A true conservationist is a man who knows that the world is not given by his fathers, but borrowed from his children.

- John James Audubon


Athletes & Explorers

Feb 04, 2019

Full Throttle on Siberia’s ‘Road of Bones’

In February, Lithuanian extreme motorcyclist Karolis Mieliauskas will embark on a 1,000-km odyssey to the coldest inhabited place on Earth.


Kela Fetters

Back in the summer of 2017, Karolis Mieliauskas rode his single-cylinder Yamaha motorbike across frozen Lake Baikal, the deepest lake on the planet. On the seven-day, 765-kilometer journey, Mieliauskas battled snowdrifts, howling wind, massive ice fractures, and extreme cold. 

Karolis and his bike on frozen Lake Baikal.

This February, he will revv up his motorcycle’s engine for an ambitious 1,000-kilometer tour of Siberia’s infamous Kolyma Highway, dubbed the ‘Road of Bones’ due to its dark history. Mieliauskas plans to traverse a section of the treacherous artery from Yakutsk, capital city of Russia’s Sakha Republic, to Oymyakon, one of the coldest continually inhabited places on Earth.

Mieliauskas’s itinerary includes flights from his home-base in Vilnius, Lithuania, to Moscow, Russia, and from Moscow to Yakutsk. From there, he will travel 1,000 kilometers by motorcycle to Oymyakon.

The ‘Road of Bones’ is no joyride.

Something about the emptiness of Siberia enchants the 36-year-old Lithuanian. He got the itch to ride north a year and a half ago and couldn’t shake it, “though I tried to avoid the thought for a long time,” he admits. “Who wants to go to the coldest place on earth?!” Mieliauskas likens his attraction to the Road of Bones  to a mountaineer’s preoccupation with summiting Everest. Navigating the unpaved, remote Kolyma Highway just might be the motorcyclist’s equivalent of summiting the world’s tallest mountain.

Studded snow tires are a must on the ‘Road of Bones’.

The desolation, tempestuous wind, and extreme cold temperatures of the route deter most travelers; the ‘Road of Bones’ is no joyride. But in the cold and solitude, at the helm of his Yamaha, Mieliauskas finds space to meditate. “I’m a researcher of the mind,” he asserts. “I am interested in exploring the signals our brain produces in extreme situations.” His approach to mental fortitude is nothing short of superhuman. As a sort of training regimen, Mieliauskas spontaneously plunges into ice-cold lakes and streams. “Sometimes, when I am walking my dog in the middle of winter, I pass a lake, and suddenly my brain wants to jump in the freezing water,” he describes. “In that moment, my mind goes very crazy. I get signals not to do it, but when my head is underwater, there is silence. It’s the silence of truth. I’m in the water, I’m not dead—and I get out—I’m cold, but I’m alright.” In meeting the polar-plunge head-on, Mieliauskas conditions himself to tolerate freezing temperatures. “This is how I like to play with my mind—to explore the internal human,” he says.

The Sakha Republic, northern Siberia. Photo from Wikimedia Commons.

In Oymyakon, one of the coldest inhabited places on the planet, temperatures can dip to -60℃ (-72℉).

Mieliauskas’s preternatural mental fortitude is vital in a land where the thermometer dips to -60℃ (-72℉). In winter, district officials warn motorists to keep their engines running to prevent stalls. At such temperatures, mettle—and metal—can abruptly snap. Mieliauskas has the resolve to weather the Siberian winter, but is his titanium and carbon-fibre motorbike prepared for the journey? “We made preparations for technical aspects,” he says. “We had to make some modifications for the cold including aviation-grade bearings, special oil for the engine, and studded tires to avoid slipping.” His engine is bedecked with custom covers and insulation to trap heat. It’s a robust outfitting, but in the biting cold of northern Siberia, smooth sailing is far from guaranteed. “There are hundreds of question marks, but we’ll just have to see what happens on the road!” Mieliauskas laughs.

The locals have evolved their own methods of dealing with the bitter cold. Photo via Wikimedia Commons.

The Yamaha’s wheels will skitter over a causeway gouged through the permafrost by prisoners of Stalin’s gulags. Directed by Soviet mineral desire and armed with pickaxes and wheelbarrows, forced laborers scoured the frozen landscape for gold in the 40s and 50s. The Kolyma Highway emerged incrementally as a solitary, haphazard conduit to the gold panning sites. Abandoned gravel pits, scrap heaps, and work camps pockmark the tundra alongside modern-day dredgers; most locals still depend on mineral extraction for livelihood. Soviet-era prospectors died by the thousands under inhumane conditions in the gulags and exposure to the elements. Their bones littered the informal highway, lending the road its chilling nickname and the region a legacy of both human and climatological extremism.

The vehicle, complete with studded tires and custom insulation.

Mieliauskas recognizes his route’s regrettable history, but wants to explore the territory with a positive lens. He is inspired by the locals, who live in “a symbiosis with the harsh natural environment”. According to him, one night of the trip will be spent in a settlement of reindeer herders who have maintained a traditional semi-nomadic lifestyle for generations. Additionally, Mieliauskas enthuses, the territory is renowned for its abundance of exquisitely-preserved woolly mammoth remains. The capital city, Yakutsk, boasts a Mammoth Museum of fossils and facts on the extinct mammal. Aisen Nikolaev, the acting head of Sakha Republic, has even divulged plans to resuscitate the prehistoric pachyderm with genetic cloning.

Indelible preservation of Lyuba (Russian for “love”), a young woolly mammoth from 42,000 years ago.

The ‘Road of Bones’ is littered with peril and possibility, and Mieliauskas’s “come-what-may” mentality will be pushed to the limit in the punishing elements of northern Siberia. But the motorcyclist isn’t too concerned—in his own words, “Consciousness has no limits, no boundaries. To be honest, I’m more curious than afraid.”

Follow his journey on social media, via YouTube, Instagram and Facebook.

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Feb 20, 2019

The Death Zone

World champion free-diver Pierre Frolla sinks without air to depths unreachable by most scuba divers. One day he nearly didn't make it back to the surface.



Pierre Frolla

This story originally featured in print, in the fall 2015 issue of The Outdoor Journal

Deep down under the sea, so far away from where you live, I have been through the last seconds of my life.

In 2005 or 2006 (oddly I don’t remember), I had the worst accident of my freediving career. After being world champion in variable weight apnea with a dive at 123 metres, where I used a weighted sled for descent and returned to the surface by pulling myself along a line and using my fins, I was training to go deeper.

“No matter what happens to you, you’re stuck underwater. There’s nowhere else to go.”

In my sport, risks are quite important. Imagine you’re running a 400-m race. You start way too fast, and after a few hundred meters you’re out of breath and you just can’t go anymore. What do you do? You just stop, walk a bit and slowly catch your breath again. When you’re free diving, no matter what happens to you, you’re stuck underwater. There’s nowhere else to go.

The basis of my sport is quite simple. Going beyond 100 meters is mythic. Only a few hardcore specialists, including the “no limit” guys can go beyond that. Athletes use a weighted sled to dive down and an inflatable bag to return to the surface. This means that the free diver reduces his energy loss to the max, and that’s exactly why he is able to go so deep. The world record is held by Austrian Herbert Nitsch: 249.5 metres on June 6, 2012, in Santorini, Greece. The problem is that at those depths, water pressure is unbelievable! At 100 m, for example, the pressure is about 11 kg per square centimeter of your skin. Consequently, the volume of air inside the human body is pressured and reduced too. Take an empty but sealed plastic bottle: If you get to this kind of depth, it’ll greatly deform. That plastic bottle is a metaphor for your body. This also means that if water manages to seep somewhere inside you through your mouth or nose, it will do so with such force that it’ll destroy everything in its path. Drowning is inevitable, and no Apneist can be saved in such case, even if experienced help quickly intervenes.

At great depths, nitrogen becomes narcotic and leads to what is called nitrogen narcosis. This kind of intoxication from staying in great depths for too long is the same as when you drink too much. In other words, you lose total control of your body and mind, and you become unaware of potential dangers. Acting like that underwater can kill you, as the slightest mistake will have incredible consequences. In my personal training, I mix apnea in variable weight and other constant weight dives, where I dive only with the force of my arms and legs.

Today, my team and I decide to put the weight to 118 m. I know I can go down 115 m, but we want to push a little, as it’s part of training. Once down, I’ll have no choice but to go back on my own. I also know there will be a small parachute and an oxygen tank hooked to the sled, but neither will be for me. The bottle empties very slowly and inflates the balloon. Both serve only to return equipment back to the surface. It’s easier for us to work like that rather than starting a counterweight system.

If I want to live, I have only four seconds to start my ascent. But I am stunned and unable to move. I think about my team: What will they do when they go down to find me, lifeless and filled with water?

I feel my legs sinking knee-deep in a soft, thick and viscous material.

I begin my descent. I pass my midterm diver. Very soon, it gets dark. I do not have glasses because they would serve me for nothing in this environment. So I stand, with my eyes closed. I’m relaxed and sinking slowly in the water like I’m used to. I feel the pressure now, but I also suddenly feel the sledge slowing. Then it stops, softly. Usually it stops dead. When I realize that something is wrong, I feel my legs sinking knee-deep in a soft, thick and viscous material. It is almost as if moving sands are closing in on me at 112 meters below the surface. It is actually a mixture of clay and silt, a mound a few meters higher than the sonar onboard the boat. It wasn’t identified even though it stood in the stack axis of the descent of my sledge. It’s nobody’s fault; sonar is not so precise.

In no time, I understand what’s happening to me. I’m stuck. I cannot get my feet outside the box, and I know there’s no exit door. I simply do not have enough oxygen to both work my way out of this with strength and go up as I have expected, swimming, with my hands and fins. If I want to live, I have only four seconds to start my ascent. But I am stopped, stunned and unable to move. I think about my team: What will they do when they go down to find me, lifeless and filled with water? I’m dying; that’s it. Today is the day. In 15 seconds, I will have consumed all the remaining air I was keeping for my ascent. I am also a few seconds away from being caught by nitrogen narcosis. I will go crazy right before dying.

“Did I become a vegetable?”

Suddenly, I have an idea. The parachute. Yes! I trigger the opening of the small air valve, which then rushes into the parachute. It’s working but it’s slow and long. So I wait, very still, with my eyes closed. I have no other choice. I try to relax. Everything at 112 m is multiplied by 10. One consumed oxygen molecule at the surface is equal to 10 or 12 molecules consumed at that kind of depth. One second is equivalent to 10 seconds. Time and life are both very cruel at the bottom of an ocean. I am now barely conscious. Finally, I remember feeling the chute tearing me away from my trap like a champagne cork. The ascent back to the surface, back to life, is way too long. When I reach the surface, I have strangely not entirely lost consciousness, but my body no longer responds to my brain. Did I become a vegetable? My team, frightened, retrieves and saves me. If I had not been so well-trained, I would not have survived this scary adventure. Instead of the planned 2 minutes and 40 seconds that I went down under water for, I stayed 3 minutes and 50 seconds. In the boat, I gradually recover and quickly regain all my abilities.

Pierre Frolla reascending to the surface, following the guideline with the sled and parachute attached to it.

A few years later, I’m on a movie set doing 60-m free diving over and over all day long, and an air bubble is created in my brain on one of these repetitive dives. But instead of being redirected into my lungs, it remains stuck in my head. When ascending, inevitably, this tiny compressed air bubble suddenly decompresses and its size gets multiplied by six. I immediately lose consciousness. Later, I wake up in a hyperbaric chamber. I stay there for eight and a half hours. But when I wake up in that box, I cannot feel my body. I’m unable to move. For hours, I do not know if I will stay quadriplegic or not. This awakening in the box is one of my worst-ever memories of free diving. I do not understand what is happening to me. It takes me 30 minutes to remember that I was free diving and to deduce that I certainly had a bad accident.

Apnea is an extreme sport. I’ll remember it always. Yesterday I dived to 113 meters. I’ll do it again tomorrow.

Photos by Franck Seguin

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