Delirium

During my artist residency in Gates of the Arctic National Park this summer, I covered about 70 miles on foot and by packraft over 10 days. There were a lot of memorable days, but there was one, nearing the end, that was perhaps the strangest.

I was making the trip with a park Ranger named Al. Now Al and I moved at different paces. He had duties along the route, archeological sites to check, dealing with any modern trash that needed to be documented or hauled out, and noting any areas with high impact. Al was VERY thorough. Usually, when we encountered such tasks that delayed our trek, I’d pull out the maps, we’d decide about where we wanted to camp, and we’d plan to meet up at some point later in the day. Off I’d go, alone, across the tundra. My solo hours were among my favorites of the trip. It was a chance to feel the size of the place, the press of the mountains, and to deal with the frustrations and challenges of the journey, alone.

On our second to last day of travel, we woke up to the mostly overcast skies I’d come to expect. We were camped high in the headwaters of a small stream, a tributary to the Killik. The night before we’d been up late watching a pair of juvenile Grizzly bears wander around the tundra a few hundred meters from our camp. Bears are not generally a problem, and actual attacks are exceedingly rare. But juvenile bears, like human teenagers, are often the ones to make a nuisance of themselves. So we were keeping a close eye on the two as they alternatively explored, grazed, and wrestled with one another. Eventually, I turned in, late. So by the time we woke up and got moving the next day, it was already afternoon. Not that the time matters, since it never gets dark. We headed up the gently sloping valley. The alpine tundra was solid and smooth, perfect for walking, and a welcome change from the tussock fields we’d battled for the previous two days. We climbed a few hundred feet over the course of a mile until we reached a large lake that lay right on the summit of the pass. The low overcast seemed to be falling even lower as scudding clouds reached down the ridges and obscured all but the lower slopes of the mountains. Dark sky and dark water.

We traversed the lake edge and then out onto a mile or two of flat dry tundra before beginning a gradual descent into the next drainage. I’d gotten some distance ahead of Al, and stopped to have a snack and wait for him. As I did, I could see rain approaching from the west, still some distance off, but nasty and threatening. Al eventually arrived and dropped his pack. Then almost simultaneously we spotted something white on the tundra a hundred yards away up a knoll. We walked up and found a piece of plastic, then another, and another. Pieces of a disintegrating 5-gallon bucket. Then Al found an ancient and rusted Conibear trap. For many years, dating back to the 70s a trapper had run his line up this valley, but it had been more than 10 winters since it has last been used. Al and I gathered the plastic garbage and packed it away in our packs. But as I was preparing to leave, Al told me he wanted to stay and have a better look around. From experience, I knew this could take some time, so I pulled out the map, pointed to a likely campsite about 7 miles away, told him I’d see him there, and off I went.

There were two possible routes to get where we were headed. One dropped down to the creek and followed it along to a confluence with a larger stream then across that and on up another tributary to where we planned to camp. The second option followed the bench a few hundred feet above the stream and was a more direct route, though it went over uncertain terrain. I opted for the direct route.

The first rain splatters hit me within 10 minutes of separating from Al, and it all went downhill from there. I wrapped my Gore-tex rain gear tight about me and walked on. The rain came in and out, sometimes torrents, sometimes drizzle, sometimes almost nothing at all. The terrain wasn’t too bad for walking. Patches of dwarf birch and dry tundra, with a series of short ridges that caused me to climb 20 feet up, then 20 feet down, 20 feet up, 20 feet down. A mile or two across the plateau and I encountered a deep gulch. It was some 250 vertical feet to the creek below with steep, almost precipitous sides. I didn’t want to walk around this thing, such a detour would add miles to my day, so I looked for a way down. I found, much to my surprise, a nearly perfect caribou trail that switch-backed right down the steep slope to creek bed below. I descended, one step at a time, reminding myself that I was alone and Al would likely not take the exact same route. In other words, a bad place to hurt myself. I waded the creek, bashed through the sopping wet willows then climbed the opposite side, struggling against the weight of my pack and the steepness of the slope.

At the top I looked around. There was a view of my route ahead and our proposed camp, across the sprawling valley looked far, far away. Rain fell in sheets that obscured and then revealed the mountains. Three large creeks came from the peaks to the south and all joined at nearly the same point a few miles north of my perch. The valley of these three creeks seemed improbably huge, the distances immense, the weather dark and threatening. I was miles away from our proposed camp, and for the first time during the trip, I felt wildly exposed, and perhaps, a little scared.

One of the foremost rules when hiking in bear country is to make noise. On the long and lonely trek ahead, I decided to sing. I don’t have much of a repertoire of memorized songs. Mostly bits and pieces, but I did my best. I started with “American Pie”, of which I knew most of the lyrics, moved onto Peter Paul and Mary, then John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High”, and Suzanne Vega’s “The Queen and the Soldier”. I descended through the tundra which was increasingly tussocky. I sang louder and louder the worse the walking became and the harder the rain fell.

It was sometime in there that I felt a part of my brain detach, and go off on its own, leaving me disjointed, and foggy.

Atop the final bench before the first of the three creeks it was raining hard and I couldn’t see across the valley. I was onto Simon and Garfunkel, and “Homeward Bound” was leaping from my lips in shouts. Down the hill I plunged, breaking into a rousing rendition of The Beatle’s “Rocky Raccoon” when I started doing a little hiking-dance to the chorus. I was grinning madly and singing at the top of my lungs, the rain pounded down, I was drenched and chilled and Good ol’ Rocky had fallen back to his room only to find Gideon’s Bible.

Part of my brain woke up then and started speaking to the loudly singing part. “You are acting ludicrous” the logical part whispered.

“Don’t care, I singing, I happy!” replied the delirious part.

“You need to calm down.” said Logic.

“Why? Happy! Singing!” asked Delirious.

“Because I think you’ve lost part of your mind.”

“Huh? But what about singing?” Delirious asked, now less enthusiastically.

“Right now you are having a conversation with yourself,” said Logic slowly and calmly.

Meanwhile, my lips were still Doo-dodala-doo-dooing to Rocky Raccoon, but quieter and the mad hike-and-dance had ceased.

“But…but… singing?” said Delirious, now crestfallen.

“Shhhh. Shhhh.” said Logic.

My lips stopped moving and the foggy feeling that had arrived in my head faded. The rain fell on my hood in loud drips. I hadn’t heard them for what seemed like hours. The creek rushed in the valley, and the willows brushed against my legs as I walked. Shushing me like Logic.

I was chilled and wet. Not afraid, but thinking practically. I picked up the pace, crossed the creek, not bothering to remove my already soaked shoes, and headed along a ridge toward my destination. It took another hour or two. Not sure how long exactly. But I moved with purpose. I found a spot on a bench above a small creek. Well-drained tundra. I set up my tent, pulled off the soaking rain gear and climbed inside. I buried into my sleeping bag and shivered for a few minutes.

The delirium had passed, Logic had won out.

But it was really fun while it lasted.