In Pursuit

Marty crouches over, exhausted, his head hanging between his legs.

‘Pete, we’re never going to make it.’

I stay quiet, trying not to get too high or low. I know it’s best to keep it steady and just get it done. But I’m discouraged. Heartbroken. And it’s hard not to be. We have too much gear and the snow is too soft to ski on. It seems impossible. We’re actively racing against the animals we’re seeking, but we’ve only made 3km of progress in 8 hours – at this rate, we’re going to miss the migrating caribou completely.

***

I’m chasing an image of the incredible migration the caribou take every year. Growing up in the Yukon, everyone hears about the caribou. They’re larger than life. Anyone who has seen thousands of caribou moving together never forgets it, and hearing so many stories about this awe-inspiring spectacle helped to build my interest.

The Porcupine caribou herd in north-western Canada is thought to have the longest mammal migration on the planet. The image I wanted to capture is hard to describe. Videos I’d seen of them migrating in long lines of thousands reminded me of images of the Klondike Gold Rush a century ago, with a line of 400 men following a trail straight up the mountain. I wanted to recreate this image, but with caribou. I wanted the image to be intimate, so it was important to me to have the lead caribou very close to the camera. I was looking for caribou trails going up a mountain, where I could set up a laser-activated camera trap that would photograph the lead animal close up and then photograph the line of caribou leading down the mountain and across the valley floor as well. I wanted to give a sense of the number of caribou in the herd and the teamwork that they employ when moving in winter.

The plan was to drop filmmaker Marty O’Brien and myself at Margaret Lake in Ivvavik National Park in the ANWR (Arctic National Wildlife Refuge), where we would set up a leisurely base camp and patiently wait for the 200,000-strong Porcupine caribou herd to pass through. Taking off, we were full of enthusiasm for the trip. But it wasn’t long before trouble arrived.

Suddenly our pilot piped up.

‘You want to hear the bad news, Pete?’

‘Not really,’ I replied.

Something had gone wrong with the plane and he didn’t think he’d get any further. We were being dropped off where we were, 120km from our destination. So, as the plane buzzed us and flew off, Marty and I were left by ourselves, with 700lbs of gear, about to embark on a ski trip we hadn’t prepared for. Off we went.

‘This is great, Pete – we are flying. If we can keep this up, we will be there in no time.’

I stay quiet and nod my head. I don’t have the heart to tell the inexperienced, warm-blooded Australian what will happen when we get off the lake and hit the snow that covers the rest of the landscape.

My worst fears are realised minutes later when we begin climbing a slight rise at the edge of the lake. After 45 minutes of pulling, pushing, and swearing our asses off, we stand atop the hill, a good 40ft from the shore. Our skis and sleds constantly break through the upper crust of hard snow and every step takes infinitely more effort than skiing on the lake’s firm surface had. We’re not flying any more. The pressure is on and we can feel it. We have both invested more money and time into this expedition than either of us can really afford, so we have to get there.

Over the next two days, we manage to put in 12 hours and cover a total of 10km. We have over 100km to go; at this rate, we won’t arrive for 20 days and definitely won’t make it to the caribou. To make matters worse, we have to deal with blisters. Marty’s feet are essentially one large, swollen, pus-filled blister. We have to come to terms with the – quite literally – painful truth that he can’t ski tomorrow. I don’t show it but I’m quietly relieved. After pushing our bodies and minds to the limit over the last three days I’m too tired and afraid to ski tomorrow. We make the tough decision to rest for a full day.

***

Spending a lot of time taking photographs in the ANWR, the caribou – and the First Nation Gwich’in people who depend on them – are something I have become passionate about. Opened up to industrial activity by the Trump Administration, the caribou’s calving and nursing ground has become increasingly under threat. Caribou are sensitive to human disturbance when their young are first born, and the introduction of thousands of helicopters, roads, pipelines, and pump stations is something that could devastate the herd, as well as damage the livelihoods of the Gwich’in people. Their subsistence lifestyle and culture is tied to the herd, so they could lose everything if the herd is decimated by this development.

As night approaches after the second rest day, we turn our head lamps towards the metaphorical trail and begin our first night of skiing. The first signs are promising. We still break through the snow, sometimes breaking through every step for 50m, but sometimes managing to go 100m. We’re moving much faster. Our first night, we make 8km and are rewarded by crawling into our sleeping bags under the warmth of a mid-morning sun.

We sleep outside without a tent, using expedition sleeping bags rated to -40˚ – that was one thing we had managed to plan for. A friend of mine, Peter Heebink, has been doing expeditions in the Yukon for more than 40 years. He advised us not to use a tent. He said that all you need is a good winter sleeping bag and sleeping mat. This advice proves invaluable for us – we love sleeping outside. Tents fill with condensation in winter and are a huge hassle without providing you with much warmth. Our sleeping bags are so efficient that, when it snows on us, the snow won’t melt on the bags, because the outside surface is still -10˚ while inside we are at +20˚.

It all looks to be on the up. Our night-time skiing schedule is working great. We can consistently make 10km a night if we really push ourselves, but it is still a battle. We are still breaking through the top crust at times, and the lead skier has to do three or four times more work than the follower. I’ve never experienced such a sustained and hard expedition as this one. We have been forced into the most intense physical and emotional journey that either of us will ever experience.

When I am in the lead, I push myself for hours before breaking down mentally. I find myself inching along on a layer of strong crusted snow, praying that I won’t break through and sink two feet down. Every time I break through, my heart sinks with my body and I feel ready to cry. It is emotionally exhausting. We are a good team though and whenever I get to this point Marty will pull beside me, saying, ‘I’m feeling good, man, why don’t I take the lead?’ Then off he goes like a snow plough, leaving me a beautiful trail.

At the best of times we get half a kilometer of hard, flat snow, and we can ski side by side and chat under a brilliant dark blue sky. It is during these times when I feel a kinship to the Gwich’in First Nations people who travelled this route for centuries.

The highlight of each day is the one hour we spend listening to the Game of Thrones audiobook on Marty’s iPod. We join Jon Snow and Samwell Tarly beyond the wall as they traverse that white, treeless landscape of the White Walkers and Wildlings.

Really, we don’t feel that we are too far separated from them.

As we get lower into the valley, we find deeper, softer snow and have trouble floating on top. We are still 20km from Margaret Lake and it is a cold, -20˚ morning, hoar frost covering all the trees with a beautiful layer of shining white crystals. A wind howls through the branches. We sit and marvel at it. It’s the perfect photography location, and on the expected path of the caribou. We discuss the possibility of making a base camp, and when the howling wind stops, we realise that it isn’t wind at all – the howling is actually coming from a pack of wolves in the forest ahead. We see glimpses of them through the trees. The wolves are a sign that the caribou are near and we agree to set up camp. We’ve finally made it.

We crack out the satellite phone and call the caribou biologist to get an update on the caribou herd location. Only now, after the incredible push to get here, after testing ourselves physically and mentally, do we learn that the caribou stopped migrating as soon as we were dropped off by the plane. They are still 150km away – roughly a week. It’s a bizarre feeling. Hilarity mixed with disappointment. All that stress and work for nothing. We’d have to wait anyway.

***

Really, after all that we’d been through, I shouldn’t have been surprised when mother nature throws us yet another curveball. Over the next week it gets dramatically warmer. After seven days the temperature has increased by 40 degrees, and when the caribou finally arrive, it is basically summer. They’re not travelling in lines or on trails; they pass through in loose groups of 50, slowly grazing on grass. My plans for the perfect photo melt with the snow.

***

Although we didn’t get the shot that we wanted, I didn’t find the disappointment hard to deal with. For me, it’s simply part of the process. I know that I may spend a month chasing the perfect caribou photo on skis and still not get it, but that I may be driving down some remote road a month later and get the best caribou photo of all time. Things always work out in the end. All you can do is put the work in. It is important to just go out and find your own stories and passion and just shoot it to death. It’s the only way to learn. Simply go and do it. If you are passionate, you will have success.

We’ve yet to get the photograph we set out to capture. But every time we meet for beers, Marty and I relive our adventure as if it were the best time in our lives, despite the pain, the disappointment, and the blisters. I just hope the 200,000 Porcupine caribou continue to migrate through these lands, just as they always have. And as long as they do, we’re planning to return.

The chase continues.

To read more about Peter’s expedition to photograph the caribou, click here.