Chapter 1

There are numerous physical laws of nature that a good geologist needs to not just know, but also thoroughly understand. That is one reason why we have to take three years each of calculus and physics. It's a real bitch when you've climbed forty-two feet up the nearly sheer slope of a hillside holding onto a Jacob's staff and a rock hammer and then suddenly get reintroduced to the laws of gravity. About forty-one feet up in the air I realized that the bit of rock I was standing on had broken loose and I was now falling, or rather, starting to roll back down the hill ... a whole heck of a lot faster than I had climbed it.

Shit.

About three seconds later I was mostly safely back down on the ground at the bottom of the hill, my Jacob's Staff still in my right hand (both unbroken), but my other arm now bent at a rather odd and quite unnatural angle. I didn't quite notice right from the get-go that I'd broken my left arm because I'd also banged my head on a decent sized boulder right at the base of the hill and had pretty well had my bell rung silly. No skull fracture, but just enough of a concussion that they made me spend the night at the local rural county hospital for observation.

In the morning I got the bad news, due to insurance liability issues, my summer at Field Camp was over and done, and rather prematurely. A few hours later, just about kicking and screaming, I was unhappily put onto a plane that would eventually take me back home to Texas.

Double Shit.

Now I wasn't going to be able to graduate before Christmas, and since my university only offered Geology Field Camp in the summer, I'd now have to wait an entire full year to complete my degree.

Sometimes just plain 'shit' doesn't even begin to cover it!

This was my experience at Summer Field Camp about ten years ago, and I'm still a bit annoyed about it to this very day!

Once I arrived back at the university, my faculty advisor wasn't particular sympathetic. I'd hoped that the cast on my arm would earn me a little bit of sympathy, but it wasn't forthcoming. She was a wry old bird of nearly seventy who had first bit her teeth into the earth sciences in the wilds of Maine, western Kansas and Colorado back in the hoary old days before women commonly became geologists. She became the first woman professor in the geosciences department of our big state run university over forty years ago. She was a brilliant mind who taught the Historical Geology classes and made them hard but interesting, but she somehow never learned any compassion for us poor undergraduates along the way. Most students avoided talking her classes if they could, but since I actually wanted to learn from one of the best (test scores be damned) I had taken all of her classes. Getting her as my academic advisor was just random poor luck, on the other hand.

"Jeff, see, that's what you get for procrastinating. I told you last year that you shouldn't put camp off until the very end. Now you see the difficulty that you've made for yourself!"

"Well I had it all planned out! I took both semesters of summer school last year so that when I did finish Field Camp this year I'd be done and ready for early graduation. You had to admit it all worked out beautifully, well on paper anyway."

"Your plan, such as it was, has now quite failed you. If you had followed my advice ... and your written degree plan that I made for you, you would have already completed Field Camp last year and could have been finishing up your final classes this summer. Let this be a lesson to you to never procrastinate and put off doing things that are important. When does the cast come off?"

"Hopefully by the middle of September. I wouldn't suppose you'd know of any other schools that are running a late summer Field Camp, or an early Fall semester session?"

"Hmfff..." She muttered and started to flip through a small guidebook that she pulled from her bookshelf. "Is tuition cost an issue? I believe that you're largely self paying, with a few small scholarships and grants?"

"Afraid so. Cost is very much an issue. If it's going to cost me out of pocket more than about a few thousand dollars or so, I can't afford to go, unless I sell my car."

Ouch! I hadn't even considered that issue. My parents (divorced) didn't have any money between the two of them, and I'd paid my tuition the old fashioned way, by filing for every tiny scholarship that existed, getting a Pell Grant from the government, and then I worked as a waiter or bartender every Friday, Saturday and Sunday night, when I could have been chasing pretty co-eds, or better yet, catching a few of them. Damn ... I'd probably now have to work all of this Fall and Winter to save the money to hopefully find a Field Camp that started in the spring. Otherwise, I'd have to do ours all over again next summer ... and waste nearly a full year!

"Well, there is one option that I know of that will work, and reasonably soon ... but you won't like it or enjoy it. The Universities of Ontario and Alberta are running a joint Winter Field Camp up in Canada. The course is about two months long. The Canadian Association of Science and the Geological Association of Canada are both also offering special scholarships for this course. It shouldn't cost you a penny out of pocket, other than plane fare and field equipment. You'll spend Christmas on a frozen mountain somewhere but when you get done you'll be all ready for graduation. This is what I would recommend that you do."

Winter Field Camp ... in Canada? In the snow and ice of unspeakable Canadian blizzards either up in the frozen Canadian Rockies or up in some godforsaken parts north of the Arctic Circle? No way. It made my scrotum shrink into the size of a marble just thinking about it! I muttered some vague non-committal comments and beat a hasty escape out of her office so that I could think about this some more. As luck would have it, I immediately found the source of a useful second opinion, the rather crazy, but well-liked Dr. Simpson.

Earl Simpson was an incorrigible product of the 1960's who still used 'cool' and 'far out' as everyday parts of his vocabulary. His specialty, lunar geophysics, just made him seem like even more of a spaceman to the rest of us still left on earth, but he was an acknowledged genius in his field and knew geologists everywhere. His advice was direct and imperative.

"Dude! Like you should sign up yesterday and make like a banana and split! That Canadian course is new and like real mondo on the edge. They want to field train a new generation of geosciences folks to be able to work in the ice and snow, to make future discoveries up there all year around. You pass that course and you get a job, probably even before you can get your snowshoes off ... guaran-freaking-teed. GeoCanada, CanExplore, DeBeers and every other geo-exploration firm are all frothing at the bit to hire these grads and they're paying out the grants to fund most of the program so they can cherry-pick the best students. Dress warm, pretend that your balls aren't freezing off, and never try to lick your frozen rock hammer or your tongue will get stuck, and get ready to start working the day after camp is over for a sweet six figure salary. Dude, why are you still here talking to me? Git going! Opportunity is knocking!"

Opportunity was knocking apparently. My main interest in geology was invertebrate paleontology, which was only slightly better than having a liberal arts degree for finding a geo-sciences job and it wasn't sexy like vertebrate paleo, where they make often made bad movies about ruggedly handsome dinosaur bone hunters. So what ... I still like trilobites, but there were definitely no fat six figure salaries there.

I figured that I'd prepare myself to go to work for oil and gas companies for the next twenty odd years, but my current resume didn't offer them anything special that said 'hire me!'. Geology was very down employment wise at the moment, with just about as many new kids entering the field as older geologists quit to do something else or retiring. The economy (and crude oil prices) were also depressed at the moment so many of the retiring geosciences slots weren't being replaced. The odds were better than 50/50 that I would spend the next year after graduation still waiting tables or else I'd have to take an unpaid internship just to get my feet into the door at some company.

The frozen godforsaken wastes of Canada were starting to look a little bit better. I made a few phone calls and checked the program out some more and resigned myself to enduring a very chilly autumn and winter. I sent in my application, which was soon accepted, and I began to locate the very long list of recommended supplies that I would need. Unfortunately, the vast majority of the gear I had purchased and packed to endure a scorching New Mexico summer wasn't going to help me much at all up in the permafrost. Buying all new gear was going to cost me every penny I could earn and save during the next few months.

Arctic survival was also apparently a very important and integral part of this academic program. It was obviously going to be the ten roughest and probably worst weeks of my life, but I was going to make every effort to be as ready as possible for the challenge.

One problem with preparing for an Arctic expedition in central Texas is that the local sports and outdoors stores just don't carry the right sort of gear. My gear (along with myself) needed to be in Calgary no later than October 30th and by the time my cast came off on September 26th, none of the local sporting good stores had even received their winter stock of ski gear yet. I wouldn't actually need to ski, I didn't think, but I was counting on buying the warm ski clothing. Fortunately, I lucked into some belated good luck. Just when I was about to give up and decide to buy all of my gear at the very last second up in Calgary, a savvy store clerk suggested that I pay a visit to Colonel Blimp.

Colonel Blimp, who was neither a real Colonel nor particularly plump or fat, ran an odd sort of military surplus store near La Grange, Texas. He prided himself on being able to obtain virtually anything and I soon put him to the test. In actuality, his store did offer about half of the recommended items that were on my buy list, but the real reward was obtaining his time and invaluable advice. While the good Colonel had never actually set foot on any frozen tundra or snow covered mountain, he knew people that did this for a living ... or rather, he knew the supplier that sold those sorts of people their gear.

Ten minutes later Colonel Blimp had his buddy Frank of Extreme Expeditions on the telephone and we had a very long and comprehensive conference call during which Frank pooh-poohed most of my 'recommended' list items and he suggested products that he considered more appropriate and superior.

What the hell did I know about any of this sort of stuff? I said 'Ok' a lot and let Frank tell me what I was going to really need ... and how much it was going to cost me. Holy crap, this 'good stuff' was expensive!

In the end, I ordered the sleeping bag and Arctic boots and all of my clothing from Extreme Expeditions. Cost be damned ... these were my dangly bits, toes and fingers that I wanted to keep full use of, and I most definitely didn't want them frozen off. It was all Military Specification stuff that was top rated for survival and capable of keeping the wearer alive, and at least somewhat warm even in deepest coldest parts of Antarctica or on top of Everest. That took an unhealthy chuck of my remaining savings account, but Frank agreed to directly drop-ship my stuff for me c/o the senior Camp faculty advisor in Calgary, which was fortunately permitted and even encouraged. This saved me a bit of money also with airline baggage charges.

The Colonel apparently received a 15% 'finders fee', so he made plenty of money for his time and effort. I didn't care. His time and advice were well worth it.

For the rest of the more mundane gear, I 'made do' with surplus gear that the Colonel had available. I procured a large and heavy but sturdy backpack. Gear is heavy and rocks are even heavier. I was a fairly big and strong guy and could tough out bearing a full pack for weeks in the frozen wilderness. I hoped. We even did a test packing to make sure that cookware, burners, an ungodly amount of sterno, flashlight and radio batteries, and a couple of weeks worth of MRE's and other field survival rations would all fit inside. They did. I must admit that the Colonel was amused by this all far too easily. Best of all, I could put all of this stuff on credit card, saving the rest of my dwindling cash for food and other miscellaneous expenses up in Canada.

There was just one remaining problem; the tent. Namely I still didn't have one. While this item was technically an 'optional item', but I had a gut feeling that having one would be a real life-saver.

For my last remaining week before my flight, I went nuts driving around everywhere trying to find an Arctic suitable tent ... at a price I could afford. Certainly Extreme Expeditions had them, but not in my price range. Most of the Colonel's military surplus stuff was way too big and too heavy, or summer weight, unsuited to arctic weather. The tent would have to be light and compactable enough that it could be tied to my backpack and hauled up a mountain, or two. Nothing I was finding would meet these requirements ... until I went into a local S-Mart.

If there is any store chain more disreputable than S-Mart, I'm not sure what it would be. I've seen Dollar stores with better merchandise and customer service, but they don't sell tents. I checked. This particular S-Mart did, but the quality left much to be desired. Their goods are cheap ... and usually appallingly shoddy, but even their large selection of tents in the sporting goods department still didn't quite meet my needs. Everything was either still too expensive for my budget, or else the tent fabric was way too thin or inexpertly stitched for me to even consider risking my life by buying and attempting to use it.

I think I checked and rechecked each of the seventeen tent brands and models in turn for hours. Eventually taking pity on me, the sporting goods manager who had been ignoring my gestures for assistance the last two hours, finally decided that I wasn't going to go away on my own, and he (very grudgingly) came to help me. Actually, the otherwise useless departmental manager had a bit of hopeful news for me.

"You need a good but dirty cheap tent? Well, I've got one other tent in the backroom. It was a return and I don't even know what was wrong with it. No box or carrying bag for it either. I was just going to throw it into the dumpster, so I'll let you have it... 'as-is', for the grand total of $1."

One buck? Hell yeah! He really did want me gone and out of his hair! By this point I was desperate enough that I didn't care if the sides were made out of tissue paper! It looked like a complete jumbled mess of fabric, but I took it! Taking my new acquisition back to Colonel Blimps, the two of us spent a long evening trying to reassemble the tent, complete with two six-packs of beer to pay for the Colonel's labor and to staunch our growing thirst.

Well ... it was definitely 'as-is'. It was decent sized and could hold a couple of people inside, but it missing every single one of the metal support shafts, vertical and horizontal. The bottom supports were 'optional' anyway, the good Colonel conjectured and he tossed me four plain vanilla metal hooked tent stakes to replace those missing ones, but we did need a vertical support post and he had just the right item! From out of his junk pile, he pulled out an old piece of military hardware that was surplus from god only knows what. It was a 9-foot telescoping rod that compacted down into a reasonable three-foot long section. The material was not the usual cheap aluminum either but something MilSpec, like maybe a titanium alloy. It was extremely light and so strong that you couldn't even dent it with a hammer. Since my $1 discount tent only stood about five and half feet high, this meant that I could hammer this new support pole nearly four feet down into the permafrost. Not even an Arctic gale was going to budge it.

Once all of the beer was all gone, the Colonel pulled out a rather dubious and dusty bottle of old Cutty Sark from under the sink and we decided, for reasons that now escape me, that we still had a bit of thirst left for just a thimbleful or two of scotch. A few hours later, and much the worse for wear, the Colonel took it into his head that he had a leftover can of sealant paint that was allegedly originally used as a primer coat for the skin of the F-117 stealth fighter, and he took this paint and the tent outside where he proceeded to give the entire tent, inside and out a complete sealant spray job.

I was having a bit of trouble walking, let alone talking by that time, and I had shut my eyes to rest them for just a moment and instead woke up on a sofa in the morning with a pounding head. I then discovered that my tent was now thoroughly coated with a bright red and vaguely rubberized lining on both sides of the formerly light and rather flimsy lining. The sealant paint, or stealth aircraft fuselage primer, was quite dry now and didn't add much to the weight of the tent, for which I was quite grateful. The twice-coated fabric was now much thicker and undoubtedly at least now fully waterproof and probably quite wind-proof as well. I just hoped that it wouldn't decide someday to either self-ignite or else catch the wind and flutter off like a kite to join its military aircraft brethren in flight.

Considering the new color, it wasn't bad. My tent might now be invisible to radar but the bright red would make it stand out in the snow quite nicely, I thought. It would do!

I thanked the Colonel, who had a disgustingly clear head on this early morning, and packed up my upgraded but still a $1 discount tent and headed back home. My flight to Calgary wasn't until tomorrow, but I still needed to get the last of my gear packed and organized into my backpack. Which I eventually did, after a very long nap - and no more beer (or Cutty Sark), for the remainder of my time home.

At this point in the story, I ought to provide a decent explanation of exactly what a Geologic Field Camp is, and why it is so important. My school defined it something like this:

Field camp is an educational tradition for a geologist. It is an intensive course that applies classroom and laboratory training for solving geological problems in the field including: collection of geologic data, constructing a measured section, interpreting geologic structures and geologic mapping.

Sounds simple? Not even remotely.

Imagine that you are a plain vanilla English major and having spent your four years of college toiling along with the likes of Byron, Chaucer and Shakespeare you now discover that you have a new mandatory class to take during the summer. This is a mandatory field class where every day from sun-up to sundown for at least a full month you are forced to stand up on a stage where you must recite and defend from memory, the works of every single author you have read (or you were to have supposed to have read) during the last five years. Non-stop under a 110 degree burning sun. No shade and no mercy ... and no beer either.