Yolyn Am Canyon, Mongolia: Wildlife Safari amidst Remnants of the Gobi Desert’s Last Glacier

Posted on November 30, 2014 by Jack & Barbra Donachy

When this magnificent male Siberian ibex turned his back to us and disappeared, our hearts sank. But moments later, he reemerged for a second photo op. His group of females, young males and yearlings was tucked away up a narrow arm of Mongolia’s remote Yolyn Am Canyon.

Ovoos – sacred mounds of stones and other objects – are common throughout Mongolia. This one is a testament to the special place Yolyn Am Canyon holds in the hearts of the Mongolian people. Translated as “The Valley of the Lammergeiers” (a raptor also known as bearded vultures), the canyon is home to abundant wildlife, some of it rare.

On the evening of day four of our tour from Ulaanbaatar through the Gobi Desert, we stayed in a ger on the outskirts of Mongolia’s Yolyn Am Canyon. Situated at elevation in a narrow valley surrounded by jagged peaks, sunlight only briefly reaches the canyon’s floor each day. Until recent times, ice remained in the valley throughout the year, which made Yolyn Am the Gobi’s last glacier. In recent years, the ice is gone by August or September. By the time of our visit in mid-October, however, ice had returned to the spring creek that flows through the valley’s shadows.

It is the universal story across our planet: Where there is water, there is life. The spring creek emerging from the stone mountains of Yolyn Am are an oasis sought out by diminutive passerines such as this chaffinch (Fringilla sp) as well as charismatic megafauna such as the park’s argali bighorn sheep and Siberian ibex.

Fringed with October ice even in the sunny portions of the canyon, this water makes for a chilly bath.

Dense populations of Daurian pika (Ochotona dauurica) and other rodents sometimes lead to disputes. With winter’s icy lock looming, it is critical that each pika lay claim to a food source and stock up enough grass and seed to get them through the coming dark and cold. When stakes are high, these relatives of rabbits go at it with teeth bared and kicks flying.

Ears back and chin down, the vanquished rival retreats to his burrow.

Walking through the narrow canyon in late morning light, we found ourselves surrounded by innumerable pikas, gerbils, wheatears, horned larks, buntings and other passerines. The abundance of wildlife was a revelation, and for me, an avid birder, it was hard to take my eyes of the creek bank and sunny glades where most of the action was going on.

And then magic happened.

“Jack!” one or our party exclaimed. “Ibex!” I followed the line of his index finger to a far off ridge where, unmistakably silhouetted against a famously blue Mongolian sky stood a beautiful example of a mature male Siberian Ibex. In such flawless relief against the sky and perfectly still, it looked like a statue. Far off in the distance, it was staring directly at us and no doubt had been for some time.

I crouched low and began pacing myself toward it. Forty strides, stop, shoot. Forty strides, stop, shoot. Along the way I passed up the very shot of red-billed choughs (Pyrrhocorax pyrrhocorax brachipus) – a crow-like bird with a distinctive bright red bill and matching legs – I’d been hoping to get on this trip. I kept closing ground on the ibex, and although still well out of range, I reasoned that with every set of 20 paces I might be getting slightly better shots.

And then I looked down to where my left foot was about to fall near the edge of the creek and saw something I hadn’t even considered would be a possibility on this cool October morning…

Which of us more surprised the other is impossible to say. For a brief moment, I considered stopping to reposition this 22 inch (55 cm) snake, or to at least get a better photographic angle on him. But the ibex… Ironically, it turns out that seeing a Halys pit viper (Gloydius halys) is more unusual than seeing an ibex. On the other hand, as the name “pit viper” suggests, it’s just as well I didn’t mess around with this guy. Besides, on this cold day in a land where raptors are abundant, it was in the snake’s best interest that I left him alone.

This was a thrill. The ibex was still far off and way up, but he couldn’t have been any more beautifully silhouetted against the October sky atop this classic, jagged ridge. And then he disappeared for the last time. When I turned around to find Barbra and our group, they were pointing up a narrow canyon arm I’d just passed. The arm was on the other side of the ridge over which the male had disappeared, so I suspected this is where the rest of his group might be. The chase was on!

Somewhere between walking and running, I began scrambling as fast as I could up a wild side canyon. For one short stretch where a feeder spring tumbled over a mossy rock face, the ascent was almost vertical and I struggled between the camera gear I was carrying and finding hand-holds. But once I got up on the bench, there they were. Six, no, eight… maybe a dozen ibex represented by young males with their horns just beginning to gain weight and curl, females, younger animals and kids. They were watching me, but they had the high ground and I was on the opposite side of the canyon. They didn’t seem particularly nervous, so I continued scrambling, breaking a trail as I climbed.

With sturdy legs and heavily muscled bodies, the wild goats are stunning.

As I stepped through the low undergrowth, I suddenly recognized an unmistakable smell. Wild juniper. I reluctantly took my eyes off the ibex and looked down to see a vast carpet of berried shrubs blanketing the side of the canyon I was climbing. Still making my way to higher ground and watching the animals on the opposite canyon wall, I found myself almost instinctively thinking, “This would be the perfect place for…”

At that very moment the ground around my feet exploded in a wind-rush thrum of blurred wings. Chukar!

Shooting in manual, I was spinning dials like mad on my camera to adjust from the sunny slopes on the opposite canyon wall where the ibex were to the shade where this hen chukar was kind enough to pose on a lichen-stained rock complimenting her colors. The rest of the covey – her brood, I’m guessing – kited off to the opposite canyon wall and began calling each other back together.

It seems that everywhere we looked that day, wildlife was abundant and cooperative. This young white-winged snow bunting (Montifringilla nivalis) insistently remained underfoot till I snapped a few shots.

Our day-hike through Yolyn Am ended with shadows and cold crowding us out of the canyon, and though we could have walked further, we began to reckon that a warm ger and a hot meal sounded pretty good.

Ice – the great aquifer of arid highlands. It is this frozen water, slowly melting through the summer, that keeps the Yolyn Am Canyon wet and fecund. We couldn’t help but wonder what changes are in store for this magical place as the planet continues to warm.

A flock of red-billed choughs gathers in the canyon’s last light before flying to their roosts.

Next: Further South in the Yolyn Am Canyon – more ibex, gerbils, a lammergeier, rough-legged hawks, and a rare saker falcon in “The Valley of the Lammergeiers.”

Gobi Desert Trek Day II: The Central Mongolian Steppe from Ikh Khayrkhan Uul to Baga Gazaryn Uul

Posted on November 20, 2014 by Jack & Barbra Donachy

It’s a tough breed of horses that call Mongolia home. Most Mongolians were practically born in the saddle, and even Ulaanbaatar’s urbanites ride them with ease. But these horses are never truly tamed in the western sense of that word. Here a group wades a small salt lake on a mid-October morning a few ticks above freezing.

We woke after spending our first night in a ger to a world of frosted grass and blue skies. After breakfast and some casual rock climbing on nearby outcrops, we piled into the van and resumed our journey south to the Gobi Desert.

Beefy and easy to keep running, four-wheel drive Russian-built vans are standard on the Mongolian steppe.

Ruddy shelducks (Tadorna furruginea). The white edge along the lakeshore at the top of this photo is salt. Known for their affinity for brackish water, ruddy shelduck numbers are declining worldwide as salty wetlands are drained for agriculture. In addition to the horses in the photo above, the lake was also populated with common shelducks and teal.

Heads down and tails up, common shelducks (Tadorna tadorna) in muted late fall plumage sift through the lake’s briny muck. Meanwhile, hundreds of passerines, including scores of horned larks, flitted through the air and along the shoreline.

The sun moved higher into the sky. With the soft morning light leaving the lake’s waters, it was time to climb back into the van. The vastness of the land, dotted here and there with horses, cattle, goats, sheep and wild gazelle, continued to mesmerize us. But ever so subtly, we noticed that the grass itself was becoming more sparse.

Off in the distance, a group of especially large-looking horses caught our attention. As we drew closer, humps emerged from their backs. Camels! In less than a morning’s drive, we found ourselves transitioning from the lush grasslands of the steppe to the northern edge of one of the world’s great deserts: the Gobi.

Birch trees tell a tale of water just below the ground’s surface in an otherwise parched landscape, and it was here a band of monks established a monastery long since abandoned and fallen to ruins.

And yet in a sense, the monastery is still alive and vibrant as these nearby ovoos attest. It is the custom in Mongolia to add rocks and other items to these cairns and walk around them clockwise three times out of respect for the sky and earth and to ensure a safe journey.

Brown with late autumn, this familiar grasshopper is a testament to species similarity throughout the Northern Hemisphere. Existing in tremendous numbers in a country where pesticides are still all but unheard of, these hopping protein pills account for the huge number of birds here.

Featuring a dinner of stew with Mongolian-style noodles, goat milk tea, and six liters of wine along with our hosts’ airag (fermented mare’s milk), our second night was celebratory.

That night, we stayed with a nomadic family in their winter camp. Their gers and ungated livestock enclosures (where the otherwise free-ranging animals spend the night) were tucked away from the coming winter wind among rock outcrops.

Nomadic Mongolian herders don’t travel constantly; they maintain two to four seasonal camps. As the seasons change, they pack up their gers, gather their livestock, and take advantage of fresh pasture.

Twice at this camp – once in the evening and once in the morning – we flushed out large coveys of some type of partridge. Both times the birds flew directly into the low sun, so that all we got was the sudden wind-rush thrum of wings, hearts stopped dead in our chests, and winged silhouettes. As usual, rock buntings and other finch-like birds were abundant.

Sunset on another day in the cold, spare paradise we were discovering. Below, the night sky.

Dipper scooping out the horizon… dome of the felt-covered ger glowing white on the sky… Fire inside against the chill of the night… Straight above, the wash of the Milky Way…

Next: The Middle Gobi Desert: Life in a Mongolian ger.

Coming soon: Raptors, Gazelles, Ibex, Picas and a Pit Viper

Artists of the North Pacific Seas: The Watercolors of Dall’s Porpoises

Posted on July 6, 2014 by Jack & Barbra Donachy

You might see a plume of ocean spray, a glimpse of black and white and if you’re close enough, you’ll hear a burst of expelled air as one of the speedsters of the sea comes up for a breath. Playing in the boat’s wake, Dall’s porpoises create ephemeral pieces of art out of seawater, light and air.

Water & Light Mohawk. Dall’s porpoises are capable of keeping pace with boats cruising at over 30 mph (55 kph), a speed that places them with or perhaps slightly ahead of Orcas and Pilot Whales as the sea’s fastest cetaceans.

Folded Glass. In Alaska’s seas, a steady diet of herring and other small fish help keep the population robust. Males, which attain larger sizes than females, can grow to a length of about eight feet and attain weights just under 500 pounds.

Black and Silver. Typically traveling in pairs or in packs up to a dozen or so animals, tell-tale water spouts in the distance are a sign that the porpoises are in the area. If their stomachs are full and the speed of the boat is just right, they may come zipping across the water to play.

Watercolor Brush. Dall’s porpoises can seem to appear out of nowhere, and before long they disappear again.

Farewell Waterburst. Currently, populations of Dall’s porpoises are doing well. They prefer to swim over deep (500 feet), cold water along the continental shelves ranging from southern Japan, as far north as the Bering Sea, and along the west coast of America as far south as Southern California. As a species, they would benefit from international cooperation to conserve the fish stocks they rely on for food and to ensure that they are not accidentally caught in fishing nets.

A Whale of a Tour: Cruising Alaska’s Kenai Fjords National Park

Posted on June 27, 2014 by Jack & Barbra Donachy

In what seemed to be sheer exuberance, this humpback whale heaved himself out of the sea again and again, the perfectly executed cannonballs sending up enormous showers. From eagles to orcas and sow bears with cubs to mountain goats with kids, a recent cruise of the Kenai Fjords National Park near Seward presented opportunities to photograph a number of Alaska’s wildlife stars.

Last summer while salmon fishing aboard our C-Dory Angler, Gillie, we found ourselves suddenly quite close to three massive, bubble feeding, lunging humpback whales – the largest humpbacks we’ve seen to date. The whales and the salmon were drawn to the same thing: acres of herring so dense they were causing our boat’s sonar to misinterpret the vast school as seafloor. Between netting bright silver salmon for our daughter who was visiting from California, navigating the boat and snapping photos of the feeding leviathans we were kept on our toes. At one point the whales surfaced so close to our boat we could smell their breath. It was a bit unnerving.

One moment the seas would be calm, the gulls and kittiwakes resting on the water with just a few sentinels circling about. Suddenly the birds aloft would cry out, signaling the sitting birds to take wing… and then these three massive whales would erupt from the sea. If you look closely, you can see a panicked herring barely escaping the gaping jaws of the center whale.

That evening when we uploaded our photos, we were disappointed to find that the best of our whale shots were marred by the presence of a tour boat in the background. And then it hit us – why not see if the tour company would be interested in the pictures? That’s how we came into possession of tickets for Major Marine Tour’s all-day Kenai Fjords National Park nature cruise, complete with and an all-you-can-eat Alaskan salmon and prime rib lunch. Having now experienced three of these tours, we give them the highest possible recommendation for anyone interested in the wildlife and natural history of coastal Alaska.

Eagles are common along the shoreline of the fjords, and we never tire of admiring them. Not above scavenging, these opportunistic birds will prey on salmon, other fish, seabirds and even baby mountain goats.

This past Monday we used four of our tickets to book ourselves and friends visiting from Montana on a tour on the Spirit of Adventure – the very boat we’d photographed the previous summer. A few brief sprinkles of rain aside, it was a beautiful day, and since it was a lightly-booked weekday cruise we had plenty of room at our dining table as well as at the ship’s rails when we were viewing glaciers and wildlife.

Both horned puffins (above) and tufted puffins nest in the cliffs above the fjords.

The feathery “horns” above their eyes give horned puffins their name. This one, fresh from a dive in search of small fish, popped up right next to the boat.

Certain places in the Kenai Fjords are important breeding grounds for Stellar’s sea lions. In recent years, their population has fallen into decline and although human overfishing may be the culprit, no definitive cause has been identified.

Seep (or common) monkeyflower adorns the cliff walls of this black-legged kittiwake rookery. We didn’t spot any eggs, but the nests look complete and ready for this year’s broods.

Meanwhile dense rafts of dozens or even hundreds of thick billed murres gather along current seams that push baitfish into tight schools where they become easy pickings.

Reminiscent of the Tasmanian Devil of Warner Brother’s cartoon fame, Dall’s porpoises can appear at any time, zipping across the sea in plumes of spray in pursuit of the fish they feed on or just a good bow wake to play in. They are reportedly capable of speeds of around 35 miles per hour (55 kilometers). On this day, the porpoises were in a playful mood and the captain hit the boat speed just right. For several minutes half-a-dozen of these sleek speedsters zig-zagged across our bow.

Although wildlife is a major draw on these cruises, the fjords are equally famous for spectacular tidewater glaciers. Above, Holegate Glacier sloughs off tons of ice at a time in thunderous cascades. Note the seagull at the upper right of the photo.

When the crew scooped up a pristine chunk of glacial ice in a net and announced that Glacial Ice Margaritas were being served, we couldn’t resist. The ice – which is hundreds to thousands of years old depending on which part of the glacier it comes from – is super dense, hard, clear and cold.

Near Aialik Glacier, dozens of harbor seals were hauled out on the ice along with quite a few sea otters such as the one in the foreground above. The National Park Ranger providing commentary aboard Spirit of Adventure remarked that prior to the Russian hunting of sea otters (which, by the early 20th century had nearly driven them to extinction) it was common to see sea otters hauled out on land.

Throughout the seven-and-a-half hour cruise we kept a keen eye for orcas. The day had already been amazing – truly one for the books: leaping salmon, a sow black bear with cubs in a clearing on a mountainside, a nanny mountain goat with her young kid just above the high tide line, whales, porpoises, and a dozen or so species of sea birds all had checks next to them.

Toward the very end of the cruise, as we were nearing Seward, the pair in the above photo showed up. Kenai Fjords NP is home to three distinct types of these cetaceans: resident, transient and offshore. The three types have different diets: residents are salmon and fish eaters, transients focus on mammals such as seals and sea lions, and offshore orcas are known to hunt sharks and baleen whales. The three varieties also have different languages and DNA tests indicate that they do not interbreed. This pair – the male in back with the longer, more angular dorsal fin, the female in front with a shorter, more rounded dorsal fin – may be transient orcas.

Even before the cruise begins there are wildlife viewing opportunities right in the harbor. This sleepy otter filled up on mussels he pulled from pilings before conking out for an after breakfast snooze.

Resurrection Bay Wildlife, a C-Dory Angler Tour: Sea Lions, Mountain Goats and More

Posted on June 10, 2014 by Jack & Barbra Donachy

With a mighty roar this young bull sea lion bellows out that this rock in Resurrection Bay near Seward, Alaska is his rock. Nestled between snow-capped mountains and hosting an abundance of otters, porpoises, seals and sea lions, sea birds by the tens of thousands and with whales almost a given, the bay offers lots to look at.

A morning filled with sunshine, calm seas and friends visiting from out of town were inspiration to take our C-Dory out for a lap around Resurrection Bay.

sea otter spy hopping 2014 n

Sea otters like this curious spy-hopper are abundant along the shoreline. Meanwhile, scan the mountainsides on the east side of the bay for puffy white balls; put binoculars on them and they might become mountain goats.

A pair of juvenile sea lions were swimming in the harbor near our boat as we made ready, and almost as soon as we cleared the marina a harbor porpoise arced near our boat. Bald eagles chirped and spiraled in the blue sky overhead, terns and kittiwakes dive-bombed for small fish, and several cormorants, including a crested cormorant, were drying their wings on the remnants of a pier after a morning of fishing. Horned puffins are among the tens of thousands of seabirds that nest in the rocky mountainsides surrounding Resurrection Bay. No cruise is complete without encountering the whales that call the outer parts of the bay and the nearby Alaska Gulf home. This sounding humpback appeared to be feeding on herring. There’s sometimes a fine line between love and aggression. At one point, the smaller sea lion appeared to have its mouth entirely inside the larger one’s. After some barking back and forth and a little more bared-teeth interplay, the larger animal slid into the ice water – perhaps to forage.

Approaching Cape Resurrection by boat, you can smell the rookery well before your eyes pick out individual birds on the whitewashed cliffs. Here, thousands upon thousands of black legged kittiwakes jockey for position as they haphazardly construct precariously perched nests.

Dense rafts of murres rest near current seams that disorient small fish – the murres’ prey. At times, acres of herring can be seen just below the surface of Resurrection Bay’s waters.

Thick-Billed Murres are so common it can be easy to forget what amazing birds they are. Somewhat stubby-looking on land, they can achieve flight speeds of 75 miles an hour. In water, they transform into sleek acrobats, capable of dives to over 300 feet deep – the length of a football field.

A pair of tufted puffins, golden sunlight illuminating their eponymous feathers, glide through the waters of Resurrection Bay in search of small fish.

Whether life takes you to coastal Alaska or some other shore, we can’t recommend a boat tour of inshore and nearshore waters highly enough. In Seward, local tour boat companies offer daily cruises captained by experienced National Park Service rangers – a not-to-be-missed experience.

Changes: With Feet in Two Worlds Now

Posted on February 20, 2014 by Jack & Barbra Donachy

From the air on the south side of the peninsula, our village of Point Hope is a small interruption in a vast, roadless, icy land. This photo was taken in late January from a little six-seat plane as we flew in from a trip to Anchorage. What’s missing in this picture? Sea ice. There should be a thick sheet of it in the foreground where this year there is only open water.

Back in early November, we made the decision that this would be our final year in Point Hope. We’ve loved living here, and the decision was not easy. The people of this village – our adopted hometown these past three years – have been kind and generous and fierce and proud, attributes we greatly admire. Our students have been wonderful, and when you teach in a building where from kindergarten through senior high there are fewer than 200 students, they all become your students. In our combined 30+ years of teaching, neither of us had ever bonded with students the way we bonded with the students of Tikigaq School.

Freezing rain turned this stalk of grass into a silvery jewel. Rain in January in Point Hope is not completely unheard of, but days in a row of such weather during what is usually the coldest month of the year is highly unusual.

In mid-December we turned in our resignations, not sure where we would go next, urged only be the sense that it was time for us to go. The pull is a feeling that is difficult to describe or explain. The letters of resignation were short, polite, appreciative, but with them we cut the cord. No safety net. No turning back. We began to focus on our next move.

A few nights ago, the aurora borealis put on a show. This was not one of the dancing, colorful displays we’ve seen in the past, but a steady, emerald swath glowing just above the northern horizon.

At first, we were limiting our consideration to Alaska, dreaming of a situation in the Southeast where we might live within an easy walk of our boats and our new school. Our free time was consumed wtih the routine but critical tasks associated with a job search: revising our resumés, shoring up our references, researching schools and communities, distilling our careers and lives into tightly written letters of introduction. As two souls with nomadic DNA and Gypsy blood caught in this modern “career path” world, it’s a process we’ve been through many times.

But this time around, there was a twist to the job hunting. We both constructed online career histories on Linkedin, a networking website for professionals. Out of the blue, Barbra received a query from a headhunter with an agency that places teachers, administrators and technology experts with overseas schools. Although the particular company the inquiring person represented didn’t interest us, it got us thinking.

What if…?

Could we…?

What would we do with our boats?!?

Early morning light bathes whale bones in the ghost town of Old Tikigaq pink and gold after a night of fresh snow.

After careful research, we signed aboard with Search Associates, an agency that works with over 600 internationally-minded schools in 160 countries. While we lacked the experience with International Baccalaureate programs these schools desired, our backgrounds are rich in quality experience and our references are strong. We allowed ourselves to dream, and although we thought that in order to get our foot in the door we’d accept the right position in virtually any country, there were a few countries that were very much on our short list. Our dream list.

One of those countries was Mongolia. Several years ago, when we were living in Sacramento, our local Trout Unlimited chapter invited a guest who had recently made a film about fly fishing in Mongolia for lenok (an ancient form of trout) and taimen (the world’s largest trout/salmon). The vast, sparsely populated countryside was sublime. The rivers were pristine. The idea of a remote camp out on the steppes, the guides speaking Mongolian, the huge night sky filled with stars after a day spent pursuing species of fish few anglers will ever encounter, our stomachs filled with rock roasted meat, our minds pleasantly humming with yak-milk vodka, and beyond the camp neither a light nor a human sound for as far as one could see or hear, is an idea that has been growing in us ever since.

We are due in country on July 31. It appears that we’ve already found a nice apartment just a few minute’s walk from the International School of Ulaanbaatar in Mongolia’s capital of Ulaanbaatar. We’re thrilled. This is just the dose of “New” we’ve been craving.

A couple of weeks ago, we were in the Anchorage airport, flying back to Point Hope when we suddenly encountered a scent that, for us, will always be pleasantly, irresistibly memorable. Muktuk. Whale fat. We looked around and soon found a small group of people who appeared to be Eskimo pushing a cart loaded with coolers, no doubt the source of the mildly sweet, rich smell. “We’re two among 0.00000-something percent of people in the world who can instantly identify that smell,” I said to Barbra as we laughed about our arcane expertise.

This morning one of Barbra’s students, Dmitri, came to school wearing the same scent. “Wow,” Barbra said with a smile. “You smell like muktuk!”

“Yeah,” Dmitri smiled back. “It’s good, isn’t it.”

Little stories like that keep us wanting to explore and experience.

Sunrise over Point Hope, a village by the Chuckchi sea.

November Light: Old Tikigaq and Project Chariot – 160 Hiroshimas in the Arctic

Posted on November 30, 2013 by Jack & Barbra Donachy

November 29, 12:46 p.m.: Framed below a seal skin umiak whaling boat, the sun edged itself above the southern horizon and lingered for just two hours and 24 minutes. On December 7, the sun will stay below the horizon and remain there for 28 days.

In 1958, under the direction of Edward Teller, the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission (AEC) devised a plan to detonate a series of nuclear devices 160 times the force of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. These bombs were to be exploded just 30 miles southwest of the Inupiat village of Point Hope, Alaska. Teller’s plan – if an action so dangerous and misguided can even be called such – was to blast out a harbor in this far north coastline. The United States government didn’t bother to tell the local residents of this scheme. Nor did they take into consideration that the land in question dId not belong to the United States government; it was and still is sovereign Inupiat territory.

Whale bones mark a sod igloo buried in snow in the ghost town of Old Tikigaq, which was abandoned in the mid 1970’s. Although the sun is only in the sky briefly in November, it is a glorious time of year. This is the November light we have been waiting for.

A caribou hunting party stumbled across AEC engineers and para-military personnel encamped at the mouth of Ogoturuk Creek, near Cape Thompson. That’s when the questions and the lies began.

Grass silhouetted against the southern sky just before dawn, the frozen sea stretching to the horizon near Point Hope, Alaska.

In the end, Teller’s heartless plan was stopped. The bombs were never detonated. The experiment to determine how much radiation local flora, fauna and humans could survive was never carried out.

This is a story of heroes. There was Howard Rock, the co-founder of the Tundra Times, a highly educated, literate Inupiat leader who wrote the first, insistent letters to the United States government demanding that this plan be immediately halted. There were the white scientists from the University of Fairbanks, Pruitt and Viereck, who raised their voices against the project, and in standing up for the Inupiat people and standing against the government were fired by University President, William Wood, who played a less noble role in this story. There were the millions of citizens in the United States and all over the world who were in the streets, protesting nuclear tests of this kind. And there are the people of Point Hope who stood up to the government then and who are still fighting to force the United States government to tell the whole story of Project Chariot.

Because this story is not over.

Over time, as erosion steadily ate away the finger of land jutting into the Chukchi Sea, the old town had to be abandoned. This fall, the entire area was inundated with water when high winds and hurricane force gusts pushed sea water over the rock sea wall protecting the north side of the point.

Although Teller lost his bid to detonate the world’s most destructive arms, in what feels like a tit-for-tat payback, under his direction, in secret, another group of engineers and military personnel were dispatched to the Project Chariot site. This time, they spread radioactive waste on the ground and in the stream. And they buried something there. Something in large, sealed drums.

To this day, the United States government has refused to divulge what was buried.

Since that time, the incidence of cancer has been higher than the national norm among the people of Point Hope. Higher than it should be, even taking into consideration other factors. These are some of the best people we’ve ever had the honor to be associated with. Kind, generous, resourceful, resilient, tough. Their government owes them answers.

Tell-tale tracks leave evidence that an Arctic fox was patrolling Old Tikigaq just before we hiked out. These whale bone jaws located near the airstrip a mile and a half from town welcome visitors to Point Hope. The area around Point Hope is one of the oldest continuously inhabited places in the Americas – maybe the oldest. While many Inupiat (Eskimo) cultures were nomadic, here the animals came to the people. The point of Point Hope formerly extended far to the west out into the Chukchi sea, bringing the land in close proximity to migratory paths of seals, whales, walruses, char, salmon and other fish. Two impressive capes, Thompson to the south, Lisburne to the north, are home to tens of thousands of sea birds. To the east, Point Hope is situated near the migratory route of thousands of caribou. The sea and the land are the garden that has sustained people here for thousands of years.

For more about Project Chariot, see the book The Firecracker Boys by Dan O’Neill. And although it is difficult to obtain a copy, there is an excellent, 73-minute documentary film titled Project Chariot, copyrighted 2013 NSBSD & Naninaaq Productions: UNCIVILIZED FILMS.

First Sea Ice, Point Hope 2013

Posted on November 24, 2013 by Jack & Barbra Donachy

snow arc point hope beach n

Wind and cold sculpted this mixture of sea spray and snow into a delicate arch. The sea ice has been late in coming to the Chukchi Sea this year. This photo was taken at 3:00 p.m. with the winter sun already skimming low on the horizon. Our month of day-long darkness will begin December 6.

The thick, slushy sea ice hisses and softly moans as it moves with the current past ice already frozen fast to shore. The hissing is vaguely reminiscent of a soft autumn breeze filtering through the dry leaves of oaks and maples in my native Pennsylvania. The moans sound like the muted voices of whales deep below the sea. All else is still, the ice stretching out as far as one can see. There is no wind, and there is no other sound.

This sea jelly, entombed in shore ice, is about the size of a polar bear’s paw.

We searched for signs of life, perhaps a seal out on the ice or a snowy owl coursing the shoreline, or even the tracks of an Arctic fox. There is nothing, just the steady hiss of the ice as it flows before us. We walk along the pebbled beach for maybe a mile and finally spot a small group of ravens. Tough birds, making a living up here during the winter.

If you look closely among the rocks along the Point Hope Beach, it’s common to find jade. Less common are fragments of mastodon tusks.

Thick ice prevents the shore from eroding during winter storms. Polar bears depend on the ice to hunt seals. Things are changing up here. The ice seems to be coming later, and there is less of it. Red foxes are becoming more common, pushing out their smaller Arctic cousins. Once winter truly locks up the sea and the sun sinks below the horizon, there is no place on earth that is quieter. It is cold and stark but beautiful.

We don’t always take our big cameras along on walks. Today we relied on “Little Blue,” our Cannon PowerShot D10, our trusty point and shoot.

Ptarmigan and Cloudberries: A Walk on Alaska’s Arctic Tundra

Posted on October 12, 2013 by Jack & Barbra Donachy

Looking almost like exquisite mounts in a museum diorama, these Willow ptarmigan (Lagopus lagopus) proved to be quite approachable. While hiking on the tundra near Point Hope in September we came across two coveys totaling about 20 birds.

Nipped with frost, these cloudberries tasted like sorbet and were no doubt what had drawn the ptarmigan.

Barbra cautiously approached the birds as I lay on my stomach, inching through the boggy terrain, shooting, hoping a few shots might come out.

The plumage of these fall birds is in transition from the mottled browns and reds of summer to the snow white of winter. These are the same species as the red grouse of Scotland.

Barbra crouches and stalks closer to the birds. Note the densely feathered legs. The Latin lagopus translates to “hare foot” for the resemblance of ptarmigans’ feather-covered legs and feet to those of snowshoe hares.

There’s always evidence of a rich ecosystem on the Arctic tundra. Caribou antlers, bird nests, animal burrows and an amazing array of plants are part of our walks.

Brown bears (grizzlies) are common visitors to the beaches and tundra near Point Hope. We found a set of fresh tracks along the shores of an inlet off the Chukchi Sea not far from where we encountered the ptarmigan. Red foxes, Arctic foxes, Arctic ground squirrels, weasels and caribou are frequently seen mammals. Wolves and musk oxen are less common, but also figure in the mix. In the foothills and mountains east of Point Hope there are wolverines and at higher elevations, Dall sheep. Rarely, moose are seen in the scrub willows along the nearby Kukpuk River, and during the winter months polar bears show up both on the sea ice and on land.

During the fall migration, snow geese are fairly common. (Above and below)

Brandt, Canada geese, and a wide variety of ducks and shore birds are also common.

When the ptarmigan finally had enough of us, they glided off a few yards, regrouped and resumed feeding. At that point we turned for home.

A handful of frozen sweetness for the road.

A pair of sandhill cranes lifts off above the last of the cotton grass on the tundra near Point Hope.

Paul Klaver’s Short, Power Film, Eloquently Captures an Ecosystem

Posted on October 6, 2013 by Jack & Barbra Donachy

Paul Klaver’s 13-minute film, Alaska the Nutrient Cycle beautifully captures the critical role wild salmon play in sustaining a rich, diverse ecosystem. Unscripted but with beautiful background music, this breathtaking footage speaks for itself. This is why wild salmon and their environments are worth fighting for, and illustrates why we oppose farmed salmon.