Aug / Sept 2007

The Glorious Tenth
Tundra, retrievers, and Alaska’s blue-collar answer to the red grouse.
by E. Donnall Thomas Jr.
Photos by Don and Lori Thomas

fter a shake, rattle, and roll landing on a remote gravel bar west of the Alaska Range (the rocks always turn out to be bigger than they look from the air), I shut the engine down and let old Sky pick his way down from the Cub’s backseat. I was flying in supplies for a caribou hunt, but it was the opening day of ptarmigan season and I’d seen no reason why the cargo should not include a shotgun, a box of shells, and a Labrador retriever. After securing a duffle full of heavy canned goods high above the reach of the local bears (I hoped), I climbed back in the Cub and dug out my old 12-gauge pump, which I planned to leave behind as a camp bear gun anyway. After throwing some shells in my daypack, the dog and I set out to climb through the brush to the open tundra above the riverbed.
            Tundra may seem featureless to the inexperienced eye, but as with the sagebrush prairie of the Lower-48, the monotony of its treeless terrain proves illusory. Each of the many species that call it home will identify and inhabit their own favorite parts. The willow ptarmigan I expected to find prefer low ridges, where good drainage provides dry footing. With Sky at my side, I picked my way around the edge of a bog and began to climb.
            From the top of the gentle rise, I could see a herd of caribou off in the distance, but Alaska’s same-day-airborne restriction made them of informational interest only. Fortunately, the state’s prohibition against hunting and flying the same day does not apply to small game, as I soon had an opportunity to appreciate. I’ve never billed Sky as a pointing Lab, but he would usually slow down rather than speed up at the first whiff of game – and when he began to mince around at the edge of a scrub willow clump, I fixed him to the turf with a whistle blast.

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