Ned's Pipeline Trek Page

I'm no Cal Ripken.

I wanted to spend every night of the summer in a tent. I almost made it, running my streak to 104 nights with a cushy campsite on the tundra north of Pump Station 4.

The next morning, though, I woke to the sound of rain on the tent. I tried my usual method of sleeping until I woke to no sound, but that failed me. The rain continued, then it began to make a strange noise like a small, fast running stream. The rain was changing to snow. I unzipped the tent flap to confirm my guess. A world of white. Doh!

The Arctic has been kicking my butt. As soon as I crossed Atigun Pass (I was then hiking with James Hopkins) the bad weather began. First, it was rain, dropped from clouds that would dash up the valley, then back, wetting us on each merry pass.

The rain stopped on the day James left. That's when the wind took over. As I left the tent to eat dinner by a stream, a bully gust of wind picked up my tent and body slammed it. I came back from hanging food and went numb at the sight of my misshapen, upside-down shelter, still tied with twisted rope to the rocks I had used to secure it.

"Please, don't let the poles be broken," I pleaded. Someone heard my call, as the poles were intact despite the weight of my sleeping bag and the rest of my junk now lying atop them. The rainfly didn't fare as well; the flip of the tent punched three holes in the tight nylon. I used all of my duct tape to patch the fly.

The next day I hiked to Pump Station 4, where I faxed my columns to the Geophysical Institute with my Hewlett Packard palmtop computer. In the security building, an officer told me the wind that slammed my tent was clocked at 30 miles per hour.

Later that night, I reached a point on the pipe where I wanted to camp. In one of the few moments I haven't felt threatened up here, I plopped down on the dry tundra, with Jane dropping beside me. My nap was short-lived as water droplets hit my closed eyelids. I hurriedly pitched the tent, which would be snow-covered in 12 hours.

After packing a very wet tent that snowy morning and eating breakfast while standing, I headed northward, with Jane following. According to the map, Toolik Lake was nine miles away. I knew there was a university research station there, though it was a few miles off the pipe. Despite the diversion, I wanted to go there. I was interested in what scientists were doing there. Even more powerful was my desire to dry the tent.

The snow continued. It teamed with a stiff headwind to make walking more of a chore than usual. Jane became frosted white. After less than a mile, I saw a human walking the pipeline pad toward me. Wearing rain gear and a woolen head band that covered his ears, he was Mike Mathers. Mike is a photographer for the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner who last joined me near Valdez. Jane wagged happily to him, perhaps thinking Mike was to lead us out of the storm.

Mike hiked along for several chilly miles, taking photos of icicles on the pipe and other images I wanted but was glad I didn't need to pull out my own camera for. When we reached the Dalton Highway where I was going to walk to Toolik Lake, Mike hiked back to his truck and I sought refuge from the wind in a little shack that housed a valve for a natural gas pipeline that goes to Pump Station 4 from the North Slope. When I opened the door, there was ankle-deep water on the floor. No refuge here, but the shack cut the wind a bit, so I pulled out an energy bar and drained my water bottle. As I was drinking, a couple of bow hunters pulled up and took a photo of Jane and me. They offered me a beer.

Moving on, I met two other caribou hunters tented alongside the road. Despite the blowing snow, they waited for Jane and I to pass, then greeted us with good humor. It made me feel better to know I wasn't the only person tenting in this weather.

Finally, I came to the long gravel driveway of Toolik Field Station. I leashed Jane so that she wouldn't chase any of the ground squirrels used for research there, but Jane didn't seem concerned with squirrels at the moment. The snow was coming down thick and wet; both Jane and I wanted nothing more than to be out of it.

The jumble of green buildings at Toolik Field Station was like a mirage in the blowing snow. We plodded on, hoping for some form of sanctuary.

After we entered the compound, the assistant camp manager pointed to the boxy green trailer of Dave Dominguez, the Toolik camp manager.

I knocked on the door. A voice within said, "Come in!" We entered a warm room that smelled of cigarette smoke. Dave smiled.

"All right, you made it," he said, shaking my hand. He looked at shivering Jane. "Let's get your dog inside too."

I brought Jane in and stripped off her pack. She headed immediately across the room and climbed on Dave's bed. I started to call her off, but Dave stopped me.

"It's O.K.," he said. "I have a dog at home (in Fairbanks). Let her rest.

Dave then handed me a towel. "C'mon," he said. "We only have a half-hour to sauna before it's the ladies' time."

Dave led me across the windblown, snowy compound that was just like a movie scene of an arctic outpost. We reached a wooden building on the shore of choppy Toolik Lake. Inside was paradise.

A large wood stove topped with heat-holding rocks dominated a room with two tiers of wooden benches. After shedding our clothes, Dave and I sat on the benches. Pure, dry heat made the snow a distant memory, thought we could still see the white rage through a window. I began to sweat, going from hypo- to hyperthermic. When I got too hot, I went out on the porch and rinsed with wood stove-heated water cut with cold water. Inspired by snowflakes melting on my skin, I dashed back inside the sauna. I felt incredibly lucky.

Mike Mathers, bloodhound that he is, appeared at the sauna. Dave offered Mike and I a room for the night. I happily accepted lodging in room no. 10, breaking my consecutive-night camping streak without disappointment. Toolik Field Station proved an excellent place to stop, with lots of sauna-taking scientists who were working on fascinating projects. Also, someone had a videotape of old episodes of The Simpsons. Toolik Field Station felt just like home.

---