The Final Stretch: Our Last Days in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge
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.
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