This November 6th will be three years since we finished our transit to and through the Northwest Passage.  During this time I’ve been busy writing the book, trying to get the documentary up and running, and in general trying to readjust to “normal” life.  I’m very pleased to say that the book, The Other Side of The Ice has been written and published (available through this site) and the documentary is about two months away from being “in the can” (HD video clips of that too are available on this site).  That takes care of the book and doc.  What remains to be dealt with is something that, on occasion, I’ve had a rough time doing, and that is returning to “normal” life.

Since that wonderful evening when we shut down the engines on Bagan in Seattle for the final time, my life has been filled, if not at times overwhelmed, with rich, powerful and deep memories of what my family and I accomplished.  If these memories started to fade, working on the book and documentary, as well as bringing them up daily revived not only a mental but visual sense.  The kids (grown adults!) and I get together far more than before.  Here too, memories are stirred up and welcomed.  That’s the “up” side.  As with just about everything in life, there is usually a “down” side.  It’s a balance that at times, seems to weigh more in one direction than the other.  What has surprised me is the ongoing strength and volume of this downside, trying not to be outdone by the upside of all the wonderful memories.

As you may have gathered from some of the pictures, video, blogs or book excerpts found on this site, for a large part of the trip we encountered harrowing circumstances.  They were so much so that one of the crew crumbled and couldn’t go on.  In all honesty, I have to say that from time to time and far more often than expected, had I known such depths of despair, hopelessness and downright fear.  During that summer, I was sure that the real reason behind the trip was the ultimate irony and that I was bringing my children, those whom I love the dearest, to their deaths.  It’s nothing a parent, let alone trip leader, should ever have to think.  And just as the magnificent sights and memories will forever be etched into my consciousness, these terribly dark times have become a part of me. From time to time, they raise their ugly, threatening heads.  Last year I was driving along Southport Island here in Maine.  At one point, the road ran out and I could see through the thick forest of pines, a roaring ocean not 200 yards away, pounding on a rocky coast.  Suddenly my heart was in my throat, my mouth went dry and I said in no uncertain terms to the person driving, “Let’s get out of here… now!”  I experienced that same sense of fear and hopelessness while trapped in the ice or battling the gales of the Gulf of Alaska.  It all comes back with a vengeance.  Little did I know that this dark side isn’t limited to bad dreams or the occasional sense of doom.  Sometimes I feel it when editing the pictures for the book or footage for the documentary.  During those many weeks in the Arctic, when we had no options and were at Mother Nature’s mercy, I visited a very deep and powerful place in myself.  It’s a place that harbors black fears and jagged anxieties that I’m sure one seldom sees in their lifetime.  Now that these “monsters” have partially come out from under the bed, they are a part of me every bit as much as the wonderful and indescribably beautiful memories are.

Yes, the trip has changed my life in ways I least expected and sometimes those changes are quite a force to be reckoned with!

- Sprague

We, I anyway, have always looked back at the men from the 1800s, the adventurers who took on the challenge of trying to find the Northwest Passage with absolutely no assurances that they would come back alive.  They did so with nothing but flat-footed awe and reverence.  In fact, if one were able to draw up the odds and likelihood that they would have a safe return, I’m sure this number wouldn’t move from the single digits.   For this reason, in my writing, I referred to these amazing men as “Supermen”, the true heroes of their day, for which they unarguably were.  We aboard Bagan and they, the “Supermen,” may have been sharing a similar challenge.  However, any comparisons stop there for they, unlike us, had no comfort such as modern electronics, electronics that will show within a three foot radius where they/we were at any given moment.

Today the power of a GPS is taken for granted.  But for those men in the doomed Franklin Expedition of 1845, knowing precisely where they were from moment-to-moment would have literally been a God send.  For them to be able to make use of a satellite phone, albeit it with very limited success, as we did was something that assuredly never entered their conscious thinking.  Even something as mundane as watching a DVD, (oh, let me count the times the crew watched “Caddy Shack”) for a needed distraction, was over a hundred years in coming.  We, on Bagan, were able to take advantages of these modern day devices, whereas those heroes of the 19th century were iced in and blissfully ignorant of possibilities to come.

Yet there is one thing that doesn’t require much imagination. It’s to know that we shared the tedious hours and days of waiting and the depths to which one’s thinking could sink.  It’s the complete and total lack of familiar visual distractions that could help pull, even the darkest of thoughts, into a comfortable level of familiarity.  They, as we, shared these hallow, dark and tenuous hours and days and, what’s more, we most probably all shared the feeling of, “If he says one more word I will pick up that flare gun and either stick it in my ear or his!” 

Even adventures separated by 164 years know how tenuous relationships can be in such situations.  I love my family dearly, as they hopefully love me.  But there were certainly those moments, when my thoughts consisted of anything but family love!!

Yet 19th century or 21st century, this sharing of despair, emotionally tight living quarters, very little room for a breath of quiet and uninterrupted self-reflection stops at a certain point.  We of the 21st century were able to distract ourselves by means of any one of the above mentioned modern electronic devices.  We were able to somewhat create our own zone of “self” and comfort by staring at Bill Murray, watching him chase a gopher for the umpteenth time. Like the men from Franklin’s Erebus and Terror, we didn’t all share one cramped living space watching as ice formed around and upon us.  At the very least, we had dependable diesel heat.  Unbelievably these men lived literally inches apart, for years on end, and for the most part were reported to keep their sanity.  This again is why, when looking back at our trip to and through The Northwest Passage and thinking of those from the 19th century who went before, there is absolutely no comparison between us and these “Supermen,” these true heroes of their day. I am humbled.

- Sprague

I’ve come though this ordeal mentally and physically exhausted.  While there’s hope on the horizon, if not directly in my hands, it’s going to be a slow but decisive trip back to where I was a day before the original podiatrist removed that original tiny sliver of a bone chip (“It’s supposed to look like that.”).  CRPS is a brutal and vicious syndrome.  Everywhere I’ve been, all the doctor’s I’ve worked with, all the research that I’ve done, I keep coming upon statistics of the numbers of reported cases, which is actually the gist of this blog. If you have CRPS (RSD), know of someone who does, or are simply curious about it, I’d love to hear from you.  You’ve been patient enough to read each part of this blog and share in my experience.  I’d love nothing more than to read of yours.  So much of the healing process, the “road back to wellness” is sharing and communication.  It’s my hope that in this blog you can feel free enough to do everything from letting out your frustrations, share your hopes and success stories or simply ask a question.  By no means is this to say that I’ve any answers, nor am I a professional in any sense of the word.  But perhaps through this sharing we can all help each other find some relief, answers and hope.

It wasn’t.

During the next five months the levels of pain that I experienced in that toe and now ankle were second to none.  Twenty four hours a day it felt as though someone with a very blunt 1950s style “church key” can-opener was trying to cut down to my bone from the tip of my little toe up to my ankle.  The pain was nonstop, at times worse than others and it was then that I started being unable to sleep on my left side for any contact with my left foot and my sleeping bag was torturous.

On November 6th, after five very long, harrowing and at times almost deadly months, we arrived in Seattle, WA.  We became the first production power boat in history to transit the fabled Norwest Passage.  While the tremendous joy and sense of great accomplishment filled me, the pain from my foot was there at every step to strip me of any comfort or ease which I should have had.  By this time, the searing and burning pain was so intense that it was no longer simple affecting me physically.  It was starting to take a tremendous toll on my mental and emotional outlook.  To date, no doctor had been able to stop the onslaught of crippling pain and my outlook on life was dropping quickly.  Simply put, the pain ruled my life and was now starting to compromise my mental stability.  The only comparison I have for CRPS is to try and imagine living with a person who shrieks brutal assaults in your ear 24/7… and there is simply no getting rid of this person.

That spring I simply couldn’t take the torture anymore; my sleep had been compromised to no end, my personal relationships suffered and I starred a slow slide into isolation.  Pain killers no longer helped.  I stared to get request for presentations and talks on the trip through the Passage and tried to meet these as best I could.  It’s no exaggeration to say I look back at these talks through a murky cloud of pain and discomfort.  By that time, it hurt to smile.

In April, I found myself sitting in front of one of the top neurologist in one of Boston’s leading hospitals.  I’d been a patient here before and the level of care and knowledge I found was as many other from around the world had also received.  I was in front of the best who worked for the best.  After several more tests, this doctor told me that the toe nerve had been “compromised” and it was his opinion that a section of it had to be removed, six inches to be precise.  I agreed.  Anything to stop the pain.  As for seeking a second opinion, I felt that this doctor was in all actuality my third or even forth opinion. The surgery was preformed, and as I was warned, I came out of it with not only the nerve gone (which had excessive amounts of scar tissue on it) but so was the feeling in a third of my foot.  Eight weeks later the pain was back.  In fact, it had never left and now it was off the charts extended up and above my ankle.  I went back to the neurosurgeon.  He strongly recommend that a further section of nerve be removed.  Once again, if it meant a break from the daily and hourly physical hell I was in, I agreed.  By this point, mentally I slid very far down into a dark, dank and oppressive rabbit hole. I had never know the likes of a place like this.  Eight weeks later this invisible monster or pain was back with a vengeance.  Normal daily life was a constant emotional challenge and a good night’s sleep was something of which I had vague memories.  While I never quite got to a level where I felt that ending my life would end the torture, I do have to say, in all honesty, that many times I truly understood why people sought this route of finality.  I couldn’t walk, I couldn’t expose my foot to a bath or shower, the pain was a constant.  Any joy or hope that entered into my life was immediately filtered by the screeching pain.  If I didn’t have a day with at least one good crying jag of total frustration I considered it a good day.  Thirty-three years prior to that summer, I had stopped drinking and using drugs.  At no time during this hell was I tempted to start using again but will not take any credit for that.  I’m a very firm believer in a guiding entity which has served me time and again in my life.  Here too He/She supported me and listened to my entries of “Please, just get me through this day.”

Check back soon for the final installment of this blog…

I was about a year away from doing the Northwest Passage trip.  Like my crew, I was doing as I’d asked of them, which was to take care of any nagging medical issues, regardless how small. Get things squared away before we headed out for five months of trying to do what few had done before us: go by boat from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean, via the Arctic.  A year earlier I’d broken my baby toe landing from an ill-advised jump from my boat.  All this occurred during a Panama Canal transit voyage.  The toe healed, but from time to time, perhaps every six weeks, I’d suffer a quick sharp pain.  It was nothing debilitating but definitely bothersome.  On advice from friends, I made an appointment with a renowned podiatrist in New York.  In no short order, he found the culprit.  There was a tiny sliver of bone chip that occasionally wedged itself sideways in the joint of my little toe.  I made an appointment for him to remove it, a fifteen minute surgery at worst.  That would be that.  While flat on my back on his table, as he was removing the bone chip, I noticed excess dust behind him on the floor.  It was coming from his air conditioner; my mother used to call them “dust bunnies.”   Both sights hinted that things would not be that simple, and indeed it was the beginning of years of trying to correct what he was now damaging.  The result is a long, expensive, tedious, and at times, completely depressing story that I’ll do my best to keep short.

After this small chip removal, three days later, my toe had doubled in size and was dark purple.  I went back to the doctor to register my growing concern.  His response was, “It’s supposed to look like that.”  Within hours, I was in the office of a good friend who is a well respected back surgeon in New York City.  One phone call later, and I was in the office of a wonderful orthopedic surgeon who, after poking and prodding for a few minutes ordered and MRI.  A day later the results were back from the MRI where a very obvious bone infection had been spotted.  Inside of a week, I was admitted to the Hospital For Special Surgery in New York. From here Dr. Marty O’Malley and his team proceeded to open my toe and “drill out” the infection.  I was sent home with great encouragement and lots of confidence that the infection was arrested.  Two week later, my toe was swollen and purple again.  The pain was as though the doctors were still cutting it but with a white hot knife.  Back to Marty, back to an MRI, back to HSS where once again they doctors had to drill out yet a new infection in the bone.  Two weeks later the pain was worse than ever.  My toe simply couldn’t take any more surgery, so I was sent to see an infectious disease specialist.  He agreed that some infection was still present and ordered a six-week portable IV drip.  I was to self-administer the antibiotics to myself twice a day, for an hour at a time.  The rest of the day I went about my business with a small tube and shunt dangling from my arm.  Keep in mind that at the time the “rest of my business” consisted of trying to prepare the boat and crew for the upcoming five month arctic trip which, according to history, had about a thirty-percent promise of success.  It was at this point that thanks to some very greedy men and impotent government agencies that the financial wreck of 2008 came down around us, and I’d lost all promised funding for the trip.

Check back soon for the second installment of this three-part blog…