Seth Kantner - A Thousand Trails Home: Living with Caribou

A THOUSAND TRAILS HOME

LIVING WITH CARIBOU

SETH KANTNER

MOUNTAINEERS BOOKS is dedicated to the exploration, preservation, and enjoyment of outdoor and wilderness areas.

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Copyright 2021 by Seth Kantner

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Printed in China

Distributed in the United Kingdom by Cordee, www.cordee.co.uk

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Copyeditor: Ali Shaw

Design and layout: Jen Grable

Cartographer: Lohnes+Wright

All photographs by the author unless credited otherwise

Front cover photograph: Caribou move south on new sea ice in late fall.

Back cover photograph: A cow and calf stay close together as they travel south on the tundra.

Opening portfolio: , bottom: Caribou after crossing the Kobuk River on the migration north to their calving grounds. Frontispiece: After eating very little during the rut, bulls resume feeding along the fall migration.

Some portions of this book originally appeared in different form in other publications, including Caribou Trails, Adventure Journal, Arctic Voices by Subhankar Banerjee, the Anchorage Daily News, and other regional newspapers.

Library of Congress record is available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021008622, and ebook record is available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021008623.

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Printed on FSC-certified materials

ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-59485-970-0

ISBN (paperback): 978-1-59485-972-4

ISBN (ebook): 978-1-59485-971-7

For Stacey

who came north, somewhat accidentally, and a far greater distance than either of us realized, to live this life beside me, one with more caribou, bears, wolves, and wildness than a young Boston woman may have ever dreamed

The arrival of ice and fresh snow overnight alters the landscape the animals must traverse.

PROLOGUE

CARIBOU IN THE NIGHT

Barefoot in the darkness on thin fall snow, I stop walking. My feet will be freezing soon, and Im only here to listen. Forty steps behind is the small yellow glow of lamplight coming from the window in my sod home. Inside, I have hardwood steaming for runners for a dogsled, and I need to get back in to make sure the water doesnt boil dry.

Above the branches and brush, the stars are sharp and a thin fingernail moon offers little luminance. From the north comes a cold breeze, hardly more than a stir. The aurora is weak too, faint green smoke up against the stars, and not enough to light the night. Ice pans far out in the river make soft roars as they collide with heaped fast ice, tinkle, and then spin silently on their way west.

My feet are feeling the cold. South, across the dark river, float the comments of a longtime companion, a great horned owl. Whooo. Whooo. Whoo-whoo. Whooo. From down the ridge comes the rattle of chains, and a few whimpers and whinesmy dog team, pacing in circles, restless in the rich-smelling darkness. They, too, are likely holding freezing pads up off the snow, one at a time to thaw, while they focus their ears north. For once Im not out checking on the team. Im not trying to dissuade a middle-of-the-night grizzly bear from borrowing my meat. Im only listening.

Snow, ice, and the winds of winter begin to transform the land.

From the north, the night slowly fills with soft sounds: many feet moving through snow and the low wiry brush of frozen tundra, the click of hoof tendons, an occasional grunt, the clatter of antlers sweeping dwarf birch and alder branches. Caribou are passing in the night.

Big and small herds have come through for nearly two months now. Its only the last three days, since the river began running heavier ice, that this uninterrupted line of animals has been marching east. In truth, caribou have been passing my entire life; the land is veined with their ancient trails. But something is different tonight. Theres something big and dark and wild about standing barefoot on thin snow and frozen ground, hearing thousands of animals traveling through, and not being able to see even one. Its exciting and humbling, shivery, and on the edge of scaryas if some huge parallel nation is on the move out under the starlight.

Now, my feet have frozen patches. Im suddenly cognizant of the pinch and burn, and I hurry back toward the small yellow glow, a lone light in this world of darkness. Inside, on my familys old bearskin couch, I sit and feel the twin aches: of skin thawing and of love for my home, this land of caribou.

Glowing red blueberry bushes brighten the tundra with splashes of color in early autumn.

PART I