It all started with some caribou.  It was our first morning in Denali National Park & Preserve – I was there with fellow photographers Chris Beck and Matthew Brown.  We had overslept because someone who was in charge of the morning alarm thought he would sleep in for another five minutes, which turned out to be nearly an hour and a half.  We gathered our senses and headed into the park.  Somewhere about halfway between the park entrance from the Parks Highway and Savage River, we saw another vehicle pulled over, and a photographer out of his vehicle.  Sure sign that there was wildlife afoot.

We saw quickly he had focused on three caribou that were grazing in rocky wash, downhill and to the south of the road.  I captured a few images, but was really waiting for the caribou to do something other than grazing.  Heads up, perhaps profile shots, even better looking toward the cameras, but not as much grazing and certainly not the classic “butt shot.”  Then, Chris’s rather intensive whispering and gesturing got my attention, and I looked ahead of me on the road to see an adult lynx, just sitting upright, taking in the morning’s events.  He was maybe about a hundred yards down the road from us.

I quickly ignored the caribou and turned my 500mm toward the lynx.  Slowly, the other photographers started to follow suit, and then it was just a bunch of shutter clicks and mirror slaps as we all captured this beautiful animal, just sitting there without a care in the world.  Then, something got his attention, and he went into stalking mode – something I have seen my own cats do on countless occasions.  I could not see what he was after, but he was focused, on a mission, ignoring the world around him.  Once the lynx got a little more than halfway across the road, he just … stopped.  Then he dropped to a crouch, and just sat; watching, waiting.  I saw what had drawn his attention, the thing that is top of the menu for lynx in Alaska – a snowshoe hare.  Nibbling on some willows on the edge of the road, this hare was completely oblivious to the photographers, the caribou, and the lynx that had its sights on a morning meal.

As the lynx waited, Chris, Matt and I worked to get closer, closer and yet closer to the lynx and hare.  We would move twenty feet, then stop and wait, capturing a few more images.  Then we would get up, move closer and stop.  Neither the hare nor the lynx noticed or cared.  Then, from behind us came what seemed like a cacophonous electronic squeal – the other photographer ( we came to call him “DB” for the rest of the trip) had opened his car door with the key in the ignition, letting out the “your key’s in the ignition and your door is open STUPID” warning sound that we all know so well.  But never had I ever heard it seem so loud before, nor had it ever had such adverse consequences.

Immediately, the hare started, stood up, realized it was in peril and ran into the thick of the willows, spruce and alder that lay just feet beyond the road.  Disappointed, the lynx got up, crept toward the edge of the willows where the hare had disappeared, and then lept into the thick of it, hoping to still have some success with his hunt.  One minute we were all waiting with the lynx for the expectation of the hunt, elated to be in the position to watch such a dramatic natural event, and then, because of the complete cluelessness of another photographer who had captured the images he wanted, it was over.

As much as we lamented the loss of the kill, it was hard to be disappointed for the opportunity to watch and photograph the lynx in action.  And it likely would not have happened had we got out of bed on time.

As a former recipient of the Rasmuson Foundation‘s Artist Fellowship grant, I regularly receive their updates as to ongoing grant activities by the Foundation.  In reviewing their most recent mailing, I was pleased to see that the Great Land Trust had been awarded a $100,000 grant for infrastructure development of the Campbell Creek Estuary Natural Area.  In 2008, I went out to the estuary with Dave Mitchell from the Great Land Trust to photograph the property to aid them in fundraising for its purchase.  At the time, it was owned by a family trust, and the Great Land Trust was seeking to purchase it to set it aside for conservation – just one of many wetlands in the area that the Trust has targeted as prime habitat for conservation over the years.

In 2010, when they were near reaching a deal with the city regarding the purchase, Mayor Dan Sullivan rescinded the deal, claiming that the land would be better used for private development.  Fortunately, the Great Land Trust was later able to convince him, the purchase was accomplished, and the new Campbell Creek Estuary Natural Area was created.  What is missing to allow it to be fully used by the public is some parking, trails, a kiosk, and other infrastructure.  With this grant money, the Great Land Trust will be able to fulfill its vision, and Anchorage residents and visitors will soon be able to enjoy this new, incredible access to the Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge.

Sometimes it starts with a text or a post on our secret Facebook photo group or a quick email from a smartphone.  In each instance, it is driven by what “the donut” is doing.  “The donut’s on fire” or “The donut’s raging!”  Egged-on by Aurora alerts constantly reminding us that we seem to be on the wrong side of the world for the really spectacular aurora displays this year (they tend to hit during our daytime, but when it is nighttime over in Norway and Finland).

Regardless of how it starts, we all meet up somewhere to consolidate bodies and gear into two vehicles, typically in a Carrs or Fred Meyer parking lot on the way out of town.  From then on, it is just anticipation; waiting for the sun to go down, waiting for the skies to darken, waiting and hoping that “they” will come out.  The subject of a seemingly exploding global phenomenon fueled by the proliferation of social media.  The northern lights.  The aurora borealis.

Last night was no different.  Once assembled, we headed north out of Anchorage on the Glenn Highway toward Palmer.  After an obligatory stop at the Taco Bell – one of the group’s founders has a thing for Taco Bell – we headed out along the south side of the Knik River, finding a nice open patch of snow covered, frozen river and a grand view of the Talkeetna Mountains to the north.

It took a while before the first hint of a green glow began to appear.  It teased us off and on for about an hour, never really developing into a particularly memorable display.  All the while, many of us found other things to occupy our time, experimenting with time lapse or short star trails captures.  But after the skies completely darkened and stayed dark for a while, we decided it was time to pack up.  The “donut” had never really looked promising all through the evening, even though we kept refreshing the NOAA image on our smart phones every half hour or so to make sure.

So, at 12:15 a.m., we were in our vehicles and on our way back to Anchorage.  Shortly after passing the Old Glenn Highway bridge, I looked out my window and up.  There was a strong aurora beginning to developed.  I got very animated and excited, and apparently someone thought I had left some gear behind.  No, the lights are coming out.  Pull over!

We found a small pullout, stopped, and proceeded to pile out of the SUV, making a mad dash for the hatch and our gear.  I grabbed my tripod and camera bag and followed another photographer in a haphazard scramble over a snow berm and down the side of the bank to the river surface to set up and photograph.  While Venus had set, Jupiter was still aloft, providing a sharp point of focus in the sky.  The glow of Palmer lay before us, providing some light to silhouette the prominent landscape of the Butte.  Off to our right, the mountain ridge we had been working before when we were further upriver.  For the next hour and a half, I would use many of those landscape elements in composing images as the sky went back and forth, offering some decent displays.

Eventually, the clouds rolled in from the north, and our view was obscured.  But overhead, a new phase of the aurora developed.  Cascading shimmers of light bounced and flowed overhead, like waves of hyper-rapid surf washing over a glass ceiling.  There was nothing any one could do to capture it, the movement was too fast and the light too subtle for our gear.  We could only stand there on the frozen Knik River, craning our necks to look overhead, and stare in wonder.

These and other aurora borealis images are available for sale in my Aurora Borealis gallery.

It is 2:36 a.m., Alaska Standard Time.  I have only been home for about twenty minutes after a six-hour venture out into a clear, cold Alaska night to wait for and capture the anticipated aurora displays of the evening.  Finally, the aurora lived up to the hype, and I was at the right place at the right time.   Wow.  What a night.

While everyone else headed to the Anchorage hillside or north to the Valley, particularly Hatcher Pass, I and some other photographers headed south to Turnagain Arm.  I have been photographing along the Turnagain Arm ever since I moved here almost 13 years ago, and I had never had the opportunity to photograph the Arm with the aurora borealis before tonight.  We found a perfect spot, spent some time photographing the night landscape before the moon and the aurora came out.

The Turnagain Arm is a fantastic area to photograph for so many reasons.  I go back year after year, season after season, because it has so much to offer.  I suggested a location I have stopped at many times before because of how the mountain ridges on the other side of the Arm line up – the pullout at the Chugach National Forest sign, past Girdwood but before the Twenty Mile River pullout.  With high tide peaking just about an hour before, we had lots of calm water before us to provide some really nice reflections.  A couple of snow covered rocks and a large chunk of snow covered ice presented great foreground elements.  All around us, from the mountain ridges to the water and fading colors of twilight, there was plenty to keep us busy until the aurora appeared.  Having that extra time to become familiar with the surroundings and of the various composition possibilities became crucial once the auora borealis display began.

At first it was just a dim green glow in a band reaching from over the mountains toward Anchorage to our right and arcing across the sky and to the left toward the Portage Valley.  I captured a few images just of that first dim showing, wanting to capture some additional color to add to the fading hues of dusk.  And then, the first wave hit at around 9:30.  The curtains appeared to our right toward Girdwood, right over the pinkish hues caused by the lights of Anchorage. The green curtains reached straight up and over us, bending and undulating slightly as they shifted their position from right to left over the sky.  It was so thrilling to finally see a decent display after so many years of being content with moderate-to-mild displays that did nothing more than slightly shift across the sky.  Fortunately, though, this particular display was not moving so fast that I couldn’t keep up, constantly checking to ensure that the focus was adequate, that the horizon was level (most times it wasn’t despite my best efforts).

And then, the display calmed down. We all took a few minutes to share images, ooh and aah at each other’s successes, and remark on how nice of a display it was.  Then, the waiting reconvened.  I took some time to set up a time lapse of the moon coming around the Chugach Mountains to our left, then captured a single image of the moon casting a long shadow over a snow-covered rock.  And since we were only 100 feet or so from where we parked our cars, we all agreed it was time for a warm up.

I don’t really know how long we waited in their, car running and iPod providing some entertainment, but at some point, someone noticed “they” were back out, so we all hopped out and resumed our stations.  The second wave started much like the first, with tall, green curtains coming over the mountains near Girdwood.  Again, the curtains moved from right to left and we watched and photographed.  Then the pattern shifted.

A long, horizontal band started to form over the Kenai Mountains, directly across from us, and I flipped my camera (mounted on a Kirk Enterprises L-Bracket) from vertical to horizontal.  Already, the small group of photographers, amidst the snapping of shutters, were starting to become very vocal and animated.  Yips and hoots accented by the occasional bit of profanity.  After the first part of the second wave had quieted down a little bit, I called up Shannyn Moore who had been Tweeting about where were good locations to watch.  We chatted a bit about what she had been seeing, how the parking lots at all of the trailheads along the Chugach State Park boundary in Anchorage were jammed packed, and then the lights really started to erupt.  I exclaimed, “Holy shit, gotta go!” and hung up on her. Then the lights really started to dance, hopping in these vertical spikes that moved up and down the length of the ribbon.  The faint hints of pink or purple started to show, reminding me quite a bit of the color combination found in certain types of crystal tourmaline.

And then the lights also exploded directly overhead, presenting the classic corona display.  With my arm still in a sling from shoulder surgery, I couldn’t get down to see my compositing in the view finder.  All I could do was flip my camera so that it was shooting straight up, point it in the general direction I wanted it, and release the shutter again and again.  Now the group was really animated, exulting cheers to statements of disbelief, to comments about how hard it was to keep up with the multi-faceted display before us.  All we could do was keep up as much as we could with an aurora display that was showing its magic in as many as four different locations at once.  I don’t think I have ever worked my camera so frantically before.

But, as the aurora goes, it calmed down, leaving the skies filled mostly with dim green hues again.  It took us a while to calm down, but eventually we decided it was time to warm up again.  After a few minutes, we decided to call it a night, agreeing that perhaps a few hours of sleep would be a good idea since we would be doing this all over again the next night.  And then an Aurora Alert came out over Twitter, asserting that the aurora would be at Level 7.67 in 39 minutes.  We decided to take the opportunity to start heading back toward Anchorage.  We stopped at a pullout near Indian and waited for the next wave to hit.  Since it was a different vantage point, I captured a few images of the mild display that was presenting itself down the Turnagain Arm.

At 1:45 a.m., we decided to call it a night.  Weather permitting, we would be out doing it again the next evening.  Such is the life in the modern age of aurora chasing.

Great photos with narrative simply cannot compare to being out there, in the moment, observing a Level 7 aurora storm in progress.

These and other aurora borealis images are available for sale in my Aurora Borealis gallery.

I grew up in climates that could get hot and muggy in the summer, suffering sweltering, messy Julys and oppressive Augusts.  I was all-too familiar with that sense of staying wet all day after your shower, the towel simply incapable of keeping up with the sweat beading down along your skin as you attempt to dry from a morning wash.

That was nothing.

Looking outside, it was almost difficult to see the horizon.  The water was so smooth and silky, it blended almost seamlessly with the diffuse, heavily moistened air.  The numbers were staggering.  Water temperature – 94 degrees, air temperature – 105 degrees, radiant heat coming off the dark grey deck of the ship – 130 degrees, and the humidity … 97 percent.  At what point do you just relent and call it 100%, especially when you can just watch it gather and form colonies of water on your skin?  On my way around the weather decks I passed by a .50 caliber mount and crew on the port fantail.  They were standing guard for what we had trained for off and on since leaving our home port in Long Beach, California.  They were waiting for Iranian small boat attacks. (Our first challenge by small boats would actually come from a “friendly” nation, Oman.)

Shortly after finishing dinner, I retired down below to my bunk in the Operations Department berthing space down below in the bow of the U.S.S. David R. Ray (DD-971).  As I lay in my bunk reading Cyber Way by Alan Dean Foster, I hear the announcement over the 1MC, “Set Modified Condition 1A throughout the ship.”  We are facing one of the other threats we trained for enroute to the Persian Gulf – the Iranian Silkworm threat.  The Silkworm is a surface-to-surface missile capable of striking from moderate distances.  In this case, Iran had a missile base featuring the Silkworms that placed a good portion of the Strait of Hormuz, our passage into the Persian Gulf, within reach.

We had been under the watchful eye of Iran long before entering the Strait.  While still off the coast of Oman, an Iranian P-3 did a fly-by while out on maritime patrol.  It made me think of the many passes I received by a Soviet Bear D reconnaissance aircraft in the Sea of Japan.

It was a good thing that no one on the NTDS console or air radar consoles ever detected an incoming bulldog.  We were busy enough just keeping track of the regular and heavy shipping and air traffic, maintaining close watch to make sure that no one was CBDR (constant bearing, decreasing range) – on an intercept course.  Shortly after exiting the Strait and entering the Gulf, we passed by some of the “eternal flames,” Iranian oil fields still on fire some two years after they were attacked in “Operation Praying Mantis.”  I went out to the starboard forward lookout station just so I can see them for myself.  In the dark, humid night, the constant flames presented dots of eerie orange glows in the night, accented by the recognizable scent of burning oil, even miles away.  The attacks were in retaliation to damage to a U.S. Naval warship from an Iranian mine.  The unfortunate ship was the U.S.S. Samuel B. Roberts, a guided-missile frigate.  Mines, yet another threat we had to be ready for.  We would be the eighth warship joining Joint Task Force Middle East on station in the Persian Gulf, with only one mine sweeper tasked to make sure our waters were clear.  Our training on board the ship on dealing with mines dealt with the business end; what to do for damage control after striking one.

We would routinely place ourselves in harm’s way of the Silkworm envelope in the Strait of Hormuz conducting “Earnest Will” operations.  Due to the Iranian habit of attacking Bahraini tankers transiting the Strait of Hormuz, the Bahrain government asked President Reagan to provide Navy escorts.  Since it was illegal for U.S. Navy vessels to escort foreign-flagged civilian vessels, these tankers were re-registered under the U.S. flag and provided protection.  Even before Earnest Will began, the threat to shipping traffic was brought into sharp reality with the attack on the U.S.S. Stark by two Iraqi Exocet missiles. The tension caused by that incident would later produce another casualty, this time at the hands of a U.S. Naval warship when the U.S.S. Vincennes, a Ticonderoga Class Guided Missile Cruiser, shot down an Iranian commercial airliner, Iran Air Flight 655.  While the Commanding Officer of the Vincennes lost his command over the incident, it is difficult to think that any other commander would have acted differently.  While transiting the Strait of Hormuz, the Vincennes faced an air target that was not squawking its IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) as required, was not responding to radio communications, and was flying a classic attack profile.

Fortunately for me, such tensions had subsided by the time I entered the Gulf and became involved in Operation Earnest Will in the summer of 1990.  Each escort we conducted lasted about four hours; just the right amount of time to transit safely through the danger zone.  And each one passed without incident.

And all through our various missions and operations, we were just one ship for most of the time, with the rest of the Task Force spread out throughout the Gulf.  Not that we were defenseless.  We had tomahawk missiles, fired through our new Vertical Launch Array (VLA), Harpoon missiles, the new Rolling Aeroframe Missile (RAM) for surface-to-air defense, the Sea Sparrow missile (another air defense platform), two 5-inch guns, two 20mm Vulcan Phalanx guns, and our assorted .50 caliber mounts.  And, to add an extra measure of surveillance and protection, we had an SH60B Seahawk helicopter on board, capable of providing forward intelligence and a fast response to small threats.

Naval technology has come along way since the David R. Ray, who met her demise off the coast of Hawaii in 2008, sunk as part of a joint Japan-U.S. training exercise.  Given the amount of money we have been pouring into defense since my visit to the Persian Gulf in 1990, and based on my own recent trips aboard Naval warships, I know we are capable of so much more than we were twenty years ago.

I also suspect, and am rather confident, that Iran has not progressed so much.  Its economy, such as it is, cannot support much of an investment in defense.  (Well, not that ours can support it either, but that is another story.)  Nothing that I have seen suggests that Iran poses any different threat in tactics or capabilities than it did twenty years ago.  When we talk about Iran’s capabilities now, we talk about small boats, mines, and surface-to-surface missiles.  These were all things that we trained for over twenty years ago.  And all through our intensive operations in the Persian Gulf in the 1908s through the Iran-Iraq war and the 1990s during Operation Desert Shield and Operation Desert Storm, and even the eventual enforcement of a no-fly zone, only two U.S. Navy vessels actually received any damage – the Roberts and the Stark.  And while the U.S.S. Cole suffered damage from a small boat bomb attack in late 2000, that was instigated by Al-Qaeda, not Iran.

And through all that U.S. Naval presence in the Gulf, countless civilian vessels, including oil tankers, passed through the Strait of Hormuz safely.

Yet the media and leadership in our country seems ignorant of that history.  In all fairness, I do not have any knowledge how well the U.S. media reported on these things back in the 80s and 90s.  I was, after all, in the Navy during Operation Earnest Will and the beginnings of Operation Desert Shield.  My only media source was the Stars and Stripes, and I, with my job and security clearance, always knew more about what was going on in my theater of operations than what they could print in that wonderful paper.

Back in December, Iran started to make noise about closing the Strait of Hormuz in response to increased threats from the West to impose sanctions in response to Iran’s supposed nuclear weapons program.  Responses to that threat were slow to come in the United States, with most emphasis being on responding to the Iranian nuclear program, containing the Israeli’s assassination campaign of Iranian scientists, and responding to Iran’s responses to our threats over their imagined threat of nuclear weapons. Meanwhile, oil speculators have caught on, taking advantage of the disarray and scattered approach to dealing with Iran.  From threats over the Strait of Hormuz to Israel’s provocations to our own saber rattling about imaginary weapons programs (no evidence has surfaced regarding an Iranian nuclear weapons program), there is more than enough fuel to fire the rise in oil prices at the hands of unregulated speculators.

And yet, through it all, a simple truth is lost.  Iran couldn’t close the Strait of Hormuz twenty or thirty years ago, and still could not today.  One can only hope that people with influence start to recognize that.

Michio's totem

Strolling along a rocky beach in the Halibut Point area of Sitka, Michelle and I walked toward the setting sun, the warm glow breaking some of the winter chill in the air.  As we walked along, the sound of smoothed slate rocks and clam shells beneath our feet, we came upon an unexpected sight: a tall totem pole, looking at at the western sky.  Not that totems are unexpected in Sitka, but they are typically concentrated at the Sitka National Historic Park, also known as Totem Park, on the Indian River near downtown Sitka.  Michelle had read about a totem that was carved in honor of Japanese nature photographer Michio Hoshino, who was slain by a brown bear on Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula in 1996.  She had shown me an article featuring a photo of the totem artist creating the totem, and I recognized the long black hair of the bottom character in this totem pole as the rendition of Michio Hoshino.  What the character held in his hands confirmed it for me: a depiction of the overlapping layers of an aperture on a lens. 

The totem was carved by Tlingit totem artist Tommy Joseph of Sitka, Alaska.  In an interview with KCAW radio, Joseph notes the unusual combination of animals on the totem: a raven, a caribou, a humpback whale, and a bear.  The first three animals represent common subjects of Michio’s work, which went back and forth between Alaska’s arctic and Interior regions and the islands of the Southeast.  But the bear on the top of the totem is not any bear, but a Glacier Bear, also known as the Blue Bear.  Joseph notes that while Michio strived to capture an image of a Blue Bear, he was never successful; thus, the bear remains out of reach after life as well. 

The totem is a crucial element of the culture of the Native people of Southeast Alaska and the Pacific Northwest.  The carving of a totem is meant to tell a family’s history, identify key moments in a clan’s existence, even to mark important occasions.  They are rarely created to honor a single individual.  I would guess that this particular totem is likely the only one in existence dedicated to a photographer and his body of work.  But people were inspired not only by Michio’s starkly artistic renderings of Alaska’s great wildness, but by Michio himself.  He was renowned for being warm and generous, and having a deep connection with nature, being able to stay in the same location for hours if not days, waiting for the right conditions to capture the photo he envisioned.  He once spent an entire month by himself on a glacier in Denali National Park & Preserve to capture an image of an auror over Denali itself.  He was not successful.

It was his drive to capture signature images of the wild that led to his relationship with Juneau writer and photographer, and sometimes wilderness guide, Lynn Schooler.  I never had the pleasure or honor of ever meeting Michio Hoshino – I moved to Alaska three years after his death.  But I feel that I got to know him a little through Schooler’s The Blue Bear, now also a theatrical adaptation produced by Perseverance Theatre of Juneau.  Through the story of The Blue Bear, you learn about Michio the person and the photographer, and gain a little understanding of his drive as a photographer through his desire to photograph the elusive Glacier Bear.

It is fitting that the totem honoring Michio and his work resides where it does.  The totem sits within a stone’s throw of what locals call “Magic Island” on the outer part of Halibut Point.  It gazes upon the ocean that provides a home to the humpback whales Michio photographed.  It watches the sun move across the sky, bathing the land with the golden light that Michio relied upon as a photographer.  It receives the last warm grace of sunlight as the sun sets behind Mt. Edgecombe.  The sounds of cawing ravens, lapping surf, and squawking gulls keep it company when the beach is empty of the many Sitka residents who go out to enjoy the Halibut Point Recreation Area.  I can only hope that, as the years advance, those who visit Halibut Point will notice the totem and wonder who the man on the bottom of the totem is.

in the tundra at the Pebble site – 2005

Text and photos by Erin Mckittrick of Ground Truth Trekking

August, 2005: I lay my camera carefully in the tundra, then ran back and flopped on my belly, smiling in a frame of reindeer moss and berries. A helicopter roared past, dangling something from a cable beneath it. It had been three days since I talked to another human, but I was surrounded by the sound of their machines: the constant thwack of rotors, the rumbling of drill rigs, and the roar of small planes.

I tucked the camera into the dry bag that hung around my neck, and headed out into the swampy flat that marked a proposed tailings lake, snapping photos between the squalls of rain. For dozens of square miles around me, the rolling wet tundra had been engulfed by an idea bigger than anything this part of the state had ever seen: the Pebble Mine proposal

I wasn’t really a photographer. The digital SLR camera was brand-new to me only a few months earlier. I took pages of detailed notes in a waterproof journal, but I wasn’t yet a writer. I wasn’t an activist. At the time, I wasn’t even an Alaskan. I was just an ex-grad student – a newly-minted Master of Molecular and Cellular Biology looking for a new path in life.

Caribou near the Pebble site – 2005

The New York Times introduced me to Pebble Mine, in a 2005 article that shocked me mostly with what I didn’t know. A giant mine proposal, at the headwaters of a giant salmon fishery – how had I missed such a big issue?

Type “Pebble Mine” into Google today and you’ll be inundated with protest pages and mine company pages, a Wikipedia article, magazine spreads, and news pieces from across the world. There are photos of the prospect, maps galore, photos of people standing with anti-mine banners, photos of drill rigs and photos of salmon… There are movies to watch, a National Geographic piece to read, and a dozen different organizations to join.

In 2005, there was none of that. Pebble Mine’s backers were planning to move to permitting in less than two years. But it seemed like no one had even heard of their plan. Information was difficult to come by. Talking to a director of a prominent conservation group focused on Alaska, I had a hard time convincing him that Pebble actually existed. People cared, but they were few, scattered, and no one was paying them much attention. I couldn’t even find a picture of the place.

So I thought I’d better go take a few.

Three days earlier, I’d walked here alone from Nondalton Village, not sure what I might find. As I walked into the rolling flats of the proposed tailings lake, the wind and rain picked up, whipping the tiny plants into photographic blurs, and spattering water across my lens. The plants hugged the ground in a close-knit mat, surviving by being low and crowded. I followed caribou trails around the brushy tangles, circling Frying Pan Lake, and hiking into the hills on either side of the valley.

Cranberries and reindeer moss – 2005

I’d just spent the whole day hiking in what could become a giant tailings lake. How could everything around me – literally everything I could see, and everything I walked through all day, disappear into a toxic muck pond?

Becoming an Expert

At the end of 2005, typing “Pebble Mine” into Google would bring you straight to me. I had exactly zero funding, and only crude web skills. Yet somehow, my on-the-ground expedition, photographs, research and writing had turned my page into the dominant source of Pebble Mine info on the web. Requests started flooding in. I heard from people who wanted to use my photos, for everything from posters to magazines to college projects. From people who had questions, who wanted to know what they could do, who wanted to know more…

Who was I to be in this position? I tried to live up to it, painstakingly compiling facts and news articles, attending Northern Dynasty’s meetings in Seattle, and reading long papers about mining issues.

Where Threatened Waters Flow

Last of the snow melting from the banks of the upper Koktuli River – 2006

June, 2006: I walked out of Nondalton Village, this time with Hig and my friend Tom in tow. The tundra was painted with the pastel yellows and pinks of tiny wildflowers and tinged with the dull, muted tones of ground that has only recently emerged from the snow.

Even from this closest village, the Pebble valley was still a day and a half’s walk away. As we approached the first of the exploration drill rigs, a trio of caribou trotted past gracefully. A helicopter roared across the dark grey sky, tilting and bouncing in the punishing wind. Trash littered the ground near the trampled and muddy pits of old drill rig sites. I crouched in the grass with my telephoto lens, shooting drill rigs and hoses, and the sludge of rock slurry spilling out over the tundra.

Our mission on this journey was to follow the water. As salmon swim, and as toxins might flow, we spent a month traveling almost 500 miles under our own power, hiking and packrafting the length of both watersheds that connect the Pebble site to Bristol Bay.

My natural shyness had been countered by my bolder companions. As we passed through villages, we began to talk to the locals – about the area, about our trip, about the mine. Each person we spoke to seemed keen to tell us that their entire village was against the mine. They were concerned about the fish, and skeptical of the mining company’s promises.

Here in the Bristol Bay watersheds, everyone knew about Pebble. Everyone had strong opinions. But the rest of the state and the country was just starting to hear of it.

Drill rig at the Pebble Prospect – 2008.

Familiar Ground

March, 2008: A wind swept our skis down the frozen surface of Sixmile Lake. As we approached Nondalton Village a cluster of low, colorful buildings emerged from the bare birch and shaggy spruce on its shores. The small forms of people appeared on the edge of the ice, approaching to greet us.

“Come in! There’s moose stew and all kinds of food.”

By now, we were returning to familiar ground. We dumped our snowy backpacks in a corner of the Nondalton community center, underneath a poster of my photographs from 2005, and lined up for styrofoam bowls of moose stew.

Anti-mine symbols graced buttons and baseball caps around the room—a neat red slash through the words “Pebble Mine.” “No Pebble Mine” posters covered the walls, the professional work of an Anchorage environmental group intermingled with the colorful hand-drawn efforts of local children. Nunamta Aulukestai, a multi-village organization firrmly against the mining proposal, had invited a panel of scientists and a state official to talk about the potential impacts of a mine.

Somewhere in the past few years, things had changed. Not just here in the villages, but across the state. More and more, Pebble was even popping up in national and international media. Pebble Mine wasn’t the issue no one had heard of anymore. It was the issue everyone had an opinion on. It was the issue that dominated commercials and ballot initiatives, and seemed better known than any other resource issue in the state.

Forever

Elders outlining subsistence resources near the Pebble site – 2008

Tom Crafford (state DNR large mine coordinator), stood up in front of the small crowd in the Nondalton community center, explaining the setup at Red Dog Mine, where a water-treatment plant sits at the outlet of the tailings storage lake, perpetually deacidifying and detoxifying the water before it is released, making it safe for downstream life. When the mine closes, the treatment plant will still be there, treating the water in perpetuity. Other maintenance will need to be performed perpetually as well, keeping the toxic tailings stored in a dammed-off lake, forever sequestered away from water and air. This is what the future of Pebble Mine might look like

Hig broke in with a question: “What exactly do you mean by ‘in perpetuity?’”

“Forever,” Crafford responded.

“Actually forever?”

“Yes.”

“When the United States no longer exists, when glaciers roll over the landscape in another ten thousand years, some guy is going to be out there with a bulldozer maintaining the dams around the tailings storage lake? To a geologist, forever doesn’t even make sense!”

Forever is impossible. Whether it happened in one year, ten years, a hundred years, or a thousand, those tailings would eventually pollute the downstream watersheds. Failure was a given. We were just taking bets on when it might happen, and how rapid a failure it might be.

What’s Next?

A thunderstorm approaches the Pebble site – 2006

In some ways, we’ve moved away from Pebble Mine in the last few years, broadening our focus to encompass issues that haven’t yet reached everyone’s attention. Against the backdrop of air-supported National Geographic photo trips and constant television ads, my home-grown efforts seemed paltry. The world may not need my photos of Pebble any longer. But there are questions that no one else is asking.

I haven’t been back to Pebble since 2008. But Hig’s visited the area every summer, digging trenches, doing high-resolution GPS surveys, searching for evidence of faults and earthquakes. Even in the 30,000 page baseline data document Pebble Mine recently released, there is only a paltry 3 pages covering seismic risk. And in those 3 pages, there’s not much worth looking at. For other industrial projects in seismically active areas, companies pay for detailed surveys that identify faults and quantify risk. Here, Hig has spent yeas doing the only original science on seismic hazard risk in the Pebble Mine region.

In the last seven years, I’ve watched awareness and outreach on the Pebble Mine issue blossom far beyond what I could have possibly imagined. But that question Hig asked in Nondalton still hangs unanswered. It’s an issue that comes up in large mine projects across the state and the world. As far as I know, there is no solution to the problem of permanent tailings storage other than what we were told by the PR rep for Red Dog mine.

What will we do about forever?

A project to tell the Bristol Bay story

Part four of a four-part blog post entitled “Where Water is Gold: Bristol Bay and the Pebble Mine”

What is it about the Bristol Bay region, its history and its people that has led to such an opposition to development of the Pebble Mine?  For most people, though, the answer to this question is spread out among a tangling web of websites, articles, opinion pieces, editorials, and smothered by the drowning deluge of angry, bitter commercials.  I want to answer it in a way that is accessible, meaningful, and comprehensive.   As an Alaskan, I want that story to highlight the many amazing aspects of Alaskan rural life that this issue represents.  The end result will be a book published by The Mountaineers Books/Braided Rivers, scheduled for release in the fall of 2013.

I am currently conducting fieldwork to photograph the scenery, the wildlife and the people and to conduct interviews.  From aerial photography to visiting villages, from pack rafting the Nushagak watershed to visiting sport fishing lodges, I am covering the region in a way that comprehensively gets to the heart of the Bristol Bay/Pebble Mine controversy.  Photos and essays will cover commercial fishing, sport fishing and hunting, the subsistence way of life through all seasons, the history of the Pebble exploration, a glimpse of what sort of mine it will likely be, and an examination of the fears at the heart of the issue.

So with my book, tentatively titled “Where Water is Gold: Bristol Bay and the Pebble Mine,” I, along with other writers, will craft essays to explore the many issues behind the tension of conservation and development present in the Bristol Bay region and the development of the Pebble Mine.  Through stories about individuals, families, scientists, these essays, along with my photography, will help create a vision of the Bristol Bay region and the people who live there.  And, along the way, you will come to understand why they hold this land, and its amazing waters, sacred.

I have tremendous partners working with me on messaging and providing me valuable resources such as material support and connections to people in the area; partners such as Ground Truth Trekking, Trout Unlimited, and the Alaska Wilderness League.  I also have a media sponsor, BuzzBizz Studios, which is making in-kind donations of videography, video editing and web design services.  And who knows, I may even get some material support from the Pebble Partnership directly; at least, it seems possible after a productive meeting with PR staff from Pebble and Anglo American back in December (I am still waiting to hear from them).

To learn the specific details on how I plan to approach this project and its current budget, read my Project Proposal.  You will find links to various aspects of this project on the Projects page on my website.  This project is being funded purely through grassroots efforts, so please visit my USA Projects page to see an introductory video about the project and make a tax deductible contribution.

An overview of the issues

Part three of a four-part blog post entitled “Where Water is Gold: Bristol Bay and the Pebble Mine”

The Bristol Bay Native Corporation, the regional corporation formed under the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act to serve the Native residents of the region, has adopted a proposal in opposition to the mine.  In addition, 81% of its shareholders are against development of the mine.  BBNC emphasizes “responsible development” as part of its mission, and is convinced that the Pebble Mine could not be developed responsibly, that is, in a way that does not harm other resources and users.  And BBNC is not alone – a 2009 survey showed that 71% of the area residents are opposed to developing the mine.  A separate recent poll revealed that 66% of Alaskans and 66% of Americans are against development of the mine.  Opposition to the mine is so strong, Anglo-American issued an investment advisory to its constituents, noting, “The Pebble project is opposed by a politically powerful coalition of diverse interests who have the support of a large segment of the Alaskan electorate.”

The Pebble Partnership steadfastly maintains that it can responsibly develop the mine, that it can produce its metals products without harming the salmon fishery.  Jason Brune, public affairs manager for Anglo-American (US), notes that Anglo-American’s specific record of responsible practices and recent improvements in mining technology show that Pebble can be developed responsibly.  Many question whether Pebble can responsibly develop the mine given that it has already been caught violating permit conditions at the exploration phase.  Hard rock mining by its very nature is a boom-and-bust industry, wreaking havoc on regional economies and leaving behind a scarred, tainted landscape.  The impact on water quality is typically much worse than that predicted by the mine developer.  But knowing about the history of mining and the nature of metal sulfide hard rock mining is not the way to understand why people are against the Pebble Mine.  You can only learn that from the people themselves.

Vic Fischer, one of only two surviving delegates to the Alaska Constitutional Convention, opposes the Pebble development because he believes it stands contrary to the dictates of the Alaska Constitution itself.  Noting he was “acutely aware of [his] responsibility to future generations with respect to Alaska’s resources,” the State’s current policy of allowing mineral development without question “is contrary to the framers’ intent” when they drafted Article VIII.

The most important thing to know about the Bristol Bay regional economy is that it is a mixed-cash economy.  There are approximately 7,500 people living in the Bristol Bay region, among whom 66% are Alaska Native.  Unlike what most people may be accustomed to, where you rely exclusively on a cash income in order to survive, most of the residents of Bristol Bay live what the State and Federal government refer to as a “subsistence” lifestyle.  However, actual residents of the area dislike the term as it focuses exclusively on obtaining food for consumption.  Rather, they see it as a way of life.  Residents spend their entire year heading out into the waters and lands of the Bristol Bay region, hunting, gathering and fishing to bring in food, to bring in materials for crafts for trade and sale, to provide materials for important cultural events like dances (costumes) and potlatches or other celebrations.  People in the region eat wild plants, berries, bird eggs, migratory birds, caribou, moose, bear, salmon, and a variety of resident fish.  Salmon make up the largest share of the food and account for over half of all harvest (on a basis of usable pounds). And this way of life goes far beyond what the land can provide.  It connects people through activities, lessons, stories, journeys, language with a land that has gone mostly undisturbed through time, providing a rich bounty.

Many who oppose the development of the Pebble Mine speak of how its development will impact this way of life.  Bella Hammond, widow of one of Alaska’s most revered governors, Jay Hammond, stresses the importance of fish as a renewable resource and that while the fish may come back decade after decade and provide a reliable food source and revenue, “we do not know how long mining will last.”  Violet Willson, a longtime resident of Naknek, has examined the historical impacts of large scale hard rock mines and is greatly concerned that the chemicals discharged into the soil and waters of the region will impact the subsistence fishing of her 22 grandchildren and 16 great-grandchildren, as well as generations to come.  Luki Akelkok, Sr. of Ekwok, who has hunted caribou, moose and ducks on the Nushagak watershed, has already noticed impacts to wildlife from the Pebble exploration and fears increased impacts if a mine is developed.  Such stories are virtually countless in a region where so many people rely so much on the land and waters for their way of life.

Commercial fishing, tourism and recreational fishing proponents in the region also vastly oppose the mine.  Commercial fishing is a principle engine of the regional economy, providing 75% of the seasonal jobs (commercial fishing is by its very nature a seasonal venture) and steady income to area residents, bringing in $234 million in revenue to the region.  Everett Thompson of the F/V Chulyen is one of many commercial fishing skippers who is steadfastly opposed to the mine, even though he was neutral about it earlier.  Additionally, another $100 million floods into the region through remote sport fishing lodges serving high-end clients with angling adventures involving world-class Rainbow Trout and a variety of salmon, wildlife viewing, and sport hunting.

Yes, as the polls tell, not everyone is against the mine.  One of the reasons why people in the region support it, and one of the things the Pebble Partnership touts about the mine development, is the potential for long-term, year-round jobs in the region.  Residents in the village of Iliamna typically favor the development, as Iliamna Natives Limited, the village Native corporation, has enjoyed lucrative contracts during the exploration phase of the mine for providing logistical support to the Pebble Partnership.  Owners of lodges and other businesses in the Iliamna area, who have provided many services over the years to the Pebble effort, also greatly support the project, seeing it is an opportunity for an economic boom in the region.

In addition to exploring the way of life enjoyed by residents of the Bristol Bay region and how they fear the development of the mine, my book will explore why they fear the development of the mine.  Are the fears about poor water quality and its adverse impacts on the relationship between the people and the land well-founded?  This lies at the heart of the controversy.  Salmon are highly susceptible to changes in their environment, especially acidification, and salmon are a key part of both the subsistence and commercial livelihood of the Bristol Bay region.  Yet, the very nature of metal sulfide hard rock mining guarantees that the water chemistry of the region will be altered in some way.  From the constant discharge downstream of treated tailings pond water to the likely seeping of acid rock drainage from the surface to ground water, to where it will likely mix with surface waters, there are plenty of opportunities for the water chemistry to be altered short of a catastrophic event like tailings dam failure, often cited as a concern in this actively seismic region.  Research conducted in the region during the exploration phase suggests that certain changes are already certainly underway.

Coming next: A project to tell the Bristol Bay story

Along came a Pebble

Part two of a four-part blog post entitled “Where Water is Gold: Bristol Bay and the Pebble Mine”

Thirty-two years after the Alaska Constitutional Convention concluded, Teck Cominco, a Canadian mining company, using the name Cominco Alaska Exploration, filed its first Alaska Placer Mining Application, a document filed with the Alaska Department of Natural Resources to receive permission to, among other things, conduct exploratory drilling on mineral claims in order to identify the nature and quality of the mineral deposit.    Teck Cominco was seeking to explore the area near the headwaters of the Upper Talarik Creek and the North Fork of the Koktuli River. Aerial surveys of the area revealed discoloration of the ground that was indicative of rich mineral deposits.   Once it started, Teck Cominco proceeded relatively unnoticed by the public for over a decade, while drilling 20-30 holes a season.  In 2001, Canadian firm Northern Dynasty acquired Teck Cominco’s claims and greatly increased exploration.  In 2004, Northern Dynasty announced its discovery of a “behemoth” gold and copper deposit.  Then, in 2007, the British firm of Anglo-American joined forces with Northern Dynasty to form the Pebble Partnership.  By the end of 2010, the exploration of the Pebble deposit had created approximately 1,300 drill holes in the area, along with associated helicopter and drill rig usage, and sump pits for the dumping of exploration waste at each bore hole, all scattered over several square miles of otherwise virgin public land.

In 2012, the Pebble Partnership stands on the verge of finally submitting its application to State officials to develop the Pebble Mine.  The mine will, by Northern Dynasty’s draft designs, become one of the largest gold and copper mines in the world; certainly the largest in North America.  One portion of the development (the Pebble West deposit) would be a large open pit mine while the rest (the Pebble East deposit) would be underground.  Mining operations would consume massive amounts of water from the headwaters of two of the seven main river systems in the Bristol Bay region and the scattered deposits and low-grade ore would generate billions of tons of waste rock and  tailings, which when mixed with water and oxygen create the conditions for acid-rock drainage.  The Pebble Partnership estimates it would operate the mine for 50-80 years.  During that time, the mine would utilize a tailings pond to handle waste rock, constantly releasing treated tailings water downstream under a permit authorized by the Environmental Protection Agency.  And under typical mine closure plans, mines that use tailings ponds are designed to leave a permanent impact on the land – tailings ponds by their very nature can never be fully remediated.

Yet, twenty-three years after the first hole was drilled by Teck Cominco, no Alaska state official has ever made any determination, called a Best Interest Finding, as to whether this was a good idea for the State given other resources and other users in the area.  A “Best Interest Finding” is a statutorily-required determination made by State officials that a proposed project is in the best interests of the residents of Alaska, and for their maximum benefit.  It is derived from Article VIII of the Alaska Constitution, which provides for development of natural resources “by making them available for maximum use consistent with the public interest,” and that such development should be for the “maximum benefit” of Alaskans. While such a finding is required for oil and gas exploration, it is not for mining.  Why?  Because Alaska law has evolved to specifically not require such a determination until the company is ready to actually construct, develop and operate the mine.  And in all of the history of large-scale upland hard rock mining in Alaska, the State Department of Natural Resources has never denied an application for mine development.  Every large-scale upland hard rock mine that wants to get developed has been developed.

But no mine in the history of Alaska has even been proposed that is as large as the Pebble Mine, and no mine has ever encountered such universal opposition from regional residents, from Alaskans and from all over the United States.  Why people are against the mine lies at the heart of my project, “Where Water is Gold: Bristol Bay and the Pebble Mine.”

Coming next: An overview of the issues