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Updated: June 22, 2025
I was still crying. Inside the van I saw my fish-net "bulletin board" which reminded me where I had been and where I was going. On it I saw an article about a bicycle ride I had taken two years before with Nunatak. I saw the cover of a book about Mohandas K. Gandhi, autographed by its author, William L. Shirer. I saw a brochure from the Peace Corps and a miniature American flag.
"Yes," persisted Tisdale gently, "ptarmigan; and particularly the ones that nest in Nunatak Arm." There was a pause, while for the first time his eyes swept the Circle. He still held the attention of every one, but with a difference; the tenseness had given place to a pleased expectancy. Then Foster said: "That must have been on some trip you made, while you were doing geological work around St.
Loomis accompanied me to this first camp and assisted in dragging the empty sled over the moraine. We arrived at the middle Nunatak Island about nine o'clock. Here I sent back my Indian carriers, and Mr. Loomis assisted me the first day in hauling the loaded sled to my second camp at the foot of Hemlock Mountain, returning the next morning. July 13.
A sack of hardtack, a little tea and sugar, and a sleeping-bag were firmly lashed on it so that nothing could drop off however much it might be jarred and dangled in crossing crevasses. Two Indians carried the baggage over the rocky moraine to the clear glacier at the side of one of the eastern Nunatak Islands. Mr.
The conflict between my rational and mystical natures did not seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter. "You're doing fine, kid," Atmananda had told me each day. "Just go with the flow and enjoy the process." Stunned by the memory, I held the husky in my arms. Nunatak was a wonderful traveling companion. Each day she tugged and leaped alongside the rig as if she were a full-grown sled dog.
Near the front of the glacier the ice was perfectly free, apparently, of anything like a crevasse, and in walking almost carelessly down it I stopped opposite the large granite Nunatak Island, thinking that I would there be partly sheltered from the wind.
Moments later the truck smacked me with a wall of air as it thundered by, and the bike quickly came to a halt. I ran up the hill to the wayward trailer and found Nunatak peering out from the doggie-carrier. She tilted her head as if to ask, "Is this something all huskies go through?" I sat with the pup in the tall grass. I was devastated.
Yet in the spring of 1986, nearly one year after I left him, I reminded myself that I would rather be possessed in my world than potentially perfect in his. I planned to pedal across America not with an exorcist, but with a puppy. On May 31, 1986, as warm, moist air pushed pockets of fog over Walden Pond, I lifted the four-month-old Siberian husky, Nunatak, into the doggie-carrier.
This tributary is about one and a fourth or one and a half miles wide and has four secondary tributaries. It reaches tide-water but gives off no bergs. Later I climbed the large Nunatak Island, seven thousand feet high, near the west margin of the glacier.
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