Tundra Nutrition: Human-Powered Caribou Hunting in the Alaska Range

Tundra Nutrition

-Bjørn Olson

Originally published in BikePacking.Com

The author shuttling a load of gear and a hindquarter of caribou.

When summer’s vegetation turns from green to yellow, an ancient instinct takes hold; autumn is the harvest season. All northern creatures—the bear, squirrel, muskrat, ermine, ptarmigan, porcupine, moose, caribou, and more—all know, deep in their genes, that winter is coming. Human beings, still emerging from the Ice Age, and poorly adapted for modernity and civilization, also feel the compelling siren call to store up calories for the coming cold and dark.

In the first week of September, my fiance, Kim McNett, my brother, Clay, and my long-time best friend, Mark Teckenbrock, and I caravanned from our homes in southern Alaska into the interior of the state to hunt caribou by human power. We would ride bikes with trailers into the enchanted mountains of the Alaska Range, camp, catch grayling, drink cold water, wake up early, try to outmaneuver cunning and fleet-of-foot creatures, and rekindle our ancestral genes. Our two and a half million years of hominid, hunter-gatherer evolution hungered for the opportunity to be expressed. 

On our fourth day, my friend Mark and I crawled along the rain-soaked tundra on our hands and knees, gently sliding our rifles ahead of us. The two caribou we’d been watching through our binoculars and stalking for the last several hours were now just a couple hundred yards below us. Vibrant red and yellow leaves of a dwarf willow bush offered us a blind. The caribou approached the base of the hill, from the wide valley beyond, and then disappeared below us. They were close. We waited.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Finally, I began to fear they may have wandered away unseen. I slowly crept up into a low stoop to peer over the edge. Barely breathing, I scanned right and then left. I froze. “They’re right here,” I whispered, pointing with my eyes.

For each of the previous days, our little band had been stealthily stalking the cagey and nimble animals. We were in the caribou’s kingdom and they were on high alert. My routine had been to crawl out of the shelter at the first hint of light, quickly fill my thermos with coffee, grab my rifle and binoculars, and hike uphill. 

Several times, my pursuit of a handful of small herds had been close, but with few blinds and no trees for cover, my presence startled them away. By mid-afternoon, I’d walk back down to camp to break my fast, dry out near the fire that my brother diligently kept going, despite the rain, and regroup with the others. After a break and a meal, I’d head back out again. On the third evening, I realized it was time for a new strategy. We decided we would all hunt together as a group and try a new area further up the valley the next day.

Growing up in Alaska, wild fish and game and foraged berries and mushrooms have always been an integral component of my diet. As an adult, I’ve tried to make harvesting this wild food a part of my annual routine, but work, fat-bike and sea kayak expeditions, and other life distractions often compete for our time and attention. This year, the two expeditions Kim and I had planned had to be put on hold due to the pandemic. This fact, coupled with a newfound interest in ancestral nutrition, led Kim and me to focus more of our energies on wild harvesting.

Global warming is affecting Alaska at more than twice the rate as the mid-latitudes. Often, our human-powered adventures through Alaska deepen our insights into these startling changes that are occurring. We don’t, however, have to travel far from home for evidence. In the summer of 2019, record-breaking temperatures swept across the state and a series of wildfires wrought apocalyptic havoc across the Kenai Peninsula and beyond. 

We began our harvest season this spring in the burnt rubble leftovers from the 167,200-acre Swan Lake fire, just north of our home. Morel mushrooms often fruit after a fire, and fruit they did. We filled up with gallons upon gallons of this highly sought-after fungal delicacy. 

After mushrooms, we switched gears to harvesting salmon and other fish. Alaska boasts of intact and mostly healthy salmon populations of all five species. In our region, two species are abundant enough to allow for commercial and personal use fisheries, as well as sport fishing. Sockeye (red) salmon are the staple in our region. Management of our personal use fishery allows for the use of hyper-efficient dip nets for Alaskan residents. Coho (silver) salmon run later in the season, and in our area, there is a personal use set net fishery, which allows an individual to catch 25 per person, plus 10 more per household dependent. We rounded out our salmon harvesting with a few Chinook (king) salmon, which we caught with rod and reel.

Taking cues from Alaska’s First People, I have begun to deepen my understanding of the health of our local ecosystems by directly relying on it for sustenance. One becomes acutely aware of the seasonal changes, migratory patterns, health of individual species, the air, water, and soil conditions, and more when relying on wild-harvested foods. These insights, coupled with the wisdom of elders, fish and wildlife managers, and others, helps establish a connection to place and an awareness of its health or its disease and or misuse.

In Alaska, 95% of the food found in grocery stores is imported from out of state. This importation comes at a high ecological cost, which is never factored into the price at the supermarket. Much of this food, produced halfway around the world, is also grown in nutrient-depleted soils, fertilized by petrochemical fertilizers, and often sprayed with glyphosate-based herbicides. Industrially raised livestock is pumped with hormones, antibiotics, and fed a diet of GMO grain, which radically alters and diminishes its nutritional value. 

Since 1991, the rate of obesity in Alaska has more than doubled, from 13% to 30% of our population. Type 2 diabetes has also more than doubled over the same period of time. For thousands of years, however, Alaska’s First People lived off this land and were beacons of health, strength, and endurance. That condition of vitality, coupled with a sense of connection to place, is what I am passionately seeking in my own life. 

The sturdy caribou and I locked eyes as I slowly lowered myself back down and gently picked up my rifle. Many Alaskan Native stories tell of how certain animals will offer themselves to a hunter, but I was mystified that the creature was not bounding away from us. Rather than fleeing at the sight of me, the caribou walked toward us. Squinting with one eye and peering with the other through my rifle’s scope, I consciously focused on calming my breath. Its chest filled the optical loop. The caribou then turned profile and stood still, offering me a clean shot. 

Moments later, Mark walked back uphill to inform Kim and Clay of our success and enlist their help. I embraced the moment to be alone, and to offer my solemn thanks to the caribou. After the violent outburst from my rifle, the valley was again silent. I knelt down beside the fallen animal and let a wave of emotions wash over me. 

When Kim, Clay, and Mark returned, I was reminded of the advice my brother and I had been given as children by our godmother, Umara. A Siberian Yup’ik woman, Umara grew up in a pure hunter-gather culture, in the middle of the Bering Sea. She told us that it’s essential to offer a dispatched animal a drink of water for its journey toward the other realm. We each felt the solemnity of the moment as we offered thanks and gave the caribou a farewell drink. 

Whenever we consume food, it comes with a cost. That cost, more expensive than money, is most often invisible and not accounted for in the marketplace. As we further our understanding about the consequences a global economic system—in conjunction with a perpetual growth model, on a finite resource planet— is having upon the natural world, I believe it is important to find ways to reduce these hidden costs as much as possible and to find alternatives. What we saved, in this instance, is an enormous carbon footprint for a less valuable and less nutritious substitute. There are few middle-men or egregious carbon outputs that stand between a hunter, a wild-harvester, or a gardener and the food they procure. When these engagements are undertaken by human power, the negative externalities drop even further. Our biggest cost was effort and a willingness to do what many would consider the “dirty work.” 

Alaska has a 21st-century economy, but we still have a 19th-century environment. This slice of the world has maintained its genuine wealth because the focus on what is most valuable has, for the most part, remained intact. Salmon, moose, berries, mushrooms, crab, halibut, and the ecological conditions that support these creatures, and many more, still exist here. But, there is no guarantee this will always be the case. When more people learn to cherish what nature provides, by making an effort to become a part of it, maybe then we’ll learn, or perhaps remember, how to be better caretakers. Wilderness is a place; wildness is everything, including us.

With sharp knives and a bone saw, we portioned the field-dressed caribou into thirds and, along with the organs, packed them into cotton game bags. A short walk brought us back to our bikes, where we loaded the trailers and tightly lashed down our sacred quarry for the ride back to camp. 

That evening, we feasted on some of the world’s most nutrient-dense and delicious food. Frost was in the air as the light fell and the stars came out. We warmed our bodies around the roaring willow fire as we recounted the day. Within each of us, a different and much more ancient fire was being rekindled.

Bike-Rafting

Bike-Rafting 101

-Bjørn Olson

Bike-Rafting

How to get started

Over the last dozen years, a new breed of cycling has exploded around the world. Fat-bikes and plus bikes are allowing people to go places outside the confines of traditional mountain bikes. An era of creative adventure and discovery is currently underway.

With these omni-terrain bicycles, creative wilderness routes have begun to come into focus. Every year and in all seasons, people are coming up with unique routes to attempt. From forest to alpine, beaches, desert, tundra and all bioregions in between, fat-bikes and plus-bikes are filling an organic niche for people looking for a raw wilderness experience from the saddle of a bicycle.

Riding on winter snow trails, like the Iditarod Trail, was the original driving force behind the evolution of the fat-bike, which, initially, were often called snow-bikes. As soon as this breed of bicycle became commercially available, in the mid-2000s, however, people began exploring other possibilities with them. Soft, rough and unmaintained tracts of vast wilderness can now be traversed by bicycle. The only limitations are skill level and imagination.

Co-evolving alongside this new breed of bicycle are two forms of equipment, which allow adventure cyclists greater potential to explore further afield in atypical terrain: soft-bags and packrafts. The soft-bags – like framebags, seat-bags, and handlebar rolls – are ideal for loading a bike with camping equipment while helping to keep the bike well-balanced and nimble feeling in rough terrain.

The ultimate compendium for backcountry adventure with a fat-bike, however, is the packraft. Packrafts are sub-six-pound, one-person, inflatable rafts that roll up to the size of a stuffed, summer sleeping bag and are capable of carrying gear plus a bike. More than any other piece of equipment, this type of human-powered watercraft provides the greatest possibilities for the adventure cyclist to explore far off the beaten path.

Incorporating a packraft into the bike adventure quiver allows for an enormous variety of otherwise unattainable adventures. The ability to cross creeks, streams, rivers, and lakes or to get around steep headlands, for example, provides access to new cycling terrain. There are routes that involve cycling up one drainage and then paddling back down another or multi-week traverses that require amphibian adaptability.

Several brands of packraft are on the market but one stands head and shoulders above the others - Alpacka Rafts. Alpacka brand packrafts emerged in the 90s out of Alaska and have been in a constant process of evolution ever since. The original Alpacka Rafts were remarkably resilient and lightweight but over the last decade the design, and variety of rafts has seen a surge of improvements. A host of packraft shapes and configurations now exist for specific requirements; bike-rafting is one of them. 

If incorporating a packraft into your bike adventures is something you’d like to do, before making the plunge, there are a few things worth considering. Number one is what sort of trips do you plan to undertake. If bike-rafting is your primary objective, then that helps narrow down the options.

It is ideal when packrafting with a bike strapped onto the bow to have a slightly longer raft. If you are planning to run serious whitewater, you may want to have two rafts: one that fits perfectly and is outfitted for whitewater and an expedition boat with more length and simpler rigging. It is optimal to be able to achieve a full forward stroke for maximum propulsion. If the raft is too short, the bike strapped to the front will impede your efficiency while paddling. Furthermore, expedition rafts require few bells and whistles and are therefore, when they are stripped down to the bare essentials, easier to pack and carry.

Many modern packrafts can be purchased with a waterproof zipper on the stern of the boat. This allows you to stow gear inside the raft. There are a couple reasons why a zipper is a good idea: the gear stays dry and out of your way while you are paddling, and the raft becomes more stable when the weight is low rather than up high on the deck. However, zippers require extreme care. One piece of sand in the teeth can spell disaster. As long as you take precautions, the zipper is worth the extra attention they require.

Spray decks come in two flavors: Whitewater and Cruiser. A Whitewater spray deck consists of an all-lightweight-fabric deck with a small, round opening, similar to a kayak cockpit. Around the cockpit opening there is a tube of Pex plastic coaming, which acts as a lip to secure a spray skirt - again, similar to a kayak. The Cruiser spray deck is zippered onto the deck of the raft on three sides and opens with hook and loop fabric on one side. This allows for easy in and out access. Of the two, the whitewater spray deck keeps the most water out. If you plan to roll your raft or expect to be in big waves, the whitewater deck is the better option. For expeditions, the simpler Cruiser spray deck is quite sufficient for keeping your lower body dry from rain and small waves. You can also opt to save a little weight, space and money and foregoing the deck entirely. 

Once you figure out which raft suits your needs and make the plunge, the next step is to learn how to use it. This brief article is meant to be only an overview for bike-rafters. Before venturing out, be sure to get instruction and read Roman Dial’s book - Packrafting.

Here are a few specific tips, however, for rafting with a bike to get you on your way.

The first thing you’ll want to get efficient with is your transitions. Bikes carry rafts and rafts carry bikes. When you are underway, it is ideal to be able to switch from one mode to the other in the least time possible. Make sure, however, that you do it properly. Hitting a class 3 wave train or being slammed by a 25-mph gust of wind is not the time to realize you neglected to strap your bike down tight enough or that your load is lopsided.

Most of the time, while cycling, my raft is rolled up tight, with the tougher hull fabric exposed, strapped to the handlebar. The exception is when I know I am going to be pushing my bike for several miles and I want it to be as light as possible. On most summer expeditions I carry a large, lightweight backpack that I can fit my entire kit into. When the riding is good I carry most everything on the bike in soft bags and the raft gets strapped to the handlebar.

There are two main ways that I strap the bike to the raft when I am in aquatic mode. One way is very fast and simple, but I only ever use this method when making short and calm crossings. This involves inflating the raft, removing the non-drive pedal (create good habits and always store pedals in the same place every time. I put mine in my frame bag. Always!) and laying it across the bow. I then use one strap to keep the bike from falling overboard. The front wheel ends up being in the water with this configuration but if you only have a short distance to cover and it is calm, this is OK. Once I am in the raft I place my pack on my lap and make the crossing. Simple.

The proper way to strap the bike to the raft, however, takes a little more time to set up. This is the technique to use in almost all situations. Required for the proper method are three ladder-locking straps that are at least two feet long and one piece of 3-mil chord that is tied across the bow between the two furthest forward tie downs (d-rings) on the raft.

Begin by inflating the raft and seat. Then remove both pedals from the bike, stow them in a safe place and then remove the front wheel. Place the frame of the bike on the bow of the raft with the drive side up and the fork legs facing forward. Then find the right balance point where the bike is not too far forward or too far back. Too far forward and the bike will want to slip off; too far back will impede your forward stroke. Next, turn the handlebars up and horizontal so the levers and shifter(s) are facing up, and then place the front wheel on top. Once the bike is in the proper position, loosely strap the bike down with the three straps. On the front of the raft there are typically four tie downs. Use the two furthest aft bow tie downs. Connect the 3-mil cord between the furthest forward tie downs and then run one strap from the middle of the cord. After the bike is loosely strapped down, slowly cinch each strap and observe as you go how the load looks and shift or true as needed. If it’s wonky and off to one side, loosen, reposition and then resume.

Learn to use the inflation bag to its potential. Practice inflating your raft in your yard until it feels natural and second nature. Once the raft is as full as you can get it with the inflation bag, continue to force air into the raft with your breath. Then, before launching, place the raft in the cold water and let the air inside cool. This will allow you to get a couple more breaths worth of air inside the raft before you launch. You want it as full and taught as possible. On wilderness trips with a packraft, the transition between one mode to the other eats up time. Being proficient with these transitions is absolutely to your and your trip partner’s advantage. 

Pro tip: if there is a breeze, inflate your raft with the stern facing the wind. Use the wind to quickly refill the inflation bag and then force the air into the raft with big compressions of the sack.

It is important to practice rescues near home in safe, calm waters with friends nearby. Packrafts are very stable but they are nearly impossible to re-right by yourself once upside down, in deep water, with a bike strapped to the bow. Rescue requires either holding onto your paddle and raft, and swimming to the nearest shore or assistance from another friend in a packraft. With you helping in the water, the rescuer in the raft can re-right your raft and then stabilize it while you jump back in. Make sure you never let go of your raft or paddle when you do capsize. If it is windy and you let go, it only takes a second before the raft blows away and you’ll not be able to retrieve it. 

Again, work on rescues in calm water with friends before heading out into the backcountry until the techniques become second nature. Panic is your enemy in emergency situations. The solution is familiarity, good teamwork and enough practice that these maneuvers become reflexive. 

Other equipment you’ll want is a four-piece breakdown kayak paddle, paddle leash, a personal flotation device (PFD) and perhaps a dry suit.

There are many suitable kayak paddles on the market but the ideal packrafting paddle is a breakdown paddle that breaks into four pieces - where the shaft meets the paddle blades and in the middle of the shaft. This allows you to stow the paddle without long ends sticking out to catch on brush and tree branches as you cycle along. I also prefer a slightly longer paddle for packrafting than I would use for kayaking. 

The lightest paddles are made entirely of carbon fiber but there is a strong argument for nylon blades. Nylon is very strong material and therefore the paddles last longer and withstand abuse better. I often use three sections of my packraft paddle as the center pole in my floor-less mid-shelter and I sometimes use the blade as a shovel to scoop dirt, sand or gravel around the edge of my shelter to help keep it anchored when it is windy. I would not use the more fragile carbon fiber blades for these tasks. Personally, the slightly heavier blades are worth the weight penalty because of the increased durability and their dual-purpose nature.

There are many PFDs on the market and choosing the one that suits your needs is a personal choice. Some people like PFDs with a lot of bells and whistles but, for packrafting, I prefer a very simple, snug-fitting one. Inflatable PFDs are nice because they stow away into the smallest package and you can inflate them to just the right amount to use as a pillow at night.

Paddle leashes can be valuable when paddling on flat water, like lakes, bays, fjords, etc. The leash can be a simple as 3 to 5-mil chord tied to the middle of the paddle on one end and the bow of the raft on the other end. Six or so feet of cord is plenty but make sure you have enough to achieve a full forward stroke as well as your sweep and rudder strokes. The value of a paddle leash, when paddling in flat water, is that if you ever capsize all you have to be sure to do is hold onto the paddle. Your raft will be safe from blowing away. Never use a paddle leash if you are in water that has current. In current, the leash can wrap around an obstacle like a rock or tree, and you can quickly become hopelessly entangled.

Although packrafts are remarkably tough they are not indestructible. Learning to field-repair your boat is as important as knowing how to fix a flat or true your wheel. Always carry a repair kit and learn how to use it. The items I always carry are the patches Alpacka provides, alcohol swabs, a sturdy sewing needle, dental floss for thread, a few feet of Tyvek tape wrapped around a Bic lighter, a tube of Aquaseal and a smaller tube of quick-drying UV Aquaseal. If the trip is longer than a week, I often also carry a spare valve and a spare d-ring. 

Dry suits are a remarkable piece of safety and quality-of-experience equipment, especially in cold climates, but they are also bulky and heavy. Most often, mine stays home on bike-rafting trips. Instead, I rely on my rain gear and do everything in my power to keep from capsizing. The Alpacka/Kokatat drysuit is very lightweight, specifically made for the fast-and-light packrafter. If I plan to run whitewater or will be making long crossings, I sometimes use this suit on trips. Because it is so lightweight, it is recommended to wear rain gear over the top of it to help prevent it from tearing and abrading.

There are countless other gear and technique considerations for the wilderness cyclist looking to expand their range with the aid of a packraft but step one is getting out there and trying it. Start with small, bite-sized and low consequence trips. Keep your expectations honest and conservative, and always go with at least one reliable buddy. Once you feel efficient, safe and comfortable, take it to the next level. There is always a next level. Whatever that is, is up to you to decide. But in this era of wilderness exploration with a Salsa bike and a good packraft, the equipment won’t be what holds you back.

Crust Fat-Biking: Assailing The Temporal

Crust Fat-Biking: Assailing The Temporal

-Bjørn Olson

Originally published in bikepacking.com

It’s 3:00 AM. The moon is above my right shoulder casting a long shadow over the undulating snow. Riding my fat-bike, with my ruff pulled up and my hands tucked into large pogies, my shadow looks like some sort of half animal, half machine creature. My four friends and I are liberated from the trail, atop concrete-hard snow, picking any line we choose through the forests and meadows. I feel like an animal, like a wolf in a pack. We all hoot and holler with abandon.

 Spring crust riding is one of the many great joys experienced by a year-round fat-biker. A year in the life of our particular fat-bike culture goes something like this:

 June – August: Maintain and ride technical trails through local forests; half-day and full day beach rides (preferably on the most technically challenging terrain available); street sessions, e.g. curbs, benches, cylinders, steps, and other interesting urban lines and routes; several overnight trips (with or without packraft or partner); at least one big summer wilderness expedition with packraft and at least one partner.

 September – November: Milk as much summer as you can and ride as much as you did until the season finally changes; take advantage of early freezing conditions before the first snow flies by riding up creeks, over bogs, and connecting backcountry lines that are otherwise too wet to ride in the summer or filled in with snow in winter; rally the homeys for a week-long friend’s trip, with or without packrafts (fall seems to be when everyone can most often pull away from busy schedules); take advantage of trails that become too overgrown with brush to be any fun in the summer; ride on and over as much hard, compact, frozen ground as possible.

 December – February: Get your Black Metal fat-bike rides on; bundle up, strap on the headphones, blinker lights, headlights, and goggles; ride in every winter blizzard; remember how to stay warm, how to not sweat in your clothing, how to manage equipment in sub-freezing conditions; go camping on snowmachine trails every full moon; get strong.

 March: Cut all ties and go on an expedition. March is the month—the siren’s call to the wilds. Accept no substitute. March is the time when winter starts to relax her grip a little and the daylight returns. In any northern region, snowmachiners and dog mushers feel the siren’s call, too. Learn where their trails go; find creative ways to cover vast amounts of country on these hard-packed and fleeting winter trails. Spend weeks—or an entire month—covering country on snow. Invest in good gear and make these expeditions as pleasant as possible; learn from each one and improve technique, means, and creative route-discovery every year.

 April – May: Observe the snow and weather conditions and be ready to strike at the first hint that crust conditions are good to go. South facing slopes come first; eventually every aspect goes through the thaw-freeze cycle and the entire snowy world becomes a playground when it’s frozen. Wake up early and ride until the afternoon sun begins to thaw the snow again.

 …and repeat.

Every season contains a few fleeting days or sometimes mere hours of euphoric perfection. There are the summer afternoons, for example, when the ground is dry, the bugs are down, the air still, and the dirty sweat on your forehead and arms feels like a well-earned callous; when your ride into the alpine leads you to a cold, inviting lake; when you drip dry on the soft heather and watch a cumulonimbus cloud billow over a mountain summit across the valley; when the hermit thrush sing their lovely call to one another through the dwarf hemlock forest and fill the air with well-being; when you don your grimy clothing and sweaty helmet and bomb back down the hill with the last of the golden light of day. Summer magic.

 And in March when you find yourself far away from people and crowds; when the temperature is zero degrees and the air perfectly still; when the trail beneath your tires is rock hard and you have them pumped all the way up to 20 PSI; when an animal, maybe a coyote or an owl or a moose or a raven, crosses your path and you stop to watch it as it watches you; when you finally stop for the day, build a fire, cook a meal, share reflections, crawl into your warm sleeping bag, and go to sleep giddy with the insight that you get to do it all over again tomorrow. Winter magic.  

 In the spring, there is a lot of magic throughout northern regions. The world is returning from the long, dark, and cold slumber. With the additional light and warming air, life returns, animal and bird migrations begin, and sour moods get crowded out by the excitement of rebirth and renewal. For any outdoor enthusiast, spring is the time to strike, to forego sleep, responsibilities, and obligations. For fat-bikers, crust season is the magical and fleeting time period when everything else must be put on hold.

 Crust snow occurs when the daytime temperatures are above freezing, and nighttime temperatures remain below freezing. The snow crystals metamorphose into round grains, commonly called corn snow, and become saturated and denser than winter snow. At night, this corn snow re-freezes and becomes nearly rock hard. At first, this only occurs on sunny, south facing slopes. As the season progresses, the entire snowpack, from bottom to top, undergoes this metamorphic transformation.

 A lot of variables go into a good crust fat-biking season. How deep was the snowpack over the winter? What sorts of layers developed in the snowpack? Is the spring weather on a consistent trend or does it vacillate between spring and winter for weeks at a time? Is it going to rain all through April? Each of these considerations and more go into the perfect conditions. Often, entire years go by without this natural manifestation of ideal circumstances—all the more reason why it’s imperative to pounce when the stars do align.

 Over the last decade, my crew and I have tried to be ready, willing, and able for this ephemeral springtime riding condition. We approach crust riding in one of two ways: aimless forays into the most interesting terrain we can find, where the objective is pure, giddy fun, or long rides to cross a lot of otherwise impossible-to-traverse terrain. If the season is particularly good, this can go on for weeks.

 In general, we prefer to start our rides well before sunrise and, in some instances, we begin riding right after dark. It all comes down to when freezing starts to occur, how hard it freezes and, inversely, when it warms above freezing and how warm it gets. By obsessively observing the weather forecasts and spending time out in the country and on the snow, we begin, each spring, to develop a sense of what we can get away with.

 For this type of riding, you can use almost any bike with plus or fat wheels. When the conditions are really good, even a mountain bike with two-inch tires can work. However, I always prefer a fat-bike with the fattest tires possible, and although studs aren’t required for traction on the snow, there are often a lot of ice conditions that appear this time of year. Super fat tires are insurance for when the conditions degrade and, with big, low-pressure tires, rolling over obstacles is both a cinch and a riot of a good time. A dropper seat post is not essential, but the joy of riding steep and technical crust lines with one can’t be overstated.  

 I also prefer to ride crust with the least gear and weight as possible. A water bottle, snack, a flask to share, a multi-tool, and a camera are all that typically make the cut for fun rides. This sort of cycling feels incredibly liberating and it’s ideal to approach the terrain unencumbered, able to give your all. The traction and terrain can feel similar to Moab’s slick rock and our riding attitude is similar to the culture found in that part of the world.

 That said, overnight trips are fantastic during the crust season, too, assuming you entirely trust the conditions not to melt out from under you. Riding through the night under the stars and moon to a remote cabin over the snow on a route concocted entirely of your own imagination is the quintessential essence of what bikepacking can be. Loafing about, reading a book, napping, or chewing the fat while catching the afternoon rays and waiting for freeze up again add bliss to the complete experience.

 To feel as liberated as possible, I pare down my camping kit to the bare essentials. One puffy sweater, a hat, a lightweight summer sleeping bag, sunglasses, a Bic lighter, a titanium mug, a water bottle, snacks, instant coffee, multi-tool, pump, repair kit and, in our neck of the woods, a can of bear spray are essentially all that is required. Last year’s dry grass or spruce bows make fine sleeping pads and open fires do a remarkable job of bringing a cup of melted snow to boil for coffee. Another joy about this time of year is that many of the creeks begin to flow again and finding fresh drinking water is usually not a problem. There are typically many hours of the day and afternoon that are above freezing, and thus unrideable, so I typically splurge and bring a concentrated adult beverage (whiskey) and a small paperback book.

 For the most part there are very few pitfalls or hazards associated with crust riding, but there are exceptions. Often, the surface snow can hide holes, crevasses, or open water. Riding over glaciers, fast moving water, or terrain so steep that you can’t see the entire runout need to be approached with caution. It’s only a minor inconvenience to have your bike punch through a big pocket of empty air when riding over a patch of buried willows; it’s quite another thing to fall 50 or more feet into a crevasse or an open hole above a river. Common sense and familiarity with terrain features should always accompany the savvy backcountry explorer.

 Under the full moon, we instinctively begin playing a game of “follow the leader” through the forest. Whenever the leader’s line choice becomes too absurd and the terrain forces them to abandon it, another rider takes over. Up a spruce forest hillock, into a skate park dream gully, a log ride over a bent birch tree, a steep bomb-drop off a small cliff face to a beautiful transition, and finally into a patch of willows that offers no escape. “Your turn,” my buddy Daniel says. “Show us what you got!”

 Shifted into low gear, I raise my dropper post and power up a steep hill. When the angle reaches an even steeper degree, it’s my strength that breaks my line, not the traction. Before losing my fight with gravity, I turn to the left and ride an upward angle just shallower than what my hill-facing pedal will strike, and then I turn hard to right. Climbing the mountain like a backcountry skier on skins, I reach the summit. From the top, several downhill lines present themselves. I’m overjoyed to be the leader for this run. I drop my saddle, give two hard cranks, lean back, and bomb down through the trees.

 Eventually, our party remembers that dawn is approaching and we’d discussed a long ride to the village of Ninilchick. We give up the game and head down Deep Creek Valley, leaving the well-worn snowmachine trail untouched. Each person choosing their own high-speed line–bunny hopping over little mounds, banking turns in the creek bed, wheelie dropping over short drop-offs, but forward, always forward.

Hours later, we reach the parking lot where the evening before we’d delivered my truck to shuttle bikes and riders back home. The bags below our underslept eyes crease upward with fat grins and we awkwardly attempt a clumsy and fatigued group high five. 

The next afternoon at 4:00 PM, my fiancé Kim and I finish our second cup of coffee and breakfast when both of our cell phones simultaneously chirp. The group text reads, “Crust ride?”

Local Food Challenge

For the month of August I intend to only consume food from local sources. In this post I will attempt to lay out what I intend to eat and not eat, my feasting/fasting protocol, my inspirations, plus some resources for anyone else interested in taking on this nutritional challenge.

The genesis and inspiration for this challenge was born from the Bristol Bay village of Igiugig. In 2017 the entire community ate only local food for six weeks. Although I grew up in Alaska eating a lot of wild-harvested food, this will be the first time I have attempted to eat that exclusively.

Over the last year and a half, I have fallen down a rabbit hole of nutrition science and anthropology. My original impetus was simple: weight loss. I soon discovered, however, that the dietary thread I was tugging on was more holistic. By learning to become a fat burner and “metabolically flexible,” I soon began to experience a cascade of positive health improvements.

For example: my 20-year-plus eczema rash disappeared, achy joints and soreness have been nearly eradicated; I most often sleep a full night for the first time in my adult life; my mood and temperament have improved; I no longer suffer from low blood sugar crashes or feelings of “hangryness;” I have become insulin sensitive; my cognition, focus and ability to be present and in the moment are acute; most of the small skin tags I had have disappeared; chronic inflammation is a thing of the past; and the list goes on.   

In order to feel so much better and healthier it might seem like I must have to consume a complicated diet, compounded with loads of supplements, perhaps even pharmaceuticals, with dogged persistence and loads of will power. Nothing could be further from the truth. My diet, fasting, exercise/recovery and hormetic stress practices are remarkably simple. This local food challenge will be a lucid progression of my current lifestyle.

There are many ways to approach the topic of Ketosis and even more ways to label it. I am a fan of calling the approach that I am pursuing an “ancestral diet.”

Because of climate change, roughly 2 million years ago, our hominid ancestors had to move out of the trees and onto the open prairies of eastern Africa. Brain size of these early humans (Homo habillis) was roughly 500cc. In this new and likely more intimidating environment, humans learned to scavenge and eventually hunt for their sustenance. It’s theorized that animal fat and protein propelled our evolution and brain size, which is now 1,400cc. (Homo sapiens brain size peaked at 1,500cc about 10,000 years ago and has been in decline since the advent of agriculture.)

From the book, Carnivore Code by MD. Paul Saladino.

There is no known, one size fits all, optimal human diet. Furthermore, there are as many opinions about proper diet as there are nutritionists, bloggers, bro-scientists, YouTubers, and dietitians. There are, however, some irrefutable physiological facts. Here are a few that I find fascinating and that I hitch the pony of my N-of-1 self-experimentation to: Ketosis is not so much a diet as it is a metabolic state. Either you are in it or you’re not. There is no such thing as an essential* carbohydrate. Fasting is as natural and as restorative to humankind as breathing. Wild-caught Alaskan fish and game is some of the most nutrient dense and healthy food in the world. Exercise is crucial for health and well-being; ancestral exercise is optimal -- as much aerobic as possible (able to get enough air while doing it that you can hold a conversation), periodically lift heavy things, and periodically employ high intensity intervals training sessions. Persistent and chronic stress will kill you prematurely; hormetic stress will make you live longer and more optimal. Rest and recovery are as important as regular exercise. Metabolic flexibility is as remarkable as it is liberating.

 It is fair to say that what works for me may not work for anyone else, but anyone who wishes to live a long, healthy life should consider ditching sugar, refined grains, hyper-processed “food” (everything from the middle isles of the store), and industrial seed oils. With that aside, the spectrum for discovering what dietary protocol works best for any individual is vast. 

One key principle for me is that the food I eat is satisfying, which is to say that it does not feel like a “diet” or that I am depriving myself in order to be healthier. Every bite of food that I consume these days is immensely gratifying. In the moment of consumption, I don’t care if the food I am ingesting is helping restore my hormones into balance, that I am replenishing my liver and muscle glycogen through gluconeogenesis, or that I am balancing my Firmicutes/Bacteroidetes ratio. All I care about is that it’s delicious, and nothing is as tasty to my pallet as Alaskan fish and game.

Another important consideration for me is that the food that I eat is ecologically sustainable. Alaskans should take immense pride in the fact that we still have mostly intact ecosystems that support some of the world’s most nutritious fish, fowl and game. To eat only local food would be more challenging in other states or provinces that have traded their renewable resources for short-term profits. 

For my own N-of-1 sake, I am excited to see if there are any noticeable improvements in my health over the next month. I also want to deepen my intuition for how much food I actually need to put away every season, as well as connect with and learn from other people around Alaska and beyond who are undergoing the challenge to enrich our connection to the land, sea, and water that supports this nutrition and our well-being. 

In order to keep this one month challenge reasonable, I plan to eat a very simple, high fat diet and I will likely only eat one big meal a day, or two at the most. It took some time and willpower, but I have kicked my sugar/carbohydrate addiction and have become a fat-burner/metabolically flexible. This metabolic state allows me to fast for 24 or more hours with ease and with plenty of stable energy. Anyone can become metabolically flexible. By all accounts, including my own, once this transition has occurred, it feels like you have a new super power. 

Our Alaskan wild salmon are the envy of the world; our moose and caribou outshine even the finest grass-fed/grass-finished pastured beef; our soil is rich and our water unspoiled. These are sacred. The local food challenge is a way to remember.  

In later updates and posts I will share my meal plans, my macronutrient ratios and more. 

*An essential nutrient is a nutrient required for normal body functioning that can not be synthesized by the body. Categories of essential nutrient include vitamins, dietary minerals, essential fatty acids and essential amino acids.

North Slope By Fat-Bike

North Slope by Fat-Bike or The White Gas For White Guys Expedition

Deadhorse to Trailhead

Over 20 years ago, my friend and mentor, Roger Cowles, told me a story about being in Utqiagvik (Barrow) and being able to ski to Wainwright in one continuous push – a distance of over 100 miles. Roger had been in Utqiagvik to help with a bowhead whale survey. The snow, while he was there, underwent a thaw and freeze cycle, making the surface rock hard; he saw an opportunity to ski far and fast. Roger’s story infected me all those years ago. Since then I have hoped to be available to attempt something similar on the Arctic Slope of Alaska with a fat-bike.

Early in the morning on the 6th of May, after pouring my first cup of coffee, I checked my Facebook and saw photos from my friend Qaiyaan, an Utqiagvik buddy. He’d been out on the country traveling by snowmachine and his images revealed what looked like ideal conditions for fast travel on snow over great distances. I immediately messaged him to confirm. “Yea dude, this is right snow conditions, u could have bikes for miles and Fucken miles,” came his response.

Now all I needed was a partner willing to drop everything and join me on a fools adventure. Hey, want to cross a couple hundred miles of the loneliest region of Alaska? No one has tried it on bike before, the snow may melt out at any minute, there are bears, we have to get past the hyper-secure-industrial-oil-lease-lands with a firearm and once we are underway we won’t see a soul. And we need to leave day after tomorrow. It should be fun.

Chief steward of the RV Sikuliaq and my long-time BFF, Mark Teckenbrock, was home in Seward with a couple weeks remaining between hitches. He took the bait and enthusiastically accepted the quixotic invitation.

Two days later we were on an Alaska Airlines jet to Prudhoe Bay with our loaded bikes and tummies full of butterflies.  

In Deadhorse—the industrial community on the North Slope of Alaska, full of man-camps and mostly out-of-region-oil-company-workers—Mark and I stood out like sore thumbs. Many people cycle up to Deadhorse along the Dalton Highway in the summer months but in the still-wintry month of May, our fat-bikes and Patagonia garb looked out of place amongst the Carhart-and-steel-toed-boot uniform of the oil-filed workers.

After putting our bikes together in a truck-warming bay at the airport, we rode across the street to the Prudhoe Bay Hotel. We had no idea how we were going to get past the secure oil fields and to the beginning of the trail we planned to follow. We hoped to get some information. On wilderness expeditions, I have come to depend upon local knowledge. In this instance, we were beginning our trip in a bustling community where no one is local and none had information. “CWAT Trail? Never heard of it.”

The hour was late; we’d both spent the previous evening frantically packing and had risen early to drive to Anchorage. We decided to get a meal and a room at the hotel and try to figure out this stubborn and atypical hurdle in the morning.

“Are you guys from Seward?” the security guard asked us as we walked into his office the following morning. “Yes,” we said. Although neither Mark nor I recognized him, we saw this as a sign that we had an above average chance of getting past the security impediment. Our hopes were quickly dashed. “Not a chance,” came Zack, the security guard’s, reply, after we explained what we were trying to do. “The only way to get through the oil field is if you have an identification badge for both BP and Conoco Philips, which you’d have to fly back to Anchorage to get.”

Zack was willing, however, to see what he could do but he gave little reason to hope. He called one superior after another to let us explain our situation and need over the speakerphone.  From the higher-ups we received variations on the theme of “No,” and “Hell No.” Our prospects were looking grim until our helpful security guard told us of one option that remained: a transport from a North Slope Borough employee.

At the main borough office in Utqiagvik, Brower Frantz answered the phone. After explaining our situation and who we were, Brower told us that he might be able to help us reach the trailhead beyond the secure oilfield areas. A few hours later we were in a pickup truck, with our clearances and a security truck escort, in front, carrying our firearm, which we’d brought for bear protection. A more surreal beginning to an expedition I have never met.

Lost and Found and Lost and Found Again

After passing through the BP oil filed lease area we met a Conoco Philips security driver and again gave him our gun to shuttle ahead of us. “They do this for the locals, too,” Tom Martell, our gracious borough driver told us. “Even bb guns are forbidden.” Typically, I prefer carrying bear spray over firearms for bear protection but the North Slope is a windy place. Brown bears were awake from their winter hibernation and although we’d be traveling on an inland trail, polar bears exist in this region. My friend Billy had lent me his 4” barrel 500 Smith and Wesson revolver – the largest handgun they make.

When we reached the end of our industrial road trip, the two trucks stopped and we got out. A post-apocalyptic Mad Max movie script swirled in my mind. We thanked Tom, unloaded our now dusty bikes from the bed of the truck and waved goodbye as they drove away.

The profound and ominous sense of holy shit, we are fucking out here was quickly erased once we hit the trail. The conditions were exactly what we’d hoped they’d be – rock hard snow, verging on ice, with a strong easterly tail wind. The temperature was in the mid-20s; the afternoon sun was on our faces and my trepidations evaporated into bliss as we rode along at top speed.

The CWAT Trail is a recent undertaking by the North Slope Borough. For the last two winters, the borough has groomed and maintained an overland route from Utqiagvik to Deadhorse to allow residents an alternative for bringing vehicles or supplies to the extremely remote and most northerly community in the United States. Beginning in February, the route is punched in with piston bullies. Groups of Utqiagvik residents drive trucks and cars up from Fairbanks or Anchorage to Deadhorse, and then over the tundra on this nearly-300-hundred-mile fleeting snow trail. By the time we began our trip all the caravans had wrapped up for the season and all the markers had been removed. The trail, however was obvious as day.

Before leaving home, I’d contacted the borough and told them of our plan. I talked first with search and rescue and then with someone from the land-use department. They graciously approved our non-commercial journey and had sent me a low-res satellite image with the route overlaid on it. The majority of the trail is straight west but then turns north for the last 70ish miles. In the corner of the image, text read, “Proposed 2019 route.” As Mark and I sped along, neither of us thought much of the fact that we were beginning to trend south. We’d seen no other trail and the one we were on was a veritable highway.

Although we’d not crawled into our sleeping bags until after midnight, I woke with a start at 6:15 and fired up the MSR stove to start melting snow. With so much ground to cover before the next thaw, which could come any time, we needed to make the most of each precious day.

Minutes into our early morning ride we encountered snowdrifts that entirely covered the trail. Riding over drift snow is energy intensive and slow going on a fat-bike. For five miles the drifts persisted, as did our confounding southbound compass heading. We were beginning to worry that we’d somehow gotten onto another trail but kept justifying our foreword push because neither of us had seen any sign of another trail. “Maybe there is open water on the Colville River and they re-routed to cross it further up?” I offered. Around 2:00 in the afternoon we began to worry in earnest.

“Yes, you’ve gone too far south,” our friend Hig confirmed over our InReach. He sent us coordinates, as did our friend Qaiyaan in Utqiagvik. We were on an oil company exploratory trail, headed for the Brooks Range. Somehow we had missed the trail. By the time we were certain that we needed to backtrack, a strong wind from the northeast had manifest. Knowing that the wind was supposed to blow itself out by morning, we set up shelter and sat it out.

Once we made it back over the snowdrift section of trail, the following morning, and back to our first camp, we saw a split in the trail that we’d missed the first time. We knew it wasn’t the trail we ultimately wanted but it headed northwest rather than northeast, as the trail we’d followed in did. Taking this trail, we reasoned, would be better than the original one. As long as we continued north we were bound to encounter the east-west CWAT trail we wanted, and this trail would veer us more to the west. Within an hour we’d found what we were looking for – the westbound CWAT. Once we were lost but now we were found. Our confidence had taken a blow and we’d used up precious fuel but we felt our spirits lift as we began to zip along again, in the right direction.

My mind had just begun to relax a little when another text came through Mark’s InReach. We’d been on the westbound trail for six miles when our friend from Utqiagvik sent a message saying we were, yet again, on the wrong trail. I punched in a short and succinct reply - “Fuck!” Sure enough, the GPS waypoints showed that we were south of the trail by about 5-miles. “There should be a Y,” he said, “where they merge.” He sounded uncertain; we were crushed.

We continued west for another mile until we saw a wide-open patch of terrain. Tentatively, I veered my bike off the trail to the north. The open snowfield barely supported my weight atop my bike so we let out tire pressure to what I consider stupid-low and we began hunting through the open tundra for the CWAT chimera. 

Hours later, exhausted and demoralized, we gave up. We’d stumble-fucked through bare tundra, slushy bogs, and open snowfields and were further north than all the waypoints. We were in terrible terrain for a trail to be. To the west, as far as we could see, was a pasture of willows poking through the snow - horrible ground even without a bike to travel through. We pitched our shelter and drank Mark’s celebratory airplane whiskey. All seemed lost.

“We looked and looked but can’t find it. Pretty sure we were on CWAT but now r worried about not having enough fuel,” I texted to my friend Qaiyaan in the morning. “I’ll see if my buddy from Nuiqsut can run you out some gas. You got some money to pay him?” From where we were, the village of Nuiqsut was about 10 miles away in a straight line. Before replying to Qaiyaan, Mark and I had a discussion. Although it seemed like our trip was off to a shaky start, I lobbied that we take the opportunity to re-fuel and carry on. He agreed.

“My buddy Thomas Napageak is a hella AF hunter,” Qaiyaan said in his last text. Good, I thought. Hunters know their way around the country and we needed some fucking answers. An hour later Mark and I were slowly making our way back south when we saw Thomas’ snowmachine approaching. As he drew near he ascended a bluff and it looked as though he may miss us. “Plug your ears,” I told Mark. I took the 500 out, pointed it into the air, as far away from my ears as possible and fired a shot. My right ear rang and I went half deaf for several minutes but the cannon blast had worked.

“Yea, you were on CWAT,” Thomas said. As Mark filled our fuel bottles with the white gas, Thomas snapped a photo with his smartphone and walked above his snowmachine holding it above his head to find a signal. “You posting that?” I asked. “Yea. I wrote white gas for white guys,” he said, and we all busted up laughing. After being lost and found and lost and found again, we had fuel. Furthermore, our expedition had been given a name – White Gas For White Guys.

Two Days of Near-Bliss

“We are exactly atop Hig’s waypoint,” Mark said as we stopped on the west side of the Colville River to drink from our thermoses and eat a bite. Over the night it had snowed and for the first time on our trip there had been no wind – rare phenomena in the Arctic. The inch of light snow atop the hard trail slowed our speed some but the conditions were still way above average for efficient snow travel by bike.

West of the Colville, we entered terrain unlike any I have ever experienced – absolutely flat, white with snow, and yet beautiful beyond description. Ptarmigans cackled and the sun shone strong as we rode on mile after mile. “This may be the closest we’ll ever get to experiencing what it’s like to be on the moon, eh?”

For two long days we traveled toward our destination, uninterrupted by route-finding or serious decision-making. Signs of the impending spring breakup were everywhere though. Each day we saw more and more migratory geese, swans and cranes making their way to their spring nesting grounds and each day more of the bare tundra exposed itself.

We were west of Arctic Alaska’s greatest lake, Lake Teshekpuk, when it began to warm up above freezing and the trail started to become sloppy. The new snow that had fallen when we were still east of the Colville was now, also, becoming a pain. During the heat of the afternoon, the skiff of snow melted but not entirely. As the snow re-froze, the surface morphed into a crispy verglas that insulated the softer snow beneath. We took out more tire pressure and nosily crunched onward.

Although it was only 5:00 PM, we decided to camp early on our third afternoon since leaving the Colville. “Let’s set the alarm for 2:00 AM and cross our fingers that it freezes tonight.” As we made coffee, the inside of our shelter, at 3:30, was still wet with condensation and outside we could make slushy snowballs. It hadn’t frozen. A damp and chilly fog settled in as we rode away at 5.

“How are you guys doing?” Came a message from Brower Frantz in Utqiagvik. We didn’t know what to say.

As we took more and more tire pressure out, we slowed to nearly walking speed and often had to dismount to push beyond the worst of the rotten patches. By 11 they were all rotten patches. Crossing a channel of the Ikpikpuk River, I stomped on and compressed the slush to keep my calf-high over-boots from being overtaken with the flowing open water. West of the river we found a dry patch of ground and sat down to discuss our options.

“You are super close to my cabin,” Qaiyaan’s InReach message said. He sent us coordinates and told us to head there. “It’s only a couple miles from where you are. There’s food and beds. I’ll come get you tomorrow evening.”

Saved

We were enveloped in thick pea soup fog as we sat on our little dry clump oasis on the shore of the Ikpikpuk. “We should reply to Brower, eh?” Mark punched in a response to his question, how you doing. A few minutes later, Brower replied and said he’d come retrieve us. This guy, whom we’d never met in person, was willing to finish his work day and head out into the fog and rotten snow for a 3 to 4 hour snowmachine trip to our location and give us a ride into Utqiagvik. “Quyanaq*. Thank you, Brower.”

For the first time on our trip we had access to dead willow branches and bits of driftwood. We built a fire to help ward off the damp and chilly air as we waited. Late in the evening, Brower sent another message, “Still getting everything together. Will leave town around 11.” Mark and I had started our day at 2:30 so we decided to set up the shelter and get a few hours of shut-eye.

We sprung awake as the sound of Brower’s machine drew near. We greeted him with groggy enthusiasm but needed a few minutes to pack everything away for what was bound to be a bumpy sled ride. He’d brought several 30-gallon containers of fuel for his cabin, which was less than three miles from our location. “I’ll go drop this off and come back in a minute,” he said. By the time he returned we were packed and bundled up, wearing every item of clothing we’d brought.

At our first pit stop, Mark and I pulled out our sleeping bags. When we resumed the trail we both crawled inside them, boots and all. Our goggles quickly misted over from the fog but we hunkered down and took in the experience.

Utqiagvik

The new day was in full swing when Brower pulled his snowmachine into Utqiagvik. The day before the entire community had melted out and the streets were bare gravel and mud, and slicks of water pooled in every depression. City workers were busy throughout the community pumping water away from homes and streets.

As Mark and I unpacked ourselves and bikes from the sled, Brower went inside his house to change. When he came out he had news: “They just caught a whale right in town.” The open sea was less than a couple hundred yards offshore – an eerie, unnatural and obvious indication of our global climate crisis. Until very recently, the sea ice extended 20 or more miles out and whalers had to make trails through and over the hummock ice to set whale camp. “We’ll meet you at the Top of the World Hotel for breakfast,” we told Brower and gave him money for gas and our best guess at the value of his time.

All three of us looked haggard as we stumbled into a booth at the restaurant. Our poofy eyes and incoherent conversations helped inform our waiter that we wanted coffee and to keep it coming. 

Reflection

Many obvious reflections can be made about our trip to the North Slope but none of them interest me too much. The main take-away for me is that I was able to experience an environment that I have been intrigued by for longer than I can remember, and it was more incredible than I could have imagined. This trip and experience gave me a small taste of the region’s moods, its wildlife, and, most importantly, its amazing people.

There are so many things that go into trying a new route with atypical equipment like a fat-bike but nothing teaches me more than giving it a shot. What we know now verses before we began is immeasurable. I plan to use this newfound wisdom to the best of my ability for next time.

*Quyanaq = Inupiat word for thank you

Arctic Adventure Cycling Gear Review

This gear review originally published by Salsa Cycles.

The Roof of Alaska Fat-Bike Expedition Gear Review

Summer 2017, Kim McNett and I completed the first part of our Roof of Alaska, Arctic fat-bike and packraft trip. We began in the Inupiat village of Point Hope, in the far northwestern region of the state, passed through two other villages—Point Lay and Wainwright—and ended 450 miles later in the northernmost community in the United States, Utqiagvk (formerly Barrow). Alaskan adventurers Daniel Countiss and Alayne Tetor joined us for the first twelve days, as far as the village of Point Lay. 

As far as we know, no one has employed a fat-bike in this vast region of Alaska and only a few have done human-powered trips in this region by any means, in modern times.  

For the entirety of our trip we were above the Arctic Circle. We cycled over mountainous terrain, tundra, beaches, and riverbeds and, once away from villages, saw little sign of human traffic. We paddled where necessary and pushed our bikes very little. Much to our astonishment and delight, this trail-less wilderness route was attained almost exclusively from the saddle of our bikes.

Each trip reveals new insights into technique and gear and every year new innovations in equipment design stand on the shoulders of the previous incarnations.  Below is an overview and review of the equipment we used. 

Bike:

Since the fat-bike was first conceived, refinement has yet to cease. In the late 1980s, Alaskan shade-tree bike innovators welded two rims together and laced them onto one hub to provide better flotation on snow trails. Since the mid 2000s, interest in this subculture sport has grown exponentially and innovation has been off the charts.

For our recent fat-bike and packraft trip through Arctic Alaska, I used a Salsa Cycles 2017 carbon fiber Mukluk – the apex of wilderness adventure cycling design. This lightweight bike is an adaptable, do anything, go anywhere machine.

The goal of any fat-bike and packraft expedition, in my mind, is to ride as much as possible. In order to circumvent the myriad obstacles one is bound to encounter, on an untested wilderness route, a bike needs to be nimble, yet comfortable, lightweight, yet durable, and outfitted with the widest wheels and biggest tires available. The 2017 Mukluk is all this and more.

For our Arctic expedition, we stripped our bikes down to their most simple form—a derailleur-less multi-speed drivetrain with one brake.

The drivetrain on my Mukluk consisted of two cogs and two stainless steel rings on Surly OD cranks—30 tooth and 22 tooth. The OD crank is an ideal choice for trips like this as it is easy to pull in the field, the dust cap does a decent job of keeping out dirt and water, and re-packing the bottom bracket bearings are a cinch. I used a Salsa freehub and ran 26 tooth and 22 tooth stainless steel cogs

On a Sram eight-speed chain I installed two sets of master-links. I could quickly add or remove one set and three links that separated the master-links and shorten or lengthen the chain to fit either the big or small ring, as needed. The Alternator dropout allowed me to use either cog when I was in one or the other ring. I used all four of these gear options on this trip. If I were to do this trip again, I wouldn’t change a thing in regards to the drive train.

The 2017 Mukluk is well suited for expeditions and carrying a load. The front fork has three mounting bolts per leg, the down tube is flat on the bottom and therefore an ideal place to strap a long skinny dry bag, it supports a rear rack, and the front triangle, despite having a swale for stand over clearance, has plenty of space for a frame bag due to the steep angle of the down tube.

Our longest stretch between food resupply on this trip was 12-days. When fully loaded, I used two lightweight dry bags on my fork legs and one long, skinny dry bag on the bottom of my down tube to carry food. Daily snacks were carried in my handlebar-mounted feed-bags and the remainder of my food went into my home-made frame bag.

I also used a Salsa Alternator rack, which I typically used to carry one medium size dry bag. Within this bag were my sleeping quilt, sleeping pad, shelter, and clothing. The rack was more useful than a seat-pack because we often had to carry water for more than one day at a time. With the rack, I could strap 90-ounce dromedaries onto the side of the rack as needed.  

Our usual strategy, on summer fat-bike expeditions, is to carry a big, lightweight backpack, which we can put all gear and food inside when we are forced to push/haul the bikes long distances. Due to the mostly rideable terrain on this trip, our backpacks were nearly empty and the food and gear fit, with room to spare, on my Mukluk.

Packraft:

Much like the fat-bike, packrafts are currently enjoying a never-ceasing evolution of improvement. Alpacka Rafts have been at the forefront of design and innovation for many years. Alpacka sent us out on this trip with two prototype rafts—Fjord Explorers with a proprietary lightweight fabric, typically used for the featherweight Scout series rafts. 

On numerous occasions, I have made the mistake of sacrificing durability for lightweight equipment. On those trips, I end up wasting time in the field on repairs. One of the major debates we are often concerned with before a long trip is where to shave weight and where not to.

Although the fabric on these rafts is less durable than the standard Alpacka raft fabric it more than stood up to the rigors of this expedition. We were, however, cautious with the boats, which is good practice with packrafts regardless.

The prototype Fjord Explorers had few bells and whistles: Cargo Fly zippers, one valve, and four tiedowns in the bow and two in the stern. To shave weight, we opted to forego spray-decks.

This trip involved many short, flat-water crossing but also a handful of 10 to 15 mile open-water stretches. Hull-speed in these instances is a huge asset and due to the rafts increased length we could always achieve full and powerful forward strokes with the bikes on the foredeck. The increased length and pointy bow and stern also kept the boat from drifting a little to the right and left on every stroke, which is unavoidable on shorter rafts.

Within both fat-biking and packrafting there are several sub-disciplines, of which bike/rafting is one. Over the years, I have tried many packraft designs and configurations for long, wilderness cycling traverses, where most of the water we encounter is relatively flat. For this type of trip, a slightly longer raft is ideal but an even longer raft, with a pointy bow and stern is even better. By using the lighter fabric, these rafts weigh less than and roll up to the same size as our previous rafts, which are much shorter. 

Shelter:

The Mountain Laurel Designs Duomid is a lightweight two-person, floorless shelter made with sil-nylon. The weight of our duomid comes in around one pound. When packed, it compresses into the size of a large grapefruit, yet, when pitched, two people have enough room to fully lie out with room to spare for gear.

The Arctic summer is famous for insects. Before we left, I sewed a continuous strip of mosquito netting­—about 16” wide—around the perimeter of the shelter, which we tucked inside and set gear and sleeping pads atop of. Although this didn’t keep every single bug out, it did do remarkably well and it would be hard to find a lighter weight option.

For four days and nights on this expedition, we encountered incredibly strong wind—gusts over 60 miles per hour. As long as we took care to properly anchor the shelter our Duomid withstood the onslaught handsomely.

For the center pole we used three pieces of our four-piece kayak paddle. We typically rely on natural anchors, which are often more robust and capable at withstanding strong wind than aluminum stakes are.

Sleeping System:

Kim and I both used Therm-A-Rest Neoair sleeping pads and Mountain Laurel Designs Spirit quilts—rated to 28 degrees.

The Mountain Laurel Designs zipper-less quilt is simple, lightweight (23 ounce) and quick drying. It has a fairly roomy foot box, which is held into this shape with Velcro and snaps, and it employs a thin webbing strap to secure the quilt around the sleeping pad. This quilt can also be opened into a rectangle bedspread but for maximum insulation it is best to secure the foot box and cinch the edges under the sleeping pad.

The trick I had to learn is how much to tighten the strap under the quilt and around the sleeping pad. If the strap is too loose, the bag slips from under the pad, letting cool air in. If the strap is too tight, it feels constricting inside the bag. After a few days I had the ratio finely tuned and the quilt worked as designed.  

At the beginning of our trip, we had several chilly nights and I often slept in my puffy sweater with the hood up. This sleeping quilt does not cover your head so it is important to have a warm hat and either a vest or a sweater with a hood when you use it near the low end of the recommended temperature rating.

Kitchen:

On summer trips, we typically forgo cook stoves and instead rely on open fires. However, trees do not grow in the Arctic. Before leaving on this trip I knew of only one person who had undertaken this journey by human-power. Alaskan adventurer, Dick Griffith, skied across the Arctic of Alaska in the 1980s. He assured us there would be plenty of driftwood. Only once, while we were traveling overland, were we unable to have a fire or cook a meal.

Cooking and heating water on open fires takes a little more time than using a cook stove but I take great joy in all aspects of this camp chore: gathering wood, lighting the fire, cooking, and drying wet gear. There are few things better in life than reflecting on the day, with a hot beverage and warm bowl of food in front of an open fire. The daily uncertainty, when relying on wood fuel, is something I fully appreciate, not to mention the liberation from carrying an extra piece of equipment and the fuel it requires.

Kim and I carry one 30-ounce titanium cook pot to cook meals in and we each carry one 24-ounce titanium mug apiece for beverages. Beyond these items, we carry one spoon apiece, one Victorinox knife and several lighters.

Pack:

For the last several years, I have used a Mountain Laurel Designs Exodus 58 liter backpack on summer bike expeditions. Cycling with a backpack is, by my estimation, never ideal, but for long wilderness trips they become a necessary evil. The backpack becomes most valuable when the riding ends and long hours of pushing begin. Pushing or carrying a bike with most or all the gear stowed in the pack is more efficient and easier on the body. The Exodus backpack is a fantastic choice for this sort of undertaking. This lightweight (16 ounce), no frills, frameless pack is comfortable, wicks moisture well, and can haul a big, heavy load. When the riding resumes and all or most of the gear is re-packed onto the bike, you hardly notice this featherweight pack freeloading on your back.

Technology:

There were three pieces of technology we carried on this trip: a DSLR camera, a GPS, and an InReach satellite tracking/texting device.

For GPS, we used a Garmin 64. Before heading out, we uploaded topo maps into the GPS unit. Thankfully, our Arctic route was just barely within the coverage area of the USGS topographic map database. We also carried 1:250,000 scale topographic maps, which gave us the big picture. But, for the detailed route finding, we relied on the GPS. One of the things I appreciate about this model is that is not a touch screen. In the past, I have found that the touchscreens eventually become difficult to see. Navigating traditional buttons with wet, cold-stiff, or dirty fingers is also much easier than on a touchscreen. The Garmin 64 is a straightforward, no frills GPS, with all the basic navigation features.

The Garmin InReach has worked its way into the, never leave home without it category. This handheld satellite tracking and emergency texting device allows friends and family to follow your progress and read short updates through an online service called Mapshare. More importantly, though, this small device can send and receive satellite text messages. In the past, the only option for wilderness or maritime travelers to request emergency assistance was with an EPIRB – an emergency locater beacon, which, in Alaska alerts the state troopers, Coast Guard and other emergency responders. Now, with the InReach, if the party is in a bad situation they can text the details to a friend or family member and a more measured, less expensive option can be discovered. We also sparingly use the InReach to request weather forecasts from friends. It is paramount that any person heading into the wilderness be self-reliant, have basic first-aid knowledge and willingness to self-rescue. However, unforeseeable calamities can befall anyone. Having the technology to save a life is worth its weight in gold.

Final Thoughts:

Few places that I have experienced have felt as remote, with the umbilical chord of safety so distant, as our trip in the Arctic. This trip was one of the most demanding and rewarding I’ve yet to undertake. Accomplishing this trip took more than a modicum of luck. It also required sound route finding, good local knowledge, persistent effort, a solid partner and dependable equipment, well suited to the rigors of daily use and abuse. Gratefully, all the proper ingredients, for the fat-bike expedition of a lifetime, accompanied me.

If you happen to find yourself drawn into the backcountry with a bike and packraft I hope you find this gear review useful.

Bjørn poses with a mammoth tusk he found while riding his Salsa Cycles Mukluk fat-bike in the Arctic of Alaska. 

100% Renewable Alaska

This article was originally published by Alaskans Know Climate Change and the Anchorage Press. 

An elegant proposal to transform Alaska’s Rail-belt to 100% renewable energy.

Just after sunrise, the icy hoar frost clinging to the willow branches in the Tanana River Valley begin to shudder. At first, the wind comes in a light zephyr. Branches lazily sway; a few ice crystals lose hold and fall from their perch, catching the rosy dawn light, making the morning air sparkle. Within an hour’s time, a powerful gale is blowing. The air fills with fine, crystalline powder and snowdrifts form on the leeward side of every bump and rise. The wind will not stop for weeks. All the critters in the valley will forget that there was ever a time when the world didn’t scream and hurt.

Wind is an Alaskan natural resource that, for the most part, we let slip through our fingers. Daily, billions of kilowatts worth of energy whoosh and rush through our valleys, down our fjords and off our mountain peaks—untapped, and unrealized.

What if we could harness that power? What if every Alaskan home had so much cheap energy that we could heat our homes with electricity, charge our cars and trucks with electricity, light our streets, power our schools, public buildings, and illuminate brilliant minds set on making Alaska a better place for future generations? What if our power came from wind that doesn’t become more or less expensive because of the whimsy of distant market forces? Cheap, consistent, reliable wind is what Alaska has in abundance. What if we tapped into it?

Tucked into a hill, up the Eagle River Valley, in an unfinished, three story home, a 66 year old retired engineer, and life-long Alaskan, has developed a plan to save Alaska, fight climate change, and solve our energy problems—for the next several hundred years. For months, Kerry Williams has sat in front of his computer screen crunching numbers, using his sophisticated CAD software, creating Google Earth maps, and researching a bold and visionary concept. For months, Kerry has been slapping his forehead. His idea, on the face of it, is so simple it hurts.

“I’m always assigning myself difficult but entertaining problems to solve in my spare time, as a hobby.” Kerry says. “When I retired fifteen years ago, I decided that the problem that most needed solving was how to get Alaska’s post-oil economy stabilized.” No small task. But for someone with 4 standard deviations above the normal IQ and an active member of several international high IQ organizations, for Kerry, this is just another day in the life; another challenge to be met.

Alaska is rife with alternative energy potential—wind, solar, geo-thermal, tidal, and biomass are all here, in abundance. However, one challenge to integrating renewable energy into the grid is what to do about the inherent variability of renewables? What do you do when the wind stops and the clouds obscure the sun? How do you store that energy in times of abundance? A battery. You need a really big battery, and this is where Kerry’s idea picks up. This is where Kerry believes he has found a solution so simple it is elegant.

“I was recently looking closely at the possibility of developing and exporting some very concentrated renewable energy resources in central and northern Alaska.” Kerry tells me. “Variable Renewable Energy (VRE) requires some method of evening out the energy for transmission and integration into the grid. There are three methods of doing that,” he says.

“The original conventional method is to overbuild the generation, and shut off or dump excess power. Even conventional energy resources don’t have 100% availability (called the capacity factor), which is why excess generation capacity is always required,” he says. “Another method of leveling the power output of variable resources, such as wind, is to link together widely separated sources. That way, when the wind stops blowing at one wind farm, the others keep feeding the grid. The wind doesn’t stop blowing everywhere at once.”

A team of dedicated alternative energy experts—including Kerry and his partner Ceal Smith— have been studying this issue for the last several years and have come up with the Alaskan Roadmap to 100% renewable energy for the entire state. For Alaska’s rail-belt, widely separated sources of alternative energy, on the face of it, should not be a problem. Wind farms on Fire Island and in the Tanana River Valley, Cook Inlet tidal, Kenai Peninsula solar, etc., etc. However, it is the final method of leveling the Variable Renewable Energy that has most captured Kerry.

“The third method is to provide energy storage for VRE. Batteries are the first solution, but molten salts and other methods are being developed and deployed now also. Most storage solutions are quite expensive when trying to level the thousands of megawatts of output I’ve been looking at balancing,” he says. “Researching the issue, I found a good Levelized Cost of Storage analysis, which identified pumped hydro as the cheapest large-scale storage method. I was modeling potential pumped hydro sites nearer the most concentrated potential natural energy resources when an article about Eklutna’s salmon restoration clicked and it occurred to me that pumped hydro could fix the issue [salmon restoration] and at the same time lower our electric bills.”

Besides having plentiful alternative energy potential, Alaska has other unique assets: gobs of freshwater and high elevation mountains. “My proposed Eklutna Complex is nothing more than a gigantic rechargeable battery. It takes in variable randomly generated energy, and dispenses energy to match demand. In terms of mWh capacity,” Kerry says, “the second phase would make it the largest in the world. In terms of total output capacity, a fourth phase could bring it to the largest capacity in the world also, all without harm to Eklutna Lake’s elevation or it’s renewed salmon run or it’s recreational values.”

Sounds too good to be true? How does it work?

This plan proposes to build a 6000 acre-feet freshwater reservoir below East Twin Peak, on the south bank of the Knik River. The massive Knik Glacier and its river is capable of providing large volumes of water and because of the glaciers massive size and geographical location, it is not in danger of going extinct because of global warming anytime soon.

The next thing to focus our most talented engineering minds on is the study of Kerry’s proposed high elevation impounds, e.g. dams, above Eklutna Lake and then building them. Kerry has identified five ideal, high elevation valleys, which are perfect locations for enough high altitude water energy storage to light, heat, and drive the entire railbelt for months. By pumping water up to these reservoirs, through tunnels in the mountains, when there is surplus energy, this project would be an energy savings account—a literal rainy day fund.

Talking with Kerry, several things jump out to me. As a fellow life-long Alaskan, I have come to take it for granted that Alaskans are quite often modern day Renaissance women and men—handy and capable in numerous and often widely divergent skill-sets. The ability to swap a transmission out of a Ford F-150, design and build a home, develop a website, weld a bicycle frame back together, hunt, fish, and grow a garden, and play Bach on a classical guitar, for example, is just who we are. We also do not know how to take no for an answer. When there is a problem in front of us, Alaskan’s get to work and fix the goddamn thing—whatever it is.

Throughout his working years, Kerry has accumulated a robust construction background including large projects, like TAPS, some oil field, flood control projects, harbors, energy project research, design and consulting in solar, wind, electric transportation, and geothermal projects and has been Chief engineer on an electric vehicle project.

But something unique about Alaskans is that when we are asked, “What do you do?” we often don’t highlight how we make money. What we do is what inspires us and how we want others to think of us. For Kerry, many years of hiking, biking, skiing, hang-gliding, photographing, paragliding, fishing, and many other activities within Chugach State Park have given him a great appreciation for the place, a sense of identity and a strong desire to care for and enhance the natural attributes to the best of his ability. Kerry currently lives within walking distance of the Park and has a deep reverence for the natural environment of his backyard and the state as a whole. Kerry is an environmentalist.

In 2009, then Governor, Sarah Palin, understood the threat climate change was having on our state. Alaska is warming twice as fast of the rest of the nation and four times faster in winter because our civilization produces an additional 40 billion tons of greenhouse gases every year.  This increase in greenhouse gases is also disproportionately acidifying our seas.  Roughly 30% of those greenhouse gases come from our global energy demands—coal, oil and natural gas power plants. Governor Palin set a mandate* that Alaska would, by 2025, provide half of its energy needs from renewables. If we get to work, Kerry’s plan could shatter this goal.

When I ask him what comes next, he says, “I haven’t a clue. But I hope if it has legs that I will at least get to sit on the most appropriate commission(s) or engineering and design team(s) to help guide it. The legislature needs to act to enable the project.”

It is clear, after spending time with Kerry, asking lots of questions, looking at his Google Earth mock-up, and trying to stump him with my inquiries, that it is time for his project to leave the nest. What this proposal needs now is an army of smart people to rip it apart, find the flaws, improve on it—what this project needs now is peer review and investment.

What would rate payers pay per kilowatt-hour, I asked him? Without flinching, he has an answer and I realize, again, I am in the presence of someone way, way smarter than me. “After we’re at 100%” he has calculated, “and have paid off the bonds, it should drop to around $0.08 kWh, except for homeowners and businesses who cover their roofs with solar panels. They would pay considerably less, or even profit if they generate more than they use.” That’s less than a penny! Right now, MEA customers pay about $0.20 kWh, and Golden Valley members pay $0.21.

“I’ve already talked with a few of the stakeholders whom I would expect to have the most relevant expertise and pointed criticisms, and so far they’ve been encouraging,” he tells me. “Rick Sinnot, whose study and article about Eklutna Salmon* was the trigger; Marc Lamoreaux, Eklutna Village environmental director; Debra Lnne, Tanana Chief Conference natural resources director—about their potential wind resources to ‘charge’ the Eklutna Complex—and her Tanana Chiefs Conference colleague who owns a lease on the potential lease site; also, Ed Zapel, Senior Hydraulic Engineer for HDR, who understood my project instantly. They all seemed quite interested. I still need to talk with AEA personnel and CIRI wind personnel,” he tells me.

As far as I know, there has never been a study within Alaska, which looks at the potential for large, man-made reservoirs to produce methane, which is a more potent greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide. In temperate regions, where reservoirs are built in valleys, which contain a lot of biomass, methane is produced. Whether or not man-made, large volume water impounds within Alaska would produce this greenhouse gas is yet to be seen. But Kerry’s proposal has almost zero chance for methane production; the reservoirs are all within recently glaciated, high alpine zone, with low biomass.

Another massive issue typically associated with large hydro projects is their potential devastating impacts on salmon and other fish species.  In this instance it will be, in matter of fact, just the opposite. “It was the issue which started my investigation into turning Eklutna hydro into a pumped hydro energy storage complex,” Kerry tells me. “Because excessive water from Eklutna Lake is being used for hydroelectric power, the lake has not naturally drained for years. (That, and an older dam lower on Eklutna River, which was recently removed.) Doing the first stage of a conversion—swapping the turbine generators for reversible flow turbine/pumps—would enable us to keep Eklutna Lake filled and allow salmon to return. It would enhance the entire State Park by returning that lake to it’s historical level, and would lower our utility rates by about a penny per kWh instantly by replacing the very expensive gas fueled peaker plant operations. Excessive peaker plant operation is the cited reason for denying expanded wind farm and solar energy for rail-belt utilities.”

Environmentalists are often called C.A.V.E. people—Citizens Against Virtually Everything. My retort to that is, “Show me a project that works with the natural world rather than despoils it for short-term profit.” This is a mega-project that all Alaskans, regardless of political affiliation, can get behind.

For as long as I can remember, we have been offered a phony dichotomy: we can choose—the thinking goes—between either a healthy environment,or jobs and a robust economy. This notion is poppycock!

Kerry’s proposal would, in his words, “…provide two to four times as much as we need to power everything from Fairbanks or Tanana, Anchorage, to Homer.” This mega-project would provide countless construction jobs and long-term maintenance jobs. Furthermore, Alaska would become an incredibly attractive place for business to invest. Imagine Internet companies buying our cheap renewable energy and using glacier air to cool their massive servers. But I digress.

It is time to come together as Alaskans to fight climate change, defend our way of life and embolden the industries of the future. Kerry Williams and his pumped hydro project is a part of that future and, like the wild of Alaska, it is calling us to action. 

-Bjørn Olson

Watch a short video with Kerry Williams discussing the Eklutna Pumped Hydro project.

For more information about this project please visit Alaskans Know Climate Change. 

Icy Bay Mega-Tsunami

This article originally ran in Alaska Magazine. 

On October 17, 2015 a mountain at the head of Taan Fjord, an arm of Icy Bay, Alaska broke in half and crumpled under its own weight. Some 200 million metric tons of material came crashing down in what must have been a deafening roar. Some of the rock slid onto the snout of a tidewater glacier but most slid into the head of Taan Fjord – displacing a massive volume of water. This landslide-generated tsunami had a maximum height of over 600 feet. The wave traveled down the fjord, dislocating sediment and scouring forest for over ten miles.

JUNE 2016: From the foredeck of the MV Seawolf, an aluminum six-pack charter boat, I turn to see Scott Chadwick, the burly Yakutat boat captain, look nervously from his depth sounder to the slowly approaching shore. Chocolate syrup water in the silty glacial fjord obscures hidden rocks. My eyes are peeled; ready to yell stop at the first sign. The bow grinds against the shoreline and gently makes contact. Perfect. The look of apprehension on the captain’s face is gone and I, along with four earth-scientists, disembark. 

On land, the five of us create a gear-chain and hand scientific equipment and my camera gear up the steep and unstable edge of the shore. Directly across the bay is the massive, cleaved-in-half mountain. The boulders and gravel under my feet had traveled over a kilometer from somewhere within that mountain and were deposited here in a feat of unimaginable violence. “Sometimes geology isn’t slow,” Bretwood Higman, one of the scientists observes.

My task is to document what the “crime investigators” learn about the Icy Bay landslide-generated mega-tsunami - to tell their story of geologic and hydrologic discovery.

After shooting video from the shore we wave goodbye to Scott, who will spend the day fishing, while we walk up the valley to find the high watermark of the tsunami.

The National Science Foundation has funded this series of investigative expeditions. Scientific inquiry is why we are here. “It’s like a perfect experiment,” Colin Stark, one of the geologists says. “Find the remotest place in north America where a massive landslide and tsunami occurred, without loss of life or destruction to infrastructure. Run a host of experiments and make observations. Learn from that, and apply it to building some sense of what will happen when a similar event occurs, which will inevitably happen in a much more populated area.”

Landslide tsunamis have happened in Alaska before. Most notably was the 1958 Lituya Bay landslide and tsunami, which created a wave 1720 feet high – the highest wave ever recorded. What is unique about the Icy Bay landslide and tsunami is that scientists are able to study it so soon and with a suite of state of the art equipment.

Alaska’s rapidly warming climate – twice that of the global average - is related to this catastrophe. Icy Bay was as recently as the early 1960s filled with glaciers to the mouth of the bay with ice as thick as 1000 feet. This rapid de-glaciation and de-buttressing of the hill slopes is at least part of the reason for the instability, which led to the landslide. Other areas of Alaska and Norway are experiencing similar phenomena much nearer to tourist destinations and communities.

“This is happening in environments that the Park Service manages,” Eric Bilderback, a National Park Service geologist says. “We should take this opportunity to learn where nobody was hurt so we can maybe be proactive about the things where people could be hurt.”

After gaining 600 feet of elevation in our mile-long hike, I take off my backpack and drink a long slug of water. The day is warm and we’ve all sweat under our loads.  We are standing at the trim-line where the rush of water scoured the brush and left only bare rock. The team looks for evidence of broken branches or out of place sediment above the line – trying to locate the absolute highest run-up. They finally make the call – 187 meters, or 613 feet.

I turn around and face the fjord. The charter boat, anchored in the middle, is now a tiny dot below us. Directly behind the boat is the cleaved mountain. I try to imagine the force, the violence, and I come up short. Geology may not always be slow; thankfully it usually is.

Watch the film, Icy Bay Mega-Tsunami.

Back From The Ice Age

Kim McNett and I attempted a spring fat-bike expedition from Nome to Fairbanks, Alaska but mother nature had other ideas. We returned to Nome after four days due to extreme snow fall. Below is a slideshow and video of our short but remarkable time on the northern end of the Iditarod Trail. 

A perfect, clear and cold day to land in Nome; spirits high.

Kim and I snap a selfie near the Iditarod finish. Our plan was to spend a couple days taking in the scene of the Last Great Race. We were just in time to see Pete Kaiser come in 5th. 

Aniak homeboy, Richie Diehl, came in 6th!!! So rad!

Richie gives his dogs some love under the Burl Arch. 

Richie's fan club.

In 2014, I gave Deede a smooch in Rohn; this year she kissed me under the arch. Ti amo, Deede.

Salsa rider and all around BA, Jay Petervary, was the first human-powered athlete to Nome this year. Congratulations, Jay! 

Jay rode Salsa's new Blackborow and said it was the best bike he's used on the trail so far. 

Japanese musher Michi Konno under the arch.

Kaktovik musher Vebjørn followed his father Ketil Reitan to Nome on snowmachine. Kim and I met Vebjørn and Ketil in 2015 in White Mountain village. They had finished the Iditarod and were mushing home to Kaktovik. They are attempting to mush home again this year. 

Ketel finished 14th this year. After resting the dogs for a bit, he and his son will mush home to Kaktovik from Nome; 1,300 miles. These two are the real deal. 

As Kim and I were attempting to escape Nome our dear friend Monica Zappa came in. Team Zappa 4 Ever!

Kim and I knew a snow storm was in the forecast. Our goal was to make it to a shelter cabin to sit out the blizzard and ride against the rest of the mushers still coming in. 

Kim atop Cape Nome. Hard to believe that a storm was in the forecast and two mushers had had to be evacuated earlier this same day not too far from here. 

Kim and I stopped to warm up in the last checkpoint in Safety and then pushed on into a very cold and windy night. I have yet to confirm but I believe with wind chill that night it was in the neighborhood of -50 or -60 below zero. 

Despite the extreme cold, the evening was heartbreakingly beautiful. 

Kim and I spent two nights in this shelter sitting out the blizzard and discussing what to do. With all the new snow and all the snow in the forecast we made the realization that this was not a year for biking on the Iditarod Trail. 

The storm raged and raged. 

In the middle of our second night in the shelter, we awoke to a Ice Miner returning home to Nome with a team of beautiful Siberian huskies. The storm was too intense, so Reese, his seven sled dogs and Kim and I shared the small shelter in grand company. 

Reese's Siberian huskies were so well trained that he let them loose and called them one at a time to hitch them to the gang line. Beautiful. 

For a brief moment, Kim and I were able to ride back to Nome. That didn't last long. 

Safety Roadhouse and the last checkpoint on the Iditarod Trail. 

Snow, snow, snow, and more snow. 

Taking a break from bike-pushing. 

Our friend and the fastest long distance dog musher in the world, Nic Petit. Without question. Your day will come real soon, my friend. 

Back in Nome with friends. 

Tim Osmar; legend!

Monica prepares to send everybody home. 

Looks like a cute lil' pup but this sweetheart has run the trail four times. 

Snoozing in the snow. 

Perhaps the most striking dog in the field: Blue Steel. 

Monica and Tim

Monica and Kim

The final adventure came when we all boarded our Alaska Air flight, sat in the jet for three hours and then had to get back out. One of the engines had frozen. Thankfully, Tim and Monica invited us to stay with them at their host family's house. 

We saw Jan Kriska, the first walker into Nome at the airport. He'd walked 48 hours straight from White Mountain and looked entirely destroyed. He'd had to abandon his journey last year due to frostbite and this year was beset with intensely deep snow.  

The thousand yard stare face. This shit cannot be faked. 

Justin Boot serenaded Tim Osmar, and the rest of us, in the airport, with a song he'd written about Tim's father, Dean. 

Below is a short video from our time in Nome and on the trail. 

Nome to Fairbanks - Fat-Bike Expedition

On March 14, 2018, Kim and I fly to Nome, Alaska, with the intention of riding our bicycles to Fairbanks, on the greatest equipment the world has yet seen. The fat-bike is a marvel of modern industry and design. Man’s greatest invention—the bicycle—has been fussed over, considered, and modified into a thing of beauty and unrivaled efficiency.

Winter cycling expeditions can be really hard. Soft snow trails, strong and sometimes relentless wind, discomfort, and injury are all potentially on the menu and to be anticipated. In the late 1990s, winter cycling expeditions had the potential to be even more difficult—fat-bikes didn’t yet exist. Even with big tyres, these trips are often impossible; without big tyres, impossible was more frequent.  

In the 1980s, 1990s, and well into the 2000s, a handful of diehard winter cyclists were begging for bicycles with bigger, wider, and fatter wheels and tyres. Shade-tree inventors like Mark Gronewald and Ray Molina were pushing the boundaries but the options were few. Finally, however, one bigger bike company took a chance, made the leap of faith, and kicked off the fat-bike design arms race.

Since 2005, interest in this sub-culture cycling pursuit has grown exponentially. What used to be a sport wherein everyone who did it knew the name and or reputation of almost most everyone else, has mushroomed into a global phenomenon. Alaska has exported an idea and an activity to the world, and there is no going back. 

And, since 2005, the cycling industry has been in overdrive, designing and tweaking the equipment.

To the engineers and designers, who have lost sleep, listened to input, and spent long hours in the saddle wondering how to improve the fat-bike, thank you. To the OG’s who spent their inheritances and re-mortgaged homes on the original fat-bike dream, thank you.

Twenty years ago, I took my first winter cycling trip on the Iditarod Trail with Roger and Arleen Cowles. My mind was blown. We were on the equipment of the day and we didn’t achieve the massive objective we’d set out for. We made it to Unalakleet and called it.

Tomorrow, I fly with my favorite adventure partner, Kim McNett, to Nome, again. We intend to hang around for a few days and take in the finish of the Last Great Race, visit friends, and camp on beaches dripping with gold and history.

On this trip, I plan to shoot video. I want to ask anyone we meet, how global warming has affected their ability to travel. For ten thousand years, winter has been the time for travel and human migration; winter has been the time to visit distant family and to reconnect. On our watch, this tradition is disappearing, unless we get serious and start fighting like hell against global warming.

The stories I hope to capture will I hope help others understand the dire straights we are in. The stories I hope to capture will I hope spur us to action. “Summer,” an Inuit proverb tells us, “is the season of inferior sledding.”

On this expedition we will be carrying our InReach tracking device. You are invited to follow our progress and read our updates by clicking this link: https://share.garmin.com/BjornandKim

Our messages will be sent to Kim’s Facebook page as well as Ground Truth Trekking’s Facebook page.

Our bikes have been tuned; our bags packed; our batteries full of charge; and there is nothing left for it. We are as ready as we’ll ever be. Wish us well.

"It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” –Gandalf

A big shout-out to our gear sponsors, Salsa Cycles and Mountain Laurel Designs. 

Also, a big shoutout to the authors of Drawdown for giving me reason to hope.