Notes from the Denali Highway: Getting There

Up at 4:30, out the door at 5, on the road heading north a couple minutes later.   Destination:    the Denali Highway, 138 miles on the Glenn highway, left turn, another 74 miles on the Richardson, another left turn.

But no rush.    Things to do before we get there.

First stop is at Ernesto’s in Glennallen, a wonderful restaurant specializing in Mexican food in what used to be the Caribou restaurant.   Leilani orders huevos rancheros con mole sauce; huevos con chorizo for me.   Sorry.   Hungry.   No photo of my huevos con chorizo breakfast, but this photo os of my going home lunch--three asada tacos

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We make the heretofore mentioned left turn onto the Richardson highway and continue north.  Half way through, I admit that the painful lump in my throat is winning and I pull over to change places with Leilani.   I take two Aleve and settle in.

Thus far, we’ve seen a moose, two snowshoe hares, a squirrel, a raven, and a supporting cast of thousands of robins busy gathering food for their nestlings.

We reach Paxson, another left turn onto the Denali highway, and begin the real part of our adventure.   We stop at the first pullout.  And the second, and the third, and the fourth.   This is what it’s all about.  

The first pullouts bring us a hermit thrush, an Arctic warbler,  and a Wilson’s warbler.  Perhaps a red-winged crossbill. 

 

Arctic warbler, a lifer for me.

The Wilson's warbler with its jaunty black beret.

Then, a gray-cheeked thrush, and an  American tree sparrow.    The Arctic warbler and the sparrow are lifers for me, or the first time in my life I've seen and identified them.   As is the gray-cheeked thrush.

 

American Tree Sparrow

In another pullout, we’re chasing a small song bird when Leilani hears a willow ptarmigan nearby.    It comes to the outer layer of vegetation and disappears into a bush.    I walk around behind it, hoping it will show itself in the open.

I can see it behind a branch.   One step sideways, and I see it plainly.  

 

 It looks at me.   At that point in its call, it makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like it’s saying, “Oh, f—k.”  

Listen to the call of a willow ptarmigan here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_RXMaRreqQ

It saunters out into the open, we take our shots and head to the next pullout or pond or wherever we notice birds.  

Somewhere along the way, I spot a caribou about a hundred yards out on the tundra.  She minds her own business while we photograph her with our long lenses in the rain.

Then, as is my custom, I say, “Thank you.”  She perks up her head and moves closer.   Okay.    Every time I speak, she moves towards us.

Soon, she is less than a hundred feet and moving into the last willow scrub between her and us on the road.  Suddenly, she rushes back out of the willows and vigorously shakes her head, as if she’s walked into a hornet’s nest.

Leilani says we should move on so she doesn’t come out onto the highway, and off we go at a snail’s pace.   The caribou comes out to the highway anyway, just in time for Doug and Rob to come upon her.

Rob, in between bouts of laughter, gets a series of wonderful shots of Miss Caribou kicking up her heels in the tundra.

Then there’s the next pullout and the adventure continues.

That Time I Saved a Bull Caribou from Certain Death and Almost Got Wilson Gored by Its Rack

Recently, on what would prove to be the last in a string of remarkably sunny days, I visited a place called Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center.  My intent was photography, especially photography in the early evening when the long golden rays of the setting sun might afford some good lighting for pictures.

As the clouds moved in and the golden light dissipated, I got in my truck and headed for the exit.  That’s when I spotted a great opportunity for a photo.   A beautiful caribou was on top of a man-made hill in the caribou pasture.

I stopped, got out and took photos for a while.

A bull in rut ascended the hill and took the rutting/herding posture, head low and grunting.  All the other caribou, all males too, gave way and let him have his hill.

The bull descended the pile of dirt and rocks, found a piece of plastic bag or thin plastic wrapping, and began eating it.  I knew this meant a long and painful death for the animal if it got into its gut, so I jumped in the truck and headed for the visitor’s center.  I found an animal attendant and told him.

He, Wilson, said, “Oh, no!”   He sprinted for the caribou pen, climbed the fenced, and jumped down into the pasture.

The rutting bull took offense.



 

The angry bull is on the right.

Wilson backed off.  He tried the usual means of yelling and waving his arms, but the bull advanced.
 

Wilson ran for the fence on the other side and grabbed a long tree limb, intending to use it to run off the bull.

That didn’t work, either.  

The second bull is just curious.

“Don’t worry, I’m documenting it all,” I yelled to Wilson, waving my camera in the air and grinning.

“I’ll get something that makes noise and run him off,” said Wilson as he climbed out of the pen.   The caribou resumed chewing on the plastic.  

Shortly, Wilson entered the regular gate with a John Deere utility vehicle.

The bull stands its ground.

The bull thought about it, and gave way just a little.   Wilson got out of the ATV, grabbed the piece of plastic, and searched for more.   The bull returned to watch.

 

 The bull was not happy.

Wilson came out of the locked gate with the ATV as I was approaching the exit and we chatted for a bit.
 

“This is all fill that came off the highway project,” he said.   “No telling what’s in it.”   Lots of litter, I thought.   As near as we could tell, the caribou had merely chewed on the plastic without swallowing any of it.

Wilson thanked me for my warning and went on his way.

All the caribou were now in one spot, so I got out and continued taking photos for a few minutes.    

And then I drove home, happy that Wilson hadn’t been gored and that ornery bull caribou would live to climb his hill again.