112 On the trail of vanishing birds 



Toward mid-July the weather at Aklavik became really summery. 

 On the thirteenth, in the shade back of McNeice's kitchen, the 

 thermometer showed 87 F. As we flew to various nearby areas 

 that required further checking we noted a number of fires near 

 the northern limit of tree growth. It seemed certain that no people 

 were in these remote territories and that such fires had been 

 started by the electric storms that were of almost daily occurrence. 

 Several reports of whooping cranes trickled in from regions 

 farther south, and some of these came back to us by radio from 

 wildlife officials in Fort Smith, Ottawa, and Washington. Up to 

 this point we had observed no sign of the big white birds and we 

 would very shortly be pulling out for the last leg of our survey, 

 with only one potential region not looked at. 



The last days at Aklavik were pleasant ones, as all of them had 

 been. We had made a host of new friends, among them some of 

 the finest people we had ever met. 



The morning of the twentieth of July saw an overcast sky and 

 a definite coolness in the air. A little past noon the wind sprang 

 up out of the northwest and started to blow. It blew great guns. 

 We were busy most of the afternoon tying down the airplane and 

 keeping a close watch on it. For three days it continued, with very 

 heavy rain most of the time. The level of the river climbed rapidly, 

 cutting away the bank in great chunks, so that we had to shift 

 the position of our craft constantly. In the meantime, Carman 

 Pearson had flown his small float plane to the herders' camp on 

 Richards Island, 120 miles north, to pick up the wife of one of the 

 Lap reindeer herders, who was expecting a baby, and bring her 

 to the doctor in Aklavik. When the storm was over Carman came 

 flying back alone. He had been grounded by the blow at Kit- 

 tigazuit and could go no farther. During the height of the storm 

 the sixteen-year-old wife had given birth to twins. And both of 

 them boys! Since they were bom almost in the middle of a rein- 

 deer herd, and smack in the middle of a storm, we hoped they 

 would be named Donner and Blitzen, but probably this was asking 

 too much. 



On the twenty-third, the weather having improved, though still 

 a trifle "scruffy" upriver, we said our last farewells and, at three- 



