s someone to share them with.
As I write this I am 48 hours from my flight to Ottawa, knocking out the last items on my list of loose ends. Getting this post written and scheduled is very important to me—but of more importance is carving out time this evening to write postcards to my friends and family. The meditation of energetically touching base with my people before dropping into extreme isolation and majestic beauty eases my jittery mind. Connection happens when we want it to.
As I sit in this cafe in Durham, North Carolina (which today was a week and a half ago), my knee bounces and my heart skips more beats than usual. But still I know, and with certainty and pure conviction, that when my days are done this is what I’ll have brought to the world. A life of cheerful moments shared with others.
To love is to live. To love is to heal. And beyond any of my successes or accomplishments or accolades, this love will be enough to deem mine a full life.
Bon voyage, friend!