The Summer That Never Was

 

Brrr!
Brrr!

In previous blogs, I’ve written about a condition called “bush-eyes” in which I dreamed perpetually of food I could not have. On this trip, a three-week trek/paddle over Alaska’s Brooks Range and to the Arctic Ocean, I developed something I call “summer longing.”

On the second day of our adventure, I awoke to snow. It was July 26 and all around me I saw – snow! My hiking boots were frozen solid, my clothes, left in the corner of the tent, were cold and wet, and my water bottle had a layer of ice an inch thick. Had this been winter, I would have shrugged my shoulders. No big deal, just another day in the Arctic. But, this was supposed to be summer; yet, here I was buried in a 0-degree sleeping bag, wearing a winter hat, ski gloves, thick wool socks, and four layers of clothing. The Arctic cold scratched at the walls of the tent. As I unzipped the rain fly and stood looking at the icy mountains, I tucked the T-shirt I had set out to wear that day into my pack. In the following days, I would dig it out and hope that summer might come. But, day by day, that hope dwindled and I pushed my shirt farther down into the depths of my pack. By day 5, I realized that summer, despite my fervent wishes, would not come, and I contented myself with little fantasies — lying in the hammock, a cool dip in the spring-fed creek across from our house after a hard midday run, picking blackberries in our back field, and eating watermelon, fresh from the garden. I could not banish the cold, but for a few minutes every day, I could have a small slice of summer.

 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Blood and Guts at 35 Below

Downriver hunting for caribou. We were two weeks into our winter trip, and the Korths were low on meat. Only one caribou foreleg hung from the meat rack. And Edna, in particular, was worried. Not only was she cooking for Heimo, who like a caribou seems to have four stomachs, but for my dad and me, too. She announced that unless we wanted to eat beaver tail and porcupine for the next week, we were gonna have to kill a caribou.

At first light, Heimo, Edna, and I headed downriver to hunt. Dad had hurt his back when the snowmachine rolled on him and he was still in pain, so his job was to stay at the cabin and tend the bannock bread and the goose roasting in the slow cooker. Besides, Heimo could only take along two people, one behind him in the snowmachine and one in the sled.

Dad was worried about me. A freak warm-up, which had sent the mercury climbing to minus 5 just days before, had opened large leads in the river ice. If the sled tipped and I fell in the river, the current would suck me under the ice, and I’d be a goner.

But today it was 35 below, so he bundled me up like a child. By the time he was finished, I was buried fiver layers deep. All that was left were eye slits.

“You take good care of her,” Dad said to Heimo.

Edna caught the edge in his voice. “Oh gosh,” she laughed. “Jim’s like a mama grizzly. Don’t wanna mess with his cub.”

Thirty minutes later, I was sitting in the sled, skidding through the black spruce trees and nimble willow branches that slapped at me like whips. Heimo stopped the snowmachine, after one long section.

“You alright?” he yelled back.

I gritted my teeth and gave him the thumbs up.

After weaving between gravel bars, we headed straight south along the river. It was so cold and the wind was so strong that my eyelids froze shut. I couldn’t see, but I could still hear, and when I heard the sound of open water, I clung to the sled and listened for cracking ice, praying that I wouldn’t fall out.

Finally, after two hours, Heimo and Edna spotted a caribou crossing, the tracks still fresh. Heimo slowed and studied them. My eyelids thawed, and I noticed wolf tracks weaving back and forth across the trail, predators following their prey.

“You guys post here,” he said, stopping the snowmachine. “And I’ll go down river.”

Edna and I sat with our backs to a willow thicket that helped to cut the wind and in the gray light we scanned the woods and the river for caribou.

Thirty minutes later, we heard a gunshot. We waited and then we saw the snowmachine. Heimo had a dead caribou in the sled. He pulled it out of the sled, yelled something to us, turned around, and hit the accelerator. Then he headed downriver, hoping to get another, leaving this one for Edna and me to butcher.    

I’d help field dress and butcher deer before, but butchering a caribou at 35 below is cold, hard work. My job was to hold the caribou, moving it into different positions so Edna could make her cuts. She began with the hind legs and made her way up to the forelegs. Then she moved to the intestinal cavity.

I watched her make a shallow, cautious cut, taking care not to puncture the intestine or one of the four stomachs and taint the meat. After opening up the gut, from the caribou’s anus to its diaphragm, she handed me the knife and plunged her hands into the steaming carcass and held them there for half a minute.

When she pulled them out, they were wet with blood, and the snow around us was stained red.

“Now you try,” she instructed.

I drew a deep breath and stuck my numb hands into the opening and kept them there until I could feel my fingers again.

“Okay,” she said, as I pulled my bloody hands from the caribou, “Now for the organs. Just wait till you eat the heart and the liver. They’re so good.” 

Once we finished with the butchering, we piled the meat and the heart and liver on the caribou skin. Then Edna pulled a needle and thread from her pocket and sewed it up. She made her last stitch just as Heimo arrived.

Edna and I lugged the 40-pound legs into the sled and Heimo slung the skin, bulging with meat, over his shoulder. When we were done, he looked at me. I was spattered with caribou blood and shivering.

“You gotta be tough up here, don’t yah,” Heimo said.

Edna put her arm around me. “Don’t tease her. This girl did good today.”

Later, back in the cabin, we sat back after a supper of bannock bread and speckle belly goose. Edna sipped the last of her tea.

“If there’s ever a caribou butchering competition,” she announced, “I want Aidan as my partner.”

I smiled. “It’s a deal!”

grittygal at 35 below

 

 

 

Too much Winter

Rundown Mountain
Waning light. The sun officially sets on December 3rd.

There they were, two large duffels and one backpack, all packed to the point of bursting, a month’s worth of extreme cold weather gear that included snowshoes and pants, parkas, expedition suits, bunny boots (cold weather boots), gaiters, sleeping bags, gloves, mittens, bomber caps, hand warmers, foot warmers, fleece jackets, scarves, socks, long underwear, face masks, skis, and ski boots.  For the past two weeks my dad and I have packed, unpacked, whittled down, and repacked, ever mindful of Heimo’s story about poor ‘ol frozen Roy (Blog August 22nd: The Cold Here Can Kill Yah) and of Jack London’s warning. The Arctic, London said, could kill a man a thousand different ways.

My issue with the Arctic is the cold. Like my mom, I’m warm-blooded.  My father and two sisters can leave the house in the middle of winter in jeans and a sweater. But not me; I run cold. Opening the freezer to pull out a pint of ice cream makes me shiver. In winter, I dream of places like Costa Rica. The Arctic conjures images of pre-Perestroika Siberian penal colonies.

But, there’s hope. Thanks to the generosity of Clam Outdoors (Medina, Minnesota), and the Coleman Company, I at least have a chance of staying warm, even at 40 below. The key to survival, it seems, is to look like a human marshmallow. Fashion, my dad told me while we packed, “is not a consideration.”

During my summer trip, I had the luxury of a never-setting sun and temperatures in the 70s. My worries then were bugs, bears, and sunburn. But on this trip, my biggest fear will be frostbite. The temperatures will be 20-40 below. Instead of staying in the cabin we helped build over the summer, we will be sleeping in a double-walled tent with a little woodstove. Our days will be spent splitting wood, running the trapline with Heimo, ice fishing, and hunting moose, spruce grouse, and ptarmigan. When I’m not traipsing across the tundra, I will get a lesson in Arctic cooking from Heimo’s wife Edna who can turn porcupine, moose nose and caribou heart into mouth-watering meals. I’ll help her as best I can. If I get cold, I’ll huddle near the stove, soaking in its warmth.

Robert Frost, ever the Romantic, said that you can’t get too much winter in the winter. Obviously, Frost never set foot in the Arctic. If you ask me, minus 30 is too much winter. Then there’s the sun – or the lack of it. If the cold up here doesn’t get you, the darkness will — 24 hours of it.

Last summer, Heimo accused me of having bush eyes, of dreaming of food I couldn’t have. I wonder if there’s a winter equivalent. I bet there is. I know I’ll be dreaming of the sun on my back and 70 degrees.