And I think over again
My small adventures
When with a shore wind I drifted out
In my kayak
And I thought I was in danger.
My fears,
Those small ones
That I thought so big,
For all the vital things
I had to get and to reach.
And yet, there is only
One great thing,
The only thing.
To live to see in huts and on journeys
The great day that dawns,
And the little light that fills the world.
-Orpingalik, Mackenzie Eskimo
I thought of this poem when I came back from my little hike up Anvil Mountain yesterday. It was foggy that morning, and even though I've been checking the weather on my cell phone daily (no internet in my guest house), the network was down that morning, and I thought the fog would clear as the day went on.
When I was a teenager, I had a dog named Maggie who was an excellent tracker (she's still around, living with my mother in happy retirement). We used to play these little games where I'd have her find things, or people, or the cat. I'd go out and get us a little lost on purpose in the mountains, then say, "Maggie, go home." She nailed it every time, no matter how turned around I got her, whether in our local San Gabriel mountains or the high Sierras.
Maggie, being awesome
Those games were fun, and I never ceased to be amazed by her skill, which I never had to train her in. Yesterday, up on the mountain, I could have really used her at my side. I took a dirt road up to the top of Anvil Mountain, a trip that was pretty uneventful, but the fog seemed to actually get thicker as a I walked up. I had walked about 4.5 miles from town. The snow was thigh-deep in some places. Once at the top, I walked around, looked at the scenery, which had all the beauty of the inside of a ping pong ball. I could have seen a lot more had I gone when it was sunny.
I had packed a lunch to eat at the top, but the wind started to pick up, which generally increases the misery quotient for most activities other than kite-flying and sailing, so I decided to just turn around and head back to town. I started walking in the direction I thought I had come from, back toward the unpaved road, which was lined on either side by willow clumps. As I felt the terrain starting to go downward, I looked around and saw no willows, only lichens. I proceeded a little farther, I started seeing some more willow clumps, but instead of going in line, like they did along the road, they were scattered everywhere. And they all looked exactly the same.
"Shit." I imagined my picture in the next day's Nome Nugget, over the caption, "Californian goes missing in mountains north of town." I generally consider myself experienced in backcountry traveler, even without a dog, so at first I knew I'd be embarrassed by having to have people look for me. But that feeling was replaced by a growing fear that I was lost, in a serious way. I've trekked in places like Joshua Tree or Death Valley, with strong features that are easy to read. Even snowshoeing in the Sierras, I could tell the difference between mountains, know which valley I was aiming for. Here, everything was essentially under a smooth blanket of snow, and the fog kept me from seeing more than twenty yards in front of me.
I could hear the airport, and I aimed for that. I also knew where south was, and knew that was the direction of the road and the Bering Sea, which was where I wanted to get to. It was hard going getting back down; I ended up several times in waist-high drifts. At one point, I reached a place that was very steep, so instead of falling over myself to get down it, I sat and ass-sledded all the way. I picked up a pretty good rate of speed, and in spite of my situation, it turned out to be a good amount of fun (way better than doing the same thing down a canyon in Joshua Tree, and you don't end up having to pick gravel and cactus thorns out of your underwear later. Trust me on this). Just watch for the piles of frozen muskox turds. Ass-sledding is now my new favorite activity.
Eventually I saw a snowmachine track, and I followed it until I saw a house. I knew if there was a house, there was a road. I did a little dance of joy (as much as I could in knee-deep snow) and headed for the road. Along the way, two dogs, a big red husky and a black mutt came running toward me, barking. Great, I thought, I'm almost there, and I get done in by dogs. When they were close, I looked at them sideways and said, "Go home," which is pretty much my standard chased-by-a-dog response. It worked, and to my surprise, they started walking next to me down the road, almost like an escort. Finally we parted and I made my way back to town, tired and wind-burnt, but mostly okay. I was never so happy to see Nome.
I wasn't going to write about this, but I don't want anyone else getting lost. Besides, no adventure is complete without a little misadventure, I think. Here's what I did wrong, and shouldn't do again:
1. Didn't get the weather report. Sure, the network was down, but that's a bullshit excuse. Go read a newspaper.
2. Several times a long the way, I thought about turning back. I should have listened to my gut.
3. I had no map of the area, because I couldn't find one before I left. Though it should be noted that I never owned a topo map until I was sixteen.
But now that I've beaten myself up enough, here's what I did right:
1. I had packed extra food, high-caloric items like dried fruit and chocolate.
2. I had extra clothing in case it got colder or I got stuck.
3. I left a message with someone in California where I was going and what time I'd be back, then called when I got back.
4. I had a cell phone and gave myself a time limit: if I didn't see the road within a certain amount of time, I was going to call the Nome Visitor Center (assuming I could even get reception) and request that they call a helicopter, rather than just wander around aimlessly.
So, I hope my readers will learn from my mishap. Here's what I learned, or re-learned.
1. Check the weather, and don't go out if it's bad.
2. Bring a map or a GPS if you like (I never use GPS, but you might like it. It's no substitute for practical knowledge, though). Especially important in terrain unfamiliar to you. I know desert pretty well, but not tundra.
3. Tell people where you're going, and carry a phone.
4. Have enough food for a couple of days.
5. Enjoy the scenery. Sure, you're scared, and rightfully so. Getting lost sucks. But look where you are! Admire the ravens, inspect the animal tracks. It'll keep you from panicking, which is bad. Besides, you could be lost in worse places, like the New York sewer system.
6. Think about happy things. Don't think about Jack London. Okay, if you must think about him, and he makes you happy, go with Valley of the Moon. Not "To Build a Fire."
7. Watch out for frozen muskox shit.
I did get to take pictures:
Watch for muskox mines.
This brings me back to Orpingalik's poem. I was reminded of what really matters after this. Later on, I went to a local sushi restaurant and savored those small things, my favorite things: raw fish and a cold Sapporo, friendly people, a warm place. Maybe I wasn't as lost as I thought, but it's good to be back.
I wanted today's post to be about food, but there were more pressing matters. Tomorrow's post promises to be delicious.
Have some good adventures, my friends.
And the little light that fills the world.
No comments:
Post a Comment