Our friends over at VICE TV have put together a wild documentary anyone thinking they need a break from modern life should watch. As it turns out, there’s pretty much only one way to skin a bear, and it requires both a gut and will of iron.

In 1980, Jimmy Carter established the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in the Alaskan Interior, cutting off 19 million acres of prime boreal wilderness from the mitts of fur trappers, oil tycoons, and would-be lodge owners alike. Only six families of white settlers were grandfathered in and allowed to keep cabins in the refuge—of them, only one still stays there year-round living off the land. His name is Heimo Korth, and he is basically the Omega Man of America’s Final Frontier.

Raised in suburban Wisconsin, Heimo set off in his teens to the Alaskan Bush to pursue the Davy Crockett lifestyle in more or less the only place it was still possible. Amid numerous setbacks and misadventures, Heimo gradually learned how to master his terrain, provide for his Eskimo wife, and rear children in one of the most inhospitable environments in North America. Here, the trailer to a 5-part series.

ALSO: Interview on Treehugger with the director of Heimo’s Arctic Refuge.

The full version of Far Out: Heimo’s Arctic Refuge - Now you can watch/embed the entire uncut doc in its awesome entirety.

Interview with James Campbell - Campbell, Heimo’s cousin, wrote a critically acclaimed book about him called ‘The Final Frontiersman’.

Like food? Check out these culinary posts about other Arctic delights. Caribou Tacos are just the start.

ANWAR Caviar - it’s freshest when it’s right out the river.

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The defendant claimed temporary insanity.

I lived in paradise: a 500-person fishing village on the pacific coast of Nicaragua, where I taught English and watched the sun set everyday. Problem was, the stores in paradise didn’t sell any chocolate.

And, I like chocolate. “A day without chocolate is a day wasted,” my grandma always said.

“Megan, chocolate isn’t good for you,” said Juan, the manager of the hotel where I worked. “Here, have a tortilla.”

After a month in paradise sans chocolate, I had to get out. I joined a group passing through our tiny town to travel to a slightly less remote town on an island in the middle of a lake. Reason given: I wanted to hike Volcán Concepción, the first active volcano I would summit.

After a twelve-hour slog up and down a rainy, muddy, fog-shrouded mountain—and a less-than-climatic summit (no leaping lava, no spectacular lake view)—we arrived back to town and nursed our sore bodies and misguided expectations with fried food and liters of beer.

I had to make a stop after dinner, I told my companions, still hopeful I could make the trip worth my while. Sure enough, in town’s only grocery store, I found it: a Snicker’s bar. It was too expensive—three dollars, a third of the price of my single hotel room—but, it was chocolate, so I handed over all my money and tucked my treat into the back pocket of my jeans. I limped to the plaza and sunk into a bench, savoring my last moments of abstinence.

And then, a dog—a stray dog, huddled in a group—broke away, darted towards me, and with a well-timed and well-aimed jump, clamped down on the Snicker’s bar and snatched it from my pocket. It hesitated, and then it took off running.

Now. I did not travel to Nicaragua, trudge up and down a volcano for twelve hours, burn thousands of calories, drink a liter of beer, and pay 60 córdobas for a Snickers bar only to have a stray dog steal it out from under me. So, I too took off running.

It sprinted a block up the street—those little mangy legs moving faster than they ever had—and ducked into what I thought was a convenience store, but what turned out to be, I noticed only after I was already inside, mid-grab, a nice, normal Nicaraguan family’s home.

While it may socially acceptable for stray dogs to dart in and out of Nicaraguan homes—doors are usually left wide open in the evenings, inviting in the breeze—it is decidedly less so for wide-eyed gringas.

After I realized where I was—it all happened so fast, reaching for the Snicker’s bar, looking up and seeing an elderly woman sitting in a rocking chair, a man standing in front of a TV—I said, “ay dios, lo siento. Es que…¡el perro me robó el chocolate!”

As there really was no better way to explain my behavior than ‘the dog stole my candy’ I yanked the bar from the mouth of the equally as shocked dog, apologized again, darted out of the house, and arrived back to the plaza with an amputated Snicker’s bar in my hand.

The dog apparently had a quite a grip on the bar when I so lovingly ripped it out of its mouth, securing itself a hearty bite of more than half the bar. I thought about cutting off the infected portion and eating the rest, but seeing as better sense had finally caught up with me, I threw it away with a sad sigh. —Megan Kimble

(1 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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I know it's around here somewhere...

The good thing about skiing in a ghost town is that you have the slopes—and the bar—to yourself. And the bad would be obvious…if you believe in ghosts. Well, I don’t. But one day last spring, I found myself wondering.

I’d been in Little Cottonwood Canyon Utah for all of three days in April, which sounds late for ski season only if you’ve never skied in Utah. Fact is, April can be prime time here, well after Spring Break but before the snow goes away for good. This is a canyon from Hellgate to Salt Lake City filled with a half dozen ski areas (including Alta and Snowbird) built atop what was once a warren of mineshafts and whisky traps, and at night in late April, in Snowbird at least, eeriness pervades.

Snow does, too. Sometimes when the spring clouds roll in and hit the Wasatch Mountains soaring straight skyward at the edge of town, avalanches rip down the canyon walls and close the roads, stranding skiers overnight. The local hotels often just let the refugees camp out for a fresh tracks slumber party. My housemate at the time and I had ventured out from NYC to try our luck with the calendar, and weren’t disappointed. Soon after we arrived the sky was puffing white, and while the base areas were slushy, we were soon feasting on powder in Snowbird’s higher bowls, like those accessed off of Cirque Traverse, a double black diamond crescent of steeps that seemed to shelter snow as dry and light as crumbled Styrofoam.

But there was definitely something strange going on. For one, our hotel was dead empty and stone silent. We’d been hoping for some aprés-ski tomfoolery, but the bars sat near-empty. Scenes from ‘The Shining’ kept running through my mind. After skiing on day one, as we stood outside the Tram bar, a subterranean watering hole with a widescreen view of the steel wheels that send Snowbird’s tram skyward every day, we listened as a beer-soaked local told us about Big Bertha, a local “entertainer” who’d pleasured many a miner but died unhappily in a slide. Or something. We chuckled. Sure man. Woo, scary. Have another.

Two days later it hadn’t stopped snowing. We’d skied our way around the mountain, having a blast—powder on top, corn at midmountain—and had one more chance to rip fresh tracks in the good stuff before making our flight home to NYC. For some reason I thought of Bertha as we dropped into an upper bowl, carving big GS turns in over-the-knee powder, whooping as we went.

Then I hit a submerged ice block with my left ski, pinwheeled ass-over-teakettle, and glimpsed a streak of color out of the corner of my eye as my now-released ski soared like a javelin. Sideways, I was sure. Had anyone been near me—my roommate was out of range—they’d have been diving for cover. I didn’t see where the ski landed, but I came to rest about 50’ below the icechunk.

“You OK?” Jimmy shouted up from hundreds of feet below. I was, but my ski was AWOL. G-o-n-e. Not a trace. I started bootpacking around using my pole for a probe, and searched for 15 minutes in an ever-widening square. Then I kept searching. And searching. The ski was nowhere. Here it was our last day on the slopes, the powder had arrived, and I was spending it searching for my damn ski. Over an hour passed and I’d searched an area about the size of a basketball court. Jimmy finally hiked up. “Man, you’re going to have to go down on one ski,” he said. These were rental randoneé skis from REI, a nice pair of K2 Mount Bakers, and I winced imagining how I’d tell the guy where I’d left his gear.

Jimmy was standing below me a few meters. I’d reached both the bottom limit of my search area and my patience, sweat-soaked and angry. We were at least 75 feet from the spot I’d lost the ski. The morning was shot. Jimmy eyed me with pity and plunged his pole into the snow.

Whack. There it was. He hit it on his first jab. “No way…”

I clicked in. We had just enough time to bomb to the bottom, check out, and fly home. Thanks for the memories Bertha, we’ll miss you, too. —Christian DeBenedetti

(1 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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