Alaska Season

When I first came to Barrow, everything around me seemed alien. From the moment I walked off the plane and inhaled the crisp 20 degree air, I didn't know what to expect.

I definitely thought the plane was going to touch down on the Arctic Ocean.

My new crewmates were immediately calling out names of birds I didn't know. On the first night, we surveyed birds from the vehicle until 1 AM (3 AM for my time zone). I was exhausted, eyes blurred from looking at tiny dots in the distance that were supposedly birds, and most of all freezing my ass off. I wondered if I was really prepared for this. At first the tundra seemed dead and cold. As the days passed, I was forced to open my eyes and really look.

It started with one tiny little buttercup blooming amongst the brown dead matter. I earned the nickname Princess Buttercup because of my excitement over this one little flower. But it meant the world to me.

When I started working up here in Alaska, birds flying overhead were just birds. The tundra was just a thick mat of brown sludge to tread over. But if I have learned anything here, it is that everything is something. By which I mean, that bird flying overhead has a name, and it matters. It might be a loon winging past, or a jaeger or a duck--maybe even a snowy owl if you're lucky. And the nameless husks of plants I walked over? I made it my goal to know them all, and fairly well succeeded.

Photo taken on the "desolate" tundra

The eider crew members became like a family, each of us with our unique quirks. On memorable occasions we cut off our own hair to fashion ourselves mustaches just to prank someone, or baked and decorated a cake just to eat it in front of the Cake Eater Road sign.

But mostly, we hiked. We walked--or more appropriately at times, slogged--through miles and miles of the tundra each day. I caught the eider bug, and came to adore the creatures (and identify them from quite a distance).

Seeing double male Steller's eiders

Another incredible part of this adventure has been experiencing a different culture and living very close to it. The Inupiat people give us permission to conduct these studies on their land, and everyone I have met has been very welcoming. We were invited to their gatherings, such as their Fourth of July games where everyone takes part in competitions. I joined in on the annual marathon (two laps around town, or 6 miles), my longest race yet.

In two short months, I have learned a considerable amount. Above all, I think I have begun to think like a scientist. It doesn't come naturally to me. But I was curious about everything I saw here. What appeals to me about science is that it all starts with that--just plain old curiosity. Without it, you have nothing.

You wouldn't have these adorable goslings!

Tomorrow is my last day in Barrow. My last day to soak up this experience. It seems like I just got here but it is already time to move on to new ventures--namely, my junior year of college. Life has to keep moving, as always. But this place is unforgettable. And I have no regrets.

I do not regret doing my required polar plunge shortly after this photo was taken.

For the Birds

A day in the Arctic: wake up, stumble into the kitchen and grab some sort of breakfast. Pump myself up with enough coffee to wake an elephant. Then it's wader time. I grimace as I pull on my boots over my blisters, knowing I'll be feeling those later. I double check that I'm carrying the three precious items: GPS, radio, and binoculars. Pack a lunch and it's go time.

Where me and 11 other people live.

Tundra walking is in a category all its own. The elevation is absolutely nil--the words "ridge" and "hill" can only be used in quotation marks here. But the ground is so soggy and mucky, it's comparable to walking on a sandy beach all day long. The mud sucks your feet down, and if you pause to glass a bird for a few seconds, you might just find yourself stuck in place.

It's too late for this goose, who is tragically stuck to the ground.

It's a treasure hunt, and you never know what you'll find when you step off the road into the tundra. A caribou carcass, a fox den, a tiny adorable shorebird nest, a shotgun, maybe a random porn DVD. You never know.

Yes, that is a pinky finger.

But what we are really here for is the ducks. Specifically the eider ducks. I came here to Barrow knowing very little about them, but over the last three weeks I have fallen in love.

Love.

I have been swept off my feet by these animals. It has been a lot of fun hanging out with my crew--playing card games, bombing around the beach on ATVs, polar plunging into the Arctic and otherwise enjoying ourselves. But it's all for these guys, and we wouldn't be here without them.

And they are so worth it.


From the top of the world,

Ellen Marie

Head'em up, move'em out!

Things don't always go as planned. Since I seem to be some kind of watery magnet, and fall into every body of water within range, I ought to know this.

Despite that, most of my adventures seem to go pretty well, but sometimes I do have to admit failure. Caving Round Three was one of these examples--or should I say, it was a dark and stormy night.

It was, in fact, a dark and stormy night. I was driving through heavy rain in the dark to find a remote campsite on the shores of the romantically named Bean Lake. My usual partner in adventures, the slightly older and considerably wiser Ben, accompanied me . We planned to get an early start in finding Bean Hole cave in the morning.

As soon as we turned off the main highway, the road turned into a mud slick. We couldn't see where we were going, but it felt like the middle of nowhere.

Middle of nowhere: check. (Photo by Ben)

Due to our lack of road map/good directions, we were not entirely sure where we were going. I slowed to a creep at a narrow wooden bridge that spanned fifty feet above the Dearborn River. "Are cars even supposed to go over this?" I demanded.

Apparently, yes. At the campground there were no designated sites, only a grassy field, so it was pick-your-own-cow-patty. The wind was blowing so hard, Ben and I took turns lying spread-eagled on the tent floor to keep it from flying away.

Sexy Bean Lake

The rain, darkness, and solitude of the campground convinced us we were starring in somebody's horror movie. And tomorrow, we planned to lower ourselves into a giant hole in the ground, completely at the mercy of mythical cave creatures.

We slept to the melodic sounds of cows being disemboweled all night long. Surprisingly, I didn't see their corpses piled up everywhere in the morning. El chupacabra must have hidden the bodies.

I had nothing to fear from cave creatures, though--we were not destined to find the cave, this time. It wasn't for lack of trying.

Nope, no cave here. (Photo by Ben)

 We hiked up and down enormous ridges and climbed carefully around rocky spires. We gained beautiful views and even better amplification of cows bellowing, but no cave.

And we found this!

We descended from the ridge disappointed. On our way out we checked in with some local ranchers, who pointed out the real location of the cave. We were on the right track, but had chosen a near impossible approach. Our time was running out, and we lacked permission to cross some private property, so we called it quits.

Neither of us liked quitting. And I have to say, Bean Hole Cave is going to nettle me until I return. But Ben and I agreed that you could do worse than hike around some beautiful country with a good companion. Not so bad at all.

Ben the Rock Ninja

And I got my last taste of mountains and some rugged elevation gain. Tomorrow is my last day in Montana before I head up to the Arctic. Internet access might be a little fishy there, if you'll excuse the pun, but I'll update the blog with adventures if I can. I'm a little nervous but a lot excited--who needs nice weather when there's Arctic winds to be had?? So bring it on.

Wherever you find yourself, enjoy the summertime. . . and adventure on!

Urban Jungle

The city scares me. A lot. All the stuff I say about doing things that scare you--it all flies out the window in any place where the avenues start numbering in the hundreds.

The stuff of nightmares.

I find it strangely true that I am more awkward and out of place in an area designed for human use than I am in those that are not, like caves. Somehow, I managed to forget this long enough to agree to a trip to Seattle with my sister.

It began with a disastrous end to a backpack trip. The gorgeous hike had started out looking like this:

The trail remained dry and easy to follow, lazily swinging by roaring waterfalls and through shallow creek beds. Fellow backpacker "Fire Master" Justin and I hiked on into the valley, stopping to nibble on glacier lilies and dreaming of a quiet evening fly fishing on an alpine lake seven miles up.

About a half mile from the lake, the landscape changed dramatically.

In a few switchbacks, we'd gone from a blazing summer day back to winter's chill. The lake, of course, was frozen over.  Our attempts to make the best of it ended in my falling in the lake, getting sopping wet, and subsequently burning holes in all my belongings while trying to dry them out by the fire. To his credit, Justin only laughed at me a little. I shivered my way through a poor night's sleep before calling it quits the next morning--our planned two nights suddenly didn't seem so appetizing.

Tough choice.

Further plans we might have made once we got back down were canceled the moment I turned the ignition key in my vehicle and found it dead. Fantastic--parked at a trailhead into the backcountry with no cell service. This is what you call a trip that was not meant to be.

After getting a jump, I drove home feeling extremely young, foolish, and wet behind the ears (perhaps literally as well as figuratively). This was what I had to show for a whole summer's worth of backcountry hiking?

Pity visit from a butterfly.

And yet, I would have traded for any of the uncomfortable moments of the backpacking trip over my discomfort in Seattle. Sounds, smells, and sights assaulted my senses from the moment I woke. One can't just settle into a rhythm and hike the steep streets, since you have to stop every other block for a red light. One must navigate around construction and crazily slanted streets, cars gridlocked in the intersections, people trying to sell you random things on corners, and everything costing something (parking!). Most of America is used to this, but it's an adjustment for me.

I think of myself as living in the city while I go to college, but I've realized that isn't true. I can walk for five minutes off my campus and be in the woods, alone, whenever I like. There is nowhere in Missoula where I can't see my beloved mountains looming near.

The best of both worlds. . .

Turns out I was wrong about cities in that they do retain pockets of wild here and there (or at least Seattle does.) Nature creeps in overgrown parks and unkempt backyards. Wildlife is actually quite abundant. When I stood on the docks and looked out over the bay, learned to slackline on the beach with a local friend, or biked through parks with my sister around Union Lake, I could see, at moments, falling in love with this place.

But not for me. At least, not now--I can't exclude anything from my future, seems like--but for now, my mind turns toward Alaska, the Arctic circle, the frozen and the remote. I'm glad I stepped into the city for a bit. Different paths in life are not more valuable than one another, they are only a preference. City life is just as much adventure after all. Except instead of avoiding snakes, you're avoiding parking tickets, and staying out of the path of giant buses instead of bears.

Thisss isss a hold-up!

No Fear in Ophir: Caving Round 2

Ever since my previous adventure into caves I found my appetite whetted for the dark, dirty and cold underground that my beautiful Montana has to offer. So for two months now climbing partner Ben and I have been plotting and scheming our next move. It took us that long just to be prepared--this time, we did not intend to rush headlong into the unknown.

"The Unknown"

Also, caves in Montana, as we were about to discover, are one of those closely guarded secrets. Because people have a knack for getting into shit they shouldn't be doing, this is probably a good idea. But it makes trip planning difficult. We analyzed topographic maps for likely cave locations, cross-referenced them with Google Earth images, and matched up features with terse descriptions from an old book called Caves of Montana published in the 1970s. It was very much like following tattered pieces of a treasure map.

Finding the cave was secondary, though, to being prepared to enter it at all. We chose Ophir--what we thought would be a nice practice cave for rappelling and ascending free drops.  Ben and I agonized over every detail of the setup we should use and practiced ascending a tree behind his house to perfect our system. I was very grateful for these hours of practice when it came to the real thing.

Just one of Ophir's towering, milky walls

 After all our preparation we loaded up with two other companions with some climbing experience and adventurous spirit, Dean and Kay. We left Missoula at 1 PM and headed for the forest. We were unsure of our route until we came across "Cave Gulch Road." Gotta be a cave there, right?

 We took comical pictures posing outside the entrance of the cave, while that familiar feeling of apprehension mixed with excitement grew in me. I was half raring to go, and half what the hell are we doing here? Fortunately, I usually ignore that half.

Enter the Double Throat and it shall swallow you whole. . .

I had heard that someone died in the cave in 2009 by falling down a man-made mineshaft in the entrance room. The shaft is completely fenced off now, so it would take some extreme effort to die in it, but some wiseacre decided to make a helpful note.

In case you can't read it, the arrow points down the shaft and helpfully points out "Dead End."

Thanks, dude.

Our real surprise in exploring Ophir was that it was much bigger, and less straightforward, than we imagined. The entrance room was huge, and it branched off into a right and left fork. We ventured down the left side and spent a good hour just exploring the spidery network of passages there.

The going was incredibly slow--we were climbing over giant rock breakdown that was often filmed with a slippery coat of mud. Travel was strange and awkward--we were moving around in a type of maze not designed for humans or our idea of comfort. 

Or our butts.

 

 After satisfying ourselves that none of the other passages continued--at any rate, nowhere we had the least desire to go--we returned to a hole we had found earlier and decided it must be the route. Ben carefully set up the anchor. It was only about ten or fifteen feet of rappelling, but it was sufficient to trap us down in that hole if anything went wrong, because there was no way of climbing out of it.

 Ben the Fearless Leader lowered first down the shaft. If it immediately pinched out he could find out for us and ascend back up fairly quickly. The rest of us waited until he said the magic words "it goes!" before joining him. As second most experienced, I helped Dean and Kay safely set up their own rappel gear to follow. Descending into the bowels of the earth was a bit foreboding, but sitting above listening to dripping water that sounded horribly like footsteps was worse, so I hastily joined them.                                                        

Doesn't even look a little bit like a mouth. Not at all.

If we thought the entrance room had been confusing, this was even more so. There were false leads everywhere, tunnels that led us in circles and seemingly, nowhere to go. After a while, we all gathered to discuss our options in a tiny chamber below the surface. We had nearly decided that this was the wrong shaft after all, and we'd better go back up and look at one of the others.

However, on one of my explorations I had found more passage, but turned back when I got too far away from everyone for comfort. "It seemed to get narrower and might not go anywhere," I admitted. Ben was game to come with me and see it. We slid and slithered through cramped passage, chimneyed down short drops, and came to a halt at a wide spot right before the passage grew very tight. I could tell it kept going but suspected it couldn't go far, as it seemed to be getting narrower all the while.

Though hardly the first explorers of this cave, we went ahead and named some features anyway, and we dubbed this spot Makeout Pinchout because of its intimate quarters. In the spirit of exploration I decided to go until I could go no farther, so I squeezed on through and kept going. After the tightest squeeze yet, which required straddling the rock with one leg and sliding your body after in a move I dubbed "straddling the pony," I actually stood up in a pretty spacious chamber and looked down at a heart-pounding drop.

Moments after straddling the Pony

"Ben. . . " I said. "You've got to come see this. It goes."

The rest of our party was in disbelief that this was the correct route to the bottom chamber. We still didn't know for sure, but it was clear that the passage opened up and was at least another place to go. After a considerable amount of time taking stock of ourselves and deciding whether we wanted to pursue it, we pressed on.

As we meticulously set up a three-way anchor on surrounding boulders, I asked Ben if I could go first this time (in some sort of fit of insanity.) He and I went either first or last, with the less experienced climbers sandwiched in between us. He readily agreed, and I began to lower myself down after making dead sure I had every piece of ascender equipment necessary to come back up. Still, it was with a sort of feeling of no return that I dropped down.

The drop was more like two than one. After about fifteen feet I landed in another chamber, and this time I saw immediately down a hole into the ceiling of a vast chamber below. I called up nervously to my companions and asked if I should wait here for them or continue. I don't think they really understood what I was saying, but they urged me on. I took a deep breath and threw the rope down the hole, was relieved to hear it hit the floor, and went after it.

The free drop

The bottom chamber of Ophir was so vast and beautiful that I forgot to be nervous. As soon as my feet touched solid ground I got off the rope and shouted up to the others that I'd made it, then looked around in wonder.

The room was easily 100 feet long, and toward the back of the chamber, as much as 60 feet high. The walls glowed with what looked like white waterfalls of calcite. And everything, I mean everything, was soaking wet. Including the cave register, which was sadly a pulpy, unreadable mess.

The others were taking an awful long time to follow me. I wandered back to the rope and looked up to see their headlamps bobbing in the blackness above. I'd been alone in the chamber for a good twenty minutes before they relayed their decision to me. Dean and Kay, having seen the 40 foot free drop, would stay at the ceiling chamber because of the time and effort it would cost them to ascend back up.

Ben, though, would join me. I was glad to see him--spending time alone in the chamber had been magical, but I was more than ready to share it with someone.

Much of it looked a lot like poop, to be honest.

We did a quick exploration and snapped some photos, Ben just as awe-inspired as myself at the size of it. There was more passage to explore, but it was nearly ten o'clock and we were feeling the pressure of the task that lay ahead of us--getting back out. So we bid farewell to Ophir's 184-foot depths and started back out, which was to be the true adventure.

Ascending the 40 foot free drop was surprisingly easy. The 15 footer after that, not so much. That drop involved a sharp overhang that was impossible to get the ascenders over with your weight pinching them against the rock. It proved tricky to get over, nearly impossible if you didn't have the brute strength to essentially do a pullup over it, as Kay did not. We were delayed at that point for quite some time--the only part of the trip where I truly began to wonder if we were going to make it out at all--but we kept relaxed with jokes and casual chatter. Kay would only get up over it if we stayed calm. She refused to give up, and swung herself over and around the rock with great difficulty.

We were much more relaxed after that, because we knew we'd already gotten over the most difficult part. It was interesting how, after many hours in the cave, we became more at ease there--with the cramped spaces, dripping water and persistent darkness.

Fascinating and sort of mildly gross at the same time

My own terrible moment was to come at the Pony of all places--the squeeze I'd already made multiple times. I went at it the wrong way and somehow got myself trapped, my ribcage stuck between a hard point of rock beneath me and the ceiling above. It was difficult to breathe and even harder to stay calm when I could go neither forward nor backward. I kicked out my legs in effort to turn on the spot and get a more favorable angle, but my leg was twisted up funny against the wall.

I realized I was panicking a little bit and forced myself to take a shallow breath. Ben helped me get my leg behind me and I turned just enough to slide out of the trap.

I was definitely ready to be out and breathing the free air again. Without further mishaps we made our way back out. Toward the end my arms began to tremble from the effort, and I realized that my energy was rapidly disappearing into a vacuum of hunger and weariness. Caving is even more difficult work than I ever imagined--we had been under the surface for around ten hours.

Back at the entrance room, we gathered all our gear and carried ourselves out into the fresh night air, then collapsed in a pile. Head to foot we were coated in sticky, poo-like cave mud. We were exhausted, filthy, and radiant at our accomplishment.

To welcome us back, the outside world rained.

The fresh air was pure heaven. But it was 1 AM, and we all had lives to get back to, which we had completely forgotten about for a brief time. In the cave, nothing else seemed to exist.

I will not lie--at times, I wondered why the heck we were there or why it was enjoyable to crawl around in freezing mud amongst the bat poop. And even now I'm not entirely sure I can answer that.

Except because. . . adventure.

--Ophir Nothing

Riding Solo

The older I get, the more often I seem to run into a particular barrier with my adventuring. Occasional day trips are one thing, but planning multi-day, complicated trips is quite another. I'm pretty sure there must be a mathematical equation somewhere that calculates the percentage of difficulty as multiplied by number of people coming on the trip.

And it looks something like this.

That's right--14 people is 20,000%. Actually, that doesn't sound too far off. . .

Anyway, this leads me to something I've been pondering. When it comes to getting out and doing things, I am a social outdoorswoman--I like to have company. However, I greatly prefer getting out and doing something fun by myself than sitting home bored.

That's my Bessie!

I first began to run into this problem with my motorcycling. I can rarely find anyone else to take trips with; therefore I spent a lot of time riding alone last summer. I was fine with it, although my mother probably gained a few new stress lines. When I broke down (once!) I was reliant on total strangers to help me out.

I was assisted by some amazing people in getting her running again, at least enough to limp home.If I had ridden with a partner, at the very least they could have given me a lift somewhere when I broke down, so of course, I was vulnerable riding alone (not to mention safety in numbers/visibility). I know these risks, and have decided to continue riding solo anyway.

Now, as I am slowly becoming a more experienced hiker, I am confronted by the same decision. Where do I draw the line with solo adventures?

I would love to say that my being a young woman has nothing to do with it--and it doesn't very often, but it does make me pause to think on occasion. On a recent camping trip with friends, some random strangers joined our group, got drunk and rowdy and hit on me pretty hard. I was okay with my friends there, but it was an interesting reminder that even out in the woods where you don't expect to run into people, you certainly can.

And then you can always push them into fires!

But no, my mind is less dominated by fears of hillbillies hiding behind trees, and more of twisting an ankle, facing off with a mountain lion/bear, or simply getting lost and facing exposure (most likely option). 

People like Aron Ralston are widely criticized--after the fact at least--for going out alone on their trips. But if they chose not to go alone, and waited for companions to be free to join them, they probably wouldn't be having those adventures at all. Ralston should have left a note then, they say, but I ask you, who would have been able to free him even if they had found him? One way or another that arm was coming off.

They're hungry for your arms. . .

And yet, if I backpack in the wilderness alone, even after informing friends and family (select ones anyway) if something goes wrong, I would be another Aron. Labeled an idiot, maybe even deserving of what I get.

It is a balance of risk versus reward. Is it worth it?

I know my decision about my motorcycle already. But as I tackle bigger things, I do have to remind myself to ask, where do I draw the line?

Extra ordinary

Epic adventures are fantastic, of course, but most of what makes up our lives lies in between. They are the spices of life, adding that necessary flair, but meaningless without the cake they are sprinkled on.

Cake is picking up your phone to call your friend and invite them on a walk, only to find that they are calling you at that exact moment for the same reason. Cake is hiking up a short trail on a warm spring evening and enjoying the beauty of the sunset over the distant mountains, just enjoying one another's easy company.

It is squeezing one free hour into a day of studying to run around in a park and kick a soccerball back and forth rather badly. Meeting up every week with people you love just to share dinner together. Sometimes, it is sitting through the same dull lecture every day with someone and occasionally rolling your eyes at each other.

Making a new meal you've never made before, wearing an outfit that makes you feel fancy. Dropping all your worries for a few minutes to help someone out.

Running across a new flower!

These things might not seem like adventure. My life hardly feels very exciting when I spend a whole week cloistered in the library writing page after page of essays. And individually they might not be worth writing home about, but life is made up of a billion tiny little parts that make it so. One small event--sharing a joke with a stranger, getting to pet a new dog--can unexpectedly make you soar.

Life, of course, is an adventure. . . what was yours today?

Nothin, just sniffin around. . .