The legend of Full Moon Rising

      The Legend of Full Moon Rising     

    A man of white beard and brown hair crawled across a barren desert in desperation.  Dune after dune of endless sand lay before him for as far at the eye could see.  Making his last stand, the man committed himself to achieving the top of the next dune; beyond that he wasn’t sure he would be able to continue.  An hour later the man finally crested the top and peered over into the depression below. With the sun blazing in his eyes the man could hardly believe his good fortune; a small wooden structure revealed itself in the duned valley below. Not having eaten in the last four days he found himself clinging to this one bastion of hope.

      The man, with renewed purpose and waning energy set out to reach the structure which, as he got closer, looked more like a shack, or a stand of some fashion.  “Could it be a food stand?  he thought to himself.  He allowed himself this thought briefly and then scolded himself for raising his hopes too high.  There appeared to be signage on the front with colors and numbers and pictures of which he could not make out the details.

      Still unable to walk, the man crawled closer and to his delight, discovered that yes it was indeed a food stand, a farmers market  specializing in the sale of the humble onion. A large white wooden onion was attached high above the counter in cartoon caricature. Not believing his own eyes he rubbed them and re-focused affirming his discovery. 

      The man, reared in a small outpost of fertile lands on the other side of the world, had grown up on the onions of his region and had developed a deep seeded love for all variety of Allium cepo, the common bulb onion.

      “To what diete do I owe my good fortune?” he thought to himself “Not only have I discovered my only salvation of food for miles around in this forsaken desert, but they are serving my beloved onion, my best meal. Oh I can almost feel the crisp crunch on my teeth and the clear juice running down my chin. Oh happy day, Oh happy day!”

    He crawled forth a little faster now but at his current pace it would still be a good thirty minutes to the shack; His mind turned to all things onion. 

     He remembered that his grandfather who had lived to the ripe old age of 100 years old had been quoted in his village ledger, as attributing his long life to two distinct things: Hard daily physical work and eating lots and lots of onions.

    The hard physical labor bit had always made a lot of sense to the man.  The regular exercise, he knew increased circulation and  was good for his heart. But what was it about the onion? Was it the vitamins and minerals that manifested the fountain of youth in the onion or was it something more, something intangible or maybe mystical? He didn’t know for sure, he just knew that he loved to eat them and if it led to a longer life then it was a good thing. Deep down though, he knew that even if strong scientific evidence pointed the other way towards the onion leading to cancer or other illness, he would probably eat them anyway; he simply loved them.

      The man had a wonderful childhood growing up in a small agricultural town where his mother and father tended to a bountiful garden yielding everything from rowed corn to melons of water, and of course his beloved onions.  There were no hard times of famine in the man’s early life such as he was experiencing now. He had grown with a wide variety of wonderous foods that were available in season, or put up into jars for winter subsistence.  It was this variety of foods that shaped the diversity of the man’s pallet. There was no food the man did not enjoy as a young lad; sans one, the raisin.

      It is not clear the reasoning or logic behind the man’s aversion to the seemingly innocuous chewy brown fruit, but it could very well have been that heredity played a strong role because all three of the man’s children and his seven grandchildren, to this day, avoid the raisin like the black plague of old.

      Prolific since 1490 BC, the raisin at one time in early Roman times was so valuable that two jars of them was the equivalent of one slave in trade.  To the man though, two jars of them was to insult the jars themselves.

     Fumbling through the pockets of his torn knickers the man found what he searched for, his last gold coin.  And with the coin tucked in his clutches he managed to pull himself upright, although terribly difficult, to a standing position at the counter.   

     There was a lone person un-packing boxes from the back of the onion stand and was unaware entirely of the man’s presence. Unable to speak due to his emaciated state the man waited to be waited on with what patience he had left.  It was then that the man noticed the small cardboard sign propped up on the counter no more than an arms length away from him written in what looked like black pen:

  Sorry! N O   M O R E    O N I O N S.

     TODAYS SPECIAL:  RAISINS

   

      A gust of wind swept a tumbleweed up and over the nearest sand dune out of sight.  The creak of rusty hinges on the shack shutters were followed by the rhythmic knock of plywood repeated itself gently.  The breeze was no match for the late afternoon sun that beat down relentlessly soaking itself into whatever it could.  A lone scorpion appeared to observe in a motionless stance  from a nearby sand drift.

     The Raisin stand attendant, some fifteen minutes later, made her way up to the counter to wipe it clean.  There, not at all upright anymore, was the cardboard sign with a ball point pen jousted through the middle like the axel of some strange wheel.  Confused, she looked out to the desert beyond and with a stoic look of oblivion and genuine befuddlement witnessed a man crawling away with a white beard and brown hair. The man was slowly moving back up the sand dune hill adjascent to his own down-tracks; Not at all dead yet, and still of sound mind he made painstaking headway back into the heart of the desert from whence he came; his knickers were pulled down just far enough to expose his entire hairy and chapped posterior.

     

Onions and Raisins      

     As I ducked through the short trapper door, I was hit with the aroma of beans cooking on the stove.  As usual, the kitchen area was a clutter of unfinished business.  The beans were in a large oval-shaped cast iron pot simmering away on the propane cook-stove.  They had soaked overnight and began cooking early in the day.  Another section of counter had neatly chopped piles of caribou steak, moose bacon, garlic, celery, onions, green peppers, and jalapenos.  On the other side of the kitchen was the loosely organized wet bar that included martini makings with a jar of jalapeno stuffed green olives nestled in the middle. Various bourbons, a bottle of rum, a few cokes and a lone bottle of Alaskan Amber rounded out the selections.  Next to the bourbon was a small collection of raw veggies that hadn’t been cleaned up or cut yet.  A few of them were still neatly wrapped in paper towels with rubber bands around them, an old camping trick.  Several spices gathered near the beans.

     The cabin was warm and humid.  It was a sharp contrast to the ultra dry fifteen below zero outside. There was a steady hiss hovering in the cabin from all three lanterns and the cook stove firing.   Elton John was crooning us from the battery powered stereo.  I wondered if the extra batteries in the corner cabinets were still good.  For now there seemed to be plenty of juice left to fuel our evening ambiance.  Had Elton ever heard the hiss of propane lanterns?  I wasn’t sure.

     After I took off all of my wet outer clothes I found the last vacant hook over the woodstove.  There must have been a hundred pounds of wet winter gear drying on all of the hooks.   I walked past dad who was busily adding chopped onions to an already large pile on the old warped wooden cutting board.  I noticed a solo mouse turd out of the corner of my eye, hiding under the edge of a cloth potholder nearby.

     “Any luck?” dad asked as he reached for another round paper towel onion.  He snapped the rubber band off of the onion and added it to the others around his wrist.  Dad had been wrapping onions in paper towels on camping trips ever since I could remember.

     “Nah, but I saw some wolf tracks way up Indian though.”

     “Cool” 

     I reached behind dad to grab a coke and a glass.  “I bet we’ll get some tomorrow,” I speculated.  I could feel the heat from the kerosene heater come and go on my poly-pro covered leg as I headed to the table.  I took a deep breath and relaxed into my green plastic chair.                         

     Brent was upstairs, crashed after a late night crack at some coyotes with his predator call.  It had been a full moon and it was like a big round floodlight saturating the woods with visibility.  He would soon be up, most likely drinking his usual mix of Jim Beam and coke and calling everyone “boss.”  Pete was over in his new cabin cleaning the place up for the up-coming Iditarod weekend.  He just finished hooking up his woodstove and was hoping to spend the night there for the first time. 

     “Where’s Rach?” I asked.  Despite the fact that we sometimes worry about mom trekking around alone, she does find some neat stuff on her wanderings. She dances to the tune of her own music and will wander and putz around for hours sometimes until dark. Often she returns with her small treasures; an old lure found on the river bank or an interesting rock or beaver stick.  Her path is usually littered with a trail of small branches and twigs that she leaves in the wake of her trusty sandvik that she waves around like a magic wand.

      “I think she went towards Jim’s place,” Dad guessed.  With a steady swipe of his hand, he dropped all of the onions off of the cutting board onto the skillet held below the level of the counter.  A generous pour of olive oil and a glob of minced garlic were already mingling in the pan.  The oil was hot and making a pleasant sizzle, sending off a familiar aroma mixing with that of the beans.  A couple of wrist motions with the pan and wooden spoon made the whole mess of onions dance on the stove.  “If she’s not back soon I’m sending out an APB,” dad joked as he took a sip of his drink. The slush shifted in his clear glass which revealed a flash of green near the top.

     “Whatcha drinkin there dad?”  I wasn’t sure if it was a martini, cubra libre, or a gin and tonic.  From what I’ve gathered from Indian Creek folklore, gin and tonics are generally consumed in the warm summer days due to their refreshing tartness, whereas martinis and cubra libres have no such seasonal restrictions. 

     “martooni” he said letting out a satisfied Ahh sound before setting down his drink.

      Just then mom came pouring through the door engulfed in a cloud of steam like a cold weather batman.  She quickly shut the door behind her and began to take off her hat and neck warmer which revealed her rosy red cheeks for all to see.

     “Wow, nice apples Rach!”

     “Thanks,” she replied in her optimistic cheery way.  “There are some ravens way up in a birch tree past Jim‘s place, I think they were watching me.”

     “Cool” replied dad without missing a beat on his growing hill of onions.

     “Have you seen Pete?” I asked.

     “Yeah, he’s got his woodstove roaring over there.  His cabin is already warm”.

     Brent had given Pete a large woodstove that he’d salvaged from one of his families rentals that fall. The stove was an earth stove, able to heat a 2000 square foot house in a single bound. Pete’s 100 square feet would probably heat up with just  the match.   I was curious how it would work.  I suggested that if nothing else we could use it for a sauna house or oven.

     Dad was calmly alternating between stirring, mixing, and chopping some veggies for a salad. Occasionally he would take a sip of his martooni followed by another Ahh.  There was no hurry today.

    Pete and Brent joined us and settled into the living room near the heat source.  True to form, Brent started in on a super-sized beam and coke with a snow chunk floating around the big plastic tumbler.  Pete followed suit with Wild Turkey instead.

     “What’s for dinner?” Pete asked.

         “Ants on a log,” I said referring to the childhood snack of celery sticks filled with peanut butter cradling a trail of raisins on top.  Pete chuckled.

     “What are ants on a log?” Brent asked.

     “Are you kidding me?” Pete’s look turned serious.  “You’ve never had ants on a log?”

    “I don’t know, maybe I have.  What are they?”

    Pete went on to chastise Brent about his ignorance in this matter eventually describing the recipe.  I paid attention to Dad’s expression when Pete got to the part about the raisins.  His face turned into a sour scowl as if smelling a potent fart.  Dad, never having developed much of a taste for the raisin, once referred to raisins as a “waste of a good grape”. 

    Calling Pete’s attention to dad’s face sent us into a fit of laughter, including a near accident with my drink almost coming out my nose.

     I turned my gaze towards dad and noticed that things seem to be coming to a head in the kitchen. There was a rich mix of smells swirling around giving my stomach a grumble. Mom had set the table with paper plates and plastic forks.

     Dad brought the pot of beans over to the table with a large serving spoon and a brand new bottle of Tobasco still in the cardboard box.

     Finally, dinner was done and we all sat down to a robust meal that filled our bellies.  The next day we decided we would bait up a few more boxes and set a few more traps along the ridge.  The martin trapping had been slow but nobody seemed to mind.

safe for now.

                               

Meat Skillet

 Meat Skillet

          “Who’s that?” I nodded to my left.

     “ The short guy?”

    “ Yeah.”

   “ Oh, that’s Carl.” Pete bluntly explained. “He manages a small Laundromat in Nebraska but he’s secretly always wanted to be a fireman.  The academy wouldn’t accept his application due to his recurring asthma.   He actually owns a full fireman’s suit that he keeps in his closet.  He volunteers at the VFW and he’s a mediocre bowler.”

  “ What about that guy coming out of the bathroom?”  I was testing him.

Pete responded with deadpan;  “ Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Les.  Les is gay and is a hairdresser in Albuquerque.  Les actually hates hunting but is making good on a payback promise to his twin brother Jeff who is an attorney for the state department.  Last spring Jeff agreed to a  rancher- for- a- week retreat out of Austin Texas. They are both are still nursing rope burns on their butt cheeks.”

     All three of us broke out in laughter for a good thirteen seconds.  The guy did seem to have a bit of a limp.

    “Nice.”

     Experienced Alaskan hunters, it turns out tend to develop other skills too, like people watching in dumpy bush airports.

     A smirk and a chuckle came about me as I took in the room scanning for Pete’s next impromptu biography victim.  Wow there was a lot of camo in the room!  It was a wonder I could see anyone at all.  The hundred or so “sportsman” were caught up in the usual assortment of airport tasks, checking baggage, booking tickets, napping.  No one was coming or going at the moment.  With no plane to be had, we were stuck in a holding pattern of Cabelas card-carrying members.  It's okay, we are used to the goings on of small Alaskan airports; the predictable ebb and flow was an exercise in patience and tolerance.

      Myself, not entirely averse to donning camouflage in a hunting situation was conflicted internally to the urban-camo look and was taken-a-back on the ninety plus percent camo exhibited here, in the airport! Are these guys for real?  Did they really need to be prepared at any given moment to put the “sneaks” upon an unsuspecting deer or bear in the baggage claim area?

     Pete and I appeared as if we were on our way to a Sierra Club mixer with our Northface fleeces, whereas Dad’s camo stripe on his boots was quietly endearing himself to his mossy oak brethren.   How lame I must have looked to them in my “street clothes” at an airport instead of some good real tree thinsulate.  Maybe next year I’ll wear a ghilie suit; Maybe not.     

Next year's ghilie suit?

     The group of five camo dudes chatting next to us in a circle could very well have been a small bush.  It was only my keen eye as a hunter that was able to distiquish the difference.  The biggest of the group chewed gum as he held court.  He looked like a Dennis to me.  Dennis’s lively enactment of whatever he was talking about was provoking raucous laughter from his attentive buddies.  The hairy flesh of Dennis’s bulging gut was partruding well beyond the capacity of his mossy oak fleece top and was partially obstructing the view of his embossed elk belt buckle.  All I could make out were the four hoofed legs that came to life with each laughing fit like it was trying to get away. 
      A seven on a ten scale of annoyance wasn’t enough to ruffle us though, not yet, hell we were on our way to our deer hunters haven: South Kodiak.

     “Harrison party of three?” We were up and out of the seedy Kodiak airport loading the shuttle van as fast as we could.  We tried not to look like we were in a hurry but we were pretty excited.  We had to share the ride with another group, we were told.  Sure enough here came Dennis the Menace and crew slowly packing in shoulder to shoulder with Harrison party of three.  The minty waft of Dennis’s gum smackings permeated the cab almost as much as their hyena-like chucklings. 

     Amusing as Dennis and crew were to themselves it was Randy, the shuttle driver, who commanded our attention.  A seasoned local native, he was rough around the edges and, as I would discover later, a deserved character worthy of remembrance in the muddled and arbitrarily discriminatory archives of my memory.   

      His long shiny black hair was pulled into a ponytail with flowing streaks of silver.  From there, the romantic description of Randy’s physical attributes drops off.  I was certain that it had been at least a week since Randy had brushed his tooth.  He was hopelessly tied to his Marlboros and had a rasp rivaling Janis Joplin.   The deep ravined lines of a hard life had worked into his face.  His beady almost black eyes had a Clint Eastwood squint about them and came across as a fellow not to be trifled with. 

muffins are lame.

 Did he have an ivory handled colt at the ready?  We didn’t know but we were on a roll, a vacationers high.  Nary a smile was cracked by Randy despite some of the hilarity of our supercharged carryings on.  I'm sure he'd seen it all. 
     The dorky nonsense of Harrison party of three rolled on without breaking stride, ivory handled colt or not.

     We had purposefully arrived the night before our bush flight out to the hunting grounds and now we had some time to kill.  My dad had booked us at the Comfort Inn, which was close to the airport.  Randy dropped us there, freeing us from the pleasantries of the Dennis crew.  Initially we were pleased with the hotel selection due to its close proximity to the airport, but when we pulled the lobby doors open our sentiments changed dramatically. 

     A lingering white haze of cigarette smoke filled the large room.  There were four people puffing away like there was no tomorrow including the lady at the front desk. 

      The guy stood looking out the lobby window was sucking his cheeks in deeply, pulling a hard drag as far within his lungs as he could; we passed, making our way to the front desk. At least the smokers were smart; they were holding their smoldering butts way out to one side or the other between drags, so their eyes would not be irritated by the burn of their selected Phillip Morris products. The uprising tailings of the burning chemicals spiraled and joined the rest of the cloud in a swirl of toxicity.  Like peeing in a swimming pool, they shared their lobby fog with one and all without consideration of consequence. Pete was happy to introduce us to each of them confidentially including Flo at the front desk.  The matted down dusty Brown bear rug looked forlorn hanging above Flo; I couldn’t blame him.  We did manage to produce a genuine tone thanking Flo as we grabbed our faded brass metal key to our non-smoking room that ended up, not so coincidentally, smelling a lot like smoke.

Harrison's are well known
for their high-brow tastes

    Nonetheless, Harrison party of three had a brilliant time acquainting ourselves with the subtleties of the hardened Kodiak culture.  We drank some beer too.  Memory of note: My father Steve sr. did indeed order a Cutty on the rocks at the lobby bar that night.  Cutty Sark? Really? I had no idea I was hunting with Denny Crane.  Who knew?

Deer hunting anyone?

     The next morning we were picked up by our new buddy Randy.  With his edgy delivery and matter of fact opinions, he informed us of some local hotspots for any night forays upon our return and where we could pick up any needed supplies before today’s flight out.  He steered us to the best spots to buy beer and fuel canisters for our lantern as requested.  Both aforementioned items, blacklisted from domestic flights these days ranked high on our “need to get” list for our weeklong deer hunt.     

    “You guys don’t fly out until noon.”

“Do you want me to bring you to town for breakfast?” raspy Randy asked.

     We looked at each other for any indications of opinion amongst ourselves. “ Well I am kinda hungry, I did see a sign at the hotel about some continental breakfast”, I offered out loud although it didn’t sound very good to me. 

     Randy pulled the trigger; “ You don’t want no fuckin muffin” he barked with as serious a look as I’ve ever seen.  “ Let me take you down to the Shelly for a meat skillet!”

     After the laughter died down of which Randy did not partake, we whole-heartedly agreed upon his idea.  He was right, we didn’t want no fuckin continental breakfast muffin the size of a racquetball, wrapped in plastic to go with our cold cereal and maybe a brownish banana or outdated yogurt.  We were beginning to warm to this Randy guy; he was all right.

     None of us knew what the “Shelly” was, but the meat skillet sounded good.  Apparently Randy was as good reading us as we were at pigeon holing the camo dipsticks at the airport.   We grilled Randy during the ten-minute ride into town about whatever we could since we were pretty impressed with the whole meat skillet-muffin bit.  

Grig

     The Shelikof Lodge or “Shelly” as it were, was named after Grigory Shelikof, a Russian fur trader who founded the first Russian settlement in America, in what is now Alaska, at Three Saints Bay on Kodiak Island in 1784. Unbeknownst to him at the time Grigory (I think of him as Grig) had no idea his legacy would include his namesake on a two star Hotel in downtown Kodiak city where meat skillets rule the menu.  Lucky.  He probably just figured that if he beat up enough seals with baseball bats he might be able to barter his way back home to his lovely Russian wife Natalya, who was reportedly a hot little number and had a weak spot for seal oil. 
      I don't feel too much guilt talking smack about the deceased Grig considering that when he landed at Three saints bay and was met unfavorably by the indigenous Koniaga people of the Alutiiq nation, decided that it would be a good idea to kill hundreds of them and take hostages so as to send a strong message: You were here first, but I'm here now; give me all your furs!  I'm ok with the legacy of the Shelly meat skillet.

     “Good Morning gentlemen, can I get you some coffee?”

“Yes three coffees please”

“O.K I’ll bring some menus too.”

I stepped up to the plate.  “We won’t be needing any menus today ma’am, I think we know what we want.”

     She stopped in her tracks and pulled out her ticket book and a pen.

“Meat skillets all around please”.  I added the circular index twirl for flare and then she left us for a while, scampering across the stained seventies carpet.  There might have been something better on the menu, but probably not. The level of anticipation at our table was building; My stomach growled at me, it was 11:00 after all.  Our confidence in Randy’s blatant recommendation was affirmed when three oval shaped skillets came steaming our way.

     Although I’m sure my LDL Cholesterol bubbled up twenty points that day,  the meal itself was not bad.  A bed of fried potatoes anchored an all-star cast of bacon, reindeer sausage, and some other tasty unidentified mystery meats. Some onions and eggs joined the party all taking cover under a melted cheddar cheese umbrella.  The nasal tang of spicy vapors rose from the high sheen of Tobascco that I had dumped on my skillet clearing my sinuses.  Harrison party of three quipped no more as we devoured our breakfast. I wiped up the last of the savory grease off the plate with my sourdough toast.  We washed it all down with truck stop coffee and ice water. Ahhh!  Muffin my ass.

       

The Overdue Snowbirds

The Overdue Snowbirds

Katie & Alex on the "bird"

     “Hey it’s Tom” came the low voice over the phone.

“I’m out.  Livio and I are going fishing but Katie and Alex are in if it’s cool with you”

“Sounds great” I responded happy for some company on my hike.

     Tom and Livio showed up at 8:45 AM the next morning to drop off the ladies for the hike.  We loaded their bags then headed down the highway towards our Hatcher’s Pass trail head.  Using my thinking cap, I pulled over at Newmans’ to pick up some snacks and a couple of Gatorades for the trip.  There is some nifty boy’s scout saying about proper preparedness. (It’ll come to me I’m sure)

       Warm summer sunshine poured over us as we got out of the truck at the Reed Lakes trail head.  We had to park way in the back because there were probably thirty other vehicles lining the roadway.

     “Wow, there are a lot of people here” Katie noticed as we threw on our backpacks.  A couple of leashless dogs frolicked around our shins as their indignant teenage owners repeatedly yelled after them.  The dogs could have cared less about all the yelling.  They were content to carry on regardless.

     “Let’s get out of here!” Katie said as the last dog was snatched and scolded.

     “ I agree” said Alex with a hint of an accent in her voice.

     Alex, short for Alessandria, is from Switzerland.  Her boyfriend Livio was a foreign exchange student at Palmer High School where he had met Tom. Livio and Alex had purchased a van and have returned to Alaska several times since spending their summers traveling around, fishing, hiking and exploring. 

    We boogied down the well groomed trail towards the old snowbird mining village.  From there we turned up the snowbird trail leading straight up to a hanging valley where much old equipment and remnants remain from the old mining claim.  The mine itself was prospected in the 1920s, developed in the 1940s and closed in 1950.  All of the old cables and outbuildings were abandoned and are well on there way back to Mother Nature.  We passed about twenty people on the hill leading to the mine. 

    Up we went, losing the trail several times having to scramble over and around huge boulders.  Before long we had arrived at Snowbird pass where we could peer over onto the snowbird glacier.  A short downhill ramble over more boulders dropped us onto the glacier proper. 
    As I reached for a granola bar out of my pack, I realized that I didn’t remember having transferred any of my snacks into my backpack after leaving Newmans.  That couldn’t be true, could it?  I fumbled through the food pocket of my pack only to retrieve a lint roller.

Anyone seen my lint roller?

     “Huh” was the only word-like noise that escaped my lips.

     I refilled my empty Gatorade bottle from the glacial creek and we were on our way. Apparently I had left the other full gatorade in the truck too…..Huh. 

     A pleasant stroll awaited us on the gentle downslope of the Snowbird Glacier.  We followed some old footprints down glacier as they weaved over and around many very thin crevasses.  Soon we noticed a rather large boulder the size of a small house with a red painted arrow pointed uphill.  The entire North edge of the glacier was flanked by a rolling ridge of very large boulders.  Hidden at the top of this ridge was the newly constructed snowbird hut tucked neatly among the rocks. 

     We were not alone as we arrived at the hut.  There was a volunteer crew of four taking down the old dome style hut.  I met Harry who was busy assembling a new outhouse. I had visited the old hut fourteen years earlier with friends and was able to find my old journal entry:  “Great place, great friends, great time”-Steve Harrison.  My brilliant articulation so many years before astounded me.

     “What do you think” I asked, “its 2:30, we are only about one quarter of the way”

     The original plan was ambitious.  “The Bomber” traverse it was called.  The route continued our current progress North dropping down into the upper Bartholf creek valley, cross over to the East branch of Bartholf and up to The Bomber Hut.  In days of yore, legend speaks of a plane crash high up in this Eastern Bartholf drainage.  Rumor has it that remnants from the old bomber plane can still be seen.  I was looking forward to checking it out for myself.  From there, approximately the mid point, we would turn East and pass over the Bomber glacier up to Bomber pass.  From there we would descend down to the Reed lake trail bringing us back to the truck, essentially a fifteen-ish mile loop.

    “Let’s do it” Katie said.

    “Let’s go” Alex said

    “Ok, let’s go” I added as we grabbed our packs.  I waited until we were a hundred feet away from the hut to fling my nectarine pit given to me by Alex.  The nectarine went nicely with the handful of mixed nuts Katie gave me.  What else did they have in their packs I wondered?  I could always offer to remove any lint from their coats if needs be.  Together we were a good team.

     Down we climbed over a jagged garden of huge rocks.  Eventually we came to the creek draining off the glacier.  The pounding rush of thousands of gallons of meltwater was as loud as a jet as we made our way to the lake below.  The creek mellowed and braided out nicely for us to ford.  We picked our way around the corner and then stopped to survey our route.

Katie knows no bounds

     Before us lay a series of steep drops and mossy plateaus leading to the upper Bartholf creek bed.  Bartholf eventually runs into the upper Kashwitna drainage.  Thoughts of a future float trip were swirling in my brain.  The descent to the creek bed was an exciting mix of bouldering, gentle ridge walks, some mild bushwhacking and a few stream crossings thrown in for good measure.  We picked our way around the corner into the mouth of the Bomber valley.  From there we found a trail assuring us that we were not lost.

“Look, there’s the hut!”  I exclaimed.

 In the far distance perched at the head of the valley was what looked like a large white house.

“And look, there’s a bear!”

     The large brown bear was lumbering along the hillside opposite us.  The bear was a good half of a mile away slowly working the hillside.  Like a lot of bears I have seen in the mountains, this one too was well above the lush vegetation in very barren looking mountainous country.  This bear was an enjoyable spectacle indeed considering that we were at a good safe distance. 

     The close bear encounter the week before rainbow fishing with Tom was a different story.  We had startled a sleeping brown bear nestled right off the trail.  Twenty feet away is closer than we cared to be from this huffing, whoofing monstrosity.  Luckily Tom’s intimidating stature and wilderness confidence scared the hulking beast far into the bush.  Like a cartoon character the bear was up and off like a cannonball crashing through the willows like they weren’t even there.

“How does such a large animal eat enough way up here?” asked Alex.

     Just about then I passed a hubcap sized pile of Bear poop packed with hundred of blueberry skins.  “I think that’s what they eat up here!” I pointed out.

     We took a short break and surveyed our situation.  Further up the valley we began to notice the increasingly menacing looking dark clouds forming above the mountains.  I couldn’t help but think about scenes from Mordor in the Lord of the Rings.  The only thing missing was a giant lidless eye wreathed in flames.  According to our map we were coming up on our half way point.  It began to rain. After a little discussion we decided to retreat instead of press forth through Mordor. Continuing meant trekking through an unfamiliar mountain pass, in a storm that was imminent.  Although difficult, the way back was known to us, and we would pass by the snowbird hut in case of emergency.   We turned our muddy toes back down the trail past the formidable pile of bear poop.  The Bomber Hut would have to be discovered another time.

     As we ascended the valley of steps and plateaus, the weather worsened.  Rain turned to driving snow, making the big boulders slippery to our feet. The higher we got the windier it became.  With my GPS watch, I clocked our progress; we had slowed.  We were moving one mile per hour.  We started to get cold.  I glanced up ahead at Alex.  Visibility was shutting down. I could still see her blue coat, but the barrage of horizontal snow flew high over top of her in endless sheets.  As we climbed past the glacial stream, it became more and more apparent that we needed to stop by the hut to warm-up.

     We arrived at the Snowbird Hut at 7:30 PM.  The small cylindrical kerosene heater glowed cherry red through its grate.  We melted into the cabin heat dripping from head to toe.  I helped Katie undo her backpack buckles because her fingers were cold and weren’t moving very well.  Mine weren’t much better.  The four others at the hut were very gracious. They offered us food, water, and good console.  I wrung out my wet socks and hung them to dry around the heater along with everyone else’s wet garb.

     Our decision to stay the night came quickly.  At our recent rate of travel, with five miles left to go, we would reach the truck well past midnight.  With the impending blizzard blasting the side of the hut we settled in for the night.

     In truth we were happy to be at the cozybird hut playing Jenga with crew leader Harry and the others, but all of us knew that our loved ones would be worried about us.   We were not in an emergency situation per se, but all year long it seems, the newspaper is riddled with stories of adventures gone awry.  Between the seasonal snow machine ice break-throughs, avalanche victims or bear maulings it would seem as if the wilderness is ready to attack us at any minute!  I never have felt that way myself, but we knew that these scenarios were playing out in their minds at home because we were overdue. 

      What I do believe is that life is too short to stay home living in fear of what might happen.  When I am old and my wheelchair is unable to overcome the boulder fields of the bomber valley then at least I will have fond memories to reflect upon.

Jenga intensity

     

    Our plan was to dry out and crash at the hut.  We would wake as early as possible in the morning and hustle out.  Sometime around ten that night, the roof avalanched its accumulation scaring the bejesus out of us.  I’m just thankful it didn’t’ happen in the middle of one of my stellar Jenga moves!  After we had all settled down into our plywood bunks, Katie wished us all goodnight. 

     At six A.M.  while the others were still sleeping, we quietly geared up and hit the road.  Our footprints pushed into the fresh snow on the deck and stairs leading down to the rocky ground.  It was still snowing pretty good, but we were warm and dry and energized.  Thirty minutes after we left we had crossed the glacier and reached the pass. Standing in a foot of new windblown snow, I was able to send a text message home letting everyone know that we were safe and would be back soon.

Texting in a blizzard can be fun.

      A feeling of relief overcame us all when we got word back that they got our message.   It turned out that my wife Tamra, Tom and Livio didn’t sleep too well that night.   None of us did.  With a weight lifted off our troubled minds we descending the snowbird valley and it was a joy.  We were able to find the trail marked by the stacked rock cairns.  The fresh snow was fun to travel in, we even got to glissade for a short run.  Soon the snowfall turned back to rain as we moved to lower elevations.   A fat patch of blueberries halted our progress towards the bottom as we savored a few mouthfuls of delicious blue goodness.

     Upon further reflection, perhaps my original journal entry at the snowbird fourteen years ago wasn’t so bad, maybe it fit this trip too; “ Great hike, great company, great time”- Steve Harrison

    

            

Broasted Chicken and Frozen Niblets

“Broasted Chicken and Frozen Niblets”

       “Antlerless moose hunt in 20A continues”.  The headline caught my eye on the crumpled newspaper while I unwrapped the beers packed neatly in my tattered soft cooler.  I had just arrived at our cabin up the Yentna river for a get away weekend of martin trapping and beer drinking.  The fifty mile ride by snowmobile can have a detrimental effect on loosely packed beverages.  After reading the short article crouched on the floor of my cabin, I learned that this registration hunt was open until Feb 28^th, over a month away.  A flourishing moose population south of Fairbanks had apparently outpaced the habitat’s ability to sustain them.  This overabundance of moose, left unchecked, could set the stage for a crash of the population.  Hunters could apply for an antlerless registration permit allowing them to harvest any moose without antlers, including cows.  I stuffed the newspaper into the woodstove, under the kindling and cordwood and lit a match.

      Over the course of the next few days the wheels began to turn in my head about the possibility of making a run north for meat.  A few months before, the fall hunting season took us to Kodiak Island where we were fortunate enough to harvest ten black tail deer among four of us.  It was a gratifying hunt with wonderful hiking above tree line and spectacular wildlife viewing but fell a bit short on the freezer filling.  The black tail deer, arguably the tastiest of Alaska’s wild game is about a tenth the size of a moose.

    “I’m in!” said Kirby after a brief description of my plans.  He enthusiastically volunteered his Arctic Oven, recalling several successful winter trips with the cozy winter tent.  The “oven” part of the tent is a wood fired stove.  My own experience with winter camping wasn’t nearly as cush.  Four season mountaineering tents and snow caves were the extent of my cold weather camping.  The tents provide excellent wind protection and do manage to trap some body heat but accumulating moisture is always an issue.  Snow caves on the other hand require sufficient elbow grease to construct but are cozy “bomb shelters” when done right.  I was looking forward to trying out the A.O.

Arctic Oven (A.O.)

        Another one of Kirby’s prized possessions, I would find out, is his Skidoo Skandic Super Wide, or “Super Wide” as he calls it.  This snow machine had taken on some interesting modifications over the years including a GPS mounted on the handle bars, a sandvik mounted with brackets on the tunnel, and a sweet winch setup that could easily relocate from the back to the front of the machine depending on your predicament.  The seat on the Super wide opens up for storage where there is room for nothing else as Kirby has every square inch packed neatly with anything we might need in case of a Holocaust, or natural disaster.

     We were all ready packed up and were able to leave right after work.  Our destination was the tiny community of Clear on the way to Fairbanks.  Since the forecast was cold, Kirby made arrangements ahead of time to have his cold blooded diesel truck plugged in at the Clear sky lodge.  We arrived at the lodge around eight in the evening decided to throw some patronage their way since they were allowing us to plug in.  Earlier that week I was checking out the Lodge’s web site and I noticed that the dinner special was “Broasted Chicken”.  “Broasted”, I found out, meant pressure cooked in hot oil. This sounded dangerous and tasty, a rare combo.   The chicken was incredible and went nicely with a couple of ambers.   Over the course of our brief dinner stay our radar turned to the opinionated sentiments of some of the local enthusiasts working busily on their dinner buzz.  Heated discussions ranged from the ethical objection of shooting defenseless cow moose to at least one local mountain lion sighting.  Welcome to Clear.

       We packed our sleds and prepared to venture down the famous Rex trail. At the time we knew nothing of the trail except a few anecdotal references to some trappers’ cabins.  Jeanne Proulx at the Alaska Division of Natural Resources writes this; “The Rex Trail is an important access route which has been in use since the 1920's, and serves as a vital transportation route for mining, hunting, private property access, recreation, and trapping.  Several placer mines currently operate in the vicinity of the Rex Trail and private landowners have properties in settlement areas of Gold King, Southwind, and Wood River.  Both miners and residents rely heavily on the Rex Trail in the winter for hauling supplies.  More recently, the Rex Trail has become popular with moose hunters from around the state as a land-based access route into Game Management Unit 20A”.  We were both happy to be seeing some new country as neither of us had been down the “Rex” before.

     Earlier in the week we found out that some of the sub units closer to the highway were already closed, so we had to travel to sub unit four to hunt which was about thirty miles from the truck.   Thirty below temperatures had us bundled up from head to toe.  Bryan neatly tucked his I-pod ear buds under his seal skin hat. I was sporting my trusty beaver hat that was cinched tightly under my chin along with a neck gaiter and balaclava to cover my face. Off we went feeling the bite of the wind chill stabbing at any opening or flaw in our gear.

     The trail itself was very flat, straight, and wide. The snow was only a couple of inches deep. Truck tire marks intertwined with four wheeler and snowmachine tracks.  Thick stands of white spruce gave way to aspen and bushy scrubs of willow the further we got. Several tree stands revealed themselves on the edges of clearings, and a couple of territorial trappers’ signs warned us not to trespass.

       Heading down the trail I saw several rabbits dart in front of me.  Was that last one a lynx?  I wasn’t sure. We did scare up one cow moose which helped remind me why we were enduring this biting cold.  Kirby was following me jamming some AC/DC.

Cow Moose

      We were happy to reach a large wooden sign marking Unit four.  As soon as we crossed Tetlanika creek we could start hunting on the right side of the trail.  After crossing over some exposed overflow, we safely reached the far bank.  Looking back we watched the white vapor rise from our fresh tracks.  From there we drove another mile or so past a thick stand of black spruce until we found a decent camp spot overlooking a giant field.  The temperature was drawing colder as we went about setting up Kirby’s Arctic Oven.  It’s times like these that necessitate a little hustle.  Standing around is a recipe for getting cold or worse.  I was reminded of Brian Dennehy’s character Rosie in “Never Cry Wolf” when he advises the shivering main character to “Keep moving Tyler, keep moving”.

     The Arctic Oven is a heavy duty tent outfitted with a small woodstove that folds down flat for transport.   The telescoping stack is shoved though a tight rubber sleeve in the ceiling and fits nicely into the top of the stove. After securing the outer “fly” of the tent outside, we started a fire and settled in for the night.  Kirby thought ahead and packed the first nights’ wood from home.   It took no time at all to warm up the place. 

     When I finally rolled inside the heat hit my cheeks and put a smile on my face as my beard slowly started to melt.  I flicked the chunks of my face ice onto the hot woodstove; the distinctive hiss added steam and a little humidity to the room briefly fogging it up.  Soon I could peel the facemask off my beard and I started hanging my gear up to dry.  Drying out wet gear is not something I’d ever associated with winter camping.   In the mountains you can get away with drying one or two small items in your sleeping bag with you at night, but nothing like hanging all your gear above a hot stove.  In the morning we would start dry and warm!  We had a couple cocktails, told a few jokes, and then went to sleep on top of cots at one thirty A.M. 

     It got colder that night, exactly how cold we could only guess.  Sometime after we drifted off, the woodstove burned through all its wood quickly dropping the temperature in the tent to the outside equivalent.  The only skin exposed outside my sleeping bag was the tip of my nose.  I woke up to the sensation my nose getting numb. Experience has taught me to “rotate” face parts in this situation. A quick turn to the right buried my nose, but exposed a cheek.  After about my fourth roll rotation I heard Kirby say “Hey, Should I stoke the fire?”

“Hell yeah, I’m freezing my niblets over here!”.

     We made it through the night, vowing to keep the stove “stoked” all through the next night if we decided to stay another one.

      We woke in the morning before sunrise.  We stoked the fire back into shape as the first thoughts of emerging from our sleeping bag cocoons floated through our heads.  Kirby produced some sausage biscuits neatly wrapped in foil and carefully situated them onto the top of the woodstove.  Breakfast in bed! I fumbled through my bag to find my MSR cookstove and pot.   I methodically prepared coffee by carefully pouring boiling water through a coffee filter precariously perched on top of my Nalgene bottle.  A hasty pack job, precluded the use of my French press that was missing in action somewhere in my garage.  A conical coffee filter would have to do.  With one hand pinning the filter against the rim of the Nalgene, the other clamped the cook pot gripper.  With a careful tilt, I filled the filter with just enough boiling water to soak through. Ten minutes later the pay-off was worth the trouble.  I could almost imagine Juan Valdez peering in through the rain fly.

Senior Valdez

      Our efforts turned towards the task at hand.  After bundling back up we decided to take a short walk through the field we were camped on to make sure we weren’t missing an easy animal.  It was a crispy morning indeed with the slight haze of an ice fog blocking any chances of a blue sky.  The field was about forty acres of brushy, moosey looking country.  My binoculars revealed no moose though.  I wiped the lenses clear to double check.  Ravens circled an area across the field where I suspected a gut pile must be. It wouldn’t be long before the raven’s spectacle coupled with their unabashed squawking would eventually bring in other scavengers like the foxes, wolves, or maybe even a wolverine.   We returned to camp and fired up our frozen snow machines and prepared to go for a ride.

     We pulled out of camp onto the main trail keeping a watchful eye on the right side of the trail for moose.  The temperature prevented us from cruising too fast.  It had to have been forty below.  One long side trip turned out to be someone’s trap line ending at the top of a narrow valley, oops.  We turned around being careful not to disturb the area.  As someone who has dabbled in recreational trapping, I know how frustrating it can be to have someone carelessly blast through your trap line.  We checked out several other leads with no luck.  We did find six frozen gut piles including the one with all the ravens.  It was looking like we were several weeks too late. When we got back to our camp Kirby broke out the chainsaw from under the seat of his SuperWide.  What else did he have in there, I wondered?  We bucked up enough firewood for the remainder of our trip.  The super small woodstove would only accept the shortest of logs.  We neatly stacked these “hobbit logs” next to the stove as we settled in and started to thaw back out.

     As luck would have it, the next morning was another cold one but we were battled hardened and convinced we could still find a moose.  I grabbed the pull cord on my Polaris 550 and leaned back hard.  The nylon rope reluctantly fed out of the cowling even with my whole body into it.  It took about nine pulls to loosen the frozen metal enough to turn over.  The machine roared to life sending off a cloud of exhaust vapors that engulfed the whole machine.  

‘Whew!” I huffed as I too was throwing off exhaust vapors of my own.

“I’d better start mine up too” Kirby quipped.  He casually reached over and turned his key.  With his fancy electric start his SuperWide whined to life.  The Kirby-esque chuckle I’d come to know lightened the mood as we readied ourselves for another cold ride.

       I strapped on my backpack and slung my rifle. We decided to head up into the mountains on an old mining road we discovered near our camp.  The view from the top was a pleasant contrast to the wooded flats we’d been traveling on. We scanned the hillside for moose with no luck. On our way back down I managed to lose Kirby.  Where could he be?  After I turned around I drove back a mile or so down the trail.  I came around a corner and I could see a yellow snowmachine in the distance but no Kirby.  As I got closer I noticed him lying on the trail next to his beloved SuperWide.  Was he injured? Was he dead? As I drew nearer I realized that he was not dead or injured at all. It was his precious SuperWide that was injured or dead.   Apparently he had bottomed out his Super Wide on a large bump and snapped his rear spring.  It’s always a gamble snow machining in really cold temperatures. Everything is super brittle and ready to shatter at the slightest miss step. 

     We spent the early afternoon jerry rigging his suspension up as tight as we could with some rope I brought.  The ride out would be a rough one for Bryan but at least we were mobile.  I didn’t feel too sorry for him because he would probably be rocking out to “Back in black” or “Dirty Deeds” the whole way back anyway.  Licking our wounds, we packed up camp and pointed our snow machines toward the truck with thoughts of the savory chicken at the lodge dancing in our heads.   Sometimes when you go hunting, all you get is broasted chicken and frozen niblets.