North Pole Tenderfoot. Doug Hall
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was at least twice as heavy. No, probably three times.
Paul made it clear that no team member should bring more than twenty-five pounds of personal gear—pack and all. He said that the three most important items were those that related to protection for your eyes, hands, and feet.
“On every trip, I’ve ended up with mild sun-blindness from the reflection off the snow,” he said. He also said he always wished he’d packed more liner socks and liner gloves.
I wasn’t sure about my footwear, but I was confident about my protective gear for eyes and hands.
After my local Lenscrafters manager had called their store in Anchorage for a recommendation, I bought two pairs of prescription glasses each with an extra polarization coating.
As for hand protection, I had two favorites—a pair of handmade wool mittens I’d bought on Prince Edward Island and a set of Plunge Mitts designed by Paul’s wife, Susan. Equipped with two inner liners, they look like the giant potholders. Susan designed them especially for polar treks.
Paul closed the meeting by telling us to ready our gear for final inspection. When he checked my pack, he said it seemed a little heavy. “Do you really need all this stuff?” he asked.
After he left, I unpacked the pack, looking for things to eliminate. I felt the anxiety building again. What should I leave behind and would I regret leaving it when I was at the pole?
The admiral wrote about the importance of keeping gear as light as possible.
Careful attention must be paid to even the slightest details. Everything should be just as light as it can possibly be made. For the number of miles a party can travel depends on weight carried. Every reduction that can be made conserves mental and physical energy.
As I sorted through my gear, my anxiety built into a full-scale panic. Admiral Peary would have called it an attack of Tornarsuk, the Arctic Devil.
Tornarsuk was the god of the Inuit underworld. The Inuit believe that all departed spirits reside in the underworld, beneath the land and sea. Their souls are purified in preparation for their travel to the Land of the Moon—or Quidlivun—where they find eternal peace.
The early European explorers translated Tornarsuk into a Satan-like being to create alignment with the Christian view of the world of good and evil. In time, the name became slang for Polar Hysteria.
In medical journals Arctic panic is technically listed as Piblokto. It’s a feeling of being possessed, a simultaneous mania and depression. It feels like an urgent need to do something, anything, coupled with an inability to make a move. In the worst cases of Piblokto, victims tear their clothes off and run naked outside.
Fortunately I was not at that stage.
I was, however, clearly “possessed” by fear. I knew the fear was irrational, that it made no sense, but I couldn’t stop it. Panic took control of me.
Obsessively, frantically, I began swapping out my gear—my metal bowl for a plastic one, a special knife engraved with the expedition logo for a Boy Scout pocketknife. With all the gear removed from my pack, I realized that the pack itself was part of the problem. Instead of picking a mid-size pack, I’d bought an oversized one because I figured it would be easier to pack in the cold. As I held it I realized there had been a real reason why Paul had suggested the smaller one.
It was 7:00 P.M. as I tore open the Yellow Pages and found Valhalla Pure Outfitters. Thirty minutes later, after borrowing a rental car and driving into town, I was in front of the store.
I sauntered inside, trying to act like a real explorer, following advice Paul Brown, founder of the Cincinnati Bengals football team, gave his players when they scored: “Act like you’ve been there before.”
I approached the two staff members behind the sales desk and said, “Hi, I’m going to the North Pole.”
I tried to act like a pro. But they’d seen me say on TV that I was “scared to death.”
They looked up and laughed. “We know,” the lady said. ‘We saw you on the news.”
My television comments about being “scared to death” apparently made quite a hit in an outfitter store.
Forgetting my poise I said, “I really need some help. I’m missing some key gear.”
A staffer named Matt, a real outdoors fanatic, looked at my list. First, he found a backpack that weighed half as much as mine. Figuring that I probably needed help, he made the all-important adjustments to the waist belt and the multitude of straps to reduce stress on me and my back.
Next, he got a balaclava—a sort of portable hood that protects your neck, head, and face. I’d never cared for these, perhaps because of my distaste for neckties. In my role as a creativity guru, I’d called them neck tourniquets, horrible pieces of apparel that served only to cut off the flow of oxygen-rich blood to the brains of corporate executives. But I was heading for a world far removed from the corporate boardroom, one where protection of neck and face is critical.
Long johns—I had medium weight and ultra heavy. After seeing Paul’s gear, I wanted a pair of lightweights, especially for skiing. A pee bottle—Paul had been persuasive about the value of having an extra water bottle that could be used as a urine receptacle during the night to eliminate the need to leave the comfort of one’s sleeping bag.
The gaiter and long underwear were easy choices. The pee bottle was a bit more difficult. What size would I need?
I immediately rejected a thirty-two-ounce bottle because it was the same size as my water bottle, and I definitely didn’t want to get the two confused. They had a smaller bottle, but the top was small, and I was concerned about aim. After some digging in the back of the store they found me a sixteen-ounce bottle with a wide mouth. Eureka!
Selection of the right pee bottle was challenging. Later I would learn that I made the wrong choice.
Heading back, I felt myself start to relax, feeling that I was finally ready for the expedition. Resolving the gear issues gave my mind a space to relax.
I decided to take a swing through Edmonton before heading back out to the airport. I stopped at a bookstore to buy a book to take with me. I went to the information desk and asked, “If you were going to the end of the earth, what one book would you take?”
The clerk gave me a blank stare.
I tried again, “If you were on a deserted island what one book would you want to have?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe a poetry book or a Bible.” She pointed to the self-improvement section, figuring, I guess, that I needed it.
I ended up buying a book of Ben Franklin quotes, Franklin being my personal hero. I figured that if it didn’t inspire me, I could burn it for heat or, in a pinch, use it as toilet paper.
As I walked toward the checkout I picked up a New Testament. I figured that if it was good enough for Paul it was good enough for me. Besides, given the emotional roller coaster I was riding, it might help calm my mind.
I returned to the hotel at around 8:30 P.M. and carried my gear to my room. I was feeling good—too good. As I moved my gear into the new pack I suddenly realized that I’d lost my mittens. My big, blue, double-insulated plunge mitts were missing. I tore through my bags, my jackets, my gear, turning everything inside out.
The mittens were critical. I had to have them.
I backtracked. I’d had them at the ski resort that afternoon. I remembered taking them off to demonstrate the satellite phone. I was up and out of the room, running down to the truck that had taken us to the resort and back.
I pawed through the truck and the dog crates. Nothing. I ran back upstairs to look