I’m always taking stuff apart to see what makes it tick - kind of like a technical problem solver. I’ve worked as a bike mechanic and house builder, and now I’m a Senior Architectural Technical Officer for the Government of Nunavut, where my job is to ensure the heat stays in and the cold stays out in buildings. Basically, I’m a pro at managing freezing temperatures in the Arctic. So one January night, lost in a storm on my bike, 16 kilometers out of town at –48 degrees Celsius with jeans and a light jacket on, I was pretty sure I was screwed.
It began as a beautiful day: cold, but clear blue sky. A couple of friends and I were heading out for a trail ride – they on their snowmobile, me on my bike. During a good hard ride, I normally generate a lot of body heat, so I didn’t dress too warmly. I popped on a couple of pairs of light long johns, jeans, a sweatshirt, a light jacket, and thin leather gloves. I did opt for snow boots, since I’d be riding a bit slower following my friends on the sled.
Just after lunch, we headed down the frozen Frobisher Bay for a few miles before turning onto a great scenic trail through small mountains and valleys. After about an hour of riding, my friends said they were getting cold and wanted to go back to town. But the snow conditions were great, so I told my friends to head home and that I’d catch up with them.
Flying down the trail, I kept telling myself I’d turn around just after this next hill, after this next curve. Then something would catch my eye and I’d keep going. Entering into an open field, all at once, I noticed the sky was changing color, from blue to white, and snow was coming towards me. I wasn’t worried, but I did start riding back.
To my surprise, the storm front caught and passed me, changing riding conditions, reducing visibility, and, worst of all, erasing the track I’d been following. I hit the gas to try to get ahead of the storm, but the low visibility and winding trail meant I was no match for the wind.
Fresh snow with no direct sunlight creates what the locals call “flat light.” The pure-white snow is perfectly uniform in color, and with no shadows it’s very difficult to see details in the terrain. Riding in these conditions is dangerous, and the general rule is to stop and wait for sun or for it to get dark enough to use a headlight. Although I knew the sun would be going down soon, the falling snow would mean there would be no trail left. I had to keep riding.
Eventually, the snow let up and visibility improved, but I still wasn’t sure of where to go. There were three possible routes. I picked one, and after doing some donuts in the snow to mark a clear home base, I started riding, dragging the front brake so the rear tire would dig a rut, making an easy track to follow back if I needed it. I rode for a few minutes, then got bogged down in deep snow. I decided that couldn’t be the trail and swung back around to home base. Route number two: same thing. Route number three: same thing. Damn.
As the second path seemed the most familiar and I didn’t have much time (the sun was setting), I decided to rerun it and push on through the deep snow. I hit the gas and was blasting through, trying to keep my speed up so I wouldn’t sink. Eventually, bare ice appeared up ahead, along with what seemed to be a small river, which I guessed would eventually empty into Frobisher Bay. From there, I figured, I could simply follow the coastline back to Iqaluit and home sweet home. With my studs biting into the ice, I was zipping along and feeling great. Sure, by then it was full-on dark, but I was on predictable terrain and heading down river towards the bay. At least, that’s what I thought.
Much to my dismay, the river opened up into a small dead-end lake. All that time, I’d been going inland, the wrong way. As I turned around, the engine sputtered, low on fuel. I still had reserve, though it wouldn’t take me very far. I stopped and parked the bike on the edge of the lake. It was pitch black, and clouds covered the moon, though I could see a few stars. The lake was in a large shallow bowl of rock. I decided that if I walked to the top of the bowl, I’d probably see the lights of Iqaluit glowing on the other side and maybe even walk home if I ran out of fuel.
I climbed to the top of the ridge, and my heart sank. Around Iqaluit, the only light pollution is from the town itself, so the glow is visible from a great distance. Looking out in all directions, I saw nothing but blackness. It slowly began to sink in that I was spending the night outside. I made a quick assessment of what I was wearing and how cold it was and recognized that I may not survive. I was completely unprepared for an overnight adventure. The wrong clothes, no matches, lighter, or flashlight - nothing, zero.
Panic began to set in. I paced around, cursing. I knew that freaking out wasn’t good, so I sat down on the bike and fired it up. Back in the saddle with the engine purring and the headlight cutting through the darkness, I felt much more at ease. I decided to pretend that I wanted to stay here, that this was just another of my winter camping adventures. I calmed down and started thinking about what I had to do to improve my chances.
I was freezing fast and needed shelter from the wind. Luckily, the snow around me was hardpacked and light, perfect for igloo building. Designating a big rock I had discovered as the back wall, I decided to erect sides and a roof from simple, large snow blocks and station my bike at the front. Using this configuration, I hoped the idling bike would generate some heat for the shelter. I parked the bike with the engine running, positioned the headlight as a work lamp, and got busy.
First issue was that I had nothing to cut the snow blocks with. I tried to snap off my rear fender to use like a shovel. No deal - the ABS would not break. I ended up using my frozen gloves to scrape grooves out in the snow, retracing deeper and deeper until the blocks were about a foot thick. Then I had to dig underneath to release them, initially reaching under with my arms, then eventually using my legs when my arms got too cold. It was tough work, as the blocks were large: six feet long and two feet wide.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I heard a gurgling sound, and coolant started pouring out of my overflow bottle. But I needed light, so I couldn’t shut the bike down. At that point, I mentally put my bike on the alter for sacrifice. Nothing mattered except staying alive. I didn’t know how long the engine would run without coolant, so I worked faster and soon had the blocks cut and free.
By the time I had constructed my snow box, the coolant was long gone, but the engine was still running smoothly. Even so, my bike-as-heater plan unfortunately didn’t work for the shelter. It was so cold and windy that, even with my bare hands, I couldn’t feel any heat from the engine unless I actually touched it.
I was too tired to build another wall, so that was the end of construction. The fort was so small that I had to slither inside. Lying down, my shoulders nearly touched both walls, and the roof was only inches from my face.
Prone and still inside my shelter, I had lots of time to think. I thought about hungry animals, like wolves and polar bears, and how I’d be an easy meal. Soon the fear of becoming dinner began to surpass the fear of freezing.
Next issue: I had to pee. I thought about how much heat would be in that liquid and decided to try to keep it in my body. But I really had to go, and, in spite of everything, I was also falling asleep. Better to pee outside than pee myself and be wet.
After I was done, I turned and headed for my shelter. Then something caught my eye - movement! Shit. I stayed still and tried to focus, but it was too dark. It seemed too small to be a polar bear. Must be a wolf. I made my way back to the fort, yelling and stomping, hoping to scare it off. Arriving at the entrance, I had a tough decision. Going in headfirst would leave my feet exposed and me blind. But pushing myself in backwards would mean that the first thing to be grabbed would be my neck. In the end, I decided that a wolf chewing on my boots would give me time, so I crawled in, closed my eyes, and listened intently with every ounce of concentration I had.
There were plenty of sounds - maybe wind, maybe ice groaning - but my fear turned every noise into a pack of wolves circling for the kill. Listening for these unseen predators got me so agitated I eventually couldn’t stand it. I kicked my feet and yelled and scrambled out to face them. I strained my eyes and thought I saw shapes and movement nearby, though I couldn’t be sure. I screamed and threw chunks of snow. I forced myself to move closer. When the shapes finally came into focus, they turned out to be just rocks and snow formations. I calmed down a bit and went back into my fort.
I was cold and tired and in pain from shivering and cramping. Freezing slowly is nasty, like gradually being eaten alive or sinking in quicksand: You can see and feel what’s happening, but can’t do anything about it. It’s very depressing. I decided to get seriously technical and figure out how to slow down heat loss. I was wearing knee and elbow pads and a chest protector, so I rolled on my side a bit to put the padding between me and the ground. I made fists with my hands inside my gloves. I wiggled my toes in my boots to try to keep circulation in my feet. Although my clothes didn’t offer much insulation, the outer layer was frozen and therefore airtight.
I also set myself a goal – to try to make it until dawn. Surely things would seem better in the daylight. But, as I had no watch, I had no idea when that would be. Looking back, this was probably the single most important factor in my not giving up. In January in the Arctic, the sun sets about 2:30 p.m. and rises about 9 a.m. If I had known the time and how long until sunrise, I think I would have thrown in the towel. As it was, I convinced myself that the sun would be appearing momentarily and that I just had to hang on for one minute more. I’d count 60 seconds and then look at a little crack in my fort for some light. I counted again, and again, each time convinced that the sun would be coming up.
Suddenly, I heard a new sound - a light buzz, maybe a plane. I crawled outside looking up at the sky and tried to start the bike to signal with my headlight, but it was frozen solid. Then, a light glowed over the ridge. A snowmobile. Everything was pitch black, and I knew the rider could drive right by without ever seeing me. I kept kicking the engine trying to start it. The light crested the horizon and disappeared into a valley.
I thought that was it, my last chance to get out alive. Slumping over the bike, I groaned, “I’m done, I give up.”
At that moment, the light appeared again, closer. I furiously tried to start the engine. It coughed for a second, just enough to power the light – barely a flicker, but nonetheless visible in the complete darkness. I saw the headlight of the sled turn towards me and knew the driver had seen the flash. It was Search and Rescue, out looking for me. I laid back onto the gas tank, feeling completely helpless and thankful that I could stop fighting, that someone was going to take over.
It was 7 a.m. The Search and Rescue Tech was amazed I was alive (I heard him call it in on his radio), and I was surprised that they were surprised I wasn’t dead. He wrapped me up in survival gear, stuffed me into a small boat full of blankets tied to a Kamotik sled, and towed me back to town to begin the thawing out process.
I had some frostbite on my face, hands, and feet, but no permanent damage, and it didn’t slow me down much. I took my snowmobile out the next weekend to rescue my bike.
That night was 22 years ago, and I consider the date I was found to be my “re-birth-day.”
Prior to that, I had had some close calls, but that was the first time I really did believe I was going to die. I don’t think I was afraid of death. I was more pissed off that a careless mistake could end everything. That said, I still take chances and push limits, and I continue to ride alone at night in freezing temperatures. Ultimately, I hope when my end comes that I’m doing something worthwhile or something I enjoy.
Even so, I came away from that night a little different. I realize now how fragile life is and how quickly it all can end. So I try to be a good person. I try to do the right thing. And, every night, I make sure to delete my Internet history.
