Friday, September 2, 2011

fall

Yesterday afternoon, before evening even arrived, the dew dropped like it hasn't all year. The tools I was working with clouded over, metal turned cold to the touch. Sandhill cranes arrived flock after flock on their way to places like Arizona, dropping out of the sky with long legs dangling. It was the first day that felt solidly of fall. Moose season opened yesterday, but Ian and I are gearing up for caribou instead. We'll leave this afternoon and drive north with oversized sleds and a canoe, look for caribou somewhere north of the Brooks Range, then hike the mandatory five miles from the road over tussocks, maybe lining a canoe up a creek. Sometimes there are specific things one learns hunting, but mostly it is senses of things, built up over time -- how close you can get to an animal before it spooks, whether it is smell or sight or something else they find most frightening. One also learns how to think about hunting. Last year we saw thousands of caribou and came home with nothing; other years have been more lucky. And while veteran hunters probably have the right to credit skill over luck, it would be foolish to think you are in control. The best you can do is prepare, put yourself in the right spot, and wait, and there's something wonderful in that.

Monday, July 25, 2011

talkeetnas




Near the end of our 15-day hike, James, explaining some lack of equipment or maybe physical preparation, remarked, "I thought this was going to be a river trip." I laughed, because it seemed like a gentle way of saying, "What did I sign up for?" We'd endured near-constant rain and clouds, soggy feet, slippery rocks, and miles of tough bushwhacking -- the kind of challenges that can wear on you, but also make you feel you've survived, make you appreciate the sun even more. In the end, I don't think any of us would have traded our trek for anything.
It had, in fact, started as a river trip -- maybe a float in ANWR, or a hike-float combo through Gates of the Arctic (there are so many choices in Alaska). In the end, Toby and Darcy proposed something closer to Anchorage, with fewer bugs and no costly fly-ins, but still awesome. We started on the Glenn Highway and hiked 140 miles through the Talkeetna Mountains to the rail line northeast of Talkeetna, off the Parks Highway. We followed Jeep roads for the first day and a half and found some old tracks again on the last day, but in between, we followed only caribou trails -- up this valley, over that pass and down again. We watched caribou float over the tundra and a grizzly bear devour a caribou calf. We picked our route based on the elevation lines of topo maps.
For three days, we made camp in a high valley near even-higher peaks where a bush pilot had formed a crude runway by placing white rocks in a straight line on a patch of tundra. A pilot flying a two-seater with tundra tires brought us food, fuel, beer and wine, which we bundled at night in a contractor bag swollen like Santa's sack. The sun came out and we climbed a 7,300-foot peak with spectacular views of mountains and glaciers. Awesome indeed. (Read Darcy's account and see more pictures here.)

From our pilot, we learned that NOLS makes a trip through the Talkeetnas each summer. Toby, from whom I have learned a great deal about wilderness travel, scoffed at the idea of paying for such skills, and I think it irked him to imagine that our trip was not unique. (After Day 2, we saw no one but our pilot.) So for the rest of the trip, we joked about those NOLS kids -- how they could always light a fire with one match, how they were expert bushwhackers who never complained about the weight of their packs.
Today there's
a story in the paper about a bear attacking the NOLS group, seriously injuring two. It sounds like they might have run, which is a no-no, but also did things right, like making lots of noise. It's hard to know what to think. It's only the second bear attack in NOLS history, according to the story, so maybe there's comfort in the odds. No matter how prepared you are, with bear spray or firearm, I imagine there's always some risk -- a trade, I guess, for the opportunity to experience places as wild as this.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

clamming



Big moon, very low tide. I wish I knew enough about the workings of this planet and moon to know if they were related. In any case, the monthly extreme low tides around Juneau happened this weekend, a nice minus 3 feet or so, so Jesse and I joined some friends to dig for clams. I'll take full credit for getting us there a little late, around 7:45 this morning. It's Sunday! There were at least a half-dozen cars and trucks already at the pullout. We spent about an hour digging in the mud, moving over rocks, trying to avoid getting squirted in the eye by a leggy worm or a big clam. Some are duds -- shells filled with rocks and sand. Some break when you dig for them. If you're not too picky, you can fill a 5-gallon bucket in not too much time. We stopped digging when the tide came in. Tonight we'll steam the little guys in white wine and garlic, put the bigger ones in saltwater with cornmeal to filter the sand from them.