Travails Part Deux; The Arctic Part One

Working

With a week left in July, the Ferry and I have officially hit our goal of seeing 500 species within the American Birding Association’s Checklist Area (in essence, all of North America north of the Mexican border). We assumed it would take much longer, but here we are, now possibly setting a moderately sized goal of 550?

As we mentioned a few weeks back in our award-winning post, The Travails of Travail, we would be heading northward. We are already three weeks into our contract in arctic Alaska at Toolik Field Station. We arrived in Fairbanks on the 6th, having said see you in two months to the dear friends in Missoula who both hosted us as well as agreed to keep vigil over The Blazer while we are away. Our pal, Caitlin, picked us up on a grossly drizzled Alaskan day, but Alaskan all the same. The gray sky and the smell of wet willow; the green expanse and the feeling of pure air.

Alaska, as one should imagine, is massive and wild, and also filled with all sorts of exotic and regionally specific birds. We came into this State having seen 481 species, and expected to see certain locally common birds relatively easily: Common Redpolls (Acanthis flammea), Bohemian Waxwings (Bombycilla garrulus), Boreal Chickadees (Poecile hudsonicus), but we were unprepared for the three juvenile Northern Hawk Owls (Surnia ulula) screeching from the power lines and the green stands on the way out to Caitlin’s cabin. As we drove past, all of us nerdily called owl!! With luck, Caitlin was able to not excitedly jerk the wheel into a ditch, and safely pulled to the side of the road so we could gleam-and-beam at this rarer species of bird that is very particular about being from the far-stretching northern boreal forests.

Fuzzy capped juvenile Northern Hawk Owl. A moment of absolute joyous luck.

At the cabin, we spent a perfect evening with our friend, and then woke up to a pair of juvenile Horned Owls (Bubo virginianus) calling from more power lines outside of the densely wooded dirt road.

They may look similar to the Hawk Owl, but notice the brown coloration on the facial discs, and the lack of horizontal striping on the breast.

Somewhere, and at sometime, we entered into a loop of owl magic: less than a week before arriving in Fairbanks we had a family of the incredibly elusive Great Gray Owls, two parents feeding a young one; a Boreal Owl (not counted for the year, as we neither saw it nor did we ID the call right away) winnowing from the dark beyond our Wyoming campfire light; a Short Eared Owl (Asio flammeus) on our first morning at Toolik. So far we have been in the presence of 11 of the 18 owls possible in the ABA area, and we have yet to come close to winter when owls tend to be even easier to spot.

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The morning of the 9th, we put our packs in the back of a university suburban and headed out on our nine-hour drive up the famous Haul Road, the Dalton Highway, the pot-holed, raised-berm road that leads from Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay on the Beaufort Sea. The roughness of the road cannot be understated, nor can the immaculate, isolated beauty be described with the deference it demands.

The Dalton Highway, Galbraith Lake, 68.4617 latitude.

The station at Toolik is known as a place where scientists studying weather, hydrology, the plants of the Arctic, among other things, find the support needed to do research. Just like the stations of the Antarctic, here their bathrooms are cleaned, their research is supported by lab staff, their meals are prepared by people like The Ferry and myself. For us, it is yet another opportunity to be on our feet all day, standing in front of hot stoves and ovens, ankles and wrists and pretty much all joints of the body sored by repetition and heavy workload. But, just beyond the galley windows, out on the rolling tundra, up on the heights of the tectonic-formed geology, there is an intensity of wonders to observe.

Toolik Field Station. Weatherports and the Brooks Range.

Here, we will work for the next two months, six days a week, ten-plus hours a day. It is, as I have said, a heavy load, but in our time off we will make the most of being in such a unique environment. Already, we have added Lapland Longspurs (Calcarius lapponicus), Glaucous Gulls (Larus hyperboreus), Willow Ptarmigan (Lagopus lagopus), Long-tailed Jaegers (Stercorarius longicaudus), and the Yellow-billed Loon (Gavia adamsii). On our first day off, we walked from the lake up and onto the near ridge of Jade Mountain, raising through the mosquito-laden tundra, to arrive at the heights overlooking the continuing rolls of valley and peak.

Gyrfalcon (Falco rusticolus), a high-arctic raptor. Though it is a falcon, the high German derivation of “ger” means “vulture”. And, that derivation came from the Middle Age folk etymology of “gyrus”, meaning “circling”, like a gyroscope.

This past weekend we took a station truck south to the Galbraith Lake Campground, spent the night watching the perpetual sun drift across the evening sky, bridging the line between the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and The Gates of the Arctic National Park. The miles and miles of kettle ponds; the American Golden Plovers (Pluvialis dominica) flying like inner-island terns speaking in matrimonial tongue; the twisted lean and fold of the Lisburne Limestone Formation forcing your mind to wander the eons on display. And the sheer peacefulness of being in the quiet.

We woke the next morning to scads of Common Redpolls haranguing a pair of Northern Shrikes (Lanius borealis). Shrikes are unique among songbirds in that they eat other songbirds; thus the riling anxiety from the Redpolls not wanting to be the ones to help break someone else’s fast. Driving down the road a few miles, following the oddly mesmerizing pipeline through the valley, we parked at the trailhead for Atigun Gorge. Walking on tundra is a slog, but after a mile or two it becomes a real slog. Tired and donning mosquito gear, we gained a bit of elevation to lunch and take in the view.

Atigun Gorge, built by glaciers and carved by the Atigun River.

Returning back to the truck, the Horned Larks (Eremophila alpestris) abounded, as did flower upon flower, all bursting with varied colors, from the wet tundra. As we crossed a flatter stretch of dwarfed willow, patches of bolting Avens, tussock and horsetails, a mama Rock Ptarmigan (Lagopus muta) and her baby tried to hunker away from our approach. Species #500 for the year.

Rock Ptarmigan lady, species #500.

Stay tuned for more sights from the Grand Arctic…