[One of the two caving clubs, I’m a member of, the Yorkshire Subterranean Society (YSS), recently very kindly asked me, if I’d like to do a little write-up for their magazine about my participation in Leven Brown’s Northwest Passage Expedition. Too good a chance to miss out on, so I said yes. The following is an exact replica of my article, which was published as part of YSS Magazine, edition 473, on 7 April 2025. The photos are also identical, with the feature photo above also being the magazine cover. The only difference is that I added headings to each paragraph. The headline had been created by the editor of the magazine.]
SHIPWRECKED IN THE ARCTIC – YSS MEMBER
STEFAN HACKER ABOUT HIS ATTEMPT
TO ROW THE NORTHWEST PASSAGE
End of May last year, I was eyeballing my twitter feed and noticed that one of the people I’m following there, a full-time adventurer and former elite soldier called Art ‘Karts’ Huseonica, posted about a Northwest Passage rowing expedition. Apparently one of the expedition members had broken his arm and they were now looking for someone to replace him with.
SPICE IN THE MIX
For as long as I can think, I had always dreamt of going on a daring expedition to a dangerous, faraway part of the world, where few people had ventured before. I contacted Art, who got me in touch with Leven Brown, the expedition leader. The most difficult part was getting my lovely wife, Ellie, who is also a YSS member, to agree to my plans. Once that was sorted, it took a few emails and two one-hour video calls and I was in. I still don’t know how an office worker like me, with zero expedition and next to no adventure experience was chosen. It might have worked in my favour, that the competition was limited, due to the extremely short notice. That said, Leven is known for choosing a wild mix of people for his expeditions, including folk with no prior experience. He calls it ‘spicing up the mix.’ So it is entirely possible that I was the spice here.
THE SECOND LEG OF THE NORTHWEST PASSAGE EXPEDITION
The only other expedition member, apart from Leven and Art, was Mike Harding, an ex-special ops guy from the Royal Marines. He has served in Afghanistan and other war zones, with one of his specialties being Arctic warfare. Like Leven, he was a part of the first leg (of two) of the expedition. In 2023, an eight-person rowing team had rowed all the way from the Eastern entry point of the Northwest Passage, Pond Inlet, to the midway point, Cambridge Bay (the whole Passage is within Canadian territory). This year, the four of us were going to attempt to row the same ocean-rowing boat, Hermione, from Cambridge Bay to the Beaufort Sea, another 1,800km out of a total distance of 3,750km.
MY NORTHWEST PASSAGE ROWING EXPEDITION TRAINING PLAN
Under normal circumstances, the advice is to develop a training plan and to do everything you can, to make sure that you are in the best possible shape you can be, when you start the expedition. I ended up doing the exact opposite: I skipped all of the more adventurous activities like caving and ultra-trail running, because of the injury risk, and the remaining activities because of lack of time. It turned out to be much more time-consuming than expected, to purchase all the gear and Arctic expedition-grade clothing, find sponsors, and to get everything organised.
ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE BAY
On 22 July, I arrived in Cambridge Bay, together with Mike. Art and Leven picked us up from the tiny airfield. The frontier town of less than 2,000 souls, is by far the biggest settlement along the Northwest Passage. It is located 250km West of King William Island, where, about 175 years ago, all 129 men of the Franklin Expedition had perished (strictly speaking, some of them had died earlier on). Many men have lost their lives before and after, trying to find the sea lane that was supposed to shorten the trade route to the Far East.
FINAL PREPARATIONS
We spent ten days, getting everything ready, checking all the equipment, doing maintenance, relaunching Hermione (she had overwintered on the beach at up to -65C, with everything, including our food rations, two guns, and electronic gear, on board), doing some shooting practice, and waiting for good weather. When Art and Leven had arrived, ten days before Mike and me, the whole sea in the area had still been completely frozen over.
SETTING OFF TO SEA
On 2 August 2024, we finally set off to sea. It was a big moment for all four of us. There was no turning back now. We’d be on our own. No support. No settlements along our route. If one of us would get seriously ill or injure himself, then we would most likely have to radio the Coast Guard, who in good weather might take a day or two to get to us in an extreme emergency, much longer in bad weather or if deemed a lower priority.
NO MORE NIGHTMARES
I remember vividly, how during the run-up to the expedition, I had had all kinds of nightmares. I would dream that I wake up in terrible pain only to see a polar bear rip through my intestines, while standing over me. Another dream was that I was floating in the Arctic Ocean on my back, on a quiet, moon-lit night, watching the boat drift away from me. Luckily, those dreams were gone now. If I’d have to describe my state of mind, I’d use words like excited, confident, full of anticipation and positive energy.
PESKY FURRIES
That said, we all were still concerned about those pesky furries, the world’s biggest land predator, and probably the only species who naturally sees humans as a food source. I’ve seen a video of the first leg of the expedition, that shows a very hungry polar bear sprinting towards the team, then the gun jams, so one of the team grabs the other gun, loads it, and fires a warning shot right in front of the paws of the bear. The bear now no more than 8 metres away. In shock, the bear falls onto his face, gets up again, turns around, faceplants again, then sprints away. In 2023, my team-mates saw plenty of polar bears.
ADVERSE CONDITIONS
In a way, it was a disappointment, that we didn’t see any on our leg of the expedition. However, we did manage to get our fair share of excitement, too, even though the first few weeks were frustratingly slow. The winds and currents were hardly ever favourable. Even on the rare occasions when we would have had tailwind, the winds were regularly way too strong for a tiny little rowing boat. Most of the time, both the winds and the currents were adverse. The longest wait for good weather was a full eight days.
STRATEGY AND ROTATION
Whenever there was a brief weather window, we would row non-stop for as long as the window would last. Often the wind and currents during those windows would still, at least for some of the time, be adverse, but at low speed and from a side angle, not full-frontal. We had a complex and variable rotation system that I won’t bore you with. The short of it is that usually for the first 12 hours or so all four of us rowed as hard as we could (well, one of us at the helm, the other three rowing, taking turns at the helm every 30 minutes). After 12 hours, one of us would be given the option to rest for two hours. When he returned, the next man was given the option. Depending on the weather conditions and one’s personal needs, you either did or didn’t take the opportunity to rest.
A CAREFUL SKIPPER
Sometimes, when there were strong winds, dangerous currents, or high waves, it was clear to all of us, that rest-time was not a good idea. While the Northwest Passage is known for its ferocious, hurricane-strength storms, our skipper was meticulous and extremely careful, in making sure that we never saw persistent winds stronger than 40mph and gusts of more than 60mph, while unprotected at sea. And this was only on two occasions and for very short periods of time. If Leven deemed the risk too high, we’d simply stay anchored in or immediately row towards a protected bay. The highest continuous waves were only a bit over four feet, with two overlapping currents occasionally causing a few bigger waves. Much smaller waves will still break all over the deck, which is close to the water.
FREEZING TEMPERATURES
Apart from the first ten days, when the temperatures were at an all-time high of up to 18C, the range was almost always between -5C and 5C. This doesn’t sound too bad. However, you are constantly exhausted, soaked with sea spray, the occasional drizzle, sometimes rain. There’s wind. The expedition-grade Gore-Tex outer layers we wore, turned into wet paper after a day of exposure. Even with our heavy sailors’ oils on top, the difference was perhaps that you’re mainly soaked in sweat, no longer by sea spray or rain. For the whole time while we were at sea, I hardly ever didn’t feel cold.
NINE LAYERS OF CLOTHING
When rowing, we were sometimes only wearing underwear under our outer layers. As soon as we switched to resting or to man the helm, we put on up to 8 or 9 additional layers, and it still felt like the cold was going to kill us.
POLAR BEAR WATCH
During bad-weather windows, when we were anchored, we always had two men on polar bear watch, while the other two were completing errands, eating, or sleeping. Those were not entirely joyful times, as the shift pattern was usually four hours on, four hours off, with no chance to spend time in the cabin. In a way, they were amongst the most memorable times, though, as the only way to temporarily push the cold out of your mind, was to talk with your fellow polar bear watchman. After a week at sea, the four of us probably knew more about each other than most of our closest friends at home.
REACHING CAPE HOPE
After about four weeks at sea, mostly waiting, occasionally rowing more than 24h and more than 100km in a single push, we reached a vital point on our route: Cape Hope. It is where the Northwest Passage switches from a North/Northwest direction, back into a Western direction. We anchored and started our polar bear watch/rest shift pattern. We had arrived in the evening and prepared for the night.
“FINALLY SOME BANG FOR MY BUCK”
My first day shift started at 7am. Art greeted me with a “Looks like a fun day ahead of us.” Once you’ve lived on a boat for a while, you sleep through all kinds of strong winds. So I was surprised, when I noticed how much stronger the winds and how much higher the waves had grown. An hour into my shift, Art was relieved by Leven. I remember, jokingly saying to Leven “finally some bang for my buck, this adventure hasn’t been that adventurous until now.” As usual, Leven was up for a bit of banter, picking it up where I had left it and within a couple of minutes, we both were spinning the most bizarre ideas of what is or would be and what isn’t good value when it comes to expeditions in general and in particular.
“THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!”
Right in this moment of levity, Leven suddenly shouted “Wake Mike up. This is an emergency. The rocks are getting closer very quickly. Main anchors must have been ripped off. We might have to abandon the boat.”
ANCHOR ACROBATICS
Leven got Art from the rear cabin. Then Art and I would get into our rowing positions, while Mike was manning the helm, later on joining us at the oars. Leven would pull the reserve anchor, which was useless at holding us in position, but which was able to cause enough friction to influence the boat’s direction. He would throw the anchor in front of the bow, our boat – with us rowing hard – would go through a motion like a pendulum, then he would pull the anchor again, then throw it again in front of the bow. And so on. This enabled us to keep the boat from crashing into the most vicious rocks and breaking into little bits.
DISASTER AVOIDED, CRACK IN THE HULL
We did hit a lot of rocks, though, before we managed to emergency beach. About 150l of water had gotten into the boat through a four-foot long crack at the bottom of the hull, under the bow. That first night after our emergency beaching was another moment I’ll never forget. We all sat around a campfire. Talking a little, but not much. Enjoying the warmth of the burning driftwood. The next day we did some exploring on the Northern tip of the American mainland. We found a human skull which we guessed was from a Caucasian hunter who had met his maker five or ten years earlier. Less than a mile away, we discovered an Inuit burial site, which must have been more than a hundred years old, judging from its very heavy, traditional set-up.
TEMPORARY FIX FOR THE LEAK
It took us five days to apply a temporary patch to the leak and to refloat the 2.5t heavy boat. The Canadian Coast Guard offered on various occasions to rescue us by helicopter, but we declined their generous offer, because we wanted to complete our expedition.
A TRICKY SITUATION
The plan at this stage was to use our 7hp (sic!) emergency electric motor, to reach the nearest settlement, Paulatuk, almost 400km away, which has 290 residents. Then we would apply a permanent fix to the leak, motor back, then start rowing again to complete our expedition. However, after less than 100km, the motor broke, so it was back to rowing. With the coast now, for the first time, no longer flat, but steep rock cliffs, and with a serious risk of Hermione’s hull disintegrating in case we hit any submerged obstacles, the situation was tricky, to put it mildly. During the previous weeks, we had run aground on many occasions, once three times within a ten-minute time span. Because of all the delays, the risk of autumn storms was now a lot higher, too.
A YEAR’S WAGES FOR FIVE DAYS’ WORK? THANKS NO.
We offered the Inuit in Paulatuk a year’s pay for a five-day job of rescuing us, but there were no takers. We only found out later, that apart from the obvious risk of taking us up on the offer (the only boats in the settlement are small outboard motor fishing boats without a cabin), the elders of the local tribe had forbidden everyone from helping us. We believe it was superstition, not anything more sinister. On the way to safety, we encountered several further situations, that could have easily led to us no longer having to worry about our pensions.
THE AUTOPILOT
Perhaps the most dangerous situation, was, when in almost zero visibility, we had decided to switch on the autopilot. We were, of course, fully aware that autopilots, just like compasses and GPS, don’t work particularly reliably that close to the North Pole. However, the consensus was, that manual steering in the prevailing conditions would be unfeasible, so we went ahead. Now, to enable the autopilot, you have to manually tie the cords from the rudder, which the man at the helm uses to steer the boat (one cord with a handlebar in his right hand, one in his left hand) to two protrusions on the electronic machine that is the autopilot. Further steps are involved. This process takes 5 minutes to complete. And, unfortunately, also 5 minutes to undo. So for at least 5 minutes you will not be able to manually steer in an emergency situation.
RIPPED OUT OF THE FOG
As luck would have it, exactly such a situation arose. In those partially uncharted, partially badly charted waters, we noticed way too late, that we had gotten much too close to the cliff. At that stage, I was rowing and had fallen into a kind of trance, due to the exhaustion. I was ripped out of that fog by Mike shouting at Leven, who was now in the rear cabin, where the autopilot is located: “I’m telling you, Leven, nothing moves! It doesn’t matter how hard I pull!”
A VERY CLOSE CALL
It went back and forth, until, finally, the autopilot was successfully taken off and Mike was able to steer. Leven rushed back to the helm, asked Mike to get into his rowing position, and the three of us were rowing for our dear lives to avoid impact. At that stage, we were no more than 25 metres away from the cliff, less than two boat lengths. The following night was one of only three nights when we saw Northern Lights, which, from that far up North, were to our South.
REACHING PAULATUK
When we finally reached Paulatuk, a few days later, we were all rather euphoric. It soon became clear, that with so much time lost and with no immediate help with repairs available, the expedition was over, which was sad. But overwhelmingly, it was a feeling of relief, that we had made it to safety. That we were back in civilisation. For six weeks we had not seen a single other human being. There were only 350km left to the Beaufort Sea, but chances were that none of us would ever try to row the final stretch. If we would have succeeded, then we would have been only the second expedition to row the Passage in full, the first to do it in its intended direction, Northwest, and the first to complete the traverse in only two seasons.
RAISING AWARENESS OF CLIMATE CHANGE
Despite the failure of the expedition, we had achieved our goal of raising awareness of climate change. Newspapers reporting about our expedition always mentioned that it only became possible due to the reduction in sea ice over recent years. We had successfully collected data for the climate research department at New York University, and I had also raised more than £10,000 for charity, other expedition members a further £40,000.
BACK IN OLD BLIGHTY
A few days after our arrival in Paulatuk, I was back in London. I had sore limbs for more than three months, and felt constantly cold, despite wearing full gear including my Arctic down jacket inside the flat, with the central heating on full blast. But on balance, I feel like this expedition was the best thing I’ve ever done, and I’m very pleased that I had been given a chance to be a part of it. It’s also good to be back. Now I can finally return to caving. Less than two years ago, I got myself my first SRT kit. A buddy of mine and I have plans to continue with our guided ventures into the Three Counties System, and Ellie and I are definitely planning on joining more YSS trips soon.
[I did indeed end up joining YSS on another caving trip recently, when we went on a fun but absolutely gruelling eight-hour trip into Britain’s deepest and second largest cave: Ogof Ffynnon Ddu in South Wales, involving a lot of squeezing, some rappelling, swimming, wading, climbing, sliding, crawling, and walking. If you are interested in learning how to cave, joining a caving club like YSS is a great and extremely affordable way to do it. This trip was the cost of transport and food, plus £16 in total for two nights at a reciprocal caving club. The annual membership sets you back another £16, mandatory insurance is £18 p.a. The professionally guided, multi-hour trips into the various caves were free in this case. Sometimes, each caver is being asked for £1 or £2 to contribute to the on-site borrowing fee for the key or similar. Beginners usually can borrow clothing and gear from the club for free for the first few trips. Should you be interested in picking up ocean rowing, then a one-day ocean rowing taster course is a good way to find out what to expect.]
