by Helen Thayer
Our winter journey would be quite different from our summer experience. We would be constantly moving through dangerous sea ice as we sought to discover more about the relationship between wolves and polar bears. As we searched out our wolf subjects on the frozen ocean, we would face the added challenge of traveling and camping close to polar bears, among the most dangerous of all carnivores.
John’s discovery of a pack who gathered together between hunts on the delta would make it possible to camp close to land-bound wolves for a lengthy period, rather than face the impossible task of following wolves on foot as they traveled throughout their winter hunting range.
John, whom we had met two years ago on a previous journey to his town, was a tall, slender, reclusive man (so much so that he insisted we not use his real name in this story). He had given up alcohol after his brother almost killed a man during a drunken brawl several years before. John had spent fifteen years living and working in the southern Yukon city of Whitehorse before leaving his job and moving to Cambridge Bay. Once an ardent wolf hunter, he had undergone a life-changing experience when he happened upon a thin, sad-eyed female wolf tied with a ten-foot chain to a fence in a backyard. He bought the animal for fifty dollars, named her Lucky, and turned her loose into the wild.
When he released her from a large dog-carrying crate she began to run, then stopped and looked back at him with upturned lips, as if smiling her thanks. As he watched her disappear, he vowed never to hunt wolves again. “I’ll never forget her expression and the look in her eyes,” he told us. “She trusted me. I’ll never betray her trust as long as I live.”
As part of our preparation, John phoned us with regular updates on weather and sea ice conditions. He also gave us the news we had hoped for: While seal hunting, he had sighted several wolves and polar bears on the frozen ocean along our proposed route. Also, he reported that the land-bound wolf family he had discovered, which had the unusual habit of returning regularly throughout the winter to one place on the delta, was following their normal cycle.
Our camp in a windstorm.
Thoroughly prepared and brimming with enthusiasm, Bill, Charlie, and I set out the following January to drive by pickup truck to Dawson City. Our skis and sleds were tied down in the back, along with our packs and supplies. Charlie occupied the backseat—that is, until he decided he wanted a turn in the front seat. Whoever wasn’t driving climbed out to exchange seats with Charlie until he later signaled with barks that he wanted his own seat back.
The countryside had changed since last summer’s journey. The land hid beneath a snowy blanket. The rivers were frozen and snowmobiles were parked in front yards or dashing along trails. In Dawson City, snow was pushed into piles here and there. Gray slush replaced the puddles of last year.
After one night in Dawson City we found Ted, whom we had met the previous year, still working in the grocery store. A lanky, gray-haired fortysomething transplant from the lower forty-eight, he had been so fascinated by Charlie during our visit to Dawson last summer that he made us promise to look him up on our return so he could spend time with his “favorite dog.” We took it as no insult that he had not mentioned wanting to meet Bill and me again. We were used to Charlie taking center stage.
Much to Ted’s delight, we left Charlie in his charge while we searched for a newspaper to catch up on the local news. We bought some postcards and hastily scribbled a note on each, then returned to the store to find Ted in loud conversation with everyone within earshot about Charlie’s many virtues. Charlie eagerly licked every hand that reached out to pat him. He was a big hit and he knew it. Finally we said good-bye, but only after we promised to return with Charlie after our winter journey was over.
We left town and took the frozen Dempster Highway across the Yukon Territory and the Northwest Territories border to Inuvik. Here we would begin the winter stage of our yearlong wolf project. The road, although slippery and treacherous in places, was less hazardous to tires now that the shale was covered with packed snow. Even so, we carried two spares in addition to five gallons of gas. Due to the reduced daylight, which consisted of only a few hours of gray light, we stopped halfway and camped at Eagle Plains.
The next day we set out at 7 A.M., before daylight, to complete our journey to Inuvik. Along the way we passed through the wintering grounds of the Porcupine caribou herd, an area where the animals paw beneath a thin covering of snow to find a meal of willows, sedges, and lichen.
We paused at the lonely roadside spot where Margaret had left us last spring for our hike to the wolf den. We reminisced about the summer as we looked toward the valleys and mountains we had traversed in last spring’s thaw. Wispy clouds swept across the mountaintops. The slopes were shrouded in white, and the valleys lay frozen and still.
The den and rendezvous sites would be empty now. The family would be traveling with the pups throughout their hunting range. The pups would be big enough to keep up with the adults and learn to hunt large prey. The discipline taught by the family, particularly Beta, would help them become shrewd hunters.
We longed to see them again and know they were safe, but we would have to wait until next spring’s denning season before we could visit. In the meantime, I took out a walnut-size brown rock I had collected from the den entrance. I had vowed to carry it with me during our winter journey and told Bill that it would bring us good luck in our quest to meet wolves on the sea ice and winter land. But my secret reason for carrying it was that this small rock was a link to the family we loved. I held it to my lips and said a prayer for the family’s safety, then returned it to my pocket.
Three hours later, after a few slips and slides on the treacherous road, we arrived at Inuvik, meaning “place of people” in Inuktitut. With a fluctuating population of around 3,000, the settlement is situated on the east channel of the Mackenzie Delta. Only 224 feet above sea level, the area was developed as a result of oil exploration. The town became a supply center for petroleum company crews when the first well was drilled in 1965. The main engineering obstacle in building Inuvik was the deep permafrost, or frozen soil, which forced construction of water and sewer pipes above ground.
The Inuit, whose name means “the people,” make up most of the town’s population. They are no longer known as Eskimos, a disparaging term meaning “eaters of raw meat” that was attached to them by early white settlers. The culture of the Inuit, formerly nomadic hunters, has undergone radical changes over several generations. While much of the populace is generally welcoming and helpful, many Inuit consume huge quantities of alcohol. Late into the night, drunks weave their uncertain way from bar to bar. Their loud voices, often hurling profanities at no one in particular, echo through the snowy streets. Mornings are spent recovering in time to begin partying once more in the nighttime hours. Alcohol helps some get through the mind-numbing darkness of winter.
Whites, or kabloona, work in the government offices here and, as in other towns far above the Arctic Circle, seem out of place. Their culture does not suit life in the frozen north, forcing them to make major adjustments to cope with the intense cold and isolation.
Our first task in Inuvik was to contact John, who was eager to hear about our summer with the tundra wolves. He grew angry when we told him of the aerial hunters. “It’s frustrating,” he said. “The government just doesn’t listen.”
He had good news, though, about our prospects for finding wolves to observe. Just the day before, he had seen six wolves bedded down in sparse trees and willows about fifty miles across the delta, in a place far from snowmobile routes, where he had seen them sporadically for the last four years. He marked the place on our map with an X. Since first discovering the unusual habits of this wolf family, he had kept the location a closely guarded secret from his hunting friends.
In town throughout the day, the din of snowmobiles blasted the frigid air. The drivers, some in bright, neon-trimmed suits and helmets, appeared oblivious to everything except how fast they could go and how loud they cou
ld be. The noxious smell of fuel and ever-present plumes of blue smoke trailed behind them. To preserve life and limb, we quickly learned to listen for a roar before crossing a street. Although impressed by the drivers’ abilities to swerve around us at the last possible moment, we were unimpressed by the choking exhaust. We much preferred the lifestyle of an expedition in the wilderness to the nerve-wracking stress of dodging traffic.
Poor Charlie was unhappy with the noise and commotion too. He jumped in alarm as yet another snowmobile sprayed him with dirty, gray street snow. We stayed in Inuvik only one day, just long enough to gather the last of our supplies—stove fuel and a few basics—and load our sleds. We had brought most of our food with us.
Our winter diet in continuous cold temperatures is one of carbohydrates and fats to maintain the warmth and energy needed to pull our heavy sleds. After dividing 360 pounds of food between the sleds, they each weighed 300 pounds. Based on our other Arctic expeditions, we planned a diet of 4,000 calories per day. In Inuvik we bought extra butter and several irresistible energy bars to add to our already generous stores, which included Charlie’s favorite dog food and extra-protein treats, such as dried strips of chicken and beef. So that he would be free to walk at our sides, we carried his food on our sleds, just as we had carried his food in our packs last summer.
At Inuvik’s northerly latitude the sunlight disappears for most of December, returns for a few minutes during the first week of January, and shows itself for several hours toward the end of the month. Due to darkness and our start in January, normally the coldest month of the year, we estimated that our approximately 350-mile round trip would take about thirty days in the gradually increasing daylight. To be on the safe side, we would carry supplies for fifty days, to last until mid-March.
John drove us to the banks of the frozen Mackenzie River outside of town, where the ice road leading to Tuk began. Each winter the river freezes with ice thick enough to drive on. Then snowplows clear away the surface snow to enable supply trucks and snowmobilers to drive the “highway” until the spring thaw reduces the delta to a giant mosquito-infested swamp.
A good morning stretch after being confined to the tent during our first arctic storm.
John helped us lift our loaded sleds from the pickup and waved good-bye. At last, with a sense of relief mixed with anticipation, we attached skis to our boots and sled harnesses to our waists and set forth on our winter expedition.
We were about to experience life in splendid solitude again, this time in the Mackenzie Delta and taiga forest, blanketed with snow and ice and locked in the depths of an arctic winter. We estimated that weather permitting, we would take six or seven days to cross the delta and arrive in Tuk, the only settlement along our route.
With Inuvik receding into the distance, Charlie returned to his cheerful self. He strode ahead with his normal impatient gait, signaling us to hurry. Our skis crunched against the dry, squeaky snow typical of the polar North. As we let go of Inuvik and our daily lives, our minds opened and peace prevailed as we looked ahead to life in a natural, simple space.
We gradually reoriented ourselves to a daily routine consisting mainly of the ebb and flow of weather, geography, and the snow beneath our feet. The swish, swish of our skis took the place of conversation. Our senses became more acute. Words were unnecessary as we listened to and watched nature slide by. Ptarmigan exploded from the snow around willow thickets, the heavy beat of their wings carrying them safely away from Charlie’s lunges.
January’s forbidding winter and monochromatic light contrasted with the softer hues we recalled from last summer’s tundra environment. It was 36 degrees below zero. The sky was streaked with sun dogs, arcs of light the colors of a rainbow formed by ice crystals reflected in the sunlight. The slender spruce trees were Christmas-card perfect in their white cloaks. A snowy owl glided past in silent flight, its breath a thin stream of ice particles trailing behind. Three ravens flew by, their raucous voices loud and vaguely disturbing in the quiet.
Two months of tough, unrelenting training in the mountains had done much to acclimatize the three of us for the journey ahead, but it still took time to adjust to pulling a fully loaded sled and camping in subzero cold. At first our sleds felt like anchors around our hips. For the first two days, we followed the frozen ribbon of the East Channel of the Mackenzie River as it wound tortuously through stunted spruce.
Occasionally we passed items serving to mark the edges of the road—a barrel, a tall orange stake, a snowplow berm. As we stopped to allow three snowmobiles to pass, we looked forward to leaving the road and heading across the white landscape to make our own path. Charlie sneezed in the exhaust fumes and shook off the snow that landed on him as the Inuit snowmobilers accelerated past on bright red and yellow machines.
The immense delta, through which the Mackenzie River’s contorted three main channels flow to the Beaufort Sea, is an ancient floodplain that developed during the retreat of the Wisconsin ice sheet thousands of years ago. Sluggish streams meander their way north through an elaborate mosaic of lakes and ponds. Stands of dwarf alder, birches, and willow are interspersed with low-growing sedges. Closer to the coast, most of the trees disappear and willow increases.
As we struggled along the ice road, I was reminded that in dry snow, sled runners do not slide as easily as they do in the wetter snow of Washington. With my load straining at my hips, I vaguely wondered at the wisdom of tossing aboard those extra energy bars. As the hours passed I resolved to have a generous dinner, topped off with as many of the bars as I could possibly eat. Tomorrow my sled would be lighter, I promised myself. It all sounded very familiar—reminiscent of my thoughts on many a previous journey, in fact. Meanwhile, Bill plodded steadily onward in his usual uncomplaining fashion.
As the first day progressed, feathery clouds signaled a weather change. We stopped for a late lunch of beef jerky, cashews, and walnuts, followed by a drink of hot chocolate. After gobbling half my beef jerky, Charlie turned his full attention to Bill and begged for more snacks. Only after he was soundly rebuffed did he eat his dog food.
The temperature rose to -29 degrees, but was still too cold to rest for more than ten minutes; any longer would allow the seeping cold to reach through our innermost layers. Next to our skin we wore thin thermal tops and pants. Next came a thick fleece sweater and pants, topped by a windproof, insulated hooded jacket. We also had a head-hugging fleece hat topped by a thermal, windproof outer hat. Our hands were covered with thin but warm glove liners under polar mitts, and our boots were especially designed for cold, dry climates. They were breathable, with rubber soles that gripped the snow and ice. Finally, neoprene masks protected our faces and warmed our breath before the searing cold could hit our lungs. Charlie, on the other hand, needed nothing but his thick black Arctic coat to keep warm.
As Bill and I skied along, each engrossed in our own thoughts, we exchanged places in the lead. Charlie mostly traveled at my side, but enjoyed taking an occasional turn with Bill. By midafternoon lenticular clouds, shaped like lenses and saucers, had developed to signal oncoming high winds.
Suddenly Bill called, “Moose to your right!”
An adult female browsed in the thick willow undergrowth. Remembering the summer episode when I had been chased by an angry mother, I froze. Charlie stared at the moose without moving. Now aware of us, she took a few quick steps, as though to flee, but changed her mind and continued browsing as she slowly wandered deeper into the entanglement. As she disappeared, Charlie stepped ahead to continue the journey as though nothing unusual had happened.
In late afternoon’s rapidly fading light, more lenticular clouds billowed across the sky. The rising wind ripped through the treetops, sending a full-scale storm bearing down on us. We rushed to erect the tent. Within ten minutes and with perfect teamwork, we anchored it securely and tossed our gear inside, just as a blizzard began to hurtle snow in horizontal blasts that we estimated at sixty miles per hour. Bill and I both dived in headfirs
t, followed by Charlie. I lunged at the door zipper, pulled it shut, and leaned back, panting.
“Whew!” I said. “Just in time.”
Charlie lay back in comfort. We rearranged our gear, ready to wait out a storm that could last days. After the sleeping bags and equipment were in place, we cooked a dinner of soup and crackers followed by dehydrated rice and vegetables with butter added to increase calories. Dessert was an easy decision: energy bars.
At the beginning of an expedition, the food always seems quite tasty. As time passes, especially in cold climates, it reduces itself to the taste of sawdust as cold numbs taste buds and the same fare appears over and over. To keep our loads as light as possible and to simplify cooking, we ate the same nutritious, energy-laden items each day with little variation, supplementing them with multivitamins and extra vitamin C.
Lest our spirits become defeated by the tedious diet, we never critique the food while traveling. Allowing our minds to wander to thoughts of more varied, mouthwatering fare does not help our resolve to continue onward. And persistence and dedication to the task ahead is sometimes all that keeps us going through the difficult stretches of sled hauling.
After dinner we climbed into our down sleeping bags, far more heavy-duty than our lightweight summer models. All night the wind roared and snow dumped on our tiny home. Now and then we beat the inside walls to knock down the snow that rapidly built up outside, particularly on the windward side. By first light, late the next morning, the storm had lessened its fury, but it strengthened again by midday. To stay warm, we remained in our sleeping bags. Charlie, spread across my bag as usual, took up more and more room as time went on, until I was forced to push him off and start over. I again claimed a generous share that I knew would gradually disappear.
