Becoming Frozen

by Jill Homer

  I mounted my bike and, still driven by fear, pedaled as hard as I could toward a white-capped Kachemak Bay. The water was still some distance away, but I was thrilled that it was in view again. At the edge of the bluff, the trail dropped just as steeply as it had climbed. I didn’t stop to scout the descent. Duck into the handlebars and launch — that’s the only way to do it.

  As snow built up on the bike’s wheels, the rims iced up and the brake pads became about as useful as a paper clip. I clenched the brake levers just the same, wincing at the brakes’ ear-splitting squeals as the rear wheel shimmied back and forth like a salmon swimming away from a bear. Violent speed wobbles caused my legs to knock against the frame. All I could do was hang onto the handlebars and hope I met the bottom of the hill still attached to my bike, and not crumpled in a blood-stained snowball. My heart rate eclipsed the maximum effort of the climb.

  As I relinquished all control, the landscape once again blurred in a black-and-white abstraction, and everything else — my heart, my fears, the wind — became quiet. For a few seconds I experienced a peace I had never before known, utterly paradoxical to the chaotic realities of the descent. Later, I wondered whether this tranquility engulfed me because my mind was convinced I was about to die. Or, perhaps involuntary serenity is the mind’s greatest defense mechanism. When chaos can’t be controlled — and it can never be controlled — the only choice is to flow through it, letting the current carry you to safety.

  Just as suddenly as this quietness settled, the wind came roaring back and the bottom of the hill came into view. Momentum decreased and the bike shimmied to an ungraceful stop as I shoved my right heel into the snow and braced my legs. When I looked up, I saw three snowmobiles idling in a semi-circle on the trail. I hadn’t noticed them at the top; clearly they were waiting for me to get out of the way so they could roar up the trail I’d just descended.

  A man on the middle snowmobile lifted the visor on his helmet and smiled. “We’ve never seen a bicycle out here before,” he said. “Where did you come from?”

  “The trailhead off Basargin,” I said, which I guessed at this point was fewer than five miles away. I didn’t disclose the fifty-mile loop I’d embarked on eight hours earlier. “I’m just headed back now, before it gets dark.”

  A small helmeted figure poked her head from her perch behind the man and squealed, “See, Daddy, I told you! I knew it was a girl!”

  A surge of pride filled my chest and I waved at her. Without trying, I had inadvertently pulled off a totally rad stunt, for an audience.

  The sky had darkened from overcast gray to indigo by the time I returned to my car. Wind-driven snowflakes were accumulating rapidly. With numb fingers and stiff legs, I worked quickly to load my bike on the roof, knowing my window to escape this place on drivable pavement was closing quickly. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, and it was difficult to extract immediate satisfaction from my training ride. All I felt was soreness and fatigue.

  And yet, as I rolled away from the parking lot with frigid air from the car’s fans blasting in my face, I could already sense that something momentous had just taken place. I’d ventured across real Alaska wilderness, and not only did I survive, but I was strong. Even when I was most frightened, I didn’t panic, or start crying, or lose hope. For a few glorious moments, I was a little girl’s hero. Even if this hero status was short-lived and rather silly, the act of riding blindly down that hill had been daring, risky and completely beyond anything I would have dreamed of attempting as recently as five months earlier. I could hardly believe it had only been that long since I’d been so frightened of life that I purposefully avoided the outdoors, drowning my days in alcohol, shallow social interactions, and comfortable but mundane routine.

  Here, in the Alaska wilderness, with no one to rely on but myself, I learned the value of embracing the whole of experience — the exhilaration, loneliness, fatigue, pain, terror, and triumph. The stakes were real, and the accomplishment was satisfying.

  I came to Alaska when I finally accepted that the future would always be unknowable, and the only way to avoid being buried in the past was to keep moving. With Geoff and my newspaper job, it was still impossible to predict what the future held. But I had gained one hard-edged certainty: Alaska was not a dead end.

  _____

  I did, I did, I did …

  January 29, 2006

  ... The Iditarod Trail. Is. Slow.

  Of course, everything about today was exactly what I would expect of such an excursion. Temperatures were cold, but not unreasonably so. The trail was soft, but better than I expected. Mount Augustine decided today was the fourth of July, but all the ash headed south. Yes, today was a good day. An encouraging day. And yet, I feel the cold grip of this daunting task tightening around me. It could be my neoprene gear. But, no. I think it’s the Susitna 100. It’s going to be hard.

  Well, duh. But sometimes it’s hard to grasp the reality of things until you’re down in the trenches. Geoff and I went out for a half-day ride (Geoff, who’s training to run the Little Su 50K, has no interest in ten-hour bike rides.) We drove up Point MacKenzie Road so we could start immediately on the Iditarod Trail. We planned to go as far as two and a half hours took us and head back. What we got was twenty miles. We made a lot of stops that were more indicative of the recreational nature of this particular ride. Still, twenty miles, five hours. One hundred miles … well, the math isn’t hard.

  But I don’t feel disheartened. My warm gear performed beautifully for temperatures that didn’t even consider climbing above zero. The particular section we did was a roller coaster of short and steep hills, flat frozen bogs and snowmobile moguls. It was a lot of fun. The pace was laid back enough that the effort didn’t even demand much energy (Though the one time I tried to gnaw down a deeply frozen Power Bar while pedaling was pretty funny. Well, funny ... not pretty. Without being too graphic, I’ll just say that it involved a lot of saliva, a chocolate goatee and some blood.) Anyway, I have been planning this entire time for a race that would take about 24 hours. It’s just, now, I’m starting to realize how long that actually is.

  *****

  “Hmm, minus twelve,” I observed as we drove past a Palmer bank sign on our way to Craig’s house.

  “Perfect training weather,” Geoff said with a smirk. I frowned, because he wasn’t taking this venture seriously enough. Not only were we planning to scout part of the actual Susitna 100 race course the following day, but we would do so in the depths of a January cold snap. This was the coldest weather we’d seen yet. Temperatures were forecast to dip below minus twenty overnight. Cold air sinks, so in the low-lying swamps surrounding the Susitna River, we were warned it would likely be at least ten degrees colder.

  We’d driven six hours for this training ride, so we couldn’t back out at the prospect of minus thirty. Geoff didn’t seem concerned. We’d both recently outfitted ourselves with all of the gear that we planned to use in our respective races. Hours of Internet research resulted in an ensemble that I looked forward to putting to the test: A pair of North Face winter hiking boots, one and a half sizes too large; polyester liner socks; neoprene socks for warmth in wet and snowy conditions; large wool socks over that if it was really cold; neoprene kayaking gloves for wet weather; zippered ski gloves for cold weather; inexpensive rain pants (they were $8 on Sierra Trading Post, but those with more experience assured me that cheap rain pants would block wind just as well as name brands); a polypro base layer; fleece jackets to layer as needed (the most layers I had ever worn in my cold office was three, so I figured three was a sufficient number); a Burton shell; fleece hat; a thin polyester balaclava to protect my face from the wind; a neoprene face mask; Burton goggles (also a remnant of my snowboarding days); and what I viewed as my most important piece of gear — a knee-length pair of waterproof overboots.

  Several Alaska cyclists had warned me that the most immediate danger Geoff and I woul
d encounter on the trail was overflow. Overflow is a natural phenomenon in which water — either through groundwater seepage or weaknesses in river and lake ice — rises to the surface and creates wet surface conditions even when temperatures are below zero. After these pools form, they are often covered with new snow, which insulates the liquid from freezing while hiding evidence of open water. Step into a puddle at twenty below, and you’re likely to freeze a few toes. The best solution is waterproof footwear. Alaska’s quintessential rubber XtraTufs weren’t insulated, and thus not warm enough for long ventures in subzero cold. Combining insulated hiking boots with overboots was the ideal armor in the battle against hidden overflow.

  Geoff, however, planned to wear only light trail-running shoes during the Little Su 50K. He assured me his race was so “short,” and he would be moving so quickly, that he would need only minimal layers.

  “It’s like sled dogs,” he said. “They run through the open water like it’s no big deal.”

  “That’s because they’re dogs,” I replied. “We’re not dogs.”

  “Yeah,” Geoff said. “But we’re not that different. People also generate a ton of heat when they run. If I wear too much, even if it’s twenty below, I’m going to overheat and sweat, and then things will really suck.”

  I couldn’t say I agreed. In my few morning runs with Geoff three years earlier, temperatures around fifty above would leave me feeling chilled. I was drenched in sweat after my Christmas Day run in Palmer, so I understood how running generated more heat than my typical cycling efforts. Geoff insisted he would run fast enough to go splashing through slush without freezing his feet, and I didn’t have the experience to argue otherwise.

  Geoff also must have thought either his girlfriend or bicycling were too slow, because he brought oversized Sorel winter boots for this outing. He also brought his Trek 7500, a full-suspension mountain bike that was similar in style to my Gary Fisher Sugar. Since he was still in training to run the Little Su 50K, this bike outing would do him little good in terms of training or gear testing. He was along solely to support me. This notion was endearing; while some women have to beg their boyfriends to see chick flicks with them, mine was willing to drive six hours and then spend the better part of a day dragging a bike through the snow in subzero temperatures.

  Craig warned us about the cold snap as soon as we stepped in the house. “The high tomorrow is supposed to be negative eight. That’s the high temperature, not low.”

  “Sweet, that’s awesome,” Geoff said.

  “We know about the forecast,” I interjected. “But that’s good news for us. It’s a good opportunity to test out gear for Susitna.”

  Geoff and Craig began talking gear and Craig showed off his newly acquired treasures: a pair of mountaineering boots from a secondhand store, and an insulated Carhartt jacket. While Geoff and I were still trying to make old winter clothing work for our current, more extreme purposes, Craig was sporting the latest in essential Alaska wear. This particular jacket was displayed in the window of every hunting and sporting goods store in Anchorage. Craig was unapologetically thrifty, but never held back on anything that might keep him from freezing. He was terrified of the cold.

  “The only friend I have who’s been hospitalized for hypothermia would be the one to move to Alaska,” Geoff teased him.

  Craig has had severe hypothermia, twice, both in the same slot canyon in the central Utah desert. The first was the incident he described to me when we met in 1998. He was hiking with friends in Lower Black Box, a narrow gorge of the San Rafael River, which — unbeknownst to them when they first set out — was at flood stage in the early spring. After several swims through icy cold pools, Craig lost consciousness and had to be evacuated by his friends. He went back the following year to lower water, but similar consequences. For this bout of hypothermia, however, Craig retained most of his mental faculties and was able to climb out without assistance.

  The third time Craig returned to Lower Black Box, Geoff and I were with him, along with about a half dozen other friends. It was May — still early enough in the season that we needed wetsuits to swim through icy pools. Black Box became a toaster oven during the summer months, which is why we there in the spring, when nighttime temperatures still dipped below freezing. Our pre-dawn start promised a shivery hike until slivers of sunlight breached the canyon walls. Craig was certain to face his cold demons out there, but he was determined to hike the entire length of Lower Black Box, “without dying.” He seemed optimistic.

  Craig’s expressive stories had incited anxieties about my own safety. The fretting continued as we arrived at our trailhead campsite after midnight. Starlight penetrated the desert air with an intensity I’d never before witnessed — stars upon stars upon stars. In front of these glittering depths was something else I’d never seen — streaks of green and white light, dancing through the indigo sky. We were setting up our tent when I first noticed the light, and I just let the stakes fall to the ground, mesmerized.

  “What is that?”

  Another friend of ours who arrived several hours earlier, Chris, emerged from his tent. “The Northern Lights,” he said. “There’s a major auroral event tonight, and they were supposed to be visible as far south as San Francisco.”

  “This is even farther south,” I said, still gazing upward. “Wow. I’ve never seen the Northern Lights before. They’re not quite like what I imagined.”

  What I imagined is something like animated films about the Far North, where colorful waves of light swirl around and morph into shapes of animals and ancestral spirits. These lights were more subdued — washed-out emerald greens and lavender hues that at times became so faint they were nearly indiscernible from the distant colors of the Milky Way. Then there was an unexpected element — white streaks, which were many times brighter than the green cloak, and moved rapidly through the sky like rising meteors. To see the aurora at all in southern Utah was rare indeed, and the white daggers of light sparked an eerie sensation. There were seven streaks of light. There were seven of us.

  “It might be an omen,” another friend joked. I didn’t find this particularly funny. Glancing at the ashen look on Craig’s face, it seemed he didn’t think this was a time for superstitious jokes, either.

  “Yeah, we’re going to die,” Geoff replied in a laconic but upbeat tone that made him sound both sarcastic and serious at the same time. He used this tone often, and until I got to know Geoff better, I found it difficult to extract his intended meaning from the things he said — was he serious, or joking? In this case, and in most cases, he was being facetious.

  Craig laughed, but I sensed a shared dread. Logic reminded us that the rare presence of the aurora was just a beautiful coincidence. But the sweeping wilderness of the desert bolstered our vulnerability, making it difficult to brush off this “omen.” For most of the night I lay curled on my side in the tent, gazing at the sky through the mesh door. The streaks of light faded and surged, stretched and retracted, until, one by one, they faded out entirely. When I could no longer see the last streak of white light, I crawled out of the tent and stood with my bare feet in the icy sand, shivering. Breath swirled around my face. I could still see the curtain of emerald light. But the streaks were gone.

  “It’s an omen,” I thought, and this time fully believed it, even as my rational mind asserted the obvious — “You’re in a beautiful place, witnessing a rare phenomenon, and all you can think about is the certainty of your death.”

  But death was all I could think about.

  Of course, none of us died. We got up early buzzing with excitement and fear, shouldered big backpacks and descended into the canyon. We put on tight neoprene wetsuits as soon as we reached the first pool, and swam several hundred meters as our poorly-reinforced backpacks and all of the gear and food inside became soaked. We ate soggy crackers and swamped peanut butter in the afternoon, swam and waded some more, and then hiked
out. Black Box was a stunning sandstone canyon, made more memorable and rewarding by the direct confrontation with fear.

  Craig had conquered his cold demons, but he didn’t seem as psyched about waging new battles in Alaska’s wilderness. Geoff and I invited him to join us on skis as we pedaled toward Flathorn Lake on the Iditarod Trail, but he just shook his head and laughed. “My cutoff is minus ten, and that’s only for short ski trips, no more than an hour. You guys are crazy.”

  “Come on, it’s going to be awesome,” Geoff reiterated, again with his signature vague sarcasm. Craig was unmoved.

  Geoff and I set out not so early the next morning, at about 10 a.m. It was late January, and the sun rose a few minutes earlier every day, and climbed a few degrees higher on the southern horizon. Still, the winter sun was like a distant friend — someone whose warmth you remembered well, whose light still touched your life from a periphery, but who was too far away to feel any real connection. The January sun at least rose over the mountains, but it was a subdued sun, slumped against the peaks. Its muted yellow glow only made me miss it even more.

  The thermometer at Craig’s house read seven below zero when we set out — “Heat wave!” Geoff declared. But the temperature seemed to drop at an alarming rate as we traveled Point MacKenzie Road, where we parked at a spot that intersected with the Iditarod Trail. Geoff determined this was near mile eight of the Susitna 100 course. The air was deeply still, almost outer space-like, and clouds of icy breath stung the exposed skin above my neoprene face mask. Snow squeaked under our tires as we pedaled.