They always say that

The topographical divide, between the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge's coastal plain, and the last remnant protrusions of Alaska's Brooks Range, is abrupt. Sentinel humps a couple of thousand feet high guard both sides of the Aichilik River where it braids out onto the plain.

Me(!), overlooking the Aichilik River and coastal plain,
Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, Alaska, 1990
Click on image for a larger view

Several of our group was atop one of those humps, enjoying an expansive view and lazing away the day. Our camp was below us, on the river between the humps. Far out, on an intermediate plateau above the plain, we spied tiny, erratically moving dots, barely perceptible with binoculars. We guessed they were at least four miles distant. The dots darted around, hyper and frenetic. They could only be one thing: musk ox.

Already we had encountered all manner of wildlife. Fox, caribou, dall sheep, moose. Arctic ground squirrel. We'd howled for wolf and gotten a reply. Billions upon billions of mosquitoes—the Alaska state bird. I am kidding: the state bird is the willow ptarmigan. A grizzly bear had actually visited our camp a few evenings before. Remind me to tell you about that, someday. But a close up look at musk ox would be a rare and special treat. I and another guy decided we had to try.

But how to get to the right location? Landmarks out there were few and difficult to discern. We saw some bluffs along the river that seemed roughly aligned with the herd. The plan was to head down river to the bluffs, then cut cross country at a right angle to the river. My companion and I scampered down the mountain, grabbed some provisions from the group's supper cache, and headed out. It was afternoon.

Source: U.S. Geological Survey

We managed to get across the river. The current was cold and swift, perhaps waist deep or a little more: not to be trifled with. Huge ice slabs were along the shore. A few hours of hiking commenced. It was a slog, and everything looked different from the ground. We arrived at what we thought were the bluffs, but it was hard to tell for sure. We grabbed a bite to eat, then headed east into the swampy muck.

Memories have dimmed over the decades. I recall frustration at being unable to find a vantage point for a decent look at the landscape. Of not being sure we were in the right location. We thrashed around long enough to realize our quest was in vain, and then began the long hike back to camp. We arrived in the middle of the night, perhaps 3:00 A.M., sun dimmed but still producing adequate light in the Arctic summer. Later we learned that our search had been doomed from the beginning. Group members who remained behind said the herd had moved to a different location shortly after we had set out.

I recount this story by way of introducing you to ANWR's coastal plain. Our group had skirted the edge of the plain a couple of times over our 10-day trip, looking for a high enough promontory to get a potential glimpse of the Porcupine caribou herd, which numbers upwards of a couple of hundred thousand animals. The herd makes an annual 1,500 mile migration to the coastal plain, where cows drop their calves en masse. The timing is intended to "swamp" the predators, who eat well during calving, but who can only consume so many calves in the time when they are most vulnerable. The strategy ensures most will survive. The size of the herd and length of the migration is why ANWR is called "America's Serengeti." Actually, Africa has nothing on ANWR: the herd's trek is the longest large animal migration on the planet. Spotting the herd is always unlikely—the coastal plain is 1.5 million acres—but would be the experience of a lifetime.

From the perspective of human comfort, the coastal plain is a hellhole: swampy, buggy, and hard to navigate. But it is one of the most biologically rich places on Earth. Millions of migratory birds arrive from every continent to hatch and rear their young. The plain is the beating heart of the refuge; a rich and fragile treasure. I've written about this before, so I'll refrain from additional detail here.

ANWR's coastal plain is also where the Trump administration, like Republican administrations before it, wish to drill for oil. The refuge had been closed to development for many decades, but at the end of Trump's first year the Republican-controlled Congress changed that, achieving a long-sought and oft-frustrated Republican goal. Now Trump is hoping some oil company will purchase a lease by the end of the year, which would make it harder for future congresses and administrations to reverse the damage.

Proponents of development disingenuously argue that the coastal plain is but a tiny fraction (around 8 percent) of the thirty thousand square mile refuge, so development there would be no big deal. They always say that. Senator Lisa Murkowski from Alaska says that. They've been saying it for decades. But the vast mountainous majority of the refuge is what Dave Foreman long ago disparaged, in the context of wilderness protection, as "rock and ice." Scenic, to be sure. But of little biological value. It is the coastal plain that makes the refuge a refuge.

Drilling proponents also say the development footprint would be minimal. Two thousand acres, they say. That's the amount of land that would be occupied by gravel pads on which the rigs and wells are sited. But those pads would be connected by a network of pipelines, and roads, in a web that would span the entire coastal plain. The individual sites would be supported by airstrips. Gravel for the pads would have to be mined from local streams, itself highly destructive.

Source: Alaska Audubon Society

We are speaking of industrial development in the midst of the most remote and pristine of wildernesses, so the question must be asked: Will we honor the sacredness of this place, and say, for all time: not here? Our depravity might answer no, but our economics might say yes. In this time of low energy prices (note how much has changed in the 15 years since my previous ANWR post, linked above), with renewables on the rise, there might not be a company willing to risk development in the Arctic, especially in such a sensitive setting. On the other hand, the Trump administration is working hard to make it happen. The coming months will tell. As if we didn't already have enough to stay on top of.

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Incidentally, a previous post of mine shows the view looking south toward the Brooks Range, from our camp beside the Jago River. The Jago is west of the Aichilik. The USGS map above shows just the far eastern corner of the coastal plain. Since I'm sharing photos, here's one that's a little more artsy (still needs work) perhaps ten miles upstream from our Jago camp.

 Copyright (C) 2020 James Michael Brennan, All Rights Reserved

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