by Madeline Waterman of the University of Vermont

When our group first arrived around 2 a.m. at the Whitehorse Airport, everyone was bleary-eyed, hesitant to make conversation, and more than a little anxious about the onslaught of mosquitoes we were about to face over the next six weeks. Now, nearly at the end of the program—though still exhausted, maybe more than ever!—we find ourselves amongst a raucous bunch of mosquito-fighting warriors who are ready to tackle any challenge the Taku throws at us.

View from Idaho Peak, one of our ungulate survey locations. Llewellyn Glacier can be seen in the background.

Though we’ve yet to see more than a split-second glance of a grizzly (running down an old mining access road in front of us), we’ve seen no shortage of other animals. Favorites have included the spruce grouse we regularly flush while bushwhacking, a fawn visiting base camp, porcupines regularly seen eating on the road, moose frequenting water sources, and roadside black bears. On the ~2 hour drive from Whitehorse to Atlin, we saw our first black bear munching on dandelions. About halfway through the program, we were delighted to see a mama and cub, who climbed a tree right next to our trucks.

A black bear mother keeps a watchful eye on her cub, who climbed a tree after running across the road in front of us.

Many of our days were spent hiking mountains around the Atlin area to do ungulate (mountain goat, woodland caribou, and Stone’s sheep) surveys. We would sit at a high point with a great view, searching the surrounding landscape with our binoculars—“glassing”—for half an hour. Sadly, it’s now rare to see more than a few ungulates at a time, and common to not see any at all. Habitat fragmented by mining and shifting in food plant makeup has resulted in decreased populations. The Taku River Tlingit First Nation (TRTFN) has even made the decision to switch to hunting moose instead of caribou in an effort to relieve hunting pressure on them, their most common traditional meat source.

At one of the many ungulate survey points in the Ruby Mountain Range outside of Atlin, the group excitedly watches several sheep scale the opposite slope.

Another highlight (or maybe dark point—it depends who you ask) was our 6-day trip to Sloko Lake, a glacial lake at the south end of Atlin Lake. Thanks to our friend Trevor from TRTFN, we were able to take a 2-hour boat ride and then hiked just under two miles to the alluvial fan we would be camping on for the rest of our stay. Right off the bat, it became clear that not much of the next week would go according to plan. The terrain was immensely difficult to travel and would involve more bushwhacking than we’d ever done, the campsite near the water was flooded, and the mosquitoes were a ravenous swarm anywhere but on the shore. To top it off, I lost my mosquito head net to the lake about 10 minutes in, an event to which program coordinator Doug Milek said, “That will be the first line in your obituary!” … he was almost right. However, we made the best of what we had and spent our time along the narrow strip of beach, braving the bush, and telling no shortage of stories about our lives. Overall, the trip brought us closer than ever. Another plus? Now that we are back in Atlin, these mosquitoes have nothing on us.

After finding a canoe—with paddles!—at Sloko Lake, we headed out on a (failed) expedition to find a better campsite. Photo taken moments before I realized my mosquito head net was lost to the ages.

Since then, we’ve mostly been finishing up various surveys and academic work, and even meeting some of the people who have dedicated their lives to the preservation of this beautiful area. Everyone says that it feels like we have been here forever and for just a few days at the same time. Our experiences here have been invaluable and the Taku will forever live in our hearts.