Soup de Jour-Humble Pie

Soup de Jour- Humble Pie

      I’d been giddy about the trip since early Spring.  It was called simply “The King’s Sheep”.  The route was named appropriately by intrepid back country adventurists Forest McCarthy and Brad Meiklejohn and it begins in Chickaloon.

    It was a grand plan;  We left on foot up the Permanente trail, ascending 20 miles up the King River valley on foot.  The trail was a tidy four wheeler trail that we abandoned when we crossed into the West channel of the King.  

Nap on the Permanente

From there we made our way along the gravel bars, crossed the river plenty of times and had to bushwhack quite a bit too.  Once we made it to the the headwaters of the King we picked our way up into it’s Northeastern pass past the watchful eye of a bull caribou.  In the saddle we punched through knee deep snow and then stood in awe at the expanse on the other side.  It would be our next obstacle; The Talkeetna Glacier.

Brian on the divide

   Descending the pass and picking our way onto the glacier around obvious crevasses was delightful.  An easy two mile walk down the glacier had us below  firn line and although we walked on solid ice, it was littered with every manner of silt, sand and gravel;  boot traction couldn’t have been better.  Bigger rocks and boulders were also present and grew in number as we approached the terminus.  All during our glacier travel we followed countless glacial run-off streams of various sizes.  Once crystal clear, the water grew murkier the lower we got.  “Brian look.”  We were near the terminus of the glacier and the streams had gathered into well-worn ice trenches.  The water here was now a milky/tan color.  Rolling and boiling in the mix were dark rocks of all sizes and they were caught-up in a gravel conveyor belt.  “It looks like chocolate chip cookie dough.” I told him.  The streams joined each other in a gnarly water park slide that spiraled down a moulin that disappeared into the bowels of the glacier.   

strolling around a well defined crevasse

    Carefully we picked our way over the medial moraine dividing the Talkeetna and Sheep Glaciers eventually making our way down and eventually off of the glacier.  Glaciers are always tricky to get off of and this one was no different.  As we passed under the giant toe of the Sheep Glacier it’s many veins of cookie dough run-off  spat it’s rocks down upon us as we scrambled quickly underneath.  The raging Sheep River roaring next to us was so loud that we had to shout to communicate.  “Keep your head up for rocks.  We need to move quickly.”  We scrambled over the rocks that varied in size from beach balls to refrigerators.  Many of them had been deposited in their current position recently and were not particularly stable.  Some would move, roll and settle underneath our feet whereas others didn’t budge.  It was hard to judge which was which.  After a few near misses with wayward overhead rocks, we made it passed the fall zone, took off our packs, and took a break.  

Talkeetna Glacier

Meltwater draining into moulin on left

   Over the course of the next several hours we would continue our journey over, around and through the terminal moraine of the glacier traveling adjacent to the Sheep River that was an amazing spectacle in itself.  

       First decentest Andrew Embick, in his book “Cold and Fast” calls the Sheep River a class IV run with a mandatory portage around a class VI gorge below the glacier.  This seemed about right to me as we hiked our way as far downstream as possible.  Often our path took us to river’s edge where, again, we were impressed by the power of the river.  McCarthy and Meiklejohn by contrast, found the float to be mostly class 3.  We found out later after comparing photos taken from similar locations, that they had completed their trip in much lower water, which Brian and I both agreed would have been much easier.  McCarthy’s blog post video shows a leisurely float and is set to Canned Heat’s “Going up the country"   Although I jokingly sang this cute little  jingle throughout the trip, this was not the song  that would set the tone to our own float. I’m thinking more along the lines of Metallica’s " Through the Never " More on that later.

Mars

    We camped in the valley of an old lake bed that had drained in dramatic  event that geologists call Jokulhlaup.  There was no doubt in our minds that such a powerful event could have happened in this place.  Immense power of erosion was not only evident all around us but was actually happening right before our eyes and ears.  At night in the tent we could hear the deep rumble of boulders being rolled down the Sheep River.  We were passing through ground-zero of glacial erosion and it was quite austere. We found a lone sandy oasis situated in the dry lake bottom.  There wasn’t anything green besides our tent visible in any direction and and it felt very much like Mars.  The next day we descended the valley into the bushy lowlands where I exclaimed, “It’s good to be off of Mars.”

     After carefully negotiating our way around a lone brown bear that was making his way up the valley, we continued hiking downstream as far as we could.  We wanted to get as far downstream where we hoped the river would “settle-down”.  

I pushed this boulder in.  It was fun.  I cheered.

The Sheep was still a raging torrent and we weren’t ready to begin floating in such fast water.  

Brian demonstrating textbook form on a
small tributary of the mighty Sheep.

There were several times that we had to climb up-and-over spots where the river was pinned-in by canyon walls.  One such traverse require a bit of technical climbing to scale a rock face covered by loose moss and alders that were by-and-large dead, brittle, and of no use.

Brian topping out after a good scramble.

Finally after hiking as far as we could, it was time to camp, collect ourselves and prepare for our first day of pack rafting.  We launched into the Sheep River the next morning.

    The first half of the day was amazing.  The water was fast and decisions had to be made quickly.  There were several large wave trains that we negotiated brilliantly and things were looking up.  As we got lower in the valley the river spread out into multiple channels.  The water was still fast but the volume in each channel was  smaller than when the river was all together but now we were into the wood.

    Suddenly as if we were in slow motion, we got tangled up into a sweeper.  Thinking that we had plenty of time to stop ourselves and get to shore, the swiftness of the Sheep kept us under it’s power and we could not stop.  After grabbing a volleyball sized rock on shore, I finally came to a halt with twenty feet to spare but Brian was having the same trouble as I was.  As he came barreling by I attempted to grab him with my other hand.  When I did it dislodged the rock I had a hold of and we spun into the sweeper hide, guts,  feathers and all.

    Brian had the presence of mind to work his way on top of the tree that sucked us in.  In the fracas, we swapped boats, lost a paddle, and Brian went for a cold, cold swim.  Up shit creek with out a paddle...literally.  

      After weighing all options we decided to utilize my newly acquired Delorme inreach.  With it I messaged my wife who was on-point and got us the help we needed.  Within a couple of hours our friend Bill Starr was flying overhead and was able to drop us a spare paddle.  In the meantime I whittled a spruce-pole insert that fit into half of my kayak paddle in case Bill couldn’t make it.  That way, I figured we could each at least have a canoe paddle.  Looking back I’m glad we didn’t have to make-do with such a set up because as it turned out, we weren’t out of the woods yet.  A single paddle wouldn’t have been enough to maneuver us well enough in the swift waters to come.  We made the right decision.

     Soon we were back in action floating our way down the valley.  The water was still swift and braided but we proceeded with caution and pulled-over to scout anything questionable.  That night we camped on a sandbar and prepared for what we thought would be an easy float out to the Talkeetna River and then on to Talkeetna.

    As it turned out the Sheep wasn’t done with us and although the river was mellow to start, it didn’t last long.  We were floating side-by-side telling jokes and stories when Brian cut me off.  “What’s that?”   I turned to look and I could hear the upcoming roar and I could see the dancing water dropping away from view.  We got our game faces on and prepared ourselves mentally for what was to come.  

   At this point we had learned to become exceptionally cautious and we pulled over several times to scout corners that we could not see around.  On the third scouting stop we hiked a half a mile on an island so we could check out any obstacles.  When we got the the end of the island we decided that it looked good as far as we could see down river.  We hiked back up stream, dragged our rafts a bit and then set off once again into the mighty Sheep.  

    I led and negotiated around an overhanging birch and a boulder mid-stream.  Just as I was about to join the larger channel, I noticed a whole 60 foot spruce tree coming down stream essentially cutting me off.  It was coming from the other channel upstream. “Whoa”, I thought. I let it pass and then turned my boat upstream and paddled to give myself some room.  After it passed and I saw Brian coming down behind me and I turned myself downstream.  After a moment, I turned to check on Brian and suddenly and quite unexpectedly he had flipped; his raft was upside down.  Although we had negotiated what we thought were much trickier sections thus far on the trip, the seam of the two channels traveling at different speeds sucked his leading edge under catching him off-guard.

    Although the water was still moving quite fast we were luckily at the top of a fairly straight section without obstacle.  Brian fought to flip his raft back over without success.  His forty pound pack was strapped to the top of the pack making it cumbersome and awkward to flip.  I threw him one end of a throw bag and I held on to the other.  I grabbed his paddle and tried to tow him.  This didn’t work.  He let out a bunch of line on the throw bag and I tried to tow again. This too was not going to work.  I found it hard to bare down on my paddle while trying not to lose his.  Finally he let go of the rope and his raft and made for shore.

     It was a sickly feeling when I lost sight of him and I tried to focus.  I had floated to the bottom of the straight stretch of the river now and it was decision time for me.  I wanted to grab his raft but I didn’t want to get flushed down the channel to my left that I discovered later was littered with four spruce sweepers that spanned the whole channel.  I kept my eye on Brian’s raft and was glad that it seemed to be following me.  I decided to paddle quickly to the island between the two channels, ditch my own raft on shore and catch Brian’s raft.  

    I grounded my rafted, ripped myself from the confines of my spray skirt and threw my raft up onto the beach.  I sprinted down the beach and jumped into the water only to discover that Brian’s raft had taken a different flush of the current and was way out in the middle.  I floundered up past my waist and soon realized that there was no way on God’s green Earth that I was going to grab his raft unless I swam for it.  Since I wasn’t even sure of Brian’s well being I decided against it.   

    I ran back up to my boat, crossed the swift channel above the sweepers and crawled onto the bank that I hoped to find Brian on.  I ran down the bank and finally I found him standing safely on the bank, wet and cold but alive!  Words cannot describe how glad I was to see him there.  And it was at this point that we both realized that we were in a bit over our heads.  We started a fire.  

       Few words were exchanged as the gravity of the situation began to seep into our bones and it wasn’t long before we set into motion the destiny of the completion of our trip.

   Although we were about 20 miles from Talkeetna as the crow flies.  We both knew that it would be a serious undertaking to bushwhack our way over land through some of the wildest country on earth.  If we had to, and if we wanted to burn up another four or five more days of our summer we could have hiked out. But as it was we had no need to prove ourselves in this way and it wasn’t long before I sent another message to Tamra.  Within an hour and a half we heard the whump whump whump of the chopper blades making way up the valley towards us.

    “Hey Paul.”  It was Paul Roderick.  Paul is owner and operator of Talkeetna Air Taxi and as a matter of coincidence he flew Brian and I out to Denali base camp on our summit trip a few years ago in a fixed wing plane.  I did not know he was a helicopter pilot too but it was comforting to see someone that I knew.

     In the end I was just glad to have achieved my lifelong goal of staying out of the newspapers and we did not have to initiate the emergency response team.  A sweet chopper ride with Paul sounds much better.  For a fleeting moment I felt like Magnum P.I flying over the expanse below albeit not Hawaii.

    “Hey Paul, do you think we could see if we could locate Brian’s raft on the way back?”  I asked.  This was an option that I knew the Alaska State Troopers would not afford us. “Sure.”  We took off down river and finally about eight miles downriver there it was upside down at the front of a big log jam.  We landed on the skinny sandbar, jumped out and grabbed it.  And then it wasn't long before we were back in Talkeetna.