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TENDERFOOT
Posted July 17 2018
I looked out of the battered DC-3’s dirty window and saw . . . nothing; nothing except vast expanses of brown tundra surrounded by mountains dotted with snow.
The old plane touched down on the dirt strip in Umiat, an old World War II base consisting of dilapidated Quonset huts and trailers near the north coast of Alaska. I nervously stepped off the plane in my new, squeaky-clean work boots to see two of the Quonsets on fire, black smoke and flames billowing into the crystal blue sky. Roustabouts continued working around the airfield as if fire was a regular occurrence.
I hoped to live to see my 26th birthday.
A lump in my throat, my hands sweaty, I looked beyond the airstrip towards vast, open vistas and thought of the desert planet Tatooine, Luke Skywalker’s home planet in Star Wars, the new movie I’d seen before flying off to my own interstellar adventure. I felt as if I’d been transported directly from urban Washington, DC to a dangerous, alien world.
In over my head, a stranger in a strange land with no wilderness experience and my archaeological training limited to textbooks, I joined crewmates hired for their outdoor savvy and field experience. Everything about me said new—the new boots, unwrinkled flannel shirt, spotless down vest, and the obvious insecurity of being out of my comfort zone. I sucked on a cigarette, trying to look nonchalant.
My plan to fit in and not get killed in the wilderness would be simple, I decided—observe my crewmates and follow their lead. And so, with everyone vastly more experienced than I, my education began.
* * *
After a couple days’ orientation, our crew of eight got ready to fly out to Howard Pass in the western Brooks Range, where we’d be for three months. Malcolm, our congenial bespectacled leader, chose Amazon Toni to fly out on the first helicopter run with him. My uneasiness peaked when my turn came to get on the chopper, but I managed to jam myself into the back seat among tents, sleeping bags, 5-lbs bricks of Tillamook cheese, and boxes of something called Pilot Bread. I’d ferry out with blue-eyed blonde Lucy, a veteran of several field seasons in Georgia, but new to Alaska like me. She wedged herself into the front seat next to Sam, our veteran pilot, among piles of sleeping pads and bags.
The floor of the Bell Ranger was Plexiglas, so I could see the ground beneath me. My boots floated above the gravel; my stomach churned. The chopper began to vibrate; the rotors whirred, their hum growing louder. Sam turned to see if I had buckled my harness correctly. He gave me a thumb’s up and pulled back on the collective.
My field of vision grew with each foot of altitude. A small creek glinting in the sun wandered off to the west, disappearing in the distance. Stunted trees and bushes accompanied the stream on its journey.
Numbness, dread, and confusion overcame me as I entered this stark world. Reading about the North Slope had little in common with the real deal.
Miles of winter tundra lay below me like a brown carpet, rolling on to meet black, forbidding mountains covered with snowfields. Cold, dark, unpleasant-looking ponds dotted the unforgiving landscape. Rain streaked across the Plexiglas windshield and the air grew colder. I grabbed my gloves and wool knit hat from my daypack and put them on.
Looking ahead through the windshield, I saw a large meandering river, the Colville. Standing on one of its gravel bars, a large bull moose with impressive antlers drank from the clear water. He looked up as we approached, then fled.
Jesus, look at that bastard run.
I stared into the distance for a while, trying not to panic, then became aware of a subtle change in the sound of the rotors as they slowed and the helicopter dropped down to hover above the ground. The effect of the earth moving up to meet my feet both terrified and exhilarated me. Again, my stomach lurched.
On the ground ahead of us, Malcolm and Toni waved to us, their bright yellow rain gear jarring against the brown of the tundra. Sam set the chopper down and cut the engine. At his signal, I cautiously stepped down onto the spongy ground. Mountainous slopes shone frigid and menacing, and wind whipped around me as an ever-increasing number of raindrops pelted my woefully thin rain gear.
* * *
An image of my mother and stepfather eating dinner and watching the news in our den in Rye, New York floated into my mind. They were eating Mom’s meatloaf on tray tables and talking about the deplorable state of politics during the Carter Administration.
To keep my load light, I’d only brought one sweater—a thick wool gray ski sweater with red reindeer they’d brought me from a recent trip to Europe. I wore it now and the smell of mothballs made me homesick.
My father had died when I was five. He would not have been able to take my mother on a European trip, let alone give me such a wonderful sweater. His death continued to haunt me—it kept me unsure of myself. I was certain fate would strike again and my stepfather, twenty-five years older than my mother, would die soon, and I’d be plunged into more uncertainty and sadness.
I discarded these thoughts as scenes from a different life. This was my reality now—a different kind of unknown.
* * *
Toni and Malcolm had already set up the large cook tent.
“There’s coffee,” Malcolm said nonchalantly, as if welcoming me into his home in Fairbanks.
I ducked into the tent to find a spoon sticking out of a jar of Folgers. Pouring hot water and instant coffee into an ugly plastic cup, I rejoined the group outside. Quick on my heels, Lucy brought out coffee for Sam and herself.
We stood in a circle, dots on the land, drinking coffee and taking in the newly created looking and harsh landscape.
Back in my one-room apartment in DC, I wouldn’t have touched instant, but the Folgers tasted good in the drizzle. I cupped my cold hands around the warm mug. Malcolm unwrapped a Hershey’s bar and offered it around.
“Good flight, Sam?” Malcolm asked.
“Uh huh. Weather’s closin’ in, though. Gotta get the next batch of folks sooner rather than later.” He spit a wad of chewing tobacco on the ground.
“Will we get everyone out today?”
“Think so, she’ll be good for another couple of hours or so.”
“Well, we better unload the chopper so you can get going.”
After unloading the helicopter, we waved Sam goodbye. The chopper roared to life, kicking up enough dirt to obscure the sky as it lifted off. The sound of its rotors spinning at top speed reverberated from the nearby mountains. Sam disappeared from view and the sound eventually faded away, leaving me convinced I’d never see DC, or even Umiat, again.
* * *
I stared at the tundra and slowed my breathing to calm myself, but anxious thoughts persisted. I knew I didn’t fully comprehend the dangers waiting for me, beyond animal encounters and the real possibility of injuring myself.
I’m going to die out here, or at least humiliate myself.
I imagined tripping over a rock and impaling myself on my newly-sharpened trowel or being stalked by a brown bear who’d maul me, snap my neck, and bring whatever tender parts I possessed back to her cubs. Even a best case scenario looked grim—I’d leave the top of my daypack open one day, the wind would carry away my possessions, and I’d have to rely on others for clothes or freeze to death. They’d all know I was an urban punk, the weakest link in the chain.
Toni and Lucy volunteered to make a water run to the creek, grabbing two large plastic jugs each.
“Hey, guys,” Malcolm, yelled after them, “Take a shotgun! It’s loaded and the safety’s on.”
Then, to me he said, “Have you ever set up a tent?”
"No," I replied, rubbing my gloved hands together in the brisk air.
“We need to set up all the tents by the time the rest of the crew gets here and before it really starts to pour.”
I wondered how much colder and wetter the weather could get. Would I freeze to death in my tent?
He reached under the bright blue supply tarp, retrieved a tent bag, and dumped it on a relatively flat, dry place, counting pegs, ropes, and poles.
“First thing, we insert a line into the grommet, burn the ends of the rope so it won’t unravel, and tie a knot.”
He used his Bic lighter to seal the ends. A pungent aroma filled the air as the plastic in the rope began to melt.
“Do you remember how to tie a bowline?”
“Haven’t tied one since Girl Scouts.”
I watched him, trying to follow his hands. He had some rhyme about a rabbit and a hole I couldn’t quite follow, but I managed a left-handed version of the knot, despite my hands shaking from cold and nervousness.
“Okay,” he continued in a steady voice, “next we put the poles together and stuff them into the tent sleeves to form the frame, like so. When we’re done with that, we lay a piece of Visqueen on the ground and put the tent on it.”
Malcolm watched as I secured the rain fly to the top of the tent, pulled it taut, placed tent pegs through each fly and guy wire, and pushed them into the ground while avoiding punching holes in the Visqueen.
I set about my task looking confident, despite an abundance of self-doubt. Malcolm exuded experience and calm. Maybe a small part of it would rub off onto me.
“One last thing,” he yelled over the increasing wind, “get sleeping bags and pads from under the tarp and throw one of each inside so the tents don’t blow away.”
“Okay. Got it.”
Malcolm walked back in the direction of the cook tent, leaving me alone. Talking myself through the process of setting up each of the remaining tents, I inspected my handiwork, and breathed a sigh of relief when I was done.
I headed over to the cook tent for a break and some company, not wanting to be left by myself in this strange new place. The breeze had picked up and the rain felt even colder, the drops stinging my face like little needles. My thoughts drifted to the penetrating dampness and the desolate landscape. I looked around and ducked inside.
* * *
A pot of water was about to boil. Lucy, Toni, and Malcolm chomped loudly on Pilot Bread piled with peanut butter.
“How about a joint?” Toni asked. “Is that okay, Malcolm?”
Malcolm chewed his lower lip and the beard beneath it, an indication of anxiety I’d first recognized in Umiat when he’d noted we were short of first aid supplies.
“Well, must be against several regulations, but okay—just don’t set the tent floor on fire. Be careful,” he said.
My ever-present anxieties lessened as I inhaled and began to relax. I lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out the front tent flap into the rain.
* * *
We spent the rest of the day greeting our crewmates as they flew in, and offloading supplies. By suppertime, we were eight and our number complete.
My crewmates showed their ease with wilderness living in their free-flowing conversation about freeze-dried food and the lack of privacy when relieving oneself. Toni had made her own parka by hand and Kelly had brought a large Buck knife with her, something I’d never heard of. She took out a whetstone and began sharpening the knife as if she’d performed this task every day of her life.
Sitting cross-legged in the cook tent and feeling incredibly out of focus, I listened intently to their small talk, concentrating on putting pieces of new information together in a way I could understand and use them.
Did my inadequacy show?
“You know, you can boil up some of that Labrador tea and not get sick,” Helen said. “It’s good, too.”
“Nice on a cold day, but I like a hot cup of Tang myself,” Ron said, cleaning his nails with a Swiss Army knife.
“Cocoa’s good,” Malcolm said, “and if you have some booze to put in it, it’s even better.” He cleaned his glasses with a dirty bandanna.
Okay. Hot Tang, spiked cocoa, and Labrador tea . . . Got it.
I’d have to ask questions eventually and show my ignorance, but that would be infinitely preferable than not asking how to take the safety off the shotgun.
* * *
After a filling meal of still-crunchy freeze-dried chili, I put on my down vest and took my mess kit over to the creek to wash dishes. Helen joined me.
“Don’t worry, Georgeie,” she said. “You’ll catch on quick. Right now, you’re our cheechako.”
“Your what?”
“Our cheechako. It means tenderfoot.”
“I didn’t know it showed.”
“Well, you were really quiet when we started talking about camping stuff, you know? But, believe me, you’ll be a different gal at the end of the summer and you’ll know as much shit as we do.”
“God, I hope so,” I said, reveling in what I assumed to be a compliment or at least a vote of acceptance.
She touched my shoulder, gave it a squeeze, and retreated to her tent. Feeling somewhat reassured, I left for my own tent to spend my first night north of the Arctic Circle.
The sun shone through the rain when it would have set long before back east. My L.L. Bean watch read almost midnight. I tucked myself into my sleeping bag, leaving on my long johns and wool socks, while wondering how to make friends. How could I, shy and short on confidence, sell myself as someone worth knowing when my experience was so minimal?
I finally fell asleep with only my nose and the top of my head sticking out of my sleeping bag.
* * *
The next morning, I awoke to a cloudy day and the sound of laughter. Wanting to know what in hell was so funny, I wandered over to the cook tent. There was a pause in the conversation. Seven bright-eyed faces looked up at me.
“I think Georgeie’s going to be our late riser this summer,” Ron said in a voice too cheerful for my taste before having caffeine.
I smiled uncomprehendingly. “Coffee?” I asked.
“Here you go, Georgeie,” Kelly said. I mumbled my thanks and lit a Marlboro.
Malcolm explained the order of the day. “Today, we’ll take it easy and stay together. Each of you will carry an honest-to-God number two lead pencil, a Rite-in-the-Rain notebook, a roll of flagging tape, a couple of stakes, an entrenching tool, a 3-meter tape, some coin envelopes and paper bags, a black magic marker, and a brand new 6-inch Marshalltown trowel.
“We’ll also carry Nikon cameras and both shotguns, loaded, because you never know. Got it?” He looked at me, the greenest of greenhorns, and smiled.
Again, I conjured up the image of a grizzly taking me down, munching on me, and dragging the best morsels back home.
“You’ll pack a lunch, carry full canteens, and take rain gear and whatever else you need for the day. Oh, and do NOT forget your bear whistles.”
I would definitely save room for smokes and, if I’d had it, a flask of vodka to bolster my courage.
* * *
I wore most of what I’d brought with me, including several layers of wool socks and my wonderful reindeer sweater. I hoped I’d be warm enough. Fairly satisfied none of us would freeze, Malcolm told the crew we were ready to find our first archaeological site and record it.
“As you might remember, the goal here is to find sites and flag them so they won’t be destroyed when oil and gas development come. That day is just around the corner.
“Look for flakes—small pieces of chert, jasper, basalt, or obsidian with some shiny and flat surfaces. Flakes are the most typical artifact we’ll find. If we’re lucky, maybe an arrowhead, too. Georgeie, you’ll get the hang of it. Walk next to someone with more experience.”
We set off across a patch of tundra strewn with lichens and the buds of wildflowers. The Brooks Range looked down on us silently, each peak a sentinel holding untold secrets. A little distance from camp, I saw a black stone below my left foot, and thinking it might be something, I picked it up and showed it to Kelly who was walking next to me.
“That’s just a piece of rock,” she said, turning it over. It’s not a flake. It’s nothing, sorry. The texture is too rough.”
I felt somewhat foolish, but a revelation occurred to me—photographs of artifacts in textbooks bore little resemblance to the real three-dimensional item.
“And put your hat on,” she added. “You lose most of your heat through your head.”
I took my red baseball cap from the back pocket of my Levi’s and put it on.
“Hey! Here’s something,” Toni yelled.
“Let’s see,” Malcolm said, walking over to her. Taking the object, he turned it over in his hand, licked it free of dirt, and held it up to the sun.
“Good job, Toni. Let me show everyone. Then, put it in a coin envelope and keep it in your daypack.”
When Malcolm showed the artifact to me, I could see how the flake was different from the piece I’d found. Its light brown surface was flat and shiny. I ran my finger over it, feeling the undulations that ran through the small piece, like ripples in water.
“Ahh, okay,” I said, marveling at the treasure. “What was it used for?”
“Nothing, really. Probably struck off a larger artifact that was something, a tool of some kind,” Malcolm said.
“I see,” I replied, although I wasn’t sure I understood completely.
“Now, we’ll fan out and look around to see what else might be here,” he continued, addressing all of us. We’ll draw a site map and photograph the area. You’ll write up site notes and, not to worry, I’ll make sure you know how.”
* * *
Several hours and archaeological sites later, my feet began to hurt, and I could feel blisters on my heels. The soles of my flat feet throbbed and I thought longingly about my moleskin back in camp. My sore feet distracted me from thoughts of bears and wolverines, even as I scoured the ground for paw prints. I wanted to find an arrowhead or something, but my energy lagged and the straps on my daypack dug deeply into my shoulders.
“Alrighty, gang,” Malcolm said around five o’clock, “Let’s head back to camp. It’s been a long and successful first day.”
Ah, relief.
Stumbling into my tent, miserable, my feet begged for attention. I was about to fall onto my soft, welcoming sleeping bag when I discovered something far worse than sore feet. My only sweater was gone. I panicked.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Shit. Fuck.
Briefly warming up during our march home, I had taken my sweater off and tied it around my waist. Only when I ducked into my tent to take off my boots, attend to my feet, and put my sneakers on, did I realize my loss.
Shit—my only sweater. How will I keep warm? Fuck.
Forgetting the moleskin, I headed over to Kelly’s tent, yelled her name, and stuck my head through the front flap. Her alarmed expression reflected my fright.
“What’s wrong? You look really freaked out. Here, have a cigarette.”
Taking a Marlboro, I sheepishly told her about the loss of my sweater. Feeling like an ass, I could have cried in frustration and fright. I felt shame in having to confide in another person and ask for help.
“Could happen to any of us, Georgeie. I have plenty of clothes. Here, take this turtleneck. It’s wool and it’s red, so when you wear it, you can’t get lost.” She smiled reassuringly.
I took the wonderfully soft sweater and hugged Kelly so hard I could feel her body heat through layers of long johns, shirts, her sweater, and my down vest.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” I said, wiping away tears of relief.
“Hey, it’s okay. We have to watch out for each other up here.”
I relaxed, took a deep breath, exhaled some smoke, and thanked her again. As I left, her red turtleneck gripped tightly in one fist, she yelled after me, “Put your hat on like I told you!”
* * *
On the slog back to camp the following day, I spotted a familiar gray and red object caught in the brush next to the creek.
“Oh, my God! My sweater!” I shouted. I wept in disbelief and delight, then ran over, shook off the moisture, and hugged it like a long-lost friend.
I sang the rest of the way back to camp. When we ducked into the cook tent, and Tom rolled a celebratory joint, offering it to me first. I accepted. Over dinner, my happy mood continued, and I think everyone felt my relief.
* * *
My confidence in being able to survive in the tundra, as well as my skills as a fledgling archaeologist, increased daily. I was hitting my stride, although my stride was not that long so early in the summer. I could usually spot an artifact, became proficient at sketching site maps, and could draw a good representation of an arrowhead.
Laughter even escaped my lips from time to time.
* * *
On our last day on Rough Mountain Creek, the wind whistled through nearby mountain passes, gray storm clouds filled the sky, and the temperature dropped into the low forties. Malcolm, Lucy, Ron, and I, leaning into wind gusts with effort, worked our way along the creek to the north. Toni, Kelly, Tom, and Helen hiked up the slope of Ihkluhk Mountain to a series of prominent terraces.
That day, I wore everything I had with me—long johns, jeans, felt liners inside my boots, flannel shirt, gloves, my wonderful sweater, Kelly’s red turtleneck, down vest, wool hat, gloves, and rain gear for wind protection, but I dearly regretted my lack of a parka during the grueling walk. My down vest and rain gear weren’t going to cut it. My feet were already cold, even with sock liners and two pairs of wool socks. Filled with apprehension, I told myself to suck it up and keep up with the others.
Finally reaching our destination, a wide, low terrace, we fanned out to survey the area. I studied the ground and was rewarded with a scatter of flakes that appeared bright and shiny in the rain that had begun to fall.
“Here’s something,” I yelled, bitterly cold as I squatted down to look at my discovery.
“That’s great, Georgeie,” Malcolm yelled back, cupping his hands to carry his words over the wind.
I dug into my daypack, pulled together the field gear I needed to record the site, and took off my gloves to write in my field journal.
“Lucy, would you dig a couple of test pits?” Malcolm shouted. “Where you put them is up to you, but keep them within thirty meters of Georgeie’s flake scatter. Ron and I will measure in everything and you can draw the site map, okay, Georgeie? Then, we’ll get out of here since the weather’s gone from bad to worse.”
I attempted conversation, but nothing came. The wind whipped me around, penetrating my clothing. I stopped shivering.
What did Malcolm say? Never mind . . . Think I’ll rest for a while.
I plopped down on the frigid tundra trying to concentrate. “Malcolm, I don’t want to draw the site map, and I need to find my gloves,” I said, my hands like blocks of ice with frozen fingers.
Malcolm stopped rummaging through his daypack, sprinted over to me, squatted down, and peered into my face. He took off a glove and touched my cheek with the back of his hand.
“Oh shit, she’s ice cold,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of me, “and her eyes aren’t focusing. Help me get her on her feet, guys. We’ve got to make her walk around to keep her body temperature up. Shit. She’s hypothermic.”
I felt naked in my clothes and stumbled as Malcolm and Ron tried to get me to my feet.
“Do some jumping jacks, Georgeie,” Malcolm barked.
I tried to stand on my own, legs rubbery. Confused, I wobbled into an upright position, but jumping jacks were a bridge too far.
“We’re going in NOW. Lucy, find the walkie-talkie and call Tom. Tell him we’re all going in pronto,” Malcolm said, wrapping his rain jacket around me and staring into my face.
Lucy, shivering, took the radio from Malcolm’s daypack, and called the other crew.
“Crew two, this is crew one. Do you read me?”
“Time for a check-in already?” Tom’s voice crackled through the radio.
“We’re heading in. Georgeie’s acting funny, and weather’s getting worse. Malcolm says for you guys to pack it in.”
“Okay, It’s howling up here and sleeting. Tom, over and out.”
“Georgeie, get up front. We’ll get you back ASAP,” Malcolm shouted, his voice tense. “Lucy, Ron, walk behind and watch her. I’ll lead with the shotgun.”
He pointed me in the right direction, but I stumbled a few times before finding my footing. My feet were bricks, my hands, folded into my armpits, icy inside my gloves, my ears frozen solid despite my wool cap.
Lucy carried my daypack.
“You all right, Georgeie?” Malcolm yelled.
“Uh huh,” I mumbled.
After what seemed like an endless and surreal walk in outer space, we reached the cook tent.
“Lucy, help me take off her clothing. Strip her down to her long johns. Good, now shove her inside the sleeping bag,” Malcolm said, his tone worried.
“Got her, Malcolm,” Lucy said. They poured my limp body into the sleeping bag, filled a stuff sack with my clothes, and put it underneath my head for a pillow.
I began to shiver.
“That’s good, Georgeie, you lie there and shiver for a while and get warm,” Malcolm said, sounding fairly calm. His tentative smile betrayed concern.
A blast of frigid air hit me as Tom, Helen, Kelly, and Toni barreled through the tent door, gusts of wind propelling them inside. Toni zipped the tent door shut behind her as fast as humanly possible. I could hear freezing drops of rain plopping down on the tent flaps. Winds snapped loudly at the flies and guy lines.
Malcolm pumped the Primus stove. It lit with a whoosh. Vaguely aware that everyone now sat cross-legged around me, I became a low table at a Japanese restaurant. When the water boiled, Lucy handed me a cup of cocoa. I accepted the cup; its warmth soothed my hands. Apparently, Malcolm thought I was dawdling. “Drink the cocoa now! You have to!” he shouted.
I somehow found the strength to lift the cup to my lips.
“Wiggle your toes,” he demanded. My toes moved stiffly in the sleeping bag. “Okay, good.”
After I rested my cup on the sleeping bag, Ron grabbed one of my hands. “Still pretty cold,” he said, “but the color’s coming back to her face.”
I looked up and smiled at him, then lay my head back on the stuff sack and rested.
What’s the fuss? I was just cold. Am I in some kind of danger?
Tom and Helen fed me peanut M&M’s. Toni and Ron chatted quietly. Kelly sat at the front of the tent, holding my toes through the sleeping bag with one hand, the other hand clutching a cigarette. Everyone watched me intently.
“Guys, I’m sorry about today,” Malcolm said, his voice shaky, “We should never have been out in this weather. What the hell was I thinking?”
I thought he would cry.
“It’s okay, Malcolm,” Toni said. “We made it and we’re fine.”
I knew then I’d had a close call and had been the focus of extreme worry. Every few seconds, someone looked down at me to make sure I was all right and tuned in to my surroundings.
“I’m here. I’m listening,” I’d answer, finding the conversation fascinating, but not completely following it. I grew sleepy and sensed the danger had passed. I rested in good hands.
“Oh, look, she’s dozing off,” someone said.
“She must be exhausted.”
“I bet she was scared.”
Warmth enveloped me. My new friends had taken care of me.
Someone gently took my cup away and placed my hands back inside the sleeping bag.
I drifted off to the whisper of “She’s a trooper, isn’t she?” in my ears.
Nothing would harm me now. Content and secure for one of the few times in my life, I slept while they kept watch.
______________________________________________________________________________________
ABOUT ME: I'm an archaeologist by training and an adventurer by nature. The two go hand in hand, don't they? I drifted far away from home, like an iceberg floating in the Chukchi Sea and wrote my PhD dissertation on
the prehistoric Eskimos in Barrow, Alaska.
Before that, I spent too much time at George Washington University, finally writing my MA thesis on the prehistory of Mongolia. Really. I finally made the journey to Mongolia in August 2014. At the time, I thought it the best trip of my life.It now ranks number 2 behind a tour of the "stans"-Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, and Kyrgyzstan. One of my many travel goals is to link my adventures in Mongolia and Kazakhstan by visiting far west China. Urumchi and Kashgar may not be on everyone's list, but they're on mine. Later this year, I'll be sailing on a NOAA research vessel to Antarctica via S Georgia Island, where Sir Ernest Shackleton is buried. A life long dream, again, not on everyone's list.
Destiny and a longing to see great and new things led me first to Alaska, the Last Frontier, the Great Land. You'll see memories below. My initial Alaska experiences are from the '70s, when I was in my 20s. Times and field work have changed, but not me.
Come with me and see if some of these things strike a chord with you, if you have archaeology and anthropology in your blood, like weird and cool stuff, or are an explorer at heart.
Well, fellow travelers, let's blow this pop stand. Follow your inner Belzonis, Geists, Shackletons, Raineys, Nansens, and Schleimanns. Remember when you last felt that sense of embarking on unknown ventures?
If you have a story or comment to contribute, please do, because we're all in this together. Drop me a line at archaeofun@gmail.com
