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birdlife. This letter awoke Americans to the toxic perils in their own backyards. Some of Carson’s biological research had been reinforced by Christine Stevens of the Animal Welfare Institute.23 The National Audubon Society gave further credence to Carson’s brave research, documenting the declining populations of bald eagles as a result of DDT.24 In Alaska, as Matthiessen noted in Wildlife in America, there was a chance to save the last great wilderness. “To many of us this sudden silencing of the song of birds,” Carson wrote, “this obliteration of the color and beauty and interest of birdlife, is sufficient cause for sharp regret.”25 To Mardy Murie, the combination of Project Chariot and DDT was too much to bear. With Alaska’s statehood looming, a quid pro quo to save the Arctic Range had to be worked out quickly. The “save the Arctic” movement needed to quickly gather a head of steam.

Chapter Twenty-Three - Selling the Arctic Refuge

I

Whether travelers approached Arctic Alaska by plane, boat, or dogsled, a hush fell over most of them. They seemed to be entering God’s no-trespassing zone. For much of the year, the Arctic was frozen off from outsiders, though the Gwich’in and Inupiat traveled the North Slope year-round. Visitors lucky enough to come in the summer months, particularly those trained to understand the flora and fauna seen on a day’s hike, were likely to return to civilization as prophets of the wilderness, reverent disciples of the quiet world. Arctic Alaska was God’s own altar on Earth, an undatable place so obviously hallowed that no human footprint should ever be too deeply imprinted in the frozen tundra or sea ice. In the delicate northeastern corner of Arctic Alaska that the Muries were trying to save, horrible ruts produced by U.S. Navy vehicles retained their depth for decades, slashing the permafrost as boldly as if they were freshly made. From above—from a bird’s-eye view—a traveler could see ancient caribou trails etched into the tundra. Those witnessing the actual migration were often overcome with a stabbing wave of exaltation. Other game trails followed stream corridors and hoof-beaten switchback paths up limestone hillsides. The question that American environmentalists of the mid-1950s were asking was: could the industrial order leave much of a treasured landscape free from development? Or, as Mardy Murie asked, “Will our society be wise enough to keep some of ‘The Great Country’ empty of technology and full of life?”1

Ever since the Sheenjek Expedition of 1956, Olaus and Mardy Murie had lobbied for an inviolate 8.9 million-acre Arctic National Wildlife Refuge from sixty miles east of Prudhoe Bay all the way to the Canadian border.* The proposed site was bounded on the north by the Arctic Ocean (Beaufort Sea), on the east by Canada, and on the west by the Canning River, and led south to a point beyond the lovely crest of the Brooks Range. When discussing Arctic ecosystems, the Muries often used the word fragile to help laypersons understand the interconnectedness of the far north wilderness. The elimination of one species could cause a chain reaction affecting others. Lemmings and sparrows were as important to the Muries as polar bears. They had also studied twenty-three types of spiders found in the Arctic.2

Bursting with enthusiasm, convinced that Arctic Alaska could be saved, the Muries launched a comprehensive plan to convince Alaskans that the time for preservation was now. This seven-year push for the Arctic Refuge coincided exactly with the movement for Alaska’s statehood, which was under way following a 1955 constitutional convention in Fairbanks.3 To the Muries, the land forming the Arctic Alaska refuge was the most majestic panorama of wilderness in North America. It presented life in consummate ecological harmony. Winning the fight against the proposed dam in Dinosaur National Monument emboldened the Muries to seek another victory in Arctic Alaska.

Bringing dozens of photographs they had taken with Justice Douglas while camping in the Brooks Range along the Sheenjek River,