Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Thank You Costa Rica

The people of the Osa Peninsula in Costa Rica were extraordinarily helpful in the many months I have been there. Especially the miners, the Park Rangers of Corcovado National Park and others who make their living in the forest, as well as the OIJ and local police.

Traveling the trails with them I learned about the animals, the plants, the trees, and the geography. I made more than twenty trips into the forest over the course of two years, spending several weeks camping there. We saw many terciopelo, otherwise known as the fer-de-lance, and eyelash palm pit-vipers.

Rarely did any of these people travel off-trail and when they did, they used their machete to clear a path, both to uncover possible snakes and to leave a path to follow back as it is easy to get lost, especially in Corcovado's mountainous "Las Quebraditas".

I travelled with one local Tico man whose father had died in two hours from the bite of a terciopelo; another  Tico whose brother died from the bite of a bushmaster.

Others told me of men killed by falling trees. In fact, I myself witnessed two huge tree falls -- trees over 150 feet tall that crashed in the forest. Falling tropical hardwood crowns can be lethal if they strike the unwary, and knowing when and where they fall is impossible to predict.

Tree falls are like the avalanches of the rainforest, only worse. There is no equivalent to digging a pit to test for stability, no courses to take or books to read to predict what leads to their likelihood of toppling, other than wind and rainstorms

I was always especially fearful during rainstorms when wet dead wood fell with heavy epiphyte burdens.

At least five times I have witnessed enormous but otherwise healthy trees fall.

In the late 1990s a famous California tree climber and I made a traverse between two redwood trees each 300 feet tall. The following year I returned to find that one of the 300 foot tall trees had toppled, leaving its six foot top speared into the forest floor.

In Borneo's Imbak Canyon we climbed to the top of a 75 m Dipterocarp tree, returning the next day to find it toppled.

Another time along Sabah's Kinabatangan River I watched a large mango tree split in two and slowly peel away next to a river house, but was able to warn the inhabitants only minutes before the tree split and ripped the wall off their house exposing the room inside.

In 2015 near Dos Brazos we watched during a storm as the winds toppled over twenty trees, some up to two feet across.

The steep mountains of Corcovado also are very active with landslides, particularly in the wet season. These range from small sloughs to entire hillsides.

I am very grateful to the rangers and miners and others I walked through the forest with. I was very impressed with their willingness to expose themselves to these dangers as well as the discomfort of the 100% humidity in the forest, the high heat, the strong, surprisingly cold downpours, the chiggers and biting insects, especially when camping at night.

Many from the OIJ and another Tico from the American Embassy were particularly impressive to me, as these were men and one woman who generally spend time behind a desk, but came out and struggled with us in and out of canyons, up and down waterfalls, off trail and on, sometimes trapped by darkness and walking down the middle of creeks to stay protected from snakes.

While many Osa locals accused certain other local Osa Ticos of being involved with our son's disappearance, I did not at first believe them.

The details of the Gringo seen with these locals -- with only a few possibly bad people involved -- simply did not fit what I knew of our son or his plans.

However, ultimately the local Ticos themselves convinced me that local Tico troublemakers were involved.

I had thought for the first six weeks that Cody Roman was injured, lost, or  dead in the jungle. Local people tried to convince me otherwise, local people said he was the victim of foul play. And when my wife suggested that also, then I was ready to accept it.

But it looks like all of us, Ticos and Gringos alike, were wrong.

It's easy looking back to see things clearly. Much harder when looking forward.

I thank the Costa Rican people of the Osa for their empathy.

I consider them family.

And I thank them for their sacrifices and diligence, particularly in January, March and May of 2016 when the National Geographic sponsored investigation was finished, and the real generosity and helpfulness of Costa Ricans emerged.

Similarly in the early days, when two dozen Red Cross volunteers, local police, and Park Rangers risked the snakes, the falling trees, the landslides and flooding rivers to look for a foreigner.

Costa Rica is indeed a beautiful place, and nearly all of its people are both beautiful inside and out, with big, beautiful hearts.

Thank you Costa Rica.

Sunday, May 29, 2016

Prayer Flags

The words in the previous post are close to a story I told on May 11 at Arctic Entries.

I'd gone to Costa Rica's Osa Peninsula first to find him alive, maybe lost and injured. Later to find out what happened. Then I wanted justice as I'd been convinced foul play had been perpetrated.

But now it looks like maybe the stories of Roman walking with a thieving drug dealer may be just that, after all: stories.

Amazingly on May 17,  a miner found Roman's things, including his passport and money, deep in the jungle, within one kilometer of where I'd spent many nights camped while looking hard. Looking hard near the place where the only persons I believed had really seen him had described seeing him eating breakfast. They talked to him on a remote miner's trail where they'd never seen a gringo around the time of the World Cup final in 2014.

It was hours from the nearest tourist route, off-trail above a deep canyon and below a narrow arete.

In a month or so the Costa Rican authorities will tell Peggy and me whether our blood's DNA matches that of the DNA in the skeleton found next to his backpack, his shoes, his headlamp, foam-pad, his compass and other things I recognized.

Remarkably,  that day a miner had found these things I'd hung Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags Roman and I brought back from Bhutan between the two tallest trees in our yard over our house.

Sunday, May 15, 2016

There’re a lot of stories I’d rather tell than this one, but this one’s the only one that really matters.

Our son, Cody Roman Dial, disappeared on Costa Rica’s Osa Peninsula in 2014.

Cody Roman was conceived in a tent in the Brooks Range and born in February in Fairbanks. When he was six we walked across Umnak, a remote Aleutian Island, just the two of us, sixty miles in a week.

After that trip he went by his middle name, Roman.

In grade school with his mom Peggy and sister Jazz we traveled to rain forests and coral reefs and deserts all over the world. In high school he helped me with my research. He, Jazz, and I skied around the Harding Icefield for a week counting ice worms. The next year Roman took two months off school while we studied the rain forest canopy in Borneo.

While he was in high-school and college we packrafted rivers and creeks all over Alaska, in Australia, Malaysia, even the Grand Canyon.                                

The last time I saw him was in Veracruz, Mexico, January 2014 where we packrafted waterfalls.

Roman had just started a seven month tour of Latin America. After Veracruz he wrote us emails about monarch butterflies in the Sierra Madre, nesting sea turtles on the Pacific, swimming with whale sharks in the Caribbean.

He wrote me about his plans to walk solo 200 km in ten days across the Peten, the wilderness border of Guatemala and Mexico to see remote Mayan ruins.

I wrote him back:  “Don’t do it, It’s too dangerous,” offering up what looked like a safer route from Google Earth.

But I deleted that email. Instead I wrote him back to be careful with his machete and watch out for snakes.

After that he wrote a six-thousand word story of his adventure that I sent to friends who’d watched him grow up.

We’d hear from him every couple weeks.                                     

He’d write and say, Here’s where I am going. Then come back and write, I’m out and then another, longer, And here’s what happened.

Seven months into his trip he wrote from Costa Rica. He asked about topo maps.

I went on my own trip in early July to the Talkeetnas, came back and went straight to the Kenai to dipnet.

I didn’t check my emails.

Peggy and I worried about how long it’d been since we’d heard from Roman. It was strange not to hear from him for so long. One day we were shopping and she got nauseous for no reason.                

We went home and I opened the email thread “Topo Maps” to find plans for his next trip -- five days across Corcovado National Park. Off-trail and alone, a traverse of the wild Osa Peninsula. His route was specific.

He closed with “I’ll be bound by a trail to the west and coast everywhere else It. should be difficult to get lost forever.”

The email was two weeks old. He was ten days overdue.

I immediately called the American Embassy, emailed Corocvado Park, asked my friend Thai Verzone to drop everything and come with me.

I planned to be back in ten days.

I stayed forty. 

Our first night there we found the hostel where Roman stayed, the gear he’d left behind. A few days later we found a group of miners who’d met Roman in the jungle cooking breakfast over a Jet Boil.                                                        

The authorities wouldn’t let me into the Park, so we snuck in to search for him on our own.

It was hot and wet and dangerous. Thai stepped over a log waist high with a coiled green viper on top. He didn’t even see it.

Thai went back to his family. Other friends came down to help.

More snakes. More dangers.

Flash floods in green slot canyons filled with waterfalls that we rapelled looking for Roman -- maybe he’d slipped in and couldn’t get out. One night a 150 foot tree fell and landed a dozen feet from one of our tents with three people inside.

The mountains of the Osa look smooth but they’re not. They’re like a folded maze.

As I climbed the narrow ridges and stumbled down steep creeks I called out “ROMAN!”, “ROMAN!!”

But nothing.   No sign.          

Peggy came down and we retraced the route Roman laid out in his last email.

Walking the beach in the dark, Peggy said, He’s not in the jungle. Someone took him.

There’d been this persistent rumor. Roman had crossed the Osa with a known thief and drug dealer. The details didn’t quite add up but we needed a real investigator, an American who spoke Spanish and could push people’s buttons to get answers.

I picked out this guy, Carson, who’d retired from the DEA agent after 25 years in Latin America. He was like eight feet tall, muscled and tattooed-up, bald and intimidating, the kind of guy who sniffs out criminals, and gets them to talk.

I spent seven weeks in Costa Rica with Carson last year, getting close to violent men. Sitting down with suspects. Drinking beer with them. Offering them reward money. It was surreal and sickening.

This past January deep in the jungle with cadaver dogs and Costa Rican investigators, I found the only real piece of physical evidence.

It was a piece of sleeping pad I’d given Roman in Mexico after we’d been packrafting. It was under a miner’s black plastic tarp.

The miner had lived with the mother of the primary suspect. The Costa Rican authorities said it’d be months before forensics confirms the pad as evidence.

It took a year to get our son’s case elevated from missing person to homicide. It’ll be another year, if ever, before an arrest.

In Costa Rica there’s no crime without a body.

I’ve spent six months of the last year and a half searching the Osa Peninsula. 

I’m tired, exhausted.  I don’t want to go down there again, but I will. Because without our presence, nothing seems to happen.

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Twenty Best Modern Alaska Wilderness Trips?

My candidates listed below.

What are yours?

1) SE – Yakutat to Gustavus (Lost Coast South)
2) SC – All around Anchorage *** 
This goes from Anchorage to Valdez (which I have notyet done)
then to Eureka Roadhouse, then to Talkeetna River and down to Anchorage
(or Valdez to Anchorage via Talkeetna River)
3) SW – Pt. Heiden to Chigniks via Aniakchak
4) Aleutians – Umnak: Ft Glenn to Nikolski (Geysers!)
5) NW – Utukok to Noatak
6) Gates of the Arctic – AAA
7) ANWR – Kaktovik to Arctic Village
8) Interior – Charlie River
9) Alaska Range – Wonder Lake to Iliamna (longish)
10) Nabesna to Cordova (not really as long as it sounds)
11) Kotzebue to Nome*** (been trying to do this since 1985)
12) Iceworm Traverse: Seward to Homer
13) Gerstle to McKinley Village
14) Girdwood to Knik
15) Limestone Jags Loop
16) Arctic Circle
17) Ribdon to Kaktovik (I skied the reverse, but think packrafting like Becky, Tony, and others would be better)
18) Susitna River bridge to Talkeetna
19) 3 day loop in Arrgetch over Ariel

20) Granite Tors loop

*** indicates I have not yet completed!

I have long been advocating, albeit weakly and to a rather deaf audience, that
1) Kaktovik to Kotzebue is the Alaskan Appalachian Trail
2) Canada to Iliamna is an AK PCT
3) Nabesna to Gustavus ("Copper and Gold") has no Lower 48 equal (and is the best FatBike trip on the Continent),
nor does
4) "Once around Anchorage" (Anchorage -> Whittier -> Valdez -> Eureka Rdhse -> Talkeetna -> Anchorage) which is SC AK's best multisport adventure

Friday, June 12, 2015

Mountain Meister Podcast

A few weeks ago I was interviewed by Ben Schensk who has interviewed over  125 incredibly accomplished outdoor adventurers.

As part of the interview you suggest three pieces of gear and somebody else to be interviewed by Ben. Casey Greene, a next-gen Hellbiker and mapmaker from Montana apparently nominated Luc and me, and wanting to say something to someone, I accepted.

Here's the link with what I wanted to say, nicely edited, as well as who I think he should also interview, and my three favorite pieces of gear currently.

As for hedonic adaptation, Bono sings it well, too:

"It's no secret that a conscience can sometimes be a pest.
It's no secret ambition bites the nails of success.
Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief;
All kill their inspiration and sing about the grief."

From "The Fly" on Achtung Baby, 1991

Sunday, December 7, 2014

37 years, 100 trips, 14,500 miles, and 850 days (or so)

It's been most of my life and I may have missed some but these are the big lines (over a week or 55 miles), the important ones, and the little ones that matter.

By foot, ski, skate, paddle, and pedal.

With my wife, our kids, my friends, and on the multi-day/multisport races my rivals, and sometimes just myself.

From 1977, as a 16 year old solo hiking from Eielson Visitor Center to the Igloo over Anderson Pass, to a couple weeks ago, when Luc and I nordic skated from Selawik to Kotzebue.

From Kaktovik to the Kigluaiks, from Umnak to Yakutat.

Sure, they're not all connected (yet), but I have a few miles left in me to see the wonders of Western Alaska, float the Yukon, pedal and paddle from Cordova to Yakutat, cross from Cordova to Seward with a packraft, link Aniakchak with lake Clark. Plenty to do!

One thing to know is that many routes I did more than once, especially the Wilderness Classics. Another is that these are just quick sketches with the path tool in Google Earth. Don't use them for navigation, please!

You can also see my favorite places: Kenai's Harding Icefield, Hayes Range, Arrigetch Peaks and South-central's whitewater.

It's impossible to ever be satisfied with these "lines-on-the-map". While satisfying to draw the last trip in, like Bono says, "It's no secret that ambition bites the nails of success", and planning for the next link-up of old lines or fill-in of blanks spots (can you spell K-O-B-U-K?) is the grist of life: hope for what the future brings.

Thanks to Hig for asking for the lines on Google Earth for Erin's story in Alaska Dispatch -- otherwise they'd just hide on the Raven Map of Alaska that leans against a wall in my office....

Sunday, November 30, 2014

Terrain Skating: Selawik to Kotzebue

It began with a text invite from Brad, who’d been going every day for weeks.

“Still good ice at Nancy Lakes. I have a 21 lake loop for you, 35 miles”.

I hadn’t ice-skated in over 20 years, and never on the clapper-style Nordic skates.

I texted back, “Thanks. 35 miles seems far. Will it be pretty easy?”

Brad texted a topo map with a big red loop sprawled across the Susitna Valley’s lake-scape.

“Yup. No sweat. Tons of fun. You skate at 15 mph.”

Ever since seeing Jim Renkert’s first pair back in the 90s, I had always wanted to try the free-heel style clapper skates wearing warm, comfy ski shoes while traversing icy wetlands. But Fall has always been my busy season at Alaska Pacific University. I just couldn’t make the time, even as my packrafting partners gushed about the ice season coming up, then disappeared when the ice finally came.

The following day, a Saturday on the big loop out at the Nancy Lake State Recreation Area, Brad and I sailed across black ice lakes, accelerated along twisting sloughs lined in tall grass, and hurried skate-less over frozen trails between the water bodies, eager to get the skates back on.

Shoulder Season: So Long, and Thanks For All the Ice from Luc Mehl on Vimeo.

It felt a bit like high-tempo packrafting, where we portage our water-craft between paddles, but now shuffling along on slippery ski boots, delighting in the landscape, excited to get back on the ice. And once there, it was as if Nordic ice skating realized the promise of ski skating -- mammoth, exhilarating glides for minimal effort and no poles.

“Some years we never get out,” said Brad, “and other years, like this one, are just great. Last weekend we skated in the moonlight and lit methane bubbles on the ice for fun.”

Walking between lakes carrying our skates in our hands it seemed amazing that something so small and light could propel us faster than a fat-bike over places we never get to see in summer on foot.

Gliding effortlessly across Butterfly Lake Brad opined, “We wondered how you would react to this, Roman. Some thought it would be too boring for you.”

“Brad, my character is more complicated than most people realize. I love this. I wonder if we could skate to the Alaska Range?”

“Uh-oh. Look what I’ve created.”

The next day Brad called me. “You hear from Luc?”

That would be Luc Mehl, the mastermind behind some of the most audacious, creative wilderness trips in Alaska.

“He’s looking for people to skate from Noatak to Kotzebue this weekend.”

Now that was exactly what I was looking for.  A hundred-mile-Luc-Mehl-ice-skating tripacross the Arctic in late November.

Three days later Peggy and I had bought ourselves skates at AMH and on Wednesday we skated around Goose Lake in the dark.

“These are great! They are sooo stable. I’ve wanted to ice skate like this for years!” Peggy said.

We circled the lake over and over, dancing across lily pads that pock-marked the ice surface.  I wondered if a seven hour loop on Saturday, an hour of nighttime hijinks on Wednesday, and a half semester of commuting to work on my bike would be enough for a wilderness skate chasing a wild jock 20 years my junior.

I called Luc.

“Yo Roman. I talked to Seth Kantner in Kotzebue. He said the Noatak is open. And I have a friend, Timm Nelson, a teacher up there who's flying around. It might not be a go. But they’re giving me updates.”

Still, it seemed like a once in a lifetime chance but we were tortured with the idea that we might get way out and find out we couldn’t go onward.

Thursday and Friday we went back and forth by phone, email, text until we had settled on a plan.

On Friday, Seth snow-machined around and sent us iPhone photos and emails.

“The ice is good -- but not glass smooth. All different kinds of ice, real pretty, shallow overflow water should freeze tonight. Selawik Lake and Kobuk Lake I think would be all good ice -- but that white corrugated stuff. Noatak didn't have white corrugations -- just orange peel roughness and chunks.”

Our plan was now to fly to Kotzebue on frequent flyer miles at 6:30 AM on Saturday (November 22) morning, catch the Ravn Air flight to Selawik at 8:45 AM, and ice skate back to Kotzebue, 100 miles across Selawik River, Selawik Lake, Kobuk River delta sloughs, Kobuk Lake and whatever else we could. Finish by Monday (November 24),  or earlier.

We each carried three days of food, more than three quarts of water, headlamps, a minus twenty down bag, and multiple layers of clothing proven during the Winter Wilderness Classic in the Brooks Range. He carried the stove and fuel. I carried the cook pot and Cuben-fibre shelter. We each had ski poles and Luc even had a kite he thought he might deploy to sail across the ice.

We had no paper maps. Instead we had iPhones loaded with USGS topo maps and imagery accessed with the Gaia ap.

My wife Peggy had lived in Selawik for 10th and 11th grade where her parents were school teachers. Neither Luc nor I had ever been there to see its boardwalks and bridges crisscrossing the tundra and channels of the Selawik River. It was delightful at dawn, an Arctic Venice.

After landing in dawn's twilight we hopped on the local agent’s four-wheelers for a ride to the fuel depot where Luc bought a quart of unleaded for the stove.

He joked with Doreen and Eli at the register, “I bet I was your biggest customer all year!” They laughed and in Doreen I saw body language that Peggy may have picked up along with an Inupiaq vocabulary during her years in Selawik.

“You guys ice skating all the way to Kotzebue?” she asked.

I nodded.

“It’s a hundred miles and that’s by the short cut.”

Luc’s route mapped out on Gaia didn’t take the short cut. It went around the northern end of the Baldwin Peninsula and zigzagged through the Kobuk delta sloughs.

The northern and western horizons were purple as we clambered down and clicked on our skates. It was about 10:20 AM. My pack weighed 35 pounds.

On the ice, roughened by snow-machines flying across overflow refrozen, I steadied myself with poles. This wasn’t anything like dancing across Goose Lake or speeding around the canoe trails with a day pack. This was serious and committing and I felt weak, old, frail, and out of place.

Luc sped ahead and shot stills and video of me. I hoped he wouldn’t post any of that as I was tippy and awkward, unstable and nervous.

He moved easily across the orange ice, pitted and pocked, looking for the smoothest glide. He found it off to the side where water oozed out of the banks and over-flowed back onto the river, forming a smooth, quiet surface.

We stopped to shed a layer after less 50 minutes of skating downstream. I pulled out my phone. “We are 7.39 miles from Selawik in a straight-line!”

“Wow! I love the learning curve on these skates. We got out on the ice all awkward and unsure and now we are just flying!” replied Luc.

The sun had finally crested the southern horizon, rolling along above low white hills, casting our shadows to the opposite horizon.

We cruised along freshly frozen overflow (we only saw open water at the leads, open cracks in the lake ice),  an easterly tailwind at our back picking up as the sun rose. We stopped and looked at the skin of a caribou somebody had taken the day before.

“It really feels like the winter Arctic with that purple colored sky. You just don’t get that purple in April during the Ski Classic,” said Luc.

“Have you spent the winter in the Arctic?”

“Yea, I took a course at University Center in Svalbard during the winter and the purple light there was magic.”

Unfortunately the overflow wasn’t continuous and we had to work our way across the ice with half-inch to two-inch rugosities. In places it looked like wind had blown overflow as it froze, tumbling along globules of ice that built larger as they rolled and froze. Other places overflow had crept into surface patches of snow and only partially melted it, leaving rough patches or even snow patches. These snow patches were show-stoppers and we had to step over them as we flew along.

“When Derek and I went from Aniak to Dillingham, we skated along with 80 pound packs and would just crash when our skates caught cracks hidden in the snow.”

Cracks were another hazard. Small cracks that would snag a blade and threaten to stop you cold or snap a leg or ankle.  We learned quickly to keep full focus on the next fifty feet, carefully skating to avoid cracks, patches of snow, and roughness that might trip or slow our progress.

An hour and a half after leaving town we were at Selawik Lake, 10 miles away. Here we found a ragged crack in the ice one-two feet wide with an appealing yet terrifying color and texture. We saw no reason to cross it just yet – nor any way to do so, either – and skated on the shore fast ice for a while. The crack likely formed as the polar easterly winds blew at the lake and pulled the ice from its edge, leaving a kind of skate park for us to cruise. There was often nice, smooth, freshly frozen overflow that had apparently spilled from the crack, as I saw when the ice settled and boomed at one point, then the crack spilled liquid. Its old refrozen jumbled edge also gave us ridges and ramps to step over and skate making the skating not only fast but a new and variable terrain to travel.

Ultimately snow drifts crested off the shoreline and onto the ice as far as the shore lead. Beyond the lead was beautiful black ice, clear and solid over deep water.

Luc found a slab of ice a foot thick and angled upward 15 degrees. He herringboned up and gingerly stepped off and over the lead. It felt crazy to balance on the top of the slab with skates on and then plop down a foot and a half below. The best thing about skates is their lack of friction – it’s also the worst thing about them when you have to make any sort of static moves that involve vertical stepping.

Beyond the crack we took off at smooth speed.

“Man, this is so good. I wish we had some hot chocolate. We could just cruise along and sip coco.” The low angle sun illuminated the ice spray like golden sparks coming off our skates. This is what we’d come for, flying across a large bay of Selawik Lake, headed for the Kobuk River delta.

Slowly but surely the black ice gave way to patchy overflowed-snow. And we were forced to work our way through. I took my first fall pitching forward with a top heavy pack that held my water wrapped in my parka and slamming me onto the ice. Luc was far ahead, as usual, due to his longer skates, better style, superior fitness and technique, so thankfully didn’t see my embarrassing full body slam.

Not a true hazard, but an imagined one, was the sound of cracking and booming of settling ice. At least once each of us sensed a drop as ice boomed and buckled, and anytime I stopped I was confronted with not silence but a seemingly ever-present distant cracking and booming.
An hour or later the black ice gave way to  snow and we were chased to the edge of the lake. We walked on our skates across a small peninsula onto a small slough of good ice and followed that to a bigger channel. Left led back to the lake, right upstream.

“Let’s try upstream.”

The sloughs were surrounded by willows that seemed to slow the winds leaving waterways free of snow. The overflow had something crunchy on top that skates sliced through easily yet anchored ski pole tips, too. I found with the ski poles on this stuff I could keep up with Luc, but somehow took another fall, this one on my back.

Consulting Gaia, Luc found a way through the delta to a west-trending slough that led back to the lake. We had to follow channels and walk across a bit of marsh grass linking ponds and even bushwhacked through some old growth willow in our skates to the final slough and its incredible overflow edges. The overflow was quiet and smooth. Willows alongside gave a great sense of speed.

With momentum like this, it felt like we could skate forever, maybe make Kotzebue in 24 hours.

Around five it was time for headlamps and food and water. We’d been stopping every couple hours – well, I had. Luc stopped, it seemed, every hour to wait for me, but by the time I caught up with him he seemed chilled by the wind so I’d usually continue onward.

The skating cost little in energy and the temperatures felt well above zero so by keeping moving with the wind at our backs we felt no windchill at all, unless it came from the side.

Following the belly slide tracks of a river otter, Luc led the way and I took another face-first spill, slamming my forearm to the ice. Groaning in discomfort, I got up in the dark but could find Luc nowhere. I skated on, crisscrossing  the wide channel and looking upstream and down. Fifteen minutes later I spotted a yellow light upstream and figured somehow I’d passed Luc. So I skated back toward it, chasing a light which at first seemed to be getting closer, then getting farther and finally disappearing. 

In the clear, dark, moonless Arctic night, fifty miles and eight hours from Selawik, I was nervous to be separated from Luc. I had the cookpot and shelter and with willow everywhere I could make a fire. But what about Luc? I decided to skate back downstream toward the lake and look for him there. Then I spotted his light coming upstream to look for me.

We cruised on and I took another couple falls within minutes of each other while Luc was ahead. Each time I got up quickly to be sure where he was. While skating on some overflow (generally the only place I could keep up) Luc ran afoul of some hollow, white ice where water had drained away leaving a crust that shattered like broken glass. Luc ploughed into it and fell face first.

"Are you OK?"

"Yea," he got up and pushed on.  While I fell what felt like fifteen or maybe fifty times, he fell only twice.

A while later we hit the lake and almost immediately ran into miles of what Luc called “white death." It was the same hollow crust of drained overflow that had upended him earlier but now it was everywhere, unavoidable. Still wearing skates we crashed through it but walking, not gliding, in search of anything that might offer us more of the momentum we craved.

Looking out at the lake we were lured by the promise of blackess, but it was just the reach of our lights and we had bad ice mixed with snow. I fell again but worked hard to keep Luc in sight.

Eventually I cried uncle and said let’s camp. After more than 35 years and 14,000 miles of wilderness travel in Alaska I have found too often that pushing on in the darkness wastes time and energy. Morning brings a perspective that stubborn night travel obscures.

At about 8:30 or so we walked across styrofoam snow, found a patch of willows to get out of the breeze, took off our skates for the first time since leaving Selawik, threw down our pads and bags, brewed up, chowed down and crashed.

"That overflow was sick."

Midway through the night Luc woke me. “Roman, the aurora is awesome. I have never seen it whip around so much. Look over to the right -- it’s red.”

I unzipped the bag and sat up, looking heavenward at the snapping bands of green, yellow and red. It was amazing, but I was exhausted and fell back asleep while Luc captured the event on his camera.

“Luc, let’s get up. It’s getting light.”

A glow to the south promised another day. Frost covered us and our gear. Luc melted some water for breakfast and then heated our water bottles.

“You know Eben works for MSR and says that a tight fitting lid is the most efficient way to heat water in the cold. This cook-pot is taking for ever.”

Luc was referring to my 15 year old aluminum gallon pot, crushed in my backward landing fall the previous evening. The lid fit like a round peg in a square hole letting hot air escape and slowing the heating process.

We were out on the ice by 10 AM or so, 24 hours and sixty miles beyond Selawik, well rested after a 14 hour camp, and soon back to 7 mph on good ice. We had skated out a ways onto the lake when we heard what sounded like an airplane. Instead it was a roaring snow-machine carrying a local.

He pulled up alongside me, turned off his machine. My head and ego were bruised
after pitching forward onto the ice while trying to look back at him as he approached. He had a rifle slung around his neck and across his chest. He said he was down from Norvik, “Looking for caribou or maybe a wolf.”

“People, too?” Luc joked.

A young guy in his twenties he laughed and pulled off his face mask. Sitting warmly on a thick caribou skin he took out a half-burned cigarette to smoke and said he’d come down from Kotzebue the night before. We talked about the flashing beacons so obvious in the night that guided people’s way.

We said all we’d seen was a fox, but honestly when skating on the rough stuff I could not really look farther than fifty feet or so away or I’d trip and fall. In the silence between our words I could here the distant ice booming.

“The ice is pretty rough like this the whole way, although over there it’s glare ice.” He gestured toward the Kobuk delta.

He roared off and we drifted shoreward on patches of black ice mixed with gray and white. I took another fall, so painful I nearly cried in physical pain, writhing on the ice with an elbow I swore was bleeding.  Then we found the most beautiful overflow I’d ever seen that offered us up the perpetual motion that so exhilarates the long-distance skater.

It was smooth and expansive and aquamarine in the morning light. It was lined with willows on one side and the expanse of Kobuk Lake on the other. It was what I’d come for really, and I wished it would go on for 20 miles.

It nearly did. We made 17 miles in two hours on it,  with stops and photography, too.

Unfortunately the ice went northeastward and we wanted northwestward. I asked Luc about the route and he said we should head west as the continuing good ice would take us too far out of our way. My recollection on the flight over was that the west side of the lake was all white and the east side had shined smooth in the dawn light. I wanted to suggest to Luc that it might be farther but just as fast and more fun with good ice. But this was Luc’s trip and I kept that thought to myself.

Within an hour we’d stepped across another lead mid-lake and picked up a snow-machine trail. I took one last fall when the snow caught my skates as I glided across ice landing on my very sore elbow and said, “I’m  walking.”

Crossing short, rough ice patches along the snow machine trail in my Salomon X-C skate boots I was amazed at just how rough of ice we had often been skating the last two days. Stuff so coarse you'd never have though it skate-able. Yet we made 7 mph on it.

Luc tried to skate but was going no faster than I. Even if skating is five times as fast as walking, you need patches of ice long enough to get up to speed, and it was clear that the patches -- now reduced to a few feet long -- were not enough. Soon he switched out his Dynafit boots for tennis shoes and was cruising the snow-machine trail with me.

It was warm and easy going even in my ski shoes.  There was a hut on the shore of Kobuk Lake where the twelve mile trail to town took off. I fantasized that maybe if we got to town that night, then the next day we could fly to Norvik and do Norvik to Kotzebue in a day, taking advantage of all the overflow on the Kobuk delta’s sloughs.

But really, I wanted to make it to town that night, catch the plane in the morning and get back to my family and job. Luc wanted to camp out another night, but at 54 I also wanted to make this the fastest 100 miles on foot of my life, and spending another night on the tundra wouldn’t make that a reality, especially just to save asking Seth for a place to stay or a $100 for a bed and breakfast.

I told Luc just say when he wanted to camp. His toe gives him pain when he walks and we still had a dozen miles of walking past the hut to town. I knew all to well how it feels to have my partners want to push on when I was hurting.

We punched out the twenty miles to town in seven hours, even skating a hundred yards over small lakes on the snow-machine trail across the Baldwin Peninsula. It always felt so good to move effortlessly on skates after walking.

But the best part was reaching the paved road that leads from Kotz' water source into town. The road was covered in black ice and after trying it in his tennis shoes and ski poles, Luc switched to skates and shot off into the night. He skated up to the top of the first bridge, then turned back to me, whooping in joy about the speedy downhill off the bridge. I put on my skates and followed him in the dark, enjoying the downhill off two bridges as we skated our last mile to Fifth Avenue in downtown Kotzebue. 

There we hailed a cab to the fanciest hotel in town.

One hundred miles in less than 22 hours of travel --  a total of 36 hours including a 14 hour camp. Even at 25 years old, skate skiing across the Alaska Range with Audun Endestadt, I hadn’t gone that fast.

Selawik to Kotzebue was all that I had come for, and I was grateful to Luc for the vision, persistence, and bravery to make it happen.

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