Face-to-face with a grisly sight in Alaska

CATHARINE COOPER

“Back paddle,” screams Julie, our guide, as the current carries our

rubber raft directly toward the grizzly bear, feasting on dead moose

in the middle of the river. We flail at the water, digging the paddle

tips into the shallows, kicking up rocks and gravel in a furious

haste to change the course of our float.

The bear stands up as he hears our frenzy. He’s smallish, maybe

two years old, which means he likely weighs only 600 pounds. To us,

he looks anything but small. He’s dining on his kill in the midst of

a narrow passage of the Kongakut River in Alaska, which is closed in

on both sides by 10-foot-high walls of aufeis (river flow frozen into

horizontal layers of ice). We manage to ground our paddleboat on a

gravel bar and the stare down begins.

There are several rules for traveling in grizzly country. One of

the most important is to not surprise a bear while they are feeding,

because they are likely to defend their kill.

We are on day three of a 12 day float trip through the Arctic

National Wildlife Refuge with Arctic River Journeys, owned and

operated by guides Julie Munger and Abigail Polsby. Six passengers

fill out two boats: Lynn, James, Robin, Jeff, Steve and myself. We’ve

all come hungry for the wilderness and curious about this last chunk

of unspoiled refuge land.

The Kongakut River is the most northern and eastern of large river

flows in Alaska. It is a braided river, twisting and turning through

the gravel and tundra as it makes its way toward the coastal plains

and the Beaufort Sea. We are above the 69th parallel. Canada is a

mere breath away.

Three days earlier we arrived on a gravel island via bush plane

chartered from Coyote Air. While the normal put-in is eight miles to

the north, Dirk, our pilot, spies a spot near the headwaters where he

thinks he can “put her down.” We circle the spot three times as he

surveys the conditions. With clear commitment, we drop altitude and

come to a screeching halt on a gravel island between two separate

river flows in the midst of the mountains. Gear is dumped. Dirk takes

off to fly the hour-and-a-half return to Coldfoot to retrieve the

other three passengers and a guide.

It is suddenly still except for the soft roar of the river. We are

hundreds of miles from any signs of civilization, standing on ground

that likely no other human has walked. On a slope to the east, we spy

what appears to be a bear digging in the tall tundra grass. A tiny

semipalmated plover paces back and forth, snacking in a streamlet and

chirping an inviting song.

Our gear lies in a heap on this empty gravel bar, and to the

south, dark ominous thunder clouds press in our direction. The wind

whips up, and suddenly the storm is upon us. We struggle to get into

raingear, don our “xtra-tuff” boots and make a mad dash to set up the

tents before we are drenched. Welcome to the wilderness!

Dirk reappears with our fellow travelers about three hours later.

They marvel that we have somehow set up the tents, the kitchen and

inflated the boats while they were lounging in Coldfoot. Dirk departs

with the same roar of engine, and again, silence and emptiness create

an almost ringing sensation in our ears. We are alone in the vastness

of open space.

A spotting scope confirms that the brown object on the hillside is

in fact, a grizzly bear. We watch him dig, tumble and plop in the

tundra while dining on halibut fillets and green salad.

It’s 11 p.m., but the sun has merely lowered on the horizon. In

this land of the midnight sun, darkness has departed for a solid

three months, and normal biorhythms determined by sunlight will slip

quickly out of commission. Day is night and day again.

Guidebooks are great sources of information about uncharted lands.

The one that discusses bears includes this description: “They are

naturally curious, and caution should be taken when in their

presence.... If you meet a bear, yield the right-of-way by moving

slowly away.”

Right. The bear is in the middle of the river. We can’t climb the

ice. The bear is in the middle of the river.

Likely, this grizzly’s been sleeping on his kill before our

appearance, and we have startled him as much as ourselves. Bears

don’t see well, and our round edged raft with four flailing paddles

appears rather ominous. Julie cries out, “Oh, bear,” and with a wild

leap, he makes for the side of the aufeis, digging long sharp claws

in a frantic move to flee the scene. Once on top, he stands again.

Since bears can run up to 35 mph, we are not yet sure of his intent.

He lowers his body and steps toward us on the ice shelf. One more

peek of his head, and he decides he wants nothing to do with us. By

the time the other paddleboat rounds the corner, the bear and the

moment have passed. The other travelers listen to our story with

great suspicion, but the guides decide it is time to load the

shotgun.

* CATHARINE COOPER loves wild places. She can be reached at

ccooper@cooperdesign.net.