“Where are you from Brian?” “Minnesota,” I replied. “Oh, good… Minnesotans do well in Alaska.”

The stuff of legend…

This is something I’ve stated jokingly, but never thought I would live. As I stood in front of the terminal (shipping container) waiting to load my backpack into a Cessna 185, Kirk began asking me questions. He’s the quintessential bush pilot; a thin but fit man, with wavy grey hair, wearing a flannel shirt under a tattered Carhartt jacket with blue jeans. “Nice and light!” Kirk said excitedly as I handed him my pack. This was definitely a moment of pride for me. I spent the better part of a year mulling over what I would bring on this trip. Kirk continued, “Good thing too! You’re in Alaska for sheep season after all!”

How did I get here..?

Good question. I ponder this one often. It’s one I have a difficult time answering because I’m not sure if it was meant to be, or just plain luck. As many of us do, I’ve dreamed of going to Alaska since I was a young boy. My grandfather instilled an adventurous spirit in me at an early age, and he is the one responsible for introducing me to the outdoors. Funny… It seems that many of us “outdoorsy” types have that in common. The importance of one generation passing down the traditions of hunting and a yearning to visit wild places can not be overstated. I would like to think that my experience and prowess as a savvy outdoorsman had something to do with why I’m climbing into Kirk’s bush plane. I’d be wrong. So, how did I get here?

Dave Marsh.

“What does your schedule look like for August of 2017?” I knew what it meant when Dave asked me this question. However, it’s unfair for me to start here. To bring justice to this story, I have to rewind seven years.

I was at the National Wild Turkey Federation Convention held at the Grand Ole Opry Hotel in Nashville, Tennessee, with a couple of my close friends. The convention is filled to capacity with booths selling anything you could imagine for hunting and the outdoors. There are countless outfitters and hunting guides as well. Deer, turkey, elk and fishing outfits are a dime a dozen as you walk through the aisles. I felt completely comfortable engaging with them but when it came to the rare Alaskan big game booths, my confidence gave way to nervousness… Finally I mustered the courage to approach a display, well-put-together, and a man who looked more like a college sociology professor than a big game guide. For the next 45 minutes, Dave graciously answered the questions my friends and I asked. We had a great conversation and exchanged emails. Today, Dave tells me often, “I knew how things would work out the moment I met you.” Some people have a unique insight to reading others; he is definitely one of them.

For the next few years we casually emailed back and forth about various outdoor endeavors. Getting the chance to someday go to Alaska with Dave was something I always kept in the back of my mind. If I’m honest, I never really thought it would happen. Then, the email… “‘Brian, I think about you often and wonder how you are doing? Give me a call sometime.’ - Pal, Dave.” The phone rang a few times, then Dave answered. What transpired next will forever be one of my best memories. “What does your schedule look like for August of 2017?” The call to go to Alaska.

“So you’re going to Alaska, huh?”, people would question. After I nodded and told them that I was going to the Brooks Range to pack for a guide during sheep season, they would respond with, “Oh! Wow! You’re really going to Alaska then!” That first year was incredible, and I’ve always struggled to find the right words to convey the experience. At the end of that first season, Dave and I stood with tears in our eyes as we waited for Kirk to fly us out. “I would love to have you back next year, Brian,” Dave said with a smile. Not only did he prepare me in every way for that 2017 season, but he also included me in many vital guiding decisions.

So with one season under my belt, I again find myself in the same bush plane with Kirk, flying over the Yukon flats as the mountains come into sight.

My bush flight into the Brooks Range lasts approximately one hour and forty minutes. It’s definitely a time of peak excitement but also apprehension. A lot can happen in a month, and the buzz of the engine coupled with the sound of rushing wind does nothing to ease my mind. As we enter the mountain range I think about the next time I will be on this plane. Twenty pounds lighter (which Kirk will be happy about), thirty days older (which mostly shows in beard growth), and hopefully not injured (too badly). I know it will be raw, dangerous, beautiful, difficult, exhausting, and spectacular. The rest is unknown and that’s the way I want it.

Big Country.

This place can take a lot from you. However, it gives back much more than it takes…

The landscape is vast. I am reminded of this the moment I step out of the plane. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of trees or just the overwhelming openness, but gauging distance here is incredibly difficult. When the hunters come in, they always ask how far it is to our first spike camp. I point into the distance, “It’s pretty close to the base of that mountain.” “Not too bad at all! Maybe an hour or two?” they reply. “Actually, it’s about seven hours… ” I say. This area fools my perception on a daily basis. Although beautiful, the vastness causes a punishment to my body that can be felt for months after I return home.

The landscape changes. When I show up in the first few days of August, the valleys and mountain sides are a brilliant green. By the time I leave at the end of August, the full array of fall colors have set in. Deep reds, yellows and oranges have flooded the terrain and the temperatures have dropped significantly. It goes from the middle of summer to the middle of fall in a span of about twenty-five days. You can literally watch it happen. The sun is relentless early on and from it you only find a few twilight hours of reprieve. Later, the cold in concert with an ever-present wind can at times feel unbearable. The views are spectacular, the tundra is endless, and the mountains are unforgiving. Being here makes all of my other outdoor experiences feel like indoor affairs.

Big Game.

After spending close to 60 days now in the Brooks Range, I have gathered an enormous amount of respect for the animals that live here. Grizzlies, caribou, moose, wolves, wolverines, porcupines, the occasional musk ox, and of course Dall sheep call this place home. For purposes of brevity I will focus only on Dall sheep and caribou.

Ovis dalli.

To say that I was amazed the first time I walked up on a downed mature Dall ram would be a drastic understatement. In my humble opinion, the name sheep totally misses the mark. Any attempt to physically categorize them with their barnyard “relatives” is a cardinal sin. The only similarity I can find is smell. Yes, it’s very strange to stand atop a mountain in this pristine wilderness only to sense that you’ve walked into a pasture… Rams are built like middle linebackers but carry themselves with a high degree of elegance. I usually reserve the word gorgeous for my wife, but here, I have to make an exception. I also marvel at their ability to thrive in a place with such extreme seasons and efficient predators. Wolves, grizzlies, and wolverines are in constant pursuit. In some situations, eagles will even prey on lambs! Many stories have been shared about a Dall sheep’s ability to see. In my limited experience, you definitely feel as if you are hunting an animal with a pair of binoculars for eyes… I have so much more to learn about Dall sheep and I’m looking forward to the coming seasons.

Rangifer tarandus

It seems that most everyone is enamored by the sight of a mature bull caribou. One reason is that they carry the highest antler to body weight ratio of any cervid. The Brooks Range is home to Alaska’s porcupine heard of Caribou and as I watch them I become envious of the way they effortlessly move across the tundra. These animals migrate over 1,500 miles a year between their winter range and calving grounds at the Beaufort Sea, (the longest land migration route of any land mammal on Earth). I’ve always been particularly drawn to caribou, and until my first trip to the Brooks Range, I had never seen one in the wild. Without a doubt, they are an animal I look forward to interacting with each season.

Friendship.

“About five years then, I guess..” This was Dave’s response as the two of us ended a conversation about the amount of time he had spent in the backcountry during his guiding and outfitting career. “That ends up being quite a few nights spent in a tent!” I said with a grin. Dave just laughed.

So remember that college professor I mentioned earlier? Turns out looks can be deceiving. In short order, Dave is a badass… Until you are actually with him out there, you can not really appreciate the level at which he operates. Dave’s attitude is the same on the last day of the season as it was on the first day. That’s unbelievable when you consider everything he has to navigate within that timeframe. The way he hikes and hunts can only be overshadowed by the way he treats staff, clients, and downed game (and that’s saying a lot because I have yet to meet a better hunter). Guide, outfitter, conservationist, outdoorsman, sportsman… Unfortunately Dave can’t be labeled. Not because he is none of these things, but rather because he is all of them in the most genuine and unique way. Dave is one of the few people in my life that I feel downright privileged to know. I am absolutely honored to be considered his friend. I came to Alaska expecting the land to have the biggest impact on me. I left realizing that what impacted me most was not the place, but the person.