Taking the time to get wild

CATHARINE COOPER

“Up here!” Julie, our Arctic River Journey’s guide, waves her arms,

beckoning us to continue our climb up the steep tundra slope. Ankles

twist and everyone groans as we navigate the uneven ground, slowly

making our way toward the top of the ridge. “It’s worth it,” she

bellows.

She has, in fact, told the truth. As we crest the ridgeline, the

coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge spreads out

before us. The fragile land mass, a mere 110-mile strip of flat

coastline, stands in vast contrast to the craggy mountains and

rounded foothills through which we traveled the past 12 days.

The Beaufort Sea and its ice fields shimmer in the late afternoon

sun. I feel as if I’m on top of the world, and in essence, I’m quite

close. A quick glance through binoculars reveals icebergs floating in

a dark blue sea churned with white caps. In seven years of hiking,

our guide has never experienced this vista of the sea and plain. It

is usually shrouded in fog.

To the east lies the border of the United States and Canada, in

pristine wilderness. To the west, and thankfully, out of view, the

belching oil fields of Prudhoe Bay spew pollutants into the air, sea

and land.

The land before me is known as “Section 1002,” or “ten-oh-two,” a

1.5-million acre coastal plain within the Arctic National Wildlife

Refuge. This is the calving ground of the porcupine and Central

Arctic caribou herds, the nesting sites of 180 species of birds,

wintering den site of Beaufort Sea polar bears and the year-round

home of musk oxen.

“America’s Serengeti” was the description President Jimmy Carter

gave to this vast wilderness as he witnessed the vast herds of

caribou during their annual migration. He instantly understood the

inestimable value of this precious resource. In 1960, Secretary of

State James Seaton, under the Eisenhower administration, designated

8.9 million acres of this land as the Arctic National Wildlife Range.

The intent was to protect its “unique wildlife, wilderness and

recreation values.” Successive administrations have continually voted

to support the overwhelming voice of the American people in

protecting this land.

This is refuge land, road-less wilderness where the only sounds

are that of the river, the songbird or the howl of a lone wolf. The

mammals, birds and fish that inhabit this land know it as home. It is

their only home. To add roads, drilling, pipelines and the commerce

that attends oil exploration on this fragile strip of coastline will

irrevocably destroy what only we, their human partners on the planet,

can protect.

In the distance, a dust cloud rises. Binoculars confirm it is a

female and her newly born caribou calf racing across the tundra. Born

on the coastal plain, fattened on its nutrient-rich tundra flora, the

caribou begin the backward trace of their migratory circle near the

end of June. We had hoped to find ourselves amid 10s of thousands of

these elegant creatures as they cross Caribou Pass and the Kungakut

River but have had to settle for distant encounters as the herd

lingers in a distant valley.

We leave the ridgeline, wandering through bear-foraged cotton

grass and tracks of a wolf. A golden plover chases us from her rocky

land-laid nest, filled with four shimmering brown and beige spotted

eggs. Overhead, a majestic gyrfalcon takes wing in search of

afternoon sustenance. Light clouds filter over the hills, the scent

of wildflowers fills the air and the refuge works her magic on my

soul.

Soft hoof steps interrupt the silence, and a young male caribou

crests the hill and walks slowly past us. I am shocked by his lack of

fear of my presence, and my awe is only surpassed by the appearance,

behind him, of a young female. She stops a mere 15 feet from me and

gazes at my form. She turns her head in a quizzical gesture, as

trying to discern what this being might be. I hold my breath, unable

to believe this beautiful animal is as curious of me as I am of her,

and she steps closer. Our eyes connect, and in that time-honored

frame of knowing, we are, at that moment, of one mind in the

universe. The space between us disappears, and the gazer and the

gazed become one. She nips a bite of cotton grass and proceeds down

the slope.

Julie descends on the far side of the slope. I wave my arms,

frantically trying to get her attention to the pair of “bou” who are

passing below us. She doesn’t see them, her attention trained instead

on the moose crossing the river.

The refuge is, in fact, a place untouched by man in time. There is

so little wilderness left, so many fronts under attack. This one

stretch of coastline is the last strip in the Alaskan Arctic shore to

exist in its purely wilderness state. If we are wise, if we can

harness our avarice and greed, we should have no trouble finding

within our hearts the right course of action to protect this land in

perpetuity.

* CATHARINE COOPER thrives in wild places. She can be reached at

ccooper@cooperdesign.net.