LA Times / Coastline Pilot

2 July 2004

 

Chasing the Muse

Catharine Cooper

 

 

 

“Back paddle!” screams our guide, Julie, as the current carries our rubber raft directly toward the grizzly bear, feasting on dead moose in the middle of the river.  We flail at the water, digging paddle tips into the shallows, kicking up rocks and gravel in a furious haste to change the course of our float. 

 

The bear stands up as he hears our frenzy.  He’s smallish, maybe two years old, which means he weighs only 600 pounds.  To us, he looks anything but small.  He’s dining on his kill in the midst of a narrow passage of the Kungakut River, which is closed in on both sides by 10 feet high walls of aufeis (river flow frozen into horizontal layers of ice).   We manage to ground our paddleboat on a gravel bar about 15 feet away, and the stare off begins.

 

There are several rules for traveling in grizzly country.  One of the most important is to not surprise a bear while they are feeding, because likely, they will defend their kill.

 

We are on day three of a 12 day float trip through the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, with Arctic River Journeys, owned and operated by guides Julie Munger and Abigail Polsby.  Six passengers fill out two boats: Lynn, James, Robin, Jeff, Steve and myself.  We’ve all come hungry for the wilderness and curious about this last chunk of unspoiled refuge land.

 

The Kungakut River is the most northern and eastern of large river flows in Alaska.  It is a braided river, twisting and turning through the gravel and tundra as it makes its way toward the coastal plains and the Beaufort Sea.  We are above 69° latitude.  Canada is a mere breath away. 

 

Three days earlier we arrived on a gravel island via bush plane chartered from Coyote Air.  While the normal put in is eight miles to the north, Dirk, our pilot, spies a spot near the headwaters where he thinks he can ‘put her down.’  We circle the spot three times as he surveys the conditions.  With clear commitment, we drop altitude and come to a screeching halt on a gravel island between two separate river flows in the midst of the mountains.  Gear is dumped.  Dirk takes off to fly the hour and half return to Coldfoot to retrieve the other three passengers and guide. 

 

It is suddenly still, except for the soft roar of the river.  We are hundreds of miles from any signs of civilization, standing on ground that likely no other human has walked.  On a slope to the east, we spy what appears to be a bear digging in the tall tundra grass.  A tiny semipalmated plover paces back and forth, snacking in a streamlet and chirping an inviting song.

 

 

Our gear lies in a heap on this empty gravel bar, and to the south, dark ominous thunder clouds press in our direction.  The wind whips up, and suddenly the storm is upon us.  We struggle to get into raingear, don our ‘xtra-tuff’ boots and make a mad dash to set up the tents before we are drenched.  Welcome to the wilderness!

 

Dirk reappears with our fellow travelers about three hours later.  They marvel that we have somehow set up the tents, the kitchen and inflated the boats while they were lounging in Coldfoot.  Dirk departs with the same roar of engine, and again, silence and emptiness create an almost ringing sensation in our ears.  We are alone in the vastness of open space.

 

A spotting scope confirms that the brown object on the hillside is in fact, a grizzly bear.  We watch him dig, tumble and plop in the tundra while dining on halibut fillets and green salad. 

 

It’s 11:00 PM, but the sun has merely lowered on the horizon.  In this land of the midnight sun, darkness has departed for a solid three months, and normal biorhythms determined by sunlight will slip quickly out of commission.  Day is night and day again.

 

Guidebooks are great sources of information about uncharted lands.  The one that discusses bears includes this description: “They are naturally curious, and caution should be taken when in their presence… If you meet a bear, yield the right-of-way by moving slowly away.”

 

Right.  The bear is in the middle of the river.  We can’t climb the ice.  The bear is in the middle of the river. 

 

Likely, this grizzly’s been sleeping on his kill before our appearance, and we have startled him as much as ourselves.  Bears don’t see well, and our round edged raft with four flailing paddles appears ominous.  Julie cries out, ‘Oh, bear,” and with a wild leap, he makes for the side of the aufeis, digging long sharp claws in a frantic move to flee the scene.  Once on top, he stands again.  Since bears can run up to 35 miles per hour, we are not yet sure of his intent.  He lowers his body and steps toward us on the ice shelf.  One more peek of his head, and he decides he wants nothing to do with us.  By the time the other paddleboat rounds the corner, the bear and the moment have passed.  The other travelers listen to our story with great suspicion, while the guides decide it is time to load the shotgun.

 

Catharine Cooper loves wild places.  She can be reached at ccooper@cooperdesign.net.