"The Things they Lost" words Lisa VanSciver photos by Andrew McGarry

Nate, Gime and Peter unload some beat-up plane, false Pass airport.

Jolene Hoblet, a single mother from one of the village’s oldest families, greeted us. The strap of her twelve-gauge shotgun hung across her chest. She directed us to an older man, who drove us to our free accommodation; a vacant house owned by a women, Becky, who moved away a month prior leaving behind most of her belongings. Many village homes sit vacant with cars, four-wheelers, and other abandoned accessories littering the yards. Unlike those who leave, Jolene sustains the village by running the food and liquor store. During the first few years of her life, her father Tom planted two fir trees in a protected gully across the street from his water front home. These are the only trees on the entire island. With the locals’ assistance we found fuel and food. Finally we were ready to leave for the wilderness.

Nate Fuller draging 3 weeks worth of supplies, Beckey's house, Fales Pass, Alaska.

Peter a tall, Norwegian descendent; Nate a strong mountaineer; Eli a mountain guide; and I walked the north shore carrying half our gear. Steep mountainous faces framed river valleys. As we passed a dead walrus bald eagles scattered into the sky. Tom Hoblet, the False Pass Mayor, lifted the outboard motor and pushed his skiff to the shore with a paddle. Andrew, the trip photographer, and Mike, who was embarking on his first expedition, hopped off the boat along with several hundred pounds of gear. “You got a gun for the bears?” Tom asked. “No” Peter replied. Tom smirked and rolled his eyes. “Good Luck” he said and drove away.

Lisa, Tom(False Pass Mayor) and Peter unloading the skiff.

Above bush line we traveled west along the north side of the eight thousand foot mountains protecting False Pass.

Nate Fuller dragging gear to the snow line.
Nate fuller still draging his gear. Bering Sea in the backround.

Peter Linn and crew kiting across the north side of Unimak Island.
Peter Linn seting up camp with the Bering sea in the background.

When not kiting we slogged across open terrain, towing sleds well over a hundred pounds. We crossed gradual slopes which dropped steeply into river valleys. Water poured over boot tops soaking our feet as we shuttled gear across rivers.

Gime, Peter and Nate making use of their ranching backrounds, Unimak Island, Alaska.

On the fifth night Unimak’s winds rattled our tent foreshadowing more to come. A local had warned us by pointing across the street from his house to the blown over twenty foot satellite dish. And the village is in the Island’s protected area. “Yuck,” I said sticking my head out of the tent. Rain melted the snow exposing dirt and rocks. To escape the melting snow we climbed higher into a valley below Mt. Isanotski. There we hunkered in camp for a day and a half waiting out the thickening storm.

Eli, Lisa and Peter trying to decide were and when to camp.

The crew packing up for the day.

Peter Linn Kite skiing on Unimak Island, Alaska.

Finally emerging from out tents, blue skies contrasted against the morning light on Isanotski’s rimed pillars and hanging snow faces. An avalanche rumbled off the high north face. To the west a smoke plume rose straight up from Mt. Shilshaldin’s triangular summit. Nate set a swift pace over miles of rolling hills toward the cone shaped volcano. On the saddle between Isanotski and Shishaldin, the Aleutian chain’s two highest peaks, Eli, Nate, and I decided to head up the additional seventy-five hundred feet to reach the smoldering summit.

Peter Linn and Mt Shilshaldin.

Each time I lifted my gaze, the sun shifted its position in the clear sky. After walking for hours, it appeared as if the distance to the summit had remained the same. Eli poked his pole at the ice bridge suspended over an eight foot wide, bottomless crack. A bit higher the slope steepened; an ice crust formed. We exchanged skis for crampons which set on hard ice frozen in a rough, rounded pattern imitating a cauliflower. A light breeze greeted us with the summit’s warm, stinky air. Isanotski’s eight thousand foot highpoint began to shrink below.

Mt Isanotski after a storm.

To the west cloud banks sat on terrain we had never seen, to the east jagged, rime covered peaks stacked up against each other, to the north the Bering Sea ran to the horizon, and to south the Pacific did the same. Mountain shadows darkened eastern slopes. The last five hundred feet we walked across rocks avoiding the punchy, hollow snow. Steamy, sulfur smelling, smoke plumes billowed around us. Nate moved toward the caldera’s edge. A burp from the volcano engulfed him stinging his face. “I am a collector of rare places,” Eli said. We down climbed the icy mountain racing the sun. As the slope angle lessened, we began skiing. Slowly guided by my poles I side slipped down the undulating, bulletproof surface. Making a turn, Eli gained speed. His skis skipped out from under him. Sliding toward a cliff he thrust his body over the ice axe and self arrested to a stop. A few hundred feet lower, our tired legs made turns through breakable crust. The sun disappeared as we crossed the final crevasse. Earlier in the day Peter had radioed Nate about a spring just below the saddle. Winding behind a hill we dropped below a vertical snow drift capped with a cornice. Water seeped over a rock slab carved into a ripple shaped terrace. For the first time in sixteen hours we stopped, sat, relaxed, ate and drank. Moonlight illuminated hills draped in white. Stars overhead spotted the black sky. Walking the last three miles back to camp I kept Nate and Eli in sight, incase the wolves were watching.

Peter kiting with Isanotski in the backround.

After a rest day we decided to move camp to the spring Peter had found. Singing birds flew playfully. One by one we launched kites. Wind shifted and kites either dropped to the ground or changed tacks. The group spread out over a mile. Clouds around Shishalidin condensed into a gray blanket and grew down from the summit. “Who has their kite up?” Nate squawked over the radio. “Lisa, is that you? Seriously, it is blowing really hard right here. You need to get your kite down.”

Gimme before the storm.

I looked up to see Nate a quarter mile from me. The breeze shifted from west to north and then halted. My kite crumpled and fell to the ground. I began packing it when a gust whipped past me and jolted the kite. Grabbing the lines I pulled the kite lengthwise to the wind and stuffed it away. Snow spiraled into a whiteout. I looked up to orient myself. Hail stung my face. A gust pushed my sleds past me. Among the white background Nate suddenly appear like a ghost. We traveled closely to each other. Wet snow plastered the windward side of me like a freight train barreling through a storm. Turning the last corner into camp, I saw Eli walking up the gully with his sleds. “Almost got pulled over the edge.” He pointed to the sheer drop seventy feet above. “So I had to let my sleds go. Only lost the kite.” We dug for hours, warming our bodies and creating a cavern big enough for everyone. At eleven pm we stripped wet layers and slipped into sleeping bags. I lay awake listening to the rain and wondering how morning would come.

Peter, Nate, Gimme, Lisa, and Eli in the snow cave at camp destruction.

Morale plummeted as fast as rain drops blew in the snow wall’s vent holes. Convinced the storm was concentrated on the saddle between the two highest peaks, Andrew left in search of better weather. He quickly returned soaking wet. Peter, skeptical of the saturated snowpack, joined Andrew and Nate in putting up two tents. Tying off every guideline to buried skis, ice axes, and poles, they firmly anchored the tents. Nate and Peter moved into the four-man tent leaving Andrew alone in the three-man. Eli, Mike, and I rebuilt the snow cave’s weakening walls. Like miners we chipped our way deeper into the snow. Wet clothes dripped while we sang songs and admired our work. While smoothing out the last of the snow wall a body sized cornice crashed into the cave and ruined our shelter. Quickly, Eli moved into Andrew’s tent. Mike and I set up the third tent. Winds rattled the tents. Then the rattle increased to a thrashing shake. We hid in our sleeping bags. Laying on the windward side, I felt tent poles pressed into me. I shifted toward Mike to move away from being squished. Stronger gusts flattened the tent upon me. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. “Hey, I’m coming in.” Peter said. “Are you serious?” I asked. “Yeah. Make some room. The four-man’s done, all the poles snapped.” Peter slid between Mike and me resting his head at our feet. Snow molded the shape of my body. I punched it, but it settled like cement. Every now and again someone would make a noise or shift and I would be reminded of the two others experiencing this misery.

Eli dealing at camp destruction.

Morning illuminated water shaking off the tent walls. Misery in the tent drove Mike to the cave. Hours later, Mike, a carpenter by trade, returned, “I fixed the snow cave.” Peter put on his boots, grabbed his bag and escaped the tent. Alone I struggled to find my wet boots and jacket. The snow walls Mike fixed hushed the wind. Mike made a nest with dry kites, sleeping pads and bags where he fell asleep, shivering. Soon Peter and I ventured back outside. I reached into the flattened tent, found a stuff sac and pulled it outside. It filled with air, ripped from my hand, and shot a hundred feet vertically before heading due north. Next, I pulled Peter’s sleeping pad from the tent. Again the wind violently yanked the pad into the wind tunnel and sent it to Siberia. “I do not think we should take the tent down.” I yelled. Peter nodded. Like the original Aleuts, we found a cave to be the securest dwelling. The snow hollowed cavern was similar in size to a forty foot sailboat haul with higher ceilings. In the middle a rock separated the cave. To go from room to room we climbed the rock and then scrunched up passing through a two foot wide opening. Since it is hard to fit a six feet person in a two foot opening, Peter would go head first. Days passed by slowly digging in the west room to raise body heat and dry clothes, napping in the east wing and in the middle a hot water station, since the drink mixes were buried in the tent. Mike lay in the pile of warm sleeping bags all day. Peter dug and dried his bag. I made hot water, sung songs and dug slowly. By late afternoon, Nate moved in. Eli and Andrew remained in their tent slanted in the wind. Plunk, plunk, sounded through the cave. I shined my light to see the drip was not hitting me. Turning off my light I laid back down wondering.

Lisa Vansciver at camp destruction.

By the following day the west room doubled in size and the dripping ceiling in the east room was carved out into a captain’s chair. Eli visited the cave, but I had not seen Andrew. Precipitation stopped and dry wind whipped through camp. Outside in the wind, Mike tied his down jacket to a ski. The knot loosened and the wind tunnel sucked the coat into the sky. That evening, the dimly lit snow cave shaded poker hands. We played in silence. The barometer maintained. Clouds zipped by exposing blue sky patches. Destruction was finally visible. Tents, sleds and skis molded into the snow pack. The barometer rose at last letting us walk toward False Pass. A lenticular cloud bank ahead deterred us from walking more than a few miles. With the tents in pieces, we decided to dig three connected rooms in a wind drift. Peter played the harmonica. We traded off with the four remaining shovels; Nate had broken the other two. The Bering Sea reflected red skies.

Eli Potter dealing at camp destruction.
Our return route was direct over a pass to the lower slopes of Mt. Round Top, descending into the village. Peter, a hunter’s son, spotted a fifteen-hundred pound brown bear ahead on our route. A quarter mile later we crossed bowling ball sized tracks.

Nate Fuller and Eli Potter pulling sleds uphill on the way back to False Pass,

Eli in route back to False Pass.
Eli in route back to False Pass. Having sled problems.

Dropping in elevation snow vanished. Ground squirrels disappeared into meadows of grassy mounds. An evergreen vine wrapped through stunted vegetation and rocks. We exploded wet and broken gear on the warm earth and like reptiles lay in the sun. Silhouetted by evening light, Peter and Nate sat on rock watching for bears. We left camp early hoping to reach False Pass. On the first ridge Peter caught sight of a bear. We walked close together. A whiteout engulfed us climbing the final thousand feet. Mike disappeared only thirty feet behind me. Guided by a compass and GPS, we spent hours navigating over the pass. I feared the weather until we finally began to descend. Sleds pulled us down steep slopes. Only a few miles from town we were forced to set up camp unable to travel any further. Winds whipped through camp snapping the jerry-rigged four-man tent poles. Again, we squeezed three into the two-man. The morning arrived wet, cold and windy. Without breakfast we left camp bound for Becky’s house. The idea of dry cotton clothes, warm showers and hamburgers distracted me from my soaking wet ski boots and the thick alders grabbing my sled. Eighteen days after we had left Becky’s house, we returned and unclipped from our sleds for the last time.

Sitting inside listening to the wind knock the building, a tall thin man dressed in layers of clothing approached the door. “You made it.” He said. “We planned a party for yesterday, but assumed you were not coming. How about tomorrow?” During low tide, I walked the shore with Jolene and her daughter, Chastity. We snacked and collected food off the beach, a traditional Aleut picnic. Chastity, twelve years old, taught me to harvest badarkies. She flipped a rock out of the cold, ocean water and slipped a butter knife behind a black shell to release it. She then cut out the animal’s tongue and extended it to me. I chewed the salty meat and Chastity smiled. Below the meat lay a brown layer. “The guts,” she removed it. Hidden behind the guts was white milk. “A mother,” she slurped down the milk. We brought our uneaten findings to the potlatch the villager’s threw in our honor. An array of local foods covered the recreation center’s counter: dried whale, dried salmon, seal on the bone, seal oil, halibut chowder, and badarkies. “To the most hospitable people, in the most inhospitable place,” Nate toasted. While eating, a slideshow played pictures of the island’s areas life-long locals had never seen. For hours we shared stories. Rain fell lightly making our packed bags damp. Low clouds drifted off the water onto the runway. The little planes rattled down and we loaded our gear. Jolene and Chastity waved goodbye. Lifting above the clouds we left behind the village’s thirty inhabitants, who dub us their first tourists. Settled comfortably in the plane, I felt remoteness leave me. Mountainous, treeless terrain passed underneath. Living a life time here, like the Aleuts, was unimaginable. The world’s secrets are meant to be found and the secret we found was survived.