by Helen Thayer
After two feet of windblown snow had built up on one side of the tent, we had no choice but to venture outside to clear it away lest the wall collapse. The shock of the cold wind forced us to work at top speed. The sleds were buried, but at least they wouldn’t blow away. Finished, we plunged into the tent, this time taking a large amount of snow with us. Charlie looked up, stretched, and yawned. Bill and I brushed snow off each other’s backs and then, after stowing our boots in the vestibule, retreated into the depths of our warm sleeping bags.
We emerged to brave the elements only reluctantly, to attend to toilet duties. Again the cold made speed essential. Charlie woke us up twice to go outside, scratching at the tent door. By dinnertime the storm had subsided, but it was too dark to pack and start skiing. We cooked dinner, snuggled deep into the folds of our warm sleeping bags, and slept soundly.
The next day the first light of breaking dawn crept silently through the spruce trees. The storm had passed, leaving us to wallow in deep drifts of snow. In the gray silence that followed the storm, we ate a quick breakfast of oatmeal, milk powder, and dried fruit, then dressed to dig out the sleds. The wind had blasted the snow into hollows and ridges, some as high as three feet. As the skies cleared, the temperature dropped to -45 degrees. We packed and headed north.
To make up for lost time, we pulled at a steady pace. I had looked forward to a lighter sled after eating our first day’s food and burning fuel in our stove. But the effect of the slightly lighter load was more than cancelled out by the resistance of the layer of new snow over the ice. Even stoic Bill was heard to complain. We camped in the late afternoon under moonlight.
The next day we left the ice road and headed cross-country. We knew that sled hauling across the roadless terrain would be more difficult, but escaping the rumbling supply trucks and snowmobiles was our reward. To avoid the trees and other vegetation, we followed a meandering route across frozen lakes and twisting channels. The flat surfaces allowed us to make good time in the clear weather. We wondered, as we skirted patches of gnarled trees, how long these pitiful specimens, ripped and blasted by Arctic storms, had taken to reach their ten-foot height. Although far from the majestic size of trees found in southern forests, some white spruce in the delta have been documented to be 560 years old. They were probably here when the river was first discovered by Scottish explorer Alexander Mackenzie and his men in 1789.
Several white arctic foxes scurried away from a dark mound in the snow as we skied across a miniature lake. We investigated and found half the body of a female moose. Judging by the ripped abdomen, the animal had been killed by wolves, perhaps that morning, although none were in evidence now. Wolf paw-prints and the smaller prints of foxes surrounded the body. We guessed that the wolves either had eaten their fill and moved on, or were resting somewhere and would return to finish their feast. Meanwhile, the foxes were taking advantage of the fresh kill. Already we had found more evidence of one animal’s hunting skills benefiting another.
After a few days our bodies had adjusted to the daily grind of hauling sleds, setting up camp, making dinner, sleeping, and beginning all over again the next morning. We had a new appreciation for the luxury of last summer, when we had camped in one place close to the den and never had to search for wolves.
In still weather the delta is a silent place, everything frozen, waiting for spring’s release from the icy prison. The biting cold made it difficult to imagine how it might look in summer, when it is the watery home for a wide variety of nesting birds such as tundra swans, geese, golden plovers, sandhill cranes, and willow ptarmigan, as well as black clouds of mosquitoes.
Almost halfway to Tuk on day six another storm swept through, this time bringing strong gales from the south. We made good time with the wind at our backs, pushing us along. The gray sky blended with the far-off horizon, turning colors to black and white. The weak sun that hid somewhere in the cold sky made depth perception tricky as the shadows disappeared. Windblown snow scurried along the rock-hard surface, passing us in long streamers. Now and then we stumbled when we hit bumps and holes that were invisible in the flat light.
Once, as we skied down a shallow hollow, I slipped and fell. My sled didn’t stop until it knocked me off my feet. An amused Bill laughed to see me on my back on the snow and my sled halfway on top. As he helped me to my feet I informed him, in icy tones that easily matched our surroundings, that I failed to see the humor in my being run over by my own sled. He stopped laughing, but I could see a twinkle in his eye. Charlie calmly observed the entire episode, no doubt wondering why I could not stay on my feet, as it was never a problem for him.
We spent three days waiting for another storm to pass, then set out to cross a snowy moonscape. We soon learned to avoid the hollows, which were traps waiting to bog down our sleds. By now the weather and soft snow had dropped us far behind schedule. It was day twelve. At our present pace we were at least three days from Tuk, but our supply of food was plentiful. Arctic foxes scurried by. Moose and caribou looked up as we passed. More wolf tracks crisscrossed those of arctic foxes, but still we saw no wolves.
Charlie treated each wild animal differently. The ptarmigan left him unimpressed—birds just did not count—but the foxes deserved special attention. He leaped to the end of his leash in fake charges that usually made the foxes scurry away, but some sat and stared, as if to tease him. They knew his tether would stop him. The moose were a more serious business. Charlie watched them as he would a polar bear, sensing their mood, to judge whether he should become a growling, menacing ball of fury or wait quietly, body tense and ready. Because he so loved chasing wild animals, we kept him leashed at our side most of the time, not only for his own safety but to prevent the local wild inhabitants from becoming nervous as we skied past.
Several miles south of Tuk, evidence of recent kills lay in the bloody patches of snow and tufts of fur strewn about, leaving the story of the hunt to our imagination. Although the wolves had remained invisible so far, we knew they were close. Charlie enthusiastically left his mark and tried to follow the tracks. He was deeply disappointed by our uncooperative attitude.
The thick willow brush and deep snowdrifts challenged us. Our sleds developed the maddening habit of jamming in the willows. Repeatedly, we had to push and pull them free. It was exhausting work for all three of us. Even Charlie had problems finding solid surfaces in the snow. I unleashed him so he could make his way around the worst hollows. But with his broad chest paving the way, he could power through the deepest drifts.
On February 3, the fifteenth day of our trek, we reached the outskirts of Tuk, having been much delayed by storms and soft snow. The town was a dark smudge of low buildings amid the white glare of winter. A settlement of about 1,000 residents, Tuk is Canada’s northern base for gas and oil exploration in the Beaufort Sea. The town’s future is doubtful, however. Scientists are concerned that due to global warming the permafrost is melting and the sea is devouring the coastline at a rate of about six feet per year. Attempts to block the waves have so far been unsuccessful and the town’s inhabitants face the possibility of relocating to higher ground far inland.
In the shelter of our tent, we discussed plans over dinner. Should we venture into Tuk or continue with our original plan? Tired of snowmobiles, we decided to skirt the settlement and head straight for the sea ice. We sealed the pledge with a double-strength hot chocolate and hugged Charlie, who gently licked our faces in agreement.
The next morning we left at first light. The lengthening days allowed us to travel longer hours. To stay off steep banks and entangled willow thickets, we followed a lengthy path over the frozen river channels twisting toward the coast.
Tuk is surrounded by numerous pingos—huge, permanent hills with a core of ice that grow only in permafrost. (“Pingo,” an Inuktitut word, simply means “conical hill.”) Pingos can reach heights of more than a hundred feet and form when an ice mound pushes upward, taking a layer of vegetation with it. There are more than 1,500
pingos in the Mackenzie Delta. Some resemble Egyptian pyramids, while the smaller ones look like volcanic cones. One of the world’s largest, called Ibyuk, is reputed to be 160 feet high and 1,000 feet wide and is located a few miles southwest of Tuk. Several species of birds, especially rough-legged hawks, nest in the vegetation-covered slopes.
The next day as Bill, Charlie, and I wound back and forth along the river channels, the thought of the sea ice and wolves ahead urged us onward. At one point we followed three sets of wolf tracks but still saw no wolves.
At midday we reached the coast and the windblown, relatively snow-free ice that provided long-sought relief to our tiring bodies. Just as we neared the icy Beaufort Sea, two white wolves crossed our path only a few hundred feet ahead. One male carried a large chunk of seal, and his female companion carried a smaller portion. Charlie tensed. The pair stopped momentarily to look at us, then trotted westward.
Within minutes a lone male, also carrying part of a seal, loped across the ice, hurrying to catch the first two. The encounter was so different from our first meeting with Alpha and his family, who had watched us with intense suspicion as we neared their den. These sea ice wolves barely paused to notice us as they hurried to some distant place to eat their meal. Apparently the wolves had found an abandoned polar bear kill and shared in the bounty.
After pushing our way through the snow and ice for sixteen days, we were thrilled. Our quest to observe wolves, polar bears, and their hunting habits on the sea ice had begun.
Bears
THE ROUGH COASTAL ICE of the Beaufort Sea was a precarious jumble of massive slabs and blocks, strewn about as if thrown by a giant. It creaked and groaned as we pulled our sleds farther out onto its frozen surface.
Charlie was delighted to be on sea ice again, which he had loved on previous northern expeditions. Once we cleared the unstable shore jumble, he rolled for a luxurious back scratch, all four feet in the air, wriggling back and forth with contented grunts.
When the sea first freezes, the surface is covered with a layer of fine crystals resembling an oily film. The crystals join and thicken into a layer of gray, salty slush that rises and falls with the gentle swells. As ice ages and thickens, the salt gradually drops, turning the surface into white, freshwater ice that can be melted for cooking and drinking water.
Pack ice, or multiyear ice, covers most of the open polar sea. It continues to harden and thicken to sometimes more than fifty feet. Ocean currents and storm winds keep the ice in constant motion, changing its shape into long ridges of dangerous teetering blocks and vast areas of rubble. When winds and currents split the surface, the edges drift away from each other. In violent storms the sections can move half a mile apart, forming a gaping water chasm.
In previous expeditions, we had spent hours and sometimes days waiting for the water to refreeze or for edges to join together. Two words describe polar sea ice: unpredictable and dangerous.
As our sleds glided easily across the thin layer of snow covering the ice, we skied a course over the frozen sea, away from Tuk and toward Pullen Island, which lay fifty-two miles and about five days to the northwest. Here we found no mysterious green valleys, narrow caribou trails, or new spring growth pushing up toward the sun, as we had on our way to the summer den. Instead we faced an endless crumpled ice sheet that stretched into a blue infinity. We imagined ourselves leaving the world behind as we headed toward the polar ice cap. There would be no wolf family at their den. Any wolves here would be scattered across the ice, and our task was to find them.
Later that day we reached an uneven area of twenty-foot-high ridges split by narrow gaps, the chaos a result of storms and the Mackenzie River. As the river flows into the sea in the dropping fall temperatures, the river current, although sluggish, moves the setting ice in all directions, creating an obstacle course of ridges and rubble. Immediately off the coast, because of the silt-laden river flow, the water depth is only a few feet in places.
The head-on tactics we had used on previous Arctic expeditions through ice ridges worked this time as well. We hauled our sleds behind us by hand and dropped them down the other side of each ridge as we struggled over the top. Charlie, meanwhile, leaped nimbly from block to block with perfect balance. The extraordinarily clear air provided brilliant visibility as we peered through the white glare, hoping to see a smoother path ahead. But the miles of jumbled ice stretched on and on.
Just as I pulled my sled through a tight gap that almost jammed it, the ice suddenly groaned as it settled and moved with the sea currents. Blocks, some the size of small cars, toppled as if they were toys. The ice was on the move.
Bill yelled, “Leave the sleds and get out!”
Two male bears growl mouth to mouth, testing each other over hunting space.
Dropping my sled harness, I scrambled down just as another great groan rumbled through the ice, toppling even more blocks. Charlie leaped the gaps to follow close at my heels. From the relative safety of a flat ice pan, we watched the sleds sway among the unstable blocks that threatened to crush them. After fifteen minutes, there was silence.
We scrambled back to our sleds, praying that the ice wouldn’t move. We grabbed the sled ropes, jerked the sleds free, and hauled them down to flat ice. No sooner were we convinced that things had settled down than we heard a deep rumbling. Quick as lightning, a split opened ten feet behind us. With a rush of adrenaline we dashed in the opposite direction, toward what looked like stable ice. Huge cracks cut through the surface at our heels as we ran. One suddenly appeared three feet ahead. We hurdled it, still dragging our sleds.
The sound had grown to thunderous proportions. All around us, the unstable pack still moved. Terrified, we ran a half mile before the vibration and roaring subsided enough to allow us to stop, out of breath, wondering if we might still be chewed up in the jaws of the breaking ice.
As we regained our breath, the untamed sounds of raw nature faded away. The crisis had passed. We were still in one piece. We hugged each other and Charlie with relief.
There was enough daylight left to escape the precarious area before nightfall. We turned east in search of a safe route and encountered day-old polar bear paw prints mixed with the smaller tracks of arctic foxes. As Charlie caught the bear scent, he tugged at his leash, urging us to follow the tracks. “Forget it, Charlie,” I said. “We’ve got more important things to do.” After I gave a determined pull on his leash, he reluctantly gave up the idea.
Two hours later and six miles out of our way, we reached the end of the ridge and could see level ice stretching several miles northwest. To celebrate, we stopped to eat a quick snack. With the temperature down to -41 degrees, we resisted the temptation to stay long. Even though the sounds of the ice breakup had faded, the many splits and gaps we continued to cross reminded us of the trauma we had escaped. Hurdling three-foot-wide splits with long jumps and quick pulls, we skied ahead to find a safe campsite. It wasn’t until the gray dusk closed in that we stopped. With cold fingers and tired bodies we made camp, relieved to end the day’s hard travel. Now that we were camping on ice we anchored our tent with mountaineering ice screws, hollow, six-inch titanium tubes that screwed into the ice.
At daybreak, after a restful night, we sat in our sleeping bags eating a hot breakfast of oatmeal and dried fruit while we studied our map. Yesterday’s long detour still left us forty-nine miles from Pullen Island.
Although the air outside was a frigid -33 degrees, the good visibility and smooth ice made skiing easier, with a only few easy ups and downs to traverse. But the sun’s glare reflecting off the ice tortured our eyes. Our goggles fogged up all morning. We had to raise them frequently to see, and by afternoon the brightness began to burn our eyes. It was a relief to close them that night.
For the next two days we regularly crossed polar bear, wolf, and fox tracks, all traveling from one seal breathing hole to another. Judging by the patches of blood and tiny scraps of seal hide on the ice, the bears had made several kills. The abundan
t seal population guaranteed good hunting for the polar bears, who always sensed where the best seal hunting grounds were.
The breathing holes of ringed seals, or natiq, were places of delight for Charlie, with delightful seal aromas and occasionally even a few scraps of meat, which he chewed with gusto. We couldn’t persuade him to leave any hole until he had properly inspected it, licked up all the blood, and eaten every scrap of meat and hide.
We kept a careful 360-degree lookout for bears. Our loaded shotguns lay on top of our sleds alongside the flare guns and several dozen flares. As we traveled through an area of ice pinnacles high enough to hide a waiting bear, we mostly relied on Charlie’s acute sense of hearing and smell to warn us of any trouble.
One day after two hours of zigzagging we finally skied onto smoother ice, rounding a six-foot pile of ice rubble. Dead ahead rested a polar bear and her two cubs. A hundred feet away Charlie stopped, watched quietly for a moment, and then led us away, knowing the bear wouldn’t approach as long as we skied onward.
Without pausing we continued, as unhurriedly as we could, hoping not to leave the impression that we were running away, which could invite the mother to chase us. With her cubs tucked firmly to her furry side, she remained still. The cubs, born the previous spring, were dependent on their mother, who would nurture them for their first two years. An arctic fox scampered across our path with hardly a glance in our direction as he carried a foot-long chunk of sealskin left over from a bear kill.
Charlie whips around to face the bear and leaps, snarling in our defense.
An hour later we met another bear and cubs. This mother immediately moved protectively ahead of her two offspring, who cautiously peeked from her side. She growled. Charlie sensed her aggression. She took a second step forward as her growls grew angry. He responded with mouth-frothing snarls as he leaped to the end of his leash. She turned with her cubs close to her side and, running with the polar bear’s typical pigeon-toed gait, disappeared into the chaotic ice.