What makes the allure of an imaginary dotted line so irresistible? I had flown through forest fire smoke in a tiny prop plane, been jostled along a gravel road by bus and battled hordes of relentless mosquitoes, just to step across the Arctic Circle.
My husband, Paul, and I were on a 12-hour expedition that departed from Fairbanks, just 160 miles south of the Circle. Aside from bragging rights and mosquito bites, the trip offered some spectacular scenery, a chance to explore the fabled Alaskan tundra, and an up-close look at the controversial Trans-Alaska Pipeline as it snaked across the wilderness.
Our nine companions hailed from as near as Anchorage and as far away as Italy, Japan and Kansas. Not being a fan of group tours, I’d resisted joining this Arctic ark. But after putting in a phone call to a company that recently started renting cars outfitted for the gravel-covered Dalton Highway (the only way to get to the Circle aside from flying), I relented. Comments like, “We give you two spare tires, but after that it’s your responsibility,” and “A chip in the windshield will cost you $40, but to replace the whole thing is about $400,” were a bit daunting. True, they also throw in a CB radio, but the anticipated fun of uttering phrases like, “Ten-four, good buddy, this is my third flat tire,” just didn’t compensate.
The flight up revealed mountains of pine forests, giving way to vast rolling hills of emerald tundra marked with kettle lakes. It could have been the putting greens and water hazards of a gigantic golf course. We glimpsed it all through breaks in the dense smoke drifting from a forest fire near Fairbanks.
Our guide, Tom, described the delicate relationship between tundra and permafrost, soil that has remained continuously frozen for at least two years. “The sphagnum moss of the tundra is 5” to 10” thick and acts as insulation for the permafrost. Just driving a truck across it can disrupt it enough to create lakes along the wheel tracks.” Damage to the tundra sets off a chain-reaction of permafrost melt, lake formation, tree growth – and eventually a wildly different landscape emerges.
“We just crossed the Arctic Circle!” pilot Dave Magoffin interrupted. I looked up at his instrument panel and read 66° 33” on the global positioning system. We had passed into the land of the midnight sun, where the summer solstice brings 24 hours of non-stop daylight. And winter brings three months of almost continuous dark.
Dave brought the plane in for a landing 23 miles north of the Circle, on a remote airstrip originally built to receive pipeline construction supplies. The sign on a tiny, locked hut proclaimed it as Prospect Creek International Airport, a remnant of the glory days when this was allegedly the busiest airport in the U.S. Now Prospect Creek serves pumping station #5 on mile 275 of the pipeline that stretches from Prudhoe Bay in the north down to the port of Valdez in the south.
While we waited in the summery arctic chill for our bus to arrive, Tom told us that the airstrip was built from packed gravel over Styrofoam blocks, which act as insulation to keep the permafrost from melting and turning the landing field into a swamp. The Dalton Highway was built much the same way when construction started back in 1968.
Before long, the bus rolled up and disgorged its passengers, who would return on the planes we’d brought. Tom handed out trail mix and drinks, then took his place behind the wheel of the 25-passenger coach. Donning his headset mic, he reassured us with the news that buses and trucks rarely get flats, due to their larger, tougher tires, “But if you’re in a van, it’s typical to get a flat at least once in each direction,” he added.
As he launched into a wide-ranging monologue on everything from pipeline construction, to natural history, to gossip about the characters who ply the Dalton, I realized another good reason not to drive by ourselves. His stories made the long, bumpy ride come alive, whether he was unreeling facts (caribou will eat 223 types of tundra plants; a million barrels of oil a day are currently moving through the 801.2 miles of pipeline at 5.4 miles per hour) or spouting local lore (how one female homesteader got the truckers to clean up their language on the CB by employing “pie diplomacy”).
An hour into the drive, we had our “on-the-ground” encounter with the Arctic Circle, which was marked by a turnout on the road, a large placard and an outhouse. As we trooped over to the actual Circle, Tom unfurled a red carpet, bisected by a yellow, dotted line. This was going to be better than I’d anticipated! He carefully explained the proper technique for crossing over: right foot first; right hand extended to shake the hand of the person welcoming you to the Other Side; smile for the camera. One by one, we crossed, then turned to welcome the next person, while other expedition members snapped photos and passed cameras back and forth. Tom handed out celebratory muffins and juice as we batted the pesky mosquitoes that also seemed eager to welcome us.
With the Arctic behind us, it was time to settle in for an Alaskan road trip. I took a turn at riding “shotgun” next to Tom, and learned more about the Dalton Highway. Originally the Dalton was private pipeline company road, but it opened to the public in 1996 when the Alyeska oil company turned it (and all the maintenance) over to the state.
In the heyday of pipeline construction, 400 to 500 trucks barreled along the Dalton every day. There are still plenty of them. At a speed limit of 50 miles per hour, they kick up a lot of gravel, and I noticed a windshield chip that was blossoming into a foot-long crack. Tom said it’s actually easier to drive in the winter, when the potholes fill in with ice and the snow compacts over the gravel. “The trucks fly!” he grinned.
There is a master plan to have the whole thing paved by 2010, but it’s slow going because asphalt is tricky to lay without damaging the permafrost. Tom seemed wistful about it. “People don’t wave on the parts that have been paved,” he said.
Our next stop was for a close-up look at the pipeline. We pulled off and trooped over to the zigzagging monster. It is suspended through much of its journey, to protect the permafrost and allow for animal migration, held aloft by 78,000 vertical supports that wick heat out of the ground and dissipate it through aluminum radiators filled with ammonia gas. The pipeline rests on Teflon-covered slides, so it can expand (up to 100 yards in the summer) or survive in an earthquake. It staggers over the landscape like a drunken sailor, to more easily absorb the stress of those movements.
This stop was also a chance to tread gently on the tundra, which felt like walking on a huge, springy mattress. Tom dug out a small 8-inch plug of turf and let us have a quick look at the dark permafrost earth underneath. Even in that small amount of time, we could see water starting to form as the permafrost met the air. Tom replaced the insulating tundra and we gingerly moved on.
After bumping along for another couple of hours, we reached our dinner spot at the Yukon River, and Tom laid out cold cuts, rolls, chips, fresh fruit and chocolate chip cookies. While we ate, we also provided dinner for hoards of mosquitoes. I held my sandwich and paced back and forth, because I found that movement kept them from landing. Even when we refugeed onto the bus, swarms of bloodsuckers swept in with us.
This provided an opportunity for international teamwork as we used napkins to crush as many of the critters as possible. “What is mosquito in Italian?” I asked the couple behind me. “Zanzara,” the man replied. “In French, it is moustique; I am originally from France!” his wife piped up. “Kaa,” the Japanese diplomat weighed in. There’s nothing like bonding over a common enemy. I contemplated how shipping a few billion of these mosquitoes to the Middle East might help the peace process.
Once the mosquito situation was under control, we headed across the Yukon River, fifth largest in the world by volume. This point is the river’s only bridge crossing in the U.S., about a half-mile in width. At some spots, the Yukon spreads out to run 20 miles wide. Since this is also where the pipeline crosses the river – the most dangerous point on its entire route, according to Tom – there is a gate in the water that can be closed in the event of an oil spill.
Finally, we were on the home stretch. The stunted, scruffy Taiga forests that battle for a foothold in the permafrost started to give way to more normal-looking spruces. We began to see signs of scruffy homesteads and remnants of gold mines. Our last stop was in the community of Joy. If you didn’t know it was named after homesteader Joy Griffin, you might suppose there was a certain sarcasm to the moniker.
Tom had told us about the Carlson family, also residents of Joy, who have upwards of 20 kids living with them at a given time, many of them troubled foster children. One of the bunch greeted us and took us on a little tour (duck pond, wood pile, moose skin stretched out to dry) until the mosquitoes drove us inside. “We like to say there’s not a single mosquito in Joy – they are all married and have large families,” he quipped.
We trooped into the Wildwood General Store for coffee and chocolate cake. The tour operators definitely kept us well fed. There were also T-shirts and postcards to be bought, as well as a couple of books by Carlson family members describing their life without running water or central heat. A white-board featured a drawing of the highway and noted where roadwork might cause slow-downs.
As we neared civilization, we bid farewell to the Dalton and eased onto the Elliot Highway. Tom regaled us with the story of a guy who had a few drinks and thought it would be fun to shoot a hole in the pipeline. “Once you get outside of Fairbanks, things start getting weird,” he warned.
We pulled in to Fairbanks around 12:30 am, not long after sunset. I was exhausted, my head buzzing with all the facts and sights of a trip that turned out to be far richer than the mere novelty of crossing a dotted line. The final event of the night was the awarding of Arctic Circle crossing certificates, congratulating us for surviving an “adventurous journey through the Alaska wilderness.” They were adorned with various flora and fauna, a goldpanner, the pipeline and the Alaska state flag. Just one thing was missing. “What about the mosquitoes?” I wondered, as I neatly fanned a few aside with my new certificate.
© 2002 Gayle Keck
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This article
appeared in the Christian Science Monitor & Seattle Times
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HudsonValleyFall
By Gayle Keck
Circling the Arctic
By Gayle Keck