North Pole Tenderfoot. Doug Hall

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      Paul’s gear was amazingly sparse. Mine weighed twice as much.

      He then showed us his gear. We were most impressed not by what he had but by how little he had. He was taking a few spare clothing items along with a mug, plate, and spoon tied by string to a bowl, a pee bottle for use during the night, and a small copy of the New Testament. That was it. I lifted his pack, then mine. I was aghast. Mine was at least twice as heavy. No, probably three times.

      Paul made it clear that no team member should bring more than twenty-five pounds of personal gear—pack and all. He said that the three most important items were those that related to protection for your eyes, hands, and feet.

      “On every trip, I’ve ended up with mild sun-blindness from the reflection off the snow,” he said. He also said he always wished he’d packed more liner socks and liner gloves.

      I wasn’t sure about my footwear, but I was confident about my protective gear for eyes and hands.

      After my local Lenscrafters manager had called their store in Anchorage for a recommendation, I bought two pairs of prescription glasses each with an extra polarization coating.

      As for hand protection, I had two favorites—a pair of handmade wool mittens I’d bought on Prince Edward Island and a set of Plunge Mitts designed by Paul’s wife, Susan. Equipped with two inner liners, they look like the giant potholders. Susan designed them especially for polar treks.

      Paul closed the meeting by telling us to ready our gear for final inspection. When he checked my pack, he said it seemed a little heavy. “Do you really need all this stuff?” he asked.

      After he left, I unpacked the pack, looking for things to eliminate. I felt the anxiety building again. What should I leave behind and would I regret leaving it when I was at the pole?

      The admiral wrote about the importance of keeping gear as light as possible.

      Careful attention must be paid to even the slightest details. Everything should be just as light as it can possibly be made. For the number of miles a party can travel depends on weight carried. Every reduction that can be made conserves mental and physical energy.

      As I sorted through my gear, my anxiety built into a full-scale panic. Admiral Peary would have called it an attack of Tornarsuk, the Arctic Devil.

      Tornarsuk was the god of the Inuit underworld. The Inuit believe that all departed spirits reside in the underworld, beneath the land and sea. Their souls are purified in preparation for their travel to the Land of the Moon—or Quidlivun—where they find eternal peace.

      The early European explorers translated Tornarsuk into a Satan-like being to create alignment with the Christian view of the world of good and evil. In time, the name became slang for Polar Hysteria.

      In medical journals Arctic panic is technically listed as Piblokto. It’s a feeling of being possessed, a simultaneous mania and depression. It feels like an urgent need to do something, anything, coupled with an inability to make a move. In the worst cases of Piblokto, victims tear their clothes off and run naked outside.

      Fortunately I was not at that stage.

      I was, however, clearly “possessed” by fear. I knew the fear was irrational, that it made no sense, but I couldn’t stop it. Panic took control of me.

      Obsessively, frantically, I began swapping out my gear—my metal bowl for a plastic one, a special knife engraved with the expedition logo for a Boy Scout pocketknife. With all the gear removed from my pack, I realized that the pack itself was part of the problem. Instead of picking a mid-size pack, I’d bought an oversized one because I figured it would be easier to pack in the cold. As I held it I realized there had been a real reason why Paul had suggested the smaller one.

      It was 7:00 P.M. as I tore open the Yellow Pages and found Valhalla Pure Outfitters. Thirty minutes later, after borrowing a rental car and driving into town, I was in front of the store.

      I sauntered inside, trying to act like a real explorer, following advice Paul Brown, founder of the Cincinnati Bengals football team, gave his players when they scored: “Act like you’ve been there before.”

      I approached the two staff members behind the sales desk and said, “Hi, I’m going to the North Pole.”