Time passages: Visiting a 30-year-old memory

As we were driving south on the Dalton Highway, Andy Hoffmann and I spotted a small band of caribou about the same time, a mile or so off the road.

One of the many pipeline-related access turnoffs a half-mile down the highway gave us a place to park and grab our binoculars. We hiked probably a half-mile away from the truck down the gated, grown-over gravel access route, looking for the caribou on the other side of the rolling alpine tundra hill.

First one set of antlers and then several sets became visible on the horizon of the hill. We ducked down and slowed our forward progress. The caribou moved into view. All the animals I studied through my binoculars were cows, not legal animals in this bulls-only hunting unit. Andy was also studying the animals and whispered that two young bulls were sparring off to the left of the group. We were still several hundred yards away from the small herd, and our presence was not a concern to the animals.

We backed off and returned to the truck to get my bow. I hadn't brought it initially because I hadn't seen any bulls in the group. We retraced our steps out the access trail to where we had originally stopped to study the caribou. They were gone.

We continued out the trail until the telltale antlers, motionless on the horizon, told us the caribou had bedded down. We crouched over and moved into the ditch beside the trail. We were about 150 yards away from the first set of "horizon antlers" and slowly moving toward the herd when the antlers stood up and the cow caribou attached to them stared directly at us. We were busted. The bulls seemed oblivious to us but followed the dozen cows and calves as they started walking over the rise and away from our location.

A human being is no match for a caribou when walking across tundra, so we simply moved down the trail and watched the small herd wander away from us. In just a couple of minutes, the animals were well over a mile from our position and had never even broken into a trot. We continued out to the end of the trail, probably a mile or more from the truck, and sat down among some large rocks to glass the surrounding hills for caribou and wait for the next passing group. We hoped a bull might wander by close enough for an ambush. It didn't happen.

After a while the wind increased in its intensity and carried a noticeable chill with it. When I began to shiver, I suggested to Andy that we return to the truck. He readily agreed. We were both still a little nervous about the horizontal snow we had sat through earlier that morning while glassing caribou from a small rise in another location farther north. We decided to bag the hunt and get on the south side of Atigun Pass before the snow and driving conditions got any worse in the mountains.

We had watched the light snow dusting on the tops of the peaks when we came north through Atigun Pass earlier in the week descend a few thousand feet and become a blanket of white, covering everything we could see when looking south towards the Brooks Range.

Andy and I had been planning this trip for several months. Neither one of us had been up the Dalton Highway to Deadhorse before. Andy wanted to photograph the trip with his new digital camera and, hopefully, catch a glimpse of the Arctic Ocean. I was hoping to try for a caribou with my bow, but, more importantly, I wanted to see how the area had changed since my earlier stay 30 years before.

I had graduated from UAF in 1972 with a Fisheries Biology/Wildlife Management degree and spent the summer before graduate school working for ADF&G's Sport Fish Division doing pre-pipeline inventory work on the Ivishak River. We based out of the Happy Valley construction camp, but in my two months on the Slope, I wasn't in Happy Valley more than about 10 days. The rest of the time, I was in our field camp out along the Ivishak River.

We were sampling and marking the Arctic Char and grayling present to try and learn the size of the fish populations, how and when they moved through the river systems, and where they were at any given time of the year. This information would allow the pipeline construction to happen with minimal negative impact to the fish in both the Ivishak and Sagavanirktok (Sag) Rivers. We traveled through the region by helicopter, walked, or floated the rivers. There was no other mode of transportation.

During that summer of '72, I experienced a total solar eclipse; sat watching wolves that were watching me about 50 yards away across a ravine; saw grizzly tracks outside the sleeping tent, maybe two feet from my cot; watched my co-worker, Roger, hand-feed an arctic fox near camp; shot a small caribou for meat when the re-supply helicopter couldn't make the run for a couple of weeks; and endured mosquitoes like I have never seen before or since. One evening, the helicopter with the ADF&G project biologist, Harvey, showed up and we flew to the Arctic Ocean and sport fished for char. I remember casting between floating ice chunks as the waves lapped at my hip boots.

The highlight of the summer, however, was the float trip another co-worker, Dave, and I made from the headwaters of the Ivishak River to its junction with the Sag. We were catching, measuring and tagging fish while traveling through some truly wild and incredible country.

In the course of the seven-day float trip, we never saw another human being or man-made object, except for the items we had brought with us. I don't even remember seeing a jet engine vapor trail overhead. After completing the trip, Harvey told us we were the first white men, to his knowledge, to have ever floated the entire length of the Ivishak River. I felt a little like an explorer.

Andy had met me at my home in Big Lake on Sunday and we headed north in my four-wheel-drive pickup. We camped that night in a gravel pit near Livengood, a few hundred yards from the start of the Dalton Highway. We had seen moose and a snowshoe hare on the way north. On Monday, we began the much-anticipated trip up the Dalton, stopping often when Andy saw a good landscape scene or the occasional lumbering porcupine he wanted to photograph.

After coffee on the north side of the Yukon River, Andy completed a third of his quest toward becoming a Sourdough. We stopped for the obligatory pictures at BLM's Arctic Circle Wayside. As we traveled north, we watched the transition from trees to shrubs to tundra and saw the farthest north spruce tree along the pipeline. We crossed Atigun Pass, at 4,800-feet elevation, with only a half mile of the road at the high point of the pass dusted with snow.

We saw our first caribou at about mile 301. We found our first grizzly at about mile 325, at a place called the Ice Cut, right as we were turning off the Dalton and into what had appeared to be a great place to camp. The bear was tearing up the ground and eating some roots, and could care less that we were only 15 yards away in the truck. Since we were tent camping, we left to look for a bear-free site to sleep. That night, we camped on the edge of a gravel pad across the road from the now-cleared Happy Valley construction camp, at mile 334.

The small stream running just north of the old Happy Valley gravel pad was just as I remembered it. I suspect it still has a population of grayling rising to the hatch. I remember some of the guys fly fishing in that little stream after work 30 years ago, catching and releasing all the small grayling they wanted.

Tuesday morning, Andy got some nice photos of a small flock of ptarmigan in the willows, a few yards from our tents. After assessing our gasoline situation, we decided to go to Deadhorse, about 75 miles north, and drive to the end of the Dalton Highway and see how things had changed over the past 30 years.

Along the way, we saw musk oxen grazing just off the side of the road. I don't remember seeing any muskox in 1972; in fact, I don't remember anybody ever even mentioning these animals back then. I'm guessing the re-introduction of muskox to the North Slope occurred after my long ago visit.

Deadhorse is basically just a big industrial complex built to support the oil production at Prudhoe Bay. Private vehicles are not allowed into Prudhoe and the last public tour for the season had taken place five days before we arrived. Andy had to satisfy himself with a panorama of photos looking north toward the horizon.

I have to admit to a sense of loss looking at this huge industrial complex. After casting Mepps spinners from the shores of the Arctic Ocean 30 years before with no man-made objects to be seen except the helicopter, the sight of those large metal buildings and the busy semi-truck traffic contrasted sharply with my memories of the unspoiled wilderness. We headed south and began looking for caribou to hunt.

We set up camp a couple of miles north of the grizzly bear campsite and glassed the surrounding area Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday. Several small groups of caribou were present but were either on the other side of the river or were moving away from us. We had no illusions about catching those animals.

While returning to camp for lunch on Wednesday, we did approach within about 100 yards of two cow caribou and a calf, bedded down in the open tundra for the morning. As they watched us intently, Andy got some good shots with his camera. When I tried waving my dark-colored hanky to see if they would approach closer, the caribou instead turned and headed for parts unknown. I guess the old trick of waving your hanky to attract their interest and spark their curiosity only works if your hanky is white.

Thursday morning we broke camp and continued working our way south, stopping for photo opportunities or to glass a likely looking area for caribou. During one of these glassing stops, while watching a herd of caribou three to four miles away, we endured the near-horizontal snow shower.

After making the decision to cross Atigun Pass that afternoon, we made good time traveling south, stopping only infrequently for scenic photos and not at all when caribou were spotted. As we approached the pass, we saw that our concerns about the snowline were well founded.

Everything was covered with snow except the road surface beginning about 10 miles north of the actual pass crossing. We began the steep climb up to the pass. As we gained altitude, the snow started sticking to the road surface. We stopped the truck, locked the front hubs, and shifted into four-wheel-high range. The climb continued.

We traveled the last eight miles to the pass on a road surface recently plowed nearly free of snow by the highway maintenance crews. Snow started falling as we approached the crest. We crossed the high point of the pass and started the descent in a near whiteout blizzard as an Alaska State Trooper truck sat idling at the summit, observing the few vehicles moving through the pass.

Somewhere between Chandalar and Dietrich camps, another 10 miles south, the snow blanket faded and the ground reappeared. We shifted back into two-wheel-drive and continued our odyssey south.

We set up the tents in a BLM campground just north of Coldfoot that Thursday evening amidst a heavy rainstorm. If it was raining at our much lower elevation, we speculated the pass must have really been accumulating snow. Both Andy and I were glad we had decided to come south a day earlier than our original plan.

Friday morning began the marathon push home. We were still about 550 miles north of Big Lake and I intended to be home that night. The drive was long but uneventful. We stopped to refuel and wash the truck in Fairbanks and arrived in Big Lake about 10 p.m. At my house, we unloaded Andy's gear into his car and he headed for his home in Chugiak.

We have already started planning a trip next year, talking hunting strategies and needed equipment upgrades. The North Slope holds an intangible aura that will always beckon to me. I just hope I don't wait another 30 years to make the next trip.

Tips for traveling the Dalton Highway

While I've only driven the Dalton Highway once, I did learn a few things that might help others prepare for a trip.

First, I would not attempt the trip in any vehicle that does not have four-wheel-drive capability. Most of the highway is not paved and, while the Department of Transportation keeps the road surface in good shape, the gravel still gets greasy in areas when it rains. If you happen to run into snow crossing Atigun Pass, as we did, you will definitely appreciate having four-wheel-drive.

Second, make sure your vehicle is in good running shape and bring tools and spare parts, like fan belts, hoses and clamps, extra oil and antifreeze, with you. There are only a few places along the 414-mile highway where repairs can be made. You could be hundreds of miles from the closest repair facility when your fan belt snaps.

Third, carry extra fuel and spare tires. My truck has a range of about 450 to 500 miles with full fuel tanks (38 gallons at 13 mpg), but we still carried an extra 45 gallons of gas with us. Gas prices in Fairbanks were the same as the Valley, but gas at the Yukon River facility was $2.55 per gallon. At Coldfoot, gas was $2.35 per gallon. We didn't even look in Deadhorse. We carried two spare tires and didn't need them, but two spares would be a minimum number to bring along.

Large tractor-trailer rigs are hauling freight to Prudhoe Bay at all times. The posted speed limit is 50 mph, but most of the truckers are moving 65 to 70 mph if the road surface is fairly smooth. When you see a semi-truck either headed toward you or overtaking you, move over to the side of the road, slow down, and let them go by. The truckers were really good about moving over as far as they could to minimize tires throwing rocks through windshields or headlights, but accidents still happen. Also, carry a citizens band (CB) radio tuned to channel 19. Both the truckers and the Alyeska security vehicles all monitor that channel.

Alyeska security trucks cruise the highway 24 hours a day, watching for problems with the pipeline and assisting vehicles that break down along the road. These people are the law along the Dalton, so mind what they tell you.

You will find countless short pipeline access roads off the Dalton Highway, giving access to the road running right next to the pipeline. All these access roads are gated off to prohibit public vehicular access and have signs posted asking you not to block emergency access through the gate. Respect and obey the signs. These access roads make great places to get off the highway to let trucks pass, to pull over and glass for caribou, or to camp for the evening. Just don't block Alyeska's ability to get emergency rigs by your vehicle or camp, or you might get an unpleasant visit from a passing security patrol.

Bring along some food and beverages, clothes for the time of year (it could snow anytime), and camp or sleeping gear. Established service areas exist only around Mile 56 at the Yukon River, Mile 175 near Coldfoot and Deadhorse, at Mile 414. The ride can get real long, real quick, if you were hoping to stop for a burger and shakes.

The Dalton Highway is a truly unique drive, unlike anything else you might encounter in Alaska. Enjoy it, but use caution and plan accordingly.

-- Howard Delo