triathlon

It's a luxury of summer in Alaska to on a Friday mull plans for weekend adventures. Mark and I considered a hike/float trip off the Denali Highway, a hike from the seldom-visited Elliot. In the end, we planned a multi-leg adventure: drive to Nenana, bike back to Fairbanks, canoe to Nenana, drive home. Each was adventure enough for a day, but we decided to do both in one day.
To complete the triathlon, on Saturday we hiked the 16-mile Stiles Creek Trail -- nice enough, but best left to the 4-wheelers. Sunday we headed to Nenana. 
The ride back was pleasant -- nice weather, little traffic, some good downhills -- and my knees handled the 60 miles with surprisingly little complaint given my complete lack of training.
We feasted at Lulu's, then changed clothes and got in the boat. It's the fourth time I've done the 50-mile float to Nenana. Once I did it in 9 hours; another time, we took three days. It can be an easy float, but it's big water, with whirlpools and fast current and hard eddy lines, and I approach it with cautious respect. Around 8 at night, after an afternoon of patchy rain, the wind started to howl, kicking up waves as it blew upstream. The mid-July breeze turned an otherwise relaxed float into a wilderness trip. We pulled over, added layers, made a hot dinner. We were maybe 10 miles from the highway, 20 miles from the nearest village. After an hour or two from Fairbanks, we'd seen no boats.
Recharged, we tried again, and later stretches of water proved less susceptible to the wind. We followed lee shores, took side channels when they appeared. Banks I remembered from three years before were radically reshaped by erosion. Birch with green leaves still on leaned at all angles from crumbing shores. Beaver had mowed down rows of thick cottonwoods.
I was surprised, I guess, by the number of active camps. We never saw people, but did see a handful of boats tied up, wall tents, even some teepees. On a rainy night, it's still a wild place. Near Nenana, it was nice to see a big smokehouse going up, and a new fish wheel in the river with its spruce poles still golden yellow.

brooks range

I'm not sure why the Brooks Range feels so different from the Talkeetnas. Maybe it's the distance from urban areas, or the high latitude and its real midnight sun, unpredictable weather, and effects on flora and fauna. It's a place of lore, of magazine photos and trips-of-a-lifetime. Gates of the Arctic park prides itself on a complete lack of amenities -- no roads, no trails -- and the whole range remains inaccessible to most through the high cost of getting there and the skills needed to travel there safely.

I've been to the Brooks Range half a dozen times to hunt caribou, hiking the obligatory five miles from the road in an act that seems adventurous enough to warrant leaving emergency info at home. But I would never have attempted the adventure I had there this summer without my friend Toby, whose wilderness skills and enthusiasm are rivaled only by his fitness. Toby taught me how to travel and camp up there, and helped me experience some of the most beautiful places I've ever been.

Our trip was actually a combination of trips. Toby was part of a crew -- mostly from Anchorage, but also Homer and Colorado and beyond -- that set up a base camp in the upper Alatna River drainage, near the Arrigetch Peaks. Led by legendary adventurer Roman Dial, they were there to packraft mountain streams draining into the Alatna, some of which I would not have gone anywhere near with a boat. I joined the crew for the second week, indulging in base-camp life (fresh food, river-chilled beer) and exploring a few of the creeks, boating the mildest among them. One cloudy day we hiked into the high peaks -- huge slabs of dark, sheer rock rising nearly straight up for hundreds or thousands of feet. The creek we followed tumbled down over rock ledges, making slides and waterfalls that tempted the more experienced rafters.

After that week, those who had to fly home did -- on a vintage Beaver with soft tundra tires for landing on gravel bars -- and five of us started hiking. Look at a map. Deduce. Ask those who've been. Roman recommended a route up the Pingaluk, rather than the Nahtuk, and so we did that. We walked 10 hours the first day, stopping near midnight, when the near-constant stream crossings had started to numb my feet. The next day we crossed a pass and headed down the other side, following Kevuk Creek now. (Even walking, the rivers are the best way to travel up there.) Toby and I stopped after 12 hours, at my request. The others, one of whom was trying to catch a plane, pushed on toward Anaktuvuk Pass, another 50 miles away. Two were Alaska Wilderness Classic champs.

Toby and I made it to Anaktuvuk Pass, about 100 miles from the Alatna along our route, in four and a half days. We visited the museum, picked up the food Toby had had delivered, and packed up again the next day. I'd worried about my fitness, the ability of my joints to handle 20 miles a day of bushwhacking and tundra walking, and it was a huge relief to arrive in Anaktuvuk, a Native village perched high in a mountain pass, with regular air service to Fairbanks. Somewhat refreshed that next day, it calmed me to think it was only 60 miles to the Dalton Highway. I knew I could do it, whatever the terrain. And that's when I realized my sense of what's possible had changed. We made it to the road in four days.

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.

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.

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.

boat soup

I've been working, for sure, but somehow yesterday felt like the first big day of building. It didn't rain, my chisel was sharp, and the need to get going somehow seemed more apparent. (The bigger the project, the longer the rush to deadline?) I finished cutting and shaping my floor joists, made more sawhorses, souped up my mailbox post, and cut a joist pocket in a sill.
The sense of urgency comes partly from the same thing that motivates every Alaska builder – the desire to not get caught without a roof when it gets cold – and partly because I’m timberframing with white spruce. The wood shrinks a lot when it dries, and tends to twist. The best would be to cut it all immediately after it’s milled and get the frame up before the timbers dry. The joinery might stop the timbers from twisting. Instead, I have stacks of timbers cut at various times -- from last week to months ago -- at various stages of drying. So I add a strong sixteenth to my joist ends in the hope they’ll shrink to fit. (The sills that will house them have already shrunk.)
It’s nice to think of timberframing as modular, and it can be in some cases. Every brace in the frame should be identical. But sometimes the qualities of each timber, each piece of once-living wood, make customization necessary. A four-by-six joist might be only three and seven-eighths.
Boat soup is a mix of pine tar, linseed oil, and turpentine. It treats boats and outdoor wood without sealing it in varnish or nasty chemicals. The pine tar I have comes from a boatbuilding supply store, but is made for horses: “Wash and dry hoof. Apply below coronet band of hoof and hoof wall. As a hoof pack, apply to bottom of hoof prior to shoeing.” The tar makes the wood dark and sticky. You have to recoat every year or so, and the wood probably won’t last as long as pressure-treated, but that's fine with me.

moto

It's a sorry indication of my fitness that my outdoor adventures now come atop a 650cc dirt bike. But then there's nothing really to complain about. Last night, after a long day of rain, the sun came out under giant picture clouds. I motored up Murphy Dome on the old road, turned to slippery mud from the rain. A cloud blew through the trees over the road. I bumped over rocks on a trail to the summit. At the top, maybe 10 o'clock at night, the sun was setting over mountains to the west and north. Cottongrass, Labrador tea, blueberries, dwarf fireweed. A fox scurried down the 4-wheeler trail in front of me. I rode back down the mountain, the air cooling, humid enough to fog my visor and mirrors. I passed the turn to my house and kept riding, to catch just a little more of this late, golden summer sunset that will last only so long.

juneau, and the next thing

It's a wonderful thing here in Juneau to be able to walk out your door, maybe with a cup of coffee, and hike from sea level up 2,000 feet till the sun filters through the trees and the water and mountains and snow come into view. It was just a mini-hike I took today, up to the top of the tram on the way to Mount Roberts. I saw three skiers stumbling down in ski boots, and two mountain bikers pushing their bikes up the narrow trail.
I have no good excuse for not blogging, except that I really haven't had much outdoor adventure to write about, and have hardly covered anything related to climate change or the environment. Here at the capitol, discussion of either comes in the form of resolutions against federal climate legislation or concerns over federal Endangered Species Act listings. There is talk, and action, related to renewable energy and conservation -- more than in most states, I believe -- but lawmakers almost never mention environmental benefits when explaining their support for either.
I have spent much of my non-work time planning my next Alaska adventure -- building a small cabin. In February, I bought an acre of land in Fairbanks, on a sloping, mossy, tree-covered lot on the north side of a hill in Fairbanks. It's likely to get no direct sun for at least a few weeks in the winter, but it's above the coldest parts of town, and above the pollution caused by poor air circulation and lots of cars and wood stoves. I don't have a simple explanation for wanting to do it, and now. Or rather, I have several. I miss using my hands, and that part of the brain that looks for creative and elegant solutions to physical problems. I like thinking about the experience of a physical place -- what you see as you walk up the steps to a door, or where the light will be in the evening. I want some kind of home, a place to return to and leave from, but also just a place where I can sink big screws into the rafters and now worry about a landlord or deposit.

glaciers, grizzlies, and Alaska's big city

I have to admit I'm warming up to Anchorage. I still think the city itself is kind of a dump, but the land around it really is amazing -- mountains, glaciers, salt water and fresh water.
On Saturday, Toby took me for a hike up Ram Valley, where neither of us had been, to climb Raina Peak, at 6,795 feet. We parked the car at about 1,400 feet and hiked under a power line, along a narrow road, and up through tall, dead grass and thick alders more suited to bears than humans. After bushwhacking and sidehilling, we popped out in the valley to see a big grizzly eating overripe blueberries 400 yards away. Before he could hear or smell us, the bear dropped to his belly on the tundra in a way that must have been efficient but was not very stately. We chose a path around him and checked over our shoulders as we hiked to see that he hadn't moved. Then he disappeared. We worried he had dropped into alders between us and him, but we kept an eye out and never saw him again.
We hiked steadily up the tundra to a spit of rock coming down from the peak, then followed that up, climbing over rock ridges as necessary to avoid spots that were too steep to climb without ropes. Not having hiked much this year, I got sloppy after a few hours. Footing was hard on the loose rocks. We turned around a few hundred vertical feet from the top. The views were amazing, and even more so because of the quick transition from wooded lowlands to soft tundra and finally to rock, covered only by multi-colored lichen. We half-ran down scree fields and rushed across the tundra to make another friend's birthday party nearly on time.
On Sunday, Toby and Darcy and I set off on another expedition -- to hike and float from Girdwood to Eagle River over Crow Pass and down the north fork of the Eagle River. It's a trip that people do fairly often on foot, I understand, often spending a night or two on the trail. There's also a trail marathon along the route, for which Toby once held the course record. Once again, the hiking was spectacular. We climbed past old mining operations, along short cliffs, and past waterfalls. We paused at the pass and soaked up some sun, then hiked another bit to where we could see a handful of glaciers. We passed mountain goats on the trail, seemingly unafraid.
The trail covers about 13 miles of rock, grass, and fairly thick woods before reaching Eagle River a little below the glacier that gives it life. There wasn't enough water to float, so we crossed the milky, fast water and picked up the trail on the other bank and kept hiking. After a few more streams added their water, we blew up the packrafts we'd carried over the pass and paddled a few miles. Canyon-like walls rose from the glacial valley. A grizzly sow and two cubs lumbered up the bank 100 yards from us.
Our route proved somewhat ambitious, and despite hiking fast all day with little rest, we still had miles to go when we pulled our boats from the river at nightfall. The sun had long since disappeared, and even as we floated, ice formed on our packs and paddles. On the trail, fresh frost glistened back at us from the light of our headlamps. We reached the nature center and road a little before 10. The night was clear, and the stars came out as bright and unpolluted as from my Fairbanks home, maybe even brighter.

yukon fish

Yay! Jesse and I had a story come out over the weekend in the New York Times. It's about the poor runs of king salmon on the Yukon in recent years and how they're affecting people. Be sure to check out the slide show. Both can be found here.