I offer the following to illustrate Odyssey's perspective regarding the inner journey versus the weekend warrior attitude.
In 1999, Kathleen and I spent January 31 to spring breakup in a one-room cabin north of the Arctic Circle. From my journal on Monday, April 12:
This morning we loaded the sled with spare
clothes, lunches, water, mail, tripod and camera, and began dragging 6 km (3.75 miles)
south to the Tent Camp on the Big Island. We had gone there several times
before to use the outhouse, but had never dragged a full load, and had never
expected to see people. This time we hoped to find James and Sharon, and
we also wanted more practice at hauling our gear. The day was sunny, bright
and -13 degrees (+8.5 F). I felt euphoric, much as I imagine Victoria Jason must have
felt as she was dragging her gear from Spence Bay to Gjoa Haven in June
of 1992. Spence Bay is a small Inuit community at the southern tip of the
Boothia Peninsula in the Arctic Ocean. Gjoa Haven is a similarly small community
on the southeast side of King William Island, very near to where the
sailing ships Erebus and Terror, under the command of Sir John Franklin,
met their fatal end searching for the Northwest Passage. But that’s another
story.
Jason’s book, Kabloona in the Yellow Kayak, is truly compelling and inspirational,
at least for me. A grandmother, who took up kayaking at the age
of 45, Jason spent four summers travelling through the Northwest Passage.
As the title of her book implies, much of the journey was by kayak. The
175-km (110 miles) stretch of the frozen Arctic Ocean from Spence Bay to Gjoa Haven,
however, could be completed only on foot. The following passage is from the
seventh of nine days during which she struggled across the ice with Don, her
only other companion beneath the midnight sun:
"At midnight, the glorious sun did a glancing bounce on the
horizon and started rocketing upward. The snow crystals
turned a trillion dancing, twinkling prisms. The wind gently
caressed my face. The air was crisp and clean. I could contain
myself no longer. I snapped my harness and danced in idiotic
abandon on the ice. I love it! I love it! A claustrophobic’s
paradise!"
Jason’s story, particularly this passage, instilled in me a desire to travel
on the ice. Like Jason, I wanted to experience living out on the ice. I wanted
to sleep out on the ice. I will likely never have the opportunity to live and
camp on the Arctic Ocean, but I will soon be going across the ice to town – a
distance of 40 km (25 miles).
That's the inner journey part. Now comes the weekend warrior part. Again, from Jason's book:
I turned to confront the scowl on Don's face.
"I can see you are not taking this expedition seriously," he growled. I was dumbfounded. Couldn't he see any of the beauty? I was gesturing, but the words wouldn't come. Then I took a closer look at his hands, and cracked up with laughter. The serious expedition leader was wearing McGavin's bread bags to keep his hands warm.
We walked side by side for awhile. He didn't affect my mood at all. Still, I was puzzled.
"Don't you enjoy any of this trip?" I asked.
"No," he said, "the only part I enjoy is when I am safe in my sleeping bag."
I couldn't understand. To go through all this agony and not to enjoy any of it was plainly tragic. I felt nothing but compassion for him.
"What do you think about while you walk?" I asked.
"Nothing," he answered. "I just keep saying I'm the mean machine and nothing can stop me. I'm the mean machine and nothing can stop me."
What a waste.
Victoria and Don never travelled together again.
