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For information on the Harriman Retraced Expedition e-mail: harriman2001@science.smith.edu |
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The
modern-day "bug hunters, mole catchers and trappers
of mice, diggers of worms and experts on ice" are
scheduled to arrive in Nome August 19. Nome is the terminus
of the Clipper Odyssey's trip. From here the
participants will fly away. The
Nome Nugget Eastward
crossing of the Bering Sea, Ostrov Itygran, Russia to Nome,
U.S.A. Setting off in
the zodiac from Whalebone Alley to the ship, it suddenly
struck me. When exploring in unfamiliar waters, you develop
the habit of unconsciously marking the location of the base
ship in relation to your position. They are quick glances
mixed with hundreds of others, but sort themselves as being
a little more important. It's an image that became
fixed in my mind's eye. It was always comforting to
see this large white vessel waiting at anchor for our
return. The mood of the sky and horizon might change, or the
size of the seas, but the waiting ship was a
constant. With the
mysteries of Whalebone Alley just behind us, I scanned
offshore for the ship to mark my location. Without warning a
melancholy thought that I had been avoiding abruptly
appeared: this was the last time we would be riding
"home" from an exploratory landing during
Harriman Retraced. Our voyage has had an intense
schedule, with countless images, ideas, and emotions. To
deal with this, we were constantly living in the moment.
Suddenly, for the first time in 30 days, it hit home. This
amazing voyage was going to end; this moment had
arrived. The tone back
onboard clearly shifted. When we left the ship at first
light for the Russian shore, we were again heading out to
explore and absorb all we could from the environment that
surrounded us. What a special opportunity and privilege.
When we set foot back on the ship, it was as if a switch had
been thrown. At 1700 we weighted anchor and Captain Taylor
set a course directly for Nome. With this signal the crew
and expedition members turned their attention to what would
greet them in the morning, the dock at Nome, hotels and
plane connections. The everyday world that we chose to
suspend for a month was back. All the boxes of equipment and
supplies had to be packed, the computers cased, the artwork
crated. In the little time that remained there was no time
for lectures, discussions of 100 years of change, or
presentation of project results. Our grander goals gave way
to the immediate; packing up our cabins was all consuming.
Clean clothes, dirty clothes, wet boots, books, cameras,
paperwork all needed to find there way back into the
discrete forms of the duffels in which they arrived. I sat
on the edge of my bunk, Alaskan Amber in hand, surveying
what seemed an impossible task. As I grew edgier by the
moment, Maureen went about the task at hand and coped with
my mood. She has been here before and will have a soft chair
in heaven because of it. The exchanges
in the passageways shifted from, "What did you see
today and where will we be tomorrow?" to goodbyes,
trading of addresses, handshakes and hugs. Important things
that hadn't been said made their way into the
conversations. What became clear was that a group of
individuals mutually agree to join an adventure, and
abruptly found themselves living together on a relatively
small ship. On this last day, it was no longer just a set of
individuals but a community. We were bound by adventure and
exploration, the daunting scope of our mission, daily
struggles with ideas and values, camaraderie and friendship,
and of course, "the ship." As in any small
community, there were laughs, individual and group
epiphanies, gossip, and goodwill. We shared in all the good
days and found our ways through the rocky ones. We got to
know each other's ways and temperaments, and how to
grow relationships and avoid confrontations. Our immersion
into an "instant community," coupled with the
intensity of our mission, was emotionally and intellectually
powerful, draining. We were tired. As much as I had
avoided the thought to this point, it was time to go home
and sleep in my own bed. These scenes
dominated every corner of the ship except for the Bridge.
While the rest of the ship was going about their
housekeeping tasks in anticipation of Nome, the Bridge was
focused on the immediate task of crossing the Bering Sea.
Unlike much of the coastal navigating we have done, this run
is basically a straight shot for 190 miles across open
water. It was a beautiful evening as the sun skimmed the
Western horizon and Chukchi Peninsula began to disappear off
the stern. The Bridge was quiet, as open seas and an
expansive horizon extended before us. Could it be possible
that we actually made it to Russia, explored its coast, and
were now leaving? Just a short time ago this was a major
goal, an idea. Now, it was literally behind us, and for the
first time we would not be extending our route, but heading
back. There was one
possible glitch. The weather reports had been tracking a
tropical low that had crossed the Aleutians near Dutch
Harbor. Gale winds of 40-50 miles per hour were reported and
seas of 15 to 20 feet. It was headed north into the Bering
Sea. To this point our voyage in the Bering Sea had been
charmed; mostly clear skies, sunshine, and comfortable seas
that reflected the clouds and sky. Since we rounded Scotch
Cap Pinnacle in Unimak Pass and entered the Bering Sea nine
days ago, the weather has been with us. Not a hint of the
rough conditions typically associated with the Bering Sea.
If the low caught up with us during the night, we would be
experiencing a Bering Sea we had not yet seen. It would also
make our arrival in Nome considerably more complicated. The
open coast of Nome takes a pounding in a strong south wind.
Docking becomes impossible and the Clipper would have
to anchor offshore. All of us, and our gear, would have to
be shuttled by zodiac into a sheltered area of the port.
This was a soggy prospect at best and a tough way to end the
voyage. If the seas were too rough for Plan B, we would have
to head for the sheltered port of Teller to the north and
bus back down to Nome. As a hedge, the Captain increased our
speed, which would burn more fuel and get us to Nome earlier
than necessary, but hopefully ahead of the storm. We
collapsed into bed that night not knowing what the Bering
Sea was about to serve up, or what shape our departure might
take. Harriman Retraced was not over just
yet. At first
light, the view from our window was a dock. Since Teller,
where we had been just days before, did not have a dock
large enough for our ship, this must be Nome. Fumbling about
the cabin, I remembered our visit to Yakutat. During our
welcoming, healing ceremony at Yakutat, a Tlingit elder
presented us with an Eagle feather and a prayer. It was the
Tribe's prayer that we would travel under the
Eagle's wing and for the remainder of our voyage we
would have safe travel and fair weather. To the very last
day the blessing held. The sun was rising over Nome, the
storm would not arrive until later in the day, and I was
deeply grateful to the Yakutat Tribe and the spirit of the
Eagle feather that traveled with us. I wondered what the
Clipper Odyssey would encounter when she headed back
out to sea that afternoon. How would she handle the swells
and wind that challenged her hull? But now, that was someone
else's concern. Soon the ship broke into
organized mayhem as people, luggage, equipment, and
salutations all merged toward the gangway and waiting
buses. One by one the
buses left the dock for Nome and the charter flight to
Anchorage. A group of us stood around the gangway talking
with the Captain and crew, stalling until the last bus.
Inevitably, we had to say our goodbyes and board the
remaining orange school bus. Maureen and I ungracefully
worked our way down the narrow aisle to the back seats,
wrestling with laptops and daypacks. Completing the
mental checklist of what possessions should be sitting next
to me on the seat, I settled in for the ride. The bus rolled
down the pier as I drifted out of the chatter going on
around me. Unconsciously, but deliberately, my eyes
swept the scene surrounding us until I was twisted, looking
over my shoulder out the back window. My line-of-sight
intersected with the ship, white against the dock and Alaska
horizon. With years of planning, all efforts had been
focused on beginnings: getting Retraced launched,
making it to the ship, staying on task, making the
observations that needed to be made. In the small space of
this newest moment, The Harriman Expedition Retraced
and Mr. Harriman's 1899 expedition were joined in
the past. As the bus made its way down the long pier, the
Clipper Odyssey, framed by the bus window,
grew smaller, more distant. Then it disappeared
altogether.
For information on the Harriman Retraced Expedition e-mail: harriman2001@science.smith.edu
Expedition
Log
16 August 2001
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