After my explanation, Paul asked for the team’s perspective on the charity.
I was surprised that support was universal.
Bill said, “The charitable cause gives the expedition a sense of real purpose.”
In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. The Great Aspirations! charity and the world of genuine adventurers are kindred spirits. Each believes in dreaming big and reaching for grand goals.
The team’s support was even more impressive because they gained nothing from it financially. All of the sponsorship money went directly to the charity.
It’s interesting to note that Admiral Peary’s 1909 journey had a similarly higher mission. President Theodore Roosevelt wrote to Peary, “I feel that you are doing most admirable work for science, but I feel even more that you are doing admirable work for America and are setting an example to the young men of our day which we need to have set amid the softening tendencies of our time.”
The meeting ended, but the conversation continued, with the adventure veterans sharing their tales of victory and hardship. Though their stories fascinated me, I felt a distance from the group. Their “club” intimidated me, even as it drew my interest. I wondered if, at reaching the North Pole, I’d be a member.
Theodore Roosevelt saw Admiral Peary off. Peary’s ship was named the Roosevelt in the president’s honor.
Just after midnight, I went to my room and unrolled my new Wiggies sleeping bag on top of a Hudson Bay red-and-black striped blanket. I would sleep in the bag I’d take to the pole. I even opened the window a crack, thinking it might help me acclimate.
I felt good. The bag was puffy. I felt like I was inside a cloud. Then my feet hit the bottom of the bag. I could barely move in its embrace, but I slept well. The next morning, I was rested and ready.
I volunteered to help feed the dogs before breakfast. It was 7:00 A.M. as I bundled up in my new gear, pulled on my new boots, and headed to where Craig and a few others were already wrestling with the dogs. As I stepped on the outside porch the thermometer read 10 degrees above, which was mild by Arctic standards.
Entering the kennel area—a honeycomb of wooden boxes, plywood dividers, and wire fencing—I took off my mittens to free my hands to help with the dogs. Within a couple minutes, my fingers went from feeling chilled to feeling frozen to feeling numb.
I shook them to try to bring back feeling, and when that failed I quietly freaked out. Not just because of my numb fingers but because I suddenly came face to face with the stark, undeniable realization that I was in over my head. Absolutely, indisputably waaaaaay over my head. If I was freezing at 10 degrees, what would I do in the minus-30 neighborhood?
A barrage of anxieties shot off in my mind. I’m a pretender, an imposter trying to pull off a colossal charade. What will my sponsors, my children, my friends say? How would I explain to them that, hey, sorry, but I found out in the nick of time that it would be far too cold in the Arctic.
I laughed at the thought. Then I laughed at myself. “Look, dummy,” I said to myself, “of course, it’s going to be cold. What did you expect? Get over it.”
My fear calmed a bit. For the mo-ment.
After breakfast, we all took a brisk hike through the woods. The pace was aggressive. Schurke’s long deer-like legs flew through the pucker brush while I struggled to find footing on the mossy rocks. With each step, my feet slipped to one side or the other. Against those blessed with long legs, I’ve always been at a disadvantage. My legs are an inch and a half shorter than they should be, due to the football accident that broke the growth plate in my left hip. To keep my legs an even length, so that I wouldn’t have a lifelong limp, my doctors halted the growth of my right leg.
I began to see that perspiration really is the enemy more than the cold. Sweat poured down my back like a salty Niagara. Schurke advised us to open our jackets and to vent away the heat our bodies generated.
As I struggled along, I glanced now and then at my companions. Was I totally out of synch with the situation? They looked so calm. Or perhaps they were hiding their fear better than I was. Some of them were even laughing.
For the next two days, Paul and Bill filled our heads with information. When we weren’t on the trail, immersing ourselves as much as possible in the ways of Arctic camping, we watched videos of Paul’s previous trips.
Then we embarked into the North Woods. It was the first time that year that Paul’s dogs had been out for a run, and they were eager to pull. Chains ran the length of the sled runners to slow down the dogs, but the runners might as well have been greased with butter.
There wasn’t much snow, so we went onto the lake. The dogs galloped at a speed fast enough, almost, for my life to flash before my eyes. We completed several long runs with the dogs and spent a couple nights in the woods with Paul’s staffers as our babysitters. Then we went out on our own for two nights.
The dogs were rested and ready for adventure.
Craig and I became the cooks for the expedition. I don’t know exactly how it happened. We may have gotten kitchen duty because we had the least experience. Or it could have been the only job we felt confident we could handle. I do consider eating one of my talents.
On the trail I found myself comparing myself to my teammates, sizing them up while sizing up myself.
I felt the same way when I worked out at Mercy Healthplex to get in shape for the trip. I’d lift one plate where others had lifted four, five, or six. It was embarrassing to set the weights lower than the guy—or the gal or the senior citizen—who had gone before me.
As my status as a high-adventure rookie became clearer to me, my fear of being exposed continued to grow. My work in the corporate world had not prepared me for this situation. Pushing the mind to find new ideas is not at all like pushing the body to its breaking—or freezing—point.
On the training trip the two rookies, Craig and Doug, got the cooking duties.
But as my spirits hit bottom, my sense of humor rescued me. My exaggerated fears struck me as comical. I found myself laughing. Watching me laugh at myself and mumble to myself, my teammates must have been ready to have me committed. Somewhere out in the woods, I surrendered to the idea that I would survive the Arctic or I would not, but in any case, I was going.
Early one morning, we awoke to Paul hollering that the ice was cracking and we had thirty minutes to break camp. I knew it was a drill; I also knew the issue was real. I’d read of it in Admiral Peary’s book The North Pole.
My frantic scramble to pull myself together could have been an audition for the Keystone Cops. I couldn’t find my glasses, couldn’t find my mittens, my boots were frozen, where were those danged glasses? It took me twelve minutes to get dressed. Paul hollered out to note each minute’s passing. Somehow, thirty-two minutes later, we were off and rolling—two sleds and eight dogs—with all our gear packed and tied down on the sleds.
In that one clumsy moment, the team came together. It was a great feeling, knowing we could work together and make