June 3, 2005

Life has its contrasts. On Tuesday, we met with a real estate agent who has been keeping in touch with us for almost a year. I joked with Kris that of course she was going to keep following up since Kris told her that our plan was to pay cash for a condo. To the agent’s credit, she did keep in touch and kept sending us Anchorage real estate listings, including apartment rentals, to help us get a feel for things. So we honored her diligence with a visit and she is setting up some condos for us to visit on Monday.

We also opened a bank account on Tuesday. I don’t know what kind of credit information they get with a couple of key strokes, but we walked out with approval for a credit card, approval for a car loan of up to $30,000, and totally free checking with no required deposit amount and a built in credit line. We felt appreciated by the mainstream with such offers. Our bank is actually a local credit union that has good products and no baggage. We have Key and Wells Fargo up here, but we hate Key for a transaction that they screwed up and sent the collections people after us, and Wells Fargo seems so corporate.

Anyway, the contrast is that Tuesday we did all these civilized things and Wednesday morning we headed for the backcountry. We found a forest service cabin in the Chugach National Forest on the Kenai Peninsula that was available and only a 7.5 mile hike from the road. The cabin was on Trout Lake and included a row boat for the use of the occupants of the cabin.

The forest service has many of these cabins throughout Alaska. The cabins are all situated in interesting locations and provide secure lodging in the backcountry. It feels much safer staying in a wooden structure instead of a tent. This cabin was a cute little A-frame, about 16 by 14 on the base with a loft that was almost tall enough at the peak for me to stand up. The cabin wasn’t cheap, costing us $45 per night, but it did give us a good way to dabble in the backcountry without the fears of sleeping in the tent.

We got a late start on Wednesday and after a 100 mile drive, perhaps the most beautiful 100 miles of highway in the world, we arrived at the trail head. It was cool, mid fifties, with occasional drizzle. We hiked for over 4 hours, had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches along the trail, and arrived hungry for dinner. About two miles from the cabin, the rain turned to ice pellets, but we were comfortable with our layered clothing and heavy packs. We didn’t even get out our gloves.

We had our dehydrated dinner, I think it was sweet and sour pork, with some fresh green peppers and some whole wheat tortillas. We had cookies and hot chocolate for dessert. We lit a fire in the wood stove in the cabin just to take the chill out. The fire was set to go, which is the tradition in the backcountry, build your fire before you need it, rather than scrambling around in an emergency. We made sure a fire was ready to be lit for the next occupants when we departed.

We were exhausted from the hike and fell asleep early. It is normal for us to go to bed early when we are backpacking as there is nothing to do when the sun sets. Here, of course, the sun doesn’t set early and we were just tired. We did not sleep well either night as it has been awhile since we slept on only a sleeping bag and a lightweight backpacking sleeping pad. We could only be comfortable in a position for about an hour, then we would wake up and re-position ourselves. We did confirm on this trip that it does not get dark this time of year this far north. It does get dusky, but never really dark. In spite of going to bed early, we slept in a little in the morning. The cold air in the cabin combined with the restless sleep and the cozy warmth of the sleeping bags to make it inviting to just stay.

We finally got up and got organized. We had breakfast. A float plane flew over, but I didn’t notice it turn and land on our lake. As I was drinking my coffee, I noticed a couple guys walking up from the lake to our cabin. I opened the door and said hi. They didn’t introduce themselves, but I noticed they had forest service markings on their life vests. They delivered toilet paper, cleaned up a little around the cabin, and chatted with us. The pilot for the plane was not a forest service employee, so he just watched and chatted. It was an interesting visit. We walked down to the lake and watched them fly off.

Then we packed lunch, fishing gear, and day hiking gear. We headed out to the boat. We rowed out a little ways and began fishing. A lack of quick action had me looking for better spots. I rowed the boat and Kris trolled a spinner out the back. We went to the far end of the lake and fished a little at that end. Kris saw a fish and possibly had a hit, but we didn’t catch anything. Kris got cold.

Of course, I just rowed the boat from one end of the lake to the other, so I wasn’t thinking about being cold, but Kris said she was cold. I asked her what she would like to do and she said we should go hiking. We had talked about picking a mountain to climb and so we began to discuss that idea. We agreed on the mountain on the north end of the lake, the 3295 peak (I think that might be its actual name). Then we began to argue about the approach. The lower elevations along the lake were thick alders and the upper elevations had a couple sheer cliffs to be avoided. Navigation was going to be a challenge. Kris knew from the topo maps that the west side of the mountain was the least steep, but it was a long hike through the alders to get there. We looked at a possible place to get the boat out on the south side of the mountain, but Kris was concerned that it was too steep. We decided to head back towards the cabin on the boat and try our luck finding a good place to beach the boat and navigate through the alders and climb the east side of the mountain.

We found an acceptable spot with a small v-cut to pull the nose of the boat in so that Kris could hop out and pull the boat up. We lifted the boat onto the steep shore and Kris was shivering. We decided she needed to get out of the wind and warm up so she went up the embankment away for some shelter. I began organizing for the climb.

Hypothermia is one of the greatest risks in the wilderness. When faced with a survival situation, the number one priority is shelter, which surprises some people who think water or food might be more important. The truth is that most of us can go a couple of weeks without food and a day or two without water. Surviving rain or a cold night in the wilderness is unlikely without some kind of shelter.

Kris wasn’t close to dangerous hypothermia, but it highlights the reality of backcountry activity. In civilization, being cold is an inconvenience. You suffer it, but quickly find the warmth of a climate-controlled environment to deal with the cold. We were a 45 minute boat ride away from a cold cabin. There is no convenient way of dealing with being cold. Getting out of the wind helped and soon Kris was good enough to help me finish securing the boat, flipping it over on the steep bank. We put on our waist packs (actually the tops of our backpacks convert to day packs) and began our ascent.

Kris marked the boat with her GPS. We headed up a clearing, but it soon became apparent that navigation was going to be a nightmare. We were still at a low enough elevation to have some heavy alders to navigate. There were moose trails that got us through in places, but the odds of finding the same moose trail on the way back down seemed slim. As we climbed, we even ran into some dense forest with downed trees. Everywhere we turned, we ran into devil’s club, a frighteningly prickily plant. It was a slow go. We finally got out of the thick stuff and stopped for lunch.

The rest of the climb was in mostly open areas of low height vegetation. We chose a route up a ridgeline and climbed. The slope was steep. It was mostly covered with vegetation. We both had a few slips, but managed to recover without any tumbles or rolls. It looked like a great ski hill, at least a black diamond, probably a double black. The climbing went on forever. It was like climbing stairs, without the level surfaces for your feet. Our feet began to burn as we worked up and across the hill. Kris forgot about ever being cold. It finally became apparent that we were not going to complete the climb and still make it back to the cabin for a reasonable dinner time. We decided to turn back.

We had reached a rockier zone, probably only a few hundred feet short of the summit. We decided to cross the face of the mountain and head down on a different ridgeline. We worked our way across to the other ridge, setting off small rock slides with some of our steps. It was dicey. We made the other ridge line and began our descent.

The views from the mountain were spectacular. We could see for miles. We could see our cabin by the lake, but only through the binoculars. There were mountains for miles and no signs of civilization. We were awed by the scene.

As we descended, our feet moved to the front of our boots and began new patterns of irritation. We took careful steps. It was much faster than the climb, but still a slow pace. It seemed like a relief to be off the steep, but then came the challenge of finding our way back to the boat through the thick forest and alders at the bottom. It gave us a real appreciation for the challenges of navigating without trails. Was this the rock we had lunch at? Is that the moose trail we were on earlier?

We cheated. The GPS had breadcrumbs marked on the screen from our ascent and we were able to play "left or right" based on our position. A few times, in the really thick stuff, it was tough. We had to pay attention to what the GPS said, but also work within the confines of reality. We must have missed a couple of moose trails because we found ourselves in some thick stuff just trying to follow the GPS. In the end, the GPS brought us right back to the boat. Had it quit working, we would have been forced to work our way down until we hit the lake and work our way up and down the shore until we found the boat. It could have been hours of scouting to get out without modern technology. Sure we could have marked trails or made notes of landmarks and triangulated ourselves, but we didn’t need to spend that effort or scar the land. Modern technology is wonderful, even in the wilderness.

We got back to the boat and loaded back up. The boat was almost able to launch itself on the steep shore. A strong wind was blowing on the lake, so we decided to let it drift us back toward home and see if we could have any better luck with fishing. After the first few casts, we were blowing into shore. I rowed us out a ways and then we began drifting almost straight down the middle of the lake.

We tried some different things. Bait, spinners with bait, and spinners. It was cold and windy. At one point the wind picked up and the lake began to whitecap. I had just put this large spinner on and wasn’t happy with it. It was too large. The wind was too strong. We were too far from shore. I reeled in quickly with the intention of rowing us closer to shore, or maybe just in for another dehydrated meal. Ping, ping, ping. I assumed my lure was skipping on the surface since I was reeling so fast. Or maybe the waves were grabbing at the line. I didn’t pay much attention until the lure began to swing around in front of me with the fast drift of the boat. I noticed how deep the lure was running and there was another hit. Then a fish swirled not more than 10 feet from the boat. Kris startled and asked "what was that?"

That big spinner seemed to be what they wanted as I got more hits on subsequent casts. I couldn’t hook up. I think the fish were too small. I switched Kris over to a similar big spinner. Then I hooked up with a small one, probably a rainbow trout by the way it jumped. It got off as it neared the boat. The next cast hooked me up again, this time with success. I reeled in a 15" lake trout. It wasn’t a trophy, but it was a nice size for dinner. Kris was excited. We wanted fish for dinner. Kris kept trying while I worked on the fish.

It took the hook deep and was bleeding all over the boat. I tried to get the hook out, but decided to just fillet the thing first. I clunked its head on the boat seat and filleted it like I have seen done many times by Dad, like I had done a few times when I was a kid. This was the first fish I had filleted in years and I didn’t do too badly. I left a little bit of meat along the guts, but I figured better safe than sorry. I cut through a couple of bones on the second fillet, but they were easily removed. I was surprised by the orange color of the flesh of a lake trout. I had never eaten lake trout before and had no idea what to expect. I hadn’t even read the lake trout section of the Alaska fishing book I had bought.

It turns out that lake trout are excellent. I only had backpacking cooking gear, but cooked the fish in a little olive oil with some cajun seasoning. The fillets curled as they cooked, probably indicating a high fat content. I broke them up into bite size pieces to make sure they cooked. It was a great backcountry meal. We had some carrot sticks and some whole wheat tortillas to go with them. The fish was less than a half hour from the lake to our dinner. You can’t get any fresher than that.

We had another fire in the wood stove, this time bringing the cabin up to a cozy temperature. We had our hot chocolate and cookies and still went to bed very early. The cabin was plenty cool in the morning, inviting us to stay in our sleeping bags much longer than we would have expected, but we had nowhere else to be. We took our time, eating a leisurely breakfast, readying the cabin for the next occupants, and packing up our backpacks. The hike out was painful. Our feet and legs hurt from two days of intense work. Our hips and collar bones were sensitive from the backpack contact points. We plodded along, singing to scare away any bears, but still made good time.

We stopped and ate lunch at Juneau Falls, a waterfall in the creek that drains from Trout Lake and Juneau Lake. It is a huge waterfall with a significant flow. The water hammers against the rocks sending a mist for hundreds of feet. It just seemed a little routine in the surroundings. To put it into perspective, we challenged ourselves to think of a waterfall in Ohio that could compare. We couldn’t come up with one. Even our memories of Hocking Hills couldn’t produce a waterfall of this magnitude of height and flow.

We didn’t see any significant wildlife on this trip. That is normal. Hiking is one of the least likely ways of encountering wildlife. Us humans make too much noise and smell so strong that the animals know we are there long before we ever detect them. In an area like this where animals are hunted, they stay pretty scarce. We did see two lone Dall sheep on a distant mountain and as always they looked like mountain lice. It took binoculars to confirm that they were in fact sheep and not patches of snow. We saw lots of moose tracks and droppings. We saw bear droppings. It is interesting that two sophisticated adults like us can have an in depth conversation about what kind of crap is on the trail. We think we may have found some wolf droppings. I won’t bore you with the details that lead us to that conclusion.

On our trip home, we got to see a bore tide on Turnagain Arm. It was amazing to see a stretch of water that was probably a couple hundred yards wide being swept by a wave of water that had a circular front. The wave was probably less than two feet high. Wave is probably not a good description since it had no trough behind it. It was more like a dam had burst or perhaps like a flash flood, just on a very wide scale. Kris was not impressed and admittedly it is not visually all that dramatic. It takes more of an appreciation for the forces at work to be impressed by the bore tide. Or maybe it just takes a simple mind.

Well, back to civilization. The contrast is dramatic. The shower felt good and the delivered pizza was nice. I am looking forward to the bed. But the self reliance, the isolation, and the beauty of the wilderness keep drawing me back.