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| Northern Lights Over Central Alaska |
It was late afternoon at Sourdough Campground in East Central Alaska. The truck camper was dark. The Aspen and "pretend" spruce understory was dark. The mood was dark and foreboding. The aurora borealis lit up the sky with dancing greens and purples, but no warmth was given by these winter "sky fires," the northern lights. The red line of the alcohol thermometer nailed to the outside of the wooden, home-made camper shell read minus 23 degrees Fahrenheit.
Four of us, trained survivalists all, had come to this remote campground to "rough it" while hunting barren ground caribou (Rangifer terandis granti). Our arctic survival instructors would have pointed out what idiots we were, and our skills and resolve were both about to be sorely tested, but you know how it is: we were USAFSS aviators and invincible
The campground was built to accommodate summer arctic grayling (Thymallus arcticus) fishermen and Sourdough Creek rafters and canoers. It is not open during the winter, but we - with three four-wheel drive vehicles - forced our way through the knee-deep snow and came to a stop in a head-to-tail semicircle, not unlike an old western wagon train circling for night time safety against marauders.
With the rambunctious bravado of the young and fearless, we gathered our gumption and bluffed our way through the evening meal and campfire. Three of the four of us, to "show our metal," headed for the vehicles and winter sleeping bags. One of our four, facing severe vocal harassment and teasing for his complaining about the cold, reluctantly departed to stay the night at the Sourdough Lodge Bunkhouse. That crowded bunkhouse offered bare-bones bunk beds, with no mattresses, and a wood-burning barrel stove for $3 per night.
Cheap at half the price," observed our deserting partner in the face of our jeers. Of course, we made him walk to the bunkhouse which was only 1/2 mile or so away.
Within our individual vehicles, we were initially snug in our winter mummy bags. The determined, invisible fingers of cold began to slip through window cracks and through holes under under our doors. Each of us was astonished at how quickly our places of comfort surrendered themselves to the relentless invasion of freezing currents. The walls we had built to separate ourselves from nature were expensive but, ultimately, thin and inadequate. Even the homemade camper, with 3 inches of fiberglass insulation, the best of the vehicles for challenging the cold, was no match. In the discomfort that was only partially expected, we were optimistic and determined. Tomorrow, we supposed, the weather would be better.
After a fitful night, we gathered for morning coffee and commiseration. The gas stove was hard to start. The freezing fog from our mouths gave echo to our complaints. The aspen trees quaked and snapped throughout the morning. The persistent beauty of the northern lights, now fading pink and yellow, gave way to the late arriving far-north sunrise. The camper thermometer dutifully recorded the temperature losses; it now read minus 51 degrees Fahrenheit.
The day's hunt was slow but successful. The caribou were not eager to resume their fast grazing pace. They were easy to stalk, and two caribou were taken for the home larder, one by a .22 caliber pistol shot to the head. We hunters were careful not to overheat, inviting hypothermia, and our prey were slowly dragged to our encirclement for processing their soon-frozen carcasses.
As we butchered the rapidly freezing meat, doing our best to outpace the cold and early-but-inexorably darkening afternoon twilight of the far north, we discussed the challenges of the hunt and the attractiveness of the lodge's bunkhouse. The deepening cold and our sense of fair play caused us to forsake another day of caribou "slaughter," but we were still determined to spend the second night in our private hunting "quarters," all except for our deserting comrade who had traded his hunting knife - which was probably worth about $25 - for a second night's stay near the comfort of the barrel stove. We each trudged off to our separate vehicles, pleased with the success of the hunt, but secretly envying our bunkhouse buddy.
Our night was no warmer, and our sleep no less interrupted. Putting one's head completely inside the mummy bag caused moist breath to congeal on the inside. Leaving the head out caused noses to run and mucous to freeze on whiskers and mustaches. Tossing and turning caused the body to trade body-warmed spots for burning cold ones. "Miserable" is the best description of our condition that night, but we still hoped for better weather.
As he fought for comfort in his uninsulated, blue Jeep station wagon, one of our three remaining survivalists could take it no longer, He got up in the middle of the night, got his catalytic heater going, rolled his window down about two inches to allow carbon monoxide to escape, put the heater inside, and slept fitfully the rest of the night. I won't identify him, because he lives nearby these days and might seek revenge, but he was the 6985's top gunner and his initials are Hank Hankerson.
In the still-dark, late morning he stumbled out of his station wagon with a severe headache and bright red skin. It was apparent that the ventilation he had created was inadequate. He was sick all day and we knew we were lucky he had not died. Even trained professionals make mistakes when drained of the capacity to make good decisions.
We attempted to get a second catalytic heater going, but it wouldn't light. We were forced to build a small stick fire on top of it in order to get the white gas to vaporize and ignite. Seriously, white gas simply will not evaporate and burn at extreme low temperatures! Who knew?!
The troubles were simply too many and the enjoyments too few, now that we had already harvested some caribou. We resolved to break camp a day early and head home. Once everyone was packed and ready, we got another surprise: none of our vehicles would turn over; they were frozen up solid. A check of the camper thermometer revealed that it had bottomed out. The red marker line sat at minus 89 degrees Fahrenheit, just above the lowest indicator of minus 90 degrees! No, it wasn't a calibrated thermometer, but it read what it read.
The only thing to do was to swallow our pride and seek help from the Sourdough Lodge Bunkhouse; so, we got to walk that 1/2 mile ourselves, retribution for our callus treatment of our sensible brother. From there we rented a propane tank, a burner hose, a length of 9" stove pipe, and a 90-degree elbow. After shoveling the snow from under the wickedly cold vehicles, we directed the heat, via the pipe, against our oil pans. We eventually got all three rigs running.
The ice fog we generated as we pulled out of the campground concealed the blood messes we left. It concealed any disturbances we had made to that wilderness corner of Alaska. It concealed the strong camaraderie we four shared, and it trailed us most of the way home, erasing our memories of great discomfort and apprehension.
All these years later, whenever the temperature drops even a little, presaging a "lower 48" storm, we think of those long-ago challenges and the brotherly love that enabled us to endure. Our lives are easy now, in our old age, and there is seldom need to suffer together as we did then. The comforts we have are amazingly reliable and usually taken for granted.
We are always safe now, and that is a great pity.