by Chris Bray
‘Good, good … well, give me a call in the afternoon, okay, and if I’ve found him, maybe I can pick you up before dinner.’
We spent the day ticking off the final few to-film and to-photograph lists—quite an achievement, actually, almost as hard as the expedition itself! In the afternoon we gave Willie a call back, and he explained that the search was still on—with helicopters and all, now—but that it was raining freezing drizzle and so his plane was grounded until the next break in the weather, at which point he’d get back out there searching. ‘Give me a call tomorrow morning, and we’ll take it from there.’
With nothing left to do and the wind now picking up, we huddled in the tent and checked our emails and got a weather prediction. ‘Looks like that storm’s due to hit Cambridge Bay tonight or tomorrow morning …’ I waved the mouse over the numbers, ‘70 kilometres per hour wind—yikes.’ It doesn’t seem hopeful for a pickup tomorrow then, and who knows how many days the storm will rage for. We digested this news for some time. Far from being picked up this afternoon as planned, we may have to survive out here for another five or six days. ‘Maybe we should go on half-rations,’ I said, ‘just to be safe.’ It was agreed, effective immediately. After sharing a single dinner, we slipped into our sleeping bags and lay there listening to the wind blowing snow against the tent. ‘At least people know where we are, and we have a tent,’ I said. ‘Imagine what it’d be like being lost out there tonight—the poor guy!’ It was a chilling thought.
DAY 57: Is there no escape?
We woke at 7 am, 8 am and 9 am—lying in our sleeping bags listening to the wind buffeting the tent—waiting for 10 am when we could call Willie to find out if we’re being picked up today or not. We’ve organised to have a blood sample taken as soon as we get back to Cambridge Bay to compare with the one we took before we left Sydney to investigate any changes in our bodies, but frustratingly we need to fast for twelve hours before the test—and that means no breakfast, just in case today is the day!
At 10 am I called Willie. ‘Yes, we found him,’ I could hear the relief in Willie’s tired voice, ‘but we’re now picking up all the walkers who were out searching. Give me a call about 3 pm and we should be able to send a plane out your way …’
We didn’t get out of the tent very much today, except occasionally to pee. Even this was a nightmare; we’d rug up, unzip and climb into the vestibule, zipping up the inner tent behind us and crouch there in purgatory for a few seconds to muster the courage to rip open the outer tent and dash outside. It’s increasingly cold and windy—drifts of windblown snow are starting to pile up behind everything, the wind now 35 kilometres per hour. At 3 pm I called Adlair Aviation back, and was informed that Willie was busy flying until 8 pm tonight. I explained in a little voice that he was going to be picking us up, and at this we were told that Willie was due back between flights soon, and would get some information for us.
We waited in our sleeping bags for another hour and called back. Willie himself answered the phone. ‘The weather is not good,’ he explained. ‘The flights collecting the walkers are taking longer than I wanted. Give me a call 10 am tomorrow, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I said, and he must have detected the concern in my voice as he added, ‘I’m not busy tomorrow, I will definitely be able to get you out tomorrow.’ There was a pause. ‘If not tomorrow, then Monday.’
‘I guess we can have dinner then,’ Clark said, trying to put a positive spin on things. The weather really is getting worse out here now—snow is even being driven and compacted inside the vestibule, covering our shoes, cooking gear, bags, guns—everything—in an ever-thickening white layer.
DAY 58 (25 September 2005):Can you hear something?
Bursts of icy cold wind during the night kept waking us, and we had to continually beat the tent to shake off snow. Opening my vestibule this morning, a giant wall of built-up snow collapsed in on me, into my sleeping bag. Brilliant. Clark’s vestibule too is just one big hunk of snow—he literally has to go digging to find things! We lay there willing time to pass, longing to be picked up, give our blood sample, and finally, finally, be unleashed upon all the endless treats in the supermarket with our lengthy wish-list. ‘So … hungry …’ Clark groaned comically as I called Willie at the stroke of ten. Apparently, a fuller weather forecast was due in at 11.30 and we should call back then. We slumped back into our sleeping bags, hibernating, trying not to move as any bump of the tent caused all the frost on the inside walls to shed off into our faces and melt onto our sleeping bags. ‘Supposing it is all clear at 11.30 and he left at 12,’ I ventured, ‘then we’d probably still not get to the medical centre until … about 3 pm!’ I groaned. This whole twelve-hour fasting thing was driving us insane. By 3 pm we’d not have eaten for twenty hours.
I wrote and sent out a quick website update about the wolf and the fact that we’re still out here, before the laptop battery died. Annoyingly, most of the emails we’ve been getting over the last few days seem to think we’re safe and sound back in civilisation already. ‘I bet it feels great to be surrounded by endless food again, boys!?’
The minutes oozed past, and at 11.30 I called the hangar. Willie’s warm voice answered. ‘We’ll leave at about 12 and so keep an eye out for us about 1 pm.’
‘So you’ll be here at one?’ I repeated, my heartbeat quickening.
‘Yes, we’ll be at your place at one. See you soon!’ From behind the video camera, Clark started bouncing around with excitement and turned the camera on himself. ‘We’re gonna get picked up!!’
‘Go go go!!’ I shouted, piling on my warm clothes and climbing from the tent. ‘Things to do, people to see!’ In a flurry of activity, we repositioned the tent away from the runway, trampled down all the snow drifts around camp and sat expectantly on our PACs at ten minutes to one, waiting, watching and listening. As we chatted excitedly, the weather deteriorated around us, visibility dropped and snow began to cascade out of the air. One o’clock came and went, and still there was no sign of Willie. Our chatter petered out and stopped. ‘I guess he can’t land in this anyway,’ I mumbled.
‘Even if he could find us,’ Clark added. Visibility was shocking. ‘He’s probably turned back. I guess we just give him a call back at the hangar at about two?’
I suddenly cocked my head. ‘Can you hear something?’ We both listened hard. The faint but unmistakable hum of an engine was just discernible above the wind. ‘It’s a plane!’ I shouted, jumping up. ‘Where is it?’ It grew louder and louder, and then suddenly I spotted it.
‘There!’ I pointed, at once taken aback by how poor the visibility actually was. The plane was perhaps 800 metres from us, and only just visible as a ghostly outline.
We watched, full of adrenalin, as the plane flew high over us, and appeared to continue into the distance. ‘I … I wonder if they saw us,’ I mumbled. My heart gave a leap as we saw the plane bank and, as it vanished amongst the low cloud, heard it hum back somewhere well to the side of us. Gradually the noise of its engines faded out altogether.
‘It’s gone?!’ Clark’s expression would have done credit to a tragic mask.
‘He must have decided it was too dangerous,’ I said dejectedly, struggling to cope with the fact that we’d skipped breakfast and lunch for no apparent reason. Just as our spirits started to freefall, I heard the engines hum again, louder. As we stared blindly into the white nothing, the outline of Willie’s Twin Otter aircraft again materialised, much lower this time, heading right for us! The hum rose to a deafening roar as he passed right above us, and as we waved frantically, the plane banked sharply around and did a second pass. ‘He’s seen us! He’s seen us!’ I shouted, unable to contain my excitement.
Four more times he flew past, each time getting lower and lower, presumably sussing out our ‘runway’. On his fifth pass, he swung in very low indeed, and opened up the flaps.
‘This is it!’ I shouted, and the two of us watched in absolute awe as right beside us, Willie dropped the plane hea
vily onto our snow-covered esker where it began bucking and galloping violently across the lumpy tussocks. Instantly Willie slammed the pitch of the propellers into reverse and the roar of the engines filled the whole world—and the plane, basically, stopped.
‘That was ridiculous!’ Clark burst out. ‘He barely used 50 metres of our runway!’ We watched impatiently as he taxied back to the ‘start’ of our ‘runway’, the plane lurching and swaying alarmingly as it bounced over various lumps and ditches. At last, he throttled back and cut one engine. The cockpit window slid open, and out popped a weathered, grandfatherly face wearing little round purple glasses, a huge scarf and an orange beanie with a black pom-pom on top. Willie waved us over.
It seemed to take forever to walk over, and I didn’t know if I should walk or run. Willie’s co-pilot, Scott, had climbed out of the plane and was waiting for us. I didn’t know if they’d be happy to see us, or cross with our landing site. I suddenly felt awkward in so many ways, unsure of so many things. I didn’t think it’d be like this—but over the last few months Clark and I have gotten to know each other so well that we are perpetually on the same wavelength, I have gotten used to knowing exactly what he is thinking, and now suddenly, here were two other people I’d never met—unknowns, abruptly shattering our introverted little sphere. I held out my hand—way too early, I realised—kept walking and eventually gripped Scott’s hand and we shook heartily. He was smiling. ‘G’day!’ Beside me, Clark shook Willie’s hand and it was done—we were now back in the embrace of the outside world.
We bundled the tent away, unscrewed the wheels off the PACs and loaded everything into the cavernous side of the plane. At last we climbed in, clambered over all the gear and wedged ourselves into the two little passenger seats left for us in the cargo hold. Willie taxied the plane around for a while—judging the terrain—while Clark and I hurriedly buckled up and reached for something to brace against, the whole plane bucking violently like a rodeo bull on amphetamines as it rolled, surged, wobbled and lurched over the frozen tussocks.
I leant forward and tapped the co-pilot on the shoulder. ‘How’s it seem?’ I enquired.
He grinned, and in true Nunavut style, said, ‘Oh, it’ll be okay … I think.’
I hadn’t heard this new ending to the expression before, but before I had time to become properly concerned, Willie looked back and said, ‘Okay, boys … hang on!’ With that, he flung open the throttle and the engines again roared. The plane briefly galloped along the esker, accelerating hard, the tussocks literally exploding into the wheels with so much force I was sure they were going to break off and we’d all plough into the ground at any moment. Just as the horrific vibrating and banging reached a crescendo, Willie pulled back and we pitched up into the air. It was an amazingly short take-off, and gradually relaxing my white knuckles, I was again able to breathe.
Staring out of the window at the endless frozen white expanse passing beneath us, I suddenly got a true sense of just how isolated we have been for the last 58 days. From up here, we’d have just been two tiny specks slowly traipsing across the barrens.
Willie orchestrated a perfect landing into a much colder-looking Cambridge Bay than we’d left, and we unloaded everything into his hangar. At last it was done, and Willie pulled down the giant roller door, sealing out the swirling wind and snow. The effect was amazing. The wind—that has been constantly eroding us for weeks—suddenly just stopped. It became eerily quiet, my ears ringing oddly in the stillness, and then, gradually, the most wonderful feeling began penetrating our jackets and pants—warmth! Clark and I caught each other’s eye at the same moment, and we silently shared this heavenly experience that we had all but forgotten. ‘Look!’ I grinned in ecstasy, pointing down at my shoes where lumps of ice had broken away, and a growing puddle was forming as my hiking boots—which had essentially been frozen hunks of rigid ice for weeks—suddenly began to soften and thaw. I could even flex my toes. I ripped off my beanie for the first time in days, and rubbed my hand through my messy, tangled hair, feeling the joy of circulating warm, dry air.
We couldn’t stop smiling at just being warm. In fact, we soon started to overheat, and stripped off to our thermals, while around us, Willie and some of his crew, all wearing full arctic jackets, examined our PACs.
‘You are very acclimatised to ze cold!’ Willie nodded at us approvingly, adding, ‘You must have seen some amazing things. Sit with me and have a coffee?’ We explained that we’d love to but had to get our blood samples taken before we were allowed to enjoy any food. ‘You haven’t eaten in 21 hours?’ Horrified, Willie kindly offered to drive us straight to the medical centre, and we piled in.
Looking out the window, Clark and I both hurriedly braced ourselves against the seats in front, shooting each other furtive, uncertain glances as the world tore past us at an alarming speed. It wasn’t that Willie was a maniac driver by any means—he was as slow as any grandad—but not having travelled faster than walking pace in months, it seemed horrifyingly fast to us.
At the medical centre, we had our blood samples taken by a nurse who absent-mindedly bent the needles around in our arms as though they were joysticks while asking us all about the trip. At last, cradling our punctured arms, we escaped outside into the cold, blustery street, free men, back in ‘civilisation’—if you can call Cambridge Bay civilisation, that is!
‘To the supermarket!’ Clark announced, broad grins spreading over both our faces as we hurried over. Bursting into The Northern, we headed straight for the confectionery aisle, eyes widening and saliva forming in anticipation as we scooped up Snickers chocolate bars, chocolate milk, a packet of biscuits and chips each (identical purchases) paid for them and sat outside in the snow.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘We need a photo!’ Anyone else in such a situation would have hit me, but Clark only laughed, and held up his first piece of unrationed food in over two months while I took the shot. He was almost crying he was so happy. We congratulated each other, and ceremoniously bit into a choc-chip biscuit at the same instant. The taste—a new taste—was every bit as good as we’d been imagining for the last eight weeks.
As we hurried into the hangar to pack up all our gear, Willie appeared, instantly dissipating our stress with his warm, kind-grandfatherly manner, wheeling two chairs towards us. ‘Come and have a coffee, boys … sit down.’ Having already heard from many locals that Willie was unquestionably a living legend—a pioneer aviator from back in the 1950s and now 73 years old and still flying essential air ambulance services for much of the Canadian Arctic—we were eager for a chat.
‘Zat was one of ze most difficult landings I’ve ever had to do in 49 years of flying,’ he announced. Apparently, the wind was blowing almost perpendicular to the landing site, there was ‘a very low cloud ceiling’ (meaning he was basically flying inside a cloud the whole time), and it was raining freezing drizzle that obscured his windscreen, making it impossible to tell how far off the ground he was. ‘Zat is why I had to make so many passes … little lower each time until I found the ground.’
We raised our eyebrows, impressed. ‘Ze only reason I decided to land,’ Willie smiled kindly at us, ‘was zat you just looked so sad down zere!’
I asked about the tundra tyres on the plane, commenting that we’d been told the nearest tundra-equipped plane was way up in Resolute. ‘Oh zey are not tundra tyres,’ he gestured, smiling, ‘zey are only medium tyres … It’s all we have. But zey are okay.’
Suitably humbled, we started explaining about our trip. Willie took great interest in our gear, and especially the PACs. ‘Zese are very good,’ he said, nodding appreciatively. ‘You are not crazy like I thought.’ The more he heard about our expedition, the more impressed he became. ‘You were out there alone for 58 days?!’ We nodded, a little embarrassed, as he turned and announced to the rest of the crew in the hangar. ‘Zese two are real men! Unlike you—you boys wouldn’t survive one day out where zey have been!’
Everyone we passed on our way b
ack through town seemed to recognise us, and as we passed Colin’s house—the-ex-dog-team driver we’d met before leaving—he excitedly ushered us inside. ‘I’ve got something to show you boys,’ he said. ‘Wait here …’ He returned moments later carrying the most gorgeous, fluffy puppy we’d ever seen. ‘He’s going to lead my dog team.’
We stared at him, ‘You’re starting a new dog team?!’
‘Yep!’ He grinned. ‘I’ve wanted to for years—I thought maybe I was too old—but you boys inspired me with your crazy trip!’ Pride and excitement twinkled in his eyes, and a tremendously rewarding feeling washed over me.
After enjoying the bliss of our first shower in 58 days and devouring a wonderful roast meal at a friend’s place, we ended up celebrating our first night back in ‘civilisation’ with some cheerful travellers at the local lodge. However, after politely declining another vodka and watching those around us, intoxicated, spill their own, I started feeling increasingly alienated—repulsed even—by my surroundings, and I could see Clark too was suffering. The room was hot, dry and seemed incredibly stuffy. In the corner, the TV was on, blaring some tacky game show. There was so much noise inside the building and out, and the very air—warm and thick with the scent of air fresheners—felt sticky and claustrophobic. Surrounded by raucous merriment, Clark and I just stared at each other. I will never forget the look that passed between us: a turmoil of regret, disappointment, and—being honest—disgust. But also such pained confusion. We were finally back in the real world; wasn’t this what we had been dreaming of for so long? Why weren’t we overjoyed? We weren’t even happy.
‘Get me back out to the tundra, Clark,’ I said quietly. ‘I don’t want to be here.’
BACK FROM THE ARCTIC
Back home in Sydney, among the joys of unrationed food, hot showers, sleep-ins and, above all, the radiant warmth of the summer sun, I floated on a mental high for days. Media engagements kept us busy: interviews, presentations, articles and lectures. A public lecture organised by Australian Geographic sold out, and in a desperate bid to start climbing out of substantial Arctic debt, Clark and I ran a profitable second lecture a week later.
