Last June, Nyssa, Hazel, Charlee, Tony, Charlie and I headed north for our solstice pilgrimage to the Arctic. In Fairbanks, we met with Kirk Sweetsir who flew us in his bushplane to where the Hulahula River cuts through the Romanzoff Mountains of the Brooks Range. From there, we worked our way down the Hulahula to the edge of the coastal plain where we portaged to the Okpilak River. We explored the country around the Okpilak Hot Springs then floated the Okpilak to the edge of the coastal plain before one last portage to Kaktovic and our flight home. I think this is a close replica of a trip that Ken Hill, Robin Beebee, Ed Plumb, and Seth Adams did years ago - I'm sure others have done it as well.
The adventure started early on a Saturday June morning in Fairbanks as we dragged ourselves out of bed, injected caffeine into our groggy brains, and Ubered to Wright Air. We dropped off the Charliees and Tony who would fly to Arctic Village in one of Wright's Cessna Grand Caravans where Kirk would double back to get them after dropping us off at the landing strip.
Typical of operations serving rural Alaska, Wrights wasn't open yet, and we left the trio standing outside to figure out finding breakfast while we went looking for Kirk. The Yukon Air hangar was also deserted upon our arrival and it was our turn to work on breakfast while we waited for Kirk. Breakfast was on the way by the time Kirk pulled up in his Subaru. Then we started digging around for the bear spray and fuel he has stashed for us and stuffing our gear into his Cessna 185. Packing was pretty quick and we are soon airborne and leaving Fairbanks behind. As we flew north, the foothills of the Brooks Range begin to grow out of the vast northern coniferous forest. 
The taiga melted away below replaced by surreal barren mountains rising around us. These peaks aren't tall, but they cut into sky with their raw untamed beauty. 
As we passed the continental divide, and flew into the Hulahula watershed, I was filled with excitement to explore this wild place of caribou, pastel colors, and beautiful rivers.
We were tired from the typical mad rush to pack up and get out of town, and relaxed in the morning sun while waiting for the rest of the group to arrive. The peace was soon broken by the arrival of the first of 10 helio courier and beaver flights which would fill the quiet valley with echoing buzzing for the rest of the day as they brought in a tent city for the Wilderness Society.
With the arrival of the rest of our contingent, we hiked away from the growing circus at the strip to a peaceful camp spot up the river. Tents up and eager to stretch our legs, we set out for an afternoon hike up to Peak 5480.
The bumpy tundra was alive with birds ready to take advantage of the short arctic summer, and we passed the nests of little birds as we made our way higher across the landscape. 
Underfoot, the soft patchwork of grasses, dwarfed shrubs, and tussucks was replaced by the sharp feeling of rock as we left the wide river valley behind and climbed onto the windscoured ridges.
Cresting a ridgeline, we came across a classic arctic scene: a pair of caribou cooling off from the "heat" on the remaining snow of last winter.
From the little peak, our views stretched for miles away from our camp on the Hulahula. Snow from last winter clung to steep protected faces hidden below sharp ridgelines sawing into sky. While below us, nude scree transitioned to rolling tundra then cobbly little aquamarine creeks. We took a few moments to enjoy the view, then looped back towards camp.
Our return followed a small creek with each of us taking the caribou trail, contour, or creek bottom that called to us. I wondered if Tony and I would startle wildlife oblivious the existence of humans along the babbling water. 
Our arrival at the big collapsed pingo announced the approach to camp. Pingos are fascinating features of the permafrost landscape: ice-cored hills formed when liquid water trapped beneath the surface freezes and expands, pushing the earth above into a dome. Over time, the ice core melts, and the pressure from the surrounding earth causes the center to collapse, leaving behind a donut-shaped depression in the middle of the hill. The pingo stood as a testament to the power of nature’s slow, unrelenting forces, a reminder that this land, though quiet, was anything but constant.
Sunday started with groups of hundreds of caribou flowing down the valley past us as we ate breakfast. With a full day ahead, we crossed the Hulahula to explore the peaks to the east of camp. As we gained elevation we looked down at our little camp next to the pingo.
We followed a steep gully cut thru the burnt colors of the old rock to efficiently gain the upper shoulders of the mountains. 
Out of the steep valley walls we climbed into a paradise of rolling terrain.
Tucked between ridges were heavenly alpine benches covered in myriad little flowers splashing bright yellows, purples, and, blues across the terrain. Like they often do, these flowers reminded me of my mom, her adventurous spirit and time in Alaska, and how much she would love these colors here.
Climbing towards Peak 6340, we peered over a ridge to see a spread out flock of 40 or 50 sheep grazing peacefully in a protected alpine meadow.
On top of 6340, we stopped for lunch and to decide what was next. Rising to the east, Peak 6988 called to us - so we followed sheep trails towards it.
Approaching the summit of 6988, we crested another ridge bringing views of another beautiful valley splashed in pockets of sunlight and virga with the peaks at the head of the basin lurking in the clouds.
A short scramble brought us to the summit of the peak.
The mountains around us floated in and out of the clouds as we took in the saturated colors of the drainages around us before we started the descent towards dinner. We surfed the loose scree of the upper peak before reaching sheep trails that took us to their soft meadows.
Ahead of us we could see Charlie and Charlee disappearing over the edge into the valley.
Soon we too were hiking over the edge to the lower valley with the Wilderness Society camp coming into view. Thousands of feet below and a mile away, the strong odor of chemical and latrine from their big camp filled the air. 
The clouds that had been with us all day started to lower and darken as we reached the valley floor.
Reaching camp, we watched a moody squall of dark rain pass to the south as we made dinner. I was glad we were off the high peaks. 
On Monday it was time to make miles on the river.
Travel on the river was generally straightforward and mellow with a few small rapids and some aufeis. Aufeis, German for "ice on top", is a sheet of ice many feet thick that forms from successive layers of overflowing ground or river water freezing during winter. We'd paddle until our bodies cramped from the awkward positions in the foragers then pull off to lounge, stretch, and snack on the riverbanks. 
We paddled until the afternoon winds blowing up the river became overwhelming then searched for a gravel bar for the night. With Mount Chamberlain towering above us we set up camp while Hazel played the bongo drums.
With the infinite midnight sun overhead we went for a dessert hike up the ridge to the east. Tony and Hazel stopped to enjoy the overlook of the wide valley while we continued to what we called "Engagement Peak".
With Mount Michelson seemingly just out of reach in the golden evening light, it was a beautiful spot that we will remember forever.
Photo: Charlie Procknow
Tuesday started with about ten more miles on the Hulahula before we'd reach our crossing to the Okpilak. As the river entered a small gorge we startled a nursery group of sheep that were grazing by the water. In the process of losing their winter coats, they looked pretty mangy as they easily hopped up the cliffs to safety. Even the babies barely bigger than our house cats were so incredibly strong and agile.
At the edge of the mountains, we reached a few miles of wave trains and rapids that have been mentioned in other reports. They were generally Class II with a few low consequence Class III holes that could easily have been avoided. That being said, Nyssa and I were having fun center punching all the rapids and got tossed from our raft into a big pool. The rest of the group watched that happen and easily avoided the bigger features..jpg)
Past the canyon, we pulled out on the east bank to dry out from swim practice, eat lunch, and pack for our hike. It was dreamy lying in the soft sunny tundra and hard to motivate for the tussucks that might lie ahead. Nyssa had the great idea to contour close to the edge of the mountains which was a good way to minimize the tussocks. They were way better than what we'd experienced a few miles west in 2023 and totally tolerable.
After a few miles of hiking along the edge of the coastal plain, the Old Man Creek drainage opened in front of us and we turned south into it.
Old Man Creek had great views of Michelson and good hiking on caribou trails on the bench far above the creek.
Soon we were crossing the main stem of Old Man and starting up the east fork where we would camp.
We set up on a bumpy but soft bench above the creek, poured a salty dinner down our throats, and set out for a hike towards Peak 3680 in the beautiful evening. At the ridge, the seemingly endless pack ice stretched over the horizon.
We followed the mellow ridge to the top and were rewarded with jaw dropping views of Michelson glowing in soft light from the north.
Like we'd found elsewhere here, the alpine was bejeweled with special flowers protected by the nooks and crannies of the rocky landscape.
Wednesday we woke to find yet another day of blue skies, packed up camp, and continued up the east fork of the creek.
It was lunchtime when we reached the pass to the Okpilak. The travel up the creek was smooth and we were all in agreement that this was a great way to cross from the Hulahula to the Okpilak.
After lunch overlooking the sprawling Okpilak river valley and the mountains to the east, most of the group continued towards the hotsprings while I convinced Nyssa to hang back for another little peak. We watched them disappear over the edge then hiked north towards Peak 4370.
The ridgeline was sprinkled with more blooming flowers and again I thought about how mom would treasure all these rugged little beauties.
4370 had just enough prominence for an absolutely killer panoramic view of the Michelson massif which we soaked in before returning to our bags at the pass.
The descent to the river was straightforward and we were soon walking fast and easily up the wide valley towards the hot springs. In general I was very impressed with the scale of the Okpilak valley: there was often 5,000 vertical feet of relief from the valley floor straight up to the spired peaks above us.
At the Okpilak Springs we met up with the rest of our group and Elias, Sammy, Tess, Ian, Kat, and Sam who'd arrived the day before via a higher route from the Hulahula. It was great to catch up, hear about their trip, and see the impressive work Tess had done cleaning nine months of algal growth out of the hot springs. I hope we get to do some adventures with them in the future.
Established at the hot springs, Hazel served us oreo pudding for my birthday, and we started to plan the next couple days of exploring the area. On Thursday we hiked south up the Okpilak Valley to explore.
I loved it here; the hiking was easy, long-tailed jaegers hunted swooping flight paths inches above the ground, and the height of the valley walls and the water spilling down from them was incredible.
On the west side of the valley we explored a series of incredible waterfalls spilling from the Michelson massif to pour over blocky white granite.
Then we hiked over to check out the Okpilak gorge. Even with our packrafts stashed a safe distance away at camp, this boiling canyon of miles of committing and continuous gray water, sharp rocks, and sieves made my blood pressure rise. There's people out there that are comfortable doing this kind of gnarly remote whitewater, but I'm not one of them.
Where the Okpilak forked and about nine miles from camp, we called it a day.
We peered into the mysterious upper reaches of the river, then headed back for dinner. 
Back at camp, the crew had a great wildlife day. They'd watched a mature Dall sheep ram soak in the springs and seen baby musk oxen tumbling playfully on the aufeis. As we sat down for dinner, the other group, who had been waiting for the afternoon winds to die down, were just putting on the river.
Friday was another day for exploring the area before it was our time to continue down the river. On the advice of the other group, Nyssa and I decided to explore the tributary drainage where they had crossed from the Hulahula. Leaving the Okpilak valley behind and turning into the mountains I was floored by the beauty of this place. 
For scale, the water fall in the lower quadrant of the picture is 300 feet tall.
Travel up the valley bottom was brutal and I was thankful to no be carrying a heavy pack. After a couple miles of cobble kicking we left the bottom and followed an orange stream upwards. Streams have been turning orange in the arctic as permafrost thaws and metals are released.
Following benches and ridges through the terrain, we were soon on top of Peak 5760 and staring straight at Michelson. We sat there dreaming about all the peak bagging right in front of us and how we would approach it. It was a beautiful day and very hard to remind ourselves that it was time to return to camp and continue towards the coast. I really hope to return here some day.
Eventually we dragged ourselves away and down the ridge to Peak 4960 before dropping back to the Okpilak.
There was a large herd of musk oxen that had been hanging out on the aufeis and in the floodplain, and it was a treat to pass these alien goats draped in shag carpets. I thought back to my first time in Alaska as a wide eyed 20 year old who cannot get over seeing these strange creatures wandering the tundra as I drive south from Deadhorse.
Meeting up back at the tents, everybody was stoked on seeing the musk oxen, and we happily packed up and prepared our boats to continue our adventure with an evening of paddling on the Okpilak. The silty waters carried us quickly out of the mountains and we turned around in our boats to admire the mountains in the evening light.
After a few hours we had made it the tenish miles that we'd hoped to and pulled out on a glorious tundra bench for night. It was spectacular.
Driven out of our tents by the greenhouse of the morning sun, Saturday was a day to make progress on the coastal plain. We encountered only Class II whitewater, but I imagine this could be a bit gnarlier during a large flow event. At the same time, more water would have reduced the damage of our boats dragging over these boulder gardens deposited at the edge of the mountains. At one point we watched Tony pour several gallons of water out of his drysuit from a collision with these angry rocks. I think low summer flows would make these cheese graters close to impassable and very destructive for rafts.
Past the boulder gardens, the Okpilak became a classic north slope river: dramatic cutbanks adorned with melting permafrost and snow, banks dotted with wandering caribou and pingos, migratory birds galore, braided channels, large flocks of willow ptarmigan clucking at us, up river winds, and great views of the northern end of the Rocky Mountains. I'm always so glad to have a two-person packrafts in these sections: they are so much faster and efficient and the shared company is nice.
After a full day of working to make progress down the wandering river, we climbed out of the river and up the bluff to make camp on land flatter than a pancake. Cold wind was blowing off the sea ice and we hustled to get out of clammy drysuits, set up the tents, and huddle behind them our paltry windbreaks. The rock solid ice in the frozen ground was so close to the surface that we couldn't drive our tent stakes in all the way. I like camping here: the high peaks northern peaks look so dramatic from this perspective. Ptarmigan were taking dust baths on the sandbars of the Okpilak as we crawled in for the night.
Sunday would be our crossing to Barter Island. By reviewing the aerial imagery to plot a route across the coastal plain, we were able to avoid the water all around us; my feet stayed dry until the last mile to the lagoon. The hiking was generally acceptable and mostly good. There was a bit of tussock with most of the miles were made up of various forms of ice polygons.
These polygons are made up of ice wedges which are cracks in the ground formed by thin pieces of ice extending downwards for several meters. During the winter months, the water in these cracks freezes and expands. The ice that's already present in the wedges expands as well. This process expands the cracks. As this continues over the years, ice wedges can continue to grow to very large sizes. 
We disturbed countless cranky ptarmigan as we walked across the tundra who'd waddle in front of us doing everything short of actually taking flight. The frozen ground was just below the surface and every few steps we'd feel the hard ice surface against the tips of our trekking poles. Out here, I love the dichotomy of the coastal plain against the high peaks of the Brooks Range just out of reach.
Crossing the icy Arey Lagoon to the island was our last crux and we thoroughly enjoyed this adventure. We inflated our boats then dragged them onto the broken ice as we probed ahead with our trekking poles. At open leads, we'd push our packrafts into the water in front of us, clamber in, and paddle to the next iceberg where we'd crawl onto the ice and repeat the process. It worked great.
Across the lagoon, we tucked out of sight in a private and inconspicuous beach camp under the bank. For dinner we were joined by a group of friendly longspurs and snow buntings while geese, eiders, northern pintails, godwicks, cranes, swans, and others cruised past. We fell asleep to the gog-gog-gog call of female eiders passing by.
On Monday, we slept in, packed up, walked a mile from our campsite along the dump road to the airport, then two more miles to Waldo Arms for lunch. The walk from airport to Waldo Arms took about 40 minutes. Marty gave us the cliffs notes on his life from starting to work in restaurants at age 9, scholarships to culinary school, setting up restaurants all over the country, to working all over rural Alaska. What an interesting and cool guy. I could have talked to him for hours. But we had a plane to catch home, and it was time to jog back to the dusty airstrip.
As the caravan lifted off from Kaktovic, we watched the pack ice meet with the soggy tundra then stretch away to infinity before the plane banked south and our view turned with it.
Our pilot stayed low and we watched the rolling hills of the Sadlerochits transition to the mountains of the Canning river valley. Then, the craggy crest of the range grew around us as we flew past the divide, into the smokey haze of the interior, and towards home. 
🔥 🔥 🔥
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