My childhood dream was to live in the wildest place in America, Alaska. For several years, I did just that as an employee of the Alaska Department of Fish & Game, U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service and North Slope Borough Environmental Protection Office.

Actually, my first trip to Alaska was as an employee of a fish cannery near Naknek, in southwestern Alaska in 1979. (However, I didn’t actually can fish; rather, I put salmon and herring eggs in freezers.) I later attended the University of Alaska at Fairbanks for a year and spent several summers working in Alaska during the 1980s.

During this period I spent two summers studying seabirds on islands (one summer in the Semidi Islands and another in the Aleutians) and did two stints monitoring bowhead whales near Barrow, Alaska, the northernmost community in the United States. Other national wildlife refuges I worked at include Arctic, Nowitna and Yukon Flats. While working for the state, I spent one summer in western Alaska (working out of Bethel) and another summer in Prince William Sound.

In addition, I worked as a volunteer during two winters on projects involving sea turtles in Michoacan, Mexico, and manatees in Florida. One summer found me working for the National Park Service at Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming, but not as a biologist.

It’s hard to choose a single best experience or favorite place from my experiences in Alaska. Camping on a hill carpeted with blueberries near Wonder Lake, with a priceless view of Denali (Mt. McKinley), is something I’ll never forget. Cruising the Inside Passage aboard an Alaskan ferry is also an unforgettable experience.

The Arctic National Wildlife Refuge was probably the most spectacularly beautiful work site I’ve ever known. I saw my first wolves and a muskox there. The most exotic locales I visited were Katmai National Park’s Valley of 10,000 Smokes (where I saw a wolverine), the Aleutian Islands and the landfast ice of the Arctic Ocean off Point Barrow. The combination of wind, rain and fog made the Aleutians the most challenging environment, with sea otters, active volcanoes and World War II memorabilia as added attractions.

One of my most memorable experiences was stumbling across an ice-enclosed pool near Barrow occupied by two bowhead whales while accompanying bioacoustics researcher Christopher Clark, who took the photo on the left (below). But my first encounter with a polar bear was even more exciting.

Nowitna National Wildlife Refuge was a treat because of the numerous wolves that inhabited the area. It also introduced me to the fossils of Ice Age mammals that are so abundant in parts of Alaska.

Northern Amazon

But the biggest surprise was Yukon Flats National Wildlife Refuge. I was initially dispirited because of the extraordinary bureaucracy in the main office in Fairbanks, as well as the refuge itself, which was simply bleak. As the name suggests, the Yukon Flats is an enormous flatland on the south side of the Brooks Range. After flowing through a mountainous area, the Yukon River spills onto this forested plain, turning it into a vast swamp.

In the Land of the Midnight Sun, the water soaks up sunlight, slowly heating the entire area. The hottest temperature ever recorded in Alaska is 100° Fahrenheit in Fort Yukon, the largest community in the Yukon Flats.

In other words, the Yukon Flats is HOT and muggy, with hordes of mosquitoes. It’s essentially one big swamp, and not a terribly picturesque one with the stunted trees one would expect so far north of the Arctic Circle.

My first trip to the refuge itself ranks as one of my most miserable experiences in Alaska. We spent most of our time huddled inside a flimsy building, as bored as we were uncomfortable. My last trip was even harsher.

Two of us were sent out to survey waterfowl. To navigate the wilderness, each of us pulled a lightweight plastic canoe. We would have been most comfortable wearing nothing but shorts. Instead, we wore rubber hip waders and long-sleeved shirts and head nets to protect us from mosquitoes. We carried fairly heavy backpacks, with binoculars slung around our necks and shotguns slung over our shoulders for protection from bears.

We also had to pull our plastic canoes, which frequently got jammed between the stunted trees. We could take off our T-shirts and wring out what seemed to be enough sweat to fill a water bottle. And that still wasn’t all.

The woods were filled with at least two kinds of hornets, one which nested in trees, the other on the ground. The tree nesters were the worst, because their hives always seemed to be at eye level. I never knew I was in trouble until I heard a buzzing sound just inches from my face, inevitably followed by a sting. I learned to lunge away as soon as I heard that warning buzzing, rather than waste time trying to spot the hive.

One wouldn’t want to seek safety in the swamp water; I recall a pond that was teaming with leeches. One day, I heard a tiny sound and looked down to spy a small frog with one leg nearly severed by a dragonfly nymph. We also discovered a bear trap—with a severed bear’s toe. The Yukon Flats could a truly hellish place.

Yet I enjoyed that trip immensely, largely because I had a good companion. What I would have ordinarily perceived as a hopeless series of nuisances transformed into an adventure. The hornets were small, and their stings really weren’t that painful. We were also fortunate in that the Yukon River ran through our first plot. We could jump in for a refreshing swim, and the mosquitoes weren’t such a nuisance when a slight breeze wafted along the riverbank.

Nor was the Yukon Flats as ugly as I had at first imagined. The woods were threaded with extensive flower patches, typically curving along former river channels.

The final touch was fire. As I recall, Yukon Flats is the most heavily burned area in Alaska. We saw several fires from the air, and one was burning uncomfortably close during our last day on the refuge. The alien vegetation, insects and smoke suggested a different planet or period of time. I would not have been terribly surprised if a dinosaur had come crashing out of the woods.

South to the Future

After moving to Seattle, I continued working in Alaska during summers for a while. One year, I landed a job studying amphibians in the Cascades for the University of Washington. And that was pretty much the end of my career as a wildlife biologist.

Though I was passionate about animals and the outdoors as a youth and had some wonderful experiences as an adult, some of the luster wore off. Bureaucracy took a toll, and supervising other employees and volunteers could also be a trying experience. I was also discouraged from signing on full-time in Alaska because I dreaded being saddled with desk work during winter.

Of course, wildlife biology can be a very lonely calling, especially in Alaska (though never as lonely as the big city). Ironically, two of my best friends were killed in Alaska-style accidents but not in Alaska. Tim Patton (who I met when we both worked at Nowitna National Wildlife Refuge) was riding in a plane flying from Alaska to the Lower 48 when it crashed in a blizzard in Idaho. Michio Hoshino was a Japanese photographer who was becoming famous when he was killed by a bear in Kamchatka (in the Russian Far East).

Michio and a Japanese television crew were visiting an area frequented by numerous brown bears to film a TV special. One night, Michio reportedly decided to escape a crowded tent by pitching his tent outside, figuring the bears were too gorged on salmon to bother him. Tragically, he was eaten by a bear. Ironically, I’ve done several stupid things, involving both bears and airplanes in Alaska and elsewhere, and lived to tell (or not tell) about it.

So there were no strong human bonds tying me to Alaska. Finally, I was obsessed with being independent and therefore self-employed, and I knew achieving that would require more stability. Yet I still saw my future in Alaska when I moved to Seattle.