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.

     

The Odyssey

                   The Odyssey 

                Can someone PLEASE tell me

                     where the Yentna is?

                                  

                         The Odyssey

           

    As I hunkered down on the busted snowmobile whizzing along at forty, I began to retrace our steps.  What had gone wrong to land us in this predicament to begin with?  Was it bad equipment, weather, lack of knowledge?  The answer was a resounding yes and we all knew it.

     The tow rope between the two machines was caked with overflow along with the cowling in front of me.  If it were not for the windshield, I would be caked too.  As it was I was soaking wet.  The imitation carhart coverall I was wearing had a broken zipper running down the right leg and hadn’t completely dried from the day before.  Duct tape was helping to keep some of the elements out, but there were large, grapefruit sized gaps running all the way up to my hip.  It’s a good thing that it wasn’t too cold. 

     Just then Brent hit another stretch of overflow which threw a fresh coat of slush against the hood.  A baseball sized clump found the sweet spot right over the edge of the windshield right onto my face shield.  Unfortunately, the visor was partially opened so the fogging action would be minimized.  I took one for the team.

     “Shit!” I said out loud although no one could hear me.  I realized that even if I took a direct hit and was knocked off of the sled, Brent might not know for miles.  He was giving all he had to keep up the momentum of two sleds through deep snow and overflow.

     The snow began to fall the day before on the trip in.  From the looks of it there would be plenty of fresh powder to play around in once we got to the cabin.  The trip in was fun.  Brent, Jared, Pete, and I each had our own snowmobiles.  Jared was towing a small sled that contained most of our spare gas and beer.  The rest of us had backpacks strapped to the racks on the back of our sleds.

      Jared and Brent traded off towing so the other could hit a few sweet jumps along the way.  They were the most experienced riders of the group, Pete and I were novices at best.  I had to borrow a machine from Brent. When we headed out from Deshka Landing we were excited to be following a decent trail.  This trail led us down past the Deshka River towards the mouth of the Yentna.

downriver progress?

     All of us were playing around in the powder.  I was figuring out how to turn in powder and taking a few weenie jumps.  It was all so fun that no one realized how far we had gone.  By the time we possied up for a break, we were several miles up the Yentna already.  I had wanted to pay closer attention to the turn-off at the mouth but what the heck, we were making good time, we’d be to Yentna station soon, and then on to Indian Creek.  The first time in the winter!

     We made it to Indian in the early afternoon and spent considerable time trying to bust a trail up the bluff to the cabin.  Brent bombed up a steep hill covered with willow bushes and alders cutting a trench several feet deep behind him.  In turn we all jetted up that hill following Brent’s tracks along a ridge then down the other side.  After floundering around in the super deep powder and getting stuck several times, we gave up on that route and retreated back to the creek.

      Eventually we found our neighbor Jim Lanier’s back trail that he’d brushed and marked with reflectors and survey tape.  The trail cut off the creek in a straight line then cut across a large swamp finally entering the thick woods behind the cabin. 

      It was neat to see the cabin in the winter; we had to step down to the front door because the snow was so deep.  Everybody celebrated with a beer.  We were happy that only two beers popped on the trip.  Our elation ran short when, after unloading I discovered that one of the gas jugs had ruptured as well, dousing a bag of my clothing with Chevron’s best.  Bummer! 

     We started a fire in the woodstove and settled in for a long night of drinking.  Out came a bottle of “Hot damn!”

“Let the healing begin!” declared Jared with a rolled up balaclava riding high on his forehead. 

“Amen!” agreed Brent.

“Up yours”, I declared as I sorted through my gassy clothes with a sour look on my face.

     Several hours had passed when Pete made another astute observation.

     “Hey it’s not getting any warmer in here!”

     In fact it didn’t warm up much during the night either.  Later winter trips would teach us that the logs take a full day to heat up and warm the cabin.  Also, apparently green wet frozen logs are a bad choice for firewood.  Everyone was still dressed in their winter gear and you could still see your breath.  We were too busy laughing and drinking whisky to care too much about minor details such as a cold cabin.  We centered our little party around the woodstove and passed the bottle.

    Food, as it turned out, didn’t rank too highly on anyone’s priority list when packing for the trip. 

     “Don’t worry about it, there’s plenty of food up there” Pete had assured us.

   The burger king meal deal was wearing thin from this morning. Pete and I looked around for dinner makings in all the usual places.  Everything was frozen or infested with mouse turds.  As I was rifling through one of the kitchen cupboards, I noticed not one, but two tiny dead voles stacked like cordwood in the bottom of the light green Tupperware bowl-delightful!

      Dinner consisted of two frozen cans of Dinty Moore beef stew, a couple of military MRE’s ( courtesy of Jared) and a few assorted candy bars.  The MRE’s were the preferred meal because the pre-frozen beef stew took on a strange consistence like wet cardboard.  We pitched it out the door and returned to our drinks.

       In the morning the enthusiasm level took a nosedive from the night before.   We were a train wreck of hang-over’s and were severely parched with nothing to drink.  In all our jubilant carrying on, no one thought to melt some snow for drinking water.  Chuckling at our collective stupidity we found our only reprieve. We split the last beer four ways and started packing our stuff.  Stepping outside to pee, I marveled at the two feet of new snow that had fallen overnight.  This was going to be a great ride out, we all thought in our multi-faceted ignorance.

     All started out well enough as Brent and Jared blasted off several snowy tussocks landing in pillowy white goodness.  We made our way out to the mouth of Indian creek then onto the Yentna. 

      The trail leading downriver was barely discernable under all the fresh powder.  The snow was already super deep when we arrived making it a serious effort to keep from getting stuck now with all the fresh snow from the night before.  Both Pete’s machine and the one I was riding were not designed for deep powder at all. We had short tracks with tiny lugs on heavy machines.  Even gunning the throttle at top speed would squat us down deep into the snow requiring a dig out or a rescue. After several such incidents we realized that a plan had to be devised, we were getting nowhere fast.

       Jared would break trail and the rest would attempt to follow.  This plan proved successful for the first half mile or so until my snow machine broke down.  The belt had broken, stopping me in my tracks.  I collected myself and took a pee.  As I watched the dark yellow pee disappear into the snowpack, I wondered how long it would take the boys to figure out that I wasn’t keeping up.  I grabbed the side zipper on my imitation carhart suit, and proceeded to yank it right out of its tracks, never to be functional again.

     As I fumbled through my backpack, groping for some duck tape, I heard the muffled whine of the boys’ snow machines winding back up the trail. 

     Banking on the hope of a spare belt at Yentna Station, we rigged up a tow line between my broken down sled and Brent’s powerful XLT.  Our plan of action for down river progress looked like this:  Jared was still in the lead breaking trail, followed by Brent.  Pete would stay back helping me push my sled while Brent gunned his, tearing a trench in our super soft trail.   I would jump on at the last minute and hold on for dear life, while Pete would saddle up on his own sled, and try to pass Brent to help pack trail.  We ended up getting stuck often and had to repeat steps one through seven to get momentum and maintain our struggle down river.

    It was with great relief that we arrived at Yentna Station.  Jared and Brent went up to check on a new belt.  In my mind, things were looking up.  Sure I was chilled from the open faced carhart suit I was wearing but the duct tape was helping a little.  The boys would return soon with the new belt and we’d be on our way.

     Pete, having been diagnosed with type one diabetes six months earlier, was starting to feel the effects of low blood sugar. Since we didn’t bring much food with us, there was no breakfast, causing Pete trouble.

     Brent and Jared came down the hill and broke the news.  No belt, we would have to limp all the way back to the landing, another forty miles!  The good news is that they sold candy bars and soda pop.  We pooled our funds and afforded two thirds of a candy bar each and half a soda.  This lifted our spirits along with Pete’s blood sugar levels, and we were off.

     We labored our way down to the mouth of the Yentna, getting stuck again and again.  Getting started wasn’t nearly the big deal it had been earlier in the day.  At this point we were a finely oiled machine and everyone knew their part.  Pete and I had even learned when to turn our head when Brent blasted off to avoid the horizontal avalanche that came from his track.  My mind drifted off as I ducked behind the windshield of my ghost rider.  

      Suddenly, Brent came to an abrupt stop.  I looked up from the windshield to see why we stopped.  Jared and Pete were stopped up ahead and Jared had his cowling up and was working his tools.  Jared, having worked at the Arctic Cat shop in Eagle River was our only knowledgeable snow machine mechanic.

     Jared’s snow machine had just died.  Jared took it upon himself to re-wire his entire ignition.  Myself, barely able to spell ignition, was spellbound watching him work his magic.   Meanwhile Pete’s two third’s share of candy bar and half soda had worn off and he was feeling low again.   To compound our problems at this point, Brent noticed that he was nearly out of fuel.

     After scratching our heads and searching our backpacks, we found one of Jared’s MRE pouches in a small bag of trash.  Using this heavy duty plastic pouch as a container, we tipped my snow machine carefully on its side, just enough to spill a small amount of gas into the MRE pouch.  We shuttled the pouch over to Brent’s machine and poured it into his empty tank.  The pouch held about two cups of fluid, so it took us many tippings to make a difference.  Precariously balancing a six hundred pound snow machine on its side was a trying effort, resulting in a few frustrated temper flare ups, and more than one spilling.

     With our sights set on Deshka landing we blasted off, certain that our troubles were over.  What could possibly go wrong now, we thought as we turned up a slough following the faint outline of a trail.  Several bends up the slough we discovered overflow.  All of the new snow weighted the river ice, forcing water up through new cracks in the ice creating an underlying “slurpy” layer.   Mile after mile we powered through long runs of the snow covered water, pasting my snow machine with layers of sloppy grey slush.

     After six or seven miles of this riding we began to realize that the outline of the trail was gone and the slough was getting smaller.  Was this the way? Finally we stopped and decided that we must have screwed up and taken a wrong turn and the best thing to do was to turn around and blast our way back to the beginning of the slough and find the main route up the Susitna.  I mentally prepared myself for the barrage of overflow coming my way.

     When we reached the beginning of our slough trail Brent announced that now his oil was dangerously low.  Out came the MRE pouch again, tipping my dead sled over, transferring oil to Brent’s sled.  I was glad that my snow machine was good for something at this point.   While we were at it we transferred gas to Pete’s sled since he was getting low too.

     Decidedly, the mood had taken a nose dive at this point.  There were no jokes being told.  I began to notice my downtrodden companions increasingly long faces.  I myself was really hungry, tired, and wet.  Looking down, I noticed the sharp contrast of the dark wet carhart material doing battle with the lighter tone of the dryer parts.  The dark side of the carhart “force” was winning out, creeping slowly up towards my crotch.

      Also, I was getting a bit chilled.  I considered putting on one of my gassy sweaters.  Instead I ran a few quick windsprints down the trail.  Good enough.

     The sun was going down and everyone was thinking about how to play out our cards going into the fourth quarter.  After a little discussion we decided to send Jared out looking for the main trail, while the rest of us remained put.

    Soon after Jared left he came darting back towards us. 

“The trail’s right over there!” He shouted, pointing over a short rise in the near distance.

  The news was music to our ears as we started our snowmachines or in my case, got ready to push real hard.  Once again, we were off.

     The trail did indeed pan out this time and we crawled our way north to Deshka Landing.  The lights of the landing brought a lone tear to my eye.  Luckily no one could see it through the frozen overflow coated visor.  The rest of the snowmachines could blow up or snap in two, I didn’t care.  At this point we could walk, or crawl the rest of the way if we had to.  We had done it!  We arrived at the truck on fumes of gas, oil, and blood sugar.

     And then, as easily as the trip started, it was over with nothing left but stories of hard lessons learned.

     

The Fellowship of the Ring Hunt

The Fellowship of the Ring Hunt

“But then something happened the ring did not intend…”

J.R.R.Tolkien

     She took it rather well, actually.  The fact that I had “misplaced” my wedding ring of ten years in a gut pile could not have sounded good.  I had ruled out all other possibilities in my mind.

     “Did you look on the shelf behind the sink?”  Of course I did.  She knew that the only time I remove my ring is when I am kneading dough and I always put the ring on this one shelf. 

     “Yeah, I looked there”. 

     I had baked bread about a week ago. My kids wouldn’t have taken it off the shelf would they?  They had shown fleeting interest in my ring in the past.  After I declared it my “ring of power” one day, I had gone on to explain that when I have it on I am invisible to all other women.  They were too young to get the Tolkien reference or the marital wisecrack but the idea was funny to them anyway.

      “There is only one other possibility that I can think of” I reluctantly explained.  “Maybe it slipped off in the gut pile.”  We both cringed.  Returning to the kill site of a caribou I’d recently harvested meant a long drive up past Cantwell, and a long probably fruitless search for the ring, essentially a day long quest and a tank of gas.  Any hesitation on my part was stemming from the fact that I had absolutely no recollection of it slipping off or taking it off for that matter. 

     A trip up there would be a shot in the dark. Besides, as every hunter knows; from the moment an animal is down it is only a matter of time before the scene blows up with every manner of gut pile scavenger. The ravens gather and squawk adding visual and sound lures to the irresistable fowl reek of the viscera. Any number of feather or fur bearing animals may come to the dance taking turns in the pecking order, ripping and tearing at the mess until there is nothing left.

     “It’s probably in a pile of bear poop” she offered.

     “Great”, I said.

     The hunt itself had been great. We left on a Friday after school. My nine year old son Corey was excited to be pulled from school a few minutes early to go hunting with his dad.  The plan was simple; drive up to Cantwell, turn down the Denali Highway and start looking for Caribou.  We would pack light and sleep in the truck. 

     “Are we almost there yet dad?” Corey asked.

“Right around the next corner” came my standard reply.  Corey, clueing in on my sarcasm knew that we still had a ways to go. I pulled up on the blinker signaling a right hand turn.

    

Denali highway scenery

     The Denali Highway is an Alaskan gem.  Connecting the highway towns of Cantwell and Paxson, the highway is a rollercoaster dirt road that meanders through the central Alaska Range like the Great Wall of China. Incredible views along its 135 mile expanse overlook broad sweeping tundra, winding riverbeds and high alpine valleys.  September brings a rich coloration of the flora that paints the landscape with broad, lush brushstrokes.  Deep burgundy and purple benches step up into the high country while bright yellow willow bushes run in bands along the low lands.  The beaver ponds that are dark mirrors reflect the mountains.  The orangish purple of the tundra swamps link along the valleys giving the impression of easy hiking. Only in the very bottoms of these valleys can spruce gather in numbers.

     Unlike China’s great wall, the guard towers of the Denali Highway are large white Winnebago’s and every other kind of R.V. imaginable.  They dot its length from Cantwell to Paxson. On virtually every hilltop the lords of the motorhome can be found scouting for caribou and moose as opposed to invading Mongols.

      My dad likes to recall the time he saw a camo hunter sitting on top of his Minnie Winnie in a lawn chair with a jumbo coffee, slippers and pair of binoculars. In truth it was hard to imagine a fellow like that venturing too far from the comforts of his R.V. to stalk an animal.

     Needless to say this stunning landscape supports an abundance of wildlife.  Animals of the rebounding Nelchina caribou herd can be found without too much trouble.  Moose, bear, and ptarmigan are also popular game animals to be found along the Denali Highway.

      We arrived at one of our favorite pull outs around nine.  After enjoying a campfire and some dinner, we climbed into the canopy of my truck bed and quickly fell asleep.  Later on that night the wind picked up to impressive speeds.  Seventy mile per hour gusts of wind rocked the truck on its leaf springs through the night.  The rain pelted one side of the truck while the other side was virtually dry.  Corey, oblivious to the ruckus was out like a light.  I wondered if the inclement weather would squash our hunting plans.

     Luckily in the morning the wind had died down to almost nothing and with the Nelchina Gods smiling upon us, we had a nice cow caribou down on the turf by eleven o’clock.  With Corey by my side whispering all kinds of questions we put the final “sneaks” on this lone caribou until we were within range.  Once down on the tundra I grabbed my knife and got to work, a task I enjoy thoroughly. 

    After a half hour, Corey’s persistent pestering that we pop the gut sack was partially realized when my knife nicked the taught membranous ball.  The pungent green mulch oozed out of the nick I’d made.  “Darn!” I blurted.

     Corey’s face lit up with laughter as he moved in closer to inspect.  Although not much help, Corey was having a blast poking the eyes playing with the hooves.  His time would come when he was older to do more of the work.  Using my own history as a gauge, next year might be the year he is ready to shoot his first big game animal.   I gave him fair waring that he was going to have to carry out my backpack, rifle, and the antlers when we were done.  He agreed as he winged one of the forelegs into the bushes as he’d seen me do a few minutes before.

     The pack out was about a half of a mile.  I was able to fit all of the meat in my internal frame backpack.  Lining the inside with a large garbage bag insured that my pack wouldn’t be soaked in blood.  Conditions of the hunt state that all meat of the ribs must remain naturally attached to the bone until removed from the field.  Since I forgot to bring my bone saw I was forced to carry out the entire rib cage attached to the backbone.  Covered with a game bag, the rib cage sat rather nicely over the top of my pack like a big turtles shell.

  “Why don’t you just make two trips?”  Corey asked me as I strained and struggled to stand with what turned out to be a one hundred and seventy five pound pack.

“Because I always love a good challenge!” I declared, wondered if I would regret having said that.   I did a quick visual survey of our site to make sure I wasn't leaving anything of value behind.  The pack was so heavy that I decided my hasty “once-over” inspection was good enough.  This had to have been one of the heaviest packs I’d ever carried, I told myself.   I allowed the weight to settle into my bones before I started my death march up the hill.  The legions of blueberries were scattered before us as we plodded our way back to the truck.   I had to stop several times to rest in the bent over position with my hands propped on my knees.  This wasn't the most restful position in the world but I was trying to avoid plopping down to the ground because it was such a wrestling match to stand again.  We made it to the truck just as the rain and wind started to pick up again.                                           

      By noon the next day we had all 112 pounds of meat put up in the freezer or canned in jars.  It had to have been the perfect hunt hadn't it? 

picking the legions

   
  








     “Yeah Dan’s got a metal detector” Deb answered from behind the front desk at work.

“I think he’s got a couple of them”.   

     It was noon when I arrived at Dan’s house for a lesson on metal detectors. Over the summer Dan had worked at a gold mine operation out of McGrath.  On his spare time he was allowed to do a little prospecting himself.  A few weeks before Dan had shown me his summer poke in the form of gold nuggets ranging in size from almost dust particles to a couple the size of a grape.  The almost fifteen hundred dollar an ounce bounty on gold made for a lucrative summer for him.  I was all ears as Dan taught me metal detecting 101. The whirling beeps and wowies sounded off as he waved the detector over a quarter he’d thrown on the grass.  “Have fun” was the last thing he told me as I loaded it up in the back of my truck.

“Thanks Dan, I will” although fun wasn't something I’d even considered.

    The awful electric pulse of my alarm clock shocked me out of bed like a cattle prod at 4:30 AM on a Sunday.  Was I really doing this?  It had been over three weeks since the hunt.  Then I remembered that my folks had cheerfully decided to join me on my quest for the ring, a fellowship per-se, and were already on their way to my house.  I couldn't back out now. 

     We hit the road fully caffeinated by five.  By 8:00 A.M we had arrived on site with metal detector in hand.  It took a few minutes to find the kill site because almost everything was gone.  I took in a visual of the scene.  The four hooves and the lower jaw were all that remained of the animal, even the hide had disappeared entirely.  My heart sunk as I tried to fend off the inevitable feeling of futility.  Maybe the “ring in the bear poop” theory wasn't so far fetched.  But thirty seconds into my rookie prospecting campaign I was rewarded with a high pitched whine.  Did I have it on the right setting?  I dug through the dirt under the exact spot and found what remained of the actually bullet that brought down the caribou, a nifty find on any other trip.

I think I can..

       Twenty minutes later another high whirl rung through the headphones.  The brass casing of my 30.06 shell was found under one of the hooves. And then, just as I was starting to realize that I could very well be waving this contraption around for hours on end like a blind man with his cane, there came another.

      As I lifted the Frisbee sized sensor up I found what I had been seeking.  There tucked partially under the carpeted tundra was my ring of power indeed.  I let out a whoop that I’m sure was heard by at least several caribou.  Mom and Dad shared in my excitement and incredulity. 

    The ring was found about fifteen feet from the kill site dulled by the three week old blood on it. Having read at least one Encyclopedia Brown detective book in the fifth grade, I was able to figure out what happened.  Apparently flinging the hoofs away with a slimy left hand isn’t conducive to responsible ring care.  I couldn’t let my own son out distance me on a hoof toss could I?  The extra effort put into that final hoof throw was my undoing.  I can just see that bloody ring flying through the air in slow motion arcing back down to its temporary tundra home.

   So then without so much as a wipe down, I slid the ring onto my finger and once again became invisible to all other women again.

            

The ladies just see tundra here