Mini-Memoir: Seeing Caribou

The third cross country ski of the year, only a few days after Halloween. It wasn’t like Anchorage, that’s for sure. The temperatures quickly dropped, while the snow took its time blanketing the ground a little more every couple days. Though we missed the big dumps of south central Alaska, the new sights, sounds, and smells of the interior excited us. Gretchen dressed for the cold, putting on a thick fleece- pulling her extra thick mittens out of the box they had been shipped in. Still taped shut with packing tape, Eagle River return address labels across the top. I gave her the usual “ don’t wear so many layers, you’re going to be skiing hard”, banter. Jack, our four-year-old husky noticed the change out of school clothes into ski jackets and started spinning in excitement. After lacing up my boots I moved to the arctic entry to grab my skis and harness Jack.

The snow wasn’t great, but it was skiing and even a bad day skiing is better then anything else. We gingerly glided around some of the rocks still exposed in the unpacked snow. Making our way past the store and council several kids cheered to Jack, effortlessly pulling Gretchen along in ski jour fashion. I was struggling to keep up, but enjoyed the challenge of racing Jack. As I settled into the push-glide motion we cruised out the road to the airport. About a mile from town we quickly passed someone on a 4-wheeler shouting about something on the runway. “It sounded like he said Caribou”, I asked Gretchen. As we crested the last rising hill to the airport we spotted several animals moving in the distance. At first they looked like ants scurrying around an anthill. We slowed our pace and flanked behind the airport weather station to get a better view. Quickly thousands of Caribou came into focus. This was it; the Porcupine Caribou herd was migrating south through the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, across the Brooks Range, and into the Yukon Flats. Arctic Village lies right in the path of this migration. And on this specific day we were the first people to meet the herd’s arrival. For nearly two hours we sat counting and watching the Caribou. It was amazing to think this one days life experience had been occurring every year, year after year. Full grown adult males, mothers and yearlings, they were all there, grazing and moving. It was a process you could tell had been happening for thousands of years. An intrinsic feeling, imbedded in the Caribou’s soul. Generation upon generation of Caribou being born on the shores of the Arctic Ocean. Then migrating back and forth to the bountiful flats along the Yukon River. As we sat these ideas of mortality, life, and instinct came to mind. A slight chill began to set in as we tried to disguise ourselves in the snow. Not the bitter cold we were soon about to face. But that small chill that begins in your cheeks and finger tips, slowly working its way to your core. Cold enough to form tiny mustachesicles with the perspiration of your breath. Gretchen started counting to stay warm. First individually, then she lost count after reaching 154, she decided to start guesstimating how many there were, using precise calculations to count groups of Caribou, again, loosing count after several hundred. I thought briefly about the implications of drilling in ANWR, of the even the remote possibility of impacting or altering this profound event. After four months of teaching in Arctic Village I knew these people survived off this herd, and had done so for hundreds of years. The subsistence life style, though recently becoming subsidized with the help of rotary airplanes and native corporations- was still dependent upon the precious meats and materials found in the Caribou. Suddenly we heard a loud clicking sound, looking right to witness two large males in combat. Antlers clanking against one another, heads bumping and legs thrusting as they struggled for superiority. What were they fighting over? In the background several newborn yearlings picked at lichen and other delicious pieces of vegetation on the ground. It’s hard to believe such a basic, unappetizing life form could serve as their main source of food. I wondered why more people in town hadn’t been alerted to their arrival. Why more hunters hadn’t shown up with their .223’s or .308’s to shoot a couple. Having the herd this close to town wasn’t rare, but wasn’t normal. Typically the herd crosses the Chandalar River from a valley just south of the village and moves into the flats. Today they were swimming across the semi-frozen river right near our village. In a dog paddle like stroke we saw hundreds of Caribou struggling to cross the open water. Ice beginning to glaze near the edges of the shore, leaving the middle open to flowing water.

How are these Caribou called to make this monumental journey? What internal idea is driving them, forcing them to walk and risk survival across such great distances? Wolves, bears, and hunters constantly picking off brothers and sisters in the herd. What internal apprise is telling them to make this pilgrimage? I found my way to the classroom after five years of military service. To me it seemed the thing to do. Turn a passion for Alaska and a calling to serve into something unique. Making the decision to work in the bush I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Various friends gave me snippets of life working in the bush. My family didn’t totally understand, the distance from home and the life we knew becoming even greater. But while sitting their watching thousands of Caribou do what they are supposed to do, it seemed I was where I was supposed to be. I knew at that moment that despite the ugliness and cultural differences, that place was where I was supposed to be. Challenges and struggles had tried to stop me. Certain moments our light felt as if it were shinning alone, providing the dimmest illumination in an ever growing abyss. Keeping me from reaching my migratory destination, but I prevailed. My own intrinsic spirit had played a similar tune to that of the Caribou. Life is not without challenges. As we scale mountains, cross-frozen rivers, and struggle to find food- it shapes who we are, as a pack, pair, and individual. Gretchen and I had traveled a great distance to reach this point and time. Making decisions wrecking the emotional stability we had built around us. Breaking down the physical barriers that defined normal. Not only for the better of those around us, but for the sanctity of our own being. Because to ignore the tune would be denying a piece of our soul.