Helen Thayer
I interviewed Helen Thayer in her home in rural Washington State in 2002. Her dog Charlie, a large part wolf, mostly husky, laid down a few feet away from us, half sleeping, half keeping a watchful eye on me. Out the large windows of her living room we could see a huge panorama of white-capped mountains.
Helen was the first woman to walk alone to the magnetic north pole, a 27-day trip she did in 1988. In 1992 she went back and did the trip with her husband in the thirtieth year of their marriage.
Helen described her to me parents as "very athletic, very goal-orientated, very disciplined." They are outdoor people – my father was a sheep and cattle farmer. Helen started climbing at the age of nine. “I was a violinist as a child. When I turned fourteen, my parents asked me if I wanted to concentrate on sports or music. It was up to me. They thought that whatever I wanted to do was great. They were very athletic, but there was never any pressure. They were proud of me whatever I did. I chose athletics, and someday I think I will get back into music. But right now, the outdoor thing has really grabbed me. I am only 55 years old. I still have a lot of growing and learning to do.”
In her teens Helen climbed McKinley and climbed in the Soviet Union. She represented New Zealand in the 1962 in British Commonwealth Games as a runner and discus thrower. When she moved to Central America, she represented the Guatemalan track and field team. When they moved to the US she joined the American track and field team as a discus thrower.
A short while later, she saw an Olympic luge competition on television. Luge is a one-person sled — the competitor travels feet first at speeds of sixty miles an hour – with no brakes. Helen raced in Europe, lived and trained with East Germans, and won a U.S. national championship. After that she focused her interests on high altitude climbing and arctic expeditions.
I learned a lot of things walking to the magnetic north pole. I learned trust. And that trust has passed over into my personal relationships. I came back with a greater trust in Bill, my husband and best friend.
In preparation for the trip, I lived with the Inuit and learned how to live with polar bears. I went out on the ice to make sure I could handle the aloneness. I checked myself out. I did my research, talked with the right people. I was planning to live. I did have my will in order, but that is a part of planning. I want to leave feeling everything was done correctly.
I encountered polar bears seven times on the trip. There were times that I wondered if I would survive, but then I would think, "You know, I have learned all I can. I have done my best. I have survived so far. I have confidence in my ability to do what I have been taught to do. Why not keep it up?” You want to always know that there will be another polar bear encounter, and that is fine. You will live through it and go to the next one.
The Inuit taught me that you are never going to beat the polar bears, but you can learn to co-exist with them. We approach them with the intent of co-existing, of not hurting them. We approach them knowing that it is their living room we are in, and we respect them. We just want to pass through peacefully. They can sense where you are at. If you want to shoot your way to the pole, you would last one or two polar bears and you would be done. Wrong attitude.
I found that being alone made me very aware of myself. Very aware of my thinking, very aware of my body. That two mile an hour cadence that I had practiced on the way to the pole -- I had it down, I could feeeeeel it. I was very sensitive to my body, very sensitive to my thoughts. I really had a hold of my life. I had a hold of myself. I was in control. There was nothing to distract me – no conversation, no bills to pay, no news, there was no hope of any news. No distractions. There was me, out on that huge expanse of ice. Just me and Charlie (her dog). Just one and one.
When times were tough, I did pray. I learned to thank also. You learn to ask. You learn to trust. I was working hard at what I was doing, and I felt I was doing a good job, and when I needed help, I felt that I was getting it. I felt that Lord, this fear is getting really tough, and then I would feel calm. I don't say that to general groups, but I talk about these things when I talk to church groups. Church groups understand that. My Christian life took a great leap forward on that trip, which also let my relationships take a great leap forward. I trust people more. I also feel I understand other people better when they talk about their fears. I thought I knew what fear was as a luger, but I redefined it walking to the pole with the polar bears.
At night, I would go into the tent and zip it up and say, "Lord, I don't know what is out there. But I have to get eight hours sleep." (laughs) So I learned trust. You can't sit up all night worrying about it. So you just get in the sleeping bag and go to sleep. And I always slept soundly.
I was seven days from the magnetic north pole when the third storm hit. I anchored Charlie to the ice with an ice screw, and got down behind my seven foot sled, and anchored that at both ends. That was the only way to keep everything from blowing away. A huge wall of black cloud was coming towards me across the ice. The wind sounded like a jet. I got my tent out, knowing that I wouldn't have time to get it up. But at least I would have it to drape around me. I had the zipper done up on the bag, and was working with the tie down straps when the wind knocked me off my feet. I clutched the tent to my chest, and scrambled back across the sled on all fours. Because I hadn’t been able to completely anchor the tent, the zipper ripped open with the blast of wind. Things poured out all over the place. I grabbed the zipper with one hand, still holding onto the tent with the other, and pulled the zipper tight, and then I grabbed the tied down rope and got it tight and then dived over the sled. I sheltered down there for two hours. If I tried to stand up, the wind knocked me over. My goggles had been knocked off when I hit the ice, so my eyes were bleeding from the flying ice crystals. After two hours, I was able to get the tent up. I could hardly move. I was freezing in place. I got the tent up in slow motion. The winds came back but the tent stayed up. When I took an inventory of the food, I only had one small bag of walnuts left. They had been stowed in the front of the sled. I lost equipment, but I was able to do without that.
The last seven days, I raced starvation and dehydration to the pole. I had a handful of walnuts every day for seven days, and a pint of water a day. In order to get the mileage done, I had to go twenty hour days. Some days I would do thirty-five miles a day. I would start at 1 am some days. On the good ice, when my sled got lighter, I did two miles an hour. That last seven days were pretty desperate, but I made it okay. It was a lesson in discipline. If you don't go negative on yourself, you will be okay.
I would just tell myself that I can't think about the hunger. Or think about pain. I can think about it after the trip is over and I am back. I simply put it away. I dealt with it later. I learned that over years of competing in sports, particular being a luger. Sometimes I would have to go away alone and cry. Then I would go on. At the end of the day I would deal with the problem. A broken neck you have to deal with on the spot. Pain you can generally deal with later.
So I ate them one at a time to make the most of what I had. Instead of thinking about the hunger, I thought about what it would have been like to have nothing. I would have been a lot worse off. But I had walnuts, so I had nothing to complain about. I had food. End of discussion. A lot of life is being happy with what you have got.
Being a female, I had an extra layer of fat that I could use. And what a great time to lose it. I had put up with so much up to that point, I wasn't going to quit seven days from the pole, if I had to crawl. I didn't feel as if I was throwing my life away. The dog actually put weight on during the trip. If he had to starve, I might have turned back. He and I became very close. He was my only companion. I got to the point where I was concerned that I not do anything to appear silly in his eyes. If I stumbled I would look to see if he saw.
It helped that I was busy surviving. I was busy every waking moment planning how I would go faster. Planning how I would get more into the twenty hour days. The lack of sleep was difficult, but I would drag myself out of my sleeping bag and make myself go. I'd be yawning away and carrying on for the first couple of hours, but I pushed and pushed and pushed knowing every step I took was a step closer. I didn't have to repeat that step. And I had faith that I could do it. I just knew that I could do it.
There were times that I wondered if I would survive the polar bears, but then I would think, "You know, I have learned all I can. I have done my best. I have survived so far. I have confidence in my ability to do what I have been taught to do. So why not keep it up. Sometimes I would have to get down to surviving just one day. But that is okay too.
One of the real secrets is this: if when you are really afraid, you don't get lonely, then you don't panic. I have known other people who are on long trips alone, and when they get afraid, they go into extreme panic. Even people who are self-described "recluses" – when they get afraid, the loneliness hits them. When you need someone to help you through, you are done.
I am proud of the way I handled myself. The fact that I was the first woman to the North Pole is totally unimportant to me. What really matters to me is that I did it alone and I was able to handle it alone. I know in my heart how well I handled it. I know I didn't panic. I know I didn't want to quit. I know those things, and that makes me feel good. And also I got a good look at myself.
I have always had this thing in the mountains when it has been real tough, when someone has fallen, and I am on a rescue – when things are going badly, and you suddenly have to get things back into the credit column, there is something in me -- almost as if I am having fun. I have felt a wee bit guilty about that feeling, because you are not supposed to have fun under those dire circumstances. You try to suppress that feeling.
When I was sitting in that tent, taking my inventory, realizing that I had seven days to go, and seven small handfuls of walnuts. And one pint of water a day instead of a few quarts of water a day. So I am looking at starvation, dehydration big time. And I wasn't having a bad time. I was having fun. I realized then that something was going on. That feeling that comes to me in the mountains when things are going bad. I didn't take the time to define it then, but when I came off the ice, and I stopped to think about it, I knew what it was. I was having fun. The chips were down. This was the challenge of my life, and I am having fun. Now I have a chance to really pit myself against what's going on. And, by golly, I am going to win.
I learned on that trip why I don't like to compete against other people. I wanted to compete against myself. I wanted my own goals. Competing against other people is not important. What makes my motor tick is the challenge of keeping going, overcoming and getting there and knowing you did it. And knowing in your heart that you didn't panic. And you did a darn good job. You didn't quit. If I had to quit, I would have. I don't have to die trying to prove something. But if I don't have to quit, I won't.
I didn't want to die out there, all by myself. That wasn't attractive at all. Some people have asked me if I have a death wish. And I have known climbers that I wondered about. I would ask them if they were out there to die. But not me. I am a survivor. In every sense of the word. I am a survivor.
To be a survivor, you have to be very disciplined and you have to really want to live. I have a wonderful marriage, and lots of goals. It is too soon for me to die. I love life. I like where I live, what I do. I have great parents. And I have the discipline. It would be an absolute affront to go out there and die. I plan these things so that I survive.
Then you have to have the discipline to never give up on yourself. You want to always know that there will be another polar bear encounter, and that is fine. You will live through it and go to the next one. You know that when the chips are down, you will go down fighting.
I couldn't write the word “bear” in my diary, I was so afraid. There were "them,""those" and "thats" and things like that. Never the word bear. Never. And its funny, about a quarter of the way through the second trip with my husband, I was talking about bears and he said, "Lets not say that word anymore. Let’s just leave it out. Let’s just call them 'furry friends.'" But of course doing the trip with him was very different than being alone.
I know a woman who allowed a rapist to tie her up in her car. Off she went. Never seen alive again. But me...that's not the way I would go. If you want to tie me up, you will regret ever thinking about it. I will fight until you killed me. I would fight because I am a survivor. She wasn't a survivor. I am not going to let someone else compromise my life. I am going to live. I am going to make that sucker regret ever having had any thoughts about rape. He might just be hamburger before I'm through. Or it might mean that I am just going to run like hell. But I am going to do what I have to do to survive. If the silly bugger gets a hold of me, then he is in deep trouble. That is how you have to think.
What would you really like to do? Forget about the negatives. Write down what you want to do and forget about why you can't do it. Everything on that list you can do. Maybe you can't stand on the moon in two years. There has to be reality. You can't depend on the government or on others to write big checks. But if you want to climb Mt. Everest or grow beautiful roses, you can. You don't have to go to the pole. The most beautiful rose in the world is very important.
What do you want to do with the rest of your life? People are inhibited by their own imagination and fears. Most people's imaginations are about a centimeter wide, if that. You have to expand your mind. Don't be inhibited. I don't know where my horizons are. I can't see them. They are some place out there. You are only inhibited by your own imagination.
Helen Thayer’s Books:
