John Foley

FAIRBANKS — When I finally saw the peaks, I couldn’t even mumble the word “magnificent” before flopping to the ground in exhaustion and agony.

The peaks are the Arrigetch, in the western Brooks Range. As the artist-in-residence for Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve, I was trekking through the mountains in late July with a young, shotgun-toting ranger named Nick Thompson.

Thompson was helpful and highly skilled, but he was also half my 48 years and 60 pounds lighter. He strode along like a Nordic god, oblivious to his 65-pound pack, while I staggered across the tundra like a drunk.

The first time Thompson passed a campsite, in a spruce grove about a mile from where floatplane dropped us, I bit my tongue. When he passed up a second campsite a mile later, I nearly wept. Why couldn’t they pair me with a paunchy ranger pushing 50?

Of course, I really had no one to blame but myself. I was in the Brooks Range to research a novel about a young climber. After that first agonizing day — and night of foot and leg cramps — I cursed myself for not proposing a novel about a young river rafter.

Even burdened by a heavy pack, I can usually hike a dozen or more miles a day on mountain trails. At home in Vancouver, Wash., I’d trained by walking 5 miles a day with a 20-pound vest, swimming and lifting weights a few times a week, and hiking steep trails in the Columbia River Gorge on weekends.

Still, nothing prepared me for tussocks (from the Old English “To Suck,” I believe). These basketball-sized clumps of sedge offer no good options. Step between them, and you sink shin-deep in muck. Step on them, and you risk a broken ankle, because they often roll. A mile of tussock travel with a heavy pack seemed about the equivalent of a five-mile run.

The next morning, I proposed a “chill-out patrol” to Thompson for the remainder of our time together. “I’ve suffered enough for my art,” I joked.

He had a job to do and wasn’t keen on slowing down, but he did grant me a rest day, which my legs greatly appreciated. The third day we broke camp and headed south along Arrigetch Creek, where there was — hallelujah! — a trail.

Camping on a well-used lichen knoll the third night, I’d discovered that I’d forgotten my toilet paper at our first site. Fortunately, I had my checkbook with me, and I can say with certainty that I will not be bouncing numbers 1061 through 1074.

The next day was clear and we had our best view of the peaks. Arrigetch is Inupiat for “fingers of the hand outstretched.” To me, they looked like giant waves poised to break across the land. Or perhaps something from Dr. Seuss.

My research has limits, and I’d made it clear I would not be attempting to scale Xanadu or any of the other sheer walls in the Arrigetch. When I mentioned this to a climber I interviewed in Washington, he suggested I couldn’t really write about a climb unless I experienced it myself.

“That’s like saying you need to knock off a few people in order to write a good murder mystery,” I countered. “Is James Lee Burke writing his stuff from a prison cell?”

He didn’t appreciate my analogy.

Our fourth day we arrived at Aquarius Valley beneath the granite spires — most prominently The Maidens. While I spent much of the next two days reading and taking notes, Thompson patrolled the area, covering ludicrous distances with his long legs.

“I look for signs of humans, animal signs,” he explained. “It’s kind of like tracking.”

He said climbers in the Arrigetch are usually good about cleaning up after themselves, although the relative popularity of the area has taken a toll on the sensitive Arctic environment.

Grizzlies also hammer the area — we saw patches of torn-up hillsides marking their quest for food. Like all visitors to the 8.4 million acre park (more than Massachusetts and Connecticut combined), we were required to keep our food in small barrels that we stored away from our campsite. We didn’t see any grizzlies, but the scat on the trail attested to their presence.

We had fair weather most of the week. The days were usually in the high 50s and low 60s, and then it would cool to a little below freezing at night. We left Aquarius on the warmest day yet. Thompson walked ahead, as usual, and somehow I managed to lose the trail. After a rough two hours, I finally regained her, and apologized for the unkind words I’d been muttering. “I’m very happy we’re together now,” I explained, “and I never want to lose you again.”

I’d also lost Thompson, but we met up at our initial camp site that evening. And I found my toilet paper! A bit soggy but useable, and just in time — I was down to my last check.

We’d talked about hiking out Takahula Lake, but assessing my condition, Thompson decided that was unrealistic. I agreed with his analysis, and we decided to head out of Circle Lake, where we’d been dropped by pilot Kurt Becker. Becker impressed me both with his piloting and tightrope walking skills — he moved gracefully along a wire connecting the floats of his plane to load gear.

“I’ve never fallen,” he said, “but a friend of mine was trying to impress a girl walking the line, and fell right in the lake. We call him Johnny Cash.”

I struggled through the tussocks along the Alatna River again the last day. I was so tired that in the final two hours I rested five minutes for every five I walked, and downed eight liters of water.

On the way out, Becker landed the Beaver floatplane on Takahula Lake to pick up some empty propane canisters from Steve and Kay Grubis. They’ve lived in a cabin on the north side of the lake for 25 years, and regularly host visitors to the park. They graciously served us refreshments, which we enjoyed while marveling at the breathtaking view of the mountains ringing the deep lake.

Kay explained that they used to live at the cabin year-round, but now winter in Fairbanks. “It sometimes gets 60 to 70 degrees below during the winter here,” she explained. “We’re just too old for that.”

Back in Bettles, I stepped on a scale and saw that I’d dropped fifteen pounds during the week. So in addition to the novel, I’m toying with the idea of a second book: “The Arrigetch Diet: Suffer and Lose!”