After several days of observation, I still wasn't sure what the helicopters were doing. Small deposits of equipment were scattered around the valley, but the helicopters only rarely landed at any of them. Mainly they flew back and forth over the site, often with objects dangling underneath them. Their base of operations was at a series of low buildings on the ore body. It must be part of Northern Dynasty Mines' exploration or surveying activity, but I didn't know enough about mining to figure it out. As I approached this hub, the helicopter roar was joined by the constant drone from a small building on the slope above me, drilling into the rock. Now well into the ore deposit, I carefully scanned the rocks at my feet. I expected them to look different; special somehow. But to my eye, they were all quite ordinary. Without all this activity, this spot would look no different than the rest of the tundra.

And really, it is no different than the rest of the tundra. The land I passed through on my way to the mine site was dotted with claim stakes. And Pebble Mine, as large as it might be, would be only one small piece of an enormous Bristol Bay Mining district. All this tundra is at risk.

I set up my tarp on the hill overlooking the valley, and climbed in just before the start of a violent thunderstorm. In the morning, I crawled out into one of the strangest sunny days I've seen. The sun hung overhead as a red-tinged orb in an all-day sunrise. The mining camp and the valley below had completely disappeared. A strong breeze blew from the northwest, and the world was engulfed by a thick, dry fog of smoke from some distant forest fire. It was making my eyes itch.

I started my descent into the fog. I had seen the potential mine site, and tried to document it, but other than an occasional flash of sun, I wasn't going to get my beautiful landscape weather. I couldn't help feeling like a failure. More than ever, I wanted to save this wilderness. But without the beautiful pictures, how could I explain this to anyone else? I crept past the mining camp and turned north to Upper Talarik Creek, taking shots of the smoke-draped wilderness.

As soon as I crossed out of helicopter range, I saw another caribou, silhouetted against a series of smoky hills. The smoke added an aura of mystery to the land. In the confusion of indistinguishable rolling hills and ponds, I kept a close eye on my compass, pointed northeast to Nondalton.

I had gone out to photograph this unknown spot at the heart of a controversy, hoping to get it noticed. To get it noticed, I thought I had to make it beautiful.

In its subtle way, the tundra is beautiful. But it has no awesome glaciers, craggy peaks, or giant trees. Tourists don't often buy postcards of tundra. I came here because I love the wilderness of Southwest Alaska. And I don't love it because it's beautiful. I love it because it's wild.

Birds feed in the wetlands, bears crowd the banks of salmon-rich streams, and caribou roam the hillsides. The rolling tundra seems to stretch on forever, without roads, dams, or fences. The land is still unscarred and unpoisoned. A person who comes here to fish or hunt is just another predator.

Pebble Mine would not destroy the most beautiful place on earth, but it would destroy something just as rare. Wilderness is a thing so besieged in our world that most can no longer even grasp what it is.

Large open pit mines can be seen from earth's orbit with the naked eye. From this ridge a few miles away, the scar would be so large that I couldn't even see it all.

The hard rock mining industry creates more toxic pollution than any other industry in the country. Any toxins left behind would remain through the millennia, until the glaciers of the next ice age pushed them into the Bering Sea. The gold under the tundra may last for a few decades. The wilderness will be gone forever.