Aufeis on the Aichilik just downriver from the confluence of the Leffingwell Fork

To make it to the airstrip, we had to reford the Aichilik- though this time below the confluence with the Leffingwell Fork with higher water. We planned to make it to the landing strip a day early. My digestive track was upset- to say the least- so we determined if we arrived a day early and there was a chance of being picked up it was worth it; if not, a great chance to explore around the camp. This was a known wolf area as well, so spending extra time seemed to be a good idea.

Walking out of camp I literally almost tripped over a sandpiper chick; startled, it squawked and hopped across the tundra, still flightless, with the same general markings as an adult but rounder, still with its baby fuzz. Perhaps finding nests was purely happenstance. Or extreme patience. Luck. Or blessing. Certainly it is privilege at its essence.

A large patch of lupine stands out on the tundra

We made our way down into the riverbed and forded the Leffingwell, continuing downriver on the east side of the Aichilik. A large area of aufeis, perhaps cooled by the shade of the canyon in which it sat, highlighted the curve of the river with its graceful white blue ice. Mark, the one with the highest liklihood of wet boots, scouted another crossing. We found it downriver another kilometer or so, a deeper clear stream, but easily passable. Even so, just the incremental increase in depth from previous crossings resulted in exponential additional force. The water was cold, so cold that it was painful at first, and almost immediately numbing. I felt fortunate that our crossings had been so relatively easy. And yet the frigidity of the river, the crossing itself, made me feel vigorously alive.

Once across the river, we ascended the bank to another long, open plateau. The landscape here is gentle, but hard, fragile, but indescribably tenacious, grand and approachable. It is wide and deep and open enough to hold even paradox. To hold life and to hold spirit. A long ago seabed, it knows the varied elements of the earth. It is ancient and it is wise.

A startled ptarmigan

Mark demonstrates the tussock depth for the last mile and a half of walking

This last plateau we would walk became tussocked almost immediately, the largest of our trip, up to a foot and a half or two feet deep. We worked for our mileage. Hard. Peter almost stepped on a ptarmigan, still slightly white under its belly, which squawked and flew a short distance away. The boys had the last of the Eat Local flapjacks, relishing each buttery bite. I guzzled nuun. Mark had already finished his gorp; Peter was saving the last bit for our last day. And finally we arrived.

Peter and Shannon at the last camp

An airstrip in the Arctic is simply a large, flat and dry enough space for a plane to land, no more. There are no markings, other than perhaps a tire track from  previous landing on wet tundra. We located the vicinity of the airstrip, and continued on to the river to camp. This camp sat at the end of the foothills; the coastal plains stretched out in front of the last range of mountains. After extensive scouting for sign, we soon had the Whisperlite hissing, the titanium pot dancing and made our last cups of tea.

The next day was rainy, 800 foot ceilings, and a thick fog rolling in from the plains. There would be no early pick up, and there was little visibility for exploration. We read and journaled and napped and fit in a couple of warm meals. Our final morning all we had was fog and a few lower clouds starting to burn off. Peter and I rose early to take another river bath. Another immersion in Arctic waters. Clear. Cold. Cleansing. Life giving. I got out first, dried and dressed. Peter was still drying when I saw a large flash of brown out of the corner of my eye.

One of the wolves on the bluff

“WHOOOAA,” I said in a low voice and immediately regretted it. Two large brown black wolves, downwind of us, stood at the river and leaned to drink. Their powerful canine shape dark against low silver-green willows and the deep blue of the river beyond them. A streak of sun bouncing off the water. Beautiful. Wild. At my low exclamation they looked up. And as quickly as they appeared, they trotted off on the tundra, keeping a wide arc around us and pausing occasionally to peer back. One ascended the bluff well beyond our camp, and then joined the second again in the willows. They disappeared as silently and magically as they had appeared, part of the wilderness we so often don’t see, or wont see. But which surely sees us.

Mark, Shannon and Peter hours before pickup

In my journal I wrote “I don’t ever want to leave this place.” And yet after eleven days in the backcountry, with our ursacks now empty of food and tea, our packs easily cinching down and pounds lighter, a few handfuls of nuts left, and a cold north wind blowing, the sound of the bush plane is a welcome one. It is so welcome that it appears ghostlike in your auditory imagination time after time before it actually appears. Standing at the pick-up point goes something like this. “I think I hear it.”
“Do you? I don’t hear anything.”
“No, I hear something. Maybe he’s behind the ridge.”
“Probably picking his way through the crud.”
“I still don’t hear anything.”
“No wait, I think I hear it too!”

And so on, For hours. Until the plane shows up.

But even in the front seat of the 185, warm air blowing on cold fingers, there is a feeling of wrenching, of pulling, of separation, of pain, in leaving a place that is sacred, and wild, and free, such as that place inside of all of us where we only dare to go on occasion because it is mystery, and mystery scares us. When we are in the landscape that is also sacred, we know we are a part of it, but comforts of our own creation, though superficial, pull us away. So we leave with that part of us as wild as the land enlarged, perhaps, or strengthened, or at least renewed.

Fording the Aichilik

The first order of business the next morning- morning relating only to the time we had breakfast and started moving, not hours on the clock- was to ford the Aichilik. From there we would ascend the saddle crossing over the range to the Leffingwell Fork.

Though we had been hiking on the Aichilik for the past two days, we had not scouted the eastern channel, which seemed to be primary. The north wind still blew cold, and the idea of ending up submerged in an Arctic river, or even temporarily soaked, did not sound appealing.

Peter and I put on our Chacos, and Mark kept on gaiters. We walked across the numerous tertiary channels to reach the main channel on the east. Mark walked ahead, scouting crossings. The view of the water from the other side of the river had been deceptive; the crossing was shallow, only up to our mid-calves, and we walked easily through the clear icy water. A wolf print on the other side of the river was imprinted in the sand.

Looking down on the Aichilik from the upper bank

Tundra walking from the river was dry and easy. We ascended a hundred feet up a very steep bank, and from there it leveled out. Caribou trails continued to cross the sides of the mountains here, left from tens of thousands crossing this saddle. Though there were no animals in view it was as though we could see them, hear them, running across this tundra just days before. As we enjoyed the shelter from the wind from the ridge to our north, the mosquitoes set in, never missing a moment’s opportunity. The saddle rose gently after the steep bank, and from its top descended as gently to the Leffenwell Fork. The valley of the Leffenwell opened on the descent, another gentle, approachable valley, a friendly, small river and high peaks to the south toward the Continental divide seeming to hold back the dark clouds. We camped that night on the banks of the Leffingwell Fork with the low roil of a rock garden below us, the mezzo gurgling of the rocks just outside camp, and the soprano of occasional splashes over large rocks upstream.

Back out of the mountains, we donned jackets and gloves to protect from the strong north wind. Our kitchen- where we kept all of our gear other than sleeping gear- was on a rocky beach just off a small channel of the river, and for the first time we had the company of harlequin ducks flying and floating by us, though keeping a fair distance.

Peter and Mark dig into the powdered eggs

By this stage in the trip we had progressed to full-on food fantasies. it is unclear in the annals of outdoor adventures whether this is brought on by some chemical in the freeze dried food or lack of fresh fruit and vegetables; perhaps it is the beginnings of scurvy. Taking a bite of Mountain House lasagne, I said “I’m going straight for the veggie pizza at Panorama,” referring to the pizza place in Carlo Creek just south of the cabin.

“I just want a huge salad,” Mark said. I felt then somewhat guilty for my unhealthy choice. “I’ll go for a pizza too,” Peter said. “Maybe even a good hamburger.” “With cheese,” I offered.

“Or a cinnamon roll from the Hi Spot,” Peter mused.

It is an interesting game we play in the wilderness with these ideas which end up as torture, extreme delayed gratification. Both of the guys were intereste in more food in general though.

“How many extra meals did we bring?” Peter asked.

“Three extra entrees,” I said. “But we should be careful in case weather comes in.”

“I have powdered eggs,” Mark said. “Should we break into those? We could do an extra entree tomorrow night, and we’ll still have extra. I think we’re losing weight.”

The guys had a second course of eggs that night. I determined I would have to be very hungry indeed to succumb to powdered eggs. But realizing that I hadn’t factored in the pre-natal calcium requirements into the food for the trip, raided the Tums in the first aid kit.

Peter, Shannon and Mark

We followed the river north the next day heading to the confluence of the Aichilik. Most of the hiking crossed a large open plateau, perfectly representative of the impossibility of judging distance in the Arctic. With the lack of “middle ground”, the close details and far horizons are all one has to sense their place in the landscape. The Arctic lends itself to dreaming and to thinking, but not to spatial orientation. It is similar perhaps to desert that way, and as environmental historian Paul Shepard points out, is is frequently these places that are sought out by mystics across cultures and centuries.

Geological explanation for the formation is that the Leffingwell ridge, by Catherine Hanks at UAF, is that it is the northern flank of a large east north-east trending that forms the range front of the Brooks Range. She explains (perhaps this is more meaningful to someone other than myself who is not a scientist) that “pre-Mississipian rocks of the Franklinian sequence form the core of the anti-clinorium, with Mississipian through Triassic rocks of the Elesmerian sequence forming the north and south limbs.” There is much more to it of course, but that seems to be the jist.

Spiritual and geological vectors lead us to the same truth.  The inviting open plateau challenged us with tussocks, and perceived distance. But it was a short day to the confluence nonetheless, where we found a flat spot of tundra for tents and set up our kitchen on the river bed.

Camp

In spite of the wind, birds fought the breeze, and kept us company through the evening and the next morning. I wandered surreptitiously, I thought, looking for nests, with no luck. While sitting with our Backpackers Pantry (which we much preferred to Mountain House) dinner, though, we heard a commotion. Two birds which from camp looked like sandpipers, chased a ground squirrel, flying right above it on the tundra, making a racket, ostensibly driving it away from their nest. The squirrel was effectively deterred- it kept a course away from the furious birds.

We settled in for the night more comfortable and less imposing, it seemed, than the ground squirrel.