America's Serengeti

摘要

I was 7 years old on June 26, 1999, when our Twin Otter thudded down on a gravel bar, and I glimpsed the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge for the first time. My parents heaved our gear down from the plane, making heaps of yellow, purple, and red dry bags — garish against the dull ochre of the tundra all around. The engine bellowed as the aircraft took off, then the sound gradually softened, our connection to the rest of the world fading away. A minute later silence enveloped me, until my ears grew accustomed to the sounds of the wilderness around us; grasses stirring in the wind, the faint song of a Lapland Longspur, the distant thud as a melting iceberg crashed into the sea.