Never Say Die (15 page)

“Weird weather for the Arctic!”

“Tell me about it!”

By now there wasn't a caribou to be seen. The rain continued but the lightning had moved on, down the valley to the north. Ryan said it was okay to go back up to the tent. Once inside, I asked my brother if they have thunderstorms like that in Arizona. “Every summer,” he said.

“Jonah doesn't like it one bit. Lightning storms aren't right up here. Not natural.”

“Your summers used to be too cool for big thunderstorms to get going.”

“We hear it's because we've lost our summer ice in the Beaufort Sea, but I don't get the connection.”

“I'll give it a try. All that dark open water absorbs heat and gives off way more evaporation than you got off the ice. Moist air and heat are prime ingredients for thunderstorms. The sea and the land both are warmer than they used to be.”

“You can keep the heat down south, far as I'm concerned!”

With that we quit jawing and struck the tent. Before long we were hoisting our packs and pointing our feet west toward the Firth River. We'd got what we'd come for, and I was homeward bound.

C
limbing out of the valley, Ryan had a satisfied smile on his face, and so did I. We had witnessed something few will ever see. The struggle we had gone through to get there made the winning of it all the sweeter.

At the top of the pass, we rested with our packs off. I had always held so much of myself back, but not anymore. I told Ryan he should come back with me to Aklavik and take pictures for his article. “I'd love to,” my brother said.

“From Aklavik, we'll boat out to Shingle Point. You can stay with us in our cabin. Half of Aklavik will be out there fishing for char and whitefish, and trying to fill our quota of beluga whales. You should ask the old hunters about the sea ice, how much of it used to last through the summer. Ask about the winds—seems like every summer there's fewer days we can get out on the ocean. Ask about the storms that are chewing up the coast and even drowning polar bears. The hunters are the ones to talk to.”

“Thanks—my article would be so much better with their input. And yes, I'd love to go on from Aklavik to Shingle Point. We're only getting started. You're like an iceberg, Nick. There's a lot more than meets the eye.”

“Same as you. You haven't told me anything about your family.”

“Well, I've got a brother in Aklavik….”

I gave him a poke. “Who else is there?”

“You're it. I was an only, and my mother passed away a few years ago. Her marriage to our father didn't last long. They were divorced when I was just a little guy, four or so. He came to see me a few times, but I never really had a chance to get to know him.”

We hoisted our packs and started down the other side of the pass. On the flats below, we walked side by side. Ryan said, “Nick, have you ever heard the theory that climate change might be a factor in the decline of caribou herds in the Arctic?”

“Lots of times. From Jonah.”

“What's his explanation?”

“Warmer weather. We're having freezing rain sometimes in September and October when it should be snowing. Sometimes it even happens in November and December. Where our caribou spend the winter—mostly south of the Porcupine River—the people at Old Crow say the same thing is happening. The caribou have to be able to dig through the snow to get at the lichens to make it through the winter. Caribou hooves and antlers are made for digging through snow, but there's no way they can get at the feed when it's under a thick sheet of ice.”

Ryan had been hanging on every word. “Get this, Nick. What you told me is exactly what the scientists are recently beginning to report. That's what might have caused the huge die-off in the Bathurst herd.”

“Like Jonah always says, they should just ask us. But what does it mean about the future of the caribou?”

“One thing's for sure. If we mess with their calving grounds, they're finished.”

“Say that in your article, okay?”

“It'll be in quotes, from caribou experts like Ken. Here's something else that will be in there: scientists questioning the wisdom of going after oil in the Arctic, whether it's under the calving grounds of the caribou or the floor of the Beaufort Sea. The Arctic is a high-risk environment. Does it make any sense to go after fossil fuels up here when burning them will only warm the earth even more? We should be developing renewable energy instead.”

“We've got a teacher at school—Ross Archie, a fellow Inuk—who says the same thing. Ross told us about an Inuit leader who sued the United States for burning too much oil and coal. She says we have the right to be cold.”

“That's a good one. What would people in Aklavik think if the Beaufort Sea became like the Gulf of Mexico, full of offshore oil platforms?”

“Depends on who you talk to. It would bring jobs and better houses and things to buy, but it might hurt the fishing and the sealing and the whaling. Jonah told me once that as long as we get our own food from the land and the ocean, we'll still be the Real People. Nobody at Aklavik wants to lose that, even if we have to spend time away working in the mines or whatever.”

“Or the offshore oil rigs, if and when they get built?”

“You have to make money somehow to buy gas for your motorboat and snowmobile so you can keep fishing and trapping and hunting. Gas is way expensive up here.”

My brother looked like this wasn't what he was hoping to hear, but what could I say? We shouldered our packs and started out again. By six in the evening the clouds were back, and they were growing dark. Ryan tried to raise Whitehorse on the satellite phone without any luck. The clouds or the peaks were blocking the signal. Both of us were eager to hear what that storm system was up to, the one Ken Logan was concerned about.

Two hours later we were all worn out. No wonder, after our all-nighter with the caribou. We pitched the tent by a small stream on the tundra. Dwarf fireweed was in bloom along the shore. We heated up some soup on the backpacking stove and added noodles. While it was cooking, we ate cheese and crackers and salami. The sun was out again, so we weren't as worried about the weather. After supper Ryan gave Whitehorse another try, hoping to catch Ken before he went to bed.

This time the call went through. “Heads up,” Ken said. “That big low-pressure system off Alaska has finally quit spinning like a top and sucking up energy. It's on the move, guys. Most of the computer models have it meeting up with a big Arctic system brewing in the Beaufort Sea. Looks like those two systems are going to collide over the north slope of the Yukon Territory.”

“Uh-oh,” Ryan said. “Nick and I are in the crosshairs. When is this smash-up supposed to happen?”

“Couple-three days.”

“Ouch. Maybe we can get out in a hurry.”

“Ask him about the grolar bear,” I said. “Where is it right now?”

Ryan gave me a look like I was borrowing trouble.

“If it's anywhere near us,” I insisted, “we need to know.”

“I hear you, Nick,” the biologist said. “It'll take just a minute. Hang on, guys.”

When Ken Logan came back on, he said, “Here's your update. The grolar bear is still moving west along the coast. At present it's nearing Kay Point, maybe thirty miles east of the mouth of the Firth.”

This time Ryan gave me a look that acknowledged I was right to be worried. There was something else in it, too—eagerness, maybe even excitement. “Thanks—we'll keep an eye out. Leave me a message if that bear reaches the Firth.”

“Maybe you'll get a photo, is that what you're thinking?”

“I wouldn't mind, from a safe distance.”

“Take care, you guys.”

The two of them signed off. I said to my brother, “You still don't get it.”

“What can I say? I'm a wildlife photographer.”

“I still say they should've killed it.”

“If it's a creature of climate change, there'll be more of them.”

“Maybe so, but if they're anything like this one, look out.”

I glanced at our pitched tent. “Hey, Ryan, maybe I'm not as tired as I thought. Let's get out of here. The sooner we fly out, the better. How much river do we have left to run?”

“It's right around thirty miles to Nunaluk Spit, where Red's going to pick us up.”

“Could we get there tomorrow?”

“Sure don't think so. We have too much ground to cover to reach the Firth, and we have to put the raft back together.”

“If we hike like maniacs, then stay on the water around the clock, how soon could we get to the finish line and fly out?”

Ryan closed his eyes and thought about it. “Noon, the day after tomorrow, barring unforeseen complications.”

“Call Red. If we're talking about him picking us up at noon the day after tomorrow, now is not too soon.”

“You're right. I hope I can reach him.”

The old bush pilot picked up. What a relief to hear his coarse-as-gravel Texas accent. “Howdy, Ryan. You get what you were after?”

“Sure did, Red, and then some.”

“And now you got hot showers on the brain. How soon you talking about?”

“Day after tomorrow. Noon if that's good with you.”

“You'll recall I cautioned you that flying out is subject to weather delay.”

“We remember.”

“Well, we're looking at major wind tomorrow afternoon, and I've got another party to fetch the next morning, weather permitting. That couple showed up, the ones from Montana I was telling you about. They started down the Firth nine days after you. Seen 'em?”

“Not yet.”

“You will, on the last stretch of river or else camping at the spit. I'll try to get you out right after I do them, weather permitting. We'll see how it goes. We might be in for a major storm. I would recommend another pilot, but right now I'm the only game in town.”

“Appreciate it, Red. We'll be looking for you the day after tomorrow.”

“Weather permitting. You boys call me tomorrow evening. I'll give you the update.”

Ryan signed off. We packed up and hit the ground running. Within a few minutes I realized I could have asked about Jonah. Red probably knew if Jonah was still hanging on.

Midnight arrived without a breath of wind. A storm might be on the way, but the only clouds in sight were the clouds of bugs illuminated by the flat amber light. We were moving fast, with the humidity much higher than normal. “We're sweating like pigs!” Ryan exclaimed.

“Never seen a pig,” I said, “but I'll take your word for it.”

The dead calm lasted clear through the morning. It was still holding at noon, when we finally caught sight of the Firth from the ridge above Canyon Creek. By chance, we spied a yellow raft on the river. Had we reached that spot a minute later, we wouldn't have seen it at all. There were two people in it, a boatman on the oars and a passenger up front.

“Must be that couple from Montana,” Ryan said. “No wonder they're in a hurry … they're planning on camping on the spit this evening.”

Just then the yellow raft disappeared in the canyon. We were eager to rig ours and float as far as we could before the big wind arrived. We hustled down from the ridge.

Thirty minutes later we reached our rolled-up raft and the rest of the gear. We'd no sooner got there than the wind arrived with a roar. It went from flat calm to a gale in less than a minute.

This wasn't a gust or two. The wind was blowing full bore. “Wait it out?” I wondered aloud.

Ryan rubbed his beard against the grain. “I'm afraid we shouldn't. If a major storm is on the heels of the wind, the river is going to flood so bad it would be unrunnable. Grab the river guide, would you?”

Ryan leafed to the maps and found the ones for the lower canyon and the delta. “There's five camping spots in the last fourteen miles of the canyon, but I wouldn't trust any of them not to flood. Look, here's a campsite beyond the canyon, on the east side just two miles into the delta—Last Mountain Camp. That's got to be a safer bet than camping in the canyon if the river floods. With multiple channels running across the coastal plain, the floodwater will spread out.”

We set to work. First thing, we carried the rolled-up raft down to a sandy spot at the mouth of Canyon Creek, only yards away from the Firth's powerful current. We hustled back for the foot pump and enough rope to tie the raft in four directions while Ryan was pumping it up. On my way back for more gear, the wind nearly blew me over. I remembered we hadn't called Whitehorse that morning or checked for messages. Now's not the time, I thought.

I kept shuttling gear to the raft. It took us another hour to assemble the oar frame, load the gear, and strap everything down. At last we were ready. I stood behind the raft, ready to give the boat a push when Ryan gave the word. He took one last look at the guidebook, checking what it said about the rapids ahead. After stowing the book, he looked over his shoulder to see if I was ready. I gave him a nervous nod. “Let's do it!” Ryan yelled into the wind.