Thursday, July 30, 2009

Buzz.

Scattered over hundreds of kilometers around the Mackenzie Delta are nearly 25,000 lakes. The permafrost, which underlies much of the region, folded and lifted the land, forming basins. Basins that were filled by retreating glaciers and refilled by the melting snow each spring and rain each summer. Caribou herds move across here in winter, when the landscape is frozen. In the summer, waterfowl—including large groups of loons and pairs of snowy white tundra swans—come to this place to feed. This week, we joined them. Justin and Xan, who are continuing their research on arctic treeline, and myself. We were dropped by a local pilot on a rocky beach, on an island with no name. After wading our supplies ashore our plane taxied away, leaving us in the tundra, surrounded by total silence. A silence short-lived, in minutes it was replaced by the buzz of mosquitoes and their more persistent cohorts—blackflies. A buzzing known locally as the Mackenzie River torment.

We spent several hours measuring krumholtz Picea mariana—black spruce—trees, stranded on this island from an earlier time when the treeline extended further north into the arctic—perhaps 1,000 years ago. After taking a break for a few hours in the afternoon we decided to make a fire to "smudge" away the tundra's biting insects. This smoky oasis became our only escape from the constant buzz of the bugs and the stifling heat of our bug jackets. Later I went for a swim—hiding below the surface from the bugs overhead.

After collecting data and eating a smoky stir fry we headed out for a late evening trek across the island and its small hills—hills known in Inuvialuktun, the language of the Inuvialviut, as engigstciah. From a distance the terrain looks relatively flat and barren, though as we moved through it we realized this was only an illusion. The ground is a patchwork of moss and sedge hummock, filled in by bushy alders, spindly birches, bearberry, blueberry, cranberry, and a few dozen other species reminiscent of Maine's coastal peat bogs. Mixed among the low vegetation are dozens of different lichens, adding to the feel that things here grow in miniature. All across the island we find antlers discarded by passing caribou, tukto. Most of these are nearly buried by moss and lichen, signs the antlers have spent a long time in the slow growing tundra.

The following day we spent near the smoky fire, identifying plants, drying herbs, watching loons and hawks fly overhead, and collecting seeds for germination in a lab back in Vancouver. In the afternoon the silence and openness of the country around us was broken when our floatplane arrived from Inuvik. It circled us twice and disappeared from view, reappearing on the water a few minutes later. Though the plane offered an escape from the bugs I secretly wished it away.

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Through a fine mesh.

As two researchers from the University of British Columbia and I pull our truck into a gravel packing lot 20 kilometers south of Inuvik, Justin, the project's research assistant, comments “the bugs don't look so bad today.” He still passes me his extra bug jacket and dons his own, while Xan, the principle investigator, pulls hers over her head. The bug jackets are a combination screen house and fencing outfit. Our heads are encased in canvas hoods, a fine mesh surrounds our faces. We jump out of the truck into the dim gray light, light that has hardly changed in the last 24 hours, Justin clips bear spray to his belt (“Just in case.”), we grab a few rucksacks of field equipment—measuring tapes, hollow augers for taking cores from tree trunks, notebooks—and head directly into the bush. We are immediately up to our knees in willow and birch shrubs, hardly a meter high , stunted by the harsh arctic winters. Xan and Justin are here to study the only tree in sight, Picea gluaca, the white spruce. Scattered around us are a few dozen spindly specimens of this familiar conifer which ranges across northern New England and the Great Lakes in the United States and north through Canada to the arctic tundra. Here, slightly west of the Mackenzie River ,we are roughly 90 km from the northern limit, or treeline, of this great northern forest. Xan and Justin are here collecting data that will contribute to a circumpolar study of the effects global climate change could have on the growth and range of the arctic treeline.

This close to the treeline the trees grow incredibly slow and deal with some of the most extreme weather on the planet, temperatures below -50ยบ C, months with little or no sunlight, intense winds, floods, droughts, and permanently frozen soil. As we walk towards one of the taller trees in the study plot Xan explains "most of my study sites are further north along the delta, where we would never see a tree of this size," there most of the trees grow in mats, twisted along the ground--a growth form known as Krumholtz. She estimates the tree in front of us, roughly as wide around as my calf and only about 10 meters high, could easily be 150 years old, and the waist high “seedlings” scattered around us, well into their 30's.

For the next several hours we take measurements—diameter and height, note surrounding vegetation, and collect tree cores. Xan and Justin will analyze these cores in the laboratory to determine the age and growth rates of the the trees in their study plots. Justin's bug report for the day turns out to be just a little off—not long after we begin working the mosquitoes, three different types with three different attack strategies, begin to fly at our faces and hands. As it warms up their numbers double and black flies arrive to support their attack on any piece of ourselves we are foolish enough to leave exposed. When reading measurements or recording data it is hard to tell what distorts your vision more, the mesh of your bug net, or the cloud of insects flying around you. At times we are visited by wasps who dive bomb mosquitoes and flies, eating them on our shoulders, we begin to regard them as heroes.

Up the Dempster.

Inuvik attracts all sorts of people. Most come up the long gravel highway from Dawson City—the Dempster, while others float down the Mackenzie from its headwaters. Hitchhikers, RVers, motorists, bicyclists, dirtbikers, canoeists, kayakers and hikers end up here from across the US and Canada. They travel around the world from China, Germany, the Czech Republic, Switzerland, and beyond.

One of my first nights at the campground in town I met Sean. He has been riding his dirt bike through the arctic for four weeks. Though we met late in the evening our endless sun induced insomnia kept us awake photographing an agitated beaver till well past "sunset" (about 1:30am). In the morning he headed for home (3200 kilometers south) and left me with some arctic advice--“never trust the foxes, they're out to get you!” It turns out that a week earlier while camping along the Dempster a particularly sly fox stole his campstove.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Public libraries.

Working in Nevada this past spring I discovered how useful the public library system can be for someone on the road without a home. There my coworkers and I would escape the heat of the day under the trees outside of the Mesquite and Moapa libraries; we would find a good book to pass the time, marvel at flush toilets, or just bask in front of the air conditioned doorways.

Here in Inuvik the library provides a welcome escape from today's cold, steady rain. It also seems to be the place to meet local children as about 20 have come over to inquire about what I'm doing here living in a tent for the summer.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Inuvik, NWT.

I have made it above the Arctic circle! People here tell me that entitles me to a certificate from cityhall, though I think the ancient propeller airplane that got me here deserves most of the credit--not to mention the nice people at the airport who saved me a $30 cab fare by giving me a lift to town.

This has to be a quick update as I have two meetings today to try and catch what might be the last rides into the delta for the summer--apparently summer here is just about over (the sun set for an hour last night!).

I've already run into 4 foxes and helped paddle a canoe to the town's boat ramp. Though I think the ride was more of treat for me than a genuine request for help, the gentleman had just just paddled his boat 27 days down the Mackenzie.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Migration.

A few evening ago I carried a rental whitewater kayak from an outfitter in Whitehorse to the base of the city's hydropower dam. With a few hundred meters left to walk a van stopped to offer me a ride. The driver, on an extended trip from Austria, said "that boat looks quite heavy, why aren't you trying to hitchhike?" I explained that I was, in fact trying to get a ride, but with a boat and paddle I had no free thumbs to flag down a passing car. He laughed, and said he thought that might have been the case when he drove by me in the opposite direction half an hour before. Moral of the story--get a packraft.

Today I left the hostel with my inflatable packraft and was floating down the river in less than twenty minutes. There was a pretty ominous set of clouds blowing in so I decided to take a short float through the rapids and towards downtown. The raft handled its first big water well, though after sitting in a few inches of water for 45 minutes I decided to get a bailing sponge for all future trips.

After coming through the class II rapids just below the dam the river braids into a few shallow channels that will fill with spawning Chinook salmon in a few weeks. At the city's boat ramps there were nearly a dozen teams of canoeists preparing to head the opposite direction as the salmon on the first ever 1000-mile race down the Yukon River. Further downstream the river's banks are lined with hundreds of old dock piling from the days when steamships were the primary means of transportation for prospectors and settlers traveling into the Yukon Territory.

Today the steamships and prospectors are gone; and now it is by boat, car, plane, or foot (at least in the summer) that most travelers move through the Yukon. Tomorrow I will be taking the plane route and flying 1200 kilometers north to Inuvik in the Northwest Territories to get to know the Mackenzie River and its expansive delta. I am hoping to stay through the end of August in the delta before moving halfway around the world to Venice, Italy. But we'll see, I am planning on letting the weather dictate how long I stay. The forecast for the next few days is 25-27 C--though I've heard I can expect frost and snow by mid August.

On a culinary note a few folks at the hostel and I have been making dinner from ingredients we find around the kitchen (save a few fresh veggies) and last night one of the chefs made an seriously awesome strawberry, pear, apple, sunflower, peanut, walnut, raisin, mango, coconut, puffed rice cereal, mystery cereal powder, rhubarb cobbler (plus lots of sugar).

Saturday, July 18, 2009

First impressions.

When I arrived to Whitehorse at 2 am Monday morning I had no idea what I would do with a week in the city. At 3 am, when the sun started to rise, I fell asleep accepting that I might be in Whitehorse for a week with no place to stay and nothing but the clothes I was wearing, a toothbrush, my camera, and a water bottle.

Luckily, events of the next day shifted my outlook at bit. First thing in the morning I found a campground just outside of town to spend a night before any rooms opened in the city's hostel. My bags arrived by midday, I got invited on several paddling trips by dinner, and learned some of the nuances of Alaska's fisheries from a small scale salmon fisherman turned school teacher before heading off to bed.

The following morning I checked into the Beez Kneez, a backpacking hostel in downtown Whitehorse. I've been here since, and as one of the few guests staying more than one night I have had the opportunity to meet a few interesting people. As it turns out Whitehorse is more cosmopolitan then I would have guessed (fresh falafel on the street corners--"Best in the Yukon). Here is a brief rundown of some of the people and their reasons for passing through the Yukon.

--Leo,Canadian, moving from Chicago to work as a youth counselor in Whitehorse.
--Natalie, Canadian, recovering from a 4-month bike trip across Alaska and northwest Canada
--Gavin, Australian, on a 2-year trip around North America, heading into Alaska.
--Katie, cook from Vancouver, seeing if she likes backpacking by spending a few weeks in the Yukon.
--A man from Belgium in a WV bus with a gas leak and a cute dog, 14-months into a several year trip around North and South America.
--Yines, German backpacker, came to the Yukon for work, still looking.
--Two brothers from Austria, learning how to surf on the Yukon their first day of a 5-month trip through Alaska and the Yukon.
--12 men from Belgium, starting an 18 day river trip from Whitehorse.
--Thomas, German software engineer living in Florida, biking from Alaska to Patagonia and climbing the highest peak of every country on the way (www.panamericanpeaks.com), a few of us from the hostel met him at a restaurant in town, he ate 3 times as much food as the rest of us and then asked for the dessert menu.
--Morgan and Bowin, up from Vancouver, British Columbia, starting an 8 day canoe trip down the Yukon, their first river trip!

This time of year Whitehorse only gets about 3 to 4 hours of "darkness" each night. The long, warm days of sunshine seem to inspire everyone to be outside experiencing as much of the day as possible (perhaps a coping mechanism against the very long, very dark days of winter). I met a few kayakers in town who helped me get my hands on a playboat and wetsuit (Yukon river temp is about 2 C). The boat was a bit big for me but I still surfed on the Yukon well into the evening (started at 7pm and floated into town around 11 pm under a nearly blue sky). The city has a fairly large community of river people and a pretty strong bond with the river. From most places in town you can see the swift, nearly aquamarine surface of the river. From the base of the city's hydrodam the Yukon is free flowing several thousand kilometers to its mouth in the Bering Sea. In the next few weeks the salmon, that are now a few hundred kilometers downstream, will swim up the dam's fishladder on their long journey from the sea, and if they are lucky evade the bald eagles and fly fishermen waiting for them in Whitehorse.

During much of the last few days Leo, Natalie, and I have been exploring the city and some of the lakes and trails just outside of the downtown. Last night, with a few others from the hostel we played a midnight game of frisbee in the city's Peace Park, until the swarms of Yukon mosquitoes carried us back to the hostel.

My flight to Inuvik and the Mackenzie River, where I hear there is less night and more mosquitoes than Whitehorse, leaves early Monday morning.

Thanks to everyone who happens to be following me around the world.
All the best,
Brett

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Apparently losing bags is a rite of passage when you get to the Yukon. Mine have arrived.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Headwaters.

Headwaters are where rivers begin, and therefore an appropriate start for a story about rivers.

After leaving from New Mexico yesterday I experienced the first set of small rapids this trip had for me, last minute airport connections (lots of running through LA and Vancouver), planes with unidentified dents in them (first delay), lost luggage (backpack couldn't run fast enough), airports with no phones to check on luggage status, and a 2 am taxi drive to the only open hotel in Whitehorse.

Today I've moved back into calm waters, I have a campsite on the Yukon River for tonight and a place to sleep until I head to Inuvik, in the Northwest Territories, early next week. My bag is still missing, but that just makes walking around town that much easier.

“We have an unknown distance yet to run, an unknown river to explore. What falls there are, we know not; what rocks beset the channel, we know not; what walls ride over the river, we know not. Ah, well! we may conjecture many things.”
-John Wesley Powell