Riding the Hulahula to the Arctic Ocean

Condensation of a chapter in

“Riding the Hulahula to the Arctic Ocean:
A Guide to 50 Extraordinary Adventures for the Seasoned Traveler”
(Mankin and Stowell, National Geographic Books, 2008)

My doctor’s words were like a punch in the stomach. “Don, I think its time we looked into this,” he said while looking at the results of my latest blood test. I was leaving in a couple of weeks for my latest “trip of a lifetime” and did not want to hear about anything that might get in the way. I had been dreaming of this trip for years – an 11 day raft trip starting near the headwaters of the Hulahula River deep in the Brooks Range in northern Alaska, running through the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR), and ending on a mere sliver of an island a mile or so off the coast in the portion of the Arctic Ocean known as the Beaufort Sea (the river was named by a crew of homesick Hawaiian whalers trapped in the ice near the mouth of the river in the late 19th century).

The doctor scheduled me for some further tests. The problem was, besides the potentially life threatening implications of the results, there was no way I would get the results back before leaving for my trip. He assured me that there was no reason I couldn’t go on the trip. The worst case scenario would be serious but not imminent, and there was little that could happen on the trip that would make the situation worse. Being a true obsessive, and a hypochondriac to boot, I couldn’t imagine enjoying the trip with the test results hanging over my head until my return, but my doctor and, most important, my wife prevailed. Several days later I left for my trip as originally planned.

Flying Into the Alaskan Bush
Like most Alaskan adventures, the fun began with the flight into the bush. After an hour long flight to Arctic Village, a Native American settlement at the southern edge of ANWR, we were ferried in groups of three to our put in point in a small plane specially designed to land and take off in places too confined for more conventional aircraft. I would soon see why this was so important.

Our pilot was the prototypical Alaskan bush pilot – rangy, weathered, and nonchalant. I had the good fortune to get the front passenger’s seat with a view to die for. From the looks of the plane and the terrain, I wasn’t all that sure that I wouldn’t have to pay that price. Snaking through the mountain passes and river valleys at low altitude, it sometimes seemed as if our wings almost brushed the tundra covered slopes. The pilot would occasionally swoop even closer to the ground to give us a better view of musk oxen, moose, or grizzly bears just below.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better or more breathtaking, the pilot pointed out a small gravel beach beside the river a mile or so ahead. “That’s where we’re landing,” he calmly noted. It was a very short and uneven stretch of beach, hardly what I would call a landing strip. I gulped and replied, “I’m impressed.” He smiled, “Don’t be, not yet. Wait to see if we make it.” I assumed he was kidding. Whether or not he was, he slowed the plane to what seemed like an aeronautical version of a crawl, hovered for a second or two before plopping down on the gravel, and came to a stop in just a few bumpy feet. It was probably the strangest airplane landing I have ever experienced.

Adapting to a Unique Environment
After we set up camp for the night, it was time for our orientation to life in the Arctic – high rubber boots for walking on the spongy, mossy, marshy tundra; individual canisters of bear spray, also for walking on the tundra; and the ubiquitous shovel and ditty bag of toilet paper for….well, you get the picture. David, the lead guide from Arctic Wild, our tour operator (http://www.arcticwild.com/), also showed us the shotgun that he would always have at the ready, just in case, and instructed us to be sure to talk, sing and otherwise make noise whenever we wandered off for a walk or to take care of “business.” Although the terrain was pretty open – bluffs, rolling hills, and stream beds – there were depressions and obstructed views that could hide a bear. The key was to avoid them when you can see them, and to make sure that you do not surprise them when you can’t.

While our guides made dinner, we explored our surroundings, slogging up and down hills with the spray canisters grasped firmly in our hands, constantly scanning ahead for bears. We also had to keep our eyes on the ground just ahead. Much of it was made up of tussocks of moss, lichen and tiny yellow, white and purple flowers. In between the tussocks were boggy depressions a foot or so deep. It was tricky going. Miss a step and twist an ankle, or worse. There were also low woody shrubs, mats of tightly clumped plants, lots of rocks, and tufts of grass but no trees or bushes. The views from the many bluffs, ridges and rises up and down the river valley were stunning – snowcapped peaks flanked the meandering river, its wide ice-crusted banks sparkling in the rays of an evening sun hanging low in the sky. The sun, which never set through the entire trip, cast long shadows and brought out the varied hues of green that make up much of the color palette of the Far North.

Getting Into the Flow of the Trip: In the Mountains
For the next two days, we drifted and paddled down the river, past huge banks of ice still remaining in the long, first few days of the Arctic summer. Mountains lined the river on both sides and waterfalls cascaded down to meet us. I thought of little else but maintaining a steady paddle stroke and the beauty that surrounded me.

In camp and on the river we saw lots of wildlife – arctic birds, musk oxen, sheep, the occasional caribou and moose, and several grizzlies, usually and thankfully from a distance. One evening a wolf almost wandered through our camp until he (she?) noticed the strange creatures in colorful GoreTex gear emitting unfamiliar chattering noises.

At the end of the third day we set up camp on a high bluff near a bend of the river. The views from this spot were particularly impressive. Looking up the river from where we had come, the view of the river, valley and mountains was expansive. We had several hours of free time before dinner, so after setting up my tent, I took off on a short hike along a ridge overlooking our camp.
Standing on the ridge surveying the Arctic landscape that stretched before me in the extended dusk of the midnight sun, I started to think about the still unknown medical test results awaiting my return. Curiously, I did not seem to care. I was aware of the potentially life changing news waiting for me at home, but I was thoroughly immersed in the here and now. I knew that I would eventually have to deal with that other reality, but all that mattered at that particular time and in that particular place was the awesome beauty surrounding me….and the very large grizzly bear traversing the ridge across the river!

For the rest of the trip, thoughts about the test results would occasionally pass through my mind, but they would quickly be pushed aside by more immediate concerns – keeping warm and dry and out of the clutches of wolves, grizzlies, and moose – and the unmatched majesty and solitude of that very special place.

Through the Foothills, Down to the Coastal Plain
Over the course of our 11 day trip, the scenery changed dramatically. After about three days floating through a broad, relatively level river valley, we hit a patch of faster, more turbulent water as the river dropped through a narrow canyon in the foothills before spilling out onto the coastal plain. The set of rapids in this canyon were rated an adrenaline-pumping Class IV and looked and felt every bit of it. It was quite a ride paddling in the front where I was. Just as I was about to celebrate our successful run through the hardest part of the rapids, I was slapped in the face by a standing wave. It barely dampened my enthusiasm, but did a pretty good job on my clothes.

Soon the river took us through the foothills and down onto the wide open coastal plain. In the coastal plain the Hulahula turns into a very different kind of river – wider, slower, and very shallow, so shallow that we sometimes had to get out and guide the raft as it bumped along the bottom. The scenery here is quite different than it is in the mountains. To the east and west, the views went on forever and to the north, a misty haze hung over the pack ice a few miles off in the Arctic Ocean. To the south, the mountains and deeply carved valleys of the Brooks Range, where we had been just a day or two before, frame the unbroken expanse of the plain. I have rarely felt so insignificant and small, nor so exhilarated by such dramatic, untouched beauty.

The wildlife viewing was also exceptional. The trip was scheduled to overlap with the annual migration of the Porcupine Caribou herd from Canada to their calving grounds on the coastal plain of the refuge. In good years, thousands of caribou would be scattered over the tundra as far as the eye could see. This year, a heavy snow fall late in the year had trapped most of the caribou herd in Canada, so we saw fewer of them, and therefore, fewer grizzlies than usual. Nonetheless, we did see more caribou than I have ever seen before plus musk oxen, arctic birds, and enough bears, including one very close encounter, to keep us on our toes and the shotgun and bear spray canisters close at hand.

As we neared the coast, we entered the river delta and the river broke up into a series of very shallow braided channels. Not all of the channels reached the sea, and picking the wrong one meant carrying the rafts and all of our equipment for a half a mile or more over soggy ground. Fortunately, we only had to portage once, but that was more than enough.

To the End of the Continent and Beyond
Our trip ended on a small island, little more than a gravel bar, about a mile off the coast in the Beaufort Sea. It was as close to the end of the world as I had ever been. After a short paddle down the last channel of the river, we poked our way into the sea. From the edge of the continent to the island, the water is only a few inches deep. We could have walked most of the way without getting our knees wet. The water was too shallow to paddle, so we pushed the raft along by digging our paddles into the sand on the bottom. The guides often had to get out of the rafts and pull them through especially shallow sections.

The view from the island south, back in the direction from which we came, was incredible, with the Brooks Range framing the horizon as far as the eye could see. But just as incredible was the view in the other direction from the north side of the island. Just a couple of feet offshore was the edge of the polar ice pack, which stretched into the distance until it met the sky. That is where we spent the last few hours of our trip, walking on the pack ice, as far out as we dared, keeping our eyes open for seals sunning on the ice or most important, a polar bear looking for his next meal. In fact, we spent the summer solstice walking on the ice casting long shadows in the midnight sun. This was the high point of a trip that was filled with high points, a fitting end to a long-delayed adventure that I almost did not take.

Oh yes, about those test results. They were negative!