Muserology Cafe

Into the Arctic (January 2010)

by Theora Tiffney, age 17, California

"Cyn, there's a bear right behind you."

I fumble for my tent's zipper as Cyn's voice rises, telling the bear, "Go away, there's nothing to see here, move along." I manage to stick my head out just in time to see a young grizzly bear trot past--in perfect focus. 

It is then that I realize I'm not wearing my glasses.

We've been hiking for eight days on the south side of the Brooks Range in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Jeff Jones, a photographer, recruited the six of us to carry his equipment and all of our supplies on an expedition to document the beauty of two passes in the refuge, the largest in the United States. Currently, it is under threat of being opened to oil drilling, a move that would boost Alaska's oil-dependent economy, but also alter the ecosystem, which is as close to pristine as it is possible for any area today to be.  

How did I get hre? I raised my hand during a summer program, after hearing Jeff Jones's presentation, and asked if he ever took volunteers. Be careful what you ask for--you might get it.

Two days, my first snowstorm, and another bear later, we reach Carter Pass. I'd thought the low elevation might mean that the weather would be decent. The first night, my water bottle acquires half an inch of ice. Here, snow arrives horizontally, mixed with sleet. I'm from sunny Southern California, where snow on the distant mountains makes the front page of the local paper!

At the pass, the deep, soft, boot-devouring moss that we have spent the last day swearing at gives way to tundra. Grayish lichen covers the thin soil and scattered rocks. Close up, however, remarkable colors gleam--pale green, yellow, white, and blue, strewn carelessly over the boulders. A few small, low-growing plants struggle here, and some tiny, pallid poppies, none of which are more than six inches high, vibrate in the wind. It is cold and desolate, but signs of the animals that live here are everywhere. Some distance away from camp lie clawed areas of tundra left behind by a bear, possibly the one we ran across a few days ago. Bones, a common feature of the tundra, are present too. Caribou tracks meander along the edges of the lake. 

The next day the caribou themselves make an appearance, a heard of 11. They are small and rangy, dark blots on the scree-covered slopes. Both cows and bulls sport impressive racks of antlers. We watch them as they go up and over the pass, ignoring us. They have far more pressing matters to attend to than a group of humans--winter in the Arctic comes fast and they have not yet reached their wintering grounds. 

As if to underline this, one of the clouds overhead drops a few snowflakes on us. They melt as soon as they touch the ground, but the message is clear--tonight will be cold, even if the sun won't set until well after midnight. It may be mid-August, but fall has begun.  

Over the next five days, the temperatures plunge and the mountains themselves change color. Bearberry, a tiny, low-growing plant common on the tundra, trades in its drab green for an eye-watering, brilliant red. Other tundra plants follow its example, as the stubby willows around drainages and streams turn golden. The lower slopes of the mountains become crimson, streaked with gold, blazing even in the near-constant rain. 

When we have reached the northern slopes, we will be picked up by a bushplane and flown to Arctic Village, a small settlement accessible only by air. From there, we'll board a somewhat larger plane (10 seats instead of five) and return to Fairbanks. The timetable for this is rather vague--bush planes don't have the sensors necessary to fly in dense fog or bad weather, and the northern face of the Brooks Range has plenty of both. 

As I trudge along with the 50-pound weight of my backpack, I realize that the most striking thing about the Arctic is how small everything becomes in the landscape. The people ahead of and behind you dwindle into insignificance against the mountains and sweeping tundra. As you walk, you feel small, insignificant. The land has its own purposes.