by aramatzne@gmail.com | 25 Mar 2018 | Roads Taken
Part 6. Visitors – human, animal, bird, and wind, again
Flying from Fairbanks the other day was amazing. It was clear almost to the Brooks range; there were several large, wide, meandering rivers and dozens of smaller streams. Sometimes there were three or four rows of oxbows with the current channel carefully hidden among the old. The mountains were sharp and straight-edged. There was snow everywhere.
Eventually, it clouded over, and we flew over the range without ever seeing it. Approaching Barrow, I saw open water and then pack ice, mile after mile of pressure ridges and leads. Like giant, dry salt flats, cracks led every which where and the pressure ridges ran in long intersecting lines…
An older Inupiat couple came across the ice yesterday. He drove the snow machine; she sat in a chariot sort of sled. They came from the mainland to collect firewood off the beach. It’s funny that in a land with no trees driftwood is plentiful. We talked a while; they were surprised I would be here alone through the summer and said I should radio anytime. ––– was their call, channel XX.
He wore a simple over shirt, long and lined with sheepskin, the ruff on the hood was magnificent wolf fur, it flowed and moved in the breeze as if the fur itself was alive. It was silvery bright with black tips. The man was sun-darkened, almost the color of dark chocolate, and was creased and aged, the ruff danced around his face and made him beautiful. The woman was quite small and also quite round.
She talked about her grandchildren and daughter-in-law and about collecting wood, their camp here, home in Barrow, and their winter home in Anchorage – the south, you know. She was lively and chatty in a way that was familiar and pleasant. It was nice to have these visitors.
Later, I walked through the snow and across the island. I watched the fat, lazy seal basking in the hazy sun over its breathing hole. Two Pomarine jaegers sailed by; a flock of 60 or so common eiders wove their way across the ice, they disappeared behind pressure ridges and came out again into view. Eventually, they found their way into single-file and went off toward the lead to feed.
A short-eared owl played tag with me, gliding near and past before I noticed how close it was. It landed and watched me for a long time, as I watched it. When I approached, it lifted off, glided away, and landed on a peak of the pressure ice piled up on the north shore.
The wind goes on. I haven’t been out to check on even the existence of the other tent. It may well have blown away by now. The food, stove, and I are crammed into half the tent as the wind has the other half pushed flat up against me. There is snow in the air.
Cooper tundra
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circle residency Artistry in the Arctic.
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 18 Mar 2018 | Roads Taken
Part 5. The continuing saga. Still 1 June 2000.
A little wind
In theory, the guillemots will be back within the week. Given the snow cover, the cold, now the pelting rain, I hardly expect them at all. It is hard to believe any creature would choose this place to start a family. It is, actually, quite beautiful and I am sure that when the snow melts, the pack ice recedes, and the 8’x10’ patch of tundra greens it will be even more so. There are Brant that nest here, greater white-fronted geese, and, in the past, large herds of Arctic terns. The snow buntings have been singing and chasing around since I’ve gotten here. I am happy to give them my oatmeal; they seem to enjoy it more than I do.
Although the sun has really not shown itself, I have been aware of its journey around the horizon. The difference in light during the day and night is muted by the hazy sky and heavy clouds, but the change in temperature is obvious. The first morning it couldn’t have been more than 15ºF – the radio said it was 19º at 5 am but I was up at midnight and it seemed colder. When I woke this morning, it was dead calm, and I knew something was coming. The wind now is out of the south, a Beaufort 5 or 6 (19-30 mph). The rain fly is pushed up against the wall rendering any waterproofness useless. The rain comes and goes. The wind continues.
The snow bunting sings its cheery, bright song. I drink more hot liquids. I wander out now and then to reinforce, stretch, fill garbage bags with snow for drinking water in July, empathize with the birds, scan for bears. I should be well read by the end of this.
The rain seems to have stopped. The wind has increased by a couple of notches. I am due for a radio call in ten minutes. I will be lucky if the antenna doesn’t blow off when I raise it. The white-crowned sparrow is still working the edges of the camp. There is a glaucous gull having an absolutely fabulous time playing in the wind, two Pomarine jaegers just screamed past. Perhaps the wind will blow out all the clouds and clear the skies. But, given that it’s from the south, I doubt it.
Aborted radio call. My sleep tent moved about ten feet across the island before I hauled more gear into it. The cook tent, where I’m sitting, is folded in half; sitting in the middle of the tent, the south wall is pressed against my shoulder. The fiberglass extender for the antenna wanted to shatter but flexed about in half trying not to. I guess everything that was soaked by the rain will dry in a short time.
The sparrow and bunting only come to feed when I am out of the tent, and I have my back to them. They will land 10 feet from me when they can see me standing there but not at all when they know I am in the tent. Buggers.
Hours later: The forces of good and evil are at work here, battling for control of the Arctic.
I just stepped out to take a photo of the tent being folded in half by the wind. I was barely able to stand against it but had to do something other than sit. I can see the bluffs six miles to the south. They stand out, clear and sharp. Immediately above them is a wall of cloud thick and heavy. Over me is another massive bank of cloud. Everything west and north is gray down to the horizon. Between me and the bluffs is blue sky. The wind is straight out of the west, off the Bering Sea. I can see the snow slanting across the lagoon and now and then there is a sharp spit of it right here. The wind has increased since this morning. I put a Halberton case full of books and a10 gal propane tank in the other tent to help keep it in place.
I just made another cup of tea. I shut the gas off earlier, afraid of the unpredictability of wind and fire. Given that both sides of the tent are almost directly over the stove I thought it might be a good idea. I shut the gas off again and finally was able to zipper shut the door – there are several broken teeth, which make it a challenge. Although it keeps the sand out and holds back the wind a bit, I am now cut off from the view – snow, ice, sky, and the occasional bird. It is much more claustrophobia-inducing this way.
I bought a wooden flute before I came here. I’ve wanted to learn to play for a long time and thought here no one would have to suffer through the initial squeaks. Each time I bring it out the wind seems to pick up.
Swans stop for a visit.
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circle residency Artistry in the Arctic.
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 15 Mar 2018 | Musing
Swirling ocean patterns draw me in. Cape Lookout, Oregon
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 11 Mar 2018 | Roads Taken
Part 4. The early days on Cooper, sky, sand, and bear alarms. 1 June 2000, continued.
Spring is gaining ground. The snow and ice recede.
It is 6 am. I have been up since midnight. It started to rain at 1. It is about 33º. I am lying in wait, camera ready, oatmeal strewed, for one of many snow buntings and one white-crowned sparrow. I consumed about all of the hot liquids I can tolerate and am considering switching over to the scotch. So what if it is early morning?
The rain patters on, the tent is steamy. Of course, the steaminess of the tent is detrimental to my hopes of any good photos since the lens is in a constant state of fog but I have lots of time and may as well feel like I am working at something.
The other day in Barrow, I was fooled by the sky. The pack ice stretches from shore away to the west. The low clouds reflecting a small lead out on the water gave the illusion that the ocean was open just offshore, that after a couple hundred yards there was open water, not just pack ice. There was nothing distinct about any of them (sky, water, land), flat, contourless, contrast-less. Unbearably desolate in that flat, grey light.
I’m not sure how this always happens. For someone like me, who can talk a mean streak, I do always seem to fall into company with those that can outdo me in their sleep. George can talk. Among all the other bits of life that he can cover he has 30 years’ worth of summers on Cooper Island. He talked about coming out this time of year and setting up the tents 50 yards out on the pack ice, not knowing it until the ice started to break up. Having matches dropped from a plane, they spontaneously ignited on impact. Finding a polar bear sleeping behind one of the nest boxes he was checking. Having a black guillemot line up and explosively shit into his face, a fluid stream of digested fish rapidly-propelled, as he was inhaling to blow the feathers out of the way to check the cloacal opening. It goes on. He is disorganized and, after 30 years of doing this, still seems to need to prove himself. “I don’t need to clean the pot, I just figure out what I can cook that will complement what’s left in the pot from the last meal.”
Since he was only here for a couple of days he slept in the cook tent. Before his snow machine was 100 meters from camp I began emptying everything out so I could dump the 45 lbs of sand he had imported to the tent’s inside. His goal, he said, was to have enough sand in the tent to be able to drain a pot of hot pasta directly onto the floor of the tent by the end of summer.
I hate sand. Some people get into their tent to get out of the wind. I get into the tent to get out of the sand. I like it under my bare feet. I like it on the beach. I hate it in my tent, in my food and my bed. This is a man who left here with a cell phone, a hand-held two-way radio, a GPS unit, and a personal locator beacon to find his way back to Barrow, but won’t bring a shovel to the island because it is too technologically advanced. Egad. He’ll be back 12 June.
There are three cabins I can see from here without binos. They are six miles away across the lagoon. George says at times you can see caribou walking on the bluffs to the east of the cabins.
I collected four dead birds, two male and one female common eiders and one male king eider. Apparently done in by an owl – short-eared, maybe snowy. The feathers are magnificent – soft as eiderdown, thick, and luxuriant. The birds just happen to be missing all of the flesh in their breasts and on their necks. The wings and bodies are untouched otherwise, the meat carefully excised with hardly a feather ruffled, pun quite literally intended.
There is a rather ingenious bear perimeter alarm set up around the camp. A rattrap wired to a car alarm with a plastic plug set under the trip wire. When the connecting cord, that encircles camp, is pushed out of line the plug pops out and the alarm sounds. A bear meandering into camp is not likely to step over the cord to avoid the hated car alarm. There have been a lot of bear sightings and a few encounters this year. One bear has been killed. I sleep with a loaded shotgun and carry pepper spray. As I wander farther from camp for longer periods of time I will carry the gun with me. They say slugs are effective on charging bears.
Snow Bunting
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circle residency Artistry in the Arctic.
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 4 Mar 2018 | Roads Taken
Part 3. The following excerpt was actually written upon my return to the lower 48 but it so amazed me that I have to share it. Back to the regular Arctic programming next time. Honest.
“I am going through cash like crazy. I had a few minutes of panic this evening when I filled my gas tank and it was $13.”
Whoa. That’s not just a different decade but a different universe.
On the backs of giants
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circleresidency Artistry in the Arctic.
