They hiked over mountains and canoed along crashing Arctic rivers. They were guided by a sun that set for only an hour a night and braced by freezing winds. For 800 miles across the wilderness they trekked, from the Yukon in Canada to remotest Alaska, far above the Arctic Circle.
When they finally made it to the log cabins of Arctic Village on Friday, their cries of joy and their dancing and singing for a moment drowned out the deep fear that drove them on their odyssey.
The 100,000-strong Gwich'in tribe's 'millennium trek' was a desperate plea for survival. One of the last tribes of native Americans to live by subsistence, they fear that they - and the caribou on which they depend - are about to lose a 25-year battle that could end in one last Klondike-like scramble for oil.
It is a battle that has pitched Alaska against the rest of America and the Indians and environmentalists against Britain's biggest oil company, BP.
The age-old conflict between development and environment has nowhere been so stark as in this fragile corner of the world. Nowhere are man's thirst for oil - and the effects of global warming - having such an impact.
The remote Gwich'in community of Arctic Village, 100 miles north of the Arctic Circle and with no access by road, nestles against the southern edge of the vast Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. The refuge is the last true wilderness in North America, so abundant in wildlife it has been dubbed America's Serengeti. Here are 20 million acres of soaring snowcapped mountains, marshy coastal plains, Arctic tundra and forests of stunted trees, with no signs of man: no roads nor car parks, no visitor centres nor hiking trails.
In the short summers the tundra explodes into vibrant reds and yellows. In winter it is smothered in snow. Visitors talk about a primal landscape that takes them back to a time before man, but to the environmentalists and the Gwich'in, it is the wildlife that makes it unique. It has the only population of Alaskan polar bears that live on land; it has the near-extinct shaggy musk ox, the regal moose, grizzly bears, wolverine and lynx.
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The refuge is the breeding ground for 150 species of birds that migrate to the US, Asia and South America for the bitter winters, when for three months the sun does not rise and temperatures drop below minus 50 centigrade.
Above all, it is the 130,000 caribou which dominate the landscape and on which the Gwich'in depend for much of their food. "My people have always been known as the caribou people," says Sarah James of the Gwich'in steering committee, as caribou steaks sizzle on the stove of her cosy log cabin. "Without the caribou we are lost."
A sign in the Arctic Village community hall says of the caribou: "It's our dance, it's our language, it's everything to us."
Each year the caribou go on one of the last great mammal migrations on the planet, trekking from 1,000 miles away in Canada, through the 9,000ft Brooks range and swimming precariously across sweeping rivers, to the narrow coastal strip of the refuge.
Here, in the calving grounds sacred to the Gwich'in, the caribou fatten up with cotton grass to get them through the Arctic winter and, protected from predators, the cows give birth. But amid the majestic scenery are a few oil seeps, a tell-tale sign of what is underneath: below the feet of the grazing caribou lies enough crude oil to fill up to 16 billion barrels - worth many tens of billions of pounds - and the oil companies are pushing hard to start drilling.
Oil is already produced along much of the rest of the Alaskan coast but is starting to dry up. At the Prudhoe Bay field, just along from the refuge, production has fallen from two million barrels a day a decade ago to a million now.
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The caribou are already having to deal with the effects of climate change. Scientists believe the Arctic is getting warmer up to five times faster than the rest of the Earth. The icepack in the Arctic Ocean is now 40 per cent thinner than it was. The permafrost on the tundra is showing signs of melting. Polar bears, short of food, have lost 10 per cent of their body weight.
Warmer winters mean more snow in the mountains, and for the first time this year the caribou did not make it to the coast before calving. According to Don Russell, a biologist with the International Porcupine Caribou Management Board, the unfriendly climate is already taking its toll and caribou numbers are falling.
"This year will be worse. Their migration is no longer coinciding with the fast seasonal changes in vegetation," he said. If the numbers of caribou fall much further the Gwich'in may have to cut down the number of animals - 4,000 at present - they allow themselves to hunt.
And the momentum to raid the refuge for oil, which will further promote global warming, is building. Americans, driving ever bigger and less fuel efficient cars - they are now back to the same consumption of cars 20 years ago - have been shock