Bering Land Bridge or Beringia. A passageway no longer frequented by travelers from the west. It’s a story that began over 16 thousand years ago when the American continents were devoid of humans. Then slowly a migration of Eurasian people began to make their way across a narrow land, made possible by the continental glaciation that had sequestered enough water to lower the oceans between Asia and what is now known as Alaska (Alyeska) or “great land”. A land bridge was formed, and initially only a trickle of the first immigrants ventured across. Spreading slowly across the continents until they migrated and settled from the north to the southern tip. Once the entrance to the Americas, today the Bering Land Bridge National Preserve is one of the least visited parks, and few inhabitants occupy this incredibly beautiful landscape.

Those inhabitants are made up of the wildlife adapted to the tundra. Flying in through the mists and clouds, we were greeted by the local resident musk ox on the beaches. We could see the patterned grounds of the permafrost, the wet soil flowing over the frozen underlying surface (solifluction) and the treeless landscape. Flying over the tundra and around the towering tors, we landed at Serpentine hot springs. First it was the sounds of the burbling streams, the richness of thick vegetation, the steam rising from the geothermal surrounding 170 degree (F) waters that embraced us. Then we looked around at the company of the Granite free standing outcrops, hemming us in like so many medieval castle towers.

It was an easy climb to these ancient sentinels where we could ponder what they must have thought as the newcomers trudged across the tundra so many years ago. Perhaps those travelers too found the warm waters of the hot springs a welcome respite on their journey. But it is the tors that remain, ever watchful as the thousands of seasons come and go. They alone experienced the brief melt each year that allows the grasslands and arctic vegetation to briefly make its presence known. Each passing year they see the burst of growing vegetation that crowds into every square meter, a wide assortment of blueberries, saxifrage, willows, cloudberry, harebell, daisy, moss and colorful leaves of the tundra.

Sitting at the very foot of these patient pinnacles, the abundant birds flit about, wondering what we are doing there. Screeching sounds of the Peregrine falcons warn you that it is you who are intruding. The grey fox looks warily over its shoulder questioning our presence. We are insignificant to the grizzlies who romp as they feed on the handfuls of blueberries ripe for the picking. Close by, the arctic field mice play hide and seek from us. We make no difference to the Caribou families who wander the vast plains. We are the lone intruders. No longer are wandering humans making the passage.

We are the only visitors in this world, surrounded by life that resides in a silent land. A bridge no more, Beringia stands as a reminder of an ancient passageway overseen only by regal tors and underlain by tundra.