Drawing on my work in evolutionary ecology, wilderness ethics, and machine learning, I reflected on the tension between our desire to intervene and our limited ability to forecast long-term ecological outcomes. Using examples like the Chernobyl exclusion zone—where many species are thriving in the absence of people despite nuclear contamination—I argued that ecological recovery is often less about precision intervention and more about restraint. We discussed how machine learning can help us simulate alternative futures and understand potential tradeoffs, but that ultimately, the most powerful conservation tool may be humility. More wilderness, not more control, might be the best way to meet the uncertainties ahead.

Listen to the episode here or wherever you get your podcasts.

I am deep in the Alaskan Arctic,  300 miles from the nearest road system, attempting to conduct the kind of science that usually requires a specialized laboratory. We rowed 30 miles of meandering flatwater today, bringing our total to 200 river miles in 12 days since we landed at a lonely gravel bar on the headwaters of Ambler River in Gates of the Arctic National Park.

Mosquitoes spangle the tent canopy arching over me. Backlit by summer solstice sun, the silhouettes of the insects make an inverted night sky of shifting constellations. The sun never sets on the banks of the Kobuk River this time of year. It hangs high above the horizon even now at 11 p.m., transforming my tent into a solar oven as I, ironically, work to uncover the secrets of a frog that can turn into ice.

… Read the rest of the article here.

— I originally wrote this post for the Sitka Conservation Society‘s website in 2014. This trip was part of the Stika Community Wilderness Stewardship Project.

The day we headed out from Hoonah was like most days in Southeast Alaska. Grey clouds diffused the light and an almost imperceptible rain left everything damp. We were headed to the Inian Islands, a cluster of knobby isles on the western end of Icy Strait, just inside the entrance to Cross Sound where the Inside Passage meets the angry Pacific. Our trip held a dual mission: to conduct volunteer wilderness monitoring for the Forest Service and to gather traditional subsistence foods for the Hoonah locals on the trip: Owen James and Gordon Greenwald, our boat captains and wizened culture-bearers, two young men named Randy and Sam, and another adult volunteer, Kathy McCrobie.

The Inians along with two other large islands make up the Pleasant/Lemesurier/Inian Island Wilderness. The PLI Wilderness is one of 19 areas within the Tongass National Forest designated as Wilderness, the highest form of protection public lands can receive. The islands are also historic gathering and hunting grounds of the Huna Tlingit, the native tribe who call this section of northern Southeast Alaska home. Because the Inians are close to the open sea, they are rich with unique flora and fauna. A trip to these distant islands is an opportunity to collect delicacies not common in interior waters near the town of Hoonah. For instance, one of our subsistence targets was black seaweed, a species that thrives in the cold, wave-washed intertidal zone of the outer coast, but is rarely found more than a few miles into the Southeast archipelago.

The outside waters can be a harsh place in the summer and downright inhospitable in the winter. Although the Huna Tlingit are seasoned open ocean travelers and motorized skiffs make the 40-mile journey from the village of Hoonah to the islands much more manageable than a Tlingit canoe, it is still a sizable trip for locals. The same factors—difficult access and a short season—also make it difficult for the Forest Service Wilderness Rangers who are headquartered in Hoonah to access these areas that they are tasked with managing and protecting.

On the first day of our trip we arrived at the Inian Islands after a few hours of skiffing over unusually calm waters. Our first stop was at low tide on a rocky beach, the perfect habitat for Black Katy chitons, one of the traditional foods commonly called Gumboots which we hoped to return with.

The beach also looked like it could be a prime camping area, so while the rest of the crew flipped rocks and pried unsuspecting chitons from their hiding spots, I headed up the beach to look for recreational impacts. Monitoring impacts from visitors is one of the tasks the Forest Service has asked us to assist with. Wilderness areas are intended to preserve nature in its wildest state, but trash, campfire rings, and other signs of previous visitors detract from the wild character of these places. Also, once a site has been impacted, the trend is a downward slope to a trashed site. To prevent cumulative impact, we check known campsites and cleanup and naturalize any human traces we find. Fortunately, this site was in the same condition it’s probably been in since it was uncovered by the glacier, so I spent some time flipping rocks and adding to the gumboots collection.

As the tide neared its apex, Gordon pointed out a small rock island set apart from the larger Inian Islands. For generations, this rock had been the prize destination for Huna families. Set far from land and too small to support trees, the rock is the perfect nesting grounds for seabirds like gulls and cormorants. We had timed our trip perfectly to harvest the new eggs.

As we approached the rock in skiffs, Gordon and Owen explained the protocol: as the swell surges, he runs the skiff up to the rock, one person jumps off, and he pulls the bow away before the swell drops the boat onto the shore, then he resets and we try again for the next person to leap from the bow onto the island. Before they maneuvered the skiffs toward the rock, they carefully taught the boys the traditional method to appropriately harvest the eggs. If done in an ecologically responsible way, these practices will be able to continue forever. (Learn more about the regulations regarding egg collection by Alaskan Natives and locals for subsistence).

Sam was the first to make the jump. The birds immediately erupted in a cacophony of squawks and feathers. Randy and I traded apprehensive glances. I made an excuse that I needed to pack my camera gear in drybags before I could jump…really I just wanted one more chance to see how it was done. Randy landed an impressive leap, despite receiving a bootfull of water. I followed him up the rock.

Blankets of birds flapped above us. The few green tufts of grass made a stark contrast to the guano-bleached stone and the blue-grey sky and water. It took no time for Sam and Randy to collect plenty of eggs to share with family and elders back in Hoonah. With concentration, steady boat handling, and good timing, we all made it safely back aboard the skiffs.

As the day went on, I was impressed with the way Owen and Gordon pointed out new landmarks to the two young men. Every remark about a headland or bay included not only geographical references, but also historical, cultural, and subsistence context. That night, while we ate chowder made with local salmon, smoked octopus, and cockles, I reflected on the education Randy and Sam had inherited on this trip. I have no doubt that they were more interested in learning about hunting spots, edible shellfish, and traditional stories than they were about the Wilderness land designation of their home. But, I would like to think that by relating the cultural values and subsistence practices of the Inian Islands along with the Wilderness values that will continue to protect this place for those practices, they have a better chance of retaining a favorable perspective of public lands, too. In the end, the idea and values of Wilderness are stories, stories that must be repeated and retold to maintain their relevance. Gordon and Owen have endeavored to pass those stories to Hoonah youth. My esteem and thanks goes out to them for including the value of respect for public lands in the stories they tell.

Sunset over Icy StraitThe Inians along with two other large islands make up the Pleasant/Lemesurier/Inian Island Wilderness in Icy Strait, Alaska.

Collecting black seaweedThe Inian Islands are the perfect spot to collect black seaweed, a species that thrives in the cold, wave washed intertidal zone of the outercoast, but is rarely found more than a few miles into the Southeast archipelago.

The nesting islandFor generations, this small rock island within the Inian Islands has been a prize destination for Huna families seeking sea gull eggs.

Preparing for the leapAs we approached the rock in skis, Gordon and Owen explained the protocol: as the swell surges, we run the ski up to the rock, one person jumps

Leaping onto the islandAs we approached the rock in skis, Gordon and Owen explained the protocol: as the swell surges, we run the ski up to the rock, one person jumps

Searching for gull eggsI was impressed with the way Owen and Gordon pointed out new landmarks to the two young men. Every remark about a headland or bay included not only geographical references, but also historical, cultural, and subsistence context

Gull nest with eggThe traditional method to harvest gulls eggs, done in an ecologically responsible way, these practices will be able to continue forever

Some nests are difficult to reachFor generations, this rock had been the prize destination for Huna families. Set far from land and too small to support trees, the rock is the perfect nesting ground for seabirds like gulls

Harvesting gull eggsFor generations, this rock had been the prize destination for Huna families. Set far from land and too small to support trees, the rock is the perfect nesting ground for seabirds like gulls

Collecting gull eggsBlankets of birds flapped above us. The few green tufts of grass made a stark contrast to the guano-bleached stone and the blue-grey sky and water.

Bounty of the harvestIt took no time for Sam and Randy to collect plenty of eggs to share with family and elders back in Hoonah.

Harvesting gumbootsAfter the Gumboots have been collected, they are typically canned for preservation and storage.

Gumboot (Black Katy chiton)Black Katy chiton (Katharina tunicata) is a traditional food, commonly called Gumboots.

Black Katy chitonGumboots live in the intertidal zone, and are particularly susceptible to contamination from development and timber harvest. Wilderness designation ensures that these fragile ecosystems and the subsistence foods within will be protected in perpetuity.

Flipping rocks for gumbootsOwen instructs the students on the art of Gumboot hunting.

Take me to the photos!

Step 1: Come up with a hair-brained scheme.

My labmate Yara and I had been dreaming up the idea studying wood frog genomes from across the species’ range since she started her PhD. Wood frogs have the largest range of any North American amphibian. They also happen to be the only North American amphibian that can survive North of the Arctic circle.

Dr. Julie Lee-Yaw had done a similar study back in 2008. She embarked on a road trip from Quebec all the way up to Alaska to collect wood frog tissue. So, out first step was to ask Dr. Lee-Yaw if she would collaborate and share her samples.

Those samples gave us a solid backbone across the wood frog range, but we were missing population in expansive regions north and west of the road systems. We worked with the Peabody Museum to search for tissue samples that were already housed in natural history collections around the world. We filled a few gaps, but huge portions of the range were still missing.

We knew that there must be samples out there sitting in freezers and labrooms that were not catalogued in museum databases. So, our next step was to begin sleuthing. We looked up author lists from papers and cold-called leads. I even reached out to friends on Facebook (…which actually turned out to be a big success. The aunt of a friend from undergrad happens to do herpetology research in Galena, Alaska and was able to collect fresh samples for us this year!). This effort greatly expanded our sample coverage with new connections (and friends) from Inuvik and Norman Wells in the Northwest Territories, Churchill on the Hudson Bay, and the Stikine River Delta in Southeast Alaska.

But as the points accumulated on the map, we noticed some glaring holes in our coverage. Most importantly, we had no samples from Northwestern Alaska. Populations in this region are the most distant from the ancestral origin of all wood frogs in the southern Great Lakes. If we wanted a truly “range-wide” representation of wood frog samples, we needed tissue from that blank spot on the map!

Step 2: Convince your advisor and funders it’s a good idea.

This might be the hardest step. In our case, Yara and I were lucky that our advisor, Dave, was immediately supportive of the project. After we made the case for the importance of these samples, funders came around to the idea as well.

Step 3: Make a plan …then remake it …then make a new plan yet again.

Once we knew where we required samples from, we needed to figure out how to get there. Alaska in general is remote, but northwestern Alaska is REALLY remote. The road system doesn’t stretch farther than the middle of the state. All of the communities–mainly small villages–are only accessible by plane, and most of them only have runways for tiny prop planes. Travelling out from the villages into the bush is another layer of difficulty. Most people here either travel by boat on the river or by snowmachine during the winter. Traveling on land, over the soggy and brush-choked permafrost, is brutal and most locals only do it when necessary, if at all.

Prior to academia, I made a career of organizing expeditions to the most remote places in the rugged southeastern archipelago of Alaska. Despite my background, the logistic in the Arctic were even inscrutable to me. Fortunately, I had a couple of friends, Nick Jans and Seth Kantner, who know the area well. In fact, Seth grew up in a cabin out on the Kobuk. (Seth and Nick are both talented authors. I suggest checking out Ordinary Wolves by Seth and The Last Light Breaking by Nick). With their help, I was able to piece together the skeleton of a trip.

After many logistic iterations, Yara and I decided to follow in the footsteps of local hunters who, for generations, have used the rivers as conduits into the heart of the wilderness. Our plan was to travel down one of the major arterial rivers and hike inland to search for frog as we went.

Our original itinerary was to raft the 100 mile section of the Kobuk River from just north of Ambler village to the village of Kiana. But at the last minute (literally), our plans changed. As we were loading up the plane, the pilot told us that he couldn’t fly into our planned starting point. Instead, he suggested that we fly into a gravel bar 30 miles up river in Gate of the Arctic. Those “30 miles” turn out to be AIR MILES. Following the river, it ended up adding over 60 miles to our trip.

We packed two inflatable oar rafts, almost 150 pounds of food, and another 300 pounds of camping, rescue, and science gear, into the balloon-wheeled plane. For the next two weeks, we rowed down the swift Ambler River from the headwaters to the confluence of the Kobuk. Then, we rowed down the massively wide and meandering Kobuk River, eventually extending our trip by an additional 30 miles, by-passing Kiana, and continuing to Noorvik, the last village on the river.

Step 4: Recruit a crew.

Despite being the worlds first and only Saudi Arabian Arctic Ecologist with limited camping experience, I knew Yara would be a stellar field partner. But I never like traveling in brown bear country with fewer than four people. Plus, expedition research involves too many daily chores for the two of us to manage alone. So, we recruited a team.

Sam Jordan is a dry land ecologist, but he had been willing to help me with my dissertation fieldwork in wetlands before, so I knew he would be willing to defect for a good adventure. Sam is also an exceptional whitewater paddler and all-around outdoor guru. Plus, he’s just a great guy (when he leaves his banjo at home). He and I spend two weeks floating the Grand Canyon in the dead of winter and there are few people I would want along on a remote river trip.

Kaylyn Messer and I guided sea kayak expeditions in Southeast Alaska back in our youth. I am a bit particular about how I manage my camp system (read: “extremely picky and fastidious to a fault”) on big trips. Kaylyn is one of the few people as scrupulous as me, but she’s also a super amenable Midwesterner at heart. I knew she’d be a huge help out in the field.

We fell into an effective rhythm on the trip.  Each morning we woke, made breakfast, broke camp, packed the boats, and launched early in the day. While one person on each boat rowed, the other person checked the maps for frog surveying spots, fished, or photographed. We stopped along the way to bushwhack back into wetlands we’d identified from satellite images. We typically arrived at camp late. Yara and I would set up one tent to process the specimens from the day while Same and Kay made camp and cooked dinner. One of the hidden disadvantages of 24-hour Arctic sunlight is that it is easy to overwork. Most nights we only managed to get sampled finished, dinner cleaned up, and camp bearproofed with enough time to crawl into tents with just eight hours till beginning again the next day.

Step 5: Do the science.

Doing science in the field is difficult. Tedious dissections seem impossible while baking in the omnipresent sun and being alternately hounded by hundreds of mosquitoes or blasted by windblown sand. Trading lab coats for rain jackets and benchtops for sleeping pads covered in trashbags compounds the trouble. Not to mention, keeping tissues safe and cool. Organization and adaptability go a long way.

On remote, self-supported trips, it is inevitable that equipment fails or is lost. On one of the first days, we discovered that our formalin jar was leaking—and formalin is not something you want sloshing around! We cleaned the boats and found a creative solution to replace the offending container: a 750ml Jack Daniel’s bottle!

Planning ahead and engineering backup plans also helps. One of our main struggles was figuring out how to preserve specimens and get them home. It is illegal to ship alcohol by mail and you can’t fly with the high-proof alcohol needed for genetic samples. You can ship formalin, but it is difficult to fly with. To make matters worse, we were flying in and out of “dry” or “damp” villages where alcohol is strictly regulated or forbidden. Also, we happened to be flying out on a Sunday, making it impossible to mail samples home. The solution we arrived at was to ship RNAlater and formaldehyde to our hotel room ahead of time. Tissue would remain stable in RNAlater for a couple of weeks and we could make formalin to fix the specimens. After fixing, we cycled the specimens through water to leach out the formalin. This made it possible for me to fly with all of the tissue tubes and damp specimens in my carry on. Other than a few concerned looks from the TSA folks, all of the samples made it back without issue!

Step 6: Enjoy the adventure.

Despite the hard work, there was a lot to appreciate about the Arctic. We witnessed major changes in ecology as we travelled from the steep headwater streams in the mountains to the gigantic Kobuk. Every day was an entirely new scene.

Here’s an illustrated thread on our collecting trip to the Alaskan Arctic for the @Yale @yalepeabody this past summer. 1/22 pic.twitter.com/Jh3VCqVEgx

— A. Z. Andis Arietta (@azandisarietta) August 24, 2021

Step 7: Forget the hardships

Looking back, it is really easy to forget the sweltering heat, swarms of mosquitoes, inescapable sun, and freak lightning storms. And, it’s probably better to forget those anyway!

Arctic CircleSam illustrates that we are, in fact, above the Arctic Circle.

GearGear (minus food and rafts) ready for weigh-in before loading the plane.

Upper Ambler RiverOur drop-off point on the braided upper reach of the Ambler River in Gate of the Arctic National Park.

Gates of the ArcticGetting dropped off on a gravel bar in Gates of the Arctic National Park.

The first dayUnloading the plane on the first day of the trip.

Camp, night 1Campsite along the Kobuk River.

Rigging the raftsPacking up the two-person rafts on the first day.

Kaylyn Messer at the helm.In the upper rivers, near the headwaters, the current was pleasantly swift.

Upper riverSam and Yara rowing down the Kobuk River.

Early morning rowingRowing the swiftwater on the headwaters of the Ambler River in Gates of the Arctic National Park.

Searching for frogs

First frogs!Yara and I after finding the first frogs of the trip!

Science in the fieldYara preparing to do the sciencing with a garbage back as a makeshift lab bench.

Dinner. night 6Dinner and a view on the banks of the Kobuk River.

Midnight sunTrying to avoid getting a sunburn while sleeping in the Arctic.

Midnight sunThe sun baking our tent at 1130pm.

Rainy rowingSam and Yara floating downstream.

Arctic frogYara proudly presents her first wood frog collection.

Kobuk viewsSmoke and clouds mute the midnight sun.

Sam JordanSam Jordan in his happy place.

Chocolate con culicidae.With hundreds of bugs circling your head at all times, it is impossible not to end up with a few in every meal.

CutbanksMassive cutbanks made much of the shore inaccessible for sampling.

StormA freak lightning storm.

SunsetBeautiful light from the midnight sun.

Field dissection Taking tissue samples for sequencing.

TadpolesTadpoles from "Seth's Pond".

Prepping collectionsYara and I taking tissue samples and prepping specimens.

Arctic Wood FrogBeautiful arctic wood frog.

Fixing specimensHere, I am fixing specimens with formalin to preserve them for the Peabody Museum.

Bushwhacking The view while bushwhacking in to search for frogs.

BugsA random sample of friendly mosquitoes.

BearGrizzly bear prints on the beach.

FishingSam with his first of many greyling.

The Kobuk River valleyThe Kobuk Valley watershed is just an endless expanse of wetlands.

The end of the tripFlying back to Kotzebue in a packed plane at the end of the trip.

Heading homeCatching a ride out to the airstrip with our truckload of gear on the last day of the trip.

I found this population of toads on a tiny island during an expedition to the South Prince of Wales Wilderness Area. The toadlets were dispersing at edge of the tidal saltwater zone near a stream outlet.

There are three things that surprised me:

1. that this small island could retain water all spring (we had a really hard time finding water for ourselves to drink even on the larger islands),
2. that toad would have been able to disperse to the island in the first place given how far away it is from the mainland, and
3. that such a small island would be able to sustain a toad population.

The catalog entry (HERA.023177) and photo are available online through the Peabody Museum of Natural History collections.

Here is the full page to dowload.

From my field notes, 17 August 2018:

“Last night I slept on the flat bench of duff-covered ground at the base of the ‘camp tree,’ a white and skeletal cedar with the characteristic axe marks from decades-past Tlingit or Haida woodsmen who had notched the bark from the underhanging side of the leaning tree trunk. As Wayne, our on-hand anthropologist, explained, the notched wood of the tree would have died and dried in the rainshadow of the trunk making for ready tinder to be harvested the next season when the camp was reoccupied. The overhanging tree would have also provided the Native campers with shelter for fire or lean-to bivouac. One of the same purposes for with I utilize it today. 

As I fell asleep under the history-laden tree, I dreamed of a boat at anchor in high winds. As the gales tugged at the boat, the anchor dug into the muddy bottom and the rode strained taught to the windlass bolted to the foredeck. But the wind was strong, and the windlass was pulling from the deck boards and the road was splitting. With each gust, the planks screamed “Eeeeerrrrck!”

A few more heavy gusts would rend the boat from anchor, setting it adrift in the turbulence. Another gust and a louder “Eeeerrrrck!”

In my dreamy torpor I was frozen, I could do nothing but watch.

“EEEEEERRRRCK!” and I watched the windlass pull loose, hanging by a single bolt.

Just before the final fastener snapped, I woke up to the sun shining sidelong under my tarp and straight into my eyes. I could still hear the creaking Eeeeerrrck sound out in the cove and realized it was the agitate call of a belted Kingfisher. The sound of the gusts in my dream had been the sound of light swell washing the beach.”

One of my favorite quotes about Wilderness is from former Senator Clinton Anderson who said, “Wilderness is an anchor to windward. Knowing it is there, we can also know that we are still a rich nation, tending our resources as we should—not a people in despair searching every last nook and cranny of our land for a board of lumber, a barrel of oil, a blade of grass, or a tank of water.” No doubt, I must have had that quote on my mind as I fell asleep on the third night of our three week expedition in South Prince of Wales Wilderness.

South POW is one of the many forgotten Wilderness areas of Southeast Alaska, overshadowed by the iconic ice-filled fjords like Tracy Arm or Glacier Bay, and tourist hotspots like Misty Fjords. Nevertheless, it can easily compete in scale and dynamic topography, and what it lacks in defining photo-geniality, it more than makes up for in its isolation and profound solitude.

At just under 90,000 acres, South POW is the 10^th largest and the southern-most (narrowly outcompeting the southern point of Misty Fjords) of the twenty-four Wilderness Areas in Southeast Alaska. As its name implies, the designation was carved from the southern portion of Prince of Wales island, including the watersheds draining into Klakas Inlet, all watersheds south that drain to Cordova Bay and Barrier Islands. Encompassed in the boundary is a labarynith of convoluted (some might say fractal-like) shoreline. This is dynamic and magic country. It is intricate and you need to see it intimately, by kayak, or even better, by foot. Inlets and passages otherwise hidden from sight appear as if by incantation, the trees parting to a kayak-width channel only when you paddle immediately beside.

From my field notes, 18 August 2018:

“From our southernmost camp, we paddled out to the most seaward rocks and islands. Out here on the outside waters, among the breakers, expansive kelp beds, and scattered, battered islands with rocky headlands. White breaking water sparkled in the sun with each swell, but the water was otherwise calm. All of the branches of the few trees on these islands point leeward, like frozen weathervanes recording past winter storms originating from the Dixon Entrance to the south.”

From my field notes, 19 August 2018:

“After exploring the Barrier Islands, we spent time tracing the coastline of the main island which is punctuated by deep, multi-chambered inlets, bays, and saltchucks. For instance, a side channel in Hunter Bay opens into Biscuit Lagoon. At the back of Biscuit Lagoon, the Saltchuck opens at high water above a tidal waterfall. The shoreline is like walking through a labyrinth with new passages appearing and opening into whole new habitats.

We paddled up to the base of the Saltchuck where salmon were preparing to run at high water. Wayne, whose eyes always seem to catch any inorganic shape on the landscape, noticed that beneath our tethered kayaks, below the waterline, rocks had been arranged in a line. He reasoned that at lower water the stones would cordon off a pool. The Native fishermen would have either trapped salmon in the pool or used it as a holding pen for their catch pulled from the falls.”

The Wilderness is a mélange of habitats from wave washed coastal shores, to glass-still secluded bays, upland muskegs, lowland salal thickets, and rich estuaries throbbing with activity. The varied habitats granted us countless wildlife sightings, include a few once-in-a-lifetime encounters.

From my field notes, 19 August 2018:

“As we ate lunch next to the falls and pondered the rock wall, Kim noticed two wolves trotting up the shoregrass upwind from us. When the wolves saw us, the first bolted. The curiosity of the second got the best of him. With the wind preventing any scent information, he boldly came up to us for a close look. Satisfied, he trotted back away only to decide he still needed a closer look. This process repeated, with us standing like stones, the click of my camera shutter the only sound, until he dematerialized in to the forest.”

The Alexander Archipelago wolf are a controversial subspecies (Canus lupus ligoni) of North American wolf that occur only in the islands and mainland of Southeast Alaska. They are absent from the ABC islands which are dominated by brown bear, but the range is largely congruent with black bears in Southeast. No fossil evidence of the wolves exists, suggesting that the species colonized after the last glacial maximum.

Goldman (1944) was the first to describe the species and granted the name Alexander Archipelago wolf. A more recent molecular study (Weckworth et al. 2005), corroborated the original distinction, finding that the Southeast Alaska population was genetically delineated from the continental population and was itself highly structured and diverse. That same study found evidence that the Prince of Wales population formed its own unique and isolate subgroup within Southeast Alaska. Having spent a fair amount of time with wolves in Glacier Bay and Gustavus, our crew had guessed this was the case. In fact, it took us a split second to even realize we were staring down a wolf when it appeared–it was so dissimilar from the canids we had encountered up north. These island wolves appeared smaller, more dog-like, and with an unusual coat pattern.

The biogeography of the Prince of Wales wolves puts them in a particularly perilous position. It is a general rule in ecology that the smaller and more isolated a population, the more sensitive it will be to environmental and demographic fluctuations (for example, the case of Isle Royale wolves). Although Prince of Wales is an exceptionally large island (the 4^th largest in the U.S., just after Puerto Rico), the landscape itself has been highly fragmented and reduced by massive clearcuts and the most extensive road system in Southeast Alaska (about 2,500 miles; more roads than the rest of Southeast combined, many times over).

Roads are a major problem for POW wolves (even more so than for most widlife). Studies across all U.S. populations of wolves have shown a negative correlation between road density and wolf abundance. Wolves were absent where road densities exceed 0.9 mi/mi² (Jensen et al. 1986,
Mech et al. 1988, Fuller 1989, as cited in Schoen and Person, n.d.).  Most of the roads on POW were created by logging companies (on tax-payer dollars), which makes a strong correlation with roads and clearcuts, both of which are avoided by wolves (Person 2001).

Black-tailed deer, the wolves’ primary prey, require old-growth forest for summer browse and winter habitat to shelter from heavy snow. Clearcutting areas leads to a “succession debt” for wolves as logging removes habitat which removes deer. And logging continues on the island, driving the succession debt further into the red. In fact, habitat loss from logging alone is expected to reduce the wolf population by a further 25% before 2045 (Person 2001).

But habitat loss is not the only threat to POW wolves. Despite Canis lupus being listed as an endangered species in the lower 48, wolves are considered both big-game and furbears in Alaska, subjecting them to both hunting and trapping. Between the 1980s and 2010, around 175 wolves were killed in Southeast Alaska; 75 of those were from POW (Schoen and Person, n.d.).

As logging and associate road infrastructure continue to proliferate, “wolf populations on Prince of Wales and adjacent islands will be caught between two significant pressures: declining prey abundance and increasing hunting and trapping mortality” (Schoen and Person, n.d.).

The South POW Wilderness, at least, is a partial refuge for the wolves. While Wilderness designation prevents future roads and logging, it does not exclude hunting nor trapping; so, there really is no safe haven for these unique canids. My hope is that the isolation and extreme difficulty of hunting here compared to the road system will keep it to a minimum.

In addition to the wolves, we came nose-to-nose with loads of wildlife, including sandhill cranes, black bears, whales (alive and bones), and so many kingfishers and river otters.

From my field notes:

“More kingfishers than I’ve ever seen! The shoreline seems like it is just dripping with kingfishers from every low-hanging branch. And below, the tidal rocks are writhing with families of river otter. It must be a productive place for small carnivores and pescavores!”

We spent a large chunk of our time in Klakas Inlet, the long fjord that dominates the norther reach of the Wilderness. Although not too steep, the shoreline harbors very few beaches along the flanks. One exception is a grassy cove sheltering a pink and sockeye waterfall. We spent an entire day watching black bears filter through, try their luck with the flying salmon, and continue their up-fjord journey.

The density of black bears in Klakas was astounding. We paddled to the head of the inlet, where the fjord splinters into three massive estuaries, each full of late-running salmon. At one point, I could see 7 bears around the shore. They circled the shoreline of the fjord almost like a slow and dispersed school of fish circling a pond.

From my field notes, 27 August 2018:

“In the morning I watched multicolored bat stars pass beneath my kayak. Their five to six bright arms were like a dappled rainbow fluorescing against the dark water. Watching black bears pass by on shore is like the inversion of the bat stars. The dark fur seems to absorb light and looking for bears is more about looking for the absence of a bear or a bear shaped black hole in the otherwise colorful shoreline.”

From my field notes, 21 August 2018:

“On every trip, we try to make a point of hiking uphill, above the treeline, in order to look back down on the landscape. Experiencing a Wilderness is a lot like experiencing a painting. It takes time. You have to shift your focus and view it from different angles to take it all in. Look close, then step back. Put your nose right up to the canvas, then from across the room. In wild places, you have to paddle close to shore, get out and crawl through the brush of the forest, then get up high to see the whole thing. The detail and the composition are the functional integral of artistic mastery; same goes for the majesty of nature.”

So, we set our sights on a bald knob at the mouth of Klakas inlet and landed below a steep, even-aged stand of spruce and hemlock. We had envisioned a strenuous, patience-trying hike over old growth deadfall and bashing through endless under-story brush. It turned out that the stand had been beach logged many decades ago. The regenerating forest was the perfect age to shade out the under-story brush, but too young to accumulate much deadfall. It turned out to be one of the easiest routes we’d ever hiked. Surprisingly, there was not even brush at the transition from the forest to the subalpine bald, so we walked out into the sun and onto the rocks. From the top, we were treated to views of the entire southern half of Cordova Bay, up into Klakas Inlet and the ridges of the surrounding watersheds. In short, we could see almost the entire Wilderness area and the saltwater well out into the Pacific.

The pools on the bald were ringed by bright red sundews, a carnivorous plant that produces a sticky, sweet digestive enzyme from the tips of hairs on its leaves. Bug are attracted to the scent, land on the leaf, then wrap themselves up in the leaf as they struggle and adhere to more leaf hairs.

I see the round leaf sundew (Drosera rotundiflora) often, but I was surprised to see the English sundew (Drosera anglica) was more common and growing right alongside the D. rotundiflora.

From my field notes, 22 August 2018:

“The Native Haida and Tlingit folks who frequented this region made ample use of the fractal coastline. In almost every landable spot, Wayne noticed some trace of human occupation Some hints were subtle, like notches in trees or new forest growth indicating an area that had been cleared. Occasionally, the signs were more obvious, like the square foundations of old plank houses subsumed into the ground, and even pilons supporting old floor joists, now fixed in place by the roots of saplings growing atop them. The debris of stoves and other iron objects were sunk into the moss of a few such sites.

Wayne pointed out an iron ax head—the same type of ax head used to make the tree notches we’d been seeing all over the coast.”

After 16 days, we left the Wilderness toward Hydaburg. After days of calm waters and avoiding the oppressive sun, we found ourselves preparing for some exposed sections and large crossings in big water. The water shut us down and sent us back to camp for an extra night. We made progress despite lots of waiting and watching as the conditions fluctuated. We made our longest crossing of Cordova Bay in building, following seas. About midway across, we spotted black fins slicing the water miles away. As we thrashed onward on our heading, we watched the pod of orca surface and dive, rapidly closing the distance between us. The bull crossed comfortably forward of our bows, but the four females intersected our course. They surfaced with explosive spouts close enough to startle us. We exchanged some wide-eyed glances of concern while the females cavorted amidst out kayaks until they melted back into the water and joined the male far off to starboard.

From my field notes, 30 August 2018:

“South POW is a palimpsest. The page has been written by glaciers, over-written by many chapters of ecological succession, punctuated by interludes of logging, and a final chapter back to succession, all with the footnotes and interjections of Haida and Tlingit history throughout.
Now, having departed the Wilderness Area, our time there seems even quieter in contrast. Clear cuts appear over every ridge and we hear the whining buzz of outboards every few tens of minutes as boats zip in and out of Hydaburg.”

We paddled into Hydaburg on a quiet mid-morning diffused with grey. The brightly painted poles and homes seemed like holes pricked into the grey blanket of the day.

We found the folks in Hydaburg incredibly welcoming. We were invited into smokehouses and carving sheds, folks told us stories and we even made canine friends after saving a dog from drowning at the dock.

Overall, our South Prince of Wales expedition will remain one of my favorites. The immense quiet and solitude, the shoreline full of intrigue, the enigmatic wildlife—will define my memory of this place.

Route and Logistics:

Out trip could not have happened without Katy. We rented all of our kayaks through her, and in order to maximize our time in the Wilderness, Katy transported us to Klakas by skiff. She also picked us up and even stored our gear for us.

If you decide to paddle in South POW (and you should) keep in mind that camping can be sparse, weather can pick up quickly, parts of the coastline are committing, and communications are almost non-existent. Talk to locals, know your own skill level, and pour over your charts. Of course, I’m always happy to provide beta. Just drop me a line.

Check out my posts from other expeditions.

Check out other posts about designated Wilderness. 

References:

Fuller (1989) Population dynamics of wolves in northcentral Minnesota. Wildlife Monographs 105.

Goldman (1944) Classification of wolves. In S. Young and E. Goldman, eds., The wolves of North America, Part 2. Dover Publications, New York

Jensen, Fuller, and Robinson (1986) Wolf (Canis lupus) distribution on the Ontario to Michigan border near Sault St. Marie. Canadian Field Naturalist 100: 363-366.

Mech, Fritts, Radde, and Paul (1988) Wolf distribution and road density in Minnesota. Wildlife Society Bulletin 16:85-87.

Person (2001) Alexander Archipelago wolves: ecology and population viability in a disturbed, insular landscape (Doctoral dissertation). University of Alaska, Fairbanks, AK.

Schoen and Pearson, Chapter 6.4 “Alexander Archipelago Wolf.” In A Conservation Assessment and Resource Synthesis for The Coastal Forests and Mountains Ecoregion in the Tongass National Forest and Southeast Alaska. The Nature Conservancy.

Weckworth, Talbot, Sage, Person, and Cook (2005) A signal for independent coastal and continental histories among North American wolves. Mol. Ecol. 14: 917-931.

I’m currently on my way up to Alaska for another supremely short season of guiding (just two trips this years). I was going through some old photos and came across this image of the Milky Way from a trip back in 2014. It evoked a memory of the last time I paddled with Ken Leghorn in Windfall Harbor.

Ken Leghorn was a hero of the Alaskan conservation movement and a friend and mentor of mine who passed away a little over a year ago. I wrote down this recollection on the airline napkin:

The night was dead still under the stars as we scraped the final bites from our dishes and made the slippery pilgrimage over the popweed to wash plates at the waterline. As we cast our rinse water out, the splash excited thousands of tiny green sparks in the wake. Bioluminescent algae had flooded into Windfall Harbor with the rising tide and now the bay was dense with the tiny flashing organisms. Ken and I decided it was definitely worth the effort of pulling a tandem down from the woods. We slid off into the black indefinite water. Every paddle stroke lit up like an aquatic Christmas tree. We stopped paddling not far from shore and floated. As the hull lost momentum it ceased to perturb the algae. Now the water was a black mirror of the star-full sky. Between the silence, Ken and I traded similes: Our kayak was like a space ship floating in space. Our wake was like a ripple in space-time. The Alexander Archipelago was like a solar system hurtling through the universe and we were a satellite in orbit around a tiny island planet.

We paddle back and pulled the kayak back up into the treeline. Knotting the bowline, we agreed it was the best bioluminescence we’d ever seen in Southeast.

Since I shuttered my photoblog a few months ago, I realized that my original post from that trip to Windfall Harbor had been lost to the ether. So, I resurrected the photos and lightly edited that post below.

From August 2014:

There are only a few Wilderness areas in Southeast Alaska that I have not been to. Surprisingly, Admiralty Island/Kootznoowoo Wilderness, one of the larger Wildernesses in the Tongass is one that I had never visited. Along with Baranof Island and Chichagof Island, Admiralty Island has one of the highest concentrations of brown bears in the world. The average is one bear per square mile. In total, that means that the bears outnumber the people on these large islands. In fact, Admiralty itself has more bears on it than all of the lower 48 states combined.

Pack Creek is a special place for bears. It is a wildlife sanctuary in addition to its Wilderness designation. That means that there is no hunting of bears at Pack and the viewing at the Creek is strictly regulated. This is a great set up for bear viewing, as bears get much closer than would be normally comfortable. We arrived late in the season, well after the tourists, so we basically had the place to ourselves.

Many thanks to friend Ken Leghorn and Pack Creek Bear Tours for loaning us a kayak, sharing salmon dinner, and providing super helpfully detailed info about Pack. If you ever want to make the trip yourself. Pack Creek Bear Tours are the folks to call.

The inspiration for this trip was a visit from one of my best friends from middle school, Jordan, who came up to visit Alaska for the first time. After years hearing about the incredible bear viewing at Pack Creek, this seemed like the best excuse to spend a few days there. We boarded the float plane in Juneau and made the short flight to Windfall Harbor where the Forest Service maintains a small seasonal camp for their rangers on an island just a stone’s throw from the Creek. This is also where Pack Creek Outfitters store their kayaks. It was the end of the season, so Ken offered to let us use a kayak for a few days if we would help him move his fleet to the winter storage area.

The operation at Pack Creek is nothing like any other bear viewing site. There is no platform, no fences, no barriers. The viewing area is a 5 by 10 meter area of mown grass with a driftlog to sit on. The Forest Service and Fish and Game rangers are on-site at all times that people are present. They are trained to let the bears move about freely up to the edge of the mown grass line.

The unique situation at Pack Creek is a stamp of its history. In the 1930s a major conservation campaign sprouted with the intent of designating all of Admiralty Island a bear refuge, but succeeded only in protecting the Pack Creek drainage from hunting. In 1935, the Forest Service designated it an official bear viewing. Despite the restrictions, poaching was regular in the remote watershed. In 1956, a local miner and logger, Stan Price, rowed his floating cabin on shore at the mouth of Pack Creek and established a homestead with his wife, Edna. Rather than fear, they treated the local bruins as neighbors. Their presence helped to curtail poaching and also attracted new visitors. For almost 4 decades, the Prices lived with the bears. Over that time, new generations of cubs were born and reared with the Prices as a normal fixture of life. By the time Price died in 1989, just about every local bear was habituated to constant human presence.

In 1984, the tiny sliver of bear sactuary was expanded to a no-hunting zone encompassing Pack Creek and the adjacent watersheds, as well as the islands in Windfall Harbor. As the 80s progressed visitation increased to the point that the agencies decided to actively manage the area. Viewing times were limited, rangers were installed on-site, and visitation was limited to just 24 people per day.

As a result, generations of bears have come to associate Pack Creek as a safe haven from hunting and to ignore the small groups of human onlookers.

Sitting on a log, surrounded by Alaskan brown bears playing, snoozing, bathing, and snapping at salmon is a mesmerizing experience. We spent most of our time sitting on the log at the Creek mouth or walking up the trail to the viewing platform. But we managed a couple paddles around the Harbor, including a visit to the most impressive Sitka Spruce tree I’ve ever met.

On our second night, we sat under the clear night sky and discovered bioluminescent algae in the water. It is rare to see stars in Souheast Alaska. And it is a pleasure to see them reflected in the still waters. It is utterly, chest-caving, breathtaking to paddle the myth-like firmament of water sandwiched between a sky of stars above and swirls of bioluminesces below. Ken and I paddled out in a tandem just to sit and float. I can’t describe it. It was one of those utterly unique experiences that will forever bound my conception of hyperbole.

On the final evening of our visit, Jordan and I sat on the log with my friend Daven who happened to be the Forest Service Ranger on staff for the day.

The three of us sat in silence for most of the evening, occasionally swatting mosquitos, surveying the moldering ruins of Stan Price’s cabin, and potting bears across the river. With the sun dropping behind the mountains, we were contemplating packing up for the evening when a medium-sized rich-chocolate colored bear sauntered out of the trees. Daven recognized her immediately as Chino (her mother, a creamy brown bear, was named Mocha… get it?). Chino ambled across the streamlets and with no attention to us, came to rest in the tall grass at the edge of the viewing area. We were stunned into silence. I frantically switched lenses since she was closer than the focusing distance of my long lens and filled cards with her portrait.

I’ve seen many, many bears at very close range. But the general protocol for bear encounters is to make your presence known with the goal making it clear to the bear that you want your space. At Pack Creek, the tone is completely different, the intent is to discharge any discomfort, to let Chino forget we were even there. I learned that nonchalance is a powerful emotion when seen in the eyes of a bear.

We flew out on a clear day with Ken. Upon take off, we circled over the Swan River estuary which was expansive at low tide. The afternoon sun fluoresced the rivulets like veins under an X-ray. Out on the flats, we passed over a sow and two cubs. It takes a big landscape to make a 900lbs animal look like a speck, and it takes an even larger Wilderness area to ensure that such a landscape remains truly wild.

The intention with these narratives is to tie together all dimensions of a Wilderness’s management. In addition to physical, biological, and historical information about the area, I also needed to incorporate the human perspective of the river. So, for each narrative, I organized a public meeting to garner input from locals in the community.

Check out this local radio interview about the project.

In addition to my research, I also wanted to spend some time on the ground in each of the Wilderness Areas. It seemed artificial to write about these Areas’ “character” without experiencing them first hand. While I had been on the Stikine before, it was only for a few days well up the river. So, I recruited a friend and planned a long expedition.

Yes, and we know the tactic works because the last time we tried it, we quadrupled our wilderness acreage.

Currently, there is a factious argument brewing (see also) between outdoor enthusiasts that centers on the strictest conservation designation in the country: Wilderness. Wilderness with a capital W is at the far, hard edge of the land management spectrum. It is a place “where man himself is a visitor who does not remain,” is “untrammeled,” and retains its “primeval character and influence.” If public lands were proffered by baristas, Wilderness would be a cup of straight black coffee, whereas Yellowstone might be considered an unsweetend latte and Central Park a mocha-frappuccino. Like black coffee drinkers, proponents of Wilderness value the unadulterated quality of their hobby. They appreciate the simplicity, unsullied nature, and bitter-sweet challenge that wilderness recreation offers.

Like black coffee, Wilderness is defined by the absence of constituents. Black coffee, by definition, excludes sugar and cream. Wilderness, by definition, excludes buildings, pavement, and vehicles. In fact, there are no motors and no “mechanical transport” allowed in Wilderness areas. That’s the sharp edge of the adze cleaving the outdoor community, because the “nonmechanical” stipulation also excludes mountain bikes from Wilderness trails.

These non-overlapping desires for shared lands created a fault-line among conservationists in Idaho a couple of years ago after the Boulder White Clouds Wilderness was designated on top of existing, classic mountain bike trails. The horse-trading involved in that bill, which included bike groups, but was complicated and opaque, left lots of riders feeling burned in the end. In response, some riders formed new groups with the explicit intention of getting bikes into Wilderness areas.

While many riders are happy to leave their bikes at the trailhead, this subset of the mountain biking community is arguing for a reinterpretation or even outright revision to the Wilderness Act that would allow peddle-powered vehicles into these areas.

Like personal attorneys to the scene of an accident, other groups with no interest in bikes, but scrutable interest in privatizing or exploiting public lands have begun chiming into the debate. What may have started as an arcane debate about the dogma of the Wilderness Act, has now been armed with serious political repercussions. For instance, earlier this month, a bill passed the federal House Natural Recourses Committee. The bill supported by Representative Greg Gianforte from Montana, is an amendment that would rewrite the Wilderness Act to allow bicycles other nonmotorized wheeled conveyances (cleverly, the bill also claims to allow wheelchairs in Wilderness despite the fact that wheelchairs have been allowed in wilderness for the past 30 years).

I’m not a mountain biker (I mean, I bike trails occasionally, but I’m always the guy either plastered against a tree or shouting groceries on the side of the trail), but I can certainly empathize with their stance on this issue. However, amending the Wilderness Act is a terrible strategy. First, it is a non-starter for most Wilderness advocates, which just further alienates any potential compromise. Second, it creates an open suture in the otherwise thick hide of precedent around Wilderness Act, a wound that regressive politicians and extractive industries will be quick to infect. Third, there are MUCH better options.

When the Wilderness Act was signed in the 60s, it protected over 9 Million acres. Since then, Wilderness acreage has trickled in with about 1M acres added per year. There is one exception, though. In 1980 over 50M acres (almost half of all current Wilderness lands) was added in one giant dollop. Here’s what happened in 1980, and here’s how it can help salvage the rift in the outdoor community.

In 1980 over 50M acres (almost half of all current Wilderness lands) was added in one giant dollop. What happened in 1980 can help salvage the rift in the outdoor community.

In 1980, the Alaska National Interest Lands Claims Act (ANILCA) was signed into law and more than quadrupled the U.S. Wilderness acreage at the time. Among others, it created most of the Wildernesses in the Tongass National Forest (the most WAs on any Forest) which I’ve spent over a decade working to conserve.

Like the current issue with mountain bike trails in proposed Wildernesses, Alaskan Wilderness advocates wanted to overlay designation right on top of places that were historically utilized by nearby communities for hunting, fishing, recreating, etc. While many of those folks recognized the benefit of protecting those lands as Wilderness, they were not interested in giving up their traditional uses, many of which involved incompatible equipment, like motorboats and planes.  Alaskan conservationists managed to pass ANILCA by including a handful of compromises on what could and could not happen in those newly created areas. These include things like the use of snow mobiles and fixed wing aircraft, construction of recreation cabins, the use of outboard motors, even potential fisheries and mining projects. Collectively, these compromises are known as the ANILCA provisions.

There are a couple of important points about ANILCA. One, it does not alter the Wilderness Act in any way; it is complementary legislation. Two, the provisions only apply to ANILCA lands and no other Wilderness areas. Three, if Wilderness managers deem a provision is incompatible with the mandate to manage Wilderness character of an area, they can limit those uses in that context.

One of the main arguments I hear from Wilderness advocates is that allowing bikes in even one Wilderness (even one with a special provision) will tarnish the Wilderness Act itself and eventually allow bikes in all Wilderness areas. ANILCA was passed almost 40 years ago and we have not seen any new Wilderness areas that included provisions for fixed wing aircraft, snowmobiles, etc. inspired by ANILCA. No one has gone back to retroactively allow those provisions in any Wilderness in the lower 48 states. In fact, since the passage of ANILCA, some of the nonconforming uses similar to ANILCA provisions that were previously allowed in some continental Wilderness Areas have been retracted. So overall, that fear seems unfounded.

Nothing builds energy like a successful decision and a new ally. Nothing vitiates momentum like petty infighting and entrenched ideologies banked by the sands of nostalgia.

Mountain bikers are natural allies in the fight for Wilderness. Most mountain bikers I know are as much advocates of wild places and oppose extraction and privatization of natural lands as me. And right now, we need all of the allies we can get.

While some folks in the Wilderness community would rather mire themselves in squabbles over the definition of “mechanical transportation,” I’d rather be working to again double our Wilderness acreage like they did in 1980. With mountain bikers (and paddlers, and climbers, and skiers, and everyone else in the outdoor movement) we easily have the power to see that happen. When all outdoor industries combine, we are a significant economic force, of over 800 Billion dollars a year.

Here is the plan:

We should work with mountain biking groups on a new bill, like ANILCA, that does not alter the 1964 Wilderness Act. Call it the America’s Outdoor Freedom Jobs Patriotism Act or something that the pundits will bite on. Let’s puts all the energy of the outdoor community into that push. Where we need to make provisions for nonconforming uses, let’s do it. Iron it out to our lowest common denominator  so that we can circumvent infighting with minimal reduction in momentum but maximal fidelity to the intentions of the 1964 Act. The only strict rule should be that the compromised provisions only apply to those lands created under this enabling legislation and no others.

Nothing builds energy like a successful decision and a new ally. Nothing vitiates momentum like petty infighting and entrenched ideologies banked by the sands of nostalgia.

And let’s not forget that Wilderness advocacy does’t end at designation. Stewardship of Wilderness areas is an ongoing, iterative process. Once we’ve managed to redoubled our Wilderness acreage, then let’s sit down and start figuring out to manage our recreational impacts. And while we are at it, perhaps we can think about if-where-how we need to build multiple use trails and even where we don’t need trails, bike-friendly or otherwise. Maybe we’ll see that where bikes would be detrimental may also be a place where even a pack-train, a cross-cut saw, or a trail blaze is unnecessary and antithetical to the aesthetic of a “land primeval.” In other words, even in bike-permissible areas, we could manage for wildness that rivals the best current Wilderness Areas. And in the process, we may even figure out how to manage our current Wilderenesses a little better.