Denali National Park - The Long Days of Summer

From every corner of the globe, birds arrive to build nests and raise their young. Flocks of black and white snow buntings, often in the company of sparrowlike longspurs and redpolls, descend to feed while snow still lingers on meadows. From Southern Asia come the Arctic warbler and the wheatear, two tiny songbirds with large, lovely voices; and from South America, Australia, and Hawaii, as well as other islands of the South Seas, comes the beautiful golden plover, with its jet-black underside, yellow back and wings, and distinctive white-fringed face.

Near rivers and wild mountain lakes, the screams of gulls break the silence. Gray and white mew gulls nest in colonies in the gravel of river bars or on tundra close to lakes, often feeding on airborne swarms of insects. The small Bonnaparte's gull, distinguished by its black head and bright red legs, nests in trees and dive-bombs everything that comes near.

Arctic terns arrive from Antarctica, the longest migration route of any bird. Light gray with a white breast and facial markings and a cap of black feathers, the tern flits and darts like a barn swallow on its long, gracefully pointed wings. It lays its two eggs directly on the ground, in a depression that may or may not be lined with leaves and grass.

During their northward journey, arctic terns may be accompanied, and harassed, by long-tailed jaegers, which winter on the high seas of the South Pacific. These formidable pirates survive during migration by robbing terns and other fishing birds of their catches. Ashore they become falconlike hunters, hovering motionless in the air, then diving with uncanny accuracy on their prey, a mouse, perhaps, or a pika or the young of another bird.

By June, as every day waxes noticeable longer than the day before, leaves suddenly pop out on shrubs and small, stunted trees. Wet tundra meadows grow lush with dwarf birch and bog blueberry, and fluffy catkins line willow branches. On the dry tundra of the high ground, bearberry and lowbush cranberry put forth their bell-like blossoms, the slender stems of white heather interweave into tight mats, and dense clumps of moss campion cover themselves over with pink blossoms.

Before long, Alaska cottongrass has spread a snowy mantle over bogs, lakeshores, and stream banks. The cloudberry's pulpy orange fruit has ripened. Blueberries are darkening; they will supply foragers with succulent food until frost. Late-melting snowdrifts make a continuous renewal of spring for small groups of wildflowers, which bloom around the edges of the drifts long after others of their kind have gone to seed.

Wandering caribou, back in the valley to graze on lichens and other greenery, stop to plunge their snouts into these snowdrifts, briefly escaping the harassment of botflies, which lay eggs in the great deer's nostrils. The bulls now sport towering racks with the shovellike scoops that are the caribou's trademark. Soft, dark velvet still covers the antlers; it will soon be shed, coming away in tatters. In October, when the bulls lock antlers in the serious business of competing for harems, the caribou bands will have gathered in the western part of the park, on the high tundra plateau.

Season's End
Autumn comes as suddenly as spring did. By August great beds of willow herb bury sections of the river bars beneath a rich magenta blanket. Soon the grasses of the marshy areas begin turning yellow and red, and then the foliage of countless low shrubs blends into the basic red of the tundra's fall garb. Willow and aspen add their bright yellow tones until the landscape glows in the waning light of the sun.

Ungainly-looking moose, the largest members of the deer family, wade into tundra lakes and thrust their heads under the water to feed on succulent vegetation. The bulls are still antlered; soon they, too, will engage in the brutal competitions of the breeding season.

With the deepening of the autumn, migrating flocks throng the skies. Great V's of geese honk southward, and huge flocks of sandhill cranes issue their strange, haunting call overhead. The park's waterfowl slip away almost unnoticed. Suddenly they are gone. But not all the birds of the park depart. Tiny black-capped chickadees will remain all winter, busily pecking the seeds out of evergreen cones. Golden eagles will soar and hunt. Ravens and magpies will scavenge the remains of fallen creatures. Gray jays will eat anything remotely edible. And, dressed in white winter plumage, three species of ptarmigan will subsist on dry berries, leaves, and the buds of birches and willows.

The hush of winter spreads with the falling snows. Bears withdraw into their dens. Caribou, their antlers shed, seek open woodlands where the snow is less firmly packed and easier to brush aside with their broad hooves. Equally antlerless moose head for lower elevations, where they subsist on whatever dry browse they find. The snow line descends until lowlands and hills merge and the frozen surfaces of lakes disappear. Day by day, the sun retreats behind Denali's bulk until, in the long, ceaseless twilight of the Far North, the sterile breath of winter pervades all. Silently, the wilderness awaits another spring.