January 2000
Expedition into Arctic on Skiis. A story written en-route.
By Tim
Khibiny Mountains- Part One
Far above the Arctic Circle in the north-west corner of Russia, it is another dark and
cold winter evening in the Khibiny Mountains. A lone reindeer wanders the
windblown tundra in search of hidden lichen - places where the wind has sufficed to
remove the white winter mask. In the still air reverberating cracks echo across open
lakes as the cold squeezes and contorts the ever thickening ice. During this evening,
dwarfed by abrupt and craggy peaks, in a valley caught in the midst of a burly cloud
of disturbed snow, there is movement of a foreign kind. Caught in a personal battle 4
figures press on as shadows, bowed into the wind. It is startling to think that their
shouts reach barely beyond the fringe of tightly drawn hoods. The world beyond this
burly cloud, this consuming darkness for a time does not exist, it is irrelevant and not
helpful. Closer are the figures drawn to the 10 metres before them, then the snow
beneath their feet, and eventually nothing reaching further than the battles waging in
their own minds.............
"Guys, its breaking, don't come this way!" Valentijn shouted from the grey before me.
The sun's glow from the horizon had all but sunk, and even the white open lake
appeared to blend into the murky forest. Coming to a halt I could just make out a
break in the tracks and recognized it as a collapsed snow bridge, upon which
Valentijn had skied. For a moment I rested heavily on my poles and felt the
aluminium supports take the weight of my sagging backpack. My eyes had long
become wide, almost expressionless, and as I felt my body resigning to a nagging
hunger, somewhere my sled seemed to heave briefly and come to a resting halt. I
shivered and laughed nervously, feeling the cold abruptly cooling my sweat.
"Well, which way should we go Valentijn," I eventually replied,
"I don't bloody know, I am trying to save myself from falling through river ice at the
moment... solve your own problem!"
50m ahead over the frozen river lay our supposed point of rest and refuge, a fisher's
cabin. The darkness had been a good mask up until that point, but obviously the burnt
out skeleton was not what we had hoped for.
Head hanging loosely down I took in the vague outline of my broken ski binding.
Wriggling a numb toe, I cringed at the thought of having to rigorously make camp
again. Already I craved the only real moment of comfort for the day - sliding into the
puffy down bag and drifting into the mercy of sleep.
During the darkness of a typical Arctic morning in January, I had found myself
frightened and gripping the front seat of a rattling white Lada. Outside, trees cradling
enormous lumps of snow had glowed a subtle blue in the faint moonlight. Whilst my
companions slept, I watched on as our driver repeatedly accelerated at 140kmh
around corners on the icy road.
On the barren "Kola Peninsula" that juts out into the Arctic Ocean, four of us had
gathered for an extended winter adventure. Far from being locals, the four of us made
up an odd international group of young enthusiasts. For months we had been
discussing and organizing from varying points of the globe - Valentijn from the
Netherlands, Dmitry from Russia, Chris at times from Australia and Europe, and
myself from Finland and varying regions of Russia.
With Dima's inspiring descriptions of the rugged arctic mountains, together we had
envisioned a 23 day skiing, sled towing journey passing through the 7 highest saddles
of the region. It promised a challenge greater than any of us had experienced, and the
cold of midwinter in the Arctic: a place where temperatures can plummet to -50 and
below.
The journey began near the small mining outpost of Revda.
"What kind of minerals do they mine here?" I asked Dmitry as our car passed under
the dim and small collection of streetlights. "Uran, or what is it in English.....
Uranium."
From Revda, a village consisting of several apartment blocks in disrepair, we took the
single road that wound its way over the tundra foothills and closer to the bald
silhouettes of sheer mountain cliffs. Nearing the base of a saddle, smoke stacks
obviously puffed away great plumes of dark smoke, casting a blotchy shadow over
the sparkle of starlight. The car came to a sliding halt outside the giant metal gates,
and one was forced to crane the neck to take in the iced cliffs that thrust themselves
up either side.
Soon after clambering out of the car and assembling our gear, I realized that the great
iron gates were not only the entrance to the shambling appearing mine, but marked
the beginning of our route. Minutes after arriving I peered up to see a truck departing
with several drums bearing pale radioactive signs.
"Tim! Don't take photos here....OK?" Dima remarked whilst the security guard
curiously watched over the strangers untying skis and sleds from a Lada. It must have
been about -15 degrees as the last of the car-generated heat drifted away from our
clothing. However we couldn't have been sure about the temperature as our
thermometer had already broken.
After several minutes, the four of us stood, clipping the sled tow ropes to our belts.
Peeling the price tag from my skis, and fastening the fur fringe around my face,
whether or not we were adequately prepared passed into insignificance: it was time to
start moving.
Politely, Dmitry asked the security official if we could pass through to the mountains
beyond, and the great iron gates swung open. In and among the cumbersome looking
old concrete structures, and a worker paused in full stride, staring from beneath a
rectangular fur hat that shivered in the light breeze. "Now" mentioned Valentijn, eyes
panning up and around, "now I understand why the Americans are giving money to
the Russians - to keep their nuclear power stations working properly."
Indeed, close-up even the metres of banked up snow couldn't hide the scrap metal
lined up against the walls, building corners that were no longer square. I recalled a
time in Finnish Lapland, as my Finnish friend had thrust his fists in the direction of
Russia. From the small Lappish fell, where the plant life was suffering from air
pollution, the smoke stacks in Russia were visible far in the distance. Now I was there
beneath the stacks, and ironically embarking on what I hoped to be my longest
"wilderness" journey.
Within minutes the factory and mine had all but become a dark break in the landscape
behind.
Either side of the valley rock cliffs towered. Even where snow had failed to conquer
the sheer vertical slabs, a network of ice was visible like an enormous cobweb cast
over the mountain. In the valley, the hardened snow existed as mounds and waves,
suffocating the few strands of willow and birch fingering their way to the surface. The
wind at first seemed hapless, blaring about light particles of dry snow that fell like the
shimmering scales of fish. Almost immediately my fur fringe became stiff and iced
up, obscuring vision. Further up the valley, and the pale pink sky seemed to rise with
our steps. Just as such brightness is visible, one comes to know in a Lappish Winter
that the sun is merely beginning to sink, tiring yet again.
The cliffs, ice cornices, pale sky, and biting air that turned nose hairs solid upon
breathing in, promised to be the familiar setting for the journey ahead. To the high
saddle, a lunar landscape perched between mountain peaks, all went smoothly. Had
we even been "professional" I thought to myself as Chris pulled up beside me,
remarking "this is great!"
Any sense of pride however was crudely sent crashing as the steep ice gully beckoned
the only passable route to the lake far below. Peering down the ice chute that
appeared more appropriate for tobogganers, I tightened my bindings. Briefly I
reflected about my equipment. Together, my wooden skis and bindings had cost less
that a tube of western-made toothpaste. "You can find these kind of skis in the alpine
museum at Kosciusko" Chris had pointed out earlier whilst trying them on. This was
not to mention our sleds that were Finnish made, plastic children's sleds bought for
AUD$10 and converted into hardy mountain hauling devices.
"OK Chris, I'll see you at the bottom," I joked whilst Chris removed his skis
immediately at the sight of the steep descent route. Within moments I found myself
hurtling down the hill, sled threatening to overtake me, wooden planks sliding
uncontrollably. Just before the crevice to my right opened up and the sled flew off the
edge I tensed myself for the first of many collisions with snow. "Damn!" I bellowed
into the compacted snow that had rudely stuffed my nose and mouth. For a few fragile
moments I felt my skis slipping slowly in the direction of my tow rope. Gently I
hauled at the rope until the heavy blue weight appeared over the crest and came to a
halt. My feet had already almost slipped off both skis, and the gaping hole in the sled
cover came as no comforting surprise.
An hour later and the professionals counted their losses. My towing system had
broken altogether, Valentijn's experiment with metal tow tubes looked like a new
form of metal-bending art, Chris had smashed the end of a ski, and Dima had already
split the middle of the spare ski.
"23 days" I remarked with a smirk whilst we slurped down hot tea with glazed eyes.
Furthermore, Dmitry seemed anxious and worried:
"Guys, we are already half a day late at this slow pace.
"Half a day late for what?" I asked.
"Well, I told Peter to meet us on the 10th day with the rest of our food supplies.....at
this rate we won't be there for 15 days?"
"But surely you agreed to a backup plan with Peter?" I replied.
Dmitry's face was unmoving and eyes suddenly distant. As I peered into my tea-cup I
shivered abruptly, and the smile vanished with the turning of grey skies.
At first during this day I knew that 23 days would be a challenge, if not impossible.
Chris already hung his head in exhaustion, and I marvelled at the splintered end of
one of his skis and his broken sled. For him, his first time on skis, life would be
difficult. With temporary repairs Dima and I set off in front to find camp, whilst Chris
no doubt came to tackle the deep snow with more than just the smooth glide of skis.
We skied right into the dim of evening, dragging sleds up steep river banks, making
delicate river crossings and pushing through the tangle of forest. In the night the cold
only becomes more intense. The snow that once rested playfully on glove liners
turned into a hard shell that quickly threatened to numb and terrorize the nerves. To a
newcomer, the dark forest in Winter offers no comfort, no sense of mercy. It can be
more intimidating, more frightening at times than a lonely, wind-beaten peak. Blindly,
Dima and I trudged until he himself could no longer distinguish between when he
spoke Russian or English. I watched on as his anxiety to reach the goal for the day
threatened to raise disaster.
"Tim, we just have to make it to the lake today!"
"Dima, listen, Chris must be miles behind, we have to repair our equipment."
For a couple of hours we had followed an open stream that cut deep into the snow and
offered no easy crossing. In the dark, Dima decided that crossing a fallen tree trunk on
skis was feasible and I stood numb with lack of sugar, shivering in my paused stance.
He slipped, I heard a ski scrape, and I saw how the large birch suddenly was shaken
into a frenzy, the heavy dollops of snow falling as an avalanche and swept away by
the stream. "Dima, are you OK?" In the dim light I saw his arms clasped around the
birch that stood on the bank, his skis straddling each side. Some grunting followed,
and a breath of relief. "Yep, I am OK. You go to find Chris and Valentijn, and I will
start to make a camp."
I found Chris about 2 km back, a dark shadow moving barely faster that the black
figures of tree trunks. To Chris it must have been hell. Close up I noticed his clothing
showered white, his face burned red by the sting of hard cold snow. Like any
beginner, any attempt to abandon the wretched skis is followed by the realization that
without them, movement is restricted to a hopeless trudge in a chest deep snowy
swamp. In the faint moonlight I could just make out his painful attempts to untangle
the sled yet again from a tree branch, and remove his ski from the pit that he had
made during his most recent fall.
"G'day Chris, how are you going mate?"
By the time the three of us had reached Dmitry, having made the same river crossing
without disaster, a friendly fire was flickering and lighting up the amphitheatre of
golden pine trunks and retreating snow walls.
And so began the introduction to survival and a camp routine. Dumping the
backpacks we made the awkward search for firewood. Cutting logs on skis with
mittens in the dark tends to require practice. Any attempt to explain to Chris which
kind of tree gave the best wood was hopeless, "It's all just bloody trees and wood to
me!" In such conditions, without knowledge, it is not only more intimidating, but
possibly more dangerous than the treeless landscapes. The snow, untouched by the
wind is soft and deep: no longer suitable for the use of tents, and impossible to walk
in. For a beginner, this soft endless snow, mixed with the tangle of thick forest
potentially means constant immersion in snow and therefore possibly exposure to
moisture and cold. The difficulty in preparing a campsite, the risks of making a fire,
and chances of meeting open water, all combine for potential disaster. Any mistakes
can of course have serious consequences, and this is not to mention the possibility of
the temperature dropping below minus forty!
After an hour and a half of sawing and dragging logs, the four of us milled around the
fire, quickly wrapping up in fluffy down jackets. "Jeez Tim, you couldn't fit sideways
through a door in that thing!" Chris smirked cheekily from his fluffed out down hood.
Whilst Valentijn went to fetch water from the stream and prepare dinner, Chris and I
prepared the campsite for our tents. If the weather is cold enough, this involves
simply compressing the snow a little with skies and allowing it to freeze. The
chemical reaction that occurs over the period of an hour is the same that causes the
snow on the Tundra and treeless areas to be hard and good for camping. After a lot of
stamping, the four of us finally came to sit around the flicker of the fire, and watch
carefully so to catch the next pot of falling water from the crumbling coals.
Above us, the stars had re-appeared since mid-morning when they had been watered
down by the pale pink and blue horizon. Through the furry frame of the silhouetted
forest canopy, the signs of a gleaming moon had begun to emerge. Enormous rock
faces and white ridges gleamed with wide-spanning layers of mother of pearl.
The night before, I had packed the last of 88 pre-made sandwiches into my food bag
in the dreary morning gloom, before retiring to bed for a token one hour of sleep. I
felt tired, heavy and cold. The warm dinner slid down my throat like spoonfuls of life,
and only urged me closer to the cradle of sleep. However I knew that many hours of
sewing, cutting, banging, and general equipment repairing in the cold would have to
be endured.
At 12.00pm, just Valentijn and I were still up, delirious with tiredness.
"Bloody hell.....- the snapping of a cotton strand -.....Do you have a needle threader?"
Valentijn murmured.
"I did have, but not now" I replied.
I had long given up trying to push the needle through frozen strapping material. My
sled-cover sewing technique had been reduced to stabbing crude holes through the
plastic rim and cover with my imitation leatherman knife, before lacing a piece of
cord through the partly shredded material. By the time I packed away my repair kit, I
had only enough energy to roll under a hastily put up shelter and close my eyes.
"Valentijn, should we fix this shelter up?"
"Naa, lets just sleep...."
Somewhere amongst the northern forest, a giant white Arctic Hare burrowed away for
the evening, and the last embers of the only fire turned grey and collapsed, cold.
I awoke in the same darkness.
"Shit!" The sudden rustle of the body and bag at the end of my feet. "My sleeping bag
is drenched at the end!" Valentijn was awakening.
"How did that happen?" I murmured, eyes still closed, hands feeling about in my
thermal underpants for conveniently placed and dried glove liners.
"Unlike you, I seem to have slept with half of my body out of the shelter.....and this
bloody shelter has sagged so low over my upper body that the condensation has
melted on my bag."
And so the second day of mini disasters and gathering of four international comedians
had begun.
Indeed, on any such journey, it is laughter and a gritted smile that keeps one sane and
aware of the greatness, and it is moisture that is the enemy. Ranulph Fiennes, when
selecting clothes for his mammoth cross-Antarctic journey (an expedition on the
coldest continent on earth), made what may be a startling comment to the average
observer: Due to the risk of sweat and therefore moisture, we had to choose clothes
that would keep us cold. The threat of moisture during our trip was certainly apparent.
All four of us had down-filled bags that would lose insulation value as moisture
accumulated. With the onset of tiredness, when the body is more susceptible to cold,
and the possibility of temperatures plunging to -50 degrees celsius, this posed a
serious risk. Our saviour we hoped, would lie in the forest and therefore great roaring,
drying fires: a luxury not available to those in completely treeless areas.
As much as I appreciate adventure in the Arctic winter, removing myself from the
warm down bag in -20 degrees and below is something that I intensely dislike. That
particular morning was no exception. Once I had mentally decided, I wriggled out of
the bag, frantically pulling on the gore-tex pants and fleece and down layers, not
before however the cold had rendered me a shivering mess. The life of the fire was
extended long enough so that one could stand, eyes watering in the smoke, stirring
with a stick at a distance the morning's porridge. The thermoses would also have to be
filled with boiling water. "Tim, its really pretty cold" Chris said, stamping his feet on
the spot. "Yeah, it's certainly not the Aussie Summer" I replied, dismayed at the
necessity to remove my mittens to pack and close my backpack. Just days before, my
Russian friend, Sergei, had made an observation of my backpack as we had prepared
to leave on the train north. "Yes" Sergei noted, crouching down from his usual two
metre high stance. "Actually, well, its only a joke this bag. A real backpack holds at
least 120 litres" he giggled. "I like, especially when cold, just to be able to throw
everything in and go." I had laughed with him at the time. However with frost nip
becoming a certainty on my fingers as I stuffed and clipped shut the bag, I realized the
frank wisdom of his words.
We left camp eventually, leaving behind the enormous pit and mulched, dirtied snow.
As usual, the packing up process had left me ravenous and craving a second breakfast.
Hauling through the forest was typically slow and painful. Even the slightest branch
caught the tow ropes in a tangle, and at every opportunity the sled would dart off
towards a stream or behind a tree. I caught up to Chris just as he was attempting one
of the first steep embankments for the day. Cautiously, he placed his skis in a "V" in
ascent of the slope. Then just reaching the crest, his tow rope pulled tight and his ski
slid backwards, and yet again the heavy backpack pummelled his face and chest into
the snow.
As I passed by, I noticed the grit on his face, and the snow hanging as great white
dags from his frozen fleece.
"Chris, why haven't you got your belt buckle done up?" I asked out of curiosity.
"Because every time I fall I have to take off the backpack and stand up again......I may
as well be prepared!"
Far ahead of even myself, I knew that Dmitry was repeatedly checking his watch,
hopes fading at making our planned route on time. Only by midday had we emerged
temporarily from the forest and onto the frozen lake.
In any case, the lake was a point of reward. On all sides snow-smattered gnarls of
rock rose abruptly to the ridges above. Only in one corner - from where we had come
- were the great cliffs preceded by a layer of dwarfed, pencil-like trees. Backing the
ridges that ran all knobbly, a pale blue marked again the coming of kind weather.
Brief moments of shovelling down a mix of chocolate and nuts, slurping at a handwarming mug of tea, and once again we turned to the mountains heading up towards
our second saddle.
In the early afternoon I flinched yet again as the sled dangling below, threatened to
pull me down the slope. The skis had long been taken away, and the forest well
beneath us a mere scattering of grey though the haze of disturbed snow. No longer
subtle travellers in the forest, we kicked hard into the hardened snow, hauling our way
towards bare mountain peaks. Enormous clumps of snow, abruptly ending in icy cliffs
made the route slow and difficult. I stared in wonder, knowing that the snow drifts
had come from a wind of strength as yet we had not seen. By the time we stopped for
the day, once again the environment had become dark shadows - some moving - upon
the greyish-white of snow. My sled had rolled so many times that I had long given up
untangling the tow ropes. High above the forest, and mid-way to the saddle, an
immaculate amphitheatre of snowdrifts surrounded us. Such conditions would allow
us to utilize one of the most abundant natural resources: snow. After a brief rest and a
cup of tea, so began the digging of our snow cave. Snow caves in such conditions
form one of the most appropriate shelters. Trapping air, snow is an excellent
insulation material. In a closed snow cave, one can enjoy silence and temperatures of
0 degrees and above, whilst outside a storm may rage and temperatures drop to below
-40.
As cliffs towered around us, lighter in colour than the darkening sky, we worked until
Chris pronounced it the "Khibiny Hotel". Afterwards we sat to the rising moon,
gulping down a divine dish of dried meat and macaroni. Eventually we then retired to
the cave and soft flicker of candles.
Outside, the greenish glow of the Northern Lights spanned the sky as the temperature
plummeted and I drifted to sleep.
The following day offered no break to our establishing routine of travel. Pressed by
the lack of light we wound our way towards the lofty saddle, upon which,according to
Dmitry, we should have been standing at midday the day before. A burly wind had
replaced the stillness of the night before and great whirls of snow periodically came
whirling over ridges. Twisters, grey silhouettes against the sky often all but enveloped
us time again. With each swirl I would wrap up and tightly fit my goggles, in
anticipation of its passing. All the time exhausted, a need to press on, even no time to
eat or rest.
By midday we had reached the base of the last steep incline to the top. Abandoning
the skis, it became a trudge, traversing the edge of a deep gully. At times the sled
promised to fall into ice gorges and rip me off my feet. With the sled attached to my
backpack belt, movement was made difficult - the strain on the shoulder was like a
tugging 50kg pack. Underneath, a sweat ate away at my thermals, whilst my collar
became a stiff, hardened armour of ice.
If I turned back, the view all but diminished the significance of hardship. As we rose,
a landscape encrusted in veils of ice was revealed. Enormous clumps, overflowing,
spewing and caught, paused over rocks and cliffs. Some ice rippled with the texture of
shiny bent layers of tin. With disturbed snow that refused to distil from the air,
mountain edges had all but become inseparable from the immediate sky.
The saddle itself was a place that seemed to rest above the clouds itself. Whilst
amongst the white, distance and a sense of movement all but becomes lost. Around us
ridges rose to the summits that dot the long trailing ridges of the Khibiny Mountains.
Without a view to either the mountains, or valleys on either side, the imagination is
left: perhaps a floating slab of ice and snow somewhere above north Russia. Precious
moments of standing in the saddle were short though and soon we were forced with
darkening skies and an equally difficult descent down an ice gully.
The trudge downwards through a thickening mist, blustery wind soon took us further
beneath the shadows of the closing grey. An hour later and I bent over in the howling
wind attempting to fix a binding yet again. Wind caught fistfuls of snow, and sent the
scouring shrapnel into my exposed face. Visibility had yet again become a matter of
feel. "Bloody Skis!" I screamed, knowing that the sound would pass no further than
the cloud of snow and wind about me. During the descent the bindings had quickly
become almost unusable. Again and again had a ski come loose and I had crashed
heavily, awaiting the thump of the sled ramming from behind. Now and than I picked
out the faint grey figures of the others trudging downward, dwarfed by the
overhanging ice of the steep-sided gully. The surreal ecstasy of the saddle had all but
become an escape from reality.
Still high up in the exposed realm of ice and wind, I feared the possibility of an
erupting snow-storm. To be stuck there in such conditions was far from favourable.
Eventually in disgust I packed away the skis and began to walk, the sinking steps
wrenching at my remaining energy. Several times I felt the snow give way completely
and I found myself up to my shoulders, desperately scrambling out and lying flat for
several more meters of movement. More than anything I felt frustrated at being
unable to use my skis.
Moments of worry about the terrain soon subsided however as the gully opened wide
and spanned out into a gently sloping valley. From there, the trudge on foot became
monotonous and devoid of the earlier chaos.
I often find that times of appreciation during such journeys can only come after
struggles, during which the tendency can be to throw all possibilities to the winds.
Like the calm after a storm, getting through the barrier of conscious discomfort comes
as a peaceful and mesmerizing experience.
Any anger and frustration had all but been expelled. Misty clouds had dissipated with
the slackening wind, and clear white ridges again towered above. The gentle swoosh
of skies, eyes dazzled but adapted to the bluish stars dancing upon the soft layer of
fresh snow. Feet attached to skis as that were but mere planks of wood. From my
stomach, the hunger had even subsided to the rare pangs offering subtle messages.
Settling into a rhythm I was no longer a driver, but a passenger riding the stretched
out glide of skis. Sublimely meandering with the valley stream, the distance but a soft
screen for impaling thoughts upon.
Such moments are unfortunately intangibly short.
"Hey Valentijn, where the hell are you!" I bellowed. My ski had slipped again, or
rather I had simply made the mistake of lifting my feet from the plank of wood.
Immediately one leg had broken through the snow and dangled somewhere above the
trickle of water. Behind I felt a sudden tug and knew that my fall had managed to pull
the sled off the snow bridge and into the strewn bed as well. Upon reaching the first
clumps of brave birch trees cradling deep untouched snow, the rhythm was all but
broken. Somewhere in the darkness behind Chris was also lost in a struggle. Later he
told how the spring for his binding had been lost beneath one metre of snow during a
fall. For 15 minutes he had searched for it, digging the snow with freezing bare hands.
In the greyness, eyes doubly blinded by lack of energy and exhaustion, I rolled away
the backpack and sat upon my sled heaving.
The last 200m to camp took one hour, my skis rendered hopeless. Twice more I fell
deep and was only grateful for my waterproofed boots. "This is not skiing !!" I
pronounced as I arrived to meet the others that were too bothered to react. For hours
longer we then worked at making a fire with frozen birch branches and put it out time
and time again with falling pots of "almost" boiling water. As life would have it my
MSR stove all but gave a few feeble blasts of flame before burning out irreparably.
From originally bringing with us 3 stoves, we were already down to one (Chris' new
MSR had broken before even packing everything in the car to leave).
Later on, alone with the glow of coals and powdery ashes I found myself still awake,
attempting to make some bindings with spare coat-hanger wire. My back ached with a
need to rest and I squinted into the fading light of my Maglite - a quarter of all my
batteries had already run dead. Rather than being able to rest and sleep though, I knew
that if we were to make it to the food pickup, we would have to wake earlier again,
and cover more distance than we had.......... Eventually I stood and packed away the
Leatherman pliers. For a glorious five minutes I grinned and sent echoing "whoohoos" down the valley. Making circles around the camp in the dark, I peered in
wonder at the beauty of it all, "Hey guys, the skis work!"
"Tim, shut up and go to bed" came the response from my tent. A few sobering
moments later I lay in the tent and once again detested having to bring my frozen
boots into the sleeping bag to accompany me for the night.
The question of purpose on such a trip inevitably often comes to be an important
discussion point. I remember a Scottish friend remarking one morning as we awoke to
-35 degrees celsius, "Sometimes I really wonder what I am doing. I could be awaking
now to a warm double bed with my fiancée ."
So what was the reason for the four of us awaking in the painfully cold hours of the
morning?"
As the days had progressed during the journey, all emphasis had seemed to be on
"getting somewhere" at all costs. Viewing the landscape and any means of
appreciating and portraying such as photography, had been thrown to the winds. In a
way, any time consuming activity, even eating, had become, it seemed, an obstruction
to our goal - like a weight on the conscience. At the same time of course,
sustainability was being ignored.
For all four of us the trip meant something different.I
Valentijn had expressly noted that "some people come on these kind of trips to change
their life, but I am just here to practice my Winter wilderness survival skills."
Dmitry, who had skied from his front door as a young child, and grown up near the
mountains had a good grasp of his "seven saddle journey" dream. However, quite
obviously neither his equipment, planning, or companions would purport as a
successful means to success. His, it seemed, was a purpose but to himself, not taking
into account the situation.
Chris was first time on skis and in the Arctic. For him, the purpose would inevitably
be one of a great challenge and learning. Just being there for him would be more of a
difficult journey than for any of us.
I came into the trip, not expecting a lot, and like the others, finding it difficult to
comprehend the 23 day, 7 saddle route. For me the purpose I hoped to be an extended
wilderness experience and learning with a dynamic group of people in a spectacular
arctic landscape upon which I had never set foot on.
Undoubtedly daily purpose of survival, of making our camp and moving was a
common one to which we worked together. And surely any change of circumstances
that brought a clear priority forward would have snapped us together into focus.
The overall purpose however it seemed was wavering unknown above, a frail and
dreamy notion not common to any more than one of us. Hopes of reaching the food
pick up must have surely dissipated with the last frail wisps of smoke that curled their
way towards the stars, tossed with the breeze until rendered non-existent.
Into our fourth morning and we were faced with a landscape that offered no easy
route. The valley perched between steep mountain slopes was far from a flat and
smooth river bed. Rather it was a series of hundreds' of chaotic mounds and steep
hills, heavily forested and zigzagged by a network of streams and rivers cutting into
jagged rock cliffs and gorges. Far below, a milky white horizon merged with the
rising mist, indicating the lake and our aim for the day.
Slipping time and time again I pushed ahead with Dmitry, traversing a far edge of the
valley and tree line. Beside the need to travel, I moved desperately as to warm my
hands and body still freshly removed from the sleeping bag. Dima passed and I came
up beside him "Tim," he panted slightly, pointing up the steep slope, "lets aim for that
lone tree up there on the ridge." I peered up, craning my neck to a place that clearly
diverted from the valley and the fastest route to the lake. "OK" I replied, and began
the epic haul, side stepping once again into the exposed world of rock, ice and wind.
For Chris I knew that the difficulty would be extreme, and perhaps impossible. By the
time I reached the lone tree, I sat down and stared in wonder at the peculiar blues and
pinks gradually accumulating intensity on the skyline.
"Hey Dima and Tim!" soon growled a voice from below, "What the hell are you
doing, why have you gone up there?" Silence, I paused.
"I don' t know, but the view is bloody great!" I looked at Dima who burst out
laughing, and I knew that the vital push to get somewhere had slackened.
Indeed, that day and the following became only more difficult, more confronting. The
challenge lay in just moving, and far enough, let alone the thought of reaching the
food pick-up and our 23-day goal. Through the valley, and we had found ourselves
pushing through the mounds and hills, side-stepping down cliff-like edges, crossing
frail snow bridges that broke into running streams below. My toes, too, didn't warm
up enough with our inconsistent and slow skiing. As much as I kicked and stamped,
the toes were numb, and I feared frost-bite. Two nights later I sat and wrote in my
diary:
Expedition has been wrought with exhaustion and mini-disaster. Last night after
again a heavy day, on skis that I fixed with coat-hanger wire, we arrived at the lake
shore of 'Big Imundra'. Skiing was like dragging weights whilst wading through an
enormous pot of cold porridge. Again and again up hills, down all the time towing the
reckless monster behind. Many dangerous stream crossings have been made, snow
bridges collapsing behind.
Today, Dima's skis broke, we became lost, Valentijn's sled fell through the ice, and I
almost ensured a dosage of frost-bite on my toes. Last night Dima and Chris melted
holes in their outer boots and Valentijn all but singed and shrunk his mittens.
Days are long, and yet light is so short. We haven't had enough time to eat lunch
during days - just plodding into eternity. We are due to arrive at the pick-up point for
more food on Friday. However we will struggle to make it - actually Dmitry doesn't
have a backup plan.
I haven't had time to write - it's been straight into the cold, the continuous discomfort.
I am tired, and must sleep. Tomorrow, who knows.
By the end of our sixth day we had managed to reach the far side of the lake, and had
approached the next range of mountains. The saddles had risen above us as chinks out
of the high-running ridges. In the dark we arrived at a supposed point of refuge, a
place to repair, and plan further action. It was there that Valentijn's sled had fallen
through the ice (and later hauled out as an ice-block) and the deceptive darkness had
hidden but the burnt frame of the expected hut.
Here our thoughts were unfortunately far from the high peaks, but regarded how we
would get ourselves "Self-evacuated" - as Valentijn liked to call it. It was clear that
our arriving at the food pick-up would be impossible, and the closest means of
communication - an old rescue station - was a good three days ski away. With Dima's
broken bindings, and mine having freshly broken though, even that would be
impossible.
Over a meal and warming fire, Dima eventually came to an enlightening conclusion
"look, there is marked a geological station only 10 km from here. They are bound to
have a form of radio, through which we can send a telegram to Peter, and warn him
that we won't be on time for the food." The four of us were silent for a short while,
squinting at the map in the firelight. "Sounds great Dima, but are you sure that there is
a station, and its not just like this hut here?"
"It must be there" he promised, "haven't you seen that light in the distance."
The following day came as a relief more than anything. Whilst Dima and Valentijn
skied off on the two pairs of working skis, Chris and I tended to the camp, collecting
firewood, drying sleeping bags, and trying to invent some new bindings from my skis.
It was a typically biting cold winter day. The faint moon rose at midday above the
looming peaks, backed by a pale sky. The only movement and sound beside ourselves
came from the crackle and flicker of our campfire. The snow was light and as dry as
shredded cellophane as it usually is in extreme cold. For hours Chris and I worked on
the burnt out hut, stripping away the frame for firewood and wire for repairing skis. In
the forest I also worked away at pine logs, carting them back and forth on broken skis.
Work was cold and painful, and without mittens sawing away soon rendered hands
stiff and numb. The silence, the work was enough though - I revelled in just being
there.
Eventually Valentijn and Dmitry returned with news that the geological station was
just as burnt and broken as the cabin. "At first I saw huge abandoned tanks and
bulldozers. When Dima swung open a broken door and almost fell down an old shaft,
my heart sank" Valentijn had cursed.
And so, yet another day had passed, and no new solution. Without a bare ray of sun
having reached the camp, it was once again back to the blindness of night. Failing
everything else we sat and fried pancakes in spicy Dutch cooking fat: somehow
options are more evident once the stomach is no longer crying out to be fed.
By the time the last pancake had slithered down the throat, and Chris sat sucking the
remains from his warmed fingers, we together hinted at a workable solution. Less
than two days ski away was definitely situated an Apatite mine. Whilst many nonprofit making exercises in Russia - like cabins, rescue stations, and geological
research stations - have been abandoned in recent years, mines themselves have
remained in general. It would mean going in a completely different direction than
earlier planned. However if we arrived at the mine within two days, we could possibly
get a lift with some workers to a village, and from there by bus and train back to
Olenogorsk: just in time to tell Peter not to come with the food.
With some kind of wired binding, full stomachs, and the existence of a fresh plan we
crawled into our tents to bathe in the luxury of our down bags. Possibly we had only
one more night in the wilderness.
The following morning it was Valentijn's turn to cook breakfast. Beneath the tightly
drawn hood of my bag, my eyes flicked open.
"Right guys, wake up and go through the same hell that I just had to!"
Out and it was indeed cold. Nose hairs turned crisp and stiff upon breathing in and the
morning shivering routine lasted longer than usual. I predicted that it was below -20
degrees but I couldn't be sure since we didn't have a thermometer.
Packing up I prepared myself for a long ski, and pinned my hopes on reaching the
mine - my ski bindings would not hold out for much longer. I felt already that our
wilderness adventure was winding to an end, and ironically for he first time perhaps
we were all focused on the same goal. Skiing abruptly began and I was soon drawn
into the monotonous motion of gliding on skis: all the time skiing faster in the hope
that all body parts would warm up - later wishing that there was some way of
releasing the burning sweat.
I wondered briefly about just how many kilometres the bindings made with wire taken
from the burnt out cabin would last. They lasted ten.
Skiing was cold, and the thought of stopping to break or even fix the binding only
spurred me on faster and further.
For 8 more kilometres I stuck my foot to the ski and trailed along slowly, my ski
again a plank of wood upon which I stood. Once I tried skiing with just one ski, but
soon gave it up.
By the time the sun's promise had faded again, the binding had ripped off completely,
and the four of us gathered, pale-faced, to cook our first lunch for the whole journey.
Afterwards I took a strip of rubber from Valentijn, who had salvaged it from an inner
tube during a rafting journey. With it I prepared another make-do binding and the
skiing continued.
Further into the grey, sled tugging, backpack sagging, squinting in darkness, cold and
frustrated by skis. Snow, more hills, cold toes, no mine in sight, blisters burning at the
heels.................
In the grey of mid-morning an observer would have been startled by an unusual sight.
A Russian, two haggard looking Australians and a Dutchman sat straddling packed
children's sleds spanning the width of a freshly bulldozed ice-road. They drank tea
from dented thermoses and relished the filling taste that portions of frozen garlic and
pork fat gave them.The Russian was in the process of questioning the others about the
sudden existence of the sound of an engine when an enormous mining truck came
rattling and skidding over the rise,
-"Move!"......
"Shit!"
- "Is he stopping??"........
"No he's not!"
went cries as garlic was scattered in the way that old women throw seed to the
pigeons, and scroggin mixes hurtled through the air during the scamper to remove
everything from the careering wheels of the truck. The drivers must also have been
startled as they came to a sliding halt. "What the hell were you doing on our road!"
they seemed to gesture.
And so, just 8 days after beginning, our wilderness adventure came to an end. Six
kilometres from the billowing stacks of the apatite mine we removed our skis and
heaved them into the truck. From truck to mine, to bus and eventually to train we all
found ourselves in civilization, in warmth, and contemplation.
For all four us it had been a journey of learning, of difficulty and of unpredictable
events. And as the train began to sway, the lethargic warmth unbearable, wilderness
another world I cherished those moments and events. In my grotty coat, my balaclava
and greasy stubble I stared beyond the glass as on an old friend....the passengers
meanwhile gazed in wonder as if I were a poor and crazy soul.
Life is so full of dramatic contrast.
22/1/00
I sit, uncomfortable, and suddenly far removed from cold and the need to survive. The
television banters away in the corner and a greasy rice dish sits on the couch beside
me. I am in our flat in Olenogorsk. Nervous, I visited a Russian doctor today about
my slight case of frost-bitten toes. I thought I knew the process for such minor frostbite. I was rudely advised differently however.
"Dunk your toes in Vodka twice a day for a week and apply bandages and cream and
everything will be OK."
And so although I can't see the reason I began today religiously dunking my toe in
Vodka and putting on the bandages and blister cream: all onto the dead, purple end
of my toe. I don't know whether to trust the doctor after having five varying
recommendations from Russian, Australian, and Finnish doctors. I am inclined to
head to Finland for advice where at least I know are clean and modern surgeries...not
these cracking benches and old medicines.
On the 23rd I boarded a train headed south and to Finland, whilst Chris, Dima, and
Valentijn repaired and prepared for another 6 day stint in the cold.