All LogsThe Brooks Range
The Brooks Range has a way of reminding you that no matter how much you prepare, the Arctic always has the last word. A couple of years ago, I was up near Prudhoe Bay on my annual solo caribou hunt. I’d spent the evening glassing a small group of bulls, eventually losing the light and deciding to just crawl into the back of the truck to keep an eye on them for the morning. I drifted off to the sound of the wind, tucked away about a hundred yards off the Dalton Highway.
I woke up to a sharp, metallic "tink" noise that sliced right through my sleep. I opened my eyes, still groggy, and looked up to see my rear window completely spiderwebbed. The glass was held together by nothing but luck, a map of a thousand tiny cracks shimmering in the morning light. I climbed out, baffled. I was far enough off the road that a stray rock from a passing truck was impossible—especially since my window was facing away from the highway anyway. There wasn't another soul or vehicle in sight for miles. It was just a ghost in the machine, a freak stress fracture, or the Arctic air doing something I couldn't explain.
I had to scrub the hunt for the day and make the two-hour trek north into Prudhoe. Luckily, I have some friends who run a shop up there, and by some minor miracle, they actually had a replacement window in stock. They got me squared away, and with fresh glass and a renewed sense of luck, I headed back out into the field. I figured I’d paid my dues to the road gods and could get back to the caribou.
I was wrong.
The very next day, I was pulled over on the shoulder of the Dalton, just taking a breather, when a semi came barreling down the haul road. As he roared past, he kicked up a localized hailstorm of North Slope gravel. It sounded like a twelve-gauge shotgun going off three feet from my head. CRACK. My brand-new rear window shattered instantly, falling into a million jagged pieces.
I sat there in the driver's seat, staring at the empty frame in the rearview mirror, absolutely livid. I reached into my gear box to patch it up, only to realize I was living every Alaskan’s nightmare: I didn't have a single roll of duct tape. I felt like a failure to my state. All I had in my kit was a camo tarp and some rolls of medical tape from my first aid bag.
I spent the next hour shivering in the wind, trying to get that flimsy medical tape to stick to the dusty bedside so I could secure the tarp. It looked like a surgical disaster, but it was all I had. I turned the truck south and began the grueling nineteen-hour drive back to Anchorage. The sky opened up, and I spent the entire journey white-knuckling the wheel through driving rainstorms, the tarp flapping like a frantic bird behind my head the whole way home. By the time I hit my driveway, I was exhausted, soaked, and definitely headed to the store for a fresh case of duct tape.
