Is ANWR Worth Saving?
by Chip Duncan

Sixty-six year old Trimble Gilbert raised his arms like a fiery evangelist. He had something to say. An Episcopalian priest, Gilbert preached his Christmas Eve sermon to a semi-interested flock of 63 people, better than half the folks in Arctic Village, Alaska.

A member of the Gwich'in tribe of Alaska natives, Gilbert has been the priest here since 1974. Just an hour earlier, he'd arrived for the 8 p.m. service at about 8:15. Only my friend Mike Speaks and I had been on time. We'd already stoked the wood stove and made sure the oil heater was on set on high. Gilbert arrived smiling, wished us a "Merry Christmas," turned on the holiday icicle lights that dangled from the log-walled exterior, and said "I guess it's about time to get this going." He took nine long pulls on the mountaineering rope that rang the church bell. Like most of the 125 year-round residents of Arctic Village, Gilbert runs on what he calls "Indian time." The service would start as soon as folks arrived.

I moved outside and watched as the village main street filled with snowmobiles (the locals call them snow-goes or snow machines, but never snowmobiles - that's a dead giveaway that "you're not from around here"). As young boys threw snowballs barehanded, stocky women in fur hats and teenagers wearing the latest Oakland Raiders team jackets filed inside. The temperature was a balmy 25 degrees below zero, slightly above normal for this time of year.

How did I get here? Why choose Arctic Village, Alaska as a place to spend the Christmas holiday? Why voluntarily go anywhere that's known for sub-zero cold and a midday noteworthy for darkness?

This story begins six months earlier with a documentary film assignment in Alaska's Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, often referred to as ANWR (pronounced ann-waar). After years as a documentary filmmaker that included several productions in Alaska, I finally had the chance to journey beyond the tourist haunts of Denali, Glacier Bay and the Lynn Canal and into the "real" Alaskan wilderness to create the third segment in an adventure film called Rafting Alaska's Wildest Rivers. Along with adventure guides Julie Munger, Mike Speaks, Russ Lyman, my associate Bob Huck, and seven commercial passengers, we left Fairbanks on June 12th and headed to the source of a relatively unknown river called the Kongakut. Only about 100 people raft the Kongakut each summer, and when they do, they do it in June. It's the one time of year when the river is free of the two biggest obstacles to safe and enjoyable passage - ice and mosquitoes.

The Kongakut River is among the wildest rivers in North America - but not because of whitewater. The Kongakut runs through what may be the most pristine wilderness left on earth. It's an eerie-yet-beautiful landscape of tundra laden hillsides and vast plains of knee-deep permafrost bogs. From its source in the Brooks Range, the Kongakut flows north into the Arctic Ocean. It courses through what may be the most controversial land mass in the United States - the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and the annual breeding ground for approximately 125,000 Porcupine Caribou.

How controversial is ANWR? Just ask your local environmentalist or oil company neighbor. Many oil company experts, geologists and politicians believe this oil-rich, 19 million acre refuge could someday pump as many as one million barrels of crude oil per day for as long as … well, no one knows for sure. Estimates range between 5.7 billion to 16 billion barrels of oil, enough to significantly impact America's reliance on foreign oil. Not bad for a country that imports more than 55% of its petroleum yet remains hell-bent on 12 mile-per-gallon 4x4's and the fossil fuel it takes to power them. Heck, even my tidy little Nissan Pathfinder gets only 20 miles per gallon on a good day, an appallingly small number for those of us who lived through the energy crisis of the 70's. Has there been progress on the conservation front? Not much. Yet many environmentalists argue that America could offset the need for new Alaskan oil by simply adding a mere 3 miles more per gallon to the cars we drive.

For Americans accustomed to cheap gas on demand, conservation remains a tough pill to swallow. And the new administration of President George W. Bush is pushing hard for development of ANWR. Solution? Let's pop a few hundred burly rigs into the permafrost, pave a haul road through those impassable mountains, install a pipeline, build a system to flush all that nasty, briny by-product into the Arctic Ocean and go! After all, we did it just west of here back in the 70's. And the environmental standards and procedures of the oil companies have improved dramatically. But hold on all you Texans out there. This is Alaska. The last great wilderness. The last great frontier. A hunter's paradise. A hermit's delight. A tourist's Mecca. A place where hippie-earth-loving-tree-hugging-vegetarians live in harmony with dispossessed - NRA - loving - moose - hunting - rednecks, adventure aficionados (and wannabes), cruise ships full of card carrying AARP members and coastal villages filled with eco-tourism entrepreneurs. No issue in recent memory does more to define Alaska and America's environmental direction for the future than the battle over ANWR. But guess what: Nearly 75% of all Alaskans are in favor of development! Even Democratic Governor Tony Knowles seems anxious to kick some gas and oil butt up in that arctic wilderness.

So up to Alaska I go, camera in hand, seeking a wee bit of adventure, isolation, beauty and the knowledge that comes from first hand experience. As a fair-minded documentary filmmaker who walks the fence on most issues, I'm looking for the truth.

We depart Fairbanks on a 12-seat Cessna Caravan, the Wright Air flight to Arctic Village, Alaska. I've been told that Arctic Village is little more than a dirt airstrip with a few houses nearby, and that once I get there, I should track down a Gwich'in woman named Sarah James. Though an interview with Sarah wasn't essential to our film, she was portrayed to me as a local expert on the refuge and on the Indian rights that surround it. Her perspective, I thought, could be a good one, and we had to go through Arctic Village anyway. I'd made several calls to Sarah before leaving Fairbanks but my only proof of her existence was a slow but steady voice suggesting that I leave a message on the recorder. I'm not one for long explanations to a machine, but on the last call I said something like "I'm a filmmaker from the lower 48 doing a story up in the refuge. I'd like to chat with you about the caribou migration, maybe get your insights into the ANWR debate. I'm flying through there tomorrow around 11 a.m." Did I mention that I only had about a half hour layover while we transferred our gear into small bush planes? I don't remember. During the flight in, I could see that the tiny village of square, one-story log homes was actually a good mile from the airstrip. I wouldn't have time to walk there. I was on the ground long enough to swallow my share of dust from the gravel runway and swat a few mosquitoes, but there was no sign of Sarah.

We left in a Cessna 185, loaded to the max with waterproof camera cases, sleeping bags, tents, packs and rafts. Before the day was over, pilot Don Ross made seven trips of the roughly 100 mile stretch between Arctic Village and the icy source of the Kongakut. Then, loaded into three 14 foot Avon rubber rafts, our group of 12 departed on the 10 day trip toward the Arctic Ocean. What began as a quick, majestic, almost mind-blowing passage through the 6,000 to 10,000 foot snowy peaks of the Brooks Range, soon turned in to a peaceful, even pastoral float past balding, eroded foothills of permafrost, willows, and tundra flecked with a rainbow of thumbnail-sized wildflowers.

We took the Kongakut slowly and spent hours each day trekking the hillsides and scaling the nameless peaks that surrounded us. Unlike most adrenaline-powered river trips, we used the rafts mainly to transport our equipment and food from campsite to campsite. Our only real danger was the 34 degree water and the ever-changing weather systems, neither of which proved a problem to our small expedition.

When I polled the group for their impressions following a long hike or a robust paddle, I was told that words failed to describe the experience. Yes, it's majestic. And we were all aware of the isolation and escape from the pace of life in the lower 48. But it was more than that. Our voyage through ANWR freed each of us to explore the great spirit of wilderness and the powerful impact pristine nature has on our own sacred place within it. Even after years of trekking the Rockies, the Himalayas, and the Andes, it was the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge that gave me my first real understanding about that which Henry David Thoreau, John Muir and others had so eloquently written. This was a land that pulsated with a quiet, natural rhythm. There were no roads, no airplanes, no motors, no gawky antennae or satellite dishes on the mountaintops. Slowly, as I opened myself to the natural world around me, I became one with that rhythm. I have never felt more grounded, safe or in sync with the Earth. I have never known greater faith.

During the brief summer, the smooth slopes of the Kongakut River valley are draped in various shades of green vegetation - twisted tundra grasses, willow, alder and moss-covered rocks. The vast horizon, which in places spreads beyond our view in every direction, was peppered with a virtually endless stream of broken clouds. At times they would come from the north, driven by cool winds off the ice shield. At other times, they would cling to the mountain peaks, slowed by inversions of hot and cold air. And the ever-present arctic sun created a kind of sleepless confusion that was almost intoxicating. Our trip through ANWR was timed for the summer solstice - 24 hour sun - and the precious display of magic hour light that glided along the horizon for hours each day. Blue skies up river became bluer, storm clouds to the east loomed darker, and the low, golden rays brushed the green slopes onto a burnt, yellow canvas. Though I've traveled extensively, there is an energy here I have never felt before. It's as if the land knows its own power, the power of its extremes, the power to transform, endlessly. And the short window that allowed our visit was a gift from nature herself. The month of June is like the eye of the storm and we all shared in the privilege offered by this brief glimpse within.

But ANWR and the Kongakut River offer much more than beauty. Our encounters with wildlife became so regular and abundant that they reminded me of Yellowstone, Glacier or Rocky Mountain National Parks. On day two, a wolverine and a small herd of Dall sheep moved within a few feet of our group. Snowshoe hares darted around the campsite and a grizzly loped along a hillside no more than an eighth of a mile from camp. Julie Munger was the only one among us who's been here before and she reminded us that "this is only the beginning." The Alaska National Wildlife Refuge, we are told, is often called Alaska's Serengeti, a reference to Africa's famed wildlife refuge. The name fits.

As the trip progressed, the abundance of wildlife, fish and bird life was a constant source of wonder. Much of our excitement, however, surrounded the small herds of Porcupine Caribou we'd heard so much about. By day five we'd seen hundreds of free-roaming caribou heading north and west, usually in groups of 10 to 20. At times they moved in single file along hard-packed trails they'd cut through the tundra on their annual migration, trails that go back hundreds, if not thousands of years. At other times, they spread out and grazed the wide open fields of mosses, wildflowers and willows. But rarely, if ever, did a caribou stand still. A majestic creature made more so by the rack of antlers we've all come to know through illustrations of Dasher, Dancer, Donner and Bliztzen, the caribou frequently moves at a trot, as if prancing its way through the wilderness. The rack is common for both male and female caribou, and their long legs make movement easier in the deep snows of winter.

On day six of our journey, after passing through a small chute of class three rapids, several caribou crossed river a few hundred yards ahead. Speaks is always quick with his binoculars, but this time, he said, it was "just a herd of about 20 making its way toward the ridge to the west." Sightings of small herds had not lost their grandeur, but they had become more commonplace.

We made camp at the confluence of two enormous river valleys on a wide open plateau of grassland. As I set up my tent for the night, two adult caribou grazed fewer than 100 yards away, accenting a mountain view that has few rivals. I sat watching for several minutes, grateful for the silence, grateful for the feeling of privilege the journey and the wildlife were providing. Unlike most river trips, I had the sense that the journey down river was moving us toward something - not just a takeout - but something I couldn't quite put my finger on. A sacred place, perhaps. A place where time has no impact or consequence. A birth place.

Shortly after our departure the next morning, we paddled round a quick bend in the river along cut banks of snow and gravel. Then, as the river opened up, we witnessed a sight that equals any wildlife phenomenon on the planet. A herd of close to 1,000 caribou had forded the river and was making its way slowly up a narrow canyon. Everyone quietly sneaked their cameras from day packs, and shutters began to clip open and closed. Munger carefully steered our three rafts toward a 12 foot bank along the west side of the river. We wrapped our lead lines around rocks to hold the rafts in place. Then, like predators, we scaled the bank on our stomachs, inching forward to watch the caribou move. It took several minutes for the last of the caribou to pass beyond our view.

In an interview a few hours later, Boston-based sculptor Peter Haines described the sighting. "I'm still taking it in," he said. "It's like being in Eden. As a friend of mine would say, 'Good work God.' I mean, it's humbling. And also good work God in the sense of making us an aesthetic being that can respond to this."

Haines and his 17 year old daughter Pendry also were witness to a sighting the next day that continues to define our experience. Just a few feet beyond our campsite, Bob Huck and I were doing an interview with Julie Munger for the documentary. Suddenly, a hushed whisper came from Speaks. As we popped our heads above the waist deep willows, we saw roughly 50 caribou wandering directly through camp! I swung the camera around and, for the next few minutes, all twelve of us watched in silence as the curious but unflappable herd passed by, walking within 20 feet of our tents. No cars. No phones. No machinery. No pollution. No people. We were surrounded by nothing but the wild things God had put before us. It was, for me, the most primitive, sacred experience I've ever had in wilderness.

During our final two days on the Kongakut, we paddled deep into the river delta that braids out toward the Arctic Ocean. At a juncture called Caribou Pass on the east side of the river, we pulled our boats up for the take-out. There's a small, make-shift gravel runway there that bush planes use to ferry the few passengers and photographers that make their way to the pass each year for the caribou migration. Ironically, Caribou Pass, often the scene of a massive migration numbering in the tens of thousands, was relatively quiet during our visit. Acclaimed wildlife photographers Tom Walker and Dan Cox were camped a few hundred yards from the runway along with two photographers from Japan and two from "somewhere in Europe." Thus far, Walker and Cox had "spotted only a few caribou here and there." Walker, who makes the trip here annually, believed the massive herd would be through Caribou Pass within days.

We spent June 21st, our last day of the trip, climbing a roughly 4,000 foot unnamed peak to the north of Caribou Pass. A challenging trek through knee deep tundra that required several hours, the end result silenced everyone. With a view of 360 degrees, the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge spread out before us. To the south, the snow capped peaks of the Brooks Range were bathed in the golden light of summer solstice. To the east, a seemingly endless ripple of balding brown hillsides was blanketed under charcoal gray skies. To the north, the icy white shield of the Beaufort Sea trailed off into the Arctic Ocean. And to the west, perhaps the greatest vista of all - a low arching ball of fire played off the vast, open, uninhabited plains, the summer birthplace of the Porcupine Caribou. It was as if the journey had brought us into the womb of mother nature.

As I sat in the cold wind that blew off the icy shelf to the north, I couldn't help but wonder, is a caribou breeding ground enough to save ANWR from oil and natural gas development? In an overpopulated world with a constant need for energy and natural resources, is it arrogant to value ANWR more than the needs of people desperate to pay their home heating bills? Or is preservation of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge more important than the need for the temporary, short-term fix many environmentalists say the refuge will provide? Can development be handled in an environmentally sound manner with little long-term impact? Or will the Porcupine Caribou go the way of the 19th century buffalo as the land on which it has bred for 10,000 years rolls up under the power of a bulldozer?

Without answers, I made the two hour trek back by scaling the western edge of the mountain. On the flight out the next day, I asked Don Ross to fly me over the near-permanent icy shield that butts against the delta of the Kongakut. It was the first frozen ocean I have ever seen. As we looped around to head back toward Arctic Village, we passed over the mountain we'd hiked a day earlier. Three musk ox grazed near the summit, the first we'd seen of the 200 or so that live within the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge.

When I arrived in Arctic Village an hour later, Bob Huck and I began unloading our camera gear and duffel bags onto the dusty airstrip. During our time away, something dramatic had changed here…the summer mosquito had arrived. And it lived up to its reputation. Desperate for help, we dug through our day packs for repellent while swatting ourselves in what must have been an hilarious pantomime. Like a dancer without rhythm, I turned quickly toward the sound of a rumbling four-wheeler that tooled up the trail in a cloud of dust. Sarah James had arrived!

"Typical Alaska," I think, as I bounce along on the hard metal luggage rack on the back of Sarah James's four-wheeler. The temperature has dropped a good 10 degrees in five minutes, there's a full rainbow arching across the balding peaks to the east, raindrops the size of Midwest Junebugs are hitting me hard in the face, and I'm grinning that wide grin I always get when I realize that life just opened up an interesting new door. I love this place.

Sarah lives in a one-room log home situated on the highest hill in town. The storybook view goes unnoticed by Sarah as she climbs off the four-wheeler. I do my best to take it in while swatting the 40 or 50 mosquitoes that find me as soon as I'm off the bike. Wham. Swat. I whisper a mouthful of obscenities before remembering that I'm not alone. Oops. Sarah invites me inside for coffee. Thank God.

I'd first heard about Sarah from an Alaskan wilderness guide named Joe Ordonez. Joe described Sarah as a committed environmentalist fighting to save ANWR from development by oil and natural gas companies. In June, 2000 development of the refuge was an issue - not a big issue, just one of many environmental issues facing the average American. Still, I wanted to include Sarah's perspective in the documentary.

I sat down on Sarah's small couch across from the barrel-shaped wood stove. We chatted about her people, the Gwich'in, and about the annual caribou migration. She was interested in how many caribou I'd seen and wanted to know "what it like up there?" While I'd flown thousands of miles to get to the Kongakut River, Sarah had never been north of the Brooks Range (*see map inset). She'd never seen the breeding grounds on the coastal plain of the Arctic Ocean that the caribou had been using for thousands of years, a breeding ground that sits smack dab on top of the largest untapped oil and natural gas reserve in the United States.

We chatted for about an hour, then did an on-camera interview for the documentary in which Sarah talked at length about the long history the Gwich'in share with the caribou.

"They are our food," said Sarah. "We do caribou dances and we do caribou songs, they are everything to us. They are part of our language, related to it, our lifestyle, they're related to it. We're caribou people."

When Sarah mentioned that the caribou were "sacred," I took the leap. As a filmmaker, I'd produced numerous hours of television on spiritual subjects, so the idea of a sacred animal roused my attention. Though I'd expected to go down a more animistic road, I probed enough to find out that many of the Gwich'in of Arctic Village were practicing Episcopalians. In fact, the small log church was visible from Sarah's hillside.

"Why Episcopalians?" I asked.

"I don't know," said Sarah. "I guess they were just the first ones to show up here."

Since I'd just experienced the summer solstice (24 hours of daylight), I asked Sarah about the winter solstice. After all, she was the first year-round resident of the Arctic Circle I'd ever met. Beyond dark and cold, what could it be like? According to Sarah, the Northern Lights were beautiful and the Christmas holiday was a time of great celebration. There was even a "Caribou Feast" and a kind of festival-like atmosphere in which the local people celebrated with caribou dances and caribou song. As a single guy with no kids, I thought "why not?" Why not spend Christmas in the Arctic Circle? There'd be Northern Lights. I could leave the cold and snow of my Wisconsin home behind and experience the real thing. Plus, I'd have a chance to spend Christmas away from the commercial pace of the lower 48. So, Christmas with the Gwich'in!

In the six months between the summer and winter solstice, an amazing thing happened. Oil and natural gas development of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge became the biggest environmental story in decades. George W. Bush made it a campaign issue, one that sharply divided the two candidates. And following the long debate over who actually won the presidency, now- President Bush continues to lead the fight for development. For those who follow such things, the number of e-mails flying around among traditional democratic voters and environmentalists on the subject of ANWR has been breathtaking. Until mid-January, 2001 each exclaimed something to the effect of "Call or write the White House and tell President Clinton to make it a national monument." While Clinton's last few weeks did include the naming of numerous environmental hot-spots as national monuments, ANWR was not among them. Now, other than the pro-choice issue, a potential tax cut debate and the McCain-Fiengold battle over campaign finance reform, ANWR is the hottest issue going.

So, lucky me. I'd been to ANWR in June, filmed the migration of the Porcupine Caribou and now, in the heat of the debate, I was headed back to Arctic Village for Christmas. What I'd thought might be a chance to document the spiritual life of the Gwich'in became something quite different. Yes, I would still focus on the spiritual and cultural aspects of the people of Arctic Village; however, the environmental debate, in which the Gwich'in now find themselves in the middle, would take center stage.

On the way north, I stopped near Denali National Park to visit Mike Speaks at his log cabin on Deniki Lake. Mike had journeyed with me to ANWR six months earlier and just a few weeks before my December arrival, we'd hiked the Inca Trail together down in Peru. I couldn't imagine that Mike would want to join me in Arctic Village. He'd been on the road most of the year and he cherished his time in Denali. But Mike suffers from the same disease I have - curiosity.

"You know, there's not much snow here," said Mike, each word hanging on his Alabama drawl. "And the weather is warmer than usual. I can't even get my snow machine out to the mountains to ski."

I shared his lament. Even though the lake behind his log cabin had been frozen solid since October, grass was popping through the scattered piles of snow. Things just weren't quite right. Nothing to plow. No need for chopping wood hour after hour.

"Let's go for it," I said. "It'll be cold, dark, and lonely. We won't know a soul up there. The weather will be forbidding, there's no general store, no cars, no hotels, and … well, you get the picture."

Mike and I took the Warbelow Air flight from Fairbanks to Arctic Village on Dec. 21st, the winter solstice. The eight seat, twin prop plane took off at 9:15 a.m. in total darkness with four passengers and a heavy load of boxes, mail, film gear and our supplies. Two folks got off an hour later during a stop at Fort Yukon. Mike and I were the only passengers headed to Arctic Village. An hour later, we arrived in the dim twilight of the arctic day. It was 11 a.m.

As we walked down the ladder to the snowy tarmac, a gust of sub-zero wind blew my fleece hat sideways. I pulled the flaps down and zipped my jacket up around my face, then turned back to help unload the plane. The pilot's routine here was a simple one - pass the luggage off as quickly as possible and go. We built a small pile of equipment cases and duffel bags next to cardboard boxes of Christmas mail and, surprisingly, a P.A. system that had been shipped in from Fairbanks.

"Looks like there's gonna be a dance," said Speaks.

"Yep, Sarah says they hold a Caribou dance," I replied. "Supposedly on Christmas night. Plus lots of fiddle playing."

As we were stacking up the bags, two snow machines pulling wooden sleds came up the same road I'd been down on Sarah's four-wheeler six months earlier. But these guys were leaving a spray of powdery snow instead of dust. Though I'd expected to see Sarah smiling from under one of the two fur hats, we were greeted by two older men who introduced themselves simply as "Trimble" and "Moses." Despite the cold, both men removed their fur mittens to shake hands when introducing themselves. We loaded our gear onto the sleds and headed to our home for the next week - a red, two room schoolhouse with a half court gymnasium and a small kitchen. Sarah had arranged for us to sleep on the floor there since the kids were out of school for Christmas.

After unloading, we set off across the village to meet Sarah. It turned out her snow machine wasn't working, so she was spending her time at home. I'd tried to rent one before arriving but there were none available. Though folks can and do walk the village, it is fairly spread out across roughly two square miles. We walked the half mile to Sarah's house, remarking about our good fortune. The temperature was hovering around zero and the snow covered mountains around us were framed by the softest pastel colors I'd ever seen. Though the sun never rose above the horizon, it did cast a daily glow that lasted from about 10 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. For those few hours, we enjoyed an eerie yet beautiful dusk.

Sarah and I picked up right where we'd left off - the debate over ANWR. The stakes had been raised considerably since my last visit, and so had her passion for the issue. We chatted about Christmas, about who might be open to meeting with us for an interview, and about what kinds of winter activities were going on around the village. Gale Tritt was making some traditional necklaces, Charlie Sweeney was bringing in a caribou he'd just shot, and Sarah had heard that somebody had some fish nets under the ice of one of the surrounding lakes. But mostly, we were told, folks were getting ready for Christmas. There was, it seemed, plenty to keep us occupied. But just in case, I'd brought along a copy of Atlas Shrugged - the thickest book I owned and something I'd always thought I should read when I had the time.

Long hours of darkness are particularly good for sleeping in, even on the hard floor of a school classroom. Mike and I settled into a routine that started with breakfast at 9. And by 9:30, the first snow-go of the day could be heard passing by just outside the window. Daily life was getting underway.

From the solstice to Christmas Eve day, we spent our time meeting people when we could, and photographing scenic shots of the village when no one was available. At Sarah's urging, we started by interviewing her uncle, the local Episcopalian priest. A respected elder named Trimble Gilbert, he was, in these parts, a man for all seasons. Trimble was a regular at the airstrip for each morning's flight. He was active in community leadership and had been playing fiddle at dances across northern Alaska for years. An opponent of oil and gas development in ANWR, Trimble said he was leaving that fight to others such as Sarah. His focus was on helping people through his ministry and working to re-establish a more traditional lifestyle in Arctic Village.

Shawn Martinez was a different story. An eager, positive man in his late 20s, Shawn did what so few Gwich'in have done before - he went away to college, then choose to return to help his people. He was among the most admired people in the village. While working as the Secretary of the Tribal Council, Shawn was doing all he could to support the elder's call for traditional values while still pushing Arctic Village into the 21st century. He'd worked hard to bring in the Internet and to computerize the ways in which the council was doing business with the outside world. Shawn was also the first person in Arctic Village to own a DVD player and to start a library of movies that had become a local treasure. While opposed to development of ANWR, Shawn's focus was clearly on the social and educational issues facing his tribe.

We also spent time with Kias Peter, a community elder and the step brother of Trimble Gilbert. A sprightly man of about 70, Kias showed off his smokehouse for drying caribou meat. He showed us how he used to use his hand saw for prepping wood for the fire, then grinned as he replaced it with the buzz of a chain saw. He hopped around excitedly on his hand-made snowshoes, showing us how, as a boy, he would chase caribou through the forests. But even Kias confided that snowshoes had gone the way of many other things from the Gwich'in past. With snow-goes around, who needs 'em?

Many of the traditional values that Gwich'in tribal elders long to bring back are related to their history as a nomadic people. Their reputation as the "caribou people" stems from their reliance on caribou for nearly every aspect of their lives including food, clothing, and a spiritual connection to nature. Ancestors to the Navajo of the desert southwest, the Gwich'in (considered part of the larger Athabascan community) followed the migration of the caribou for thousands of years. While ancestors to today's Navajo headed south approximately 500-600 years ago, the Gwich'in remained in the northern part of Alaska and northwestern Canada. They maintained their nomadic lifestyle and followed the migrations of the Porcupine Caribou into the 20th century.

While the Gwich'in continue to rely on caribou for food, hides, and many of their cultural traditions, they are no longer able to follow the herd as they did in the past. Federal and state laws and the need to educate their children have limited their ability to track the herd beyond a short radius surrounding Arctic Village. As much as I'd hoped to be able to join a hunting party to bring one in for the Christmas feast, it wasn't going to happen. The buzz around the village was that the caribou simply weren't around. Even the one Charley Sweeney had bagged a few days earlier seemed an anomaly. They were "somewhere else this year," according to Sarah. "Nobody knows where."

Though my observations may be superficial based on the limited time I spent in Arctic Village, the Gwich'in, like so many Native American tribes, seemed to me to be a culture trapped between a rock and hard place. Thanks to federal funding, the small schoolhouse in which Mike and I were staying was loaded with iMac computers, and internet access took only seconds. The school had satellite T.V. and VCR's for classroom education. There may be no roads to Arctic Village, but staying in touch with the outside world proved a simple task. And the outside world can be tempting to young people. Many of the Gwich'in teenagers we met wore the latest in Oakland Raider's team jackets and hats. The children were up to speed on everything from Barney to Nintendo. The challenge for Gwich'in elders is maintaining a traditional, largely subsistence lifestyle while dealing with the temptations of the media driven society that has found its way into their homes. It's a challenge that distracts many Gwich'in from the ANWR debate … even though the cultural and environmental issues are, in both obvious and subtle ways, closely linked.

As Mike and I were walking past the one room post office at about 5 p.m. on December 23rd, a group of eight boys were playing football on the only lighted parking lot in the village (Who but the federal government would put a parking lot in a village without cars, then leave it lighted 24 hours per day?). As the boys dove, tackled and chided each other like any kid from Seattle to New York City, a man in a fur hat stopped near us to ask what we were doing. "Are you surveyors?" he asked (I was carrying a tripod). "Nope," I replied. "We're documentary filmmakers." The discussion that followed ended with an invitation to interview Lincoln Tritt the next day.

Christmas Eve day in Arctic Village started like any other Sunday. Many of the locals were in front of the t.v. for the 9 a.m. NFL game of the week. I was too. But by noon, after the Green Bay Packers playoff hopes had dimmed, we headed out to interview Lincoln Tritt. He was staying at his sister's house, a slightly-more-upscale log home on the northeast edge of town. The thermometer hanging outside the door (the only one we ever saw) showed 28 degrees below zero.

A fifty-something Vietnam veteran, Lincoln has a reputation as a writer, lecturer and environmentalist. I'd be inclined to add "philosopher" to the list. Lincoln spoke eloquently about the need to return to traditional values. But like his cousin, Sarah James, Lincoln also spoke passionately about the need to fight development of ANWR. Perhaps more than anyone else we met, Lincoln saw development as an enemy of the Gwich'in. It would, he believed, destroy the culture and traditions he was fighting to protect. For Lincoln, the issue went much further than the breeding needs of the caribou. It went to the soul of his people and their ability to sustain a lifestyle that had survived in these parts for thousands of years.

Before we left, Lincoln asked me a question. "Why is it that you white people down there don't believe us when we talk about global warming? We live here. We see it, we live it. Heck, there was water - not ice - water, water at the North Pole this summer. Does that seem normal to you?" Lincoln went on to suggest that excessive drilling of oil could be contributing to global warming. "Doesn't it make sense," he said, "that oil is like a coolant for the earth?" Even though my geologist friends might think me a bit nuts, I had to admit that it made some sense. Pulling all that oil out had to have some consequences. But I didn't have any answers for Lincoln. Because at the core of Lincoln's question was a bigger one I'd been asking myself for nearly a decade: "why don't we listen to indigenous people, especially when it relates to their oral histories and observations of the natural world?" After years of making films featuring various religions and cultures, I remain mystified by all we overlook, deny and disclaim based on the value we place on science, technology and industry. Yet for those who've traveled with me and among the women and men I've met along the way, wisdom and understanding seem most clearly obtained by those who are closest to the natural world. Both Lincoln and Sarah are grounded in the natural world.

During the course of the day, we'd been checking in regularly with various folks we'd met regarding the time of the Christmas Eve service. We heard estimates ranging from 6 to 10 p.m. But Sarah finally assured us it would begin at 8 p.m. She invited us for a Christmas Eve dinner at her house, a meal that included caribou soup made with bones and meat she's been given by Charlie Sweeney. Sarah also made "fry bread," a treat she'd picked up on her visits to the Navajo reservation in Arizona. When I asked her whether the tradition of fry bread had begun with the Gwich'in, she said "no. No flour in Alaska." (Duh. Typical white man question).

The dinner was excellent. We left Sarah to finish decorating her tree and headed to the church. It was the first service I'd ever attended with a Native American priest. Of the 63 people in attendance, there were only seven men. I saw Lincoln Tritt and Kias Peter. Trimble gave a sermon about the need to listen. Just that simple: listen. It wasn't the classic sermon about the birth of Christ I'd anticipated. And most of the kids weren't listening. But Trimble gave the sermon with heart. He also led the congregation in song including several classic Christmas carols sung in Gwich'in. I did notice that while most of the adults sang along, most of the children had trouble following the words.

About an hour after the service, Santa Claus made an appearance at the community center. Like children everywhere, the youngest citizens of Arctic Village were in awe. The only difference that I noticed from life back home was that no one made too big a deal of the reindeer. After all, Santa lives just a few miles to the north and caribou, a.k.a. reindeer, are a big part of everyone's daily life.

Christmas Day in the village started with a village breakfast at the community center. By 11 a.m., most folks had dropped by the center, exchanged holiday greetings, and headed home for some quiet time with family. Mike and I headed back to the school, played our 100th game of horse in the small gymnasium, then received a visit from a local man who "wanted to set us straight on a few things." He had opinions about everything including the folks we'd interviewed, the limited gene pool of Arctic Village, the need to develop tourism, Indian hunting and fishing rights, the lack of local law enforcement, the need for education, and the problems plaguing the village government. But the fight to save ANWR wasn't interesting to him. "Yeah," he said. "They shouldn't be allowed to drill up there." But he offered little more. After his visit, Mike and I spent the afternoon on our own, glad we were able to stay in touch with family and friends through the phone and internet. Still, it seemed like a long day. Perhaps the longest Christmas Day I'd ever had. The darkness didn't help. Like everyone in town, we were anxiously awaiting the "potlash" (potluck feast) that was scheduled for that night.

The "Caribou Feast" Sarah and I had discussed back in June never quite happened. The reason was simple - the caribou had found safety somewhere else in the frigid arctic north. Perhaps they were roaming the Brooks Range. Perhaps they'd split their herd and headed toward the mighty Yukon River. Perhaps they were looking for food in the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge. We would never know. But caribou or no caribou, Trimble Gilbert and his son were ready to entertain. The P.A. system that had been on our flight in was hooked up and ready to go. After a meal of mashed potatoes, baked turkey and Sarah's fry bread, about 75 people, nearly two thirds of the residents of Arctic Village, danced late into the night.

Before returning to Fairbanks and the lower 48, I did a final interview with Sarah James. She's bright, committed, and able to articulate not just the facts but also the emotional connection the Gwich'in have with the land and the wild creatures that live in and around ANWR. There were few surprises in the interview. I knew Sarah's position from the summer. I knew the Gwich'in history with the caribou and their reliance on the land surrounding ANWR. But the tone of Sarah's interview was different. Things had become urgent. Home heating prices in places such as Boston, Detroit and Milwaukee had doubled during the past month, the result of an unusually harsh winter and low supply of natural gas. Then President-elect Bush and Dick Cheney were vocal in their support of ANWR development. Even radio talk shows had begun to pick up the banner cry of development.

"How are we gonna do it?" asked Sarah. Even their neighbors to the north, the Inupiat Eskimos, were calling for oil and gas exploration and development in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Inupiat Mayor George Ahmagak is quoted on The Heritage Foundation web site as saying "Our whalers and hunters make maximum use of our few resources, always taking care not to harm the land so their grandchildren may in turn carry on their culture…. As Mayor, I can state unequivocally that the people of the North Slope Borough enthusiastically support the presence of the oil industry in our land…. The wisdom of our Elders teaches us the value of hunting where game is plentiful. Likewise, it makes sense for our nation to seek oil in an area that even (DOI - Dept. of Interior) has identified as the country's best prospect for new petroleum deposits."

"Sadly," Sarah said, "our brothers are on the other side of the fight." But even more perplexing to Sarah, the Inupiats, are opposed to off-shore drilling. While the Gwich'in subsist on the land, the Inupiats subsist on the sea surrounding their coastal homeland. In this particular battle, Sarah says, the Gwich'in support the Inupiat's efforts to protect their lifestyle and food supply, but it does not appear to be a two-way street.

Shortly after Christmas, we left Sarah where we often found her, on the telephone. A gifted activist in the fight to save ANWR, Sarah's link to the outside world is her phone. From the time of our arrival, it had never stopped ringing. We packed up our left over food and supplies for Sarah and gave her two pounds of the hottest commodity in Arctic Village - coffee! In a dry village with no supply route other than small airplanes, coffee is like a little bit of gold. It's the only local commodity that rivals gasoline (which averages $5 a gallon) in price.

As we boarded the Warbelow flight back to Fairbanks, I was, once again, struck by the incredible beauty that surrounded me. I took a long look at the landscape, unsure whether I'd ever be back in Arctic Village. It was 11 a.m. and the sky was as bright as it would be all day. The snow-capped summits of the mountains to the north were reflecting light from a sun that sat out of view under the horizon to the south. Hoarfrost covered the poplars and spruce that ran the length of the snow-packed runway. And Trimble Gilbert, all but hidden by a thick parka and fur hat, packed goods on his sleigh and snow-go for delivery in the village.

The flight back took us southwest to drop mail in the Gwich'in village of Beaver, then on to Fairbanks. As I looked out the frosty window, I couldn't help but think of the environmental challenges facing our world as the population continues to grow. Consumption is at an all time high and rarely do we hear the call for conservation. I couldn't think of the last time I'd heard a politician or world leader offer a view of a future without reliance on fossil fuel. And those who did were usually silenced. More and more, I thought, the demand for resources goes up. And more and more, the world becomes divided between those who have and those who have not. It can only get worse, I thought, as what we do have to exploit runs dry.

It's true that only a few hundred people visit ANWR each year, and that most Americans will never see or feel the power of the pristine wilderness. Nor will they witness the majestic migration of the caribou or step on the soft, spongy tundra that blankets the coastal plains each summer. I'm aware of the privilege I had and can only hope to share the experience in some small way. To save the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge requires both love and respect for those who will inherit our lands in the future. One can certainly argue that the Porcupine Caribou is worth saving. Likewise, it may also survive development. A bigger issue for me is the survival of the Gwich'in culture. It is not a perfect culture, and their home is not a perfect home. Some would argue that in a country of nearly 300 million people, their voice of roughly 8,000 is a small voice. Others would suggest that we have taken enough already. And Trimble Gilbert would say it's time for us to "listen." Could it be that his Christmas sermon was targeted at a congregation larger than those in attendance?

Choosing to preserve a great, wild land mass such as ANWR takes vision. It takes sacrifice. For a nation that's grown accustomed to cheap oil and electricity on demand, it may take a big sacrifice. But there's another way to look at the protection of ANWR. As National Parks such as Yosemite, Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, Acadia and the Smoky Mountains are forced to regulate the massive number of visitors each year, it becomes clear that Americans want wild places. We want to be able to experience the power and the glory of nature. And we want it to be pristine and untouched. While ANWR may seem a faraway place today, one need only think back to the early 20th century when Teddy Roosevelt had the vision for protecting Yellowstone. At that time, Yellowstone was as far away for most Americans as ANWR is today. Yet it became not only accessible, Yellowstone became crowded.

During the year 2000, I spent the summer and winter solstice inside Alaska's arctic circle. Though I am far from an expert, I discovered that Alaska's National Wildlife Refuge is a special, even sacred place. Whether ANWR is worth saving from oil and natural gas development is a question many Americans are now asking. I'll add a few more. Can we squeeze a few more miles out of our cars in order to save it? Can we turn down our thermostats to save it? Can we consume less to save it? Some may argue that these questions over-simplify the issue. I know of only two things for sure. Wilderness is a part of the collective soul of the 280 million Americans who populate this planet. And during the past 200 years we have learned with certainty that once it's gone, we don't get it back.

Note on Author: Chip Duncan is an EMMY award-winning documentary filmmaker who presently resides in Wisconsin. For more information on The Duncan Group or the television documentary RAFTING ALASKA'S WILDEST RIVERS (broadcast nationwide in the USA on July 1, 2001 on the PBS network), please <click here>

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