The following notes were transcribed almost verbatim from a handwritten journal I kept during a trip to Denali National Park in Alaska with my son Revi, who was age 10 at the time.
August 15, 2007
I got Rev up and we struck camp and left at 5:30 a.m. He was unhappy and grumbling, but I knew we had to get going if we wanted to catch the first camper bus and make the 12:15 p.m. train to Anchorage. We never made that train.
Our first obstacle was a braid of the Teklanika we had to cross in order to walk further upriver on flat gravel, not the river’s main course, but too wide to jump and too deep to walk across on exposed rocks. I decided we had to walk through in our boots—the park backcountry video had strongly advised not to try to cross rivers barefoot, and we had no other shoes.
I had shouldered the sopping bag of jeans and clothes and the wet tent, taking most of the weight. My pack must now have weighed 50-60 pounds, maybe more. We trudged upriver for an hour or two, then came to our first serious obstacle.
The main course of the Teklanika here ran right up against a sheer cliff, a shoulder of Cathedral Mountain on the left or west side of the river, blocking our access to further travel on the flat gravel bar. We could not cross the swift-moving main course—this would have meant submerging to the waist at least, and was far too dangerous. To fall into such frigid glacier melt, or to lose a backpack sinking like a heavy stone, was too great a risk. The temperatures were mild at this season for Alaska—daily highs near 65 degrees Fahrenheit and nightly lows near 45 degrees. But to lose the tent and have no warm retreat, to be left out in the rain exposed, could lead to life-threatening hypothermia. We thus had to climb around this section of river, going up over the mountainous hill, hoping to return to the river past the cliff.
We could either try to climb the steep cliff or backtrack, hoping to find an easier path of ascent. I thought I could see a way up, and we began to try to scale the rocky cliff with heavy packs—this proved to be foolish. I could probably have made it, though my legs began to tremble with strain about ¾ of the way up. Rev, however, bogged down about 1/3 of the way up. I tried coaxing and coaching him, but he began to be frightened and I finally saw it was no use. Unable to help him down with my pack on, I finally threw it 20 feet to the bottom.
Back on the river shore, we felt defeated and discouraged. We backtracked upriver from the cliff, and within 50 yards we found a path leading up a slope covered with trees and green vegetation. This proved far easier to climb, offering firmer footholds than the loose rock of the bare cliff, plus trees to pull ourselves up.
Within minutes, we were up on the cliff rim. Then began an hour or more of hiking through dense vegetation. It began to rain again and we were soon wetter than at any point on the trip, as we pushed through branches and threaded a slow course through the forest.
We finally found faint trails, possibly make by earlier hikers but also no doubt used by animals. Again we began calling “Hey bear, Ho bear!” At one point the trail came out near the cliff rim, some 300 feet or more above the riverbed, and we caught a grand view of the Teklanika below, looking back toward the site of our failed first ascent.
Finally, we descended back to the river gravel bar, hoping we were now home free to walk an easier route to the camper bus stop. This was not to be.
After another hour or so, again we came to a place where the river’s main course hugged a cliff on the western shore. I now began to regret my decision not to go back the way we had come over the saddle pass—not for the last time!
August 15, 2007
I got Rev up and we struck camp and left at 5:30 a.m. He was unhappy and grumbling, but I knew we had to get going if we wanted to catch the first camper bus and make the 12:15 p.m. train to Anchorage. We never made that train.
Our first obstacle was a braid of the Teklanika we had to cross in order to walk further upriver on flat gravel, not the river’s main course, but too wide to jump and too deep to walk across on exposed rocks. I decided we had to walk through in our boots—the park backcountry video had strongly advised not to try to cross rivers barefoot, and we had no other shoes.
I had shouldered the sopping bag of jeans and clothes and the wet tent, taking most of the weight. My pack must now have weighed 50-60 pounds, maybe more. We trudged upriver for an hour or two, then came to our first serious obstacle.
The main course of the Teklanika here ran right up against a sheer cliff, a shoulder of Cathedral Mountain on the left or west side of the river, blocking our access to further travel on the flat gravel bar. We could not cross the swift-moving main course—this would have meant submerging to the waist at least, and was far too dangerous. To fall into such frigid glacier melt, or to lose a backpack sinking like a heavy stone, was too great a risk. The temperatures were mild at this season for Alaska—daily highs near 65 degrees Fahrenheit and nightly lows near 45 degrees. But to lose the tent and have no warm retreat, to be left out in the rain exposed, could lead to life-threatening hypothermia. We thus had to climb around this section of river, going up over the mountainous hill, hoping to return to the river past the cliff.
We could either try to climb the steep cliff or backtrack, hoping to find an easier path of ascent. I thought I could see a way up, and we began to try to scale the rocky cliff with heavy packs—this proved to be foolish. I could probably have made it, though my legs began to tremble with strain about ¾ of the way up. Rev, however, bogged down about 1/3 of the way up. I tried coaxing and coaching him, but he began to be frightened and I finally saw it was no use. Unable to help him down with my pack on, I finally threw it 20 feet to the bottom.
Back on the river shore, we felt defeated and discouraged. We backtracked upriver from the cliff, and within 50 yards we found a path leading up a slope covered with trees and green vegetation. This proved far easier to climb, offering firmer footholds than the loose rock of the bare cliff, plus trees to pull ourselves up.
Within minutes, we were up on the cliff rim. Then began an hour or more of hiking through dense vegetation. It began to rain again and we were soon wetter than at any point on the trip, as we pushed through branches and threaded a slow course through the forest.
We finally found faint trails, possibly make by earlier hikers but also no doubt used by animals. Again we began calling “Hey bear, Ho bear!” At one point the trail came out near the cliff rim, some 300 feet or more above the riverbed, and we caught a grand view of the Teklanika below, looking back toward the site of our failed first ascent.
Finally, we descended back to the river gravel bar, hoping we were now home free to walk an easier route to the camper bus stop. This was not to be.
After another hour or so, again we came to a place where the river’s main course hugged a cliff on the western shore. I now began to regret my decision not to go back the way we had come over the saddle pass—not for the last time!
We had no choice and again climbed up and through the forest on yet another out flung spur of Cathedral Mountain. This began encouragingly through more level and open terrain, but we soon discovered it led into a sodden bog around a lake, where the path became a stream full of 1-2 feet of water in places.
As we rounded this spur and came back around toward the river, we got our first experience of traveling through the tundra. The ground was soggy and damp—our feet sank into the uneven hillocks, making travel tiresome and slow. Low shrubs from ankle height to occasional waist or chest high groves of willow and alder regularly blocked the way, requiring that we go around or push through the tight tangle of branches.
This section nearly did Rev in. We had now been hiking through wet, rugged terrain for close to four hours with heavy packs. Even though we could see the river with its welcome flat gravel bar ahead, the tundra and willow thickets tired him to the point of frustrated exhaustion.
We finally returned to the river and were able to proceed another hour or so until we reached our final obstacle on the river and could go no further that way. A small, white sign read “Critical Wildlife Closure: Closed to All Entry.”
This matched the closure zone I had marked on the National Geological Survey topo map I had bought in the park, but it confused us because we thought the Igloo Campground bus stop was adjacent to this point on the river, and the park road bridge over the Teklanika should have been visible just downriver, but we could see neither.
We had no choice but to leave the river at this point, and so began the harrowing final stage of our wilderness adventure.
We scaled the river cliff up a stream-carved gully, following one of the omni-present social trails that always seemed to emerge at such points. We had now been hiking with heavy loads for 6-7 hours. I powered up my mobile phone, and while I could get no cell service to make calls, I could see that it was now about 1 p.m. We had missed the 12:15 p.m. train, and probably the 2 p.m. bus back to Anchorage as well.
Revi was beyond exhausted. He moved so slowly that I had to constantly wait for him to catch up to me (though I typically seem to walk faster than most people at any time). He wanted to stop, and I tried to think through the wisdom of pitching the tent so we could both sleep for an hour or so before going on.
But we were now on the flat tundra meadows just west of the Teklanika, and the ground everywhere was soaking wet. Both of us at this point were determined not to spend another cold, wet night in the tent. So we pressed on.
I read and re-read the map and tried to compare it with the landscape. According to my best judgment, if the mountains we were seeing were in fact Cathedral Mt and Igloo Mt, the Igloo Campground stop and the park road should be right across from the boundary of the river closure zone, yet the road was nowhere in sight. I decided, based on the map and the land, that the road had to be about a mile west across the tundra meadows, though we couldn’t see it.
Thus we began the most difficult and emotionally charged part of the trip. In spite of frequent rest stops as we slowly slogged across the tundra, Revi was at last stumbling and overwrought. I told him I had made a mistake—we should have gone back over the pass the way we came in, in which case we would probably be on the train to Anchorage by now. At this, Revi became so disconsolate he wept openly, and I said I was sorry for ever bringing him to this point. I told him if we could keep going, although we had missed that day’s train, if we could get out of the wild, we’d spend the night in a nice hotel on the highway.
I hugged my son and assured him that we would do this together, that we would persevere and get out of the wilderness. Even as I said this, fear and worry had begun to gnaw at me. We had now come more than a mile from the river out onto the great tundra meadow. We were closer, almost halfway to what I thought must be Igloo Mt, but still saw no sign of the road. I even climbed a small spruce to a height of about 12 feet, but still saw no road.
One small piece of consolation at this stage: the sun finally made a weak showing and the day warmed a bit. Our way was blocked regularly now by low swales where willows grew taller than my hat and under their entwined branches and trunks bogs split by gurgling clear rainwater streams pooled up around the tundra hummocks.
We began to speak about ways to signal rescuers. Revi suggested accosting one of the flight seeing planes we could hear overhead, but usually not see, every hour or so. I said we might build a fire to make smoke.
At this point, Revi began to voice the optimistic view that the road was definitely there, even saying he could see telephone poles marching up a hill to the south. I climbed a tundra hillock, wiped off the misty lenses of the binoculars and had a thorough look at the horizon from one side to the other, but saw no phone poles.
Nonetheless, Rev continued to say he was sure the road was there. I said nothing, not wanting to voice how unsure and concerned I was becoming. If the road was not there after we worked so hard to cross the tundra, it would mean that my map reading was wrong and we were lost. I had no good plan B if this were the case—we could pitch the tent and at least get some rest, but afterward we’d still be in the same pickle.
I kept these gloomy thoughts to myself, and we kept going. At last, two thirds of the way across the meadow toward Igloo Mountain, looking again with the binoculars, it now appeared there could be a ridge line of hills close to the mountain, lying across the entire horizon at the mountain’s base. It was possible, I told myself, then Rev, that the road could be behind this ridge, hidden from our view.
We began to make for this ridge line, a gently rolling slope ahead of us. At the top, we would know. The road would either be there, or it wouldn’t.
Eagerly, I pressed ahead, calling to Revi to join me. At the summit, I turned to the left, and there it was—a bus stopped on the Igloo Campground bridge.
“Revi, there’s a bus. It’s the road! We’re saved!” I called, waving and shouting.
Slowly, but with great relief, we hiked the last quarter mile to the road, resting several times. Whenever I sat down to wait for Revi to catch up, I would pick the many blueberries that grew everywhere around me, close at hand in the tundra, and pop them into my mouth four and five at a time. They were tart but also sweet and good.
We reached the bridge at 4:30 p.m. Except for several 15-20 minute stops to eat, and many more frequent short rests, we had been hiking steadily with heavy loads for 11 hours. Sitting on the concrete bridge, we took off our soaking wet socks and boots and waited, completely exhausted, for the camper bus.
* * *
That evening at the park Wilderness Access Center, filthy with mud, wearing squishing, soaking boots and socks, I phoned about eight hotels in the canyon area on the highway just outside the park entrance, as well as four to six more in areas just north and south of the park. At every turn, the answer was the same: no vacancies.
I phoned the last area hotel on the list given to me by a park store employee, and luck finally turned our way. The McKinley Chalet Resort had rooms for $250 per night. I gulped, but only briefly, then told them heck yes, send the shuttle bus.
Thus began the kinder, gentler, downhill part of our Alaska trip. We trudged with our sodden things to the room. I cleaned the boots and socks as best I could in the bathtub, and we used the wall blow dryer to try to dry our boots, the only footwear we had. We both took blissful hot showers and donned what we had in the way of clean, dry clothing. We then had one of the best meals I’ve ever had at the hotel bar and grill, with spectacular views of the big, wild Nenana River just outside the windows. The next day, I walked, slow and sore, to the hotel complex laundry and dried all our wet things. Then we caught the Alaska Railroad and traveled in grand style back to Anchorage, lounging in the spacious, comfortable seats, viewing the spectacular scenery passing by from the elevated Dome Car with its arching glass roof and windows all around, and enjoying another fabulous meal in the dining car, which tickled Rev to bust. We’d earned a few comforts, and we took them.
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