It's autumn on the tundra.

In what seems like no time at all the foliage has turned all shades of red, gold, purple, orange, and the weather has alternated between brilliantly sunny and mild to bouts of rain and snow.

It is my last week, and after something like seventy days, life has settled into a rather comfortable and predictable routine for the most part. The week started like every other that I've seen since I came to Toolik. You wake up, have a hot breakfast and begin your day. This may consist of long hours in the field, or it may involve a long stretch in the lab at your computer or weighing and measuring samples. For two separate groups today it meant a helicopter ride to the Anaktuvuk River burn site. Various projects are being carried out there; we did our vegetation sampling late last month, and practically every week some group has scheduled a flight out there throughout the entire summer.

I didn't see them leave today, I barely remember the helicopter taking off this morning, the sound has become so routine. Perhaps it is for this reason we informally call it the "Toolik Taxi". It was cloudy this morning but the ceiling was high and it was good flying weather. By late afternoon the clouds broke up and it got quite warm and pleasant. My group did some field measurements at a local site, we took a Toolik van and spent about 2 or 3 hours scoring vegetation for the presence of pathogens and herbivore damage before returning to camp for another excellent dinner.

By that time it had become a beautiful clear evening, and shortly after dinner I signed out a camp bike and went for a ride on the local gravel roads. Partly because I had quite a bit of dessert (apple crisp served warm with vanilla ice cream) and partly because the evening was so beautiful I wanted to get one more chance to take a ride on a beautiful evening before I leave camp on Friday. As I rode along I saw some low clouds hugging one of the nearby low rounded mountains just to the north and west of camp. I did my usual circuit of the old camp pad, the end of the old airstrip, and the "japanese garden" where people have built large cairns from the shore rocks along the west end of the lake. By the time I returned the bike, some 20 minutes later the sunlight was veiled over by mist, and in a matter of minutes was completely obliterated. It seemed too quick that the camp had become shrouded in such a thick fog. I tried to remember if I'd seen the helicopter on my way out. The helicopter pad is on the main road near the entrance gate, and I seemed to remember that the pad had been empty. Yes, it was, because on my way out I saw a ladder sitting out there, and thought of the song "Stairway to Heaven" thinking that was kind of funny because the ladder which is normally used by the mechanic to get on top of the helicopter lead to nothing but thin air.

It became clear by degrees that the two groups who had left early this morning would now be stuck in the fog. We kept hearing updates through the grapevine once someone checked in with the flight coordinator, who was in satellite phone contact with the pilot. At the last update at 10 PM there was a group of nine including the pilot camped on the Itkillik River. They had a fire going and everyone was fine and in good spirits. Each time you fly you are given one or two green rubber bags that contain or are supposed to contain a tent, sleeping bag, and some food in case of such strandings. The pilot always brings extra sleeping bags and food, and though there were only three bags and nine people it seemed that their situation was stable.

The other group consists of just two people with a survival tent and no sleeping bags. Their situation is much more worrisome, and although they are at the same burn site, it is such a large area, consisting of several hundred square miles, it would be next to impossible for them to make it to the other group.

They are out in a vast and wild area far from the nearest road (which is the Dalton), it's getting dark, and there are wolves and grizzly bears no doubt roaming around in the near dark out there in search of errant rutting caribou.

I find it especially hard to sleep now. It is the time of year when it gets dark up here, almost pitch dark, and even if the fog were to lift it is now too dark to fly. So they will be stuck there until at least the morning, when hopefully the fog will lift.

Yesterday I rode the camp bike to my favorite local spot and lay down on a dry heath covered hill under the brilliant sunshine. When I returned from my ride a group of people had set up a net near our lab and were playing a lively game of badminton. We had had ham steaks, scalloped potatoes, and bread pudding in whiskey caramel sauce for our Sunday dinner. Life here, up to now, has been rather good.

On my way to my room tonight I heard a humming in the air and for a second thought it was the helicopter. It was the diesel generator that hums away 24-7 at the edge of camp, providing us our heat and hot water and electricity so that we can do our work and eat and sleep in comfort. Up until now I have tuned the sound out of my life here as a kind of white noise.

I'd do anything to hear that helicopter right now. I have the feeling the minute we hear that baby coming we are all gonna run like hell up to the pad to greet them. Like a MASH episode, our MASH episode.

Guys, I hope you're safe and warm tonight. Come back soon!