River Salvage

   River Salvage

                            An Unexpected Journey

      “Still warm.” I lifted my hand off of the gut pile.  “ It was shot today.” We had tracked this moose-kill to a familiar field near our cabin up the Yentna River.  The tier 2 winter moose hunt was in season.  Someone had gotten lucky and although we were just passers-by this time, we wanted to check it out.  

     The gut pile and two small chunks of moose hide were all that remained.  Nice job. The hunters had taken the whole thing with a sled and were gone.   A good plastic tow-behind sled is easily loaded by rolling the moose directly into it.  From there it can be driven right onto a snowmachine trailer and then into a heated garage for processing all with minimal effort.  Winter hunting on snowmachines is by far the easiest way to hunt moose.

    I inspected the chunks of hide and threw one of them onto the back of my snowmachine.  “Let’s go.”  We made our way back to the cabin but my snowmachine wasn't well.  The voltage regulator was going out and among other things would make the engine quit running all together.  First the lights would dim then disappear entirely, then kaput...dead.  It would start back up and would run for another few minutes then...kaput.  We limped back to the cabin in the light of day.

     For the rest of the day we were on a short leash.  We were tethered to my dying steed.  I can’t say that I was too surprised though, we were riding the most fickle of mechanical contraptions- the snowmachine.  Upon joining the ranks of snowmachine ownership one is always faced with the question.  This question is not  if the snowmachine will breakdown but rather when it will breakdown and maybe more importantly where will it break down. I supposed it’s no different than anything else mechanical but it seems that the snowmobile wears the crown jewel in the Royal Kingdom of Mechanical Conundrums often leaving its rider stranded far from the comforts and warmth of the civilized world.  You haven’t lived until you've towed a dead snowmachine out of the woods at 20 below, or through miles of overflow.   I've seen it all:  Slipped tracks, fouled plugs, worn or broken belts, bent spindles, broken chains, bad CDI boxes, broken pull-cords and a partridge-in-a-pear-tree.

     Such is life in the Last Frontier and one quickly learns to fix ones own,  or even better yet have someone else fix it for you.  My talent as a mechanic is easily summed up with a quote: “ I can take apart anything.”  Apparently this isn’t adequate requisite for fixing stuff.  That’s where Kirby comes into play.  Luckily he’s good at putting stuff back together.  We make a pretty good team.

   He held the chunk of moose hide down against the porch rail as I worked my knife on the flesh side.  There was some meat there.  Flank meat.  Thin, tough-as-nails, grizzled, flank meat.  I made a small pile on the railing and by the time I was done had a pound or more of the stuff.   I picked off all the hairs and took it inside leaving the moose hide to the curious beaks of the Gray-Jays.  

    Once inside I cut the meat into strips and seared them in a saucepan with olive oil.  For fun I added some Madrid Curry powder.   I filled the saucepan halfway with water and put it on top of the wood stove and forgot about it on purpose.  

    The next morning we had our coffee and pondered our situation.  In its current state, my snowmachine was a loser.   I needed it to be a winner to get me home.  After making several cell phone calls and scratching our heads we settled on a plan of action.  Before long we took-off downriver initiating part-one of our master plan. We would meet up with Gornick and his girlfriend Naomi at their cabin.  Although only ten miles down river, my snowmachine died 15 times en route.  Fun.

    We had arranged to meet them there but we beat them to their own cabin because apparently they were dealing with mechanical problems of their own.  See paragraph four.

   “ I think we are going to make a run to Deshka.”  I told Gornick after he generously offered up what ever he could to help.  My dad had volunteered to drive into Wasilla to buy a new voltage regulator and drop it off at Deshka Landing for us to pick up.  It was a forty mile ride one way to fetch it but we were game and we had enough gas.

  I abandoned my defunct snowmachine and traded up to Gornick’s sweet new 600 RMK. It did not die every half mile and was quite zippy and full of wonder. I knew right away that it would be a while before this particular snowmachine would enter the realm of the Royal Kingdom.

   “Are you going to join us for dinner?” He asked as we saddled up. “I’m making pizza.”

   “ Wow that sounds great thanks.   Yeah we’ll see you in a few hours.”

   We knew it would be a long ride but off we went darting down the Yentna River.   Eventually, after thirty or so minutes,  we rounded the corner and sped onto the mighty Susitna River.  Big sweeping channels braiding themselves together mingled and twisted along and revealed a familiarity to me that comes easily with a hundred or so trips under my belt.  It got me thinking.  

     There has been a lot of talk these days about the Susitna Watana Hydroelectric project. The proposed 700 foot tall dam built at the headwaters of the Susitna River is riddled with controversy.  Most of the debate has centered around the inevitable destruction of the wild salmon runs but there has also been talk about the effects this dam would have on winter travel on the Susitna itself.

    It is well known that with the dam in place,  river flow rates would be turned upside down.  The low water in summer and high water in winter scenario is the polar opposite of its natural patterns.  When energy demand along the rail belt is at its highest in the wintertime the flood gates of the dam would open. ( I envision the black gates of Mordor*)  

How could the Susitna possibly freeze and be stable enough for winter travel with such diverse fluctuation and high volume of water?  The logical answer is that it wouldn’t.  It’s actually hard to imagine how it would or wouldn’t freeze but one thing is clear; Winter activity on the river would never be the same.  

     What about the Yentna where my cabin is?  One would think that the winter trail conditions on the Yentna River would remain intact post-dam but how would the thousands that recreate there annually get to it?  No one accesses the Yentna from its Western shores.  Access to the Yentna river comes solely from the East, from the population centers of Anchorage and the Matsu and every single one of them must traverse the Susitna River one way or the other to get there.  I’m thinking jet skis.

    Hands down, the height of winter activity on the Yentna is Iditarod weekend.  There are literally thousands of snowmachines that whiz up and down the river all jockeying for position to watch the race.  With the Dam in place that could all change and if snowmachines can’t cross the Su what about the dog teams themselves?

     I’ve got it!  Maybe at long last we could put into commission the 80 million dollar Mat-Su Ferry to shuttle everyone safely across.  It’s named the Susitna after all.  If we are going to force-feed one bad idea into fruition, let’s at least marry it to another. Yee Haw!....  or not.

The fact is the money train has slowed a bit for the dam project and monies needed to complete the studies required by the permitting process have greatly diminished but the state claims that it's as committed as ever.*

    Like I said, it was a long ride.

     For now I was safely riding on top of the river as opposed to water-skipping or swimming in it and I was grateful. We turned off the river and headed up the ramp at the landing completing the second leg of our unexpected journey. We pulled up to the gas pump to refuel and stretch our right thumbs.  I grabbed the new voltage regulator out of the cab of Gornicks truck (thanks dad!) and we headed back to the river with thoughts of Brian’s pizza dancing in our heads.  We zipped up river without incident and pulled up to the cabin just as the sun was setting.

    “ Is this where I sign up for the Iron Dog?” I announced as I came into Gornick's warm cozy cabin.

   “ Sure.” said Naomi.

  “ Good, but you’ll have to sign for me because I can’t feel my right thumb.” We had 110 miles on the day so far and my soft teacher-hands had taking a lickin and gotten numb.  

    We settled in to the hospitality of Gornick's cabin playing dice games and catching up.  After an appetizer of chorizo stuffed jalapeno peppers we were treated to a fantastic Chicago-style deep dish pan pizza.  It was well worth the ride and the wait.  

    After Kirby replaced the voltage regulator on my machine, we bid them farewell and once again hit the trail to face the last leg of our journey which was the ten miles back to the cabin.

      My snowmachine didn't quit the whole way back and of all our riding throughout the day it was the most enjoyable stretch of all.  The light snow couldn't make up its mind and finally opted out as we lifted our goggles and rode through the last swamp without them.  

    The cabin was toasty warm when we walked in.  We were immediately hit with the aromatic waft of curry. “ Oh yeah the meat is probably done.”  The medium saucepan was steaming all around its lid.  I realized that it had been on the stove for a full day and a half.  We took off our wet snowy gear, put on our camp shoes and ate tender juicy strips of salvaged curried flank meat.

Thawing out and paying homage to Gornick and his beloved Packets.  The look of seriousness here can only be replicated in the Kingdom of Mechanical Conundrums.

* Evil in the SouthEast still stirs. A lid-less eye wreathed in flame and residing at the governors mansion still watches and waits hoping to begin construction as soon as possible on the flood-gates of Mordor. What are we to do? We are all but hobbits with hairy shoeless feet. We must join the fellowship. The fellowship of the Susitna River Coalition is a committed one and it is you JoeBlow Baggins who shall bear the ring. susitnarivercoalition.org

2013 Willow Winter Solstice Race

2013 Willow Winter Solstice Race    

    When I woke up there was five inches of new snow with an icy crust.  The fine snowflakes falling from the sky were pretty wet. They were riding the fence between snow and rain.  30 degrees.

    I had told myself that I would do it if the weather was reasonable.  I wasn’t interested in running thirteen miles in forty below temperatures nor through a foot of fresh snow.  It’s worth a look I told myself as the alarm went off at 6:00 A.M.  I packed up my gym bag with all my running gear, warmed up the truck and left.  

    I was surprised to discover that Willow did not get as much accumulation as Talkeetna overnight and I was optimistic that this might be a good run.

   “Ooh this is soft” I heard from one of my fellow runners within fifty feet of leaving the start line.  I chuckled to myself.  This could be awful.  We were running on loosely packed snow machine trails and each step would sink three to six inches deep.  It was like running through sand.  We all had headlamps that illuminated the snow pack in front of us like our own personal spotlights  

     Eighty beams of bouncing light in a big wave moved across Willow Lake straight into the darkest and shortest of days.  From there we would access the only road-running of the whole race which was plowed and hard packed.  It lasted about a quarter of a mile and it was sweet.  Everyone’s pace picked up along with our spirits.  I moved to the left to pass a couple of kids who were running the 5K portion of the race. “ Hey guys, nice job!” I told them as I ran by.  The kid closest to me who was probably ten years old and 120 pounds sped up to catch me and then decided it would be a good idea to try to shoulder me off the trail.  “Hey there buddy , you shouldn’t do that.”  He kept up his antics.  “ It’s bad form and bad sportsmanship.”  I reasoned.  Eventually after several additional pushes, his buddy called him off.  
"Josh, knock it off." 
I was proud of the way I handled it because my first instinct was to grab his arm and fling him over the snowbank ass-over-tea kettle. Rest assured, I was able to restrain myself and harness my inner teacher. Who knew that I would have to overcome a race bully?

     With the trail harassment behind me I crossed over to Long lake where the trail softened back up again like warm butter.  I tried to find a key to success.  Maybe I should make my own tracks.  Maybe I should try to run in the line created by the snowmachine’s skis.  Maybe I should try to run in other’s footprints.  It turned out to be a combination of all three techniques changing as the miles slowly ticked off.  Twelve minute miles never felt so tough.  

    Finally I found a rhythm and settled into a good pace that I could live with.  The trail, maintained by the Willow Trails Committee ( WTC) was excellent.  They have designed and maintained the trails in Willow for years and seemed to have found the perfect balance between user groups.  Snowmachiners, mushers, and skiers all know what to expect thanks to the comprehensive signage.  Well organized and with plenty of volunteers The WTC is a model for other recreational trail systems around the state.  

    Slowly I made my way up the bank of Long lake, to an airstrip and across some ponds and onto Boot lake.  From there Vera lake took us to its Western outlet to an informational kiosk where I tagged-out at the halfway- checkpoint and briefly chatted with race organizer Dave Johnston.  “ You’re doing great." He said. " You’re in fourth place.”  

    I looked up and saw a group coming up the trail.  “See ya Dave.”  Fourth place, really?  The last race I ran was the Kasugi Ridge Traverse and I didn't finish fourth. I earned the equivalent of the red-lantern.  Last place.  Fourth sounded pretty good to me.   

    I boogied back down the trail and caught up with some familiar faces.  My folks had trailered their snow machines from their house and unloaded at the Crystal Lake parking lot.  They wanted to watch this event unfold but mostly wanted to support me.

    They had some treats for me none of which I could stomach except for a red bull.  Hopefully I wouldn't be DQ'ed for using performance enhancing drugs. I chugged as much as I could and bid them farewell.  “Thanks.” I told them as I took off back down the trail I’d come.

  When I made it back out to Vera lake I noticed that there was someone about a quarter mile behind me.  Was he closing in on me? I couldn’t tell.  On the straight stretches I would look back and see a black figure with sparkly headlamp.  I buckled down and tried to quicken my pace.  I still had five miles to the finish but I wanted that fourth place bad.  In the Olympics that’s almost a bronze medal!  Finally I made my way across Willow Lake with no one in sight.  I ran up the hill to the finish line where Mom and Dad were waiting for me.  In a few minutes I would meet the runner in black.  She thanked me for my steps apparently she had been running in them.  We went inside the community center I ate some soup, changed clothes, and went home.

My support team.

The Fish Camp Chronicles: Part 4

The Last Beautiful flight of an American Icon

  It all began innocently enough.  The wife had picked up some cheap kites to bring to fish camp.  Little did she know what would become of it.  Little did she realize that lives would be at stake.  Innocent fun for the kids, she thought.  

    There were three of them.  Paying with a crisp ten dollar bill at Walmart she left with the kites and a handful of change.

     The first was a fancy red dragon kite.  The thing had multiple wings, a long tail and looked fierce like Smaug of the Tolkien tales in a cheap-plasticy kind of way.  Unlike Smaug though, this kite was a big puss.  Touted as a “trick-kite” capable of flips and the like, it turned out to be more of a duck than a dragon. Lame-duck that is.   No doubt flips are cool but as we found out soon enough they are hard to perform from the ground.  It wouldn’t fly. It seemed that Smaug was more of a land lubber. Strike one.

    Number two was a penguin kite.  “Now this kite has potential”, I thought to myself as I assembled the thing.  Anything had to be better after the let-down of Smaug jr.  With a steady 15 mile per hour wind from the Southeast Corey let it go; this had to be the one, and in truth, it was great for about five minutes until it took a direct nose-dive into the hardpack of the mudflats.   The broken stanchions and torn plastic were beyond repair. It was a sad moment; Strike two,but there was another.   

   I cringed a little as I saw the last of the kites.  I reached into the tattered duffle bag and pulled her out.   It was a Barbie kite.  Hazelee was beaming as I began assembling it.  Let’s see, traditional shape, clean lines, giant barbie doll face....check.

   “Let er go!” I shouted and Hazelee did so.  I pulled back hard like I had on the other two but I quickly found out that it was not necesary,  Barb took to the sky like an Arctic tern.  Within a minute she had taken all of our line and was as steady in the North Eastern skyline as Mt. Susitna. Hmm.

    “Haze, come hold this.” I had an idea.  I returned with an old spinning rod and a full roll of one pound-test monofilament fishing line.  Before long, I had ol’ Barb hooked up to a fishing rod and after flipping the bail, we had let out several hundred yards of line.  No more than a small dot in the sky far away I suddenly  realized; Barb was legit!  Corey, Hazelee, and I stood there on the mudflats cheering up at the most plastic of American icons high in the sky. Fly Barbie fly.  Smiling down at us with her pouty lips and high cheek bones, she seemed pleased to please.

    “Here hold this, I’ll be right back.”I left Corey and Hazelee again standing there with the fishing pole, tethered by over a quarter mile of string to the far off kite.   I ran to the shed for more line.

    “ What are you doing?” Tamra appeared on the corner of the cabin porch with her hands on her hips.  

   “We are flying a kite honey.”  

   “ I see that.  How high are you planning to fly that thing?” she asked.  I could tell by her tone that she was going somewhere with this I just wasn’t sure where.  

   “As high as we can of course!”

“That’s too high!  You’re going to hit a plane”.   I snickered outloud at the thought and quickly regretted it.  A part of me was a little proud that we had flown a kite so high in the sky as to be a perceived threat to safe aviation.  Maybe with enough line we could fly Barb into the Ozone layer and beyond.   Maybe Barb would be detected by the high-powered radar systems of NASA, or the U.S military.  (“Uh, sir, I think you’d better take a look at this.”  There zoomed into some fancy screen would be Barbie’s face, long flowing blond locks, big blue eyes. )

    At fish camp we are situated in a major flyway from Anchorage to Beluga that is frequented mainly by small planes.    They buzz by us all day long following the coastline as a safer alternative to flying over Cook Inlet itself.   A lot of these pilots choose to fly right off-the-deck Barbie level or lower.

     “Are you kidding?  You can see Barb from miles around.  She is a beacon of all that is good and true in this world!”  She wasn’t buying it.

    Maybe she was right.  After all, overcoming the humiliation from the boys at work from being taken-down by a Barbie kite would be too much for any bush pilot to overcome.  

 “ Okay hun.”  We reeled her in, tucked her into the shed and sought after other, safer activities like napping.

Immaculate Solstice

   Immaculate Solstice

 

  The rising mist off of the creek could easily have been interpreted as eerie.  I was awestruck.  I wouldn't even have noticed it though if the full moon wasn't out.  It was 18 below zero. I turned off my headlamp.  It was still another four days until the winter solstice so it's not as if I was traipsing around on the shortest and darkest day of the year. I had a different plans for that day.

      I stood there along the creek side taking my time, watching the moon cast its hypnotic charms upon the small valley.   The portrait of the moon this night resembled no cheese I’m aware of.   The impression I got rather, was one of rounded fluorescence.  The light was as fluorescent-white as I’ve ever seen.   Breaks in the clouds of steam from the creek lit the valley with the power of the moon intermittently  until another plume of steam dulled it down again.

 There was nothing in my traps today and yet I was happy.  My modest recreational trap line is accessed on foot.   I have found that I don’t really care too much whether or not I have caught anything nearly as much as the fact that I have a good reason to get out.  A means not only to an end but also a purpose to go for a hike and reason to pay attention to my surroundings, to the snow pack, the fresh tracks;  this country is alive and when I'm out in it I am a part of it and it has become a part of me too.

    The creek was spilling out of a small lake that had been dammed by beavers.  The basin of the lake itself was illuminated around the corner by the moon and I considered changing course to check it out.  Maybe there was something ethereal going on up there.  Maybe the last of the lake-ice was sealing up for the winter bidding goodnight to all.   Maybe a moose or fox could be spotted in the floodlight of the moon.  

    I didn't give it a chance though, I strapped my hiking poles onto my hands, turned on my headlamp and crossed the creek.  I turned my back on this immaculate event choosing instead to hike up and into the darkness of the forest and eventually back home.

Cousin Eddie's Chubby Moose Ribs

Cousin Eddie’s Chubby Moose Ribs

Eleven easy steps to down-home goodness.

    First off, if you are some kind of rib-snob and are expecting neat little rows like you would get at the Tony Roma’s, then you should just sit down and enjoy your ride on the lame-train.  The recipe here is down home-cooking for real people and it’s delicious, just ask my son Rocky.  You could pick up these ribs with your fingers but you would  look like a fool and might stain aunt Edna’s doilies.  Hasn’t she been through enough?

   Still listening?  Here it is:

1)  Hopefully you left all the flank meat and layers of fat on the ribs when you sawzalled them off of the moose.  If not, two words: Tony Roma’s.  They’re open till nine.  Ribs without fat is like wearing jeans without skivvies. It seems like a good idea at the time but it’s just wrong.  It’s no secret that for ribs to be good, they’ve got to be chubby.

  

2) The bottom of the crock pot is where the magic begins.  Set your Winston down and whisk the following together with gusto.  Keep in mind that a super-high whisk elbow is taking it too far. Settle down. This isn’t an audition to Heehaw.

(All measurements are approximate.  We lost all the measuring stuff when the mobile home burned last winter.  Luckily Vickys cupped hands is almost exactly one cup!)

- 1 Tbsp Granulated Garlic

-1 Tbsp Onion Powder

-1 Tbsp Sweet Mesquite Seasoning

-1 Tbsp Smoked Paprika

-1/4 cup Worcestershire Sauce

-4 Tbsp Sweet Baby Rays BBQ sauce.

-1 cool one. ( That’s beer to the layperson.)

-3 cups Bloody Mary Mix.  I know what you are thinking here;  Eddie, you're just rifling through the fridge reaching for anything to dump in this thing....you’re damn right!  Note to the galley: The last time I drank Bloody Marys was at Clark and Ellen’s two Easters ago and it wasn’t pretty but I still feel I won the fight and I’ll have you know that the restraining order was the wife’s idea. Damn that Audrey.  I could tell you more but the court won't allow it.      

3)  Next, nestle your chubby-ass ribs into the marinade.  I know it sounds like a come-on line at a hottub party but trust me on this one.  If it doesn’t cover all the meat then top it off with water or, even better-more beer.   

4) Turn the crock pot on.

5) Plug the crock pot in.

6)  Go away for a long time.  While your're passing the time try to do something productive.  Heck, after Catherine’s shift at the carnival workin the tilt-a-whirl she tends bar out at bingo night at the Elks and she’s eight months pregnant! She’s quite a woman that Catherine. We sure are proud of her.

7)   Much later, walk in your front door and be prepared for a full frontal assault on your sniffer.  And don’t worry it’s nothing bad like the time the Snots ate a whole barrel of cheese puffs from the Price Club and got the shits on the heater vent.  Oooh wee!

    Also, it’s a good idea to have a slimjim or three to take the edge off before coming home because you will probably want to start wolfing it down by the spoonful.  Don’t do it!  Your work here is not done.  Pop yourself a cool-one and re-focus.

8) Since you were gone for ten whole hours the bones are no longer as snug as they used to be.  Slide them out and discard them to make room for the veggies.  If this is a problem for you then once again ( let’s say it together.): Tony Roma’s.

9)  Fold in the following ingredients to complete the dish:

- 1 whole white onion-diced.

-1 huge carrot cut into your favorite shapes.  I went with little racecars.  If you are not in possession of a “huge carrot,” consider using two or three smaller ones ( I got that tip from the cooking channel on the cable T.V. ) It is a lesser-play for sure, but still much better than substituting with a beet or rutabaga or something else lame.

-7 baby portabella mushrooms sliced.  Why seven you ask? Six is not enough and eight is too many.  Any more questions?

-1/3 cup quinoa.  Rinse first because that’s what is says on the package.  Rice and/or pearl barley are great substitutes here but quinoa seems to be all-the-rage these days. Something about El Camino acids... count me in.  

10) Go away again. Clean out the Trans Am or something.

11)  Return, serve and eat... in that order.  

 Clark bought us this crockpot after the fire.

Culinary review from the fam:

Rocky: “It’s delicious.” This is his default answer to every meal that’s ever been placed before him unless the vegetables are presented in too-great of a number in which-case his comments lean more towards:  “I don’t like this.” (We are working on articulation.)

Vicky:  “Dad, I really like that the sauce blends in with the meat and the vegetables on top.  I really like that texture.  If you can do that again, I’ll be oppressed. Bravo.”

    “Oppression, that is an interesting word Vick, do you think that maybe you meant impressed?” I was reaching.

    “No, I’ll be oppressed Dad.”

    Okay.

Ruby Sue:   She was born without a tongue so she doesn’t say much,  but don’t you worry about her one bit, she whistles like a bird and eats like a horse.  She ate four bowls.

Catherine: “It’s good.”

Me:   As for the meal, Rocky was right;  it was delicious.

     That being said I couldn’t help but want for a stalk of celery and a shot of cheap vodka as the meal passed but the court won’t let me do that either.

Musings of a Middle-Class Mountain Man

     Musings of a Middle-Class Mountain Man

    From the mouth of the mighty Susitna River you can see the jagged white peaks that spill across the horizon in the Western sky.   Like the upturned blade of some primitive snaggle-toothed saw these mountains extend far to the North, out-of-sight where they eventually touch fingers with the much bigger sawblade of the Alaska Range.  The Tordrillo Mountains jut into the Cook Inlet skyline unabashed and can’t seem to shake the glorious snow shawl that drapes over them year-round.  Undoubtedly they are admired from afar by many, but not many admire them up-close.  None admire them more than me.

      “Hey mom is there another spatula?”  The window was open and from my spot on the deck, I could see her working away inside in the kitchen. She was busy with the potatoes, green-salad, and bread.  She had already graced the table with an assortment of veggies from her garden and some smoked salmon dip and I had seen the rhubarb crumble on the counter earlier.  I watched her pull open one of the drawers.

    “Yep, it’s right here.” We were about to pull-off another great salmon dinner at fish camp.  From flop to filet in minutes we know how good we have it and aren’t bashful to take full advantage.  We always eat good at fish camp.  My role as grill-man often finds me on the corner of the back deck.  Situated through trial-and-error on the North West corner of the cabin, the grill is sheltered from the prevailing South-Westerly blow.  It’s from here where my love for the Tordrillos has taken root.  I enjoy my time out-back and that is where I first spotted her.  She is quite lovely.

       Our vantage point on the flats at Ivan River is a splendid one that grants us unobstructed 360 degree vistas that include the austere sawteeth of the Tordrillos.  Ironically it also includes my favorite view of Anchorage from a comfortable 26 mile distance.  On the darker nights of the shoulder seasons, the lights of downtown sparkle from across the Inlet.  More impressively, on a late summer’s eve, when the midnight sun is blazin,  it’s the bright amber reflection twinkling back at us from the windows of the posh homes on the upper hillside that shine brightest.  Anchorage, like many other big cities loses appeal for me with each approaching mile.  But if left alone and kept at arms-reach can be quite lovely, almost quaint.

       Alas, it’s more often than not that my gaze is cast not towards Anchor-town but 180 degrees the other way.  Located 75 air miles Northwest of those twinkling Anchorage lights, and clear-as-a-bell on a bluebird day, are the Tordrillos proper.  

    

The Tordrillos are a contradiction of remote wilderness.

One would expect at least moderate recreational activity, and there is- somewhat with the heli-ski crowd, but it is seldom graced by climbing axe or boot.

  If the Tordrillos see less-than-fair visitation it might be related at-least somewhat to the severity of the getting-there part.   

     You could take a skiff-ride across the unpredictable and notoriously treacherous waters of Cook Inlet. A successful crossing would land you on the mud flats, close enough to embark upon quite-possibly the most arduous and epic 20 mile bush-whack of your life.   Arriving above treeline would never be as sweet.

     Conversely, I have heard rumors of mountaineers saddling Skandics and accessing the North side of the Tordrillos in the winter.  The almost two hundred mile ride that includes traversing the Skwentna River drainage through steep-walled canyons isn’t for sissies, beginners, or folk with limited time.  Hats off to those cowboys.    

       Single-engine planes outfitted with skis are capable of impressive glaciers landings, and since the 1950’s has opened up the world of  mountaineering in Alaska seven-fold.  Unfortunately, finding the right pilot that is comfortable, capable, and willing to touch down on a crevassed and unpacked landing strip can be a risky and possibly spendy proposition.  All-said, it seems that flying-in is the most practical.

     There is at least one other option that stands out in stark contrast to the others. Tordrillo Mountain Lodge, owned in part by Olympic gold medalist Tommy Moe, is a high-end outfit that caters to the Heli-ski crowd.  It is located in the foothills of the Tordrillos on the banks of Judd Lake and has taken the idea of niche-market to the next level.  Their “Cast and Carve” promotional has you fishing for King salmon in the morning on the clear, pristine waters of the Talachulitna River.  After a catered lunch on one of their three large cedar decks it’s time to round up your boards because the chopper is ready to go as-is the corn snow that has loosened up nicely and is ready to fall apart under the good graces of your sweet butter turns.   Go ahead and make that last run because your massage will be waiting for you upon your return along with all the compliments of a full wine and spirits bar.

   As appealing as this is to me, the wife seems quite adamant that we direct our earnings towards more mundane expenditures such as our mortgage, clothing for the kids,  and food staple items (milk, eggs, flour etc.) Nine thousand US dollars for five days of adventure seems like a good deal to me.

   Tongue-in-cheek aside,  it’s this difficult or cost-prohibitive access to the Tordrillos that make it perhaps the truest representation of untouched wilderness in Southcentral Alaska.    

    On the Southernmost forefront of the Tordrillos, and hard-to-miss from the porch, is its most famous and quite volatile mountain that has become a household name to Southcentral Alaskans.   The mountain is known aboriginally by the Dena'ina Athabascan name K'idazq'eni, and literally means 'that which is burning inside', but it’s more commonly known as Mt. Spurr.  Spurr and its Southerly neighbors Mts. Redoubt, Augustine, and Iliamna have all demonstrated equally hot tempers in recent geologic time blowing tops and spewing ash near-and-far in their staggered eruptions.

    But there is another.  Tucked North and due West of Spurr lies a mountain worthy of note.  The highest of them all, standing at 11,414 feet tall is Mount Torbert and it is the mother of all things Tordrillo.  The lovely matriarch Torbert is tucked innocently behind the lesser Spurr.  

     Sunset vantage points from Anchorage to Homer illuminate impressive profile shots of all four of the active volcanoes on the Western shores of Cook Inlet and it’s only a trained eye that would even notice the snowy capped summit of Torbert beyond.  Lady Torbert seems content to oversee  her subordinates with unassuming confidence. “Let them enjoy the lionshare of affection,” I imagine her saying.  “I am taller!”  It’s true Mount Torbert seems a bit lost-in-the-shuffle, a sidenote to most, but there are those who have taken notice.

    Lowell Thomas Jr.,  the 5th Lieutenant Governor of Alaska under Governor Jay Hammond, was a bush pilot too and apparently had a bit of  peak bagger in him.  He and his party that included Dr. George Wichman, Dr. Rod Wilson, John Gardey, and Paul Crews Sr. tagged out on the summit of Torbert in ‘64 after landing on the Triumvirate Glacier north of Torbert at 4000 ft.  Since that first-ascent there have been others, but not many.  

    It’s true, I have imagined walking the plateau leading to Torbert’s peak and I’ll admit that the chance to reverse the view back down to fish camp, along with the prospect of a bomber ski run down her slopes, leaves me a touch giddy.  To know Torbert’s secrets on her own terms would be a saucy little nugget indeed.

    I reach for the last lemon wedge to squeeze onto the fish and I see her from the corner post on the deck.  She tries to hide behind Spurr but I see her.  Maybe my long staring sessions have alerted her.  Maybe she suspects something.  Maybe she knows that I’m coming for her.  

  “Fish is done!” I announce as I make my way around the the windy corner to the front door.  The table is set, full to the brim with all the spoils of war and there is barely enough room for the entre d’ honneur.  Thoughts of mountains and expeditions quickly evaporate and are replaced by good food and conversations of fishing, river, and mud.