In our minds, sand dunes are an exotic landscape feature, typically found in classically-dry parts of the world, like the dunes we climbed in the Gobi in Mongolia and the Namid Desert on the west coast of Africa. We would have never imagined there were sand dunes in Alaska; that just didn’t seem possible. Once we learned of their existence, they figured prominently on our list of places to visit. As stated on the National Park Service website for Kobuk Valley National Park:
Kobuk Valley’s sand dunes are a relic of the last Ice Age. 28,000 years ago, the Earth cooled and glaciers began to form high in the mountains surrounding the valley. Over time, the slow, grinding advance and retreat of the glaciers ground the rocks beneath them into a fine sand which was blown by the wind into the sheltered, ice free Kobuk Valley.
When the glaciers began to retreat 14,000 years ago, they left behind 200,000 acres of rolling sand dunes along the banks of the river. Over time, however, vegetation has reclaimed all but 16,000 acres of the sand, and continues to slowly eat away at the margins of the dunes. Sparse grasses, sedges, wild rye and the occasional wildflower, grow in the shifting sand of the dunes. These plants stabilize the sand and pave the way for a succession of mosses and algae, lichen and shrubs before the aspen, birch and spruce of the forest take root.
Now, after stepping out of the Golden Eagle Outfitters de Havilland DHC-3 Otter, at long last, we were here, standing on the Great Kobuk Sand Dunes. It was sunny and clear with temperatures in the mid-80s and a slight breeze. Our drop-off point was only a couple hundred feet to literally the east end of the dune field. As we were schlepping our gear to the edge of the dune, we were surprised to see a creek (which we later learned was called Kavet) winding its way through dark green vegetation at the base of the dune field.
Beyond the creek and its associated vegetation, was a thick dark-green spruce forest. The sand itself was a light golden color. It was quite fine, which allowed the wind to move it around, causing the dunes to shift over time and the footprints of previous visitors to disappear
We had two options for our camp location; either on top of the dunes, which afforded no protection from the wind, sun, or blowing sand, or at the foot of the dunes in a sparsely-vegetated area between the dunes and the creek. After a short discussion, it was decided we would eat our meals up top and set up the rest of our camp below. This was also in keeping with camping in bear country, since it allowed our bear-proof, and very heavy, 30-gallon metal food barrel, in addition to three smaller plastic barrels, to be kept well away from where we would be sleeping.
Once the decision was made, we walked and slid the 100 feet or so down the side of the dune to the vegetation below, carrying as much gear as possible to minimize the number of times we had to scramble back up the dune. We were already mindful that gravity would not be in our favor when it was time to reverse this process at the end of our stay.
Now, literally off the dune field, we scattered to find a camp site among the scrubby bushes and occasional lone spruce tree that would afford some protection from the blazing sun. With my sense of direction disoriented, in addition to being above the Arctic Circle, trying to guess which way the sun would move in the sky the rest of the day was difficult at best. Soon, we realized we were not the only ones attracted to this camping spot. Protected from the wind, it was also an ideal location for white socks. Having learned my lesson at the Maclaren River, I immediately put on my bug shirt to protect my head, ears, and neck, making sure this time, no white socks were trapped inside. On the other hand, I remembered too late, an important lesson from hiking in the tropics; namely, tucking the bottom of my hiking pants into my socks. In addition to hairlines, ears, and any other nooks and crannies, white socks love to crawl up pant legs (if not secured) and feast on tender flesh just above the sock line.
Alaska Alpine Adventures is committed to “no trace” camping. As was the case at the Gulkana and Maclaren rivers, everyone had access to a small nylon bag that included a hand shovel, toilet paper, matches, hand sanitizer, and bear spray. Digging a “cat hole” in the sandy soil at the bottom of the dunes was certainly much easier than in rockier soil. However, exposing oneself in white socks country, especially when there was no breeze to keep them away, was another matter. This led to bites in places where I had never experienced bites before in all of my years on this earth. This proved to be quite an unpleasant, unwelcome, and uncomfortable surprise….
After setting up our respective tents, we climbed back to the top of the dune, where we enjoyed a late lunch before hiking north, aiming for the forest.
Even though it was mid-afternoon, the temperature was still in the 80s. That meant the Alaskans in the group were melting. It was hot and it had already been a long day, which had begun in Anchorage early that morning. Nonetheless, we were eager to explore. This part of the dune field was relatively level and included patches of vegetation that were doing their best to stabilize the sand. The sand itself was firmer than I would have thought, which made walking relatively easy. A few hardy plants still had flowers braving the elements, including alpine avens and an American thorow wax.
Reaching the edge of the dunes and stepping into the spruce forest, we did, indeed, enter another world of mosses, algae, lichens, and shrubs.
Walking along the edge of the dune field, but still in the forest, we discovered several clusters of hawk wing. Their broad creviced caps reminded me of the top of cracked and burnt, crème brûlée.
Taking a break in the shade of the spruce trees, one had to marvel at the dramatic contrast in ecosystems. The hike back to camp revealed animal tracks, more flowers, moose antlers, and small vertical, but fragile, crust-like dikes that disintegrated back into their sandy components when disturbed.
Walking back to camp at the edge of the dune field, the view below of the blue water of Kavet Creek looked very inviting….
The sun was still high in the sky by 9:00 p.m. After packing away food, toiletries, and anything else with a scent into the metal barrel, we descended the sand dune to our camping area below. In contrast to our night in Bettles when the cold from the concrete floor seeped into our tents, now we were faced with a tent that was too hot, along with gazillions of white socks…not to mention the itching from too many white socks bites. The first order of business was to rid the tent of those most unwelcome guests. Fortunately, once they flew inside as we were crawling in, their primary goal seemed to be to escape back outside. John perfected the technique of waiting until they gathered in mass at the top of the screen on both ends of the tent. He then carefully unzipped the screen just a couple of inches before brushing them out with his hand. The other technique was squishing them against the tent fabric with a bare finger or tissue. Occasionally one would be full of blood…most likely mine. This ritual went on for half an hour, or until we could be sure all of them had either been squashed or escorted out of the tent. We then ignored their frantic efforts to get back in, which literally sounded like rain.
Sleep did not come easily as the sun was still barreling down on the tent, heating it up like an oven. Crawling inside down sleeping bags was clearly not an option; this was the night for birthday suits along with copious amounts of antihistamine cream slathered on bites. Not typically a fan of DEET, after my white socks experience, DEET in combination with my bug shirt and tucked-in, pant-leg bottoms, became my new best friends.
No one in our group slept much until after the sun set around midnight and the air finally began to cool. As for the itchy white socks bites, it was an exercise of mind over matter…. It was heaven to be able to crawl into our sleeping bags around 3:00 a.m., after the temperature finally dropped.