Getting Home

Finally rounding the corner for home at 9:00 PM

About two-thirds of the way up, we felt a refreshing cold sensation on our faces. A light, misting rain? Before we could determine, it was obvious--a snowstorm. Huge flakes were blowing sideways and we suddenly found ourselves gripping the now icy tundra grass with our hands (Sarah's ungloved if you'll recall the earlier quicksand episode). Our xtratufs which were so handy earlier, were now not only filled with water from making our way across the marsh, but were of no use in terms of traction on the slippery slope. There was no more "digging in" to be had, and our feet fell freely out behind us, as we held onto tufts of grass with all our might. With this loss of our lower body strength, we both began to lose optimism. Jim was a few heads above Sarah now and needed to readjust in order to not fall, so he let go of the buoys and she caught them. Now he was getting a grip on the side of the mountain, and she was holding on with one hand to the wet grass, the other to the thirty pounds of buoys (and no foothold). After a moment, he took back the buoys, then reached down and pulled Sarah up to where he was. Then we kissed violently in the moonlight. Not really--no moonlight, no kiss. But we did huddle there together for a few moments, Sarah thinking, This might be it, and Jim thinking, If I ever get out of here, I'm going to... (you know: start to spend more money, watch romantic comedies with Sarah, grow back out my mustache--things like this). 

In an instant of superhuman surging strength, Jim hoisted himself upwards, pulling Sarah behind several feet, until suddenly the grade was less steep and we could crawl on our bellies the rest of the way. It was dumping snow on us at the top, and Jim still had his shorts on. We pulled our snowpants out of the pack and Jim smashed some crumbled Saltines into both of our mouths. With a drink of water, we were on our way again, this time down the hill with a valley ahead. 

The rest of the story is just the first-half backwards, except minus about 4000 combined calories, in danger of trench foot, and with altered mental status nearing delirium. The others we had been with earlier took a shorter (but possibly more treacherous) way home and got there an hour after us. We had been gone almost nine hours, and a villager in his skiff (the "search party") had failed to see us scaling the rocky coast at low tide the last hour. The VPSO (Village Public Safety Officer--no PD here) was at the edge of town with a blanket waiting to whisk us home in his Arctic Cat, where we had warm showers and hot soup while we hovered over our treasures. 

And we're watching a romantic comedy this weekend.