Chasing Boston

Chasing Boston

      The benevolent tone of my phone’s alarm was no consolation at 4:45 AM.  I was in downtown Sacramento and was about to join a mob. 

      I gathered my things and quietly left.  I was hoping Mom and Dad would be able to sleep-in.  They had agreed to travel with me and support my efforts.  After grabbing coffee and a banana, I followed two others out the door, into the darkness and down the block. A half a mile from the hotel, we found 200 shiny school busses neatly lined up waiting to transport us down the road to Folsom (think Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues…I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.).  The prison would have to wait today because I was here for the start of a marathon. 

     “Bathrooms to the right, starting line to the left”.  A man volunteering in a bright green vest repeated his instructions in a loud voice as hundreds and then thousands of runners made their way past him to the starting area.  

        As I made my way around the corner I discovered a straight-line row of what must have been 500 port-a-potties.   Set back 30 feet from each group of potties was a cone holding back a line of runners 30 deep.  The scene made me nervous (because I had to go and time was running out), but I got in line and soon enough I was at the front of the line.  The timing couldn’t have been better, I had fifteen minutes before start time.

      Big marathons are often set-up with pacers who are tasked with running a certain pace and finishing in a certain time.  I made my way towards the starting line and passed the 4 hour pacer sign, then the 3:45 and 3:30.  Then I saw it; My magic number was 3:25.  If I could run 3:25 or faster, I would hit my qualifying time for the prestigious and celebrated Boston Marathon.  This has been a goal of mine for over 12 years and it was exciting to think that maybe, just maybe this would be the day!  “Settle down Steve.”, I told myself.

     The crowd was thick like a rock concert but I made my way as close to the sign as I could.  It always amazes me that these pacers can run 26.2 miles while holding a sign attached to a stick.  They provide a valuable service that allows runners to accurately pace themselves over the course of the race. 

     The energy at the starting line was electric; We were all spring-loaded, waiting for the gun to release our energy and shoot us forward towards the finish line 26.2 miles away.  I was sure that after the start of the race it would take an act of God to stop this running mob.  The guy in front of me had a shirt that read “We are all mad” on his back.  He might be right. 

     And then it began;  9,000 runners surged towards the starting line and then down the road setting into motion the start of the 2021 California International Marathon (CIM). 

     The course was filled with long rolling hills for the first half and then settled into a slight downhill.  I passed cheering crowds, high school bands, and hundreds of sign-holding spectators holding signs like KICK ASS-PHALT, and YOU WILL ALL HAVE GREAT BUTTS!, and YOU’RE GOING TO BE A MARATHONER GERRY!

    I was feeling great and running fast. I tried to not get too excited as the miles ticked-off and tried to just think about running smooth and steady.   I passed a large family who had set up lawn chairs in their driveway to watch.  They had a fire pit going, their golden retriever was on a leash. Mom and Dad were drinking wine.  The youngest little girl held up a sign that said “BELIEVE!”

      At mile 20 though I felt the first electric stab of pain pulse into the belly of my right calf.  “Oh no”, I thought.   The last 5 miles of a marathon are always painful but when your body isn’t working right, it can be especially grueling. My pace slowed as a result as the problem got worse. “I gotta hold on!”, I thought.       

     This is not a new problem for me.   The last two marathons I ran-in have also been problematic for my calves at the same stage of the race, right around mile 20.  What starts out as periodic sharp pain, turns into frequent flare-ups followed by full-on lock-up cramping by the end.  

     For this race I was sure I had it figured out. I had been taking salt chews along the way, and I was wearing compression sleeves on my calves.  Additionally I had spent months incorporating calf strength training into my workouts.  The internet can’t be wrong can it?

    Anyone that has experienced calf cramps inevitably learn two undeniable facts: 1) They are extremely painful, and # 2) pointing your toe is a recipe for a complete seizure of the calf which usually ends up with the recipient on the ground writhing in pain speaking French. 

     “Keep your toes up”, was my mantra.  This is not a natural running gait for anyone and it caused me to hunch over and do  weird things with my hands.  I was able to ward off the stinging cramps for short periods but my success was limited and short-lived. 

     Imagine my disappointment as I watched the guy holding the 3:25 sign slowly pass me at mile 25.  By then my calves were both cramping hard. 

     “Maybe I can keep up with this weird gait, it’s only one more mile!”, I thought. “Maybe I can catch him”  I couldn’t believe how close I was to qualifying for Boston.  It was so tangible, I could see it right in front of my eyes....it was right there! “Why is this happening to me?”

     So there I was hobbling along like some kind of cross between Quasimodo and the Tinman of OZ chasing some guy holding a sign with desperation in my heart and shooting pain in my legs.  The 3:25 sign was getting smaller and further away.  An onlooker held up a poster that said “PAIN IS WEAKNESS LEAVING THE BODY”

    Eventually, I had to let go and realized that today wasn’t the day.  Just as I began to delve into my own pool of self-pity, I glanced at my watch and knew that the day wasn’t entirely lost. 

      As quickly as I could, I hobbled around the final corner wincing and sometimes yelping.  Mom and dad were there cheering me on along with hundreds of others as I crossed the finish line 3 minutes faster than I have ever ran before. 

Nearing the finish line

Dream team

Eureka!

                                                           Eureka!

“This is good, stop here.”  Bryan came to a stop and in one swift motion I was out the door, rifle in hand stepping, looking.  The low brush was only partially covered in snow and the hiking was easy.  I crossed a creek covered with tightly frozen overflow of grey and brown.  

       I had seen the group pass behind a small knob. Perfect.  The approach was the stuff of legend.  I was able to proceed undetected to the bottom of the hill.  I knew they would soon appear on the other side as I slowly crested over top.  No sooner had I jacked a shell in the chamber than one appeared...then two...then three.  Suddenly a dozen animals appeared before me traversing a hill some two hundred yards before me. 

     The midsize bull in the front turned and saw me.....shit!  Suddenly they were all moving in unison away from me.  I realized that my window of opportunity was closing.  I shouldered my rifle, aimed and pulled the trigger.  Missed.  The group moved further up the hill and then, what would turn-out to be a stroke of luck, they paused.  The one in the front presented broadside and I carefully squeezed off another round. BOOM!

     It was almost noon and it was 10 below zero.  The sun was just cresting over the hill and the hoar frost clinging to the bushes and the top of the snowpack was standing at attention as I watched Bryan slowly rumble up the brushy hill before me.  He maneuvered his Polaris Ranger up the hill towards me. It was outfitted with tracks and was able to crawl over the bumpy tussocks making way towards me. He waved as he passed by only to turn around at the top of the hill.  Eventually he pulled up right next to me.  The cow caribou I shot was laying on the snow not five feet from the tailgate of Bryans Ranger.  Hunting success!

     That’s right, we were rolling-with what is commonly known as a side-by-side ATV.   Although not my style by nature, I had a hard time refuting the values of this lovely beast as the hunt progressed.  

     As previously confessed, it was cold. Hunting trips in sub-zero temps are not for sissies.....unless they happen to be sitting inside a heated cab most of the day.  Heated cabs, as it turns out, are pretty fun things and might actually be okay for sissies afterall.

     

Bryan chillin atop Monument.

     

Driving Mr. Daisy.  Mr. Daisy hangin loose.

     

Dances with Tenderloin

  Dances with Tenderloin

Anyone who’s a chef, who loves good food ultimately knows that all that matters is: ‘is it good? Does it give pleasure?’ -Anthony Bourdain

     “Is it ready?” I asked.  Pete was adjusting a few of the sticks on the fire beneath the grate.  One of the bigger coals settled and a flurry of sparks spiraled through the checkered grill. I couldn’t believe he brought a metal cooking grate. It wasn’t dainty.  It was a large foldable steel grate, the kind of project you would expect a high school welding student to complete.   
     The plan was to throw fresh moose tenderloin on a sizzling hot grill.  I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. My skepticism was two-fold;  firstly I wasn’t sure we could produce a hot enough fire with the low quality firewood available.  As it turns out wet, rotten willow snags don’t burn very well.  My other thought was that the meat would dry out; there is hardly any fat in moose tenderloin.
     “Yeah, I think it’s ready,”  he said.  I looked over at the metal grate situated over our campfire and it was glowing red.  Game on! 
    I had cut the loin into thin steaks, rubbed them with olive oil followed by a light sprinkling of Chicago steak seasoning.  I handed the plate of steaks to Pete.  “Okay what do you want here?” he asked.  I was the chef tonight. 
     “Give me 15 seconds per side.” 
     “You got it.” He said.  I reached for my cocktail and watched the man do his thing. 
     Ahh... Life is good.  As Pete danced around the fire trying to avoid burning himself, I couldn’t help but to reflect on the history of Harrison kill-night eats. We used to have liver and onions on kill night.  We used my grandma June’s recipe that included fresh liver, onions, and stewed tomatoes.  Ladled on top of rehydrated mashed potatoes, it was a hearty meal.  Served along with several fingers of Wild Turkey 101 and voila!: kill night eats. Oh the memories!
     At some point many years ago we decided to change it up.  Why not eat the best the moose has to offer? Our quest for a better meal was quickly over;  Enter the tenderloin.
     Tucked high-and-tight below the ribs and along the inside of the backbone of the lower spine, the tenderloin requires delicate knife skills to remove.  As with all quadrupeds, the tenderloin refers to a muscle called psoas major.  This is typically the most tender part of any animal, because these muscles are used for posture, rather than locomotion.  Translation: Good eats.

Access to the tenderloins
is from the inside of the gut
cavity.

        Our go-to recipe in the post liver era is a true gem it it’s own right.  It is adapted from our friend Steve Davis who is one of the original pioneers of this particular hunt and a fantastic cook.  Thin cut medallions of tenderloin join the party of sauteed onion, garlic, ginger, bell pepper and bacon. The final step is to douse the whole thing in soy sauce.  Served with potatoes or rice it never disappoints.  We had all of the ingredients ready for this recipe but on this night we would play around with some fresh grilled loin as well.
     Pete flipped them with care and before long they were back on the plate.  We passed them around and tore small chunks for appetizers.  The meat pulled apart easily; there was no need for a knife. The juicy steak fell apart in our mouths and filled our senses with the essence of moose... Heaven. On some visceral level, for me, it seemed to validated our efforts.  So much planning and effort goes into our hunt each year and although we were not out-of-the-woods quite yet, I felt a sense of closure with each savory bite. “Wow” said Pete.
    It had been a brilliant day both in weather and circumstance.  We had both bulls down by noon and we found ourselves back in camp by five.  As our evening played out with good food, drink, and family, I realized once again how lucky I am.

Brenton's first.

Apparently a couple of grey wolves were watching
as I stalked this big boy.

AWC Day 10 "Smelling the Barn"

Day 10: Caribou Creek to Sheep Mountain Lodge 

“Smelling the Barn”

      “Looks like you are off-course,” she said. I read the text message from my wife before I got out of the tent  I had sent messages to Tamra on my Delorme "in-reach" at the end of each hiking day.  It is an amazing tool that allows me to send text messages from anywhere in the world. I have found it to be a useful tool mostly because it keeps loved ones from worrying.  She knew we were off-course because I had shown her our route on Google Earth before we left.  Each in-reach message contains a link to our GPS location on a map.  
     We quickly came to realize the harsh reality of our mistake from the day before;  Our final day just got several hours longer.  By this point in the trip we were smelling-the-barn and I’m not afraid to admit that it was a rather tough pill-to-swallow as the gravity of our situation soaked into our bones. Keeping to our positive attitudes and energy, we swallowed our pride and headed back up the trail that we had come down the night before. 
    In my mind I had envisioned us waltzing into Sheep Mountain lodge mid afternoon.  Although I’d never been there, I imagined a bar with several patrons gathered around yucking-it-up over cheeseburgers and beer.  The reality of the situation turned out to be much different but I snapped out of my dream-world and realized that I’d better start paying more attention to the map and less attention to fictional cheeseburgers. “We’re not out of the woods yet,” I thought to myself. 
      After back-tracking to the river we discovered that, contrary to our 1950’s printed map, there was no tractor trail leading further down Caribou Creek.  We scrambled up onto the ridge above the creek in search of a trail only to come up empty; We decided to work our way back along the ridge and then eventually back down to the creek; It was time to float. 
     Soon enough we made it to the creek, inflated our rafts, pulled on our dry-suits and set-off down stream.  The creek was moving fast but it was well within our capabilities and we had no problems; It was super fun!  We knew from studying the maps that there was a pinch-point a couple of miles below us and we made sure to pulled-over to scout it out.  
    The whole creek funneled into a slot no more than twenty feet wide. The  chute was only two hundred feet long before it opened back up but it looked pretty rowdy; We portaged around it. 

I'm having a snack overlooking "the chute".

      After putting back into Caribou creek we paddled a few more bends.  I called for a “pull-out” when I couldn’t see around a blind corner.  We got out of our packrafts and walked downstream to get a better look.  It looked okay but I had an idea.  "Let's check for the ATV trail," I said.  A short walk revealed a well traveled trail that would be only 1.5 miles to our next waypoint: Squaw Creek.  We could have rafted down to Squaw Creek but Art and I being a couple of old conservative dudes decided to pack-up and hike it out.  This trail would lead us around the corner up the Squaw Creek valley.  We would follow this trail for about 7 miles. A lone wolf with huge paws and a big brown bear had traveled down the length of this trail ahead of us; We encountered their tracks intermittently on all of the muddy sections. As the day wore on and the miles ticked off the thought crossed my mind that maybe, like Art and myself they were traveling buddies working together to complete some crazy race. "Look, there they are again," said Art. 
     I checked the gps on my phone (gaia app) and discovered that finally it was time to cross the valley.  We could see a trail cut into the mountainside far across the valley and soon we found the connecting trail that led us there.  We had to overcome a giant beaver pond that was obstructing the trail.  "Hey, check it out," I said.  In the middle of the trail was the business end of a kayak paddle. It turned out to be owned by a guy named Tom who was one of our competitors; We met him trail-side on day one.  Art tucked it into my pack and we continued our slog through the beaver marsh and beyond.  
     We were tired.  With eight miles to the finish we sat down next to a creek.  “Hey Steve, try some of this,”  Art handed me half of a big chocolate bar that he’d brought back from Patagonia.
     “Wow, Thanks.”  We sat there together eating great chocolate next to a stream and I couldn’t help but think of how grateful I was to be so close to completing this trip with such an amazing person as Art.  Maybe it was the chocolate talking but I don’t think so. 
     I grabbed my water filter and reached down to fill up.  I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw a cluster of a hundred or so green inch worms gathered together at the bottom of the creek.  Upon further inspection I noticed another similar group a little further down the creek.  "What is going on here?" I thought.  
    Back on day two of the trip, over coffee, I had asked Arthur a philosophical question.  "Hey Artie, as the trip progresses let's see if we can identify our kindred animal spirit that would be with us all along the way."
   "Hey, that sounds great," he said.  I was thinking that maybe we would see caribou every day and our kindred animal spirit would be the caribou, or maybe some bird like the Arctic Tern; Terns are cool.  It became apparently obvious after a couple more days on the trail that our kindred animal spirit would be none other than....the inchworm.  It was perfect; We were slow and methodical and made inchworm-like progress each day.  Each time we stopped one of us would have a tiny green inchworm on our sleeve or pack or boot.  We made sure to be careful with them.  Art would carefully relocate them to a nearby leaf of a bush or tree. At one lunch break, he had one on his hat.  I watched as it made a slinky move from the edge of the hat to the top of his ear lobe.  "Hey Art he just bridged to your ear,"  I told him.
      "Great," he said as we headed down the trail. I lost track of the little guy as he wiggled over the rim of Art's ear.
      So it was a little disheartening to see so many of our little buddies pooled up on the bottom of the creek.  I'd like to think that they were gathering to say goodbye to us. We were close to the end of our journey and they had been with us the whole time.
     We said our goodbyes to the last of the chocolate and the worms and hit the trail.  The last section of our trip was not our favorite.  It was on four wheeler trails that, in some sections, had been bogged-out due to extreme overuse.  Wherever the trail got muddy through a swamp, there were many other trails running adjacent to them that would completely destroy the area further.  We came across many of these sites on this last day and it was disconcerting to see such a blatant disregard for the wilderness destroyed in the name of “getting-there.”
     
   Soon enough we dropped down off of the North side of Gunsight mountain and onto the decommissioned Old Glenn highway.  That’s right, the last four miles of this thing were on……pavement.  Needless to say we were pretty wasted at the end of what would turn out to be a 17 hour day.  The unforgiving surface of the asphalt pounded into our bones as we made our way to Sheep Mountain lodge. 
     At 12:23 AM we stepped into the parking completing our journey of over 140 miles.  We took a quick group selfie, set up our tent and crashed hard.  We wouldn’t find the ziplock back with the finishers sign-in list until the next morning; It was taped to a pole next to an RV.  On it were eleven finishers.  We signed in as number 12 and 13 and as it turned out would be the last to finish.

Happy finishers.  As it turned out we would get our cheeseburgers and beer the next day.
I recommend the blue cheese burger at Sheep Mountain Lodge; it's especially tasty after a
long hike.

AWC Day 9

Day 9: Little Nelchina to Divide Creek

Arthur scratching his way out of the Little Nechina canyon

     “Hey look I’m a newborn caribou!”  Art had just stepped out of the tent on the morning of our ninth day.  He was barefoot and stiff and was making slow wobbly progress over to his socks that were hanging from a nearby bush.  I laughed out loud.  
     A group of ten caribou moved across the hill behind us as we packed up camp. The immediate task ahead of us today was to ascend the Little Nelchina to a pass that would lead us into Billy Creek.  This would turn out more difficult that I had imagined at home from the comforts of my laptop. The creek was fordable as we made our way upstream.  Deep and steep canyon walls became more pronounced the further we went.  Up ahead we could see that the creek disappeared through a narrow slot in the canyon where the walls were almost vertical.  “That doesn’t look good.”  said Art.
     “Yeah, let’s pick our way-up over here.”  I pointed with my hiking pole to a crude caribou trail that switch-backed up a nearby slope of the canyon wall; It looked okay from below.  My thinking was that if caribou can skedaddle right up to the top of the canyon rim then we can too.
     Up we went planting our poles into the crumbly scree. Towards the top it got rather steep and I wished that I had an ice ax in my hand instead of this ridiculous hiking pole. There were two “crux” moves with at least a little exposure that made for an exciting climb.  The problem on this particular pitch was that nothing was solid;  The rocks, the bushes, and the dirt couldn’t be trusted and would crumble or pull-out or both.  
     After topping out on a dicey section, I found a ledge and waited.  I didn’t want to knock anything down on Artie.  Art was digging out each foot hold; loose clods of poorly bonded dirt tumbled below him crashing into the creek below.   
    After topping out of the canyon we took off our packs and took a break.  Just then something caught my eye high on the hill across the canyon.  “Hey Art, check out the bear.”  A big blond grizzly was across the valley and up a couple hundred vertical feet.  It was working on something and we weren’t quite sure what.  There was no sense of urgency in its movements; Maybe it was digging up some roots to eat.  We watched it from the relative safety of our canyon perch.  Art got a few photos albeit far away.  
     From there we would make our way up and around several tributaries that cut deep into the mountainside.  The last one involved a rather extensive detour up-and-around some steep cuts in hillside. We finally found a route down to the creek and even got to do a little glissading in some loose sediment on the way down.  We picked our way up the other side and topped out near a lake in the pass that overlooked the Billy Creek valley.  We ate some food and watched a few caribou mill-around on nearby ridge. 
     Billy Creek was wild country.  We made our way down the valley staying fairly close to the creek.  For a mile or so we were able to hike in the creek bottom and it was lovely terrain with caribou trails winding among sparse low-lying bushes.  Soon the creek began to spill around big rock outcroppings so we climbed back up onto a ridge on the Eastern bank.  
     This part of the valley was interesting.  High above us, to the East and spilling all the way down to the valley floor were a series of giant boulders ranging in size from washing-machines to small houses.  They were all charcoal-black and were covered with their own wigs of mosses and lichens.  Since a rolling stone gathers no moss (quite literally), I figured they'd been there a while, but I couldn't figure out the geologic event that would cause such a strange disbursement of large rocks. 
    Our route would keep us next to the creek for several more miles and that is where I found the fossil.  “Wow look at that”.  He said.  Art took several photos and got all excited as only he can do.  “See, this whole place was under water!” Art had been telling me about the giant prehistoric inland lake called Ahtna; it was approximately half the size of modern day’s lake Ontario.  When the glaciers receded at one point there was a giant flood and some parts of the Susitna Valley were thought to have been under 600 feet of water for over two weeks as the lake drained.  Our thoughts and discussions centered around this large fossil and its place in prehistoric Alaska as we continued down the valley.

Ammonite of some kind.

     A month ago in the early stages of our route finding efforts we went over to Brian Okonek’s house to pick his brain.  Brian and his wife Diane have trekked over much of the terrain we were planning on hiking through and was able to provide us valuable information on what to expect and where to go.  Brian had about ten maps laid out on his table.  “What does that say?” He was pointed to a small tributary that spilled into the Little Nelchina.  Art and I both looked and couldn’t read the small letters.  Later that night at home, I was able to zoom-in on a topo-overlay on Google earth and could clearly see “Cardioceras Creek” written in small letters.  The creek adjacent to it was called “Cadoceras Creek.” A little further up the valley was “Ammonite Creek.”; I looked them up.
     Without getting too far into the weeds I discovered that both cadoceras and cardioceras are examples of ammonites.  Wikapedia says this:  Ammonoids are a group of extinct marine mollusc animals in the subclass Ammonoidea of the class Cephalopoda. These molluscs, commonly referred to as ammonites, are closely related to living coleoids (i.e., octopuses, squid, and cuttlefish)

An Ammonite named asteroceras
Nobu Tamura (http://spinops.blogspot.com) 

     We were both excited about finding such a cool fossil and as we made our way down the creek I found myself looking for more without success.  The further we went the bigger the canyon walls got.  We could still ford the creek so we decided to ride-it-out and try our luck staying in the creek bottom.  The canyon walls on both sides had many deep cutting tributaries and we knew that it would be a complete thrash picking our way up and around each of them.  "Looks like we're committed now," Art looked at me after a particularly harrowing crossing of the creek. 
     "I guess so,"I said.
     Much like the upper Little Nelchina, we found ourselves getting canyoned-out again.  This would be our word-of-the-day.  There were still game trails and so we held out hope that our route would “go”.  At one point Art waded along the creek with his hand on the canyon wall and peered around the corner.  It didn’t look good to me from where I was and I was expecting him to retreat and come back to find another way.  He didn’t return so I followed him around the corner and was amazed to discover that in front of Arthur, the entire creek disappeared under a snowfield.  I watched as the water flowed underneath. “Hey check out the Aufeis,” He said.  Aufeis is a German word than means "ice on top."  This deep cut of the canyon was at the bottom run-out of an avalanche chute.  It looked like a snowfield and I thought that maybe it would hold our weight.  Art was already headed that way and I watched him step onto it near the canyon wall.  He didn’t appear to be sink-in at all.  I was fascinated to discover that it was a glaciated ice field over five feet thick in places.  Apparently repeated avalanches filling the shaded valley floor was a good recipe for building glacial ice. 

See Arthur on the right?

    We walked near the edge and could see the blue ice in established cracks running deep down.  It was a delightful few minutes of wonder and awe as we walked easily up and over the ice and then back down to the creek on the other side.
      On the very next bend of the creek I found an old Dall Sheep ram horn.  Two bends further down there was a big moose shed with both antlers laying on the gravel within 20 feet of each other.  Down the creek we went; "What would we discover next?" I wondered. 

Old ram horn

     As we walked on boulders around the next corner we could see the creek pinching into a ten foot wide channel only to disappear into what had turned into a slot canyon.  Hundred foot walls went straight up;  Together they snaked around the corner.  The water had gained volume and momentum and there was no beach or banks to speak of; It was wall-to-wall rapids.  Our only choice was up.
     Once again we found ourselves scratching our way out of a crumbly rotten canyon wall.  Soon enough we made it above the fracas and into the safety of the alders.  We followed solid moose trails to a ridge overlooking our next obstacle: Caribou Creek.  A sense of relief overcame me when we saw a four wheeler trail on the other side of Caribou Creek as we descended the ridge.  “Enough adventure for one day,” I thought. A cow moose nonchalantly trotted out of our way as we made our way down to the valley floor.  
     After unsuccessfully trying to ford Caribou, we decided to packraft across.  We agreed that it looked too aggressive for us to float so we found a suitable stretch with a good eddy on the other side.  Glad to have crossed safely we packed up and hit the ATV trail.  It was late in the day and we were in march-mode again.  After several miles of following the river, the trail headed up a small valley away from the river.  Without thinking, or bothering to check the map, we followed it.  I assumed that the trail would loop around to the river at some point.  I was wrong.  We continued down the trail another 2.5 miles until we decided to camp next to a small creek.  We wouldn’t realize our mistake until the next morning.  This would be Divide Creek camp.

AWC Day 8

Day 8: Oshetna River to the Little Nelchina.

 

The Little Oshetna valley

     This morning, like the rest of them, I awoke before Art. The sun was shining through the white fabric of the tent and beckoned me outside; I can't help it. I tried to sneak out of the tent undetected with the intention of allowing him to sleep-in a bit.  Inevitably he woke-up just as I was about to carefully zip the bug-fly back shut again. My clumsiness extracting myself from the tent probably had something to do with the fact that I was pretty stiff and sore. I realized that my tent-moves were less-than-graceful. Darn. 
      “Do you think we have enough fuel for two cups of coffee today?” He asked.  
     “Good Morning Artie,” I replied.  I stood up carefully on my tender feet and stretched tall. We had been carefully tallying our stove "burns."  We were using my jet-boil stove and one small canister is supposed to afford 22 two-cup boils.  Since we were filtering our water (mostly) we decided that we didn't need our coffee water to boil (it would be safe at any temp) so we were shutting the stove down early to conserve.  We brought two full canisters of isobutane/propane fuel and as it turned out it was more than enough and there was no reason to ration such a thing on this trip.  “Yes I think we can have two cups today,” I said.
     “Great.”  he said and with that we started our day 500 vertical feet above the Oshetna River valley, a place synonymous with big numbers of caribou from the Nelchina herd; I was excited.   We slowly packed up our things making sure to take our time to enjoy our coffee. Down the hill we went, each step taking us closer to the scar in the hillside, that we knew to be an ATV trail. 
     It had been over 60 miles since our feet had graced such a trail and I would be lying if I said that we weren’t looking forward to it.  We crossed a dirty brown-water tributary of the Oshetna and hastily stepped foot on the well traveled ATV trail that led would lead us straight to the main river.  Once we arrived at the river we would cross it and leave the trail behind. Our route would continue straight across the Oshetna drainage. I do not know where that trail originated or how the trailblazers got so far back to begin with.  Crossing the Oshetna on a wheeler seemed a bit daunting, but I know guys as adventurous as I am that pride themselves on their ATV skills and it doesn't surprise me to find their marks so deep in the wilderness. 
     We made our way up onto another amazing plateau that took us several miles up and over into the little Oshetna River valley.  From a rocky outcropping overlooking the whole expanse of the Little Oshetna drainage we could see another four wheeler trail carving it’s way down the valley. From our vantage point we could see several other towers of rocks along our ridge and the thought of the Great Wall of China came to my mind.  It was as if we were at a guard station along the wall peering down into the valley below.  
    We would discover that the ATV trail down in the valley  was more of a road and I couldn’t keep the thought out of my mind that maybe the toughest terrain was behind us on this journey, maybe we will be walking the rest of the way out on four wheeler trails;  I couldn’t have been more wrong. More on that later.

Taking five by the Little O.

    We walked the road down to the main tributary of the Little Oshetna and it was a wonderful walk.  The valley was broad with occasional groves of trees.  The “Little O” was clear as glass and during one crossing Art saw some trout darting out of his way.  Several miles down valley we left the trail to traverse the hillside, cutting our way up into Horsepasture Pass.  Before long we joined up with a great ATV trail and marched our way up and into this giant wide pass that was over two miles wide and five miles long. We were pretty tired at this time in the day but with such a good trail we decided to trudge on.  We crossed a few creeks and with tired legs we walked down a switchback bringing us to the Little Nelchina River.  As we descended to the creek we assessed the murky water and it looked like it might be a bit dicey.  When we got there we discovered that it wasn’t so bad.  “Let’s cross now so we won’t have to in the morning,” I said.  We crossed the dirty water easily and took off our packs.
     Just then I looked up and couldn’t believe my eyes.  “Hey Artie look!” Pouring off of the mountainside were hundreds of caribou.  They were dropping down and crossing a tributary of the Little Nelchina no more that 100 feet from us.  “Let’s set up the tent here.” Art said.

Arthur Mannix: Dances with Caribou.

     Over the course of that evening (as late as we could stay up) and the next morning we figured that we saw over 400 caribou pass before us. There were probably 70 baby calves that were as nimble and agile as the adults. They were the size of mid-sized labrador retrievers.  They would prance about going up and down the slopes, in between their mothers legs like it was all a game.  Artie and I, by contrast felt a little less-nimble and more like a couple of bushed old men; We had no trouble nodding-off to sleep even with all of the action going on outside the tent. 
     This would be Little Nelchina Camp.

AWC Day 7

Day 7: Upper George Creek to the Oshetna River

Oshetna river valley.  Behold a four wheeler trail!

 “Oh, I am climber from Manchester way
I get all me jolly’s the rock-climbing way.
I am a slave on Monday 
but I am a free-man on Sunday
You reach for a hold,
you seek for a hold
it’s a thousand foot drop if you fail.
but ten feet away, there’s a smashing belay
and it’s all for the want of an ale!” -British climber song

       Arthur’s enthusiasm for the mountains couldn’t be contained on this morning.  He sang the British climber’s song with the best English accent he could muster while simultaneously pulling his socks on over his beat-up feet.  We finished getting ready in all of the usual ways and headed around the end of the lake en-route to the pass.  Both of us were excited to be in the mountains. 
    Towards the top of the pass we encountered a dubious snow patch that covered the bottom of the ravine.  I jumped from rock to rock, not trusting the snow.  “Hey this snow is great.” Said Art, as he marched right up the middle.  Just then as he approached where the snow came close to the rocks he punched through up to his chest.  “Hey take a picture!”  He said with a smile on his face.  Art is not one for missing a photo-op.

Anyone see Artie?

     It was joyful to reach the pass and we stopped to take-in our new view.  The valley below appeared to be devoid of all vegetation and scattered with rocks and talus; It looked like a valley you might see on Mars. From there we had to traverse around the nearby high point to access a long sloping plateau that would take us to the Black River valley.  The barren plateau was interspersed with fields of talus.  We would walk around or over these ubiquitous rock gardens throughout our trip.
     According to our route on the map we would have to cross the Black River below Black lake.  We followed the easy ridge to a good spot high above the lake.  From there we would descend 1,200 vertical feet to the lake.  It was pretty steep and bushy; Art was in his element.  A lone cow caribou pranced past us having no problems at all with the bushwhack.  We made our way to the East end of the lake where there was a ramshackle cabin.  As we approached we could see that the door was wide open.  A bear had worked over the cabin for all it was worth.  There was food wrappers, gear, and garbage of all kinds strewn about inside and out.  It was an eyesore that didn’t fit in the pristine wilderness setting.  We didn’t break stride as we passed it and walked down the Eastern shore of Black lake.
     At the outlet it was clear to us that we would have to raft across the river;  It was too big to ford.  We hiked back up into the lake fifty yards or so and began the process of emptying our packs, inflating rafts, and ferrying to the other side.  As we crossed the lake we decided to paddle down at least a little bit into the river so that we could say that we pack rafted the Black River; It was fun.  
     from there we had a long hike up to another expansive plateau.  We would have to gain every bit of elevation that we’d just lost by dropping into the Black River valley.  By late afternoon we crested a ridge that led to a long gentle plateau that was just over 5 miles long.  The plateau was over 5000 vertical feet high and littered with small caribou antlers for us to tap with our hiking poles. 
      “Hey look at that!”  Art was stopped in his tracks and was pointing to the South.  “I think that’s Sheep Mountain!”  We stopped to get our bearing and he was right.  From our current position high above and between the Oshetna and Black river drainage's we could indeed see it in the far distance. Sheep Mountain lodge, the finish of the race is on the other side of Sheep Mountain.  We realized that we could also see the mountains surrounding the Jack River way back in Cantwell where we started.  We were about 70 miles into our trip and it was mind boggling to see how far we had come and where we were going all from one vantage point.  
   Just then I had epiphany;  We are going to finish this thing!  Suddenly the thought of completing it seemed tangible.  Although we were definitely not within striking distance of the finish, our steady progress was paying off and seemed within our grasp.
     When we got to the edge of the plateau overlooking the Oshetna river valley we were ready to call it a day.  We had collected enough water in our bottles to camp anywhere but it was windy on the ridge.  “Let’s pick our way down a little and see if there’s a better spot,” I said.  We ended up descended 10oo vertical feet or so settling on a camp spot on a pleasant knoll overlooking the valley.  Far below us scratched into the bottom of the valley was a curious sight indeed. “Hey look there’s a four wheeler trail.” I said
     This would be Oshetna Camp