Stage Two (part one)

We began stage two of the trek with the caribou at the Redstone River close to where it enters the Ambler River. Then traveled on foot and snowshoe up the wide Redstone Valley where the river winds in serpentine fashion wherever it's mood takes it. Sometimes we walked the river ice, but we mostly followed the trails that the caribou use across the tussock tundra.

There were about 100 caribou in the valley migrating north. It was a thrill to follow them on trails their ancestors have used for hundreds of years. The web-like trails are etched forever across the tundra and mountain sides. At times the caribou moved with a definite urgency and at other times stopped to graze on the mosses and lichens, often hidden beneath the snow, which the caribou scraped aside with their shovel like hooves. These were pregnant females following a primitive urge to reach the calving grounds far to the north before giving berth.

Female caribou of breeding age are called kulivak. The word caribou comes from the Eskimo word khalibu, which means, "the ones that paw the ground in search of food."

Our traveling caribou companions had thick coats and we noticed that even their muzzles were covered with a thin fur coat. Their wide hooves seemed to make a clicking sound with each stride of their very long legs. They all had antlers, even though some were broken off at the ends and one or two only had one left. Caribou are the only members of the deer family where both females and males grow antlers.

Occasionally willow Ptarmigan would fly upwards in a white cloud as we and the caribou approached, but the caribou seemed not to really notice them. When on the ground the ptarmigan look like white, round puff-balls, constantly chattering, walking about on feet covered with fluffy feathers that act as snowshoes.

One day the herd stopped and appeared to be alarmed at something in the brushy willows. Soon a wolf appeared at the edge of the willows and stopped. Then another wolf appeared and suddenly the caribou herd fled at top speed. The wolves followed them for a distance then gave up the chase. Both the calves and caribou fled across the rough tussock tundra in a flowing wave of speed and grace whereas our human legs were clumsy in comparison.

As we traveled up the Redstone River valley, the tundra tussocks that are round, hard mounds of grass-like plants kept overturning our sleds. We soon developed an intense dislike of the tussocks, which was soon outdone by an even greater dislike of willows. Carrying 50-pound packs and hauling 100-pound sleds through willow thickets is an exercise from hell. Willows are good browsing for moose and it wasn't long before moose appeared in our path. They looked up with a mild interest at the passing caribou but were intensely interested and alert when wolves appeared. Moose don't migrate and fall prey to wolves easier than caribou. However we soon decided that a group of wolves were following the caribou.

The river ice was broken up in places with patches of open water. Spring is approaching early this year and we have been warned by the natives to watch out for dangerous ice. After several days of hard travel up the Redstone River, we turned Northwest up a long, steep canyon toward Ivishak Pass, which was our gateway across the top of the Brooks Range. The river ice looked safe at the canyon entrance but we were soon in trouble. Suddenly Bill fell through, soaking himself to his hips. He quickly threw his arms out across the ice to stop his fall through the ice into the freezing water below. Using the instinct of self-preservation he heaved his body, pack and all, up onto the surface of the ice and stopped his sled from falling through the gaping hole. With nerves strung tight, we gingerly eased our heavy loads across the ice to the riverbank and safety. At minus 15 degrees Fahrenheit, Bill's boots and pants were soon turning to ice. As quick as possible he stripped off boots and clothes while I grabbed fresh clothing from an emergency clothing bag we always carry on top of our sled within easy reach for such emergencies. Although shivering, Bill was dry and safe.

We hurried on to gain body warmth by climbing the riverbank. Soon we climbed up onto the canyon's steep sides and traversed across, trying to keep our sleds from pulling us downward. It was so steep we soon resorted to relaying our packs across, often pulling our sleds across one at a time. Bill pulling while I acted as the brake at the back with a safety rope. It was slow and tortuous.

We watched the caribou with envy as they made their way across with no apparent effort. No packs and sleds for them. In this vast wilderness we are reminded of the frail nature of humans in comparison to our animal friends.

After a fourteen-hour day we at last made camp on a fifteen-degree slope which was the flattest spot we could find. We could see some of the caribou grazing; some bedded down and some still traveling past us toward the pass. After a restless night on our sloping ledge we set off at seven in the morning in minus one-degree temperature to traverse the last slopes. Then down the upper river where we hoped the ice would be firm and thick. We finally slid and rolled our packs and sleds down a steep ramp to the ribbon of river ice at the bottom. It looked safe.

We saw a wolverine and new baby as they made a dash for their riverside home beneath a car sized rock. Raven flew overhead and ptarmigan cackled on the mountainside. The red fox tracks, moose tracks, and red backed vole tracks had been left behind in the valley.

We climbed steeply up the river ice avoiding the watery areas. At one point we both plodded through three-inch deep water and hoped the ice beneath was strong. Onward and upward carrying our packs and pulling our sleds, we made progress.

We climbed for five hours up the river until finally we arrived at the base of the snowy; wind blasted lower slopes of this fabled pass. Our caribou were strung out ahead and behind. Although known as a wind tunnel, Ivishak Pass is one of the gateways from the southern slopes of the Brooks Range to the North Slope and the caribou calving grounds.

With loads that seemed to be getting heavier, we finally found ourselves standing at the top of the Pass and looking toward the North Slope. All the bone-deep weariness dropped away as we realized we were about to cross the Brooks Range from the south to the north. We headed downward, down the Cutler River toward the Noatak. We were now in the Noatak National Preserve. Noatak means, "passage to the interior."

We made camp still in the shadow of the mountains with storm clouds billowing over the tops from the south. That night, Friday, we were caught in a blizzard with howling winds all day Saturday and wind chill down to minus 31 degrees. Sunday the winds dropped somewhat and the snow fell and fell. A whole three feet of it. No travel was possible either day.

On Monday, we set out to make up for lost time. Our day started at six. At first the loose snow slowed us, turning our sleds into snowplows. With snowshoes, we plowed on. The ptarmigan were back and even a snowshoe hare. At the end of the day we thought would never end, we had covered sixteen miles. The good news was that the snow depth decreased as we headed away from the mountains.

The next two days were long, beginning at five in the morning in the gray light of dawn. As the snow depth decreased and packed and with the cold wind behind us, we were making twenty two-mile days.

Off to our right a snowy owl rose silently and gracefully into the air, its snow-white plumage magnificent against the glittering background. These birds live in cold, desperate conditions but are well adapted to it. We saw Dahl sheep dot the mountain slopes, the only wild, white sheep in the world. And of course more willow ptarmigan, still chattering.

We were now north of the tree line and ahead lay the great Noatak Valley. The Noatak is three hundred ninety six miles long and traverses six distinct regions from the tundra to mountains, plains to rolling hills and flat coastal areas. We were leaving the mountains behind and entering the great wide plain of the Noatak. We saw more snow owls, but the Dahl sheep were now left far behind us.

The caribou were mostly ahead of us now. Four wolves made a stealthy appearance, apparently following the caribou, but faded away. Although we were sure the wolves would go all the way.

It was easier traveling now, less snow, flat to rolling land and a seemingly great empty space on all sides. We weren't far from the calving grounds to the north and by now the caribou are ahead of us following the urge that has driven the herd for centuries.

We decided that we could gain more information now by finding the main herd and following them out of the wintering grounds. This first stage of our yearlong study had been magnificent. We had traveled with caribou over the Brooks Range following their ancient trails. We had crossed the fabled Ivishak Pass, a place where both caribou and Eskimo hunters have crossed for centuries. We had gathered a vast amount of information and now we could gain more by going south to where the main herd was beginning to make its way north.

We called for a bush pilot to pick us up and take us south to the tiny 300 person community of Ambler. Here we could regroup, re-supply, then fly to the main herd and begin trekking with them. We must be careful not to get trapped in an early breakup of the ice in the remote North. We flew back over Ivishak Pass (which means "red powder" named for the red rocks and soil found in the Redstone River Valley and mountains. The red powdery soil was used by the Eskimos to color clothing and equipment.

Ambler was founded in 1958, the youngest village in this region. It was founded as a result of political feuding, which led six families from another small village to develop their own village. They chose the Ambler site for its great hunting and fishing potential. The people are Inupiat Eskimos which is a name they gave themselves meaning "the people." The Inupiat had no written language nor did they need one. As far as they knew, they were the only people and theirs the only language for they were so remote they knew of no other people or languages.

Today English is spoken in the village. There are no longer shamans and the harsh, brutal taboos are no longer practiced. The people are Inupiat their language is Inuping. There are no roads here. Bush plane and river are the only connection to the other world.

Our re-supply is on the way and we will get another bulletin to you before leaving here. We are well, fit, and very excited to move onto the next part of the project here. We have to work around an early spring and "breakup" of river ice. A good reason to choose to go south to the main herd before the ice breaks up in the North which would make it impossible for a plane to get us out. It is an unusual year.

Helen & Bill Thayer....