Machan Dahan

“When we get out of the glass bottle of our ego and when we escape like the squirrels in the cage of our personality and get into the forest again, we shall shiver with cold and fright. But things will happen to us so that we don’t know ourselves. Cool, unlying life will rush in.”

– D. H. Lawrence

The “6pm Cicada’s” start calling each night like an emergency siren in a strange town. How could an insect produce such a cacophony? 

This is the Wehea Forest in East Kalimantan, part of the Indonesian side of Borneo, a forest owned by the indigenous Wehea Dayak.  To get here, you'll need to fly to Balikpapan in the south of Kalimantan (6 flights for me, maybe less for you) and drive 17 hours north on a mix of pot-holed asphalt, gravel, mud (sometimes deep), and rocks – breaking for gas…food… and where necessary, to Band-Aid the road surface on a bridge that elsewhere would have been classed as collapsed.

The journey to the largely virgin rainforest of Wehea is preceded by almost Tolkienian excesses – fresh scars of bulldozed earth cutting through the verdant greenery of logging concessions; bare bruises of cleared forest and excavations gouging deeply within the massive coal mining operations; and the shaved-clean surface of the plantations, where the bleached remnant stubble of giant dipterocarps are the only visible remains of a forest, in a landscape converted to manicured rows and terraces of palm oil or banana palms.

We travelled three days from Fairbanks, Alaska to spend time with friends and colleagues of Ethical Expeditions who work with the Wehea Dayak; to keep this remaining patch of forest intact – to maintain a healthy integrated system of people, plants, and animals.

Once through the Post Portal entrance to the forest, where the sound and sights of chain saws and caterpillar heavy machinery give way to more natural processes, the Wehea forest doesn’t give up its secrets easily.  Paraphrasing Roger Kay on a trip to the Arctic Refuge a few years ago – “you can get to the forest in a day, but it takes a week to get to the wilderness.”

 Human presence in the rainforest seems to be always accompanied by some warning call – the caw, hoot, or enthusiastic chirping of an unseen bird, the guttural exclamation from an orangutan aware of our presence, the singing of gibbons sidling away through the canopy, or the jarring barks of the aptly named barking dear.  These warnings are quickly followed by a rustling of leaves or crash of branches, and then just background noise, or occasionally, a few prints left in the mud. As for actually seeing animals, each day we were blessed with momentary glimpses as the forest selectively gave up a few of its secrets…just for a precious moment.

 On the first night, travel weary from the road, I laid back on the balcony of our half-open forest dwelling to be rewarded by a flying lemur, almost a perfect saucer of skin and animal. Later that evening, a tarsier (picture courtesy Ethical Expeditions) pondered our presence on a night walk, just two meters away from us; four humans both marveling at the diminutive primate and chastising our neglect of cameras – although perhaps that would have ruined a perfect moment of connection. The following morning, a mouse dear idly wondered down the river next to our hut. On most days the white morph of the paradise flycatcher, elusive as far as photographs were concerned, would sweep by in an exquisitely sinuous path between perches. While hiking we were frequently greeted with the whoosh of air as a long-tailed hornbill changed position in the canopy. On our final day, the endemic bristlehead sat for a moment above the waterfall pool we showered in each day, before moving off with 5 of its compatriots in search of more insects.

Research camera traps bore some evidence of what we did not see with our own eyes. Within a few hours of installing new batteries and a few gigabytes of memory card, and only a few hundred meters from our sleeping perch on a fire tower, a clouded leopard, or Machan Dahan to the Dayak, inspected our work.  In the other direction, less than a kilometer away, an orangutan sidled by the camera trap we’d inspect the next day (camera trap pictures courtesy Ethical Expeditions).

Some of the wildlife was less elusive. The common palm civet, a relative of the mongoose strived to eke out scraps from around camp each night, leaving dirty prints on the usually clean tables and ulan (iron wood) floors. And then there were the leaches that we’d have liked to be more elusive. Although special socks kept feet and leaches apart during much of our time in the forest, our last day hiking up rivers and creeks to a large salt lick in running shoes and socks let the tenacious beasts in for a tropical bloodletting. It can be hard to appreciate the beauty and function of a tiger leach as it hangs engorged from an ankle, calf, or worse. Now sitting on a Lion Air flight to Jakarta a few days later, my ankles are pockmarked and itching, but mostly a bittersweet reminder of the forest and people I now miss.

Our days in the Wehea forest were usually accompanied by the PMs (forest guardians) from the indigenous Wehea Dayak. A tribe that we were proudly told bore a history of head-hunting...but not consuming. The sense of pride in all that is their forest is palpable – from their new conservation center being built in their main village Nehas, now some 30 km from the forest’s edge, to each new wildlife sighting, or story told. We shared the excitement of the reconnection of elders with the forest, and introduction of young apprentice PMs to the traditions of dance, music, and ceremony.  On our last night, we danced a meditation to the beat of dual gongs around a fire – the Dayak in traditional dress, most carrying ornately carved and decorated Mandau (bush knives), and two with ceremonial hats adorned with feathers of the great argus and hornbill - collected from the forest floor on earlier day's hikes.  For this night, four ebu (woman elders) joined us from Nehas, their first time back in the forest for a few years – sharing their betel nut, quai (sweets), songs, history, and joy to be in their ancient home.

Away from the Internet, phones and all that accompany them, and with limited electricity to power a disconnection from the forest's natural rhythms; under the stars, in the light of a fire, surrounded by the music and dance of people, the chorus of cicadas, and happy camaraderie; there was time to melt into the forest and contemplate the future. This is the Wehea Dayak’s forest, home to a people, Machan Dahan, and so much more.  A hundred meters from the entrance the loggers continue to tear at the edges...

The Sound of Running Water

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
~Robert Frost~

Spring in Alaska is as much a feeling as it is directly experienced. The sound of water, at first dripping, but eventually streaming, fills what had been the snow-dampened hush of winter. The orange hue of the horizon now greets my mornings as the sun quickly ascends, flooding the house with intoxicating warmth - enough to lure a lazy cat from torpor. The admittedly still close-to-freezing temperatures suddenly feel tropical enough for shorts to appear along with the buds of new leaves. And, the air smells again, reminding me of my first spring in Alaska two decades ago, the smell of earth and rain. I'm sure the sensory deprivation of winter makes this all the more special, and for right now, spring is a utopian place before the interior's heat, fires, and bugs of summer.

All around our house, the voles and squirrels scurry. A few of the redpolls and chickadees remain, but the winter hub bub at the feeder is just a memory. A hairy woodpecker came through the birches yesterday finding lost caches of chickadee food. I look around and find myself wondering if last year's red fox survived the winter, and will slink past the house again this summer?


Perhaps the bears will come out soon and feed on the road-side grasses?


Last weekend we sought time away from the confines of town, heading to the Castner Glacier in the Delta Range, a few hours drive south of Fairbanks. Snow shoes - my least favorite thing to put on my feet - were needed to head up the glacier due to the deteriorating snow pack, but the views were well worth the effort...

The next day we hiked Donnelly Dome on baking tundra, welcoming the spring, and marveling at the wintery expanse of the Alaska Range.


We keep each other alive with our stories. We need to share them, as much as we need to share food. We also require for our health the presence of good companions. One of the most extraordinary things about the land is that it knows this-and it compels language from some of us so that as a community we may converse about this or that place, and speak of the need.

~Barry Lopez~

The Honesty of Winter

A journey into the wilderness is the freest, cheapest, most non-privileged of pleasures. Anyone with two legs and the price of a pair of army surplus combat boots may enter
~~ Ed Abbey ~~

There is no doubt that it is good to be home - in Alaska. But it took a while to settle into the rhythm of winter - the sequestered life during the 5th coldest January on record and the uptick in energy as the light and relative warmth bathed interior Alaska in February.

The hard-packed trails of the Yukon Quest dog race now lure us into the wilderness, offering tantalizing thoughts of just staying on the trail among the grey jays, moose, and northern lights - away from the the myriad of busy human things that capture our attention each day. In retrospect that may have been safer than driving home.

While Abbey has long provided inspiration, I have to admit I moved beyond his army surplus combat boots for Alaskan adventures - a FatBack bike booted with big "Fat Larry" and "Endomorph" tyres to keep it floating across the snow.

I think I've always felt safer out there in the wilderness, but will need to resort back to those combat boots for a while after Ben slid into oncoming traffic - writing off a bike and two cars. As Abbey would have said "the road was the problem."

The Same Cold

In Minnesota the serious cold arrived
like no cold I'd previously experienced,
an in-your-face honesty to it, a clarity
that always took me by surprise.
On blizzard nights with wires down
or in the dead-battery dawn
the cold made good neighbors of us all,
made us moral because we might need
something moral in return, no hitchhiker
left on the road, not even some frozen
strange-looking stranger turned away
from our door. After a spell of it,
I remember, zero would feel warm—
people out for walks, jackets open,
ice fishermen in the glory
of their shacks moved to Nordic song.
The cold took over our lives,
lived in every conversation, as compelling
as local dirt or local sport.
If bitten by it, stranded somewhere,
a person would want
to lie right down in it and sleep.
Come February, some of us needed
to scream, hurt ourselves, divorce.
Once, on Route 23, thirty below,
my Maverick seized up, and a man
with a blanket and a candy bar, a man
for all weather, stopped and drove me home.
It was no big thing to him, the savior.
Just two men, he said, in the same cold

~~ Stephen Dunn ~~