EXPEDITION ACCOUNTS

ACROSS DALTON HIGHWAY AND DENALI

On a wet September 3 we hit the Dalton Highway, a 662km track, mostly gravel, incredibly built in five summer months of 1974 to access oil that was discovered in 1968 at Prudoe Bay on Alaska's North Slope. America was in the throes of an energy crisis and an 1,280km pipeline was to be constructed to transport the oil. Money was no consideration and time was of essence. The weather conditions, terrain, and the immense scale of the project were all extreme. Engineers overcame permafrost, inaccessible mountain ranges, an the relentless flow of the Yukon River to complete the pipeline in three years (1974-77). Public access was allowed till Dead Horse only in 1994 but no services or facilities are available for 400km between Dead Horse and Coldfoot.

The raised track, made slushy by rain, ran through an endless expanse of tundra dominated by the grass-like sedge. Here and there, some geese, swans and seagulls sailed or waded in the innumerable ponds and water bodies that dot the frozen land. Giving company to the road was the Sagavanirktok River and the elevated  pipeline that, now and then, disappeared under the tundra. As we  approached the magnificent Franklin Bluff, a range of hills glistening with the iron-rich soils on the far bank of the river, we spotted three musk oxen carrying their shaggy weight along the gravel bars. Going off the track to view the Sag River, two hunters on horseback, leading another pair of pack horses laden with their camping gear, passed us and disappeared into the willow thickets. Near Pump Station 2 of the Trans-Alaskan pipeline we spotted a small herd of shy caribous looking out for lurking hunters.  Gigantic trucks coming from the opposite directions spattered mud on our van that was already baked and  layered with crusts of dirt - as we're our shoes and pants. Calcium chloride was used in construction of the road to compress the gravel and it makes the mud stick to all surfaces.

Passing Toolik Lake where the University of Alaska Fairbanks has a research station to conduct studies on arctic ecosystems and global climate change, we drove through the entire 240km width of the stunning, but inhospitable, Brooks Range that forms the continental divide. Making a short excursion into the eastern edge of the Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve, we picked blueberries, favourite food of the grizzly bears, near the lichen-covered shores of Lake Galbraith, remnant of a large glacial lake that once occupied the entire valley of the Atigun. Driving along the western border of the eight-million acre Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, Atigun Pass was climbed in heavy snow. Sliding down the spectacular Chandalar Shelf, we left the tundra and entered the boreal (northern) forests. The narrow Dietrich Valley was ablaze with yellow birch and spruce flashing their bright autumn colours and hillsides were reddened with dwarf birch and crimson blueberry leaves. The infinite beauty of the wilderness was doubly magnified as we entered the broad valley of the Koyukuk River. Every bend on the road provided the most soul-satisfying autumn scenery on the face of this planet. Gods would be too glad to dwell in this paradise. Even they can not improve upon this work of nature.

Camping in Coldfoot (pop. 30) for the night, we backtracked next morning to the picturesque Wiseman village to meet Jack, a 56-year-old woodsman living off the land for almost 40 years. Living in his log cabin heated with wood that he chops down, he grows his own tomatoes, carrots and potatoes, picked about 80 kgs of wild blueberry and 70kgs of cranberry this season, and hunts for meat. Jack is a professional trapper and hunts wolves, dall sheep, bears, moose and caribou and sells their fur for a living. He reminded me of Thoreau and his Walden - but with with mobile and Internet access. Living as close to nature as a man can, he does not see any signs of climate change - except, perhaps, the "seasons might have shifted a bit with spring coming earlier - but not this year when we had temperatures of ten below zero in the second week of May. It's the coldest it's ever been," he said, rubbing his hands.

Gobblers Knob presented an extensive view of the Brooks Range to the north and abundant cranberries supplemented our breakfast. Hundred km from Coldfoot, 500km south of our starting point on the Arctic, we crossed the Arctic Circle, an imaginary line circling the earth at latitude 66 degree 33' North where the sun does not set on the summer solstice or rise on winter solstice. Registering our presence, we lunched with some bold and hungry Grey Jays. Roller-coasting down the track, that had now become tarred in parts, we continued to enjoy the magical autumn scenery, crossing the broad Yukon River that had once carried gold-seekers into the interiors of Alaska. 

From all the accounts read and documentaries seen on the "treacherous, nerve-wrecking" Dalton Highway, lethal danger was expected at every bend. It turned out to be a damp squib - no more treacherous than a Gurgaon road after a good monsoon shower. Only fog and blowing snow, like anywhere else, make driving conditions difficulty. The road's strength lies in its reach into one of the remotest corners of the world and through an awesome landscape. 

After a night's sojourn in Fairbanks, we left by Alaska Railroad's glass-domed Denali Star for the spectacular 200km journey into the    Denali National Park, home to America's highest mountain - Mt. McKinley (20,320 ft). Railways came to Alaska before the roads and 70% of its population still lives along the railway corridor. It was rutting season for moose and caribou and Denali was full of energy. Driving over 200km in the broad expanse  of the park, it's floor carpeted with wild flowers and berries, and black and white spruce and yellow birch once again  glowing in blazing autumn colours, and glaciers sweeping down snowy, shimmering mountains, our eyes feasted on nature's living tapestry. Caribous grazed in the distance, sniffing, pawing the ground, keeping an eye on us. A moose cow awkwardly crossed the road, 20 feet away from us, looking for her handsomely antlered mate waiting lustily  on the other side. Climbing higher into the six million acre wilderness, the forested taiga gradually yielded to treeless tundra. Dall sheep sat high on the steep mountain ledges, contemplating their sins, safe from the predator wolves. Further ahead was a lone grizzly bear sweeping the rolling tundra of its blueberries and soapberries, fattening himself on 100,000 calories a day in preparation for the approaching winter hibernation. High up, near the summit of a hill, a mama bear was spotted digging earth with breathless energy. She was looking for ground squirrels and her two playful cubs were imitating the mother. A Merlin falcon circled high above the Savage River scouting for food. It was past ten at night when we returned to our hotel outside the park's border. My only regret was not having a view of Mt. McKinley that was hidden, as it generally is during the non-winter months, behind a thick screen to clouds.

Now we are in Homer, on the western coast of Alaska, waiting for the ferry to take us, over six days, to Bellingham through the interiors. None of the ports where the ferry will be docking is connected by roads and as no Internet connection will be available, the next dispatch will be from Seattle next Sunday. During the passage through the Alaskan fjords we must practice taking pictures with the iPad so we can post them on the blog.