Red Dawn of the North
Posted on January 28, 2007 @ 3:40 PM
Words by Stuart Butler
Standing at the water’s edge, we all paused – just
for a second or so – to reflect on where exactly
on the map we were. We had made it to a frozen
glacial valley that seemed to mark the very end of
the Earth. Here we were, suited up, about to go
surfing, under dancing skies of red and green.
I was hoping this story would never need to
be told or, at worst, that someone else, on some
other trip way off in the future, would be the one
who’d have to tell it. But unfortunately time itself
is against us.
Over the years I have written stories of wars,
drugs, globalisation, Aids, and democracy – all
important stories, but all too easy for us to sweep
under the carpet, pretending they don’t affect us.
This story, though, is different. You must believe
me when I say that, more than any other, this one
will affect each and every one of us.
When winter arrives in a place like this, it’s
hard not to feel as if you’re standing alone, the
last man left, witnessing the very end of the
Earth. I know this because I was there when
winter came. It was the day that I sat, with my
friends, finishing my coffee and porridge and
waiting for the first sparkles of dawn to light
up the waves. But on this day the dawn never
came, and neither would it come tomorrow, nor
the day after that. Winter had finally arrived and
wrapped its frozen mittens around us. For the
next two months, total, permanent darkness
and bone-crushing cold would dominate this
landscape incessantly.
BEARINGS
At 66º 33’ North, the Arctic Circle is that dotted line running
around the upper reaches of the globe, marking the point at
which, for at least one 24-hour period each summer, the sun
never sets, and conversely, for at least one 24-hour period each
winter, the sun never rises. But we had passed the Arctic Circle
– left it way off to our south. In fact most everything was to
the south of us. Hammerfest, claimed to be the most northerly
town in the World, was to our south. Alaska was to our south,
mainland Canada was to our south, Finland and Sweden were
to our south, Iceland was so far south it hardly warranted a
mention; half the Greenland plateau was to our south, and even
to reach Arctic Russia, the coldest, bleakest part of the entire
Arctic, involved spinning around and following the compass
needle south.
The idea of this surf trip would recur regularly during
the long hot days of summer in my adopted Basque homeland,
but every year, before it could be put into action, the leaves
would start to turn gold and my thoughts would inevitably turn
towards tropical blues. The idle Arctic daydreams might have
continued indefinitely were it not for an email citing a call to
action. It came from British wetsuit manufacturers, C-Skins,
asking if I’d be interested in testing out their new suits. Not
being one to turn my nose up at free stuff, and before I’d taken
the precaution of reading the fine print, I jumped to sign on the
dotted line. It was only when a parcel of heavy 6mm wetsuits,
boots, gloves, undergarments, and balaclavas turned up on the
doorstep that it occurred to me that this wasn’t going to be a trip
to some tropical or even semi-tropical paradise. It was one heavy
package.
So, what was the catch that came with our free wetsuits? Not only was our surf trip going to be high up inside the Arctic,
but it would happen in winter. So it was that several weeks later
I found myself alongside my equally gullible friends, Antoine
Touya, Jon Bowen, Nick Saal, and Dan Haylock, surfing at over
71º N, which is quite possibly as high up the globe as any wave
has ever been ridden. And it’s at this point that my story turns
into one that you can no longer ignore.
The Arctic in winter is famous for being cold. Duh. The
lowest recorded temperature seen on the landmasses that fall
within the Arctic’s 30 million sq km (about 12 million sq mi)
is -68ºC (-90.4ºF), which occurred in Verkhoyansk, Siberian
Russia, in 1892. The week prior to our arrival in northern
Norway the temperatures had struggled to climb above a daytime
high of -15ºC (5ºF), while a few days after our departure saw
maximum highs at -28ºC (-18.4ºF). Neither of these is quite as
extreme as Verkhoyansk in 1892, but still damn cold.
By chance we had picked the one week of a long winter
when unseasonably warm winds had brought the mercury
levels to the balmy highs of -4ºC (24.8ºF). Very few people
choose to make a home in the Arctic tundra, but those we met
were ecstatic at this unexpected return of summer. However,
their joy was tempered by the knowledge that this warming
could be expected and isn’t actually such a good thing at all.
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