June 23, 2009

Our weekend plans were intended to get us 24 hours of sunshine on the longest day of the year. It didn’t really work out that way.

We headed out immediately after work Thursday evening and drove until about 10:30 PM. We stopped in Healy overnight. We met our Fairbanks friends at 9:00 AM on Friday at the turn off on the Steese Highway. We topped off with gas and drove another 75 miles to the first trailhead where we dropped my car. 25 miles further up the road brought us to the Eagle Summit trailhead, the start of the Pinnell Mountain Trail. This was directly across the street from the mountain we had driven the Land Rover up a few years ago in our fall trip up the Steese Highway. This is a remote place on a dirt road that dead ends another 50 miles further at the Yukon River.

Only two other vehicles were parked at the trailhead for the most popular solstice location in the area. I was a little surprised since I hadn’t really recalibrated my expectations to the size of the hiker population within easy driving distance. The trail is popular because, although it is below the Arctic Circle, the elevation provides continuous sunshine at this time of year. I expected to see more people.

A light drizzle was dampening our spirits as we hoisted the large packs onto our backs. The first few miles went relatively easily. We passed by the only other humans we would see for another day and a half somewhere around mile 4. Around mile 5, our group dropped to 4 people and a dog as a friend of our friends had only joined us for a day hike. This was convenient as she drove the other vehicle back to Fairbanks leaving us with only my car parked better than 20 miles away. The weather eased a bit as we climbed the trail’s namesake, Pinnell Mountain, late in the evening. We were able to cover a solid 10 miles for the day and arrived at a small cabin that is available on a first come basis. No one was there so we settled into the cabin to save ourselves the trouble of possibly packing up a wet tent in the morning.

The cabin was small, but a nice break from the weather. The only negative was the marmot living under the floor boards. It would whistle and scurry. This drove our canine companion insane for most of the night.

We moved slowly on Saturday. The rain mostly missed us in the morning. We stopped to watch three caribou lay down to take a break on a snowy patch along the ridgeline. We stopped to rest frequently. Dan wasn’t feeling well so we didn’t push too hard. After lunch, we dipped down into a swampy saddle. The trail was covered with 2X12s for an unbelievable distance, an odd improvement to a remote trail with few users. As we climbed up the other side, the sun peeked out. Heidi and Dan needed to stop to remove their heavier rain gear as they were getting hot. We rested on the soft tundra. I fell asleep for a half hour. I think we will all remember that relaxing moment at the halfway point of a long trail in a remote location.

As we climbed to the next ridgeline, we noticed some disturbing weather patterns. The distant thunder had us all trying to figure out what direction the clouds were moving. Just over the ridge in the next saddle we expected to find another shelter. This was not our goal for the evening, but it was a planned water stop and a good place to weather out a storm. As we approached a final peak in the ridge before the shelter, we knew the storm was too close. We couldn’t risk climbing higher. Hail began to fall. We raced to the protection of some rocks, hoping to use the geometry of the peaks to keep any lightning strikes away from us. We crouched among large rocks at the base of a small cliff as the rain and wind chilled us to the bone.

For the second weekend in a row, we were reminded of the importance of choices in the wilderness. Long before you ever find yourself faced with the choice of taking shelter in a storm, you have made numerous choices along the path to getting there. In this case, many of those choices related to clothing. Our friends had heavy reliable rain gear, but they weren’t wearing it when the rain started. They were a little wet by the time they donned their gear in the rain. Kris and I have recently replaced our ultralight packable raingear, but I knew my rain pants were not the most waterproof. As we crouched, the water found its way through seams that would be unlikely to leak while walking. As the temperature dropped, I was also faced with a choice of removing my rain jacket to add a layer at the risk of getting wet and losing the insulation value. If we had been wearing all our warmest gear, we would have been sweating in the warm sunshine. Anticipation of changing conditions is important, but inexact.

We probably made good choices except for my failure to replace my cheap rain pants before the trip. We were able to protect ourselves from the cold reasonably well while we hid from the lightning, but the wet cold was harsh. A half hour into our crouching, we were all significantly chilled, cramping up, and approaching shivering. This was after relocating once to move around the back side of the cliff to get out of the high winds that were making the situation nearly unbearable.

Arctic Alaska thunderstorms don’t appear to be like Midwestern thunderstorms. They don’t seem to move as fast. And the lightning does not occur as frequently, making it difficult to gauge how far off the storm has really moved. You simply do not get as much data. We waited and waited, counting the seconds after each perceptible flash. When we felt that the storm was well beyond us, we discussed our options. We knew we were probably within a quarter mile of the shelter, but poor visibility added a risk of not being able to follow the trail. We reached consensus. I was assigned lead as I seemed to be pretty successful at finding trail markers. We donned our wet packs and headed up higher.

We were moving fast, wanting to get off the exposed ridge as quickly as possible in case we had misjudged the storm. We were also motivated to get indoors. The trail markers were hard to find as the strong wind blew the clouds across the ridge like a heavy fog. I felt relief as we began descending on some very easy to follow switchbacks. Occasional breaks in the clouds provided me a view of the saddle below. I was mildly disturbed that I could not see the shelter.

A flash in my peripheral vision triggered that instinctive counting. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four, boom. Too close, less than a mile. At least we were well off the ridge by this point. As we bottomed out, a sign pointed down a side trail that said, “Shelter”. A hundred yards further brought us to the small cabin. Someone asked if anyone was using the shelter and I replied that I didn’t care. I was relieved to find it empty as I opened the door.

We removed our wet clothes and hung them around the cabin on nails. We hadn’t planned to end our day here as it was less than eight miles from the previous shelter, but we had so much wet gear and we were so exhausted by the cold that we couldn’t go any further. We made dinner. The weather cleared and the view from the cabin presented itself. I was drawn to the outdoors, but I couldn’t take the cold. I wrapped myself in my sleeping bag and went to sleep early. The rain returned before too long.

A knock on the door at four in the morning awoke us. An older man stepped in apologizing for disturbing us, but requesting permission for him and his wife to join us. His wife had gotten sick on the trail and they tried to take shelter. He indicated that he was starting to get hypothermic. We welcomed them in, clearing space for them and their gear. They collapsed in a heap on the floor. She had a sleeping bag, but he was not really equipped for spending the night. They were part of a group that was attempting to hike the trail in one day. 27 miles can be done quickly if you travel light. You risk something going wrong, like someone getting hurt or sick, leaving you in a precarious situation. They appeared to have made some odd choices. They were carrying too much gear to travel light and fast, but not enough gear to really get them through an extended stop in the cold.

We woke to more rain. We made breakfast and packed up. Our guests were glad to have us as companions for the finish of their hike. The rain was nearly constant. On the higher ridges, the wind howled and created a noticeable push on our large packs. My gloves did not dry out over night so my hands went nearly numb in the 45 degree wind and wet. We didn’t even stop on the last 10 miles. No one wanted to remove their pack or sit down in the cold. We finished in the early afternoon, just in time for the sun to come up and warm things up as we packed up the car. I think I was the only one awake for the 75 mile drive back to Fairbanks, including the dog. We went to someone’s house for showers, stopped at a truck stop for a greasy burger, and then headed to Heidi and Dan’s for the evening.

We drove back home on Monday and missed the big earthquake. We were probably in a car near Denali National Park at the time.