Rained in at Kuzitrin

The week started out promising. By noon on Monday my supervisor and I were suited up in our flight gear and walking across the tarmac behind the Bering Air hangar for our first helicopter trip out to Kuzitrin and Imuruk Lakes. It was partly cloudy, but the ceiling was high with a vivid blue sky above. 

My view

When I saw the chopper we were flying in, I couldn't help but laugh -- it was smaller than the car we had driven to get here, with a big bubble window around the cockpit, giving the two front seats a wide view all around. As the photographer, I got copilot's seat.

I have to admit, it felt like my heart jumped into my throat when we first took off. It was extremely smooth, but just seeing the ground drop away under my feet and suddenly feeling as if I was hanging under a giant swing was a little surprising.

Terrible picture of grizzly and cub (the black spot)

Once we got going I was able to relax and realized it was 10x smoother than any of the bush planes I've been traveling in. The pilot was friendly and chatty, and pointed out various landmarks and wildlife we passed over, including about 5 grizzlies and cubs!

Heading over the Kigs

The views all the way to Kuzitrin were simply breathtaking. Over each mountain range brought picturesque vistas that could easily have been painted masterpieces.

Fresh snow covered peak

The best part was seeing the change in seasons finally occurring. For what we lack in colorful fall trees here, we make up for in beautiful orange, red, and yellow tundra hills, splashed with the vibrant hues of berries, bushes, and lichens.  Many of the taller mountains even had a fresh dusting of snow on top.

Cutting around another snow covered peak

Incredible views

More fall landscapes

Kuzitrin Lake

At last we made it to Kuzitrin Lake, which stood out in the brightest blue I have ever seen, reflecting the sky and contrasting with the orangey tundra coming right up to its shores.

Crystal clear water, even from the air

Shoreline beach

Our pilot was kind enough to fly us over the area, not only to scout out where we wanted to camp, but also to get some aerial shots. Over the lake, I could see dozens of bear and moose tracks; we opted to camp on the opposite side. Before we landed, we did one flyover of the Twin Calderas and the ancient cairns that stand along their rims.

One of the Twin Calderas

Chopper taking off

Finally, we landed on a nice wide chunk of beach, unloaded our gear under the gales of wind thrown by the rotors, and waved goodbye. As the distant hum of the helicopter faded away over the mountains, I was struck with that familiar feeling of solitude.

Making our customary calls in to Central Dispatch

Mountains over Kuzitrin Lake

Energized by the beautiful weather, we set up camp and our cook tent about 100 feet away, and then set off to hike up to the calderas.

Ptarmigan taking off

Although it was only about a mile and a half, the hike was somewhat strenuous due to the terrain. We alternated between soggy willow and blueberry bogs, and the rocky, unstable lava flows coming down from the calderas. At one point we were both nearly scared to death when a flock of ptarmigan exploded out of the brush right at our feet, drumming their air loudly with their clumsy wings.

Super sweet blueberries!

Lava flow

Small cairn and elk antler

When we eventually made it to the rim of the first caldera I was totally awed by both the incredible views and the rock cairns, or monoliths, built on top. The cairns are currently dated to about 300 years old, although they've been used probably up until the last 100 years.

Another cairn

It was on top of this ancient volcanic rim that the thought struck me: I am one of the only people to have ever come up here to photographically document this place. I mean, you could say that about a lot of places, but even back at the office in Nome, we literally only have one folder of photos from Kuzitrin, and those were taken last year. Even if you Google it, hardly any photos of the lake or calderas come up.

Although this wilderness is far from "untouched," it is almost totally undocumented publicly, save for a few archaeological and geological studies that have been done here. For the first time, I felt almost like a real explorer, setting foot on a land traversed only by a few locals, and the very occasional researcher.

Looking into the caldera

Adorable random caterpillar 

Looking over the rim

Larger cairns

Standing in front of a windbreak

We hiked on top of the calderas for a while, but just as I was setting up to take the first panorama, we noticed a huge curtain of rain coming towards us from the direction of the lake. I tried to quickly set up the pan, but totally screwed up the exposure with the now cloudy skies from the oncoming storm. The pan finished just as spits of rain were beginning to fall.

Rainbow over our hideout

Since it made no sense to hike back down the caldera into the oncoming rain, we decided to seek shelter in one of the large windbreaks. It turned out to be an excellent plan -- the wind was cut out almost completely, and we barely even got wet in the 20 minutes or so we hunkered down. As it turned out, the worst of the storm had taken off in another direction, leaving us almost totally dry.

Ominous weather over the cairns

By the time we made it down though, the weather really had taken a turn for the worse. The windspeeds had picked up, and our cook tent was collapsed in the sand -- though fortunately our bear barrels and stove were heavy enough to remain where we'd left them.

We hauled it all back up, fighting against wet, sandy gusts, and staked the tent back down before managing to enjoy a meal of chicken and rice and hot tea. After dinner, we took it down again, as gales were now ripping the stakes out of the ground and pushing over the center pole. We were chilled to the bone and quite damp by the time we made it into our own tent.

Stormy skies over the lake

If only we'd known this was just the beginning...

We both expected the weather to improve overnight, but in fact it did the exact opposite. The gusts increased to probably over 30mph, hurling rain at our tent all night long, the rain fly beating against the walls with epic force. For hours I lay in the warmth of my sleeping bag, watching the yellow ceiling wobble violently above us, like being inside an unsteady lump of jell-o.

The next morning was even worse. Calling for our daily check-in to Central Dispatch, we found that conditions were the same in Nome and had no sign of improvement. And so we waited. And waited. And waited. And it rained, and it rained, and it rained. The entire day passed by. We read a lot. We slept. I did some crosswords and wrote a little. I braved the elements a couple times to go to the bathroom behind the dunes and grab a soaking wet bite to eat from my bear barrel, but it was miserable to come outside the tent.

We managed to get the cook tent up for dinner, but its walls were billowing in like a huge sail, and it was too gusty to even boil a lot of water (we managed just enough for tea, and filtered the rest into a bottle). It was a quick meal before we tore the tent down again, stuffed everything back under a tarp with painfully cold hands, and returned to the safety of our yellow tent.

Even after sleeping all day, I managed to sleep quite well the second night. When I awoke around 8am, the wind had died down somewhat, although I could still here a patter of rain on the tent. I calculated we had been in the tent for about 36 hours straight, not counting our short excursions out for necessities. My body ached from lack of movement.

It took a few hours before we worked out a plan with our helicopter manager, but in the end we made the decision to cut the operation short and return to Nome. No point in wasting more government money to sit inside a tent for 3 more days -- or longer if the conditions worsened. And there might be an opportunity for a day trip out to Imuruk later in the week if the weather improved.

Getting ready to pack up

Around 2pm we jumped up at the sound of the helicopter coming near. Miraculously, the weather had cleared at least to a sprinkling of rain and a light breeze, although temperatures hung in the 30s.  We loaded up, and once again were off, although this time I took the back seat.

Imuruk lava beds 

Our pilot was nice enough to offer a quick flyover of the Imuruk lava fields, since we wouldn't be camping there. Fortunately I managed to get some decent aerial shots, even from my tiny side window.

Lava flows and caves

View out the front

More cool lava flows

Looking out over Kuzitrin River

We hit a lot of rain in the hour ride back, but once again I found it a lot more enjoyable than a bush plane flight. We tracked along rivers and roads when the fog was too thick to see through, and an hour later, we were back in grey, rainy Nome, a little cold and wet, but otherwise quite happy to be back.

In some ways, I'm a little disappointed in the trip -- or more so in my portion of the work. I'm kicking myself for not getting any video footage, for not getting a better panorama, or more shots along the lake and the archaeological sites. But in other ways, I guess there's no way I could have known that we would be stuck in a tent for 36 hours unable to take any equipment out into the rain. I'm certainly disappointed in myself for not having been better prepared and I'm not sure how that will reflect on me now, but what else is there to do? There really aren't any "second chances" for anything in this job, which is something I'm learning the hard way.

The new tentative plan is for me to try to go out again tomorrow for an afternoon trip to Imuruk, possibly film, and take photos if the weather improves (though it looks like it won't). I really hope we can though -- not so much for a second chance, but at least an opportunity to expand our documentation of the preserve in some way.

To the backcountry by chopper

For three days straight, Nome has been pounded by a relentless rain and wind storm; the radio reported we've received 5 inches of rain in the last 72 hours, and the seas are so choppy that a cruise ship of German tourists has been stuck here for a couple days, and even a group of Coast Guard guys has been staying at the bunkhouse. On top of that, the dead whale that washed up on Center Beach last week has now rolled across the shoreline and is wafting a fishy stench over downtown from where it now rests behind the post office.

I say, no better time to leave for another backcountry trip! :) As it just so happens, this Monday my supervisor and I are taking a week-long trip together to Kuzitrin and Imuruk Lakes on the south end of Bering Land Bridge National Preserve. The best part? We're traveling by helicopter, a first-time experience for both of us. Here's the plan:

Monday morning we take off from Nome and travel to Kuzitrin Lake, where we'll base-camp for two nights. I'm not really sure what to expect as far as what Kuzitrin is like, but I do know it is the site of two calderas  and is supposedly covered with archaeological artifacts.

There is very little information published about Kuzitrin, which made my pre-trip research difficult, but from what I gathered the site was influential in ancient and historic caribou herding. There were 4 populations that lived in the area and built big stone monoliths between which they would seasonally drive wild caribou herds (perhaps like people drove wild bison herds in the Great Plains).

On Wednesday, the helicopter is picking us up again and taking us to Imuruk Lake, the sight of the preserve's most significant volcanic activity. Again, not much information out there about Imuruk, but basically there's a big lake there, and 100,000 acres of lava fields.

On Friday, we're flying further into the lava fields for about an hour to get some photos and video footage (perhaps some of the first documentation the park has of this area from the ground), and then heading back to Nome.

And that's if everything goes as planned, which it never does. So, just as a precaution, as always we're taking an extra 3 days' worth of food, plus lots of waterproofing and cool-weather gear (temps expected to be in the 40s-50s), the usual satellite phone, extra bear spray, and survival kits.

So, look for an update next weekend! :) Can't wait!

It takes a village ...to gain perspective

When you hear the word "village," if you're anything like me, America is probably not the first thing that comes to mind. Yet in the Seward Peninsula, villages are almost the only form of community that exists here, aside from the bush towns of Nome and Kotzebue. 

Unlike these towns, villages all seem to have less than 300 people, 1 or 2 schools, maybe a store, and maybe a post office; there is also usually a village council or IRA (a tribal headquarters -- not the Irish Republican Army!), and a community center. Most people seem to lead a subsistence-based lifestyle, hunting seals, whale, moose, walrus, and birds; fishing; herding reindeer, and crafting. 

Teller Trading Co.

One of our jobs as the National Park Service is to work with the local villages to teach kids about Bering Land Bridge and give them the opportunity to become Junior Rangers -- and that's just what we were doing this past Monday in the village of Teller, about 70 miles west of Nome. 

The beach

The experience was unlike any I have ever had. The little seaside township appeared dead when we first rolled in; no people, cars, or any signs of life, save for a couple dogs chained outside some run-down homes. We all nearly jumped out of our skin when a barge blared its horn at us for driving over their fuel line pumping gas to the village. After that, it seemed that everyone knew we were there.

Eventually we found where we were supposed to go, and a woman from the IRA let us into the community center/bingo hall where our Junior Ranger program would be held. We had been notified that children in these villages come to programs on their own -- no parents or supervisors, which also meant I couldn't get release forms to get their photos (or at least, their faces in photos). 

Part of the town

Sure enough, when the time came, the door was pushed open by a flood of small children between the ages of about 2-11. Some were shy, others talkative, over half of them related to each other in some way, and they ran around as if they owned the town. More and more kept coming in, until we had about 25 kids all sitting around the table.

Fortunately, our interpretive rangers are phenomenal here. They kept the kids pretty well focused and interacting, teaching them about the local ocean ecosystem. We played some nature-themed indoor games with them, and took them outside to explore the beach and play more active games.

Ranger working with the kids

Even though I wasn't running the program, just helping out required every ounce of patience and energy I had. A few of the kids were just outright mean; it was clear most had grown up with very little guidance -- especially those who hadn't yet entered school -- and would bully each other to an unsettling extent. They weren't "bad" kids, but they obviously lacked some discipline at home, and seen some pretty nasty stuff in their families or around town.

Adorable little ones

As is common with the Inupiat culture though, the kids loved to tell us stories, ranging from the fascinating to the heartrending. Many would run along beside me as we were walking to and from the beach, telling me about their cousins and aunts and uncles; about seal-, moose-, and whale-hunting with their fathers; about swimming in the sea.

The harder ones to hear were those who talked about relatives who had been imprisoned for alcoholism or violence, as if this were a topic of everyday conversation. And on a lighter note, one boy enthusiastically told me about the scary "little green men" who roam the tundra; according to him, his uncle had stumbled upon their house while moose hunting, and they had chased him away (he half-acted this out, twisting his face up to emphasize the scariness of these little green men).

Heading back inside

The whole day, I was just perplexed by the village and the children, by 7-year-olds taking care of their 2-year-old siblings; by kids telling me stories about hunting and fishing and how tasty seal jerky is; and by the few elders who came in trying to sell us ivory carvings. The fact that places like this exist in our own country is beautiful to me, even with all the harsh realities that come with it.

Random dogs running around

Kids racing down the beach to the ranger

Ranger program for the older kids

I guess the hardest part is coming into a community like this as an "outsider."  You can't help but stand out in your NPS uniform, or carrying a huge camera, or being obviously non-native. And on top of that, trying to impart a larger global perspective to kids whose world consists of 3 roads and whose community is made up of their own siblings and cousins is not an easy task.

Yet, in the end, I think we got through to at least a couple of them. I could see some of them making connections between things they had learned in school and what we were teaching them here, and a look of pride in some of their eyes as they swore the oath of the Junior Ranger and received their honorary badges. Ultimately in an effort to bring new perspectives to their community, I think they brought new perspectives to me.

A taste of success

Whole wheat, no-milk, fresh-picked-blueberry muffins

Okay, I gotta brag just a little here, mostly because I've totally surprised myself. So if you know me at all, you probably know I'm terrible in the kitchen. I have yet to master the art of cookie-baking, or even venture into much creativity with my regular meals.

But the 48 oz. tupperware of blueberries sitting in my fridge has been burning a hole in the shelf, so tonight I figured it was time to do something about it.

I was limited on ingredients. Rained in by a violent storm off the sea, I didn't feel like walking to the store, so I invoked the powers of the almighty Google and miraculously found a blueberry muffin recipe that contained all the random ingredients I could dig up in the kitchen.

The result? Absolutely delicious whole wheat, no-milk blueberry muffins. For being my first attempt at making muffins, I am blown away. In case you ever find yourself with a massive tub of blueberries and some random ingredients, here's the recipe (adapted from what I found online):

• 1/2 cup Crisco, plus a tablespoon of water (recipe called for 1/2 cup margarine, so this was the substitute I found)
• 1 1/2 cups white sugar
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 2 eggs
• 2 cups whole wheat flour
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 2 cups fresh blueberries 
• 1/2 cup almond milk 
• A squirt of lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees and line muffin pans with paper liners. Mix together Crisco, sugar and salt then beat in the eggs one at a time. Combine the flour and baking powder in another bowl and then add blueberries to this mixture, making sure all blueberries are coated.

Fold the flour mixture into the mixture of eggs/Crisco/sugar carefully while alternately adding in the almond milk and the squirt of lemon juice.

Bake for 25 minutes or until muffin tops are just golden brown. Recipe was supposed to make 18, but mine only made 16, which is fine.

YUM! I wish I could send them to everyone back home!

A berry fruitful weekend

The salmon run might be about over for the summer, but berry picking season is about to come into full swing. 

I had always heard Alaska had a large variety of edible berries, but I never realized how MUCH is out here. On just about any hike in the tundra, you're guaranteed to come across crowberries, blueberries, low-bush cranberries, and cloudberries. And supposedly it's only the beginning of the berry season.

It was a little windy in the back of the truck

With the sun out and the temperature finally reaching over 60 degrees, two of my coworkers and I joined an acquaintance from town and drove up into the nearby slope tundra in an old Ford pickup truck. Scanning the landscape, we finally pulled over on the side where we thought we might find some good blueberry patches.

Crowberries

Blueberries!

At first I didn't really know what to look for. I've seen blueberry bushes around, but it took a while to start recognizing the shape and color of the bush among all the other low-growing shrubs that cover the tundra. Once I did though, it was very relaxing and almost zen-like to find a bush covered in the little berries and gently pluck them off and toss them in a Tupperware.

Blueberry

Berry picking

The four of us picked berries for about 2 hours, slowly migrating uphill until we started seeing fewer blueberry bushes. It seems there's only a certain stretch where they grow, under a certain elevation. I was quite happy with my harvest -- probably came out with about $30 worth of blueberries if you were to buy that same amount in the grocery store!

Our harvest (mine is on the far right)

The next day one of my coworkers and I decided to bike up a little further than we had been the day before (about 12 miles round trip) to hike the mountain and pick whatever blueberries we found. As it turned out, there were even more blueberries in this area than we had seen the day before!

Second day's harvest

I had only brought a small container, but managed to fill it up completely to the brim. I never thought I'd be tired of blueberries, but I may be getting close! I now have a huge tub of them in the fridge and need to find some good recipes to use them in. Not that I'm complaining -- if anything, I think I like blueberry season even better than salmon season!