By Tristin Hopper
It’s natural that we humans would enjoy the Northern summer. After all, we’re sub-tropical animals; only 70,000 years ago we lived exclusively in the heat-scorched savannahs of Africa. So when summer rolls around, we have a primal delight in shedding our sweaters and parkas to frolic in our natural state.
If you happen to be a sheep, caribou or moose, on the other hand, summer is a living hell. The super-insulating hollow hairs that kept you moving at 40 below are now an excruciating liability. And forget about perspiring; you don’t have sweat glands. You’ll save money on deodorant, but you’ll also be spending most of your time submerging your overheated frame into a nearby lake.
Meanwhile, the crisp winter air has been replaced with clouds of ravenous mosquitoes. Caribou get it the worst, and can be driven half-mad by the constant onslaught of airborne bloodsuckers. That’s why, for much of the summer, caribou will spend their hanging out on mountaintops and wading and lakes. If all else fails, they’ll just start running.
I can’t imagine salmon are having a particularly good time, either. Spawning, by its very design, is the most grueling and horrifying breeding experience imaginable. For weeks, these fish forgo food and rest to swim through hundreds of kilometers of gill-burning fresh water on the way to their childhood spawning grounds. When they arrive, they half-heartedly ejaculate/ovulate into the river before mercifully succumbing to death from exhaustion.
Last summer, I decided to take a June trip to the Yukon wildlife preserve. During the winter, the preserve hosts steamy herds of majestic ungulates. In summer, however, the scene becomes more akin to an uncomfortably hot car ride. Moose remain perfectly motionless, attempting to weather the heat through inactivity. The caribou have developed Rain Man-like tics, thanks to their mosquito tormentors. The muskox have their legs splayed out in bizarre cooling-off poses like some weird all-muskox interpretive dance troupe. After a solid hour of spectating broiling wildlife while sipping on a refrigerated Coca Cola from the gift shop, I guarantee that you’ll have a renewed appreciation for the fact that your winter parka is currently collecting dust in the attic.
