Book review of Arctic Traverse: A Thousand-Mile Summer of Trekking the Brooks Range

A little more than a week into his two-month, thousand-mile-long journey across
Arctic Alaska in 2012, 53-year-old Michael Engelhard recognized this simple
truth: “Even as someone lacking roots in these mountains, I cannot walk ten
miles in them without tripping over some story, human or otherwise.”
Shared on page 65 of his book. Arctic Traverse: A Thousand-Mile Summer of
Trekking the Brooks Range, Engelhard’s revelation is central to his compelling
narrative. As amazing as his solo journey was, what makes his account of that
traverse singularly appealing are the stories that Engelhard shares along the
way. As readers, we are blessed that this former outdoor instructor and
wilderness guide schooled in cultural anthropology appears to be, above all else,
a wonderful story teller.

Engelhard follows a straightforward narrative style, beginning at the place where
he began his trek, a locale named Joe Creek, and then moving westward, day-
by-eventful-day, across the width of northern Alaska, Most of that journey is
accomplished by foot across the 700-mile-long Brooks Range, America’s farthest
north—and arguably wildest—mountain chain. The final leg of his trip is by
inflatable canoe, ten days down the Noatak River and finally into Kotzebue
Sound. Most of his time was spent in two of our nation’s premier wildlands, the
Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and Gates of the Arctic National Park and
Preserve. Only on a couple of occasions does his trek take him through either
human settlements or industrial development, and then briefly.

Engelhard devotes a chapter to each of the 58 days he spent on his journey.
That uncomplicated strategy is successful because of 1) Engelhard’s often
challenging—and sometimes dangerous—experiences; 2) the abundance of
stories he shares, some of them only distantly related to his own trek, yet
somehow made relevant; and 3) a stream-of-consciousness style that is perfect
for this kind of cross-country adventure through remote and largely unpeopled
wilderness and which allows Engelhard to explore all manner of subjects that
might seem unconnected, but here largely flow seamlessly one to the other.
To give an example: within the space of a few paragraphs Engelhard first reveals
one of his trek’s major motivations, then shifts to a natural history discussion of
two Arctic wildflowers. Right after that, we learn he climbs a peak near camp
whenever possible, for both aesthetic and practical reasons, the latter being to
scout the next stretch of terrain he’ll be crossing. And finally this (which I love):
“In little more than a week I’ve developed a habit of thanking each campsite
silently, sometimes wordlessly, for harboring me before I walk into the morning.
There’s a sense that the land that could crush me in an instant is watching over
me.” [My emphasis.]

Not many adventurers, in my experience, would be willing to share such
sentiments.

Among the many topics Engelhard explores: the nature of wilderness and solitary
trekking; the indigenous peoples who have inhabited the Arctic for millennia;
discussions of his heroes and role models (not surprisingly, many of them writers
and/or wilderness advocates)—and also those (generally unnamed) who he
considers villains; the flora and fauna that define or symbolize Alaska’s Arctic
landscapes, most notably caribou and grizzlies; Arctic explorations and
tragedies; the pros and cons of technological aids; the weather; the nature of
backpacking across untrailed wildlands; and his disgust with those who have
developed or would further develop wild places, along with a recognition of his
own complicity in the human-fueled climate crisis.

To be sure, Engelhard weaves plenty of drama into his narrative, most notably
encounters with grizzly bears and the risk of serious harm while crossing difficult
terrain. Along one stretch he injures his left Achilles tendon seriously enough that
he contemplates quitting his thousand-mile quest. He also faces hunger, despite
food caches placed along his route; at one point he laments “I am famished all
the time now” and by trip’s end he would lose 25 pounds. Other challenges
include maddening hordes of mosquitoes and mazes of unstable, potentially
ankle-busting mounds of grasses known as tussocks. Given all that, it’s not
surprising he suffers serious moments of doubt.

Grizzlies deserve special mention, because they haunt Engelhard from beginning
to end. He seems of two minds toward them, respectful and celebratory on the
one hand, yet irrationally fearful at times. More than once he makes reference to
“being thought of as dinner,” strange for someone who has schooled himself in
the ways of bears. Perhaps that’s because he encounters a surprising number of
grizzlies along his route and, through his extensive Arctic research, is all too
aware “how easily one can be a fatality here and how easily one disappears.”
One might debate that point, but Engelhard clearly feels it’s true (though most
deaths have nothing to do with bears). Maybe that sense of ever-present danger
is projected onto what seems like an unusual abundance of bears for this spare
land.

Here’s something I particularly like about Engelhard (and his writing): he pays
attention to detail and what might be called “small wonders.” At one point he
exclaims, “one must not overlook the ordinary in the search of the extraordinary”
and elsewhere lauds “the magic of the miniscule.

Perhaps because I’m a hiker (and occasional trekker), Engelhard’s backpacking
trials and revelations resonated much more deeply with me than his floating
adventures. I fully agree with the author that “The world still is best . . . one step
at a time.” And it seems to be the best pace, too, for not only noticing the world
through which one journeys, but for all the mediations, memories, opinions, and
philosophies that arise when moving slowly across a landscape. This is where
Arctic Traverse shines brightest and is where I felt fully in step with Michael
Engelhard’s trip of a lifetime.

Bill Sherwonit bio/tagline:
Nature writer Bill Sherwonit first came to Alaska in 1974. Then a geologist, he
spent much of his first summer in the Central Brooks Range, a place that
changed his life. A full-time resident of Alaska since 1982, Sherwonit is an
essayist and author whose work has appeared in newspapers, magazines,
literary journals, and anthologies. He’s the author of more than a dozen books,
among them Changing Paths: Travels and Meditations in Alaska’s Arctic
Wilderness and Alaska’s Bears.