We had embarked on a 30 day trip, in the Gates of the Arctic National Park, from the headwaters of the Noatak River to the Ocean. A stretch of wilderness, so uniquely wild and inaccessible, that it is rarely filled with visitors.

As we drift along in our collapsible canoes we are in the process of getting comfortable with the feel of paddling in whitewater. These boats were designed to be lightweight with fabric stretched over metal skeleton frames. The two ends of the boat tend to feel a little detached as you cross eddy lines and there is a sense of whiplash in the stern. All this to say, with six new paddlers on the trip, we are taking it slow and trying not to make any sporty moves.

We have been out on the river for about two weeks already, but have not had to test our whitewater skills yet.  We have another two weeks until we meet the ocean and there is a sense of open country around us. 

 I am in the lead boat, scouting for a good lunch spot, with a student in the bow, when our eyes simultaneously fall upon a red bag on the right shore.

In the soft tundra color palette, the red appears to almost glow.

It’s an unnatural red that doesn’t belong here, it’s luminous and the edges are gently rounded.

It appears that someone has lost a large drybag, wordlessly we agree to head straight for it. In the two weeks we have been out here there has been no sign of any other humans- it’s an exciting prospect to sneak a peek into someone else’s trip! 

From the bow, my paddling partner calls for an “Eddy-Out” and with speed, we make our way towards shore. I look back and the three other canoes are a tight little parade behind us, following our line. As we approach the eddy line, we adjust our angle and tilt as the river’s momentum helps swing us into the calm water. I look over my shoulder just downstream to where the bag is laying and realize in horror that it is not a bag at all.

It’s a caribou carcass so fresh that the blood still oozing from it is a bright, healthy red.

Blood red.

I was wrong about the unnatural red, it turns out, this in the penultimate in natural colors. 

A pool of the maroon liquid fills the crevices of the gravel bar and seeps into the river. It is close enough that I could reach with my paddle and touch it. It is so many shades of red and pink and my eyes are lingering on it.

I look at the wall of willows, impenetrable and completely able to shroud a bear with ease.

We have scared something away from it’s kill and I don’t want to be sitting here when it comes back.

My heart seems to skip a little too fast and my voice is caught somewhere in the length of my throat, I can’t get the warning out. The kid in my bow looks past me and his gaze lands on the carcass as well. The whites of his eyes are huge – saucers in his face.

The sharp smell of animal rouses my brain again and I start yelling to the other boats not to follow,

“keep going! Stay in the current!” The river is suddenly so loud around me.

The river is an unstoppable conveyor belt and despite their efforts to change course, three canoes are barreling at us as we bob still in the eddy. Two boats slow but unfortunately one canoe has already committed to the move and the boat is tilting in a way that makes my breath catch - we cannot afford to have people capsizing here.

As their boat begins to cross the eddy line, the torque of the river plays with its integrity as it seems to nearly unhinge in the middle. They wobble their way in but start laughing with relief as they look to me, as though to receive congratulations. Instead they are met with my shouts to get back into the current. I have a fleeting moment of worry that I have hurt their feelings, but it doesn’t last long.

Am I imagining the heat coming off this caribou?

The metallic smell of blood is pungent in the air- I know I am not imagining that.

The other boats have floated past us in the middle of the river and are quizzically looking at me as I manually and forcefully maneuver the tippy canoe back into the current. This isn’t a great moment for experiential learning so I take over for them as they flounder with the proper strokes. I figure if they tip in the current at least the river will pull them away from this precarious feeling place. I push as hard as I can muster towards open water and they are swept away instantly and awkwardly bob downstream, their hands scramble at the gunwales but miraculously they don’t tip. I feel a little lighter. I line my boat up for an exit into the current and try to focus on the move rather than the steamy carcass on shore. 

As my bow crosses into the main river, I let my eyes dance towards the willows and I swear I see movement.

But the river sweeps me away and in seconds I can breathe deeply again.

I am now in the back of the parade, three canoes downstream of me. I look over my shoulder and the beach remains empty but for that lone unlucky caribou. Everyone is a little too stunned to talk yet but the quiet allows us to gather ourselves. Back on the gravel bar, behind the bushes, something lingers out of sight waiting for this hoard of noisy river-booty seeking paddlers to float around the river bend.

My stomach grumbles and I remember our search for a lunch spot.

I suppose we actually did find one, it just wasn’t a lunch for us.

By: Lauren Wonfor