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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