Iceberg Hopping

There is a list of bad things that can happen to the human body when it is exposed to the elements for too long.  In the bitter wind and dark cold of polar winter, many well-planned expeditions have failed.  I did not have a team of dogs pulling a sled.  I had not dropped supplies in advance from a helicopter.  I spent less than an hour planning the trip.  But I had an advantage over others who had attempted similar journeys.  I did not care if I lived or died.

 

And, I had spent a decade learning how to survive in the Arctic wilderness.  Eastwood was a good teacher.

 

Progress across the thick ice of the Bering Strait was slow.  I carefully poked my walking stick ahead of each step.  It was dark when I started.  I walked under whatever light the moon afforded.  And I had Eastwood’s AN/PVS-4A Starlight scope.  A passive night vision device that ran on AA batteries.  I would stop every few steps and hold the scope up to my eye.  I carefully surveyed the ice in front of me for cracks and crevices that could break my ankle. 

 

In January in the Arctic, there are only five hours of light per day.  The sun is never far above the horizon.  The light reflects off of the endless snow and ice.  It is blinding.  The thick wool balaclava that covered my head and neck had narrow slits for the eyes.  Under that I wore heavily tinted goggles. 

 

Day or night, if properly dressed, you can generate enough body heat while walking to keep warm.  In fact, you must guard against overheating.  If you sweat enough to dampen your clothes, you will get very cold as soon as you stop moving.  Eastwood taught me, it didn’t matter if you were in blazing sun or freezing cold, always regulate your sweat.

 

I wore multiple layers of breathable clothes.  As the day progressed, I would stop periodically to add or subtract a layer, to maintain an even body temperature. 

 

One cannot walk forever.  Each time I stop to eat and sleep, I will begin to cool off.  Before I rest, I will have to build a shelter, and quickly.

 

I had done just that, many times before.  Eastwood and I would have shelter building contests.  I learned how to form snow into blocks of ice, then carefully stack the blocks to make an igloo.  The ones we built would be suitable protection for an entire winter.  But it takes a long time to make an igloo.  If you are in a hurry, you make a big pile of snow and hollow out the center.  That is how you build a quinzhee. 

 

If you design a quinzhee properly, it can be heated with a single candle.  The floor should be elevated in the center so that melted snow and condensation drain to the side.  The quinzhees I built were not much larger than a coffin.  I inflated an air mattress before I slept, to keep me off of the ice that served as the quinzhee’s floor.

 

In the winter, ice forms readily in the shallow areas near the coast.  But it takes unusually cold weather to make the Bering Strait freeze completely.  The currents will usually keep channels open in the deepest water.

 

Before I left, I had looked across the Bering Strait through the telescope in my living room.  It was hard to tell in the fog, but it looked there was a channel about halfway to the Diomedes.  After 10 hours of walking, I found that to be the case.  I had gone 14 miles.  I had reached the edge of the solid ice.  In front of me was essentially a mile-wide river.

 

The water was filled with pieces of ice of all sizes.  Small chunks the size of a fist or a basketball were everywhere.  The biggest of the icebergs would easily hold a football field. 

 

I was tired and hungry.  I pulled the shovel from my pack and began building a quinzhee.

 

The next morning, I ate, then took my time studying the movement of the ice.  The Starlight scope came in handy.  By the time the sun came up, I had built up the courage to give iceberg hopping a try.

 

Sailors had come up with many names to describe the different sizes and shapes of icebergs.  Growlers were big enough to park a truck on.  Bergy bits were big enough for a house. 

 

Regardless of size, there were enough of them in the water that they bumped into each other.  The current in the channel was gentle, but relentless.  Everything not frozen in place was moving north.

 

If I could jump from one iceberg to the other when they were bumping into each other, I could gradually make my way across the channel.

 

Assuming I didn’t break a leg or fall into the water.  Or, end up halfway to the North Pole if I took too long to get across.  You can only carry so much food and supplies on your back.

 

The icebergs were moving about one mile an hour.  Meaning that every hour I spent on an iceberg, I would travel a mile north.  I thought about heading south before crossing the channel.  That would lessen the chance of ending up somewhere in the Arctic Ocean if it takes longer than I thought.  I pushed that out of my head.  Playing the game was on my mind.  Being careful wasn’t.  I broke camp and headed to the edge of the ice.

 

The best athletes can easily jump more than twenty feet.  In ideal conditions, of course, without head to toe winter clothes and a backpack.  And not on slippery ice.  I did some dry runs and decided I could safely clear a five foot jump.  Much more than that and I risk ending up in the water.  A dangerous scenario for a solitary human, wet and exposed to freezing temperatures.

 

While the icebergs routinely bumped into each other, and into the ledge I was standing on, there was no guarantee of clean edges or flat surfaces.  They came in all shapes and sizes and tended to be sloped and irregular.  I would have to be patient and pick my targets wisely.  The bergy bits tended to have flat surfaces that would be easy to jump on.  But there weren’t enough to use them exclusively.  If I wanted to get to the other side, I would have to ride a lot of growlers. 

 

The first jump was almost a disaster.  My target was the size of a pickup truck.  I landed on my feet, no problem, then almost fell off when the berg hit the ice shelf.  Next time I’ll wait until after the collision to jump.  Timing is everything.  Every jump would be a potential showstopper.  But each would only get me a few feet closer to my goal.  I was going to have to be careful and patient.

 

Iceberg hopping turned out to be a lot of waiting, and watching.  Then, a heart-thumping jump.  Followed by more waiting.  Progress was slow.  I watched my target, the Diomede Islands, recede in the distance as I slowly made my way across the channel.

 

I was exhausted, but dry, when the last jump got me back to solid ice.  It had taken ten hours to get across.  My hike to the village of Diomede tomorrow was going to be fifteen miles.  It was well past dark and the wind was howling.  I built a quinzhee as fast as I could, ate, and fell into a hard sleep.

 

I became accustomed to the rhythm of walking across the ice.  In the morning, as I began the trek to the village of Diomede, I considered the next challenge.  How to steal the supplies I need and get away with it? 

 

When the Nagels found my truck in front of their house, they would see my footsteps, going west.  It would be obvious where I was headed.  I expected the constable in Diomede to know I was coming.  Breaking into the town’s lone store and getting away with the supplies I need will be no simple task. 

 

Fortunately, Eastwood and I had visited last summer.  The layout of the tiny village was fresh in my mind.  I had a rough plan.  I was not the first criminal to realize that the middle of the night and the cover of darkness play to your advantage.

 

Daylight came and went as I hiked.  I approached the island.  The village is on the far side from Wales, facing Big Diomede Island.  As I rounded an outcropping, I could see the light from the buildings ahead of me.  It was 8pm.  Too early for criminal activity, and I needed rest.  I might have to do some running if my plan hits any bumps. 

 

I retraced my steps far enough to be out of sight of the village, then prepared camp.  I set the alarm for 2am, and closed my eyes.

 

There are no cars or roads in Diomede Village.  Just a gravel path along the shoreline.  A front end loader sits on the path.  It is used for construction and hauling supplies from the helipad and the docks.  I was interested in what was in the loader’s fuel tank.  I found a pair of buckets in the supplies piled up next to the water tower.  I crawled under the front end loader and cut the fuel line.  I watched as the liquid trickled into the buckets.

 

About 400 feet down the path from the store is a set of dumpsters.  Where the town’s garbage sits until it is hauled away by a boat.  I carried the buckets carefully down the path.  I found a pair of old shoes in one of the dumpsters.  I wadded up some newspaper, dunked it in the fuel, and stuffed it inside a shoe.  I repeated the process with the other shoe, then poured the buckets over the garbage in the dumpsters.

 

I flicked a lighter and set the paper on fire in each shoe.  I threw them into the dumpsters and began running.

 

The plan was to hide in the shadows until the fire got noticed.  Hopefully there would be commotion and yelling, and no one would hear me break the store window.  The burning dumpsters were about 100 feet from the nearest house. 

 

The flames grew.  I waited.  Then, a loud, metallic pop.  The metal walls of the dumpsters were getting hot, and were expanding.  Every time a rivet broke, there was a sharp sound.  Flames shot thirty feet into the air.

 

A man began shouting.  Qignal!  Qignal!  The Inuit word for fire.  Lights turned on in houses.  People were running toward the flames.  That was my cue.  I punched through the store window.  The thick gloves that kept my hands warm also protected them from the glass.  I unlatched the window and climbed in.

 

Mostly I was interested in food.  I filled the cloth sack with whatever I could grab.  I took a package of AA batteries and a pair of wool socks as well.  My plan hit a snag as I exited the door.  A man saw me.  He was about 50 feet away.  And he had a shotgun in his hands.  He shouted something.  I couldn’t make it out.  I turned and began running.  I was able to outpace him to the edge of the ice.  They had kept the gravel path cleared of the constant snow.  But there is no running on the rough ice that covers the Bering Sea. 

 

Slowing down when I got to the ice allowed the man to catch up.  He yelled “Stop!”.  I didn’t.  He fired the gun.  I heard the shot go over my head.  “I’ve got one more barrel, son.  I missed on purpose.  Last chance for you to stop!”

 

I did.  I turned slowly.  I looked at the man and said, “I guess the question you need to ask yourself is, do you want to wake up every morning for the rest of your life and realize you killed an eighteen-year-old boy over a few dollars’ worth of groceries?”

 

I turned around and resumed walking.  I did not hear a second shot.