An unlikely couple—a wild boy and a good girl—Ray and Barbara Bane, both teachers, set off from the sooty landscape of West Virginia into the snowy panoramas of Alaska. There they make another unlikely commitment: to learn the Old Ways of the land they come to adopt—and defend. With her characteristic poise and bravery, distinguished Alaskan journalist Kaylene Johnson-Sullivan chronicles the Banes’ story of environmental gumption in the wilderness.
It won’t be long before we’ll be swapping winter bunny boots for summer footwear. Our assortment of boots sits on a shelf in the mudroom, out of reach of Lily, our shoe-chewing Aussie pup. The collection clearly shows that I prefer boots to pretty shoes. When I shop, I’m looking for comfort and mileage. I’m looking for a long-term, hard-working relationship.
Sadly, like good
dogs and honest horses, boots have a limited lifespan. I have outlived five
dogs and two horses. Now friends are telling me it is time to say goodbye to my
old cowboy boots. My husband even offered to take me shopping.
The boots are
literally coming apart at the seams. The inside lining has long since ripped
out. They are tattered and stained. All that remains are worn soles, cracked leather
that lets in daylight, and a whole lot of memories.
I bought them more
than a decade ago in North Dakota in the small town where my late mother- and
father-in-law at one time owned a working cattle ranch. We rode many miles
checking and mending fences in the hot Dakota sun. In early spring, we pulled
calves and watched newborn babies totter at their mother’s sides. We rounded up
cattle on horseback and moved them from one pasture to another. We branded and
vaccinated bawling calves in old wood-rail corrals. We hauled hay bales and
planted trees and watched for deer that the guys would hunt in the fall. The
day my father-in-law and I lay my sick horse to rest, those boots stood on
prairie soil as our tears watered the ground. My old boots hold the memories of
ranch life, hard and dusty but good.
The boots also saw
many fine experiences on trails in Alaska. One day, attempting to keep my boots
dry as we crossed the Little Susitna River, I draped my feet up onto my horse’s
neck. A school of salmon swam by and bumped into my mare’s legs. Startled, she
wildly leaped out of the water, leaving me and the boots behind for a thorough
The boots accompanied me twice as I went airborne off my
new horse. That set me on a journey to learn a new kind of training and riding
that expanded far beyond the cowboy way. I discovered that horses had more to
teach me than I could have imagined.
Not long ago, I
took my husband up on his offer and bought that new pair of boots, but I
confess I’m having trouble parting with the old ones. The new boots are young
and inexperienced. They are strangers to my feet and have not yet melded to my
stride. They haven’t yet kicked manure, been buried in mud, or pressed their
heels against the flanks of a horse. Every time I slip into my old boots, it
feels like a hug from an old friend. To think about throwing them in the trash
seems disrespectful somehow. It seems far more fitting that they should be laid
to rest under a tall birch tree.
When I shared these
sentiments with my husband recently, he listened without laughing. Then quietly
he said, “I’ll dig a hole.”
So someday, when
the ground thaws in spring, we’ll bury the old boots. I won’t be parting with
the memories though. Those I’ll hold dear for the rest of my days. Soon it will
be time to take some brand-new friends out of the box. And maybe the best way
to get acquainted will be to go for a nice long ride together.
I stepped into my kitchen yesterday and discovered that a pan of cinnamon rolls I had left on the stovetop to rise, now lay face down in a gooey mess on the kitchen floor. A lot of thoughts ran through my mind at that moment. One thought is not printable in a family magazine. Another thought was why two reasonably sensible adults would choose to get two puppies in the span of two and a half years.
The mess was clearly the handiwork
of the younger of the two dogs, eighteen-week-old Lily Blue. Our granddaughter,
Aurora, chose the name when we announced her arrival into the family at Easter
dinner. Lily’s second name, Blue, is after the dog whose legacy preceded her.
They even share some of the same markings.
We wound up with two dogs in quick
succession in the same way couples often wind up with two kids back-to-back.
The first child is so easy-going and joyfully compliant that we congratulate
ourselves on our amazing parenting skills. “This is easy and fun, let’s have
another!” Then number two comes along and our pride gets roundly thumped and taken
out with the trash – much like that pile of bread dough on the floor.
The older of the two dogs, Essie
Lou, is a border collie and is by far the smartest dog we’ve ever owned. Her
intelligence is a tad unsettling because you wonder if she just might be
smarter than you. Someone once asked, if
we got lost hiking in Alaska, could she help us find our way home? I answered,
“Yes, and probably figure out my taxes along the way.” Essie Lou’s greatest
anxiety in life is that she might displease us and so any reprimands to this
sensitive dog must be measured and calm; followed by lots of love and assurance
that we do indeed adore her.
Then came Lily.
We cannot remember Essie Lou
destroying a single item even through the insatiable curiosity of her puppyhood.
(Might we have amnesia about her youth in the same way that parents forget the
pain of childbirth or the challenge of raising teenagers?)
Although she is the epitome of
sweetness, to date Lily has shredded my reading glasses, my husband’s hearing
aids, a pair of Carhartt’s, the wooden stair banister, and a corner of the
leather couch. Lily is also a thief. She pilfers from the laundry, the garbage,
and the grandkids’ dollhouse. She once stole from the table, a crime we
discovered only after her pink belly was as round as the blueberries that were in
the muffins she consumed. Why wouldn’t she check on what tasty morsels – like
cinnamon rolls – might be awaiting discovery on countertops and stoves?
Lily is an Australian Shepherd, another
herding breed. Along with being smart, they’re known as “Velcro dogs” for the
strong bonds they form with their owners. It is easy to keep Lily under close
supervision because she’s always underfoot, except when she quietly exits our
space to explore her world. The results of her forays have become self-evident.
We asked our friend, 92-year-old Dick
Griffith, who was once a sheepherder in Wyoming, how to train these dogs. We
have horses and the dogs have a natural drive to herd them, which can be
problematic without some direction. I was gathering the horses up one day when
I heard the thunder of galloping hooves coming at me from behind. When I turned
around, one of the horses was running toward me full tilt with a border collie
on its heels. “Whoa!” As far as the dog was concerned, she was just doing her
job, helping me bring in the herd.
Dick said you don’t have to train
these dogs – they learn what to do by watching older dogs do their job. Essie
Lou has always adored Dick; we put her indoors when he leaves, or she will
follow his car out of the driveway. Now Lily has also glommed on, following Dick
around and laying at his feet to nap. We’ve decided that either sheepherders
have a secret handshake or it’s in the blood. They certainly seem to share a kindred
Maybe Lily and Essie Lou have
adopted Dick as the old dog that will teach them what they need to know in
life. He’s certainly taught us a thing or two over the years.
Meanwhile, Lily is educating us on
how best to puppy-proof our surroundings and the importance of keeping the
cinnamon rolls out of reach.
My husband and I have a private reading club. We read aloud every night before bed and the topic of discussion over our coffee the next morning is often the book we are reading. Katy Yocom’s debut novel Three Ways to Disappear was a book that generated thought-provoking discussion long after we turned the last page.
We live in Alaska. As I write this, July temperatures have soared to record-breaking 90 degrees (32 C), and smoke has obliterated the view of the mountains behind our home. Wildfires have already scorched 1.2 million acres of the state this summer. Seven dead gray whales have washed up on Alaska shores this week alone, bringing the total to twenty-two so far this year. The Arctic Inupiaq village of Kivalina is being threatened by rising sea levels and erosion. Yocom’s novel touches on environmental themes of a story that we are living here in real-time.
Three Ways to Disappear depicts the relationships of the DeVaughan sisters who were each shaped by a tragedy that befell their family when they were young. Quinn is raising a family in Louisville, Kentucky, with a child who has severe asthma. Sarah is a globe-trotting journalist whose interest in the conservation of tigers has landed her in a job in India, where the sisters grew up. In many respects, Sarah and Quinn are opposites. Sarah is a warrior, willing to take risks; Quinn is a thinker and careful to avoid peril.
The novel organically raises questions about the efforts to preserve imperiled species. Those efforts often push up against cultural norms and belief systems, and Sarah’s story takes place at the intersection of these divergent values. It is one thing to be a relatively wealthy American woman with a sincere call to save tigers and another thing to be a local villager whose livestock and livelihood depend on water that is now off limits within the boundaries of the national park. The controversy reaches a boiling point during a regional drought and marks a dramatic turning point in the novel.
In Alaska, the establishment of national parks and preserves in the 1970s was vehemently—sometimes violently—opposed by local residents who felt robbed of the lands they once considered the last bastion of the American frontier. President Jimmy Carter was burned in effigy and national park aircraft were firebombed in protest. Passions ran high as love for unfettered wilderness pushed against devotion to the freedoms that wilderness represented.
Yocom’s luscious description of the Ranthambhore tiger reserve reveres the habitat itself. Readers feel the shade of the kulu trees, see the Sambar deer graze, and catch the “iridescent flash of blue” as a kingfisher flies past. The legendary tigress, Machhli, who was the oldest surviving tiger in the wild until she died in 2016, is a character in the novel. Sarah must navigate her commitment to the preservation of tigers with her burgeoning but forbidden love for a local man.
Meanwhile, Quinn is in Kentucky navigating a troubled marriage and the demands of a tight-lipped mother whose secrets hold a key to understanding their childhood. The Quinn sisters’ paths converge in India as they try to reconnect with each other and with their troubled past.
It turns out in Alaska that the wilderness here was never “locked up” with the establishment of national parks as many feared. Instead, it was “locked open,” as former Governor Jay Hammond liked to say, for the preservation of one of the last truly wild places on earth. Most national parks in the contiguous U.S. offer facsimiles of wilderness as tourists drive in RVs to see bison grazing next to the road. In Alaska, there are no roads and no facilities at many of the parks. Thus, truly wild places are preserved in a natural state that offers an ever-shrinking laboratory of what is possible when the land is left to its own devices.
The deeply human plot in Three Ways to Disappear has the forward momentum that my husband enjoyed, with a richness of language that satisfied us both. In the smoke of Alaska’s heatwave, in a time of historic environmental changes, the book’s title held no small amount of irony for us.
The topic of the environment must by necessity include economics and the reality of politics. Yet in these vitriolic times, how do you find words to bring disparate voices to the table without further polarizing the conversation? Literature can take that role as it bridges a strong fictional narrative to the complicated world in which we live. In our conversations, both my husband and I agreed that Yocom’s novel achieved this with clarity and grace. Not only are the characters changed by the end of the story, we are changed for having known them.
Before Alaska villages started falling into the ocean, this couple saw change coming.
Ray Bane sat quietly on the bank of the Koyukuk River, a winding ribbon of blue so clear that the slant of sun on its pebble-strewn floor bounced back a million shards of light. The river meandered down and along the south flank of the Arctic’s continental divide through the heart of Alaska’s central Brooks Range. Hidden in a grove of willows, Bane breathed in the scent of Alaska’s slender summer. The river murmured in endless, fluid conversation as it tumbled over rocks along the narrow gravel bar.
Bane had not been sitting long when he saw movement along the edge of the willows about thirty yards away. A female gray wolf stepped into sight. Tufts of loose winter fur still clung to her coat. Bane could see by her sagging and shriveled belly that she had recently weaned a litter of wolf cubs. As she ambled toward the river, a pup rushed out of the willows. Four more pups followed, circling the female, chasing each other playfully.
The year was 1971, and Bane and his wife Barbara had come to Alaska a decade earlier as young school teachers to the Native villages of the far north.
While inside the village school Ray and Barbara taught science and math, outside the classroom they became the apprentices of their Native friends and neighbors. From people who lived close to the land, they learned about change through the rhythm of the seasons and the cycle of life. They learned the ways of the Elders, the ones who had been subsisting on this spare and hungry land for centuries.
The Banes did not intend to become activists. But in the 1960s and 1970s, they saw looming changes to the Native way of life and the landscape itself as big oil companies looked to Alaska for domestic sources of oil. Between the advent of snowmobiles, that did away with the quiet pull of a dog team in winter, and the impacts of global warming, where a rising ocean would lap at the front door of Native coastal communities, the Banes saw that some of the last wild places on earth could potentially vanish in their lifetimes. Over their 37-year careers, they would live and work in half-a-dozen villages, mostly across the northern tier of the state.
Shortly after their arrival in Alaska, Ray and Barbara went “bushy.” Many non-Native educators spent winters holed up in small quarters trying to cope with the astringent cold and endless dark. But instead of playing cards with teachers waiting for their next assignment out of the village, the Banes bought and borrowed dogs to assemble a dog team. Ray spent the winters behind his team, hunting seal and caribou with local villagers.
When the principal at the school in the village of Barrow learned that Bane was planning to make a 200-mile round trip trek to the neighboring village of Wainwright by dog team, he threatened to cancel Bane’s leave.
“He considered my activities running around by dog team and going out hunting and socializing with the Eskimos to be foolhardy and setting a poor example,” Bane said. “He was particularly critical of my attempts to learn the Eskimo language and use it in the classroom. He said my job was to help move the children away from their present life and prepare them to live in the modern (white man’s) world.”
Bane made his trip despite the threat and the couple transferred to Wainwright the following year. Wainwright was a smaller, more remote community of Inupiat Eskimos. The Banes always migrated toward living a little closer to the heart of the Arctic.
On that day of the wolf encounter, Bane had been told by villagers that a group of wolves had been sighted on a gravel bar about ten miles upstream on the river. His earlier sightings of wolves as he traveled across the snow-clad landscape with his team had kindled his interest in these elusive and mysterious animals. Bane knew that behind the shadowy myth of wolves was an animal as complex as it was intelligent.
Now as he watched, hidden and kneeling behind a thicket, the wolf pups played tag, ambushed each other, and tumbled in mock battle. One pup tried to run away with a willow stalk which was still rooted to the ground. Running in circles, the fearsome fellow was at times swung off his feet by centrifugal force. Bane observed through his binoculars, rapt by their antics. Then he heard a sound behind him, a twig breaking underfoot. The hair on the nape of his neck prickled. He slowly lowered his binoculars and turned to look.
On a slight rise behind him, standing in the willows just an arm’s length away, a male wolf peered down at him with yellow-rimmed eyes.
“Time seemed to momentarily freeze. The wolf met my eyes,” Bane remembers. “I felt no sense of threat, although I realized that I was not in control of my immediate future.”
The wolf lowered his head and quietly retreated. As Bane watched, he saw several more shapes moving back and forth in the surrounding brush.
Bane decided not to push his luck or further intrude on the pack’s activities. He folded up the camera tripod and stepped out of the willows onto the open bar.
The female wolf leapt to her feet. With lowered head, she angled away as Bane walked quietly in the opposite direction toward his airplane. Paying no attention to his movements, the pups continued their romp on the gravel bar. In the willow thicket, at least two gray shapes kept pace with Bane, escorting him upstream around the bend to where his airplane was tied. After untying the mooring line and pushing off into the river current, Bane let the plane float quietly back downstream toward the gravel bar. As the plane rounded the bend, again in sight of the pups, Bane tipped his head back and let out his approximation of a wolf howl.
“The entire willow grove seemed to explode into a wild chorus of howls that washed across the sky, filling the land and me with an indescribable sense of wildness,” he said. Even the pups lifted their muzzles and cried out a youthful version of their ancestors’ primordial call.
These were the kinds of experiences that sustained Bane when he found himself, just a few years later, a human lightning rod in the middle of a gathering storm – when even old friends would stand up in a crowd and shout to his face, “I hate your guts!”
The discovery of oil on the North Slope of Alaska in 1968 set off a fevered land rush as various stakeholders vied for the possibility of cashing in on enormous economic development. Oil companies wanted to build a pipeline; the State of Alaska had legal claim to a percentage of federally managed lands and was eager to cash in; and the federal government had yet to settle aboriginal claims to the public lands of the state. Millions of acres of Alaska’s untouched wilderness were about to change forever. What that change might look like became a heated economic, political and environmental crisis that would take a decade to resolve, and more than twenty years for the political maelstrom to settle.
Bane had no idea, sitting among wolves on that sunny afternoon, how he would become a flashpoint in the debate for creating National Parks and Preserves across Alaska. What Bane did know was that he and his wife Barbara loved their life in the Arctic. The landscape on which they lived tolerated no sentimental views of wilderness. The realities were stark and formidable, especially in winter, which left no room for mistakes. Yet the rewards, hard-earned as they were, more than made up for the work of chopping wood for fuel and melting ice for water, for the year-round efforts of harvesting sustenance from the land and ice-encrusted sea.
The wilderness was a harsh taskmaster, yet at times the nearly-sentient presence of the land itself left Bane wordless with awe. Where else on earth did caribou migrate by the thousands as they had for millennia, unfettered by human development? Where else did rivers remain as pristine as they had been since the dawn of time?
In 1974 Ray and Barbara planned a leave of absence from their teaching jobs to trek by dog team 1,400 miles across some of the most remote wilderness on earth. They had developed a team with a stellar lead dog, and over the course of the long winter, they built a freight sled piece by piece on the floor of their log cabin. They planned to leave in mid-February as daylight increased, and to stay ahead of the spring thaw as they traveled north along the Arctic coastline. Their plans caught the attention of Zorro Bradley, a coordinator for the National Park Service, who had been assigned to help the NPS and the U.S. Congress better understand the concerns of Alaska Natives who might be affected by the formation of new national parks. Bradley offered the Banes logistical support for their trek if they agreed to maintain a record of Native winter trail use along their route. The Banes were happy to oblige.
Their trip started during what turned out to be a freakishly cold spring. In brutal temperatures that dipped to seventy below zero, they crossed the Koyukuk Valley and traveled westward toward Kotzebue on to the coast of the Bering Sea. From there, they turned north and paralleled the storm-whipped coastline, often traveling on the frozen sea ice. Along the way, they would visit the villages of Point Hope, Point Lay, Wainwright and finally end their trek at Barrow.
“The thing that sticks most in our memories is the amazing hospitality of the people we met along the way,” Bane remembers. “Without their encouragement and support the trip would have been far more difficult and not nearly as rewarding.”
In the three months it took to complete the trek, village residents offered the Banes a warm if incredulous welcome. The Banes were clearly not typical “Tunniks” (Caucasians) and their travels opened wide their credibility with a people who lived close to the natural rhythms of the land.
Bradley and the NPS took notice. The Banes were a couple who could act as a liaison with Native communities while plans for the establishment of new parks in Alaska took shape. These public lands would preserve for future generations the opportunity to experience wilderness in its rawest form. And nowhere would that be truer than in the Gates of the Arctic, where the Banes lived and worked much of their lives. Here, in the central Brooks Range, the impact of humans was nominal, and wilderness could be left as it had always been, free of modern human development. These new parks in Alaska would be different. Unlike Yellowstone and Yosemite, there would be no roads or facilities, no concessionaires or services to make visitors comfortable.
The Banes accepted the offer to work for the National Park Service. By air and dog-team, the couple explored the far reaches of the central Brooks Range as Ray researched subsistence patterns of Native cultures. As they traveled and worked in remote villages, Ray was careful to explain the purpose of his work. He also talked about the national lands proposals, explaining how legislators in Juneau and Washington were grappling with how to split the pie of the state’s vast public lands.
The Banes’ respect for people and their embrace of a subsistence lifestyle earned them many friends in the rural communities where they worked. But owning a piece of land, or laying claim to it, was a foreign notion to most Natives of Alaska. The people belonged to the land, not the other way around. Many of their friends shrugged and smiled, suggesting Ray ought to look for another line of work. Considering the contentious political climate, and with Alaska’s Congressional delegation strongly opposing these federal proposals, many assumed that the formation of these parks would never happen.
Then in 1978 President Jimmy Carter proclaimed seventeen national monuments, including the eight-million-acre Gates of the Arctic. Considered the single greatest act of conservation in U.S. history, Carter’s planset aside 56 million acres of Alaska land for future parks, preserves and refuges.
“Predictably, all hell broke loose in the hinterlands,” wrote author William E. Brown in his book, History of the Central Brooks Range: Gaunt Beauty, Tenuous Life. “Ray and Barbara Bane, still the only resident field representatives near the proposed northern parklands, received the full brunt of resentment in their community.”
The village store owner refused to serve them. Children threw stones. Their year’s supply of firewood to heat their home was stolen. Bane’s airplane was vandalized in a crime that may have been intended to cause a deadly accident. The NPS urged the Banes to move away to the safer offices of Fairbanks or Anchorage.
Bane refused to leave. He was convinced that hostility was simply a result of fear, and that the media and state’s rights activists were fanning those fears into an inferno of misinformation. Bane stepped into the fire. He invited rural residents, friends, and neighbors to meetings where, with the help of maps and other documents, he could explain what the monuments and the proposed National Parks meant.
“People had legitimate concerns, and I could understand their apprehension,” Bane said. “They just needed to know the facts.” Even after an NPS airplane was torched, Bane remained optimistic. He maintained that the acts of violence were the conduct of one or two hardened individuals. In time emotions would settle and people would come to understand why these lands needed stewardship.
“Having loved the north and its people, having heard for the first time the sound of trucks in the wilderness, (Bane) had joined the fight for what he believed in,” wrote John Kauffmann in his book Alaska’s Brooks Range: The Ultimate Mountains.
Bane sugar-coated nothing as he traveled from village to village explaining the new rules of these wilderness areas. For the most part, little would change to the Native traditional way of life. A big distinction from other national parks around the country, provisions in Alaska’s national parks assured that the Native subsistence culture would remain intact. Unlike other national parks, subsistence hunting, fishing, and trapping would still be allowed. The establishment of these monuments and National Parks meant that these lands would now be protected from a world growing ever thirstier for oil, coal, and mineral development.
Just as importantly, the wilderness would be held in trust as a legacy for future generations—not just a tourist’s semblance of wilderness—but the real deal, where life cycles played out, free from human encroachment.
“I’m a believer,” Bane has said time and again. And what he believes is that whatever changes are ahead, entire wilderness ecosystems need to be kept intact. He likens serving wilderness to protecting the Liberty Bell. “Whether or not I ever visit the Liberty Bell, I’ve inherited it and it’s my responsibility to help preserve it as a legacy of my Nation.”
It was a hard sell at times. Yet the moments like those on the gravel bar with the Koyukuk River wolves,were the moments that helped bolster the Banes’ fight to protect wild places for perpetuity. Enduring friendships, including those with the elders, also helped them weather the decades-long storm. Today, Bane is 80 years old, and his sky-blue eyes still flash with passion about the importance of preserving wilderness in the modern world. He has volumes of journals, stacks of newspaper articles, and hundreds of photos that document his and Barbara’s journey from idealistic young school teachers to strong and sometimes controversial voices for wilderness.
Amidst the memories and the mementos of that early struggle, he says, “Humans have spent more than ninety-eight percent of their history being molded by the forces of untamed Nature … There must be places where the heart of true wildness can continue to beat without technological and bureaucratic pacemakers that diminish wildness for the sake of human convenience. We should be willing to check human actions that ultimately destroy or diminish these last remaining wild places and treat Nature with respect and even reverence.”
Change may be inevitable, especially as the most recent administration unravels many of the protections that were put into place during that tumultuous period in Alaska and environmental history. Yet change can only be sustainable when it is placed in the context of respect for the land, a willingness to preserve our wilderness heritage, and a commitment to be forward-thinking stewards of the earth.
This article appeared in the Spring 2018 issue ofSisyphus.
There’s Island time—the slow, simple pace of a vacation—and then there’s turtle time. We were in Hawaii walking along a beach when we noticed distinctive tracks that led from the gentle ocean surf to a place in the sand where a sea turtle lay. Just a day earlier, we had been snorkeling and observing the quiet world of coral, brightly colored fish, and the occasional sea turtle. The turtles appeared to be flying in slow motion as their large fins propelled them through clear, sunlit water. Just watching them gave one pause to relax and settle into calm wonder at this underwater world.
When we saw the turtle laying in the sand on the beach, we were alarmed. It was so completely still, we wondered if it was dead. We made a wide berth, careful not to disturb it, and noticed that the slit of its closed eyes still glistened with moisture. Its eyelids moved but did not open. We decided to sit nearby and wait and watch. The sun baked down and the sand scorched our bare feet. Surely the turtle could not survive for long out of water.
We sat. We sat some more. We wondered about turtles’ lifespans. Was this normal behavior or was this sea turtle like a beached whale, stranded and dying? We noted that it was relatively small and if it needed to be rescued, we could probably lift it back to the water. We dismissed the notion, knowing these are protected animals and that nature would take its due course if the turtle was sick. Why else would it lay so motionless for so long? Maybe we ought to call a Hawaiian Agency for Turtles or something. Let someone know, just in case.
On the beach, the only thing that stirred was a breeze. Waves lapped rhythmically against the shore. Fine hexagonal lines patterned the turtle’s head, fins, and bony shell. It moved ever so slightly once, opened its eyes a small bit. Bill and I had planned to explore the entire isthmus, but we didn’t want to miss the turtle’s movement back into the water. So, we took turns. While one of us walked the beach, the other sat in the sand turtle sitting.
Sometime during the second hour, the turtle lifted its head, opened its eyes completely, and slowly turned to look at me. I held my breath. He stared and blinked then slowly turned to look the other direction. For a moment he seemed entirely awake. Then the turtle lay his head back in the sand and closed its eyes.
Although we seemed a comfortable distance away, maybe he was waiting for us to leave to make his getaway back to the water. So, we left to walk farther down the beach, resigning ourselves that even after our time watching, we would likely not witness his departure.
As we walked farther along the shore, we came upon two more sea turtles in the sand! These two had found each other on the beach, one was asleep like ours, the other was awake, its large eyes blinking slowly as it watched a handful other beach walkers pass by. No one seemed concerned. Later, we saw yet two more turtles in various positions along the shore. One lay partially on a sharp protrusion of volcanic rock looking positively content—like a puppy curled sleeping in its bed. We sighed with relief; apparently, our turtle wasn’t dying after all.
I had to laugh. Is it just human nature to worry about things, and then come up with a plan to fix it? Isn’t it just like us to have an expectation and then assume the worst when it doesn’t come to pass? (Someone once said, “Expectations are just disappointments waiting to happen.”) How was it that by spending time with him, we came to claim the turtle as ours? Finally, why is it that we lack the patience to wait for the unfolding of something in its own time? These are all questions that followed me home.
The first turtle was exactly where we had left him on the beach several hours earlier. Scientists, as it turns out, have been studying this behavior. When turtles are not nibbling on underwater seagrass or making pilgrimages to the shore to lay eggs, they come to the beach for the same reason we do.
Kaylene Johnson-Sullivan is a long-time Alaskan who makes her home in Palmer. She has found adventure on Denali, the Chugach Mountains, and as a wrangler and cook in the Brooks Range. Her award-winning articles have appeared in Alaska magazine, the Los Angeles Times, the Louisville Review and other publications. Her books include Our Perfect Wild: Ray and Barbara Bane's Journeys and the Fate of the Far North; Canyons and Ice: The Wilderness Travels of Dick Griffith; A Tender Distance: Adventures Raising My Sons in Alaska; Trails Across Time: History of An Alaska Mountain Corridor; and Portrait of the Alaska Railroad.
She holds a BA from Vermont College and an MFA in Writing from Spalding University in Louisville, Kentucky.