In Grizzly Country

Appalachia, Winter/Spring 2006

On my first trip to Bettles, a mumping-off point for hikes into the Gates of the Arctic National Park in the central Brooks Range, I waited four gloomy days for the skies to clear before abandoning my plans to hike. Weather is fickle in the Arctic. Some August days are warm and sunny; more often it rains, with low clouds shrouding the mountaintops, making flights into and out of the Brooks Range treacherous. Occasionally, there is even snow. Running out of time, I traveled south and saw Denali and the Alaska Range instead, a wonderful consolation, but not the place I wanted most to explore. So, I was understandably anxious to board the floatplane in Bettles on my next visit, before being grounded by a different kind of flight hazard.

Alaska’s boreal forest was on fire in the summer of 2004, and thick smoke drifted north across the Arctic Circle. On the flight up from Fairbanks, we saw great columns of smoke in every direction, rising from the charred remains of spruce trees. Fairbanks, itself, was engulfed in it, suffocating and claustrophobic. Thankfully, the smoke thinned out by the time we reached Bettles Airfield late in the morning. Still, we waited two hours for conditions to improve before receiving the tentative go-ahead from Brooks Range Aviation.

While the four of us prepared to board a Beaver floatplane, Bill, our pilot, checked his radio for last-minute reports from others already in the air. The news was disheartening: persistent haze in the valleys west and north was hampering visibility. “Maybe we should wait,” said Bill, as if testing the idea with the group. I fought back nightmare visions of spending another four days stuck in the hangar at the Bettles field, praying for blue skies. After a few tense minutes of talking and weighing risks, it was finally time to go.

Our guide, David van den Berg, packed his two huskies in back of the Beaver with the remainder of our gear. The dogs, Lucky and Tussock, were coming along to help carry our food. David had traveled to Alaska from Florida after college to help clean up the Exxon Valdez mess and fell in love with the wilderness. He’d been guiding trips into the far north ever since, first as a hired hand, and then as the owner of Arctic Wild, Inc. Joining us on this trip were two other clients: Jesse May, a pharmaceutical researcher from Fort Worth, Texas; and Claudia Klingbeil, a young Swiss woman, who was working for an adventure travel outfitter in Bettles for the summer. We were all excited to be on our way, except for four-year-old brothers Tussock and Lucky, who were terrified of planes.

We flew slowly away from Bettles, crossing the Alatna foothills to the west, and then angled northwest through the Alatna River valley. Sitting next to Bill in the cramped cockpit, I watched the Brooks Range rise up and surround us, mountains as far as we could see and beyond. Rolling hills gave way to rocky peaks, with the highest summits on the distant horizon capped in snow and ice. The lower summits and mountainsides were covered with a thin mantle of vegetation, mostly in shades of green and beige, with patches of yellow in the valleys. Autumn, which usually begins in late August in this part of the Arctic, was arriving late this year after the hot summer, and only the river willows had changed color. Passing north of the invisible tree line, above the open tundra, Bill pointed to sporadic movement below: Dall’s sheep, white as cotton, clumped together on a mountain ridge; a moose cow and calf splashing across a stream; caribou trickling south. Soon we’d be walking among them...

The full text of this story may be found in the Winter/Spring 2006 issue of Appalachia.

- Mark Goodreau lives in his hometown of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and works as a consultant, freelance writer, and outdoor photographer.