As horizontal sleet and snow blew past me and the wind shoved me backward, I wondered what I had been thinking when I raised my hand three weeks ago, and asked — yes, asked — to volunteer for this. I was a high school student in UCSB’s Summer Research Mentorship Program, and I had just heard Laurie Hoyle speak about her husband’s work to protect the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge.
Now, with the sleet stinging my face, I could only wonder what possessed me to care about what happened to this remote and uncomfortable place. It was August, and it was snowing. No place in the world should be allowed to have weather this foul, or this unpredictable in summer. When Hoyle had spoken about the controversy surrounding drilling for oil in the reserve, she didn’t mention that the weather would be out to get you. Why would anyone want to do anything here, anyway?
Only when I arrived in Fairbanks, Alaska, and was in my room at the bed-and-breakfast did it really settle in that I had agreed to an expedition with Jeff Jones and his crew that would involve two weeks of backpacking about 190 miles north of the Arctic Circle — all for the cause of recording the beauty of the reserve in an effort to protect it.
But I hate being cold, and I had never seen fresh snow before. The longest backpacking trip I had ever been on lasted five days. What if I held them up? What if I got sick? In a snowstorm? What about bears?
The day I spent in Fairbanks was cold and cloudy, making the city look gray and old. It was still cheerful because of the friendliness of the residents. The food tended to be plain but good, and even the busy waitresses joked and treated their customers like good friends. The taxi driver was more than willing to chat about the city, and the proprietors of the fudge shop in town were helpful.
All of them are beneficiaries of the oil industry. Alaska has no state taxes, because of the contributions of the oil companies, who own a large portion of the state. The state’s economy is tightly tied to the profits of the industry. As I explored Fairbanks, the drive to open the refuge to oil drilling made more sense. For these people, that oil represented economic stability, at an easy price, out of sight, beyond the part of the state that had immediate use for human interests other than drilling.
The next day, we flew out to Arctic Village, a small settlement at the edge of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. From there, we boarded a tiny bush plane. The landing strips in the refuge were simply strips of flat tundra, with little in the way of markings beyond the occasional caribou antler.
Standing by our lumpy backpacks we watched the plane leave, dwarfed by the enormous mountains, the engine’s roar dwindling to be replaced by the sound of the wind. There was no other man-made noise, and on the tundra the sound of a plane became a remarkable occurrence, a signal to stop and stare.
The ANWR truly is the last great wilderness in North America, a land that humans have not marked. There are no campfire rings here, no signs of previous travelers. It is like stepping back in time. The sweeping tundra and gray mountains look as if they have not changed in millennia, the willows as if they have always grown just as they are. The domes of our tents were odd, but they dwindled into insignificance, tiny blemishes on the landscape.
As we made our way north during the next two weeks, the landscape changed around us. The bearberries, small tundra plants with disproportionately large berries, turned brilliant red, a flush that climbed the slopes of the mountains. Then the willows joined in, streaking the slopes with brilliant gold. One day, we saw 11 caribou heading south, a small group of dark blots against the enormous backdrop. They ignored us, having more pressing concerns than a group of humans. A fat ground squirrel attempted to scare us away from our food by charging us and chattering furiously. It won; courage is all very well and good, but fades immediately when confronted with something that small and that angry.
The bear wandered into camp as we were packing up — a young bear, probably a 3-year-old just kicked out by its mother. It took a bit of doing to scare it away, but it eventually got the message, throwing us a dirty look over its shoulder as it left.
Sometimes it was hard to breathe in a place that had so much cold air, plus horizontal snow and sleet. At times I thought of my bed at home in Santa Barbara, and wondered why anyone with half a choice would ever elect to feel this miserable. When the day of departure finally came, everyone put a good face on it, enthusing about showers and clean clothes. It was hard not to notice the regretful glances the mountains received.
Of all the impressions that remained, as the plane lifted up and away from the tiny runway, the strongest one was that the land belongs to no one. To imagine that it is something we are free to exploit for our convenience is folly. It is not replaceable — once it’s gone, there will be no getting it back. Even if the oil reserves are as plentiful as the companies believe them to be, the reserves, too, will run out. What then? Alaska’s economy will suffer just as much, if not far more having become even more dependent, and we will have sullied this last great wilderness, turning it from a beautiful and harsh place of wonder into just another name on a list of regrets.
— Theora Tiffney is a senior at Olive Grove Charter School in Santa Barbara.