PART VI. S'mores and the meaning of life

Hulahula, August 11 - August 19
Photos are click-to-enlarge.

August 11
Walt's plane buzz sounded so fine. They (Walt and my father) flew in about 9 p.m. We had an incredibly beautiful flight south and west over glaciers by the Continental Divide.

Now it's 3:45 a.m., and I'm on too high a sugar buzz to sleep. My father and I set up camp by the Hulahula River, and I made a good midnight dinner for us. Freeze-dried dinner, apples and real cheese; an apple and many molasses cookies from my sister in Eugene, Oregon; a real green pepper and onion from a family friend's garden in Washington, D.C.; four kinds of cookies from the cafeteria in Prudhoe Bay; double-stuffed Oreo cookies; a Peppermint Patty; the making for s'mores; and a pint of Guinness.

My father also brought his little Walkman with speakers. Bob Marley on the tundra at midnight with my father and pints of Guinness. Life is beautiful.

August 12
The weather was decent all day, and my Pop put up a valiant effort for his first day of hiking on the tundra. He finally decided that a nap would suffice, wisely, while I hiked a little more.

Two golden eagles lured me to walk up a nearby hill for a better view of them. One of the eagles was dive-bombing straight down. I couldn't see an animal for prey. The eagle might just have been playing.

The view of the valley from the hill was beautiful. Dark, overcast skies with a steady light rain did not make for the most dramatic photos. But I did what I could.

Guinness, s'mores, and good conversation around the campfire in the evening. I'm happy.

August 13
Even a weather day was fun with my father here. The north wind blew all day, and the rain eased by the afternoon.

We walked north along the Hulahula a little and lay down in the cozy moss on a hillside. The dark sky and autumn colors were a sight. I photographed my father. We saw little white dots on the hillside across the river: Dall sheep. The water is too high to cross safely, though. I'll admire them from a distance, rather than risk the photo opportunity.

I ate more cookies than dinner.

August 14
What a great day. Sun, no mosquitoes, and plenty to photograph.

My father and I managed to hike a little, and the hills all around us were beautiful But this was also a busy day for travelers. Four Swiss hikers flew out this morning. A couple of hunters flew in. We talked with folks and enjoyed the day. We flew a kite, drank the Guinness, and enjoyed life.

August 15
My time in here is almost gone, and surprisingly, I'm a little afraid. Life here is simple. Soon I'll be back in my usual world: fast, busy, loud. I miss many aspects of that reality. But as I lie in my cozy tent right now, the thought of driving in D.C. traffic is scary. The challenge is to learn how to flow, and it's the same process on Massachusetts Avenue or the Kongakut River. I'll be fine.

Certain realities from here, though, I am ready to leave. No more mosquitoes or Deet in my eyes. No more irate gulls dive-bombing me as I get water from a river. No more talking out loud to myself in the alder patches by the creek crossing to warn away grizzlies. (Well, I like that, actually.) If these are my biggest gripes of the summer, life ain't bad.

There is much that I will miss. The river sounds. The crazy weather. The constant little surprises from animals. The sunsets.

I watched a fly clean its wings, ice melt, clouds form. I tasted grilled Arctic char. I felt the cool, mossy tundra as I hiked up and down hillsides. I heard caribou calling each other and loons singing on a windless, bright midnight. I looked into the eyes of a wolf looking at me. I smelled the sage and moss and bear scat and smoke.

Did it snow in August? I forget. There was snow every other month. There could be a couple of feet of snow here within the next two weeks.

My body is more ready to go than my spirit. A shower will be appreciated after nearly three months of evening scrub-downs with glacier water. My white wash cloth has become darker than an 18% gray card. My sleeping bag smell could knock out a bull moose. It was a rare day that I did not need to warm my hands over the stove's fire. But I will soon forget these trivial nothings and miss the tranquility of the hills. I can be tranquil anywhere, though.

So much could have gone wrong and didn't. The biggest injury was the decent burn I gave one finger only three nights ago as I made a real grilled cheese sandwich with goodies my father brought from Rockville, Maryland. I was never sick. I didn't lose any film. I had no blisters. My boots stayed dry. No grizzlies bothered me unduly. There was even a bona fide summer from August 2 to August 9.

The official tally for items chewed by arctic ground squirrels during the summer is the following: three tents, one Gore-Tex jacket (in four spots), one boot liner, one camera monopod, a fishing pole, and a cucumber. These are all footnotes to the story, though. The story, I hope, is my way to share the unique beauty of the Arctic Refuge with people. This place is worth knowing. I hope I can spark understanding and caring of the daily flow of this beautiful land and its creatures among people who may first conjure images of merely a cold, barren land.

It's 1:30 a.m., the darkest time of night here. Time to read, and, for the first time this summer, I need my flashlight. Only until about 3 a.m., though.

My father is snoring in the tent next to mine. The Hulahula sounds mellow. The clouds cover the hilltops. There are lots of s'mores in my belly. I'm happy.



John Dunne left the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge on August 19, 1999, three months after his arrival in Kaktovik. John is now going with the flow in Washington, D.C, where he works for National Geographic magazine.

If you are interested in purchasing any of the photos in this journal or in the Dunne slideshow, please contact John directly.