Waffles, Come-alongs and Middle Earth
"I'm making Waffles!"-Donkey
They were both looking at me. I turned off the motor. The cow and calf moose saw me as soon as I crested the final hill on the four wheeler. Slowly they made their way up the cut across from me as I unpacked the wheeler and loaded my pack.
I don’t consider myself much of a four wheeler guy, but this year I drew a Talkeetna Mountains caribou tag and I was limited on time and therefore- options. My plan was to ride-out the local four wheeler trail that leads above treeline. After I had gone as far as the trail could take me I would go on foot from there to scout for caribou.
I love to hunt caribou but I have finite leave-time, and hunting for moose, considered by many to be the grand-prize of Alaskan big game hunting, always takes precedent. Moose are the largest of the deer family and of the eight surviving moose subspecies on the planet the Alaskan Moose, along with the Chukotka moose of Eastern Siberia stand out as the largest of them all. What an amazing place we live in where healthy numbers of them still flourish and it is quite possible to fill a freezer with a whole year’s worth of lean healthy protein with one well placed shot.
The ten mile four wheeler ride-in could easily have been featured in Four Wheeling Mud-Bogger magazine (if there is such a thing.) Never before have I ridden my four wheeler in such adverse trail conditions. After I’d surpassed several nasty, swampy mud bogs I realized that the trail seemed to be getting worse. I knew that returning wouldn’t be any easier but I pressed on until I passed the point of no return. The mud bogs continued their downward spiral and I felt much like Froto Baggins crossing the Dead Marshes of Middle Earth...except I was on a four wheeler. Instead of seeing pasty dead faces and zombies in the swamps, I would spy any occasional beer can as I passed by that had been discarded from the redneck regulars who may or may not be blood related to the Orc.
It’s a good thing that I threw in a come-along at the last minute. Without it I’d still be out there wallowing in mud up to the wheel wells with my hands on my hips. I had to use it four times on the trip in alone. Mud of every conceivable consistency and depth kept me guessing. It was especially soupy as I neared the treeline. It took me almost six hours to reach the end of the trail. By then I was glad to be done riding.
I loaded up my backpack and left the four wheeler on the hill. From there I took off on foot picking my way over the hill and then up into the same cut the moose had been in. I made my way around a thick bushel of willows that would lead me to a nearby ridge.
Holy Berries! Berries everywhere. With my pack still on I bent over and scooped my hand through one particularly thick patch of blueberries and came up with 40 or 50 plump blueberries. It was almost too much to fit in my mouth but I persevered and found a way to stuff them all in as I hiked along. They were superb. These wild blueberries are nothing like the big ones you can buy in those square plastic containers in the supermarket. Visually those ones look okay, but are essentially flavorless. For me, it’s exactly like the difference between a store bought tomato and a good locally grown hot house tomato. The slightly tart, sweetness of the blueberry is a gift on a long fall’s hike. I can recall many times sitting in a patch and eating until completely sated.
Adjacent to the blueberries and tightly hugging the tundra were an equally thick patch of crow berries. I grabbed a handful of those too. They aren’t as great as blueberries but still good. I made my way up and over the top of the knoll until I found a suitable camping spot. At a casual glance, I noticed that the cow and calf that I’d startled earlier were settled into a nearby hillside. Also I saw three more moose in the expanse of the valley below. No caribou.
After setting up the tent and otherwise organizing camp, I grabbed a beer from the pack along with my binocs. I glassed the hillside behind me where I thought the cow and calf were. Low-and-behold, the cow and calf had somehow morphed into a giant sow grizzly and her one year old cub! I think there’s a lesson here: Apparently one should perform more than a cursory glancing-around of their surroundings before settling-into a camping spot. Oops.
They were about 300 yards away from me working the hillside. I sat there mesmerized watching them hoover up thousands upon thousands of berries. First they worked their way up the hill. I hoped they would keep going up and over. Then they started working their way back down. Down towards me. Oh boy.
It was late. The day had been a long one for me. I was beat. I really didn’t want to pack up camp and relocate. I decided to stay put for the night. Here was my thinking/plan: 1) The bears obviously have plenty to eat, so as long as I didn’t provoke them or get in between sow and cub I should be good. It would be hard to do either from inside the tent. 2) Preventative defense is the best offense ( I just made that up.) Like Charles Martin Smith in Farley Mowat’s Never Cry Wolf I set about the task of marking my territory. I downed my beer and began peeing at several strategic locations around my immediate perimeter. I must have looked ridiculous hustling around pissing everywhere with my pants falling down. Okay. 3) Part three of my plan included hanging all of my perishable food from the branch of a bush away from the tent. I tied an empty can of beer to a branch higher up. My thinking was that if the bears came into camp I would surely be awakened by such a clatter at the food bush. 4) Contingency plan B: Winchester model 70 30.06 locked, loaded and within reach. Hell yeah!
Yeah I slept like shit. My brain kept trying to turn every little noise into a big bear. On top of it there were three constant noises that served as confusing background to all others; The variable wind’s flapping the tent’s fabric, A light drizzling rain hissing over the tent, and the ubiquitous swarm of buzzing, circling mosquitoes hovering just outside in the lee of the tent.
What may be otherwise obvious to the gentle reader I will have you know that I made it through the night unscathed if not wholly refreshed.
Much earlier than I normally would have, I boiled up for coffee and eased into my morning. I grabbed the binocs and gun and without looming bears (nor lions nor tigers.), I took a gentle stroll over to the next vantage point. It was from this very knoll that I spotted a brilliant 50 inch bull moose in full velvet browsing just over the hill. The early archery season for moose wouldn’t be open until the next morning but alas I’m not an archery guy so I was out of luck on both counts but my heart raced nonetheless.
Sitting on a big rock watching this bull, I pondered my situation. Considering the fact that I would have to attack this caribou hunt on weekends only, I realized that this particular spot wasn't an ideal location for me to be hunting. The considerable travel time of mud bogging doesn't leave a lot of wiggle room for hunting.
I decided to pick berries. I mentally prepared myself for the return trip through the Dead Marshes and beyond.
I knew that I would have to transform myself from a mild-mannered, berry picking, conservationist into a redneck four wheeling wild man if I wanted to make it back home to the waffle maker.
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| Freezing blueberries on a cookie sheet first prevents smushing during vacu-sealing. |
