Alaska Adventure Stories

ALASKA Adventure STORIES visitors guide

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h et v i g g print

Photo:Amanda Byrd

. y a w a h t e k a t t in r tom waits and the small p

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Gallery: Scott Dickerson Gallery: Scott Dickerson Gallery: Scott Dickerson Gallery: Scott Dickerson

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he idea presented itself to me quite a few years back not while I was here, but while I was sitting in a pub in good ole New Joisey. Having spent some time in Alaska, I was struck by something I couldn’t quite understand. Most everyone I met here, they all seemed to be threaded together in some way, yet I couldn’t figure it out. Back on the East Coast it hit me. Adventure. That was the commonality. From sled dog racing, to snowmobiling, from salmon to skiing. And by adventure, I don’t mean the cliched, “extreme.” Adventure means different things to different people.

Certainly my idea of adventure is completely different than it was 20 years ago, and will be different 20 years from now. In Alaska Adventure Stories, we hope to compile personal adventures of all types, and present them in a way that does justice, and sometimes brings a little humor, to the endeavors.

Greg Sellentin, Publisher

• Alaska Adventure Stories (AAS) is published quarterly by SmellyDog Media.

• AAS is distributed FREE (not a typo) throughout Alaska.

• AAS can be mailed directly to you at your home or business for $30 per year. (US) SmellyDog Media PO BOX 1195 Willow, AK 99688 907-495-2468 info@alaskaadventurestories.com www.alaskaadventurestories.com

Contributors this issue: Rocky Riefenstahl Andy Seitz Kris Farmen Tom Walker Greg Sellentin Joe Runyan Doug Buchanan Ron Koczaja Jill Homer Patrick Endres

04...Endurance Hiking 09...Alaska Disappearance Mystery 10...Moose Hunting by Kayak 14...Cabin Dwelling in Fairbanks 17...Hot Springs 100 Endurance Race 18...North to Alaska, a driver’s story 26...Spot the “Lead” Dog 30...Snow Biking 34...Spring Break, Alaska Style 38...Grillin & Chillin at 40 below 44...Advertising Information 48...Image Gallery

The actions portrayed in this publication can be dangerous. We hold no responsibility if you try any of this stuff on your own. Some of it may not even be true. Don’t blame us if you get hurt trying to do something you read about here. Be smart and don’t qualify for a Darwin Award.

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Gallery:Scott ScottDickerson Dickerson Gallery: Gallery: Scott Dickerson Gallery: Scott Dickerson

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Gallery:Scott ScottDickerson Dickerson Gallery: Gallery: Scott Dickerson Gallery: Scott Dickerson

Gallery: Scott Dickerson Gallery: Scott Dickerson Gallery: Scott Dickerson Gallery: Scott Dickerson

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Gallery:Scott ScottDickerson Dickerson Gallery: Gallery: Scott Dickerson Gallery: Scott Dickerson

250 8 miles

390

days

million years infnite memories

Two brothers hike, unassisted, across the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to Gates of the Arctic.

Story and images by Rocky and Steve Reifenstuhl

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he 6,000 foot pass between the Atigun and Itkillik Rivers in Gates of the Arctic grinds me down like my daughter’s incessant begging for car keys, particularly after the day’s 30 miles and two previous 5,000 foot passes.

August in the Brooks Range doesn’t get any better, however: t-shirt and shorts weather, sunny blue skies, hanging glaciers, and everywhere, rock faces with smiles of tightly folded and thrust-faulted brown sandstone and light gray limestone. And to top it off, the companionship of my endurance-endorphin addict brother, Sitka-Steve. Though he’s used to three to five foot diameter trees, hanging moss, evil devils club, and perpetual mist, Steve loves the open vistas and sparse vegetation of this ancient arctic terrane.

As we pound out the final 1,000 feet to the pass, my calves howl like the winter gales through this pass, and my mind is drifting from the task at hand. I consider that our 250 mile, eight-day hike from the Hulahula River to Anaktuvuk Pass with its 33,000 feet of elevation gain is our typical yearly “go till you blow” epic trip or race. It seems like we won’t have it any other way. I momentarily consider what motivates us to push 15 to 20 hours a day, with minimal amenities and call it fun. Sure, the hardware works, but could there be a software glitch?

My mind drifts to some 40 years ago. This hill then seemed as impossibly steep and long as it does now. My lungs and legs were fire and jelly as biggie brother and I raced up the hill in tandem. Slowing or stopping was not an option. My father’s orders just moments earlier: “under no circumstances will you stop running until you get to the top. And you better get there before Tracy,” (my year-older, foot-taller, captain-ofthe-basketball-team, big-mouth cousin). Unbeknownst to us, our dad had wagered Tracy that he couldn’t beat Steve and me racing up this mile-long dirt road to our hunting cabin. In retrospect, my Dad’s “you can do anything if you try hard enough” had become ingrained. Now I sort the synapses hoping it’s still there after 34 miles of ankle-twisting, river-cobble and tundra miles. As we crest the pass at midnight, the visual feast of the 20 mile-broad panorama is served up. Itkillik (‘Indian’) Valley comprises a massively wide and long, glacially-sculpted, tussock-covered thoroughfare between North Slope drainages which empty into the Arctic Ocean and the North Fork of the Koyokuk River. This feeds the Yukon River and empties into the Bering Sea. Pain and discomfort are distant memories, overshadowed by unforgettably superlative views and sensations. I can nearly hear my folks’ words now, “difficulty and adversity will make you a stronger person.” I’m getting stronger every day.

Revisiting the bet, gratuitous one-upmanship became interwoven into the fabric of our early childhood, but through thoughtful introspection and marrying-up we were able to cut away and cast off this destructive baggage. Still, embracing a challenge provides a rewarding and natural high, and Cousin Tracy did learn some humility. The lesson had merit.

Humility is deeply felt in the heart of the Brooks Range, and it creates a more profound impression the longer you stay.

The vastness of the Brooks Range, along with its isolation, its stark nakedness and its ear-ringing, mind-altering silence never fail to impress: God’s canvas before human meddling.

Traveling with machines is too easy, damaging, and detached in our modern world, and can breed complacency, arrogance and sloth. The effort and slow passage of heart, lungs, and legs connects you to the soul of these ethereal mountains and makes the land and its effect more powerful. The plane ride to the range was our necessary homage to the machine.

One of the innumerable, impressive lofty peaks, named by Bob Marshall in the middle of the last century, dominates the view as we turn west. Upturned rocks in a fold a mile across look like a giant deformed anvil slammed into the ground.

The sight is powerful and unforgettable, sucking you in, as though the vacuum created by such force is still present. Walking is more difficult now because neither of us can lift our eyes from the banded, jutting stratigraphy. Entire skylines of ancient rock are contorted, and slash improbably at the heavens. The overwhelming power of the tectonic plates that created this fold and thrust mountain belt of the northern Phillip Smith and Romanoff Mountains also humbles us. How easily and quickly this emotion would disappear if Route 66 happened to rip down this valley. Standing here, that seems impossible. At the same time, we remind ourselves to never, never take this landscape for granted. Another lesson from the old man: “if you work hard for something it will mean much more.” Well then, this hike will qualify as the highlight of the year.

Six days earlier we touched down at ‘Grassers Bar’ on the Hulahula River, in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, 15 miles north of the continental divide. Landing is rough on the narrow, unimproved, gravel strip. The Maule fixed wing airplane lurches to a stop. After unloading, the plane disappears over the distant horizon. Deep silence pervades except for the nearby river riffle, more lullaby than noise. Hulahula was named by the whalers of the early 1900s who spent winters whaling in Hawaii. I guess whalers pined for equatorial climes rather than the chilly Beaufort Sea. Hiking, hunting and rafting make up common goals of most visitors landing on the river now.

Weather is rather Hawaii-like upon our arrival, and we’re overdressed. All of our clothing is Patagonia. Our winter/ summer wilderness racing and treks have proved that light, dependable, versatile and comfortable gear is a necessity. Our arctic ensemble begins, on the outside, with a breathable rain shell as the primary barrier against the elements. Beneath it are Capilene turtle neck and undershirt. On the bottom are shorts, tights and rain pants. For sleeping we have a ‘Puff Ball’ jacket, turtleneck, extra socks, gloves, a couple of balaclavas, sleeping pad, and a two person bivy bag. We’ll cover the 250 miles in Montrail shoes, liner sock, Gore-type sock, outer sock, and gaiter. Due to thousands of stream crossings our feet will be wet, but not cold, while we’re hiking. We’ll dry our dogs at night. Food is generally high fat, yummy, ready-to-eat fare. We’ll heat water in our one water bottle over a meager camp fire for hot drinks and dehydrated potato mix. Steve

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brought his home caught and smoked King Salmon, and killer cookies (the size of his head). One night he caught me cookie plundering while I thought he was passed out (a Cookie Monster in the bivy sack). Caloric intake will be about 5,000/day.

Caloric expenditure will be substantially greater. The result?

The famous Brooks Range diet: hike 35 miles/day, add a couple of mountain passes, sprinkle with insufficient food; lose weight. Piece of cake, so to speak.

Stripping off clothes, and clad only in shorts, t-shirts and shoes, we immediately head for the 6,000’ pass that crosses the highly glacier laden Mount Chamberlin ridge system and drops into the Canning River headwaters. We stumble upon a camping sled in the tundra. It’s a 15’ long snow machine sled with a Plexiglas window, door, Coleman stove, and assorted gear. A bear has done some housecleaning and redesign.

Much of the gear has been destroyed by claw and tooth.

Leading to the pass is a slot canyon in the smoothed and slick Lisburne Limestone. Rushing water in the upper slot is cold, but warm air, sun and quick pace offset intermittent foot numbing. Fossilized horn coral and colonial coral heads two feet across are common, as are broken crinoids. But a rare

fossilized fish is my grand prize. When these limy coral reefs were deposited some 325 million years ago the shallow waters of the warm seas would be just over my head. Now uplifted, this dramatically layered limestone is stacked thousands of feet high. During those early Paleozoic times, animals making up vast coral reefs around the world began to pull carbon dioxide (CO2) from the Earth’s atmosphere, locking it up in reef systems. CO2 fixing, in concert with increasing numbers of oxygen-producing green plants, changed atmospheric composition and paved the way for oxygen-sucking humans like us! Similar durable, marine-deposited rocks occur near the top of both Mt. Everest and Denali (uplifted 10s of thousands of feet above the seas that spawned them).

At our first night’s camp we marvel at our luck in seeing a wolverine slowly but deliberately rooting around in the tundra.

For dinner we polish off the arm-size sub sandwich that I had constructed in Fairbanks. It took a beating in my pack, but tastes far better than it looks, particularly as it was the end of catered deli food.

Sergeant Steve shakes me: it’s 4:00 am and sleepy time is over. The local ground fog must be slowing my synapses,

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Walking across the Brooks Range takes the obvious toll. but I soon realize we need to get moving. Steve was always better at math, but even I understood that we had to average about 35 miles a day and walk briskly for some 15 hours a day to make it to Anaktuvuk Pass in our remaining seven days. That will still give us plenty of time for lots of pictures, and a luxurious hour break at midday for writing notes and map annotation, to rest legs, and maybe a short snooze in the sun. We decided against a GPS in favor of 1:250,000 scale topographic maps. A map is a book on one page, showing the landforms, shapes and drainage patterns, and they are always fascinating and instructive for understanding the country.

We ditched the satellite phone for reasons that are endless.

Like most animals in the Brooks Range, movement and migration comprise the greater part of our daily life. So we klink and klunk our way down the cobbles of the Canning River and over a 4,000 foot pass to the Marsh Fork of the Canning River. During too much of that time I pontificate on the spread of ancient seas and deposition by huge rivers of tens of thousands of foot thicknesses of sand and gravel that would morph into hard rock. I mutter about tectonic plates, and kilometerthick thrust sheets. I also discuss some of the escapades of my wayward, nubile college daughters, Alexis and Kirsten. Not to be outdone, Steve relates recent sagas of Max and Ivan, his pre-adolescent boys (though I always described Steve’s boys as feral children because long-time exposure to similar Alaska playgrounds allows these modern children to revert to ‘wild things’ when on our outings.) And Max and Ivan showed their stuff last year in ‘Gates’, when we covered 60 miles in seven days At camp every evening and morning while we rested, they built dams, created caribou antler forts, tried to ambush ducks, and spear unsuspecting fish. Steve and I recapture some the same youthful exuberance, excitement, and abandon, on our trek-time together.

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On a game trail between the Canning forks, Steve spied some bear prints in the tundra. ‘These are exactly like the scrapings that I’ve seen brown bears dig out on Baranof Island. These depressions are made by brown bears for marking their territory. And they are not impressions resulting from repeated passings, as some biologists claim.” Some years ago Steve showed several sets to naturalist Richard K. Nelson of Sitka. Nels agrees, so that’s good enough for me.

I pause long enough to capture yet another image of a kilometer-scale chevron fold, which looks like a sergeant’s stripes, and a fault in this 390 million year old Devonian Kanayut sandstone and conglomerate. These low angle thrust faults are now silent testimony to the violent birth of the Brooks Range.

Two hundred million years after these kilometers-thick sands and gravels were deposited by ageless, powerful, sweeping braided streams. They were then deeply buried, and the resulting rock was shoved north 100 kilometers, forming a large part of the Brooks Range. This mountain building now forms the backbone and continental divide of North America from the Bering Sea to south of Mexico. I get out of hand, and begin yammering about juxtaposed allochthons, but my captive audience looks delirious so I knock if off for a while. To bring him back I ask which trip is more difficult and dangerous: this one or our hike on the Appalachian Trail 35 years ago. Not a lot of discussion on that one, Steve agrees it was our first trip; outfitted with blue jeans and cotton sleeping bags, when we weathered wet snowstorms, hypothermia, with never-saydie teenage optimism. We laugh half way to the next pass.

Our stress level is high during today’s mountain pass traverses because rain, fog, wind, low clouds, and poor visibility obscure all reference points, like seeing under water. But a little fear is healthy, teaches humility and respect, erases the cancer of arrogance, and pops the bubble of hubris. For us,

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it taps and develops our collaborative wilderness savvy. We feel vulnerable, and consider options, percentages and safety.

Whether a high pass will ‘go’ is never a certainty, particularly in Lisburne Limestone bedrock. Knife-sharp, contorted, massive limestone beds commonly form cliffs, and often spawn waterfalls. Here in the continental divide vicinity, the topographic paradigm has shifted, and high passes commonly end in insurmountable headwalls.

The final set of passes (5,900 and 5,200 feet) take us past Cocked Hat Mountain, across the headwall glacier of the Nanushuk River, then up and over to Graylime Creek. Then we’ll pick a route between Alapah (cold in Inupiat) Mountain to the north, and the Yosemite-like, 1,500-feet-high vertical face of Limestack Mountain to the south. Cocked Hat is phenomenal, and looks surreal as the upper peaks are enveloped in roiling dark gray clouds. The massif is a ½ mile wide structure of wildly folded, layered limestone. The 1,000 foot pinnacles forming the north and south flanks are the upturned brim of a gargantuan hat-like form, the center of which is a grand, barren valley, such that some Brooks Range giant might use as a throne. But thick heavy, stinging and pelting rain is falling; the ceiling falls along with it. Full foul-weather gear graces our ensemble for the remainder of our trip.

The good news: the final 1,000 foot head wall is not routestopping Lisburne, but soft, black, fine-grained pieces of Kayak Shale. The bad news: the 40 degree slope is an elevationgaining nightmare. Each step up is a ¾ slide back down, and we’re in a pea soup fog with occasional sleet. I send the climbing machine ahead, and Steve begins sending small landslides downward to their new angle of repose. Finally across the pass, the west side is more of the same, but it now makes for a soft, euphoric descent. The sea-blue ice of the Nanushuk glacier is intimidating without crampons. Strewn

about the ice are bleached bone piles and chunks of caribou fur. Many probably slipped on the ice, jammed into it, and broke a leg. There are an alarming abundance of skulls and bones. Birds and other small animals have contributed to this eerie graveyard. Uninterested in joining the locals, we carefully pick our way across the rivulet-dissected, slick surface.

Nearly at the second pass, the fog clears momentarily, revealing a view of our descent from the previous pass. Across the mile-wide cirque valley head we see our zigzag descent line in the steep slope of soft black shale. North of our descent line, just two hundred feet, is a huge shear vertical face which we would have encountered with a slightly different choice of route. Survival is all about paying attention to details, as well as some luck. From my childhood, I remember another reminder from ‘Big Bob’s’ litany: “you make your own luck.” I believe it more than I disbelieve it.

After a night of pelting, thick drops of cold, blowing rain we set out for our last pass: Anaktuvuk Pass. Over the last 20 years I have spent many weeks working in this friendly town located in a storybook-beautiful valley with snow capped mountains accessible in every direction. Snow is falling on the peaks right now. After seven days of superb weather, our eighth is clearly August.

We walk quickly and closely, knowing that in seven hours the gripping spell of the Brooks will be broken. Too soon daily life will ring just a little hollow in comparison to our time in the ultimate mountain range. Sure, we’ve seen some bear, lots of caribou, a porcupine, and even the rare wolverine, but we’ll take home much more.

Geology, like a lifetime, begins with the primordial core of igneous bedrock and birth: igneous is the elemental material, as is genetics, sedimentation is layers of experience and childhood development, and finally metamorphosis is the

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hard-knocks molding of adulthood. Time changes everything, including rock and flesh. Initially, the layering of strata and human emotion form a myriad of dimensions and depths that reach down to the impressionable core. Some layers are hidden and unknowable, some puzzling, some weak, and some prominent and resistant to change. We can divine their cryptic meaning by turning a stone or turning a memory. Earth history and strata are revealed by seismic investigations. Cerebral layering is infinite and more delicate, and by peeling that infinite onion, we can discover personal nuances.

Socrates wrote, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Another notable quote is, “lack of fear breeds complacency.” Both apply to the powerful silence and difficulty of eight days and 250 miles in the un-trailed Brooks. After sharing 50 years of mundane and exalted times, as well as the nadirs of life, we have metamorphosed into imperfect adults. Time away from distractions, from electronics, and from inane demands that flatten emotions, is a cherished gift. Self and familial examination develops easily and honestly with a trusted and unconditionally loving brother. While aware of the other’s foibles, each seeks understanding and strength in the strong bond.

Be it fear, risk, temptation to quit, or even love, I never have a strong emotion grip my mind and body without feeling the strength created from an infinity of intense, fraternally shared memories. Our Brooks Range trek together has created yet another timeless layer.

Rocky Reifenstuhl came to Alaska in 1977 when big-brotherSteve insisted it the most inspirational place to live. After two seasons in southeastern Alaska, Rocky moved to Fairbanks where he was raised by his wife, Gail and their daughters, Alex and Kirsten. Rocky has completed remote geologic mapping in every part of Alaska, particularly the Brooks Range, as a field geologist. He has raced the Iditarod Trail and Yukon Quest Trail by bike and foot for 20 years (winning 8 times), medaled in biking championships, at State, National, and World venues, and currently races for Bianchi. Rocky and Steve continue to love their wilderness treks after 40 years, and have no plans to stop. Rocky has written nearly 100 geology publications, and has also written for Velonews, Bicycling, Mountain Bike Action, Alaska, and Bike magazines.

750 miles, all with Rocky. Ocean kayaking and ocean kayak racing are also Steve’s passion.

Purity of Purpose

by Steve Reifenstuhl

Determining what to carry on a trip through the Brooks Range is both a practical and philosophical matter. Our approach is minimalist—leave as much of civilization behind as possible. Many accoutrements allow for comfort and security but are not necessary. And so for us, no satellite phone, no stove, no global positioning, and no sleeping bag. To pull this off with reasonable and manageable risk, several things are critical: experience, knowledge, and good gear. In practical terms minimalism allows us to cover hundreds of miles because we have less weight and can travel faster. Commitment to an expedition with little in the way of backup heightens awareness, develops a deep respect and connection to the land and cultivates a sense of purity.

This approach isn’t for everyone. The Brooks Range is remote, once dropped off at a gravel airstrip on the Hulahula or Kongakut Rivers and overland trekking begins, the closest person may be a hundred miles away, and you might not even know it, so they might as well be a thousand miles.

Most visitors to the Brooks Range go with a rafting company down one of several large rivers that bisect the range. All carry satellite phones, sleeping bags, stoves, global positioning systems, and the necessary gear to be comfortable. Professional guides also have years of experience and knowledge of the region. For the vast majority this is the safe and comfortable travel plan.

Steve Reifenstuhl came to Alaska after college in 1974. He lives in Sitka, works as a private-sector salmon biologist since 1978, is married with two boys: 14 and 16 years old. Steve has spent extensive time in remote areas of Alaska with only minimal gear. He moonlights as a Patagonia product tester (15 years), is a member of the Montrail Racing Team and has competed in races of one kind or another all his life. Steve has the Iditarod Trail Alaska Ultra Sport Race foot record (from Knik to McGrath, 350 miles: 4 days, 15 hours), and has won it 3 times. Steve and his brother, Rocky, have won the Alaska Wilderness Classic 3 times – twice across the Wrangell/St. Elias Mountains and once across the eastern Alaska Range.

Steve has made six trips to the Brooks Range, covering some Alaska Adventure Stories •

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! mHAMPI vʵ

heart can be measured not by who

she raced but by who she inspired.

“Quit” may not have been in Susan Butcher’s vocabulary. Fortunately, “kind” and “compassionate” were. Her legacy is more than the four Iditarod championships and 12 top-five finishes in 16 races. In her memory, her family is developing the Susan Butcher Family Center at Providence Alaska Medical PROUD SPONSOR OF THE IDITAROD FOR MORE THAN 25 YEARS.

Center in Anchorage as a special supportive place for children to go while a parent is being treated for cancer. Alaska Airlines is proud to support the spirit of this champion. If you’d like to help, go to www.susanbutcher.com.

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The Mysterious Disappearance of

“Wild Bill” Shannon

By Tom Walker

On January 27, 1925 the U.S. Marshall in Nenana hammered on the cabin door of “Wild Bill” Shannon and begged his help in an emergency run to Nome.

A

Nome doctor reported an initial case of diphtheria, an often-fatal contagious disease, in one of his patients.

Dr. Welch telegraphed Nome's plight to the outside world. Governor Bone decided that the quickest way for the serum to reach Nome was to ship it by train from Anchorage to Nenana, then by dogteam on to Nome. Between the two towns lay frozen rivers, tundra, forest and a few scattered villages. During winter, the only people to travel the frigid miles between Nenana and Nome were dog mushers who delivered mail to the villages. Twenty mushers teamed up for the relay race to save Nome from a deadly epidemic.

Without hesitation, Shannon agreed. After midnight on the 28th, with the temperature close to minus 60°F, a railroad conductor handed Bill Shannon the insulated, 20-pound cylindrical serum package for the first leg of the relay. Shannon left Nenana with nine dogs on the 52-mile trip to Tolovana. Less than 24 hours later the frost-bitten musher reached Tolovana and handed the cylinder off to fellow musher Edgar Kalland. Three of Shannon’s dogs perished in the effort from frost bitten lungs.

Thanks to these stalwart mushers, the serum package reached Nome in five days, seven and a half hours. After the serum thawed, Dr. Welch inoculated the population, thereby averting the crisis. The quarantine was lifted on February Alaska Adventure Stories •

21st, one month after the first diphtheria symptoms appeared in a six-year old boy.

The emergency mush to Nome captivated the country. All of the mushers became world-renowned. Bill Shannon, his wife Anna, and their seven dogs were all booked on a year's lecture tour of the States where they were feted like heroes. Touched by celebrity, Shannon announced at the end of the tour that he was leaving Alaska and taking his surviving dogs to Hollywood "to enter the movies." Stardom, however, eluded the man who was "blackened and scarred with the frost and (showed) the intense strain of the biting cold." In less than a year he was back in Alaska again grubbing for gold.

Willard J. “Wild Bill” Shannon came to Alaska as a sergeant with the Fourteenth Infantry and after mustering out, he became manager of the N.C. Co. store in Nenana. Gold fever drew him into the Kantishna district where he became a well-known prospector and miner. In June of 1920, he and Anna staked lode claims near Slippery Creek. The next year Bill and his brother Edward found gold and copper ore there, each staking additional claims and a five acre headquarters site. Shannon and a group of Kantishna oldtimers soon reported the discovery of “large deposits of copper, cinnabar, and antimony on ledges traceable for over 12 miles.” Their news sparked a small stampede.

Although shy, the brown-haired, blue-eyed

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Anna could be coaxed to tell her own stories of wilderness exploits. One story Anna recounted was of an incredible journey around Mt. McKinley. Early one spring, the Shannons left their cabin in the Kantishna on a three-week prospecting trip through Rainy Pass. An early break-up caught them in the mountains and forced them to abandon their sled and non-essentials. One by one the dogs died. They struggled on foot through deep, melting snow. With the rise in spring temperatures the mosquitoes hatched and attacked in dense clouds. The wind offered only the briefest respite with sleep impossible on calm nights. Under the constant assault Anna feared for her sanity. Emerging on the southeast side of the Alaska Range, the Shannons lost the trail but battled on through vast, nearly impenetrable alder thickets. They built crude log rafts and risked their lives to cross surging rivers.

In mid-June, with their food exhausted, their faces, arms, and hands bleeding from countless mosquito bites, the Shannons stumbled into a cabin on the Yentna River. The meager food they found there saved their lives. Three weeks later they reached a mining camp on Dollar Creek in the Cache Creek district. After a few days rest and treatment they walked into the railroad town of Talkeetna. Anna estimated that in three arduous months they had traveled 600 miles.

“All I know now is my mind was full of just one idea - to get out!” she later said. A year after his leg of the Serum Run, Shannon reported "staking extensive deposits of high grade silver bearing copper ores, carried in a vein two hundred feet wide...and quicksilver ore immediately north of Mount McKinley...the field is practically unexplored." Again, the wealth he sought eluded him.

In 1937, Shannon discovered gold on the left

limit of Muldrow Glacier, about six miles south of Mile 75 on the Denali Park road. Territorial Assayer William T. Burns examined it and found values ranging from $7.10 to $115.30 per ton. The higher figure meant fabulous wealth to the discoverer. A few months later Bill Shannon disappeared.

Shannon’s wife and friends feared that he’d been killed by a grizzly bear. He’d had close shaves before. On one hike to his mine Shannon saw his pack dog suddenly stop and whirl around with raised hackles. Shannon swung around just in time to shoot a grizzly bearing down on him. He credited the dog with saving his life.

While locating claims on Slippery Creek in 1941, Cora Mitchell, Ole Fisher and Charles Brown found hewn stakes lying on the riverbank.

Suspecting foul play, they summoned Deputy U.S. Marshall John J. Buckley and an ensuing search turned up scattered human bones. Later, Shannon’s widow identified a rifle, shovel, pick, part of a pack sack and articles of clothing as belonging to her late husband. His brother, Edward Shannon, was summoned from Honolulu Station, where he worked for the Alaska Railroad. Somehow he identified the remains as his brother. Because the bones were in an open, treeless expanse of tundra, Buckley placed the cause of death as “exhaustion and exposure.”

One paper asked the right question: “Who really knows what happened to Shannon? Just another man lost to the great alone, in the great lonely region that claimed many unknown men, their dogs the only witnesses to tragedy.”

Tom Walker lives near Denali National Park and is a full time freelance writer and photographer. He is currently at work on the companion volume to Kantishna: Mushers, Miners and Mountaineers.

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Words and art by Doug Buchanan Alaska Adventure Stories •

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You meet the nicest people out where everyone goes to

y a w a t e g

m o r f

h c a e .

other

I was amused to once encounter a person who used a plastic bucket lid to attract moose, which to me sounded like a plastic bucket lid scraping brush.

Either I am of insufficient auditory acuity,

. e r a e s o o or m I showed up at Secret Creek, in the far north, and the water was lower than I had ever seen it in the last 117 years.

That is low. I may not have seen it most of those years, but neither has anyone else, because it is Secret Creek. I recognized right from the get-go that I would be digging trenches through the rocks to get back down the creek if I had a moose load in the kayak. I was a little worried about getting up the creek with the load of 4 bottles of fine wine I was carrying. Pay no attention to the photos that have plenty of water. I did not take photos of the really shallow areas where the creek fans out over rocks, or tumbles through them, because I was occupied with the kayak. I am not an astute photo person. All the good photos are left out in the woods.

After a chit chat with the two women from Haines, who were doing the same thing I was, but with a raft and more sense in regard to the shorter distance they intended to go upstream, I was off on the trudge along the muddy bank that is usually under water.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth along the incessantly back and forth loops of Secret Creek meandering through paradise graced with golden-leafed autumn birch trees in a hunter green spruce forest.

Things did not look promising with an unusually large number of black bear tracks trampling the usual large number of wolf tracks, and an abject dearth of moose tracks. The competition was serious. Fortunately I was not hunting the tracks.

At the first sharp rock riffle where any wise person would recognize the hard work and threat to a boat coming back through the rocks with a load, I encountered a couple of just

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such people. We chit chatted by their nice morning camp fire, mostly telling bear stories. You meet the nicest people out where everyone went to get away from each other. It was good moose habitat, a place to hang out and hunt. Lacking such wisdom, I continued on, as usual.

I was soon beyond any human competition, what with dragging my kayak over enough rocks to turn back those made timid by good sense. The large fallen spruce tree, completely crossing the creek, would stop anyone too impatient to saw through such a tree, not portage around it, and not able to squeeze under it like did I. If the water rose while I was upstream, I would have an easier return, until I reached that tree.

I spotted the first old fossil bone about mid day, a bison atlas vertebra at the water’s edge, barely showing above the rocks.

Only a few steps beyond it I decided to go back to make sure it was not the piece of wood I first suspected. It was not. Of course that enticed me to keep watching the rocks at my feet,

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to find more cool fossil bones, while the mooses in the trees watched me stumble by.

At the first cliff area the peregrine falcons greeted me, as they have each year, and put on a bit of a flying show, as usual.

After the traditionally laborious first day of effort I reached my traditional first camp, which is inviting to anyone, nicely prepared. Not a stick out of place, indicating the otherwise probability that no one had been in the valley since I left last year. I had the tent up and was sitting in a chair, with a glass of wonderful Downing Family Zinfandel well before the warm sun threatened the horizon. I casually strolled about, spiffing up the area, as humans do around their habitations, and listened to the critters back in the trees.

Enjoying in the warm dry weather I was cognizant of the already low creek, and the possibility of it getting lower. I wanted to know just how low it might get at what rate. For just such analyses I had brought a water level gauge I had made from angle aluminum, painted white and red every inch. I stuck it in the creek, out in the calm water of the beaver semi-pond in front of my camp, placing it solidly down in the rocks. It is barely visible above the kayak in the photo.

The beaver came out in the evening, and made known their annual irritation at my presence by slapping the water a few

dozen times throughout the night. Apparently they were sufficiently miffed at my intrusion that they dug up my water level gauge and added it to their trophy room. It was gone in the morning. That was a cool little home-made water gauge that I had carefully painted and numbered. I would have been miffed with their absconding with it if I had not considered what I might do if some rude intruder put something in my front yard.

I left the old atlas bone at that camp, to pick it up on my return trip. Bad enough carrying bones without meat down stream. Upstream was out of the question.

Off to the next camp, on a crisp, frosty morning. Trudge, trudge, trudge through the sunny warm day. Black bear tracks.

Wolf tracks. No moose tracks. And then a noticeable set of fresh grizzly bear tracks, dwarfing the black bear tracks. Fortunately they were going down stream, meaning that we had already crossed paths, amiably. I looked over my shoulder a few times as I trudged on. Secret Creek is a salmon spawning creek, and the bears know that.

The photos show the wolf, grizzly and human tracks, the tough guy predators in the valley, along with the black bears who attack humans as often as grizzles do so. Irritable lot around THEIR food, cubs, dens and other excuses.

The beaver trails from the creek to the willows are more

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friendly tracks, but the bears and wolves hang out where the beaver are. They taste better than spawning salmon.

I visited Larry Dodge’s old trapping headquarters camp at its secret spot along the way, as I do each year. Larry stopped trapping several years ago. Things were in their ongoing stage of entropy, slowly sinking into the moss. In the future it will be an archeological site. The sod roof house was still in reasonable shape. A couple large spruce trees had fallen down in front of the house. Another tree had fallen directly over the house, but was wedged above the roof between two trees. Old moose antlers where being chewed by squirrels. If anyone sees Larry Dodge of Alaska, rumored to not be online, tell him to stop by to see Doug Buchanan when he is in Fairbanks, sose we can tell some stories I have collected from his previous neighborhood of no neighbors.

My traditional second camp, moose jaw camp, with two moose jaw bones still laying there from one of these stories a few years ago, was ready for my arrival, unaltered since my last departure. The tent, chair and wine routine was effected with the efficiency of much practice. Well of course I was diligently looking for moose. I was moose hunting.

You never know when you might spot a moose sneaking up behind you, in the reflection on the wine glass. I kept my eye on the wine glass, and occasionally leaned back in the chair to watch the red tailed hawks spiral high above in the thermals.

My friends the wolfs were back in the trees that night, talking to each other in signal-like short barks. Not sure what they were saying about me, but some guesses might be accurate.

The morrow was another post card picture perfect day, rather pleasant for a leisurely creek-side stroll, kayak in tow, for a gentleman on a hunting adventure. I was not sufficiently patient for a moose to make tracks to me. I was making tracks to him, if he was upstream anywhere. Passing one of the permafrost and ice lens cut banks below an old hummock and black spruce bog, I spotted an odd shape in a large chunk of ancient moss that tumbled to the creek on the other side. I waded over, kayak in tow, and pulled a prehistoric moose antler from the long-compressed and still ice-saturated thick mat of moss. Just a small base section as usual for old moose antlers. I put it in the kayak to carry upstream. Well, maybe it would attract another moose, somehow. One of the cut bank photos down the page a ways shows the side of an ice lens back under the dirt and sticks and moss.

Having dragged my kayak over too many very shallow areas of rocks, I decided to stop on the third day at an interestAlaska Adventure Stories •

ing place I have previously wanted to camp, short of previous high camps. This was far enough upstream for such low water conditions. I settled in, and selected from the kayak wine hold a bottle of luscious Lamborn Family 02 Zinfandel. From my camp chair I watched a mature bald eagle land on the top of a nearby spruce tree, in the reflection of my wine glass.

The next few days were what any well-appointed moose hunting adventure would want scheduled. No moose. The arrival of a moose would demarcate the end of the moose hunting adventure. I wandered upstream and downstream and back through the woods, and sat around in camp.

On an upstream day the annually traditional lone Canadian goose flew by, looked at me, honked, and continued on, the only one on this trip.

Why each year I encounter one lone Canadian goose on Secret Creek may be made known to me at some time, or not.

The resident beaver living in the beaver house across the creek from my tent were most cultured, slapping the water only a couple times at the start of each evening, as a greeting, without any further annoyance. There was some slightly noticeable beaver talk between the two beaver of the house, which is a low muffled staccato sound comprised of all vowels and produced in one’s throat without opening one’s mouth. Sort of like alternating chuckling and crying, sort of.

In contrast, the louder snuffling of the two otters that passed by on occasion was more of a nose sound influenced by water.

The quizzical otter found me as entertaining as I found them.

We spent some time visually analyzing each other. I tried to snuffle to them, but they ignored my effort. The Nine Merganser Show arrived each day at Show Time. They cavorted back and forth in front of me, on the creek. They would lower their heads into the water and scoot forward looking for fish, or just demonstrating their skills, then raise up and flap their wings to stand on the water. Three or four of them would occasionally do a whirlwind act in the middle of the group, causing the others to hastily flutter out of the way. And in time they would either paddle away upstream or drift into the fast water below camp and be swept away. At the times they flew by, they dipped low over the tent, fully aware that the distinctive sound of nine mergansers flying fast in tight formation was startling.

On two occasions a thunder storm rolled through, one with a sudden deluge of hail of such magnitude that I was concerned about the strength of my tent fabric. Hail was bouncing on the ground, like popping popcorn. It did not last long, and was

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good entertainment. Spectacular rainbows appeared, with color depth beyond the refinement of my camera.

It was on that upstream day, with my kayak, self limited to only ten loops to avoid going too far over too many shallow riffles, I decided to push into a little side slough I had not prior investigated, on the steep bank side of the creek. They usually go only a few kayak lengths, and are cluttered with brush.

I pushed into this one, to discover just that. I got out of the kayak, climbed up the bank, and walked around. The adjacent beaver dam was well constructed. The pond was surrounded with ideal moose habitat and dense brush that obscured any chance of seeing a moose. Then I walked into the tall spruce trees on the high ground next to the creek.

I laughed. It was an old Larry Dodge out-camp, hidden as usual, complete with a bed springs cot, good shovel, yukon stove, bush saw, and an array of old established camp stuff that some might describe as trash and others might describe as artifacts. But it is he and I who therefore know where we might go some day if we want to dig a hole or sleep well along Secret Creek.

On a day around my camp, I wandered back into the adjacent tall spruce stand. A moose hunter normally avoids the tall spruce because the moose feed in the willow, alder, birch and open muskeg or beaver pond areas, not the spruce. Only moose tracks are in the spruce, but nobody knows how they get there. I walked into an old Larry Dodge out-camp, and a nice one. I laughed. Larry did some nice woodcraft, with wire and twine lashing, etcetera. It was such a nice place, and I was there a few days, hunting for moose, that I spiffed it up a bit, as these humans do where they hang out awhile. To escape the sun out by my tent I often took my camp chair back into that spruce-shaded, moss carpeted alcove. There, instead of golden leaves showering down with the breeze, there was an occasional spruce needle shower, of old needles. They make a different sound filtering through the branches. The squirrels there were silent, and went about their business in the branches above me, occasionally glancing down at me. I may return, just to sit in that beautiful place, with another glass of the aforementioned fine Lamborn Family Zinfandel, 02. I recommend it for such pleasant places.

The old sloughs of uplifted creek meanders randomly winding back from the creek, variously with and without puddles of water, ideal moose habitat, offered intriguing moose hunting those few days. Crossing the occasional dense spruce stands offered glimpses of boreal gnome trails through the soft green moss. Lacing around the inner curves of old creek loops were open patios of stunted birch and gray-green moss struggling to reduce old gravel bars to useful soil. In the future, suburban landscapers will duplicate such places for the back yards of the aristocracy, at great effort but much visual reward. Or let me know and I will do that for you, at great cost but much visual reward.

It was in just such a moss patio that I sat in my camp chair and enjoyed a fine JR Ultimate Number 1 maduro cigar, while hunting for moose of course. A cigar will sometimes attract a

moose. Not this time. The breezes brought waves of golden leaves rolling across the pebbled moss lawn, the one in the photo.

On a downstream walkabout I visited a long-established community beaver pond in an old creek loop with a sturdy beaver dam. Several beaver were in residence, and busy. Standing still in the tall grass next to the water a long time resulted in the beaver going about their normal activities within a few feet of me, sometimes looking at me a long time to try to figure out what I was. No moose there.

From my camp chair I could see four classic woodpecker holes in old snags. Hawk owls were evening visitors, distinctive on the tips of spruce trees. A Kingfisher commonly plied the creek. Large flocks of twitty birds occasionally crossed the creek between the golden birch trees on each side. Gray jays ascertained the food potential of my activities. Squirrels chattered throughout the forest, sounding alarms of nearby threats, or just chattering to chatter. There were occasionally breaking branches back in the woods. Large animals were around, and stayed out of sight. A wolf barked one night. On a walk-about a large goshawk came around some trees, low, at a fast clip and was as startled by me as I by her. Being hunters, she wished I was a rabbit, and I wished she was a bull moose.

It was on the narrow, well established bear trails through the spruce, and through the other trees along the high banks, that the scatberry displays were most picturesque, quite naturally. Scatberries, the quintessential symbol of berry season in bear country. If you are not familiar with scatberries, sometimes gracing beautiful green moss covered spots with rays of sunlight streaming though the trees and glistening off the clean round red surfaces of cranberries sprinkled through bear scat, they are just a visual accent among the many accents in the northern woods. Watch where you step. With bears eating berries in volume and haste, many berries survive the internal adventure intact, to emerge as survivors, not for those of limited artistic understanding, but not avoidable by anyone walking along bear trails during berry season. Cranberries are most noticeable, but the blueberries create a rich purple color. I have heard some berry eating bear stories before, but one by a bear hunter back near the road crossing Secret Creek on the first day of this trip, about a bear that ate so many blueberries that its meat was purple, was among the more accurate.

During one of those little passing storms I heard an audible gust of wind coming down creek. I looked up to see it come around the corner and grab a couple birch trees, rake off a cloud of golden leaves and explode them into the air. The leaves swirled in circles above the creek, then drifted down with the sudden calm as the wind passed by. The raft of golden leaves in the water slowly floated past me in the beaver pool creek, glittering in the sun streaming between the clouds. They spoke of the calm and pleasantry of the season, then reached the fast water and were swept downstream, each one racing away from those behind.

During these wanderings, amid flawless quiet at those times the birds were also listening, and my each step was placed

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in moss to be as silent, listening for moose of course, I would sometimes get close to a sudden and startling loud thumping as a hare would flee unseen through the forest, much to my amusement after the adrenalin subsided and I clicked the rifle safety back on.

One evening while sitting in front of the campfire I stood and offered a toast of fine wine to all the moose in the forest who had so graciously avoided me to therefore prolong the pleasantry of the hunt, as well as facilitate all that I was learning.

I watched mayflies or some such things above the creek, in the sunlight, fly up and down as though on a yo-yo string, drifting sideways with the breeze. Some would descend to the water and seemingly bounce back up for more vertical cycles.

Some stuck to the water, and shortly disappeared in the ripple of a feeding grayling.

Several of the nights brought spectacular displays of Northern Lights. I stood in awe outside the tent, looking up, not worried about any bears sneaking up behind me. They were watching the show also. These were not just lights in the sky.

The sky was flowing and dancing like a sea of brilliant waves above the stillness of the earth. Were it not for gravity I would have paddled my kayak up into them. I will attend to the gravity thing just as soon as I get around to overthrowing a few repugnant governments, first that of the US. Having leisurely concluded that all was as it should be for this area, watching some birch trees turn from green to yellow, and having savored a glass of Horizon’s Edge 02 On The Fence cabernet sauvignon by one of the evening campfires, the morning arrived to get outta there and go find a moose. I had a particular spot in mind, downstream, and leisurely set about the journey, bidding my beaver friends a good winter. It was a short trip, only a couple dozen loops down creek. I was thankful there was no moose in the kayak each time I drug it over rocks.

The short float included my paddling close to one high bank when a rather loud crashing noise immediately above me in the forest continued with such ferocity and approaching speed that I was to be seen frantically paddling with the effects of elevated adrenalin to reach the opposite shore and stand with my handgun in hand looking back at what was then silence.

Noises happen in the forest, and they can then sneak away unseen. For big noises, I recommend a large caliber hand gun.

The mere presence of a gun sometimes scares away frightening noises, as it apparently did in this case. It was later, by chance, on a walk-about from the nearby camp I made downstream, that I arrived through the trees at that spot. A large old rotted cottonwood tree had chosen to fall, toward the creek, in several broken pieces, through other trees. Big noises happen in the forest.

My new camp, set up before noon after my short trip, was at a comfortable place, common to my adventures on Secret Creek. I may camp there again. At this place there were moose tracks, among the bear and wolf tracks. I was soon in the chair position, tent up, too early and warm for a campfire, a stemmed crystal glass of the aforementioned Horizon’s Edge Alaska Adventure Stories •

wine in hand, and set about the task of looking for moose, sometimes glancing upstream, sometimes downstream. Moose hunting is arduous and not for those who are accustomed to leisure, but who appreciate it if they stumble upon it.

A walk-about the next day, downstream and upstream, appraised me of all that was in the area, or what little a human can recognize, including more moose tracks. A permafrost cut bank revealed no old fossil bones, despite my search. Immediately behind my tent, about 80 feet into the willow brush, were some fresh moose beds and two willow trees freshly scraped by moose antlers. Things were as they should be, except for the extent of area trampled by fresh bear tracks.

Enough days had passed to approach the time of the season that moose begin to notice other moose, and therefore a human can make the sounds of moose to attract the attention of moose. The humans are a clever lot. One can scrape various things against the brush to imitate a bull moose scraping the velvet off his antlers, which attracts bulls wanting to know just what other bull moose is in the area, and how big he is. A moose antler works well for this, and old shed moose antlers can sometimes be found laying around the area, but they are heavy and awkward to handle, so humans have a variety of more convenient things they think make the same sound when scraping willow and other brush or trees. I was amused to once encounter a person who used a plastic bucket lid, which to me sounded like a plastic bucket lid scraping brush, but in face of the story that it always worked for them, either I am of insufficient auditory acuity, or moose are. The traditional convenient and light item for making moose antler brush scraping noise, according to the stories I was told and therefore tell others, and what I use, is a moose scapula bone. The goal of the device is to most loudly resonate the sound of a moose antler with the least inconvenient item that one must carry. I recommend rasping off the fin and base edges of the scapula, as a refinement that makes it easily packed and handled.

Did I mention a few times why my moose gun kicks so hard?

Well, there being no moose in sight, and the camera was by my chair, so let me show you. Anyone else puts a padded butt plate on the stern of a 375 H&H Magnum rifle. I had some Dall sheep horns and no place to put them except a cardboard box, so I cut one up for an artistic rifle butt plate. A 375 H&H is the hardest kicking rifle caliber anyway, and mine kicks harder, to the belated delight of a sheep I once shot. That is why I am a tough guy, and why I do not shoot my moose gun very often, which I cannot afford to do anyway, what with the choice between cartridges or fine wine. You might notice that I finally put a scope on my 375, so I have reduced my available excuses for ever missing the target, like I may have once if you read that story, or twice.

A moose scraping the brush and trees, like those two large willows in the photo that was taken just behind my camp, is also referenced as rattling his antlers. Besides scraping the velvet of their new antlers, moose rattle their antlers as a challenge to other moose. The distinctive sound can be heard a ways. While moose can walk through forest without making

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a sound, in addition to rattling his antlers a bull who wants to be heard can noisily break a lot of branches when plowing his antlers through the trees. Trees do not appreciate beaver and moose.

Another moose sound is the traditional moose call, the grunting or “Ugh” sound, higher pitch for females, lower pitch for males, and with more lung capacity force than any half dozen humans. A megaphone assists with the latter. Therefore, roll a section of birch bark into a cone shape, using duct tape to hold that shape, like the one with brown duct tape, by the tent in some of the photos, and practice where nobody can hear you because they will laugh themselves to tears at your making a fool of yourself trying to make such an odd sound. I would tell you about the person who suggested a paper towel tube with a half circle piece of paper over one end, for a moose call, but my typing becomes erratic when I am laughing so hard.

They said it worked for them, indicating either their competitive intent to leave their listeners less likely to get a moose, or my ignorance of yet another dumb sounding idea that actually works, or again the auditory inacuity of moose.

However, if you make moose sounds too early in the season, you may scare away the smaller bulls with the more tender steaks, or cause wiser bull moose to walk to other areas to be away from another moose attracting bears and wolves. As you recognize, a successful moose hunter must learn extensive moose knowledge, or invent better sounding guesses when among moose hunting story tellers.

Long about four in the afternoon I decided to make one series of female moose calls, on account as there was nobody else in the valley to laugh at me. Then I started a small campfire, poured my afternoon half glass of fine wine, sat back in my camp chair, and watched for moose in the reflection of the wine glass. That evening I finished another gourmet meal of my prior meticulous preparation, conveniently just as it started

to drizzle a bit. I retired early, still occasionally glancing upstream and downstream from my comfortable supine position in my Stephenson tent, looking out the large side windows.

About 9:30 PM, still light enough to hunt moose but psychologically marginal, what with the drizzle and the thought of having to butcher a moose late into the night by headlamp, and a few other lazy thoughts, a bull moose called from a long ways down creek. And then from closer. And closer. A bull was coming upstream, looking for a fight with another bull, or maybe looking for a cow moose. My tent was in full view right in the way of where he was going to walk on the comfortable side of the creek.

I laid on my side, watching, and waited, with no intent of letting some moose interrupt my comfortable evening. I was not getting out of the tent. I could call him back in the morning if he was looking for other moose. By now the moose was just around the corner, loudly calling every few yards and walking with intent.

The first thing I saw in the dim evening light was two big white banner moose antlers at the dark tree line on the creek bank, coming my way. He quickly saw my tent, stopped, watched awhile, called and came forward with full intent to check out just what this thing was intruding on his path. I was impressed as he approached. He had at least a sizable 50 inch or more antler spread, which is a mid range large moose.

But then there was the time I shot what I thought was a 60 inch spread moose before I did not need so much measuring device to measure the antlers. But this one was big, precisely 50 feet away from my tent, on an open flat gravel bar, standing broadside to me, looking directly at me though the mosquito net large side window of my tent. After several minutes he walked over to my kayak at the creek, sniffed it, fortunately did not step on my paddle there in the photo with his tracks, turned around, walked back toward the tree line, closer to me, and stopped again to stare at me for another 5 minutes. Moose often stand still staring at things, listening, for long periods of time. I was as silent and still as I could be, cognizant of the sound of my breathing that I was certain the moose was hearing with its large moose ears.

It is of course the fondest desire of most moose hunters to have a large bull moose walk into camp where butchering it is most convenient, but it was late, and drizzling a bit, and a large moose would be a heavy kayak load for this low water year, and I was comfortable and I still had some fine wine I did not want to float back downstream and, well, you know how such astute reasoning can facilitate sloth.

The moose walked up to within 33 feet of the tent, leaving me looking up at him and wondering, then walked past and continued upstream calling for any bulls who might want to

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challenge his dominance. Perhaps he concluded that I and my kayak were just an inconsequential oddity along his path.

Interestingly the night was also alive with bird chatter. Things were dynamic. There was a Great Horned Owl trio in full hootfest mode. The deep four hoot series was clearly the main owl of the area. A higher pitch responding five hoot series alternated with another six hoot series on the other side of the four hoot guy. Some gray jays or yet undiscovered species of bird of significant size were making loud, complex sequences of sounds that bordered on the sounds made by chupicabras or saber tooth tigers, which would have caused me some concern if I did not have a round of 375 H&H in the chamber. Even the twitty birds were twittering that night. Most entertaining.

I was up early, efficiently made hot chocolate, enjoyed a delightful breakfast which included a few dried cherries the flavor of each being enhanced by their normally prohibitive cost. I made a small fire, and stood beside the bush beside my tent. I was going to call that moose back. I decided to start by rattling my moose scapula in the brush.

Eighty feet away just inside the willow brush behind my tent a moose rattled his antlers against one of the well-scraped willow trees in the photo, beside the fresh moose beds. I was amused. He had been there while I was dinking around with the camp fire and enjoying my morning hot chocolate.

I rattled the brush again, clicked off the safety and prepared to shoot a large bull moose emerging 40 feet away at the brush line.

Some time later I concluded that the bull moose was not interested in the oddity of his prior knowledge, and after announcing himself for the morning, had merely wandered away to go browse for the day, perhaps in the areas of the photos.

Therefore it was a nice day for some walk-abouts, and some sit-abouts. I did not find any fossil bones despite my casual search during the day. And I took some photos of areas beyond the creek sides, to clutter this page and inform the viewer of what one can be walking through in an interior Alaska creek valley, in the more walkable areas.

That evening I enjoyed the last glass of the Horizon’s Edge, paired well with a light Thai curry rice and vegetable arrangement.

Interestingly, that night was flawlessly silent. There was not even one bird chirp.

I was up early, efficiently made hot chocolate, enjoyed a delightful breakfast which included a few dried cherries the flavor of each being enhanced by their normally prohibitive cost. I made a small fire, rattled the willow beside my tent, and sat in my camp chair next to the fire.

After awhile, across the creek, back in the woods a ways, a bull rattled his antlers, and then rattled them again, closer.

I patiently waited. The moose was not in a hurry. Then the branch breaking started as the bull ambled toward the creek. I of course continued comfortably sitting in my camp chair at 8: AM, that being the logical reaction for a gentleman hunter.

A nice young bull, not the large one of the other evening, much to my good fortune, emerged at the creek bank, turned Alaska Adventure Stories •

broadside to walk to an easier place to cross, and I shot it from my camp chair, there in the photo somewhere below the clutter of these other photos. Did I mention that I flunked web slave school, but they kept me chained to the computer anyway?

Second only to a moose in camp, is a shot from one’s camp chair.

I paddled my kayak across the creek to the high bank, positioned my kayak on a grass step that was a remnant of an old slough exit at that spot, and began the day’s effort to butcher the moose. It was a cozy spot at the edge of the high creek bank about 5 feet above the water, in grass, surrounded by variously dense willow, alder, birch and spruce. An old slough pond was a few feet away, leading back among the trees, with a picturesque fallen log angled across it.

Did I mention no few hundred times that a person in Alaska and such places, especially if alone, always keeps their 44 magnum in their shoulder holster, on them, because if they walk to the creek to get water, or such things, the bear will emerge between them and their camp, no matter how short that distance.

I hung my 44 holster on the branch directly above the moose where I was working, even more convenient than on me.

After opening the carcass and pulling and pushing the large mass of guts out to an adjacent pile, therefore ready to start sectioning the meat, I walked to the nearby pond to wash my hands. Kneeling there in the tall sedge grass, my mind casually recognized that I had just heard somebody exhale, while I was inhaling. I was amused, looking up to look into the face of a black bear looking at me.

I looked over at my gun hanging in the tree. I laughed. The bear was quizzical.

I casually walked over and got my gun. The bear missed its chance.

And the bear adventure began.

I had a moose to attend to, a moose that the bear decided it would like to attend to. While I eat bear meat also, I had as many reasons, albeit different reasons, to not shoot the bear, as I had to not shoot the large moose in camp the other evening.

I had a moose to attend to, which would be enough weight for the kayak that I would already be struggling miserably to get back over many rock areas. During the last several days of wonderful weather, the creek had dropped a bit, making the shallow rocky areas shallower. But the bear expressed serious interest in acquiring MY moose.

So we started our discussion about MY moose, sometimes animated. We generally remained about 20 from each other. I explained to the bear that I eat bear meat. The bear indicated that it was partial to moose but would not pass up a convenient human in the bear’s dining room. During our discourse I would lunge at the bear and issue forth loud verbosities regarding my position in the matter. The bear would jump back at each such lunge, and usually therefore slink down in the brush and grass, disappearing from sight even at that close distance, sneaking around in an arc between the upstream bank and the downstream bank, trying to figure out its best position for further

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discussion, and learn what it could of my intentions. Sometimes the bear would approach a few steps closer in a somewhat open spot half way around the arc, where I would therefore lunge at it and offer innovative comments, loudly. Usually the bear went to the more open creek bank that did not have as many sticks in the way, but had high grass and willow to hide behind so the bear could sneak a bit closer to me before it was in full face view. I would lunge at it, mention my preference for its patience, and attend to cutting up the moose while the bear was silently sneaking around again. Each time it crossed the slough on the upstream side, the bear carefully walked across the fallen log. It did not want to get its feet wet, quite naturally.

It routinely sniffed the air, trying to locate the exact spot of the gourmet moose banquet somewhere so close to it. A few times the bear stood up at a spot it was in full view, and noticeably walked straight away from me into the forest. The first time I thought the bear had therefore concurred with my position in the matter. Next thing I noticed when looking up from my moose cutting task was a bear face on the close side of the bank willows. Each time I lunged at the bear, I was training it to recognize that I was only bluffing. I did not want to chase a bear a long ways back into the woods because it might beat me back to MY moose. The bear began taking another disconcerting step closer to me after my latter attempts to scare it away. Throughout the adventure, the bear was flawlessly silent, except for that first noticeable exhale. It did not even break a twig.

Our discussion lasted about 45 minutes. One particular moment came very close to my ending the conversation, but the bear stopped in time. A second time I concluded that I would have to shoot the bear so I could get the moose butchered, and would just have to butcher a bear also. It might have berry-fed purple meat, which sounds good to me. But I belatedly recognized a possible solution. The bear was upstream at the bank.

I politely suggested that it go back downstream one more time, and pointed several times. Not particularly convinced of my suggestion, and about 15 feet away this time, I picked up a short beaver-cut stick and threw it at the bear with a full face impact. That was a new development for the bear, who decided to accept my rudely emphasized suggestion that it should go try the downstream position again.

About the time it was approaching the downstream bank again, I pushed the moose gut pile into the creek, and pushed it downstream with my kayak paddle. The creek current was barely moving in that area. The bear emerged at the creek bank, looking at me as usual, and slowly came toward me, crouching in the long grass. At its usual close point it noticed something large slowly moving past it, down in the creek. The bear sniffed and recognized the source of its interest. Looking back at me one more time, it slowly tried to get to the floating gut pile without getting down in the creek. Climbing down on some brush and a log at the edge of the water, the bear had to get into the water, but promptly drug the guts into the creekbank brush a few feet farther away from MY moose and I. In the photo, I shot the moose from the chair. The yellow spot

is where the moose dropped. The red spots are the upstream and downstream positions of the bear when it was at the creek bank.

And therefore all was as it should be. The bear was dragging portions of the guts up into the grass and willows, enjoying its easily earned banquet, and I was a few feet away, out of sight behind the tall grass and willows, butchering the moose for the rest of the day until I was done at 4:30 PM. Yes, I looked up on occasion, and was wearing my 44.

The kayak therefore loaded with sacks of meat, I angled it downstream and paddled back across the creek, to my camp.

But now therefore I was close and in full view of THE BEAR’S remaining food pile in the creek, and the bear on the bank. The bear did not mind me a few feet away out of sight behind high grass and willow on its side of the creek, but in full view near THE BEAR’S food pile, I was now disconcerting to the bear.

Further, now I noticed her triplet of cubs. Perhaps that was why all the critters were so silent the previous night.

I considered it prudent to break camp and move downstream a ways for the evening. We all watched each other with close interest. They did not mind me up away from the water taking down my tent and packing things up. They were more attentive but did not mind me carrying things down to the shore beside my kayak in the water. But when I started loading my kayak, I was in the wading in the water, close, and not moving away.

The bear’s concern was visible.

The bear walked to an adjacent convenient crossing place a few feet downstream, and stood at a log extending from the bank. I kept efficiently loading the kayak. No haste was in order because I had a heavy load that had to be loaded properly for precarious water that was not always shallow or slow. The bear became impatient. When she finally walked out the short log and was about to step into the water to come over and escort me away from HER food, and perhaps add me to the pile, she hesitated when I loudly pontificated on the unwise nature of such a decision. But only hesitated. I was about to conclude that my earlier efforts would be for naught as I clicked the safety off my rifle and stepped forward to meet her in the water where I might more impress her with my tough guy attitude. In doing so I picked up a sizable rock at water’s edge and threw it the moment she put her leading paw into the water. The splash in her face caused her to step back, but only long enough for me to pick up another rock and throw it when she stepped forward again. The same reaction suggested the futility of my current plan, so this time I threw a heavy rock behind her, thumping on the bank.

That got her attention. She wheeled and was up on the bank again looking for the unseen threat behind her. While she remained perplexed and cautious, I continued loading the kayak. That is how the stand-off continued until I was finished, with a bit less of my normal final fine touches, before pushing the kayak out into the water, closer to the bears, and pulled it downstream past the bears who stood with greater attention until it became clear that I was moving away. They would shortly discover the additional pickings around the bone pile,

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especially the thick slices of fat.

What? Photos of the bears? None. Get a post card picture. I was doing what needed to be efficiently done, without delays or distractions. I did not even eat lunch. Next time there may be a photo person along. Photo people think of photos first. I usually think of them after the opportunity is gone, which saves film, or pixels.

Yes, I looked over my shoulder several times while paddling the moose-laden kayak past the next few steep banks beside the forest where big noises can suddenly attack.

Oh, the story the bear told?..... I can’t believe the extent of my patience, understanding and careful conjoling to get that ignorant human to share a bit of the food while he was butchering my moose.

I had to act like I was impressed with his pitifully laughable bluffs, which I would not have done if I had not sent the kids out of sight so they would not see me. Embarrassing. I should have just swatted him into the creek before he got his gun. I had been sitting there watching him 15 minutes before I introduced myself. He was doing a good job, but slow. Then when he got right out in full sight of the kids, they started asking why I didn’t run him away. What’s a mother to do when she has to train the kids how to be adult bears in the woods? He is alive today because he was wise enough to not take pictures, so he can’t prove a word of his tough guy story he is probably telling other humans.

Back to moose jaw camp late in the evening, and a campfire from wood already conveniently stacked for just such contingencies, the tent set up, sitting in my camp chair with a glass of Magito Zinfandel whose rich mouth-watering flavor tasted even richer, for some reason.

The campfire was warmer. The chair more comfortable, and the night sky was smiling with stars. I taried late and enjoyed every minute.

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That night the resident wolves barked back and forth on either side of my camp, discussing whatever wolves at moose jaw camp discuss at night. I think that may be their denning area or most comfortable home turf in the valley.

On the morrow it was a long way out, with many sweat-inducing struggles, digging several trenches in the rocks to push the kayak through. In the shallow pebble areas, after digging a trench I would push from behind until it was hopeless, then pull from the front until it was hopeless, then dig again, and so forth until hopelessness was overcome yet again, as usual. At one place I had to move large boulders for almost an hour, and then struggle. The creek had noticeably dropped. There is a reason the kayak is not moving in the loaded kayak photos. It is sitting on rocks, and I only have a still camera. I was repeatedly appreciative of my good luck for having not shot the larger moose or the bear. The kayak, lower in the water, but stacked higher, squeezed under the large spruce tree laying across the creek, quite fortunately. The fossil bison bone at first camp added to the weight, but a glass from the remaining Magito complemented lunch to lighten the load and enlighten the trip.

That is the photo of the atlas vertebra bone, the top vertebra against the skull, probably bison. So far all four of the fossil moose antler bases I have found were from moose with small antlers, like the one in the photo.

Then the toilsome meat cutting process started.

Hunting is the reason that hunting and gathering has given way to ranching and farming. My friend Richard often tells me that he is successful every time he hunts the grocery store, with little effort, and he gets airline miles on his credit card. I gotta figure out that credit card thing. •

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Hot Springs 100 i di d i di d

By Andy Seitz Two nights before the Hot Springs 100, a famous endurance athlete, Rocky Reifenstuhl, told me there are two types of “fun.”

“Type I fun” is outwardly fun, like a leisurely game of golf or a pleasant paddle down a river. “Type II fun” is the sinister cousin of the first, an activity that makes most people wonder why anyone would undertake such a seemingly absurd task, an activity that makes the participant question his or her sanity, an activity that spawns a vow by the athlete to never do such an idiotic deed again, until just past the finish line, when the activity suddenly and mysteriously transforms into fun.

Rocky told me to prepare for some serious Type II fun.

The Hot Springs 100 is a wilderness “trek” (I’ll use this term for insurance purposes) connecting Interior Alaska’s two developed hot springs: Chena Hot Springs and Circle Hot Springs. The only rules established by the trek organizer were: “1. No pack animals, 2. Carry out what you carry in, and 3.

No internal combustion engines, except for what God gave you.” The start and finish are approximately 100 km apart as the crow flies, but the total travel distance varies with a person’s chosen route and means of travel. Fifteen brave souls signed up to hike, run and/or float in creek bottoms, ridge tops, and rivers.

For the sake of speed, I opted to travel solo with minimal weight in my pack. I pared my gear and food down to a featherweight 13 lbs. This included a quart of water, an ample supply of junk food, and some waterproof clothing in case of inclement weather. The route I chose was perhaps the shortest possible between the hot springs. Out of Chena Hot Springs, I followed a rolling ridge towards Far Mountain, overlooking some spectacular scenery. After approximately 15 miles, the serious work began. The ridgeline dropped below tree line and I bushwhacked for hours through a series Alaska Adventure Stories •

of alder forests, shrubs, old burns and tundra tussocks. To increase the “challenge,” the mosquitoes decided to end their siestas as the cool of evening descended, and they came out in full force. Add to this the paranoia developed by not having bear spray or a firearm in the constant presence of bear tracks, and you have a true Alaska wilderness trek.

Despite the challenges, I made a good pace, crossing Birch Creek, the halfway point, after approximately 12 hours of hiking. I headed up the ridge across the river and followed it through the cool dawn hours of the next day. By 7 am the next morning, I was exhausted, but I was well past the halfway point and on pace to set a new course record, so my spirits were high. I forded Harrison Creek to an old mining road that would lead me to the finish line, where much to my dismay, I spotted fresh tracks made by someone’s running shoes.

Another competitor was ahead of me. There was only one thing to do: RUN! For the next few miles, I jogged up a steep gravel mining road as the sun began to blaze and potable water all but disappeared.

Just as I began to wonder if I could catch the person in front of me, I spotted my fellow competitor, Jim Lokken, at the top of a steep grade. Being gentlemen participants, we briskly walked the remainder of the course together. During these last few miles, I was extremely fatigued from walking and running nearly 70 miles non-stop through the Alaska Bush, seriously dehydrated from not drinking water for the last six hours of the trek, and my feet were a catastrophe of blisters, mud and blood. I swore up and down I would never undertake such a foolish activity again. But upon arrival at Circle Hot Springs nearly 25 hours after starting, I collapsed on the side of the dusty road and immediately started planning next year’s trek. I guess that is the Type II fun about which Rocky spoke.

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Cabin

Confidential Fairbanks dwellers have secrets.

By Kris Farmen Illustration by Tom Bagley

D

ave did not look like someone who would choose cabin life. His hair was cut and combed. He had the backward ball cap, the Patagonia fleece vest. His jeans and T-shirt were unripped, unstained. He was new to Fairbanks, fresh up from Anchorage.

He’d landed a cushy job at the university, where one of his coworkers suggested he move into a cabin. You know, to get the whole Fairbanks experience.

“So they tell me you guys are cabin hippies,” Dave said. “Do you have any, like, words of wisdom to offer me?”

Silence. Then a round of chuckles.

There were at least a dozen of us, hunkered around the fire like barbarians, clad in ragged Carhartts and unwashed flannel shirts. Collectively we represented at least 150 years of cabin experience.

If you don’t live in the Golden Heart City you may not even know the term “cabin hippies.” It’s Fairbanks slang for the feral people on the fringes of town who live in cabins with no running water. Many but not all are college kids.

The actual level of hippiness runs from sensi-puffing Rastas to pagan Earth mother-types, to Walt the retired Israeli commando who sits on his front steps polishing his guns and raving about oil companies, the Palestinians and the Es-

tablshment. I’ve lived next door to each of them.

A story floats around the cabin crowd, a Fairbanks version of an urban legend.

A college kid, newly arrived in Alaska, moves into his first cabin. He opens the cabinet under the sink and sees an open bucket of filthy slopwater, obviously forgotten by the previous occupant.

Shaking his head in disgust, he pulls the bucket out, tips it on the edge of the

when he remembers that he forgot to buy paper towels in town that morning.

He raises his fists and screams.

Next door his neighbor is on the porch with a couple of buddies, drinking an after work beer and picking a bluegrass number. They hear the scream and pause, looking at the outline of the newbie’s cabin through the trees. “I see he found the slop bucket,” the neighbor says. So begins another cabin dweller’s

“You’ll have to get used to using an outhouse.

I’m sure you can figure it out.” sink and pours it down the drain. He hears splashing below but thinks it’s just noisy plumbing—until he sees the awful liquid spreading over the floor, a stew of old coffee, pasta water, dish soap, and maybe some midnight urine. All too late it dawns on him that in fact there is no plumbing under his sink. And that’s

descent into savagery.

Okay, Dave, There are three constant problems when living in a dry cabin: laundry, showers and the always present call of nature.

When you move into a 16 x 20 foot box, you have to put your American pioneer ingenuity to work. The uniniti-

“People

like to cut their outhouse holes way oversize.

God only knows why.”

ated often suppose this involves rigging some McGyver-ish, gravity-fed water system, with a cool hand pump for the sink and a heater powered by a gerbil on a treadmill. No one ever does this.

It’s way too much work. And really, you owe it to your forebears to find more creative solutions.

Laundry seems like a no-brainer: you go to the laundromat. But at two bucks a load, it adds up. The best solution is to cultivate friends who have running water. You do a few chores for them, maybe sit their kids, put on a despairing yet stoic show of how tough it is living in a cabin, and presto you’ll hear the words: “Hey, come over and do laundry any time you feel like.”

Shower-savvy is an excellent measure of a cabin hippie. You can get by without a shower for at least a week. If you can’t smell yourself, you’re golden. But when the bacteria slicks in your armpits start to migrate, it’s time to get wet.

There are plenty of places in Fairbanks where you can hose yourself down if you’re willing to cough up three bucks a go. But no cabin dwellers worth their damp, moldy towels will stoop to

this level. Our secret?

The buildings of the University of Alaska Fairbanks campus hold a surprising number of shower rooms. There are the show dungeons in the William Ransom Wood student center, but the peeling paint, erratic hot water supply and the creeping mold on the curtains render them fit only for the desperate or ignorant. Then there’s the squishy mat of beard hair that covers the drains—and not just in the men’s showers. Patrons of the Wood Center showers are shambling evolutionary backsliders. Pity them and avoid the student center. There are alternatives.

Sometime in my junior year at UAF I heard rumors of beautiful, single-bay shower rooms tucked away in the shiny new science buildings, kept jealously under lock and key. My buddy Marco was even allowed into one. He told us about it one night over drinks at the Marlin. We all leaned in as he described a paradise of chessboard marble floors and gleaming brass faucets, with sublime lighting and Mozart piped in from hidden speakers. There was a botanic garden and renaissance statuary along Alaska Adventure Stories •

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the walls. Each toilet had its own bidet.

When Marco finished his shower and stepped out of the stall, a man in a powdered wig and 18th century servant’s livery offered him an Egyption cotton towel and robe.

But there was a catch. The professor who let Marco in vanished without a trace. Wild rumors circulated around campus about a black sedan rolling up to his office and men wearing suits and dark glasses escorting him away. “I can’t go back to the Wood Center!” Marco cried. “Not after what I’ve seen!”

His girlfriend gave him the flick after his fifth week without washing. Heartbroken, he took an apartment in town where he could shower whenever he pleased.

When I related all this to a friend, she grinned and whispered in my ear: There was a shower room deep in a building up on West Ridge. A private single shower room, with a bathroom next door. It was clean and only a handful of people knew about it. “The combination to the lock is written in pencil down near the bottom door hinge,” she said.

I’ve never been back to the Wood

Center. But I’m not going to tell you where this private show is, Dave. You haven’t earned it yet.

If you’re going to live in a cabin, you’re going to have to get used to an outhouse. They are pretty straightforward, really. I’m sure you can figure it out. You’ll be dropping your drawers and exposing your tender bits to the ravages of nature, from the bugs of summer to the 40-below of winter. But there are less obvious hazards.

My friend Julie used to live in a cabin off Murphy Dome Road that was built by a lesbian couple. The outhouse was the roomiest I’ve ever seen. You could really stretch out and get comfortable in there—if you were a girl. Out of either ignorance or or contempt, they didn’t cut a hole in the boards, they cut a slit about three inches wide by six inches long. This design was great for the fe-

crapper. Many times have I blithely sat down, only to end up screaming and clawing for purchase on the wall to avoid tumbling into the abyss. It’s even more fun when you’ve been drinking.

It’s no fun going outside every time you have to pee when it’s 40 below.

Cabin dwelling offers you the opportunity to live a live where the chamber pot is still cutting edge technology. Believe it or not, you can still buy old-fashioned ceramic chamber pots. Personally, though, I’m a fan of the Hills Brother’s coffee can. Just make sure you’ve got the lid down tight. And empty it every day. My friend Hank once had a coffee can full of three-day-old urine thrown at him by his girlfriend. Though he managed to duck, the can hit a tree next to him and exploded across his stunned face. It was actually a blessing. They started laughing so hard that they kissed and made up (after he had a shower).

opportunity to live “...the a life where the chamber

pot is still cutting edge technology” male anatomy, and I applauded their pioneer resourcefulness. However, for those of us with external parts, the slit didn’t provide enough room to get everything down into the hole that needed to be down in the hole. The design thwarted my every attempt, and I had to quit hanging out at Julie’s. I always left feeling whipped. The irony was not lost on me.

You may also encounter the opposite extreme: Some people like to cut their outhouse holes way oversized. God only knows why. Maybe they too have been through the ordeal of the lesbian

Fairbanks cabin living isn’t what it used to be. Twelve years ago when I gave up flush toilets, the Fairbanks fringe lived in cabins because they were cheap. You couldn’t get a place with running water for under 700 bucks a month, whereas a 16-by-20 foot cabin with a loft went for half that. Nowadays, though, folks are shelling out 600 bucks each month for that 16-by-20 box with an outhouse.

Worse yet, with cabin rent so outrageously high, some enterprising folks have bought up large tracts of black spruce bog around the edges of town

and started knocking up identical rental cabins left and right, one two-story blockhouse right next to another. The privacy of living in a cabin in the woods went out the window; now it’s like being in the suburban developments in Anchorage and the Lower 48. It boggles some minds that people would pay so much money to live without running water. Maybe it says something about the rental market in Fairbanks, but more likely it says something about the priorities of the renters.

The cabin barrios may be getting crowded, but they almost always have close access to the woods and ski and mushing trails. And really who needs running water? People lived without it for thousands of years. I’ve lived without it for most of my adult life. I do have internet access, though. And a DVD player. It’s like living out in camp but with all the cool stuff from town.

Besides, cabin living offers sublime moments you just can’t get in Anchorage. You come back from the outhouse on a sunny evening scratching mosquito bites. You get a fresh beer from the fridge and sit on the porch with your guitar, singing songs to the squirrels and camprobbers. It’s been a long day at work, but the rustle of the aspen leaves mingles with the music to sooth the jagged edges of your soul. When you’ve finished that second beer you light a fire in the pit out back and cook a steak.

Thunder claps the air from the south as you eat. You head back onto the porch as the rain pelts the metal roof.

When the deluge stops, the air is still, refreshed. Everything is soaked, but in the heat of the Interior summer sun it will be dry again in no time. You pause, taking it all in, the beauty of the boreal forest in full bloom. Then a scream cuts through the air, a banshee shriek of rage and bewilderment: “My sink drains into a *#!*ing bucket!”

Kris Farmen grew up in Anchorage, then lived in cabins on the outskirts of Fairbanks for almost ten years. He currently rambles around Alaska, surfing, working, hunting, and playing his guitar.

He still doesn’t have running water.

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If you get far enough away,

you’ll be on your way back home.

A few words and photos about driving to Alaska Images and text by Greg Sellentin.

North to Alaska

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There are times in life when you feel completely happy, with a sense of security and belonging that makes you at ease with yourself and the rest of the world. The feeling that you have finally found where you belong. Now is not one of those times.

The ABS is doing the rat-a-tat-tat and sounds like gunfire from a CNN clip of Baghdad. The ass-end of the F250 swings left, and finally falls back in line with the front tires, but not before swinging right to sample the shoulder on that side too. With the sun going down and the snow falling, we narrowly avoid the bison herd that is sauntering across the Alaska Highway north of the “town” of Watson Lake somewhere in the Yukon.

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After that encounter, I see moose, caribou, elk, sheep and buffalo around every corner, only to emerge in the headlights as trees, rocks or road signs, or in one case a road sign in the shape of a moose—a cruel trick indeed, dispelling the widespread belief that the Yukon D.O.T. has no sense of humor.

I decide to ratchet it back a bit and make it there in one piece.

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I have to hand it to my friend Rob. He has driven this trip “up the highway” for the last 17 years. He missed 1995, I think. If I have to drive it one more time, I’ll make it up the highway but my sanity and generally amicable demeanor will go up shit’s creek. This is not an easy drive.

Yesterday we crossed the continental divide in the Canadian Rockies during a snow storm. I guess all the toilets flush clockwise on one side and counter clockwise on the other, or something like that. Actually, the rain water that falls on one side flows to the Pacific, and if it falls on the east side it makes it way to the sewers of Newark.

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dtoworsefrombadtoworsefrombadtoworse frombadtoworse fro orse frombadtoworse frombadtoworsefrombadtoworsefrombadtow dtoworse frombadtoworse frombadtoworse frombadtoworsefro

from

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It was about forty below zero, and the blowing and falling powder snow would create a complete freakin white out when the big rigs blasted by. I figured out the best way to deal with it is to take a mental snapshot of the road as the trucks approach, then just steer from memory for about 15 seconds.

I got pretty good at this and didn’t have to let off the gas after some practice. “Onethousandone, onethousandtwo, turn wheel a bit to the right” The first few times were pretty harrowing, high pucker factor. After a while I was getting pretty daring and was taking photos of the big rigs as they approached

me. Probably be a law in Alaska soon; don’t photograph and drive.

What the hell is wrong with these guys anyway? I heard a news report that something like 75% of northern truck drivers are using drugs while working.

Great. I’m hallucinating from fatigue and boredom - ducking under bridges and flinching at highway signs that seemingly come out of nowhere. I can’t imagine the ghosts these guys are seeing. What ever happened to the good old days when the truckers just smoked a little of the mellow local grass and nursed a Labatts.

rombadtoworse frombadtoworsefrombadtoworsefrombadtoworse worse frombadtoworse frombadtoworse frombadtoworsefromb rombadtoworsefrombadtoworse frombadtoworse frombadtoworse

m bad to worse

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hang on st. christopher

True Story... When I was younger, my brother and I were driving into town with our grandparents in their car. We were sitting in the back seat. My grandparents are Italian and my grandfather didn’t speak the best English. They didn’t seem really religious, but they had a small plastic figurine of St. Christopher glued to the dashboard facing the interior of the car. I think I also recall a rosary hanging from it. I asked my grandmother why it was there, and she said it was for good luck while traveling. That was a good enough answer for me but my younger, slightly more irreverent, brother wasn’t satisfied with the answer. After a short pause to think about it, he asked “why don’t you turn him around so he can see the f***ing road?”

The natural scenery is so stunning it is hard to describe.

Up here, Mother Nature throws all her visual art-tricks at you: symmetry, discord, repetition, randomness, composition, light, shadow, outline and color. And it’s different around every corner.

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The steady diet of Red Bull, local beef jerky varieties, donuts and caffeinated breath mints that are so toxically strong they must have been separated at birth from a urinal puck, is starting to catch up with me. I could do with a little less mint and a lot more caffeine.

After two weeks on the road, the truck interior looks like the floor of a crack house complete with junkfood wrappers and empty gatorade bottles.

After two weeks on the road, the truck interior looks like the floor of a crack house: all junkfood wrappers, and empty gatorade bottles.

Not unlike a female spy from a Bond movie he Alaska Highway is beautiful, but dangerous, with some serious curves.

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Spot, the Lead Dog

by Joe Runyan Illustration by Miriam Cooper

Of the hundreds of sled dogs and hunting dogs that I have known over a lifetime, now well past half a century, and the countless others I have discussed at coffee tables around the world, no dog stands in such pathetic relief as my lead dog Spot.

Spot, I am embarrassed to admit, was sustained by me for 18 years, the limit of his life. In my opinion, during that time he never exerted any effort beyond the bare minimum required by circumstance.

I acquired Spot in 19 76 as a pup knowing that he was probably half sheep dog mutt.

He was blue brindled, compact, and otherwise undistinguished. I named him Spot simply because that was the most common name you could give a dog and had nothing to with whether he had a spot or not. Friends of mine that knew him sometimes endeared him by calling him “Spotty,” but still, it had nothing to do with his physical appearance.

The first real test of Spot’ s spineless approach to life came at the age of two years in the early spring. Spot and I had spent a lot of time together and over the course of idle moments he had learned to stay, gee, haw, come back, and “hike” ahead with flawless accuracy. In fact, he was so unerring that I used him as a loose leader on many occasions, especially on very dangerous ice crossings, to test a trail over bad ice.

Early the previous fall, for example, I had crossed the mouth of Mason Slough on glare ice and traveled down the Yukon River. On the following day I returned to find that the expanse of ice was pock marked with open holes. I unsnapped Spot and directed him out on the ice and gave him some remote control verbal commands to get his butt out there and test the ice.

All though his work ethic was deplorable in harness, Spot had cultivated a wonderful sense of survival. He was careful to make sure the ice was good enough and strong enough to support him. About two-thirds of the way across the mouth of the slough I told him to whoa and lay down. The team and I followed his trail and soon pulled up behind Spot. While I held the team, Spot worked his way to the far bank and lay down another trail. There, I told him to whoa and wait for us to catch up to him.

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As far as I could observe, Spot never put any discernible effort into pulling. However, he learned to maintain an industrious illusion by just maintaining a taught tug line. To test this phenomenon I once tied a long string to his harness. With my index finger on the string, I was able to bring Spot about six inches back to the sled, and then by releasing my pressure on the string, move him forward. While, the rest of the dogs were breaking trail and leaning into their harness with powerful purpose, Spot had found the sweet spot where his limpid tug line just straightened to an appearance of effort. He remains the most pathetic sled dog I have ever owned.

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Knowing this, Spot’ s job was to break trail in front of the team to camp as loose leader.

In this position, he couldn’ t fake it. I will admit he excelled here, possibly because he understood that straight lines demanded the least effort. After we crossed Mason Slough, the snow usually got heavier in the downriver direction. Therefore, I kept Spot out of harness and told him to take us to camp. His method of operation was to bound through the snow for a couple of hundred yards, then lay down like he was having a cardiac arrest. When the team and I got within about twenty yards, I told him to get going and that I felt no sympathy for his situation. He would do the same drill a few times again, and then finally decide to just get to camp—where I would find him waiting by the cabin door a couple of hours later. He would collapse in a dramatic demonstration of exhaustion by the barrel stove, rising only to go outside when he sensed it was mealtime.

But back to our story. Despite his deficiencies, Spot was likeable and for that reason I took him with me for the first boating expedition of the spring to pick up my supplies at my trap camp. Unfortunately, the code of the north was in jeopardy with the advent of the jet boat. Dip wad jerk moose hunters and travelers on the Yukon would ransack all my traps and gear over the summer and fall, so I was forced to retrieve them every spring. On this particular spring trip, I know there could be a bear problem because I had left some split dog food salmon at the cabin site.

The Yukon was running high and I was able to tie the boat to the willows on the bank just where my winter dog trail portaged to the cabin. The grass on the trail was flat on the ground and the trail was obviously used by bears—so I was definitely on point and put my rifle on the porch of the cabin. I also assumed that Spot would give me an early warning if a bear was in the area looking for an easy meal. I continued to walk back and forth from the cabin and the fish racks back to the boat.

In the early evening, the inevitable occurred and a black bear appeared to claim the fish pile.

I expected Spot to defend his master, but he evaporated into the brush in another guiltless and pathetic aversion to any kind of responsibility. The black bear kept coming, and I ran the world’ s record to the porch of the cabin, got my rifle, and dispatched the bear. About an hour later Spot reappeared from the woods. There was no attempt to excuse or exonerate Spot’ s behavior. Everyone knew the truth. Still, the kids found something redeeming in his pathetic character, and he was allowed to run loose all summer at fish camp.

The following winter we prepared the team for our first Iditarod. By race time, I had fifteen dogs, including Spot. At that time, 1983, twenty dogs was the team limit allowed by the Iditarod rules. I included Spot in a hopeless gesture to improve the team power. In somewhat of a career record, I started with fifteen dogs and finished with fifteen and placed 11 th. Although Spot did finish the Iditarod and did walk the entire 1100 miles of Alaska wilderness trail under his own power, Spot distinguished himself with the most pathetic, lack luster, ignominious performance in Iditarod history. Truthfully, Spot never pulled the entire way except, in a momentary display of exuberance at the start in Anchorage, when he leaned into the harness out of the start chute. He quickly came to his senses and never, in my view, put anything on the towline except when he accidentally leaned forward for a snack. Still, he

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was an Iditarod finisher and an accomplishment my kids would use to rationalize his status as our only housedog.

When I told Rick Swenson about Spot, he observed that I would have gone faster if I’ d dropped him at a checkpoint and just gone on without him. This was a big lesson, and of course, I owed that learning experience to Spot. Incidentally, in those days it was common for buyers to walk the finisher’ s dog yard behind the Iditarod headquarters and look to purchase dogs that finished, since this was proof that they had the physical abilities to run the Iditarod. No one asked about the chubby “brindle” dog on the picket line, who seemed to have so remarkably maintained his weight to the finish line. I never received an offer for Spot.

Obviously, as an ethical issue, I could never allow Spot’ s influence to ever enter the gene pool of the Alaskan Husky. Despite his pathetic performances as a sled dog, Spot imagined himself as a sort of caddish French “boulevardier” and spent most of his time swaggering casually along the long rows of sled dogs. Therefore, Spot was scheduled at the veterinarian’ s office for a fairly drastic yet common procedure in the canine world. When I saw him leave the dog yard in the back seat of the truck, sitting next to the kids, I fully expected that he would return as a neutered model canine citizen. However, residing deep within his psyche must have been an awareness of his situation and a realization of the consequences.

Later that evening he returned from Fairbanks, and he had defied the logic of even his most ardent supporters at PETA who would argue that his aversion to work was justified. Still, his buddies at PETA would have paid for his ticket to the veterinarian and not felt any philosophical remorse. Spot was in a very real existential crisis.

Spot compromised and, in my experience, is the only housedog I have ever met who negotiated with the veterinarian and opted to have a vasectomy. He spent the remainder of his 18 years dividing his time either strolling the dog yard or lounging in the house. We never missed an indication that a female was possibly in heat, which somewhat rationalized his job position.

Admittedly, Spot had a sense of balance in his personality. He would greet all humans, and introduce himself, but he was not one of those fawning dogs that wanted to crawl in your lap, and he liked to hang out with kids. This may have been his only concession to work since he was required to pull the kids around with their little sled to the bus stop.

Of course, if he pulled one of the kids to the bus stop, it was necessary to picket him out on a spruce tree off to the side of the road so he would be there when the bus came back later in the afternoon, as he’ d be needed for the ride back home. Eventually this brought up an interesting security issue. The kids had a short conversation about an important consideration: would anyone steal Spot at the bus stop? It kind of boiled down to one central issue: would anybody want him? After reminiscing about the time he consumed pounds of rotten moose meat, or rolled in the mud, the whole conversation about Spot being hijacked from the bus stop wilted.

Spot did possess one redeeming quality. He was loyal. So, when he went to the big trail in the sky a day after Christmas, it was a sad day. Of course, he was remembered as an Iditarod finisher.

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up in alaska

Jill Homer is an Alaska journalist who likes to endurance bicycle race in horrendous conditions and eat goldfish crackers with Pepsi for breakfast. (www.upinalaska.com)

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up in alaska

I

didn’t have many goals for today’s ride. I wanted to spend at least eight hours outside, slowly as I am trying to ween my knee back into long rides. I wanted to spend most of the day riding trails and check out some new trails. But I have to admit, I wasn’t that particularly excited about it the prospect of an all-day bike ride.

My mood kicked into manic mode at the first sight of blue sky after breakfast. There’s no way to overemphasize this: There’s really nothing like a (partly) sunny day in Juneau. We all spend so much time slogging through downpours that even I sometimes catching myself wondering why anyone would take a job here, buy a house here, commit themselves to living here for any amount of time. But then the sun comes out, and every lingering speck of S.A.D. disintegrates. We have great selective short-term amnesia, we Juneauites.

I knew, looking across the Douglas Island bridge first thing this morning, that the day was going to be beautiful. Temps were in the low-20s ... preferable to the soggy mid-30s by any Juneauite’s standards, and absolutely ideal in my mind.

As I crossed the lake in the light mist, I heard this low, loud howl. “It couldn’t be,” I thought, but I made a U-turn toward the sound anyway. Sure enough, I caught a glimpse of the black wolf called “Romeo” as he loped along the shoreline. The story behind Romeo, by local legend, is one of a lone and lonely wolf who was somehow separated from his pack (another story has his entire pack killed by wildlife officials.) So now he lives on the outskirts of suburban Juneau, looking for dogs to be friends with (another story has him looking for dogs to eat.) Either way, he is regularly sighted near the lake, but he still takes my breath away every time.

I soon made my way over to the north end of the valley. Pushing my bike up the Lake Creek

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Date: Jan. 10 Mileage: 65.4 January mileage: 238.2 Hours: 8:45 Temperature upon departure: 22ºF Precipitation: 0"

trail was completely exhausting. Most of it was a steep sheet of glare ice covered in a very meager layer of snowmobile-chewed snow. One would imagine that, when training for a bike race, it would make the most sense to ride one’s bike. But I’ve found that my most valuable training comes in taking my bike for long, steep walks. I’m never working harder than I am at 1.5 mph. I sweat a bucket and a half while slogging up there. But when I reached the wideopen trails of Spaulding Meadow, I knew the ice climb was worth it.

Back to the lake by sunset, making a few more loops on the ice before hopping over to the nicely foot-packed trails of Dredge Lake. I had hardly noticed the day had slipped away.

And just like that, it was nearly 4 p.m. Even though I absolutely had to be home by six, I had a hard time peeling myself away from the trail. I felt completely strong. My knees felt completely strong. I wasn’t even hungry. It was like I hadn’t ridden a single minute the entire day.

I can’t believe I let myself count these rides as “training.

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spring brea al Story and Photos by Ron Koczaja

Dog mushing:

if you have a job you don’t have the time for it, if you quit your job, you don’t have the money.

Unless, you’re winning races. I gave that a shot, but it didn’t work out so I had to keep my job. I was a teacher in a tiny village in the Alaska Bush, isolated from the rest of the world, 400 miles from the road system in a community of 600 people on a vast expanse of flat tundra, which stretched to the horizon in all directions. Trees were nonexistent, and neither hills nor mountains beckoned. Dog mushing was the thing to do.

Despite the full time job, I developed a respectable dog team and did some mid- and long-distance racing for about six years. This of course required abandoning the vibrant social life I may have enjoyed in the village (joking) and using my two days off a year very carefully. Now, I know what you’re thinking: teachers have all the time off in the world. Well, that’s in the summer, and in order to coincide with the Russian Orthodox Christmas, semester break occurred in January. The Yup’ik Eskimo word for January means “The Bad Month,” and I usually spent most of my Christmas vacation sitting

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in my shack waiting for a break in the gale force winds so that I could empty the bucket which served as a toilet. It was not a glamorous lifestyle.

I managed to pull off middle-of-the-pack finishes in most of the races I did and had a great time doing it, but eventually the novelty of racing wore off. It was beginning to feel like work; lots and lots of backbreaking endless work. I missed sleeping. And, since I wasn’t really winning any money… I think a lot of mushers go through this.

After eight years in the village, I moved to Fairbanks to become a recreational musher and attempt to reacquire a social life. The latter is still pretty stale, but mushing in Fairbanks is SPECTACULAR. There’s snow on the trails, the wind doesn’t constantly howl, and there are trees and hills. Best of all there are roads. You can put your dogs in a truck and go mush somewhere else. This was an amazing concept for me. It was no longer a weeklong trip just to get to the mountains. The potential for adventure mushing was huge,

Despite giving up on dreams of being a competitive musher, late night after-work training runs continued. A good night’s sleep still remained a distant memory, but now I had a renewed vigor for dog mushing. I was a weekend warrior, waking up at 4:00 AM on Saturday mornings to head out to

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ak alaskastyle some beautiful place to go run my dogs as far as I could get them to go while still making it back to work by 9:00 Monday morning. I could cruise along on the groomed trails of the White Mountains and spend the night in a plush cabin. I could go out moose hunting on the Tanana Flats. I could mush into Denali National Park, set up camp, climb a mountain in the moonlight and be back home the next day before midnight. I could break trail up lonely valleys through majestic mountains, or I could mush snowmachine trails on the Minto Flats. Opportunities abounded.

Being both a teacher and a dog musher, my weeklong spring break in March is sacred. One year I went up to the North Slope, and it was how I imagine winter to be like in heaven: no snowmachines allowed, smooth hard windswept snowpack, open country, long days of blazing sunshine, and caribou pouring out of the pristine arctic mountains like ants out of a stomped on ant hill.

That year was a fluke. The next year I tried the same thing and it was a weeklong suffer fest of wind and 40 below, punchy snow and ground storms. I found out what it’s like to be rolled across the tundra in a tent and have all my gear packed with windblown snow. I also got to see what it’s like to get into a

sleeping bag at 43 below, which isn’t so bad, but getting out of it in the morning sure is rough. It’s like this: burst out of your bag, put on everything you’re not already wearing as fast as possible, explode out of the tent and run for your life, while in your groggy uncoffeed head repeating the mantra, “Keep going or you’ll freeze. Keep going or you’ll freeze.” After hooking up the dogs that morning, I put a pre-cooked frozen steak in my inside front pants pocket to thaw it out so I could eat it for dinner, as was my custom. At the end of the day it was still frozen solid.

This year for spring break, I tried something new. On my map of Wrangle/Saint Elias National Park there was an enticing dotted line labeled “winter trail” running through a narrow canyon above tree line. This trail was a short ten miles down the Nabesna River from the point at which it is accessible via the long dirt Nabesna Road.

Most good backcountry mushing trips start with a cup of coffee and a map on my kitchen table. But, you need to do your homework. What looks possible on a map usually isn’t, so I called the park headquarters and talked to someone who sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

“That’s a great trail. It gets a lot of snowmachine traffic this time of

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“

There We we

year and there’s tons of snow.”

After a lifetime of being told by the Park Service, “You can’t do that,” this was indisputable evidence that this would be a great trip. I envisioned fifty-mile days of smooth trotting through spectacular mountains all the way to the Canadian border and back. We couldn’t lose.

We got to the start of the trip to find what little snow there might have been mostly blown away, and the Nabesna River a gauntlet of glare ice, stumps, and gravel with a strong headwind. The dogs slipped and slid their way down river to the grinding tune of carbide brake tips gouging parallel grooves into the ice. After about an hour and a half and five miles, the dogs figured out that it was much easier to run on the gravel bars. Managing a dog team is a lot like managing a classroom full of kids, and one thing I’ve learned as a middle school teacher is that you’ve got to pick your battles. This was one I wasn’t willing to fight so we bounced and ground our way over rocks for the next five miles until we reached Cooper Creek and the start of that enticing red dotted line on the map.

There was some snow. We were overjoyed. We set up camp and continued in the morning. The snow lasted a mile or two and then it was back to glare ice. The canyon narrowed, the rocky walls moved in closer, and the ice got steeper and steeper until the dogs could barely make progress, their little feet scampering at twice the speed we were moving, as the sleds careened off rocks and jumbled ice blocks. We began cursing the nameless, faceless park ranger and eventually turned around.

The next day we retraced our route up the Nabesna. The wind was at our backs but now it was blowing hard enough to turn the non-existent snow into a ground storm, and it was cold. My wheel dogs would look at me funny when the sled blew side ways and past them. I had no control, but that was all right because neither did the dogs. We just let the wind blow us back while trying to minimize the damage. The sleds began to disintegrate. Bits of broken sled and lost gear would blow past us and get lost in the swirling snow. We made it safely back to the trucks, faces covered in ice rime and frozen dust.

We regrouped and went to Denali Park, where the mushing rangers had recently put in a long trail through this jewel of Alaskan wilderness. Within

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a mile the side-hill trail was glaciated over, sending our sleds crashing into the trees. A few miles later the trail was obliterated in waist deep snow, which we slogged through at about two miles an hour. We reached the Sanctuary River feeling defeated and made camp.

Every once in a while a day of dog mushing is so good it makes any amount of suffering and struggle all worth while. We decided to break trail up the Sanctuary River instead of pushing on to the Teklanika as we had originally planned. After a few miles of deep snow the river changed its character. It had been entirely overflown, refrozen and covered with two inches of snow. It was the perfect running surface. The sky was blue. The winds were calm. The dogs were jazzed to finally be able to get up and run, as we headed into the huge mountains of the Central Alaska Range. We spent one half-hour break watching a lynx watch us from the top of a bluff. We spent another 45-minute-break howling back and forth with a wolf. We sped across the landscape, big smiles cracking our chapped, sun burnt faces.

Now, this particular year was a special year for this dog mushing school marm. Not only had I miserly saved my three days off, but I even had two days saved up from the year before. Along with two weekends, that gave me a whopping nine consecutive days off in mid-April, and as spring began to bloom in Fairbanks, we made the long haul up along the oil pipeline to the North Slope and back into winter.

The plan was to hunt caribou, but more importantly, we’d be mushing in the Brooks Range and the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge; my personal ShangriLa of dog mushing. After nine hours on a mostly dirt road, we found a place to park the rigs near the mouth of the Ribdon River. The Ribdon is the last avenue into the mountains accessible from the road, before this lonely highway heads out onto the coastal plain en route to the oil fields of Prudhoe Bay. This road runs 400 miles north of Fairbanks through otherwise inaccessible land. In order to prevent every Joe Blow with a snowmachine from tearing it all up, there is a strict law prohibiting snowmachines within five miles of the road.

In addition, hunting is not allowed within this 10-mile wide road corridor. Of course, for caribou hunters with dog teams, this is a wonderful arrangement.

It keeps the trigger-happy noisy hoards of motor-heads away. The caribou

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e was some snow. ere overjoyed” continue with their spring migration in pretty much the same way they always have, and five miles with a team of dogs on a river is easy. At least it usually is.

After camping out with the dogs in the trucks, we headed out onto the river with big loads of supplies intending to set up a base camp beyond the five-mile limit. The snow on the river was soft and about a foot deep in most places, and it was double that on the tundra. This was not necessarily a problem. We train our dogs just for this sort of thing, hopping through snow up to their chests while hauling a heavy load. What had us really worried was the possibility of a big wind event, which would put all this snow back into the air and pin us down in a treeless landscape with no cover.

We marched along for about a half-mile before hitting deep overflow from bank to bank. We circumvented it by heading up onto the tundra and slogging through the bottomless snow. The dogs hop along a few dozen feet until the leaders flounder, the team bunches up, I brake to hold back the team, the leaders get the line stretched out again. Repeat. Shortly, the entire river became a wide swath of steaming overflow. It appeared as if the ice was frozen fast to the bottom and water seeping from the banks was flowing across the top, building layer after blue layer. No good for traveling. We continued slowly along the tundra.

We saw a herd of caribou on a tundra bluff in the distance, but being less than five miles from the road and struggling with the deep snow and heavy loads we continued on. Luckily, seven miles from the road we found an unusually sheltered little gully with the tallest willows we’ll see for the entire trip. We dropped off our loads and headed back to the trucks. Our trail was a trench of sugary unconsolidated snow, but at least now we could move along without stopping every fifty feet.

We took a snack break for the dogs and my partner Phil, pulled out his rifle to get a better look at the caribou through his scope, thinking aloud, “I wonder if they’re five miles from the road.” This was quickly followed by, “Dude! It’s a herd of musk ox!”

This possibility had never crossed my mind since everything I had learned as a kid about musk ox on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom said that musk ox existed in small groups of no more than ten. We were looking at forty animals.

They were up on a tundra ridge about a mile away, so we decided to get a little closer.

At first the dogs were less than enthusiastic about breaking more trail up hill, but we plugged along, getting closer and closer until we were about fifty yards away. The oxen formed a wall of shaggy dread locked covered beasts crowned with sharp curved horns, and then turned and started to drift away, some of the large bulls stopping occasionally to butt heads. We watched in awe as they lumbered away up and over the ridge, disappearing on the other side, as we sporadically cursed the excited dogs, as they repeatedly broke free of the tenuous hold of the sled brake, wanting to chase.

We didn’t want to disturb them too much, but the trail they put down for us made for relatively easy following. Besides, how worried can they be if they’re stopping to butt heads while we’re practically on top of them? We decided to follow their tracks and make one more approach.

I expected to crest the top of the ridge and find them not far down the other side, at which point I could get another good look at them and take some pictures. Pair by pair the dogs reached the top and disappeared down the other side and when the sled reached the top (Oh $#!%) I was surprised to see my leaders directly at the feet of the huge shaggy beasts, standing face to face with their big horned heads, steam pumping from their nostrils.

What followed happened as if in a slow motion dream. It was a standoff, with one two-year-old leader hysterically trying to get at them, and the more cautious leader pulling the other way while giving me a look that said, “All right boss. You better do something about this.” Although the brake had minimal effect on the loose snow and tundra, with half the dogs wanting to move towards the heard and the other half trying to get away we reached a tenuous equilibrium. All I could do was stand there yelling “Haw” in a terrified voice while envisioning my leaders impaled and flung into the air like unlucky matadors. I don’t remember taking pictures, but I must have since, well, here they are. And then, the prehistoric behemoths turned and galloped away in a thundering cloud of snow.

Disaster was averted. It was an intense experience, but one I never want to repeat.

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“T

here I was, mind you,

and it was desperate indeed, albeit as usual.” Doug Buchanan

t was in the dark of I night because it was in the winter. It was in

the ice fog of Fairbanks, Alaska, and exposed flesh would certainly freeze in seconds. It was somewhere around 30 to 45 below zero depending upon which thermometer was hanging where or what story you heard from whom. Below 20 below there is a bit of a snap in the air, so the number does not matter.

Every year we get fewer and shorter cold snaps.

Our Alaska cold winter stories are being seriously jeopardized by the heat from the global warming controversy.

The annual sometimearound-Christmas outrageous Apocalypse party was shortly to start, and I was the grillmeister.

There are grillmeisters and there are grillmeisters, and it behooves one to know betwixt the two. My superlative grillmeister services are in high demand, on account of nobody else wants to stand

around the smoky grill while there is a party going on. Many grillmeisters became grillmeisters because someone handed them a spatula, asked them to watch the grill a moment, and never returned from the vicinity of the keg or inside the house where the crowd was.

First, the real grillmeister will have constructed the barbecue grill he uses. In this case it was the one I weldedup way back when I was being paid big bucks down at Valdez to supposedly be welding stuff on barges going out to clean up the oil spilled from the Exxon Valdez. Praise Saint Joseph Hazlewood, who did what history proves is the most historic act a ship captain can perform, get drunk and run his ship into a rock. Well, from where does the best history of ancient ships come? So, he did not get the thing all the way sunk. Close enough.

“

Just give us one more oil spill. I promise I won’t urinate-away the money this time.”

The barbecue grill construction project was a leisurely sort of thing. The grill was cut from plate steel that was supposed to cover some hole on a barge. I was cutting and welding the thing in between doing stuff on the barges. But it was a bit too leisurely. One morning the foreman announced that we should finish our personal projects because everyone was being laid off at noon. Construction projects are not known for job security. Despite the best efforts of the workers, the job usually gets done, because of the boss, unlike the government system wherein the job of the boss is to ensure that nothing

gets done so the agency can perpetuate its thus useless existence. The barges were moving out to the oil cleanup sites. The grill suddenly became an adequate fire box on legs, party size.

My next job on the oil spill was out on one of the barges, fortunately not one I had worked on, in a cove at Knight Island, where I was required to accept big bucks to spend long hours at night watching the astonishing array of sea-life under the flood light which I turned out toward the water, away from where I was supposed to be watching things on the barge, for lack of anything of interest to watch on the barge. Well, Bligh Reef was a long ways away, and we were already anchored. When a school of silver salmon encounters a school of herring feeding on smaller things attracted to a flood light at night, anyone else would have to pay good money for a show that spectacular, and that was only one act. The

legions of wispy white jelly fish streaming past the barge, on their current-driven pilgrimages, not deterred by the colorful eels always slithering through them in the opposite direction, must have certainly inspired high tech computer animation geeks who crank out images just like that for videos these days. The approaching winter decreed that the oil spill clean-up idiot-drill was successfully completed, so I returned to Fairbanks. I got around to making the barbecue grill lid ten years later.

Next, a real grillmeister trains under arduous conditions, such as getting the firewood from the woods, grilling in Alaska in the winter, killing what one grills, and practicing grillmeister stories, the latter being the controlling concept. Two real grillmeisters at the grill can offer an audience some pretty good rhetorical artistry suggesting some actual cooking skill beyond the words.

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Cooking skills are not a priority, and usually not to be found among real grillmeisters, on account of them spending their training time with the rhetorical artistry. Grilling food was what stoves, pots and cooks were invented to replace, on account of what grilled food was for so many centuries, and still is—a reasonable proximity of dead stuff and fire qualifies for grilled food. A grate between them helps.

A lot of scrap expanded steel from construction sites has ended up on barbecue grills. Construction industry folks are among the real grillmeisters.

At 40 below zero, the first pile of spruce and birch wood in the grill is burned just to heat up the steel, and warm the global atmosphere. Then one adds more to get a big-enough pile of coals to prevail for awhile against the constant attack of cold. One is supposed to finish the fire with a layer of alder wood for the fine flavor it adds to meat, but at 40 below in the dark, nobody else notices when the fine points are neglected. Maybe I got a little carried away this time with the second stack of wood I put in the grill, sending sparks up through the adjacent spruce tree brows laden with snow, because the wooden vent handle on the grill went up in smoke too. I came back out of the house to check the fire just as the last ember of the handle fell off the screw. Good thing I made the grill. You certainly did not expect me to stand around the grill in the dark at 40 below while there was a party going on inside. But the handle was alder, so the coals would flavor the meat to perfection.

It is a timing sort of thing. You cannot lift the lid too often to check on things or the top of the food will freeze, while the bottom is being scorched by the big pile of coals needed to keep the steel hot. A good winter grillmeister also sets the grill in a dark place at the edge of the trees where the people in

“

the lead dog was closest.

Tango and I were having the usual grillmeister discussion about truly great grillmeistering, wherein each piece of meat on the platter was perfectly grilled because all the less perfect pieces had been fed to the dogs who were polite enough to stay outside with the grillmeister discussing

when Foo-foo’s chain leads only to a few tufts of hair. When you hear the story about someone’s dog running away with a pack of wolves, it is technically accurate. Tango is the lead dog because he leads the other dogs into the kitchen, following me closely, even though his owner is trying to teach him to not beg in

Fellow carnivores

share primal urges.

the house can look out a window to see that the grill is in a dark place, so when some of the meat comes in occasionally scorched, the story about it being too dark to see the meat is credible. A big grill helps, so they think it is too much trouble to move it under the porch light. A good winter grillmeister also clandestinely microwaves the food first, of course.

Dogs love the grillmeister. Fellow carnivores share primal urges. So there I was out there attending to the weighty responsibilities of grilling the meat, while inside responsibility was not to be found among the revelry. Adjacent to the grill were the typical Alaska sled dogs, chained to their posts, surviving the cold and the harsh elements their eyes riveted to the source of fresh grilled meat scent. Tango

”

great grillmeistering.

Tango will tell you that you want the doghouse nearest the grill.

Tango the lead dog is one of the more well known lead dogs in Alaska. I don’t know if he has ever been hooked up to a dog sled, but he has pulled a few skiers for skijoring.

The dogs never dispute the famous lead dog stories about them, and the tourists don’t visit Alaska in the winter to check on all the famous lead dog stories.

The many famous lead dog stories are like the many half wolf, half dog stories, only lead dogs don’t have to look as much like huskies as those so called half wolves.

Most of the half wolf, half dogs in Alaska are actually full wolves that ate someone’s pet dog off its chain in the back yard during the night. And there are a lot of those. That is always embarrassing

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the kitchen, because Tango knows his owner has not yet adequately trained me.

Those are the finer and darn near only points of winter grillmeistering as it actually occurs, the highlight of the week and good enough for the annual Christmas form letter.

Next year maybe I’ll write another dissertation on whatever happens about the time the annual Christmas form letter is due. Between now and then I gotta find that cardboard box of old adventure stories or I might have to go make some more.

D

oug Buchanan is an adventurer with no limits.

Residing in Fairbanks, Alaska he is an active member of the Alaska Alpine Club, and an avid ice climber and mountaineer.

Alaska Adventure Stories (AAS) is brought to you by a lifetime adventurer and publisher of outdoor adventure.

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• Journal format provides for long “readable” life span.

• Full color printing on glossy paper stock (recycled).

• Appealing to wide gamut of readers and interests.

• Cross marketing (web & print) at no additional charge.

• Low and cost effective advertising rates.

• Visit www.alaskaadventurestories.com

Full Page - non bleed (bleed available) 7.5" W 9.875" H

Alaska Adventure Stories •

70 •

Winter 2008

¼8 Page Horizontal 3.6389" W 2.2917" H

¼ Page Vertical

¼8 Page Horizontal

3.6389" W 4.8056" H

3.6389" W 2.2917" H

½ Page Horizontal 7.5" W 4.8056" H

Alaska Adventure Stories •

71 •

Winter 2008

½ Page Vertical

¹∕³ Page Vertical

3.6389" W 9.875" H

2.4028" W 9.875" H

Alaska Adventure Stories •

72 •

Winter 2008

¼8 Page Horizontal

¼8 Page Horizontal

3.6389" W 2.2917" H

3.6389" W 2.2917" H

¼ Page Horizontal 7.5" W 2.2901" H

½ Page Horizontal 7.5" W 4.8056" H

Alaska Adventure Stories •

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Winter 2008