Icy Bay Mega-Tsunami

This article originally ran in Alaska Magazine. 

On October 17, 2015 a mountain at the head of Taan Fjord, an arm of Icy Bay, Alaska broke in half and crumpled under its own weight. Some 200 million metric tons of material came crashing down in what must have been a deafening roar. Some of the rock slid onto the snout of a tidewater glacier but most slid into the head of Taan Fjord – displacing a massive volume of water. This landslide-generated tsunami had a maximum height of over 600 feet. The wave traveled down the fjord, dislocating sediment and scouring forest for over ten miles.

JUNE 2016: From the foredeck of the MV Seawolf, an aluminum six-pack charter boat, I turn to see Scott Chadwick, the burly Yakutat boat captain, look nervously from his depth sounder to the slowly approaching shore. Chocolate syrup water in the silty glacial fjord obscures hidden rocks. My eyes are peeled; ready to yell stop at the first sign. The bow grinds against the shoreline and gently makes contact. Perfect. The look of apprehension on the captain’s face is gone and I, along with four earth-scientists, disembark. 

On land, the five of us create a gear-chain and hand scientific equipment and my camera gear up the steep and unstable edge of the shore. Directly across the bay is the massive, cleaved-in-half mountain. The boulders and gravel under my feet had traveled over a kilometer from somewhere within that mountain and were deposited here in a feat of unimaginable violence. “Sometimes geology isn’t slow,” Bretwood Higman, one of the scientists observes.

My task is to document what the “crime investigators” learn about the Icy Bay landslide-generated mega-tsunami - to tell their story of geologic and hydrologic discovery.

After shooting video from the shore we wave goodbye to Scott, who will spend the day fishing, while we walk up the valley to find the high watermark of the tsunami.

The National Science Foundation has funded this series of investigative expeditions. Scientific inquiry is why we are here. “It’s like a perfect experiment,” Colin Stark, one of the geologists says. “Find the remotest place in north America where a massive landslide and tsunami occurred, without loss of life or destruction to infrastructure. Run a host of experiments and make observations. Learn from that, and apply it to building some sense of what will happen when a similar event occurs, which will inevitably happen in a much more populated area.”

Landslide tsunamis have happened in Alaska before. Most notably was the 1958 Lituya Bay landslide and tsunami, which created a wave 1720 feet high – the highest wave ever recorded. What is unique about the Icy Bay landslide and tsunami is that scientists are able to study it so soon and with a suite of state of the art equipment.

Alaska’s rapidly warming climate – twice that of the global average - is related to this catastrophe. Icy Bay was as recently as the early 1960s filled with glaciers to the mouth of the bay with ice as thick as 1000 feet. This rapid de-glaciation and de-buttressing of the hill slopes is at least part of the reason for the instability, which led to the landslide. Other areas of Alaska and Norway are experiencing similar phenomena much nearer to tourist destinations and communities.

“This is happening in environments that the Park Service manages,” Eric Bilderback, a National Park Service geologist says. “We should take this opportunity to learn where nobody was hurt so we can maybe be proactive about the things where people could be hurt.”

After gaining 600 feet of elevation in our mile-long hike, I take off my backpack and drink a long slug of water. The day is warm and we’ve all sweat under our loads.  We are standing at the trim-line where the rush of water scoured the brush and left only bare rock. The team looks for evidence of broken branches or out of place sediment above the line – trying to locate the absolute highest run-up. They finally make the call – 187 meters, or 613 feet.

I turn around and face the fjord. The charter boat, anchored in the middle, is now a tiny dot below us. Directly behind the boat is the cleaved mountain. I try to imagine the force, the violence, and I come up short. Geology may not always be slow; thankfully it usually is.

Watch the film, Icy Bay Mega-Tsunami.

Traditional Kayak

I gently set my new skin-on-frame sea kayak into a draining tidal slough and then shoehorned into the tight cockpit. As I readied myself, the outgoing current tried to pull me loose from the shore. I set my paddle to lock me into place while I secured the neoprene spray skirt and pulled on gloves. At the mouth of the slough and all along the shore, four to six foot waves crashed. The water was most dynamic where the current met the waves. I set my eyes on this zone, studied it for a minute, took a breath and shoved off. How the new-to-me kayak would handle big waves was a mystery and one I was anxious to solve.

On most days, one can look out from a perch above any Alaskan harbor and observe a variety of watercraft. By many people’s estimation, a skiff is the most utilitarian boat for exploring the bays, sounds, and fjords of Alaska. A skiff, with its complimentary outboard motor, is a fishing, hunting, and sightseeing vessel, distinctly capable of coming ashore. The skiff, however, is a latecomer. For millennia, another vessel reigned supreme in Alaska and throughout the circumpolar north—the skin-on-frame sea kayak.

Traditional kayaks are elegant watercraft, made from raw, local materials—driftwood, bone, animal sinew, and hide—and are the product of hundreds of generations of refinement and perfection. Each region throughout the Arctic had specific and exacting designs. Kayaks are hunting and fishing vessels, which, in the care of a skilled practitioner, are one of the most adept watercrafts the world has known. Kayaks are one of the few boats that can be capsized and re-righted.

The swift current puled me toward the roaring waves. I widened my knees, locking them into a secure position and rapidly dipped the boat right and left a couple times to acquaint myself with its stability. To properly sea kayak, hips must remain loose. A four-foot wave jacked up in front of me, grew to five feet and crashed. I pulled hard on my paddle and leaned forward; my little dart of a kayak pierced the first wave handsomely. The next one in the set was bigger. As it stood up and took shape, I realized this one was going to clobber me. Weighing my options, I needed to make a decision, and fast.  

The legacy of the kayak, throughout the circumpolar north, varies, but, for the most part, skiffs and outboard motors began replacing their use in the early 20th century. One big exception, however, was in Greenland where the art of kayak building and their practical use never fully went out of fashion.

In the 1980s, many Greenlanders worried that the kayak was falling out of use. Qaannat Kattuffiat (Inuit for Kayak’s Club) was founded with the idea to develop traditional kayaking into a sport, which is now the countries’ most popular, followed by soccer. The organization's position is that the physical process of building kayaks and learning the skills of how they are used is communicative of cultural knowledge, which cannot be acquired any other way than practice and personal experience.

In Greenland, children begin learning to kayak at age 6. By their teenage years, they are allowed to compete in summer kayak contests. These competitions consist of races, demonstration of dozens of capsize and recovery rolls, harpoon throwing, rope gymnastics, and other techniques. Every summer, thousands-of-years worth of knowledge, innovation and traditions are celebrated and handed to the next generation. As a result, the flame of the kayak within Greenland was never quenched.

Alaska, however, was not so fortunate. By the 1940s, with the increasing popularity of motorized watercrafts, one generation neglected to pass on the skills and methods of ocean paddling to the next. It is possible to infer how to replicate traditional Alaskan kayaks; it is impossible to know what techniques their practitioners employed on the water.

The most famous contemporary Greenlandic kayaker is 35-year-old Maligiaq Padillia. Maligiaq received his first kayak at a young age from his grandfather—a highly respected hunter. After a rigorous mentorship, Padilla became champion kayak-man of the year, for a record holding, ten times. He has now built over 450 traditional kayaks, and has taught classes the world over. Maligiaq, a torchbearer of the circumpolar Inuit, is celebrated in Greenland and within kayaking circles like a rock star. 

Maligiaq’s kayaks hang in The Smithsonian Museum, public buildings, schools, and other institutions, but he is most gratified by kayaks that slip through the water and are put to vigorous use.

Currently a resident of Anchorage, Maligiaq is on a mission to revitalize traditional kayaks and the skills of their use in Alaska. Over the last several years, he has traveled throughout the state, studying and replicating regional designs, building kayaks with school-age youth, and fostering interest in the renewal of recently lost traditional skills.

Last winter, in a 60-foot yurt, heated by a wood stove and pleasant company, seven people, including myself, built traditional kayaks under Maligiaq’s guidance, in Homer, Alaska. Each kayak is made to fit the owner, relying on anthropometry—measurements and proportions of the human body.

In nine days, the kayaks were shaped, lashed, skinned with ballistic nylon and waterproofed.

The wave in front of me advanced and grew frightfully tall. At the last possible second, I intentionally tipped over rather than taking the heavy wave on my head. My lower body remained firmly locked into the boat. Under Maligiaq’s expert care, I had made this craft to fit, perfectly. The wave slammed onto my upturned hull and the turbulence jostled me like an earthquake made for one. When the commotion subsided, I reached my paddle to the surface, made a wide sweep with the blade and rolled back upright. On my face, an uncontainable grin; ready for the next one.

Before the Roman civilization or the pyramids of Egypt, kayaks have been cutting the waters of Alaska. The simple and elegant technology, adroit and at home in the most punishing marine conditions, makes too much sense to not exist. The traditional kayak has reemerged, unwilling to go extinct.

Carter to Crescent and a Wounded Bear

The Forest Service notice at the trailhead read, Trail Not Advised – Wounded Brown Bear. For several years now, I have thought that the Crescent Lake Trail to Carter Lake Trail, with a packraft paddle of Crescent Lake, would make a great overnight trip. Our bags and bikes were packed; the day was flawless...but now this.

“Not advised,” I said. “Which is different from trail closed, right?” After a few minutes of debate, the three of us repositioned our bear spray for quick draw convenience and decided to risk it. The sign had been posted four days earlier, we reasoned, and a handful of vehicles in the parking lot assured us that others had made the same call.

Where bears and people cohabitate, there is often an uneasy tension. Many years ago, I guy I knew was mauled by a brown bear on his way back from a day of fishing in this area. The bear clamped down on his head. Thankfully he survived the attack but the damage was severe. His eyes were bitten and in an instant he lost his sight forever. As we rode up the trail, I thought about him and the time I was seriously charged - periodically glancing at the can of spray strapped to my stem.

Friendly faces greeted us at the end of the trail and the beginning of our lake paddle. They too had read the sign and opted to cautiously gamble. We had all rolled the dice and won.

On the lake, my attention wandered away from the bear. The day was incredible and the trip was everything, if not more, than I’d hoped it’d be. The trails on either end are one’s I’ve ridden many times and I’d once gone all the way through on the primitive trail, which follows the lake shore, but this was my first traverse with the packraft.

Although this trip could be done in a day, we’d gotten a late start and from the outset had planned to camp on an island in the middle of the lake. The sound of loons calling and fish splashing in the calm water lulled us to sleep.

In the morning, we finished paddling the rest of the lake, transitioned back into bike mode and hit Carter Lake Trail – a steep and fun technical trail – back to the highway and the bustle of mid-summer traffic.

A couple hours later we were back at the vehicles - just in time to see a ranger removing the warning sign. They’d found the bear, dead in a ravine.

The bear, as far as we gathered from the ranger, had been an aggressive sub-adult that had bluff charged a cyclist several times. Finally, fearing for his life, he shot the bear with his handgun – wounding but not killing it. Shooting a bear out of season is only ever lawful in defense of life or property. In this instance, it appeared that no charges would be brought; the cyclist had been within his rights.

It’s unfair to pass judgment on someone in a stressful life-threatening situation – and so I don’t. However, it’s worth mentioning, that bear spray works. If you have the time and the presence of mind to draw a handgun, aim, and fire up to four direct and well-placed shots, you certainly have time to draw and spray. Sub-adult bears often behave badly; a peppery dousing can be just the medicine they need to learn that humans can hurt. I can’t help wonder: had the bear been sprayed, would the trail warning have been necessary and, more importantly, would the bear still be alive?

An Alaskan coastal brown bear.

Back From The Ice Age

Kim McNett and I attempted a spring fat-bike expedition from Nome to Fairbanks, Alaska but mother nature had other ideas. We returned to Nome after four days due to extreme snow fall. Below is a slideshow and video of our short but remarkable time on the northern end of the Iditarod Trail. 

A perfect, clear and cold day to land in Nome; spirits high.

Kim and I snap a selfie near the Iditarod finish. Our plan was to spend a couple days taking in the scene of the Last Great Race. We were just in time to see Pete Kaiser come in 5th. 

Aniak homeboy, Richie Diehl, came in 6th!!! So rad!

Richie gives his dogs some love under the Burl Arch. 

Richie's fan club.

In 2014, I gave Deede a smooch in Rohn; this year she kissed me under the arch. Ti amo, Deede.

Salsa rider and all around BA, Jay Petervary, was the first human-powered athlete to Nome this year. Congratulations, Jay! 

Jay rode Salsa's new Blackborow and said it was the best bike he's used on the trail so far. 

Japanese musher Michi Konno under the arch.

Kaktovik musher Vebjørn followed his father Ketil Reitan to Nome on snowmachine. Kim and I met Vebjørn and Ketil in 2015 in White Mountain village. They had finished the Iditarod and were mushing home to Kaktovik. They are attempting to mush home again this year. 

Ketel finished 14th this year. After resting the dogs for a bit, he and his son will mush home to Kaktovik from Nome; 1,300 miles. These two are the real deal. 

As Kim and I were attempting to escape Nome our dear friend Monica Zappa came in. Team Zappa 4 Ever!

Kim and I knew a snow storm was in the forecast. Our goal was to make it to a shelter cabin to sit out the blizzard and ride against the rest of the mushers still coming in. 

Kim atop Cape Nome. Hard to believe that a storm was in the forecast and two mushers had had to be evacuated earlier this same day not too far from here. 

Kim and I stopped to warm up in the last checkpoint in Safety and then pushed on into a very cold and windy night. I have yet to confirm but I believe with wind chill that night it was in the neighborhood of -50 or -60 below zero. 

Despite the extreme cold, the evening was heartbreakingly beautiful. 

Kim and I spent two nights in this shelter sitting out the blizzard and discussing what to do. With all the new snow and all the snow in the forecast we made the realization that this was not a year for biking on the Iditarod Trail. 

The storm raged and raged. 

In the middle of our second night in the shelter, we awoke to a Ice Miner returning home to Nome with a team of beautiful Siberian huskies. The storm was too intense, so Reese, his seven sled dogs and Kim and I shared the small shelter in grand company. 

Reese's Siberian huskies were so well trained that he let them loose and called them one at a time to hitch them to the gang line. Beautiful. 

For a brief moment, Kim and I were able to ride back to Nome. That didn't last long. 

Safety Roadhouse and the last checkpoint on the Iditarod Trail. 

Snow, snow, snow, and more snow. 

Taking a break from bike-pushing. 

Our friend and the fastest long distance dog musher in the world, Nic Petit. Without question. Your day will come real soon, my friend. 

Back in Nome with friends. 

Tim Osmar; legend!

Monica prepares to send everybody home. 

Looks like a cute lil' pup but this sweetheart has run the trail four times. 

Snoozing in the snow. 

Perhaps the most striking dog in the field: Blue Steel. 

Monica and Tim

Monica and Kim

The final adventure came when we all boarded our Alaska Air flight, sat in the jet for three hours and then had to get back out. One of the engines had frozen. Thankfully, Tim and Monica invited us to stay with them at their host family's house. 

We saw Jan Kriska, the first walker into Nome at the airport. He'd walked 48 hours straight from White Mountain and looked entirely destroyed. He'd had to abandon his journey last year due to frostbite and this year was beset with intensely deep snow.  

The thousand yard stare face. This shit cannot be faked. 

Justin Boot serenaded Tim Osmar, and the rest of us, in the airport, with a song he'd written about Tim's father, Dean. 

Below is a short video from our time in Nome and on the trail. 

Nome to Fairbanks - Fat-Bike Expedition

On March 14, 2018, Kim and I fly to Nome, Alaska, with the intention of riding our bicycles to Fairbanks, on the greatest equipment the world has yet seen. The fat-bike is a marvel of modern industry and design. Man’s greatest invention—the bicycle—has been fussed over, considered, and modified into a thing of beauty and unrivaled efficiency.

Winter cycling expeditions can be really hard. Soft snow trails, strong and sometimes relentless wind, discomfort, and injury are all potentially on the menu and to be anticipated. In the late 1990s, winter cycling expeditions had the potential to be even more difficult—fat-bikes didn’t yet exist. Even with big tyres, these trips are often impossible; without big tyres, impossible was more frequent.  

In the 1980s, 1990s, and well into the 2000s, a handful of diehard winter cyclists were begging for bicycles with bigger, wider, and fatter wheels and tyres. Shade-tree inventors like Mark Gronewald and Ray Molina were pushing the boundaries but the options were few. Finally, however, one bigger bike company took a chance, made the leap of faith, and kicked off the fat-bike design arms race.

Since 2005, interest in this sub-culture cycling pursuit has grown exponentially. What used to be a sport wherein everyone who did it knew the name and or reputation of almost most everyone else, has mushroomed into a global phenomenon. Alaska has exported an idea and an activity to the world, and there is no going back. 

And, since 2005, the cycling industry has been in overdrive, designing and tweaking the equipment.

To the engineers and designers, who have lost sleep, listened to input, and spent long hours in the saddle wondering how to improve the fat-bike, thank you. To the OG’s who spent their inheritances and re-mortgaged homes on the original fat-bike dream, thank you.

Twenty years ago, I took my first winter cycling trip on the Iditarod Trail with Roger and Arleen Cowles. My mind was blown. We were on the equipment of the day and we didn’t achieve the massive objective we’d set out for. We made it to Unalakleet and called it.

Tomorrow, I fly with my favorite adventure partner, Kim McNett, to Nome, again. We intend to hang around for a few days and take in the finish of the Last Great Race, visit friends, and camp on beaches dripping with gold and history.

On this trip, I plan to shoot video. I want to ask anyone we meet, how global warming has affected their ability to travel. For ten thousand years, winter has been the time for travel and human migration; winter has been the time to visit distant family and to reconnect. On our watch, this tradition is disappearing, unless we get serious and start fighting like hell against global warming.

The stories I hope to capture will I hope help others understand the dire straights we are in. The stories I hope to capture will I hope spur us to action. “Summer,” an Inuit proverb tells us, “is the season of inferior sledding.”

On this expedition we will be carrying our InReach tracking device. You are invited to follow our progress and read our updates by clicking this link: https://share.garmin.com/BjornandKim

Our messages will be sent to Kim’s Facebook page as well as Ground Truth Trekking’s Facebook page.

Our bikes have been tuned; our bags packed; our batteries full of charge; and there is nothing left for it. We are as ready as we’ll ever be. Wish us well.

"It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” –Gandalf

A big shout-out to our gear sponsors, Salsa Cycles and Mountain Laurel Designs. 

Also, a big shoutout to the authors of Drawdown for giving me reason to hope. 

Reflections on 2017

Reflecting on 2017, one word comes to mind: unbelievable. It’s unbelievable that I should be so fortunate; to have friends and family of whom I draw so much from and am eternally inspired by. These people within my sphere seem incapable of thoughtless compromise and live under their own enchantments. My vibrant, supportive, and engaged community is filled with unbelievable brilliance, creativity, and steely-eyed determination to fight the good fights. 

It is unbelievable that I was, again, able to experience so many new, wild, and remote areas of untamed Alaskan wilderness. Traveling through Arctic Alaska last summer was one of the most rewarding and eye opening expeditions of my life. The shorter ventures by bike, packraft, and kayak were all, also, unbelievable.

The flood of support, input, and collaboration regarding the Alaskan climate change education campaign has been unbelievable. Three years ago, I made a New Year vow to become a better climate change communicator and not miss opportunities to learn and share. That vow still stands. Perhaps it runs.

In 2017, we have had to march and protest against systemic and swelling racism. Unbelievable! We had to march, organize, strategize, and mobilize to protect and stand up for science. Unbelievable! We have had to march and stand up for the rights of women. Unbelievable! We have a racist, anti-intellectual, sexual predator for a president who endorses pedophiles. Unbelievable!

Late in 2017, the UN released a report claiming that America—despite being one of the wealthiest countries—is the most economically unequal society in the world. My country spends more on national defense than China, Saudi Arabia, Russia, the United Kingdom, India, France and Japan combined and has been at war for 16 years! Unbelievable!

2017 was the warmest year on record without an El Nino. Each of the 10 hottest years on record has occurred since 1998. Despite overwhelming scientific consensus as to why rapid global warming is occurring, 2017 set a record for fossil fuel consumption. Unbelievable!

One of the hardest things for me to reconcile about 2017 has been the disparity between the micro and macro. On the micro level—meaning my community—the fight for justice and right-headedness was in overdrive. On the macro level, autocratic, small-mindedness, with strong overtones of fascism, clutched our national politics.

This observation brings to mind Margaret Mead, who said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.” This, I believe.

Happy New Year, everyone. May your optimism wear big boots and be louder than ever.

Below, is smattering of photos from 2017. 

Alayne and Daniel cross the Lisburne Hills - Arctic Alaska.

Noah rides a wheelie near Resurrection River - Seward, Alaska. 

Winter bike camp - Caribou Hills.

Alayne and Kim find a walrus skull - Arctic Alaska. 

Homer Cycling Club's Big Fat Bike Festival - Homer, Alaska.

Sammy learns to ride a fat-bike - Homer.

Kim, Alayne, and Daniel packraft in front of the Corwin Bluffs - Arctic Alaska. 

December moonrise - Homer.

Kim rides the frozen Tustumena Lake. 

Bjørn finds a mammoth tusk - Arctic Alaska.

Kali dancers perform during the whale festival - Point Lay, Alaska.

Kali dancers - Point Lay, Alaska.

Spotted seal pup - Arctic Alaska.

Caribou on the Kasegaluk Lagoon - Arctic Alaska.

Swimming caribou - Arctic Alaska.

A retired umiak - Wainwright, Alaska. 

A sod hut - Arctic Alaska. 

Bjørn and Kim finish their expedition to Utqiagvik, Alaska. 

Traditional qayak building with Maligiaq - Homer, Alaska. 

Bjørn's traditional Greenlandic qayaq - Homer. 

Finished qayaqs - Homer. 

Bjørn surfing his traditional qayaq - Homer. 

Kim returns from a paddle with her traditional qayaq - Homer. 

Alaskans Know Climate Change tote bags.

Protesting Northern Edge. 

Kim dip-netting sockeye salmon - China Poot, Alaska.  

Preserving summers bounty. 

Munitions training before Arctic fat-bike expedition. 

Katmai and Lituya harvesting berries - Seldovia, Alaska. 

Billy fishing for halibut - Kachemak Bay, Alaska. 

Doug fillets halibut - Kachemak Bay, Alaska. 

Homer residents protest against racism. 

The Kachemak Bay Adventure Trail. 

Salsa Mukluk fat-bike in front of whale bones - Point Hope, Alaska. 

Lael prepares to launch on the Kachemak Bay Adventure Trail.

Packrafting to Aurora Lagoon along the Kachemak Bay Adventure Trail. 

Maligiaq prepares for the most difficult roll - the Straight Jacket Roll - Resurrection Bay, Alaska. 

Alaskans Know Climate Change tabling - Homer. 

Beach biking toward the Lisburne Hills - Arctic Alaska. 

Big Fat Bike Festival obstacle course - Homer. 

Maligiaq returns to Seward - Resurrection Bay, Alaska. 

Margaret and Bjørn pause for sunset - Caribou Hills, Alaska. 

Sunset in the Caribou Hills. 

George rides through a deep creek - Seward, Alaska. 

March for Science, Earth Day, and Alaskans Know Climate Change event - Homer. 

There Is No Tomorrow

My article, in two parts, about our fat-bike expedition through Arctic Alaska - Point Hope to Utqiagvk. Published in the Arctic Sounder.

Bjørn Olson, Alayne Tetor, Kim McNett and Daniel Countiss pause in front of a whale bone yard in Point Hope before beginning their fat-bike traverse of the Arctic. 

The Beaufort Wind Scale labels wind speeds between 56 and 63 knots as a violent storm. Anything above 64 knots is a hurricane. For the next four days, the winds hovered between these two classifications. We became sober-faced and hyper conscious. Simple tasks like adding or removing a jacket required methodical intention. To let go of a strap or sleeping pad, even for a second, meant risking it being blown out of reach, most likely never to be seen again. Each of us at various times, when the strongest gusts hit, was entirely thrown from and over our bikes.

Read Part one here: There Is No Tomorrow

There Is No Tomorrow - Part 2

Point Lay dancers at the Nalukataq festival.

As I cleaned the peat chunks from my bike I looked ahead at the rapidly thawing landscape eroding into the sea and wondered how different it would look here in five or 10 years ... or even next month. I also wondered when Alaska and the rest of the nation would get serious about reducing our dependence on fossil fuels and mitigating climate change. Will we choose to take action before reaching a critical tipping point? Again, the saying I'd heard in Wevok came to my mind, "There is no tomorrow." The time for action is now.

Read part two here: There Is No Tomorrow - part two

Roof of Alaska

The word Arctic, for me, is a magical word. As someone who lives in an Arctic state, I have spent relatively little time above latitude 66º. What time I have spent in the far north has further emboldened my romance. The land of no summer sunsets, bowhead whales, walrus’, shorebird colonies that darken the skies and ancient cultures surviving and thriving in the lands of their ancestors easily distract my mind. A quixotic vision compels me north this summer, but with a healthy dose of realistic expectation, and even more caution.

This summer, myself along with Kim McNett and Daniel Countiss will fly to the northwestern Alaskan community of Point Hope and begin a long, fat-bike and packraft trip. Our aim is to traverse more than 800 miles of Arctic terrain to Kaktovik in the northeastern region of the state. We will pass through the villages of Point Lay, Wainwright, Utqiagvik (Barrow) then continue east to Deadhorse; and, if everything goes incredibly well, we’ll continue on to Kaktovik. For the first ten-days, we will be joined by our friend Alayne Tetor.  

For months, we have poured over satellite data, photosets, and maps; and have reached out to any and everyone we know that has experience or who lives in the region. We have repackaged and stuffed seven-weeks worth of food into flat-rate priority mail boxes, to be sent to village post offices when needed, and assembled all the odds and ends one needs to survive while traveling unsupported in the wilderness. We’ve overhauled all the little parts and pieces of our bikes and stripped them down to single speed and single intention machines. Our bags are packed.

Before any big trip, but particularly before a previously unattempted big trip, I hear the questions from friends and family: how long will it take, how many miles do you expect to travel each day, etc. My response is, we have seven weeks worth of food. We can make assumptions and guesses based off the information we have, but until we are actually there we’ll have no real or clear idea about our efficiency on this road-less and trail-less route. This uncertainty gives me butterflies. The giants of our imagination may turn out to be benign windmills or we may come home with our tails between our legs. Regardless, we are going…to find out.

Beyond the straightforward adventure, we will also be attempting to contribute to the scientific community by documenting and measuring coastal erosion. Similar to geocaching, we will be attempting to locate the dozens of “shore stations,” which have been created by Shore Zone, with our GPS. Once we locate them, we will re-measure, photo-re-occupy, make field notes, and nature drawings. Some of the coastline we propose to pass through is losing more than 20 feet a year to erosion from the warming seas – a symptom of climate change.

Arctic explorer Vilhjalmur Stefansson once said, “There are two kinds of Arctic problems, the imaginary and the real. Of the two, the imaginary are the most real.” From where we are standing, all Arctic problems are imaginary and therefore very real.

With any luck, we’ll be able to send updates from the villages we pass through. We will be carrying our InReach tracking device, which will send daily “pings” from our current location. To follow our progress click here: https://share.delorme.com/BjornandKim

We will also send occasional, short updates from our InReach, which will be received by Ground Truth Trekking’s Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/groundtruthtrekking/

An enormous thank you is due to the brands and organizations that have helped us realize this expedition: Ground Truth Trekking, Cook Inletkeeper, Kachemak Bay Conservation Society, Salsa Cycles, Alpacka Rafts, Mountain Laurel Designs, and the Time Lords Cycling Group. 

MLD Duo-Mid Shelter

For our upcoming fat-bike expedition, across the roof of Alaska, we will be using Mountain Laurel Designs (MLD) duo-mid shelters. These are two-person, sil-nylon, floorless mid shelters, which weigh less than one-pound. I have used these shelters in the past in a variety of terrain and climates and am fully confident they will perform expertly on our expedition.

Floor-less shelters are quick to assemble, requiring four stakes or anchor points, which we often improvise in the field, and one center pole. Collapsible and lightweight center poles are commercially available but I typically improvise with something I am already carrying or find while underway. On this upcoming trip we will be using three-pieces of our four-piece packraft paddles. Nothing is lighter than nothing.

Many places in Alaska are famous for insects but the Arctic is especially famous for them. With that in mind, I decided to modify the shelters by adding an interior perimeter of bug netting.

Ron Bell, from MLD, sent me a 48cm wide roll of netting, which I sewed on. I began at one end of the door and left about one-foot of extra to overlap at both ends of the entrance. Once I began, I sewed continuous, from door to door. The idea is that the netting will fold under the erected shelter and ideally no insects will be able to find their way under, through or in. 

My experience with mid-shelters, in buggy areas, in the past, has been hit-and-miss. I often try to burry the perimeter of the shelter but this only works in certain terrain. If the bugs are really bad, this technique only slows them down. By adding this skirt of netting, tucking it under the shelter then anchor it down by sleeping atop it and weighting the rest with gear, I believe we may win this particular arms race.

For more information about Mountain Laurel Designs visit: https://mountainlaureldesigns.com/

When Arctic Winds Blow

Since my late teens, I have always accepted the wisdom of my elders about time spent out in the country. One of the staunchest rules is to be self-reliant; never require assistance or saving. To require a rescue is to put other lives at risk and is often costly. Because of that, some consider adventure frivolous and egocentric, without purpose for society.

Read full story in the Alaska Dispatch HERE