“LOAD UP THAT PLATE!”
Cade Quigley (he/him) ‘23
“LOAD UP THAT PLATE!”
In many incredible feats of articulation with a pseudo-British accent, Daniel Lewinsohn ’23 would follow this declaration by serving himself a sad excuse of a “pancake”, watery alfredo with mushrooms bobbing in a frothy sauce, or (the least popular by far) approx. two to three pounds of rice with a slight hint of taco seasoning and sand. This proud statement, a reference to the meme Day in the Life of a True Brexit Geezer, served as a bi-daily reminder that Food Group 1 was ready to dig into some chow. While many have referenced the meme across the globe, I can confidently say Daniel was the first to say it along the banks of the Anaktuvuk, Koyukuk, Dietrich, and Itkillik Rivers in the Brooks Range of Alaska.
You may now be thinking, “You traveled to the least trafficked national park in the country, where some of the largest caribou and bird migrations in the world take place, and you start this off with a meme reference to a socio-political nightmare?”
To which I respond, yes indeed. And I bet it got your attention, eh?
In late June of 2023, five of us embarked on a 15-day backpacking expedition in the far northern reaches of the continent. Our expedition, aptly called “Arctic Adventure: Five Buddies in the Great White North” and generously funded by the family of Ritt Kellogg, had been years in the making. The first iteration of the trip was scheduled to depart in the summer of 2020, and you can probably guess how well that went.
Three years, approx. ~45 pages of a trip plan, and four college degrees later, we found ourselves in Fairbanks, Alaska, in late June. We spent a day in Fairbanks, semi-frantically gathering remaining gear and food and coordinating our travel into and out of the mountains to the north. Remarkably, with only a few hours of sleep on our side, we loaded up our gear in a van and started the ~11 hour drive up the washboard-littered Dalton Highway, a.k.a the Haul Road. Along the way, we saw two large bull moose, a wolf, and a near-constant view of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline. With this incredible showing of wildlife and giddy with excitement, we could only imagine what creatures we would find in Gates of the Arctic.
Our imaginations prepared us poorly for the reality we would find ourselves in.
In any case, after a half-day of rattling along, we pulled over at the northernmost tree along the Haul Road and found ourselves amongst expansive meadows, micaceous peaks, and an outhouse. After the many days and nights of planning, dreaming, and preparing for our trek, I felt it was all smooth sailing from here. We planned to hike five to eight miles per day for two weeks, ending in the Nunamiut village of Anaktuvuk Pass, where we would catch a bush plane back to Fairbanks. I thought it was going to be too easy: only 5 miles per day? Come on. I anticipated we would have more than half of the day to take in the scenery, hike to nearby lakes, and summit smaller peaks. I romantically envisioned us lounging in crowberry bushes, snacking at our pleasure as a caribou herd casually walked by.
Boy, the tundra had different plans.
It is important to note that our entire trip was off-trail. The tundra, despite lacking trees and bushes, is a thick mat of biomass. As we left the Haul Road and our last toilet opportunity for several weeks, we found that with every step, the ground would sink like a sponge. While very entertaining to a bunch of kids from the lower 48, it made for very slow-moving and what felt like twice the exertion to go the same distance. By the time we set up camp the first night, we were all smoked with only three miles to our names. As we settled in that night, with almost no sleep from the previous night, my mind began to recalculate everything. The sun burning above in perilous daytime, we were out like a light.
We slept for a long time. We did not shuffle out of our sleeping bags until mid-morning and did not get on to our route until noon. It turns out that, like a sponge, the tundra is inundated with water. This, combined with dozens of stream crossings per day, soaked our feet and the hopes of them ever being dry quickly fell into shambles. Going to sleep each night, our feet looked like shriveled prunes. By morning, they would look only slightly less shriveled, and any remaining glimpse of hope I had for a foot modeling career vanished.
Our Texan compatriot Will Zagrodzky ’23 decided that the best footwear for the job was combat boots. By the mid-afternoon of our second day, his feet had clearly lost the battle, with massive blisters spanning several inches of both heels. We were all concerned about this development, but Will waived it off. We didn’t make it to Oolah Lake, our camp for night two, until 11:30 p.m. that night. We all took a celebratory plunge into the lake with icebergs floating nearby.
As we descended into the Itkillik River Valley the next morning, incredible stratified walls met our eyes, towering over a crystalline creek flowing through flowering meadows. We were also gifted with solid ground, which we seldom found for the rest of the trip. At this point, Will discharged the combat boots for the last time, slipping his feet into his camouflage Crocs he brought for camp. For the remainder of the trip, with his feet nowhere to be seen, Will made his way across the Brooks Range in Crocs and socks.
By day four, we fell into a rhythm and the days began to mold into one another. With the sun spinning around our heads and no darkness to spark our engrained sleeping tendencies, we did not follow the normal backcountry schedule of waking up early and getting on the trail. Only one day did we leave our camp before 11:00 a.m., and our latest departure from camp was 9:30 p.m. after nearly 20 hours of continuous rain beating on our tents. While this schedule irked me for many days, it became second nature by the middle of the trip.
Day after day, we were teased by signs of animals: caribou sheds, bear tracks, Dall sheep skulls, wolf tracks, and scatt of all kinds. Still, any sighting elluded us. We often felt certain we finally spotted a grizzly or caribou in the distance, only to look through the binoculars to discover our bear was in fact an oddly shaped rock. Prior to the trip, we had been very concerned about the prospect of bear encounters. We had invested in an electric fence to surround our tents in case a bear got a little too snoopy. This fence was only successful at electrocuting Julia Raddue ‘23 on two separate occasions. By the mid part of our trip, worried that our attentiveness was waning, Daniel would role play as a ferocious grizzly as the rest of us pulled out our bear sprays and yelled goofy antics. I like to imagine a grizzly bear was watching us from a distance and wanting absolutely nothing to do with us hooligans.
Our progress went smoothly for the most part. Our relaxed mornings almost ruined us on our resupply day when we awoke to the plane landing on the lake a half mile away. In a fit of action, we all bolted down the hill yelling, praying to her holiness above that the pilot wouldn’t leave us empty handed. Luckily, we prevailed. Another trip struggle was finding privacy to hit the metaphorical ‘porcelain’ in a land without trees and bushes. On one tough evening, I thought I achieved solitude to do my business, only to find at the point of no return that the group was cheering on. So it goes. On a later date, we found ourselves crossing a high river, muddy with silt from recent rain. As a geology major (i.e. “rock boy”), I was distracted by the clacking of rocks moving at the base of the river, instead of focusing on Julia who was on the verge of being swept away. I can confidently report that she has mostly forgiven me for this incident.
By the time we entered the Anaktuvuk Valley on the 10th day, we found a massive expanse of tussocks in front of us. For those who haven’t had the privilege of walking on tussocks, it feels like you are stepping on slippery tree logs during an earthquake, with a >50% chance of eating shit and breaking your ankle with each step. It is a painful, painstakingly slow process walking through them. To make it even more delightful, the Alaska State bird was finally out in full force. Clouds of mosquitoes swarmed us constantly. We became efficient killers, taking out hundreds of these abominations per hour. Still, we were far outmatched. I personally prayed for the death of all mosquitoes at least once every two hours on these last days.
Day 11 was a notable day, as we had the pleasure of celebrating Olivia Coutre’s ‘23 birthday amidst tussocks and soaked jackets. After several days of rain, the sky above showed no indication of letting up. As we slowly trudged along with blistered and pruney feet, I thought about the irony of the difference between the romantic trip I had envisioned for the last three years and the brutal reality we currently faced. Miles later and soaked to the bone, we struggled to find a flat spot to set up camp. We eventually decided to risk it and hike up to a ridge above us. When we rounded the final knoll, we found ourselves on an isolated bench with two creeks and a dramatic view of where we came and where we were headed. As we set up camp, the sun finally broke through for the first time in three days. Before long, the sky was a crisp blue with only a few straggling clouds. We exploded our wet gear all around, soaking in the light and taking in the beautifully stark yet alive landscape around us. The Anaktuvuk River gleamed in the light, the water in its braided channels destined for the Arctic Ocean. Distant mountains looked like odd, layered cakes as the sedimentary beds made swooping folds and large cliff faces. During that moment, everything felt so calm. It was the best birthday present Olivia could ask for.
Four days later, we made it to Anaktuvuk Pass, and before long we were in Fairbanks, taking long-awaited showers and eating fresh food. Then, life became a blur. We said our goodbyes and went back to our respective homes. Now, as I sit and reflect, I realize how quickly it seems that life continues to barrel on. Even on the trip, things seemed to be moving so fast. In my dreams leading up to the trip, I was convinced that our expedition would allow me to slow down and recapture the missing time. When the trip first ended, I felt a void. I did not feel satisfied. I wanted—needed—time to reflect on my life: think about the good times, the bad times, and the times to come. College was over, my friends were spread out all over the country, and I was in a new place utterly alone. Yet, while the trip felt fast then, it is now a distinct peak in my mind that I can still remember almost every feature of. No, the trip was not “perfect” in the most basic sense of the word: I was frustrated with everything at one point or another, whether it was the mosquitoes, the tussocks, the obnoxious debates over food, the days on days of rain, or the dumb jokes that we kept going back to. But to me, the perfect adventure is one where you are doused with every feeling in the emotional spectrum. No true adventure is ever predictable. It keeps you on your toes. It keeps you ready for a surprise attack from a grizzly bear. Because life will keep barreling onwards, whether you are ready or not.
And now, whenever I serve myself up a sad excuse of a pasta dish at my new home, I quietly think “Load up that plate” and let the memories of the great white north flood back.
