Admiralty Island Dreams

The Cessna 207 comes through a pass, then banks to the left; through the window I see a steep, timbered mountain framed by the Grey bleak sky. The points of shale cliffs at its base lie submerged by the high tide, leaving only edges above the water. Beyond, along the entrance to the Cove, fingers of land spread out and provide shelter in the deep coves, and nearby, in mid-channel, are small islands and reefs--wet regions of seaweed and crashing waves. And lost in the mist of distant dreams, are the shapes of the hills and mountains of the Glass Peninsula that enclose the far opening to Swan Cove. The range is like a wall that stretches thirty miles south to the open sea. I will soon land here on the tossing waves and be dropped off by the plane. For the next three weeks, living in an old cabin, my life will be a solitude of natural sound and sights. The journey has already begun...

The Head of the Cove

Rain and fog over the Cove. The tide is out but it comes in fast, covers the upper beach, and makes walking the points a wet discomfort. Usually I just wait for the tide to change. Two main streams pour out onto the mud flats of the cove; one stream from Slide Lake, high up in a valley to the west; the other one from the valley to the south. The rounded hump of knoll is at the outlet of the lake. Between the Knoll and another hill beyond, the waters of Slide Lake pour downward, cutting a pathway through the meadows and a green belt of spruce. The meadows are the way up to the hills. Bear and deer follow along the sides of these muskeg areas. Large patches of open muskeg form a maze of shapes; and around this are thick barriers of Berrie brush. In time I have found the best ways through the meadow maze, which allows quick access to the interior as being able to get out when the weather turns bad or when day light is fading fast. And don't forget the tides! In the timber areas along the beach a number of deer trails also helps in moving towards the meadows, through the thick brush and in many directions. At low tide some deer will come down to the beach to feed. The deer trails are many and the deer move quietly, cautiously as they approach the opening onto the beach. However, I have learned their habits as well, and I too try to move silently, cautiously...

View From the Mountain

At around 1500 feet, having climbed up shelves, and around brush and cliffs, I could finally stop and catch my breath. The view had cleared. Earlier, I moved slowly through silent fog, which had burned away by late morning. Now, as I peered out from an opening of rock and open slope, the head of Swan Cove was visible. The upper meadows lay in the shadow of a fog bank and only the tops were visible like islands in the sky. This gave a sense of mystery to the island; a dream-like mood in soft passages. Meanwhile, the high tide had left a margin of yellow beach grass that curved around to a stream on the far side. Here, in summer, the salmon returned, while the bear wandered in search for food. Sometimes up here in the brush or along the shelves, bear also came and went. Being here, by myself, a solitary hunter and hiker, the reality of running into a bear was always a possibility, but I accepted this risk for coming up here. Still, my worry was not in the climb; rather the risk came after killing a deer and cleaning it in some cramped place with a limited view. So, after the deer was down and set up for gutting, the ravens would arrive, their wings sluicing the air with a familiar sound. They called other ravens which soon arrived. I cleaned the deer as fast as I could: fifteen minutes...knife gutting; cutting the deer's throat, opening the belly, and removing the organs...always on alert; the gun propped against a tree within reach. Then, after wards I tied a line to the deer, dragged it down around the cliffs, over dead fall, and onto each of the shelves before reaching the beach. By then, the tide had gone out. I waited. Soon, the skiff would be by to pick me up and bring the meat back to the cabin. And so it went each day, climbing and bushwhacking, hunting and enjoying the moments of solitude, in the far meadows or up on the steep slopes of the mountains.

Swan Cove Dreams

Ten years have passed since I last hunted the meadows and hills around Swan Cove. My father and his father too are memories of this place. For almost twenty years I walked the beaches between the tides, climbed the steep slopes to the timberline, and wandered through the mazes of the meadows at the head of the bay. Some days were like mirrored joy. At other times came storms and three day blows. Long lines of trees lay fallen along the beach and high water, in the blackness of night, lapped at the cabin door. Then other days were filled with fog and rain in constant streams. At night in sleep, the dreams played like movies inside my head. And the mice would awaken me, as they raced about the cabin, rattling the pots and pans. Outside, in the moss and spruce forest, the solitude played tricks on the mind: tinkling sounds along the streams, areas of the woods silent as death, and tracks in the snow of some lost soul. But after a few weeks, in step with the natural cycles, my movements became more instinctual and more sure. Life was simplified and whole. Around me, a vast unknown country waited to be found. There, the trails of deer and bear were now the roads that lead into the interior:up the timbered slopes to the shelves above, around the steep ravines where dead fall choked the light, and far into the muskeg land. From first light to last light, the adventures at Swan Cove ebbed and flowed with the seasons. At Swan Cove I dreamed of things that lived between the tides.

A View of the High Country

In the higher elevations Spring's warm touch hardly warmed the flesh. Here a cold wind blew in the open air, and even in the sheltered woods no sanctuary could be found. But I didn't mind too much; after several hours of hiking uphill, my coat was tucked away inside my pack, and although the outer surface of my skin was cold, my blood was pumping out heat inside my body as I climbed higher up the slope. The discomfort was balanced by exertion; the result: conditioning that brought out an edge of sharp, clear awareness. Too much comfort dulls the senses. But up in the higher elevations, another country of mind and spirit joined in sweet harmony, beyond time and dull routine...

BEAR ON THE CHULITNA

Often all I see of the traces of bears are the tracks they leave in the sand by the river. But still, as I study their movements and gait, their behaviors can be guessed and imagined. With the salmon running or perhaps spawned, while drifting in the shallow waters, a picture comes to mind: The open spaces of filled with deposition of trees, gravel, sand, and dead fish. In some places, piles of twisted trees, torn up from the banks, lie in giant piles. Crossing the far channels, the bear, hungry and getting ready to den up, will travel up and down the river in search of food. On the banks fish carcasses lie inside the brush. And so it goes: a journey of the bear here on the river plain; a movement of one generation from the ancient past til the present.

The View Above Long Lake

Above the Matanuska River, which lies between two mountain ranges: the Chugach to the south; and the Talkeetna to the north, lies Long lake near the Glenn Highway. Mostly this place attracts ATV enthusiasts ( during the summer time); and snow machine riders (during the winter months). The rugged beauty and climb to higher views along the road provides a tour of geological structures created during the last Ice Age. Uplifts of land can be viewed also from the road, but the best place to take in these wonders is at the top of the rock walls that frame the north side of Long Lake.
From atop this rock wall, the whole length of Matanuska Valley can be seen from end to end. To get to the perch above, a small pond at the bottom of the cliffs is circled around. Then, to add to the challenge, large broken piles of rock are climbed over. Finally, to get to solid rock, a slope of young trees and loose sand provide a bit of exercise. However some animal trails help to reach the top and the flat shelves on top. Sometimes, on a warm afternoon, I like to lie in the shade of small wind-blasted spruce and watch the clouds form along the distant hills and sky.

The Perfect Day

The days leading up to Winter are brief; a short period of time with continued cooling and loss of light. But the real changes can also occur within a day or two. Two back-to-back trips come to mind: one with a nephew (recently fitted with a pacemaker); and the other, when the north wind had settled over the river country.But first things first...
"Can I go with you,"he inquired. I was a little hesitant to take him along on one of my hikes, but he insisted, saying he had been working out, bicycling, and was in good shape despite his heart being monitored by a pacemaker. "I'm going for a long ways and it's rough country up along the river," I warned him. He swore that his pacemaker was adjusted for just this kind of wear and tear.
So the next morning early, we drove several hours north. The day was clear with a faint breeze, but It was a perfect moment in time to hike out into the river country. I took my fishing pole, shotgun, and backpack.I didn't need a lot of clothing. The nephew was ready too;although he seemed a bit overdressed to me: he was camouflaged from head to toe like he was going to war;and his pack was stuffed with food, survival knife, and extra gear. I thought he was packing a bit too heavy.
Through the darkness we skimmed the tide of dawn, driving until the sun came up over the hills overlooking the river.The waters on the river and streams had settled to lower levels; the temperatures had dropped; and along the edges or in small ditches, thin layers of ice had formed. Our breaths exhaled steam into the air as we moved towards the river. Here, the morning shadows still lay heavy on the north sides.But soon the glare and fingers of morning light flashed onto the bars and cobalt waters of the river. The cold lasted until late morning, when the warmth of afternoon settled briefly on the golden land and valley.
The first mile we walked was on the sand and polished rocks of the river plain; but in some spots, the water on the corners were too deep and flowing. We then climbed to the bluffs above the river and follow the animal trails for a distance. One hundred feet above the huge river plain commanded a bird's view of more than the river and the sand bars: to the north were the icy slopes and broad face of Mt. McKinley, and below,within an amphitheater of ice, lay Ruth Glacier--both illuminated in frontal light.
The destination was a side stream that connected the river five miles away.This trip one way was easily several hours of hiking along the river. Where the water was shallow we could cross;otherwise we had to follow the bluffs or banks. Thick bands of alder hung along the sides. Being a perfect day, I didn't mind the struggle and the cold water.The colors of the birch and cottonwood o lighten my mood,and in the cover of the woods, the smell of cranberry and decay added another layer to the experience: It was a perfect day...
Finally we came to an impasse;ahead, along the bank,the water was too deep and fast. A small edge of mud and rock lay visible on the shore but disappeared on the upriver side. The Bluffs above, scraped into loose rock and soil, angled down to a base of thick alder, which brushed out over the rushing waters. We had to go up. My pack and gun weighed around thirty pounds; this was a normal climb to the bluffs above and nothing unusual for me;but my nephew, heavy rubber boots, camouflage and a pack stuffed with heavy gear had a different challenged.I pointed upwards with my finger, and let him know that we had to climb up the loose hill. So first through the dense alder; next,stepping and bending and grabbing limbs; then climbing the loose layer of sand and rock; and finally, over the top onto the bluff above. When I got to the top, I stood and waited for my nephew, and caught my my breath. I waited and no nephew. Then I heard this yell from below. My first thought was:"What the hell is going on down there?" The sound of human pain came again. I called down but didn't get a reply from him. Another yell of pain. Now I was worried, so I walked to the edge, looked down, and saw my nephew sitting on a little ledge clutching at his chest. Then I knew: the pacemaker, overwhelmed by the climb, was jolting him every few seconds in attempts to get his heart back to normal. "This was bad..."; the thoughts of dragging a dead body back three miles to the road was not an exciting thought. I knew I needed to calm him down, make his heart return to normal, and get him back to the car.
We talked...and he slowly breathed in and out, and stopped the painful jolts.Panic was not an option. Soon his breathing and heart beat dropped below the danger level. I felt relieved. After a period of time, mostly to insure he was rested enough to travel, and that he didn't get too cold sitting there,we got up and slowly headed back to the car.I grabbed his heavy pack and jacket, while he lead, but stopped at intervals so he that could rest.I now had about sixty pound of gear to haul out, while babysitting my nephew.
Fear was a condition that could not be embraced; the costs out in the back country were too heavy in it's consequences: and the realization that he could die out there in the woods.I was a fool to have taken him with me on such a trip with a heart condition; he was a fool to convince me he was fine, especially knowing that I travel long distances through all kinds difficult terrain. I swore after I got him back to town that he would never go out again on this kind of hike.But the happy part of the tale was that my nephew recovered and had his pacemaker readjusted. He would live to tell lies to his friends.
The next day, I headed back up to the river to finish my journey. But this time the weather had changed: the North Wind had kicked up dust through out the valley and river plain. Now the warmth of the previous day was gone, replaced by stinging sand and cold. I shivered the second time around, but no matter, I was going to finish what I had started.This time I avoided the open areas as much as possible, keeping close to the bluffs and banks; because out in the open, the quantity of sand poured in fury across the valley. In some places I escaped the wind and sand by entering the woods, following the bear trails on the banks.Along one area, fallen cottonwoods, undercut by water, were obstacles that I climbed over time and again. But this bending,kneeling, and climbing over fallen trees was more attractive than the storm raging in the open spaces. Finally the land opened to a flat stretch of gravel and sand;a place most familiar to me. I had reached the stream...
The cold cobalt waters from the stream curved out onto the river plain,then straightened into a long run of several hundred feet, finally ending in a deep hole where the river met. I left the shelter of woods, stepped out into the sand and wind,and joined the poles of my fishing rod. It was time to test the depths for the elusive trout.
The day before would have been pleasant;but now the wind howled and sand blasted into my back. I was wet and cold too. But I gripped the pole, held the line between my trembling fingers, and cast out into the waters, arcing a pathway into the depths. Nothing bit. A second and third time I played the line, letting it drift further into the flow. Finally a hard tug on the other end. It was a rainbow. I played the fish as it darted and jumped. My cold feet and hands were forgotten, and the battle with the trout ended in the storm.But I knew too that this journey was more than just catching a fish; it was how the day before had changed the original intent: my experience had opened a different door of meaning. Mysterious and troubling, but unique and never to be repeated,this adventure had included elements of fear and challenge; and without this struggle,a "perfect day" would have taught me nothing but another fish story.

Moose On The Loose

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Often, while in the hills, I look ahead for danger. The rule is this: stay alert, use the senses to probe the environment, and have a plan. Seems simple to remember, right? Human beings are creatures of habit, especially with eyes designed to peer forwards, a nose to catch odors in the breeze, and ears for hearing to the side. Well, all plans are subject to change... without warning. Sometimes dangerous things come from odd directions.
One Fall day, while hiking high in the hills over the bay, I just happened onto a Bull Moose and Cow Moose near the side of the trail. Nothing unusual about that except it was mating season. Still, If was I careful, walked slowly by, and continued down the trail, everything would probably be all right. Not me; just had to have that shot of those two herbivores. So, here was my so-called plan: circle around near the small stand of trees, staying just out of reach, and getting that desired picture.
The cow was nearer, laying down and resting by a tree; the bull was further back, but eying my approach with interest. He seemed undecided towards me, while the cow merely laid there without any concern. I decided to keep a lot of small saplings between myself and the two moose, walking on a outcrop that overlooked the flat plot of ground where the moose were. The saplings formed a barrier closely bunched together. "Perfect," I thought to myself, "Protection from the horny beasts." However, as I advanced nearer to the cow, the bull moved slowly towards me. A bull moose has a certain look when he is in an aggressive mode: the hair along the neck bristles up, and his head lowers towards the ground. But first, he covered the open space inside the little grove, and once reaching the edges showed his intent.
So far, my plan was working; the moose, head down and antlers in attack position, tried to come through the barrier of thin, closely packed trees. He got stuck, but not stopped. Once the bull worked his antlers free, he sailed through the sapling spaces with deadly intentions of stomping me. I ran a circle around the small saplings, heading for a large spruce tree to hide behind. Then a sudden surge of adrenaline kicked in, but I slipped on the ground with the beast ten feet away. He stopped, satisfied I was no longer a threat, turned and went back to his love affair. Lucky me, I suppose I had learned my lesson, right? Probably not, but my risk taking was changed somewhat for future reference.
Afterwards, I walked down the trail, wiser for my wear and tear, thinking only the beauty of a Fall day high up on the slopes of golds and reds. The country wore a garment of changing colors, and the quiet in the air mixed with cool freshness. Again, the the silence was shattered behind me on the trail with the excited sounds of other hikers; "must be the bull moose," I thought. I could imagine how the hikers back there being ambushed, thrown about like rag dolls, and getting stomped by the kicking front legs of the angry moose. Then a silence... I wondered if I should go back and investigate. However, as I looked back, two terrified moose came running up over the hill behind me real fast. "Shit!" I ran along a narrow trail, bordered by steep slope above and with thick, nasty rose brush below. The two moose, seeing me ahead of them, stopped while I made more distance between us. I realized then that the hikers had scared the moose, which had then rushed down the trail, and came up over the hill where I was walking. Another lesson for the day: Danger is not always ahead; sometimes it comes from behind too fast to stop.

South Side of the Mountain

Human Trails become worn memories of foot steps that widen through the forest like highways. I use them only to escape once I'm further in; then I find a departure point; a new kind of trail that brings me to the cliffs above. Usually, on along the shelves of rock are narrow pathways of lichens, shrubs, and rosebush. The trails here are those made by by bear, moose, and sheep. Since these animals don't expect me here, I carefully step about, studying the hidden as well as the obvious lines of travel. The way above only steepens, so I look for a better hold. But the sheep know the best ways: narrow trails through the brush, slippery rock shelves, and draws leading to shelves higher up. Broad trails also run horizontally across the contours of the mountain side. Here and there, open grassy slopes give the eyes relief, as well as a sense of protective warning. On these south side slopes of the mountain the sun warms the earth, and the vegetable kingdom bursts forth in many shades and tints of green. Higher up, the alders ring the steep sides; here begin the maze of trails through the alder. And here are beds where a bear might be lying beneath the brush. My pace slackens; just too much cover to fight. Bushwhacking in thick alder is great exercise, but I want another experience today; when I gaze out over the vast space, from the arm of sea below to the top of the sky, from many mountain tops and down the processions of long valleys, I know a feeling of peace, as in a dream. Near the top of the mountain, peering out over the horizon line, the small cares of human existence fades.