All these weeks at our still unnamed lake, we had seen no sign of caribou; so it was really exciting on the morning of the fifteenth to hear Bob report that he saw a calf, already able to run away quickly, on the hillside back of camp. And early the next morning Olaus saw one beautiful young bull, with a full set of antlers in velvet, in the scattered small spruces behind camp.
All that day we lived in a terrific tearing wind—a most dramatic moving pageant of clouds of every description racing across the valley, pouring over the peaks, sailing on over the passes to the east toward the Coleen, until finally, toward evening, the sky was all blue and bright again. Just before dinner I walked up the slope behind camp toward the mountain, and stood and searched the whole visible world with the glasses. I especially searched the western landscape, for Olaus was sure the caribou had all been somewhere to the west all this time, having their calves. Whitecaps still dotted our lake, but the landscape was quiet; nothing moved except one of our gulls, startlingly white against the blue sky. After the wind, it all seemed breathlessly still, as though we were all waiting for something.
After dinner, as Bob and Brina and I were finishing the camp work and Brina gathered her gear to go set mousetraps as usual on the southern side of the lake, the three of us suddenly stopped what we were doing and looked at one another. We were conscious of a strange sound, way over toward the river. “Surely there couldn’t be a cat train way up here,” Brina said.
“Oh, Brina, what a horrible thought!”
“Well, it sounds just like a freight train coming along in the distance,” Bob said. “Could it be some wind still blowing in one of those canyons over there?”
“Well, I just don’t know,” Olaus said, and went to the wood pile and started sawing some dead branches he had carried in. Brina disappeared with her traps. I was about to go into the tent to read in comfort when Bob and I heard a strange little faraway sound, like a short low hoot of an owl, blurred by distance, and with a screen of gull cries in the foreground. “Olaus, will you please stop sawing and come here and listen?”
He did, got his hat and coat and my glasses, and said: “I’m going to walk over that way and see if I can find out. Sounds like an owl of some kind.”
A few moments later Bob called to me: “Mardy, are your glasses here? There’s something out on the flat, over toward the river; a big bunch—boy, are they kicking up the dust! Yes, it is—caribou, caribou!”
There was a wild scramble now—Bob getting his movie camera and going off on the run, his camera on its tripod over his shoulder; and I running in the other direction to find Brina. Now, over my shoulder as I ran across the mossy hummocks, I could see a long dark line of figures beyond the first woods by the lakeshore. I went shrieking: “Brina, Brina!” Finally I saw her, and she looked up. “Come on, come on—caribou!”
She came running over the tussocks, snatched her camera from her tent, and we both ran over toward the open tundra. There stood Olaus, calling to us: “My camera!”
Back I galloped over the tussocks again, got the Contax and the light meter from the tent, ran back, and kept running, because Olaus was going as fast as he could toward the hill slope. Away out on the edge of the flat and toward the mountain I had a glimpse of Bob’s red jacket. By now the great herd covered the flat, and the sounds it made were fantastic.
Brina and Olaus and I kept going uphill, trying to get above for a good look, and finally we collapsed on a high slope, on the grass, and settled down to look and listen. They were traveling steadily along, a great mass of dark-brown figures; bulls, cows, calves, yearlings; every combination of coloring, all bathed in the bright golden light of this arctic night. The quiet, unmoving landscape I had scanned so carefully from the ridge before dinner had come alive—alive in a way I am not competent to describe. The rightful owners had returned. Their thousands of hoofs, churning through the gravel and water of the creeks and the river, had been the great mysterious “train” we had heard and puzzled over. Now they added their voices. Individually, the voice is a low or medium oink, oink, very much like that of a big pig. Collectively, they make a permeating, uncanny rumble, almost a roar, not to be likened to anything else I can think of. But the total effect of sound, movement, the sight of those thousands of animals, the clear golden western sky, the last sunlight on the mountain slope, gave one a feeling of being a privileged onlooker at a rare performance—a performance in nature’s own way, in the setting of countless ages, ages before man. How fortunate we were, to be camped at one of the great crossroads of the caribou!
Bob came climbing up the slope and sat with us. Olaus and Brina were trying to count now, and the vanguard of animals was beginning to move rapidly on up through the woods at the northern end of our mountain, up through the woods this side of the big creek, into the valley leading over toward the Coleen. But the herd still occupied the whole length of the big muskeg flat clear to the river, which stretched for at least a mile. Now some were feeding, some even lying down, and the background chorus continued. Calves ran here and there, and we were glad to see them. Small groups split off and came back toward our camp. There were many bulls in dark summer coat, with great antlers looking black against the sunlit green muskeg. Some had black patches of new hair on their backs like saddles, light underneath; some were still in faded winter coats. Every kind and variety was here; something, in some valley west of here, had brought them together into this sixteen-hundred-strong herd of talking, grunting pilgrims—they traveled as though they had a goal and knew the way and were not stopping.
Bob got some nice shots, he thought, before the sun moved behind the tall mountain across from us. But now the light was fading and the breeze came cold on the slope. It was past ten o’clock and we knew we should go back and get some sleep. We didn’t want to; it was a scene we wanted to watch for hours. Brina said: “Oh, look, how beautiful it all is; this is something I want always to remember!”
And Bob: “This is terrific! This makes it!”
This was the culmination of all the good things the river and the mountains had already shown us. Here was the living, moving, warm-blooded life of the Arctic—out of some far valley to the west of this region, into some far valley to the east—with the wisdom of the ages, moving always, not depleting their food supply, needing all these valleys and mountains in which to live.
As we made our way slowly down over the mossy slope, in light that was still golden over the whole landscape, Bob voiced the thought of all of us: “I hope they can always have all this country to travel back and forth in.”
Bob set off early next morning, into the pass, and during the morning we saw two more herds of caribou of several hundred each, traveling more quietly than the one the night before. We knew Bob would see them up there and get some pictures.
The big wind seemed to have taken the mosquitoes far away into the east, and there was a sweet stillness in the air, without that song! Brina and I rearranged the whole cook tent again, to make more room. When we finished and stepped outside, it was sunny and still and warm. I looked at her. “What do you say, Brina? You know, we’ve been talking about it ever since we landed here. I think it’s now or never.”
“O.K. I’m game if you are.” And she went to her tent for her towel and soap.
After settling Olaus by the fireplace with his notes, we walked over to the little bay of the lake south of camp, shed our clothes, and plunged in. Wow! Cold and clean and wonderful—a swim out about thirty feet, and back, and out in the sun for a moment, and in again, and soaping, and out again. I felt as though ice packs were tied to my arms and legs, but that soon passed and was followed by absolute tingly well-being. When we got back to camp Olaus looked up and smiled. “Well, it sounded fine!”
In fact, it had sounded so fine that a little later we saw him, with soap and towel, headed for the little cove! And when Bob came home from getting some fine caribou shots, he did the same. It turned out that this adventure was the only thing the rest of us could hold over our rugged George. He never got into the lake!
From the diary:
“July 18: Yesterday, though it brought no baby news, was a full and interesting day. The mail was made ready and then, because we rather expected the two Indians to come over, I made a big stew and cooked fruit for lunch, then started washing clothes. (Our big food drum and the old Geological Survey one, standing on end together, made a fine kitchen table.) At ten there was still no signal smoke from across the river, so Bob set off anyway and soon returned with the two Indians and introduced them all round—Ambrose William and a younger one, David Peter. They had not signaled because the river had dropped again and they got across without needing the boat. Olaus was sitting outside making a drawing of a brown lemming Brina had caught, and the two sat near him on gas-can seats; Brina joined them, and while I finished the washing I listened to a most interesting four-way conversation about animals, birds, Indians, and Eskimos. Olaus began taking down Indian names for birds, and David Peter became so interested and amused that he was soon volunteering names. He has a wonderfully sweet smile. He was trying to give Olaus a name for a certain duck; he hesitated, searching for a word, and said: ‘I no speak very good English.’
“Olaus laughed. ‘Well, I don’t speak very good Indian either!’ They were discussing our loons, and Brina brought out the Peterson guide, and both the Indians were very much interested in all the pictures. Then I brought out Olaus’s Field Guide to Animal Tracks, and Ambrose was immediately absorbed in that, looking closely at every picture.
“We had a very jolly lunch, but afterward the sky became overcast, with a cool breeze. Brina went into the cook tent to put up mouse skins and Olaus went to help her and they invited the two guests inside too. Ambrose had such a thin-looking jacket I was afraid he was cold, and I think he was glad to get inside. At three o’clock Brina, with her sharp ears, heard a plane coming. It was Keith, but in a different plane, and we knew that what he had feared last trip had happened; they had had to take away the Cessna to put it on a different run for a while. This Aeronca was about the same size, but much less powerful than the Cessna 180. As he came low, we saw that he had a passenger, a stranger.
“The passenger—a Mr. Robinson, from Olympia, Washington—introduced himself to Olaus as he jumped out onto the mossy landing place, and Olaus introduced all the rest of us, including Ambrose and David. Mr. Robinson is an attorney working for the state attorney general, but he also writes a column of some kind for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. He is a big fellow, simple and friendly in manner. He at once found out that Bob was the photographer and had a lot of questions about cameras and photography up here—which gave me a chance to riffle through the mail; but there was no news from New York. So Brina and I went in and started the Coleman and put on hot water and soon had the whole crowd in the tent—seven of us; it is marvelous what that tent can hold. With a Jersey Cream box in the middle of the floor, and cups and spoons on a box behind Brina, we made hot chocolate for Keith and Olaus, coffee for Mr. Robinson, and tea for the Indians and me. Everybody had a big visit for about forty-five minutes. Mr. Robinson was asking Olaus questions about this wilderness area, the Wilderness Society, and the conservation movement in general. Then he began asking Brina and me our impressions of this country—a very clever questioner. We brought Ambrose and David into it too, asking them about the caribou herd and the moose. At this point, Olaus and Keith were having a discussion of the Quetico-Superior country and the fight over the exclusion of airplanes in the canoeing country. Keith had been in the middle of that battle; he feels that if airplanes are to be excluded there, motorboats should be also, and Olaus agrees with him.
“There followed a general discussion on the possible uses and future of this area. Mr. Robinson mentioned having been in Palm Springs last winter and hearing of the fight over building a tramway up Mount San Jacinto, and said how difficult he feels it is for anyone to fight such ‘hard, tough customers as those hotel and resort owners.’ Also, that if the military wants any area, it is very difficult to win out. He also mentioned the attitude of some people near Olympic National Park, the shortsighted view of ‘dollars for the present and hang the future.’ By this time I was rather wondering just what Ambrose and David were making of all this talk! Keith feels, and I think we all agree, that the airplane can service this region with no development in here at all, for only float planes need be used. He says they are starting to prepare an air strip at Arctic Village for emergency landings in winter for the Wien Airlines C46s that fly to Barter Island, and he thinks this is all the development needed for a long time, and this is outside the proposed wilderness area. As he says, the plane leave no tracks and, in this region, there is really no other way to get in with gear for an extended stay. Even small boats, with any kind of load, would probably have difficulty getting up this far, and it would take weeks. The upper river rises and falls so rapidly, because of the glaciers in some of the canyons above here; today Ambrose and David waded across with no trouble, whereas a few days ago George and Peter had barely been able to get across. Here again arises that all-important question of people having consideration for one another, so that there will be only a few people at a time on these fragile lakeshores.
“Mr. Robinson then insisted on taking pictures of everybody (Olaus had not shaved and looked real woodsy). Keith told us how disturbed he is about this plane. He can’t even get from Fort Yukon to Old Crow Village on a tank of gas. He had tested it out, staying close to the Porcupine, and sure enough ran out of gas. He had to plop down on the river, ram the plane’s nose onto a sandbar, and put in a can of gas.
“So we all stood there, wondering about the takeoff. Keith had told Brina to watch, so she’d know how much gear she can take with her when she has to leave next week. He made his usual long taxi out to the northern arm of the lake, then gunned the engine and came down the whole length of the lake, but as we held our breaths we realized the plane wasn’t going to rise. He slowed, swerved, came in so close we were expecting the plane to come into the little trees onshore, but then turned in time and went off for a second try. Same thing all over again. ‘Well,’ Brina said, ‘we may have Mr. Robinson with us tonight. Good thing you have that extra mummy bag!’
“This time Keith swerved and came right by us, close. We thought he was going to land, but he turned, gunned it, went straight across the lake on a little puff of crosswind, and, raising one pontoon and then the other, managed to lift the plane and get over the little trees on the western shore and on around, dipping over our heads, all of us waving madly as off they went. ‘Well! How do you like that?’ I said to David. ‘Oh my, oh my,’ he responded, shaking his head.
“Someone at Fort Yukon—Keith thought it was the Cheeks—had sent up a whole fresh frozen king salmon weighing about twenty pounds. Ambrose had brought us a beautiful piece of moose, so we gave them half the salmon, along with a few other things, and they assured us they now had enough of everything to see them home to Arctic Village. They had received a box of supplies on the plane too. It will take them two weeks to get home—three days to walk across to the East Fork of the Chandalar, then a few more days to hunt and shoot caribou, build a skin boat from the caribou skins, and load the dogs, meat, and everything into the skin boat, and then the rest of the time traveling down the East Fork to Arctic Village. If they get seven caribou, they can make a thirty-foot boat; if five caribou, a shorter boat.
“Now they loaded up their packs and came to shake hands all around. ‘Thank you very much; you sure treat us good,’ said Ambrose, and ‘Good-by, sir,’ when he shook my hand!
“‘Mahsik, mahsik,’ David said, smiling. This is their word for ‘thank you,’ which they had taught us earlier in the day and which we all had been using.
“It was a moment of real feeling on the part of every one of us. We had had a good day of fellowship and fun and sympathy, and we stood rather sadly, watching them trudge away across the muskeg again. It had been a full day for us all.
“With evening, as so often happens, the blustery overcast day was gone. Now there was sun and a bright sky and a warm gentle breeze. Olaus and I felt the need of walking, and went up the slope of Camp Mountain, over a moss-covered rock slope, up under the shallow cave in the rock face which is filled by one of the largest eagle nests ever. Olaus had discovered it soon after our arrival; it is centuries old, it seems, and must be six to ten feet across. The rock all around is covered with the red lichen that so often grows under and around nests, and Olaus thinks the nest fertilized the amazing thick growth of moss on the slope beneath. Here also are flowers of many kinds, white and blue and yellow, and lichens of other colors, and even some kind of fern in the little rock niches. A beautiful little spot at the foot of that stark gray limestone mountain, with life and music furnished by a whole family of phoebes, flitting from rock to rock, uttering their sweet phoebe over and over, answering one another. A little symphony, and a symphony of soft colors on the birds, too.
“It is colder at night now. We’ve been tying down the front flap of the tent, which makes it much warmer. Ambrose said: ‘Dis country—first of August, daytime all right, but nights cold!’
“As I write, Olaus and I are north of camp, up by the mouth of the big creek, where he has been making plaster casts from many of the tracks of our caribou migration, and writing his notes while sitting on the creek bank. He remarked this morning that he ‘couldn’t write notes on a high plane in the tent, with all that chatter about food, different flavors, etc., going on.’ (He had been sitting in the corner of the tent writing while the rest of us got breakfast.) This I can see, but it got me to thinking a bit too. I think this is one of the reasons for the relaxed, unstrained, harmonious atmosphere of our camp. The people are sensitive enough to appreciate and ponder over all the beauties, the scientific interests, the meanings of this wild country, and at the same time are interested enough in camp routine, food, menus, new tricks with our limited variety of food, to make camp life fun and not at all boring; and all are mature enough not to be annoyed by any petty inconveniences.
“One of the things Ambrose told me was the story of Chief Christian, grandfather of the Daniel Christian whose cache we had found. Ambrose said that he himself is the only one who has come over into the Sheenjek nearly every year, but once long ago he was over here with Chief Christian. ‘Dat Chief Christian, he’s a good man. You know, one time he kill white moose? Dat moose now Fairbanks at dat school?’ (I told him I knew the moose and had seen it, mounted, in the University of Alaska museum.)
“‘Chief Christian, he give dat moose; he want it in school, for kids to see. He give it to government for dat; then government, he gonna pay him one hundred dollars for it, but he don’t want that either. He want to give that moose for school, for kid. He’s a good man.’
“We talked to Ambrose about naming this lake; he said they have no name for it, but ‘I guess call it Last Lake, dat be all right. Dis the last lake. No more good lake up above here—some small lake, but no good.’
“So our lake is named—at Last! We explained to the Indians our Lobo name and what it means, and they thought it a good name too.”