Earth and Sky

The oxide colors mix with everything on the mountain: with soils and rocks; and leaching into the lichens that draw the rust oranges out from the earth. The ground up here is warm and magnetic, even as the cold winds pour over the sides of the ridges, drying up the moisture of the last snow-- dry as a painted desert. I rest my eyes on the cool sky and waters of the inlet 4000' below, wondering whether this beauty is just a passing mood. Even the glittering feldspar crystals blind my eye in the bright sunlight, from blackened talus with sparkling touches of high noon sun. I retreat again to the cool lavenders and blue-greens further out in a vast valley space. The softness of distance reveals hidden valleys, smudged in the haze, where in layered nurseries, groups of thunderheads begin to rise and gather. Around and below are the valleys of Peters Creek to the south and Matanuska to the north: they are like hollowed cups of air and moisture, where on updrafts the eagle spirals into the sky. Up here I feel like a bird too, able to see the broad mansions of the earth through a cushion of air. Here, the human spirit can fly and join with the elements; perhaps, in rare moments, touch the outer fringes of immortality.

The Law of Unintended Consequences

Sitting in a saddle of the jumbled rock crest, I paused and reflected on the moment: it hadn't been my plan to be there, but I was; and that moment freed me from the heat and mosquitoes that fed on me below, that framed the mile high mountains across the valley, and opened windows of spaces into less traveled ridges and peaks. Yes, behind were the trails, the crowds that would soon be there, and the nearby human settlements. I came there to see. I came to get away. The valley I had come through was beautiful : grey-green lichen fields and meadow flowers in full bloom, fed by small streams that trickled down from the snow melt, meandering through the carved ravines below. But the hike still had seemed unfinished. Six miles in, six miles back out...and in the summer light that hollow space of valley, filled in with a carpet of color, was just a beginning. The dark silhouetted mountain above, jagged against the skyline, came as an afterthought-- but it had to be climbed. Only then could I be satisfied. And there, in the topmost part of the valley, in a notch between the rock spires, a larger picture of the world had opened its book to the airy heights. I had left behind thoughts seeking escape from the hollow confines. The trail had ended there in the valley, fading out the human part, the scars of footsteps hungry for the comforts of completion. A new trail has no past. But it meant 1200 more feet of climb to escape the gravity of the lowlands. Up there in that narrow saddle, the Mind's eye was opened: perhaps, I had arrived by some Law of Unintended Consequences, rewarded by that experience of not to give up until the heart of yearning is stilled. Even so, that moment of sparkling clarity didn't last. Along the western sky the afternoon thunderheads filled and approached. Slowly I descended into the darkened valley...

The Undiscovered Dreams

An ATV road leads into Bird Creek Vally, along the creek, along bluffs, and through hemlock forest, slowly narrowing five miles in. The track is filled with large smookth rocks, broken rocks, and mud ruts. At the end of this machine route the trail up into the higher reaches of Bird Creek Valley begins. The day was overcast but fairly dry except for a few sprinkles of rain from the gray dull sky. But I wanted to see what the road and trail looked like further in. However, I didn't want to walk the ATV track for five miles. After all, the evening approached too soon to walk the distance. Instead, I pulled out a street bike I had in my garage and placed in it into my station wagon. "Good," I thought, " After work I'll peddle up to the trail and walk a few miles in on the trail." 4:30 PM came and I quickly left work, drove down the highway south, arriving a little after 5 PM. No one was there at the beginning of the ATV track. I dragged the bike out and put on my pack and shotgun. The valley is a bear corridor to the fishing grounds of Bird Creek. At first the road is wide and a bit bumpy, but as I peddled further on, beyond the first bridge, the track became bumpy with stones and puddles. Soon, the thought of a comfortable ride vanished as I found more and more stretches of rough road. To insure my insides weren't too bumped around, the bike was maneuvered around the rocks which meant more time to get the five miles into the valley. The Hemlock Forest and Alder Fringes were filled in with bright ferns, Cow Parsnips, and Plants with bright flowers. The smell of Azalea Shrubbery was strong in places. Deeper within, the foilage and trees and jungle of ferns closed out more light, producing a hemmed in feeling of danger around each hidden turn. The ATV trail ended in a open space of camping ground enlarged with fire pits. A wood marker and sign had been blasted by shotgun pellets. From here on the trail lead away from the machine world that encroached along the edges of the forest. Still, a rocky path dropped down and over a stream and back up over several hills before passing into Hemlock, Spruce, and Birch areas. The trail narrowed and filled with thick shrubs--a veritable choke point where visibility shrunk as the trail wound its way deeper into the valley. Above the valley, the ridges revealed themselves through spaces in the foilage. The sound of gushing water sounded in a hidden ravine below. I was now six miles from the road, from other people, by myself in the silent reaches of Bird Valley. But the trail went on for many more miles until it reached a Pass deeper still within the ranges, where it opened finally into North Fork Ship Creek. To me the indistinct outlines of far off places serve as glimmers of dreams and hopes, of things that someday shall reveal themselves, becoming new doorways for ideas to gather in the gardens of experience. I am attracted to places where others find only malignant surprise by the robust and untrameled forces of nature; the margins where human activity fades. Here the indistinct outlines, the shapes of unseen things, would have to wait another day. The fading light and clinging grey clouds hover above while the throat of a hidden catarct rumbles below. Time returns...and the mind reengages for the five mile bike trip back to the road.

Climbing Bird Ridge on a Friday Night

Bird Ridge provides an open view of two valleys; Bird Creek Valley to the east and Indian Valley to the west. Around 8 PM I climbed 3000' along the popular trail to the top. My interest lay in getting a overview of Bird Creek Valley to the east, a place where salmon return and bear advance down the valley to feed. The trailhead below, from where my climb began, was quiet with no vehicles in sight. The recent bear scares in the area, the absence of hikers may be due partly to these reports. However, the valley bottom and where the creek meets the lower fish areas would have a higher probability of bear sightings. So the quiet had a tranquil effect as I climbed. The lower area of the ridge is the domain of spruce, aspen, alder, and plant life. Further up, the mountain ash and willow and alder predominate. between these areas of trees and shrubbery are the rock areas where flowers bloom and brighten the landscape. Once above the shrubbery and trees, the ridge opens to a serpentine line of rock, piled and broken and sharp, lessening as the ridge approaches the head of the valley. Bird Creek Valley splits into two other valleys; one around the base of Penguin Peak and the source of Penguin Creek; while Bird Creek passes by another side valley before curving around to its source. Along Bird Creek Valley an ATV trail accesses five miles of the bottom land that runs parallel with Bird Creek. At the end this road a trail begins its long passage beyond Bird Creek, up through a pass to the North Fork of Ship Creek to the north. Hemlock forest can be found here. Down this valley bears make their way to the fishing grounds near the highway. From my vantage point on Bird Ridge the vast spread of valley opens its secrets to me. The distances recede, with one range of mountains forming walls from the coast, only to be succeeded by taller walls of rock and tops of snow deeper inside Chugach State Park. The high country, once the snow recedes, will be my entrance into the far country.

The Hanging Valley Seen from the Pass

In this middling area, along the borders between Indian Valley and the other valley to the east, I sit astride the ridgeline that is the Pass. And what originally brought me here to the Hanging Valley was a wedge of rock on which sunlight shone through soft mist and fog. But human desires are never satisfied. Now, gazing down from my perch, this place of mountain air, of talus slopes where sheep trails run, I see the valley in all its glory. The oval shape of the valley is less than a half mile in length by an eigth mile in width. The south side is steep with rock fall and snow that the sun seldom warms. Small melts of water gather in pools, flow down the valley, and empty into a narrow niche of black stone, where the waterfalls of gushing voices are heard in the ravine below. The lower part of the valley is greener, filled with small juniper fields that hug the ground. Nearby, a small hill, elongated in form, bottles up the entrance but cannot stop the eroding influence of water which circles it like a castle moat. Up the valley are the flat fields of alpine flowers and primitive plants that make a mat of greens, tans, and yellow-whites. Then beyond, a half dried out lake of stepping stones occupies a small bowl of ground. The head of the valley is a moderate dash of twenty minutes of uphill climb. Finally, on the north side of the valley are green steep slopes warmed by sun, open to the revolutions of light and night. The top of the slope is capped by broken stones and jutting, dark cutting shapes; a jagged back of rock crumbling in thaw and freezing cycles of the seasona. Even here, on the backside, the chill of wind and light rain, fog and changing light, brings to thought the ephemeral nature of my being here. Human life is short, while the geological changes in the valley, slow and imperceptable, humble my sense of importance.

The Valley Beyond

Even maps can't excite the imagination as much as the physical reality. Standing on a ridge, a narrow pass at the end of the small valley I had traversed across, my eyes had new views beyond the original one; now another valley beyond, other hanging entrances waited my steps through their narrow corridors. New lakes, streams, and alpine meadows sprawled across the open land. Mountains hung near the sky in different shapes; some tall with jagged tops, ramps of narrow ridge lines forming trails to their peaks; others sheer walls the defied even sheep to climb their vaulted tops. Somehow I would find a way into these inner places, adding new views and going deeper into the Chugach Mountains.

The Endless Quest

Only when Mystery reveals herself to me, when my eyes first see what is unknown, and what it is that brings me here in rain and cold, can I really know a piece of myself, restless and excited by a world that lies outside a pedestrian view. I believe looking beyond means more passes, more valleys, more huge walls of rock that mask, in shadowed corners, the way beyond. What brings me here is but a sign post to an endless wandering in the beyond and beyond. A lifetime and more will never quench the human urge to break new ground in a shrinking world of knowns. The idea that brings me to this valley, that has given birth to another desire, takes me across the level ground to climb another hill. And on the other side, another view, another valley filled with lakes and connecting streams. But more so, the larger view, seen from other angles-- the mountains, valleys, and the hand of time that has carved these places-- will reveal both emptiness and form. Looking back from where I came, I know from a U-shaped entrance above, across on the western side of Indian Valley, that another question and another answer waits my view, and where a spark of understanding keeps the journey alive. But for now, I settle for smaller gifts, just to know what is beyond the Pass at the head of this valley.

The Hanging Valley

Seven hundred feet above the valley, from where I stood along the trail, I looked up at a side valley opened along the eastern edge. The mouth of this smaller glacial cut had a u-shaped curve. Further back, mist and hanging cloud tore pieces out of the sky, darkening and lighting up a square area of rock. Like all mysteries, I was intrigue and wanted to see more. But I would have to beat a pathway there first to know the answer. My eyes scanned and studied the obstacles contained below the hanging valley. Along the lip of the entrance, a silvery thread of waterfall, its sound distinct, cascaded down through talus and alder. On each side, small meadows of bright green mingled among the tangled shrubbery, making the downhill slopes a maze of confusion.
I could see, that in order to reach the valley above, a passage would have to be found. My choices were: either climbing high above the alder maze on a steep slope of grasses or through the middle of this tangle along the stream. I chose the later. Too much energy and time to climb the mountain. Waist high grass and plants have a way of tripping up the weary hiker, especially on a steep hill; after all, I was already five miles from the road, not knowing the extent of this bushwhacking trip up seven hundred feet of tangled brush. So,the open meadows would be my stepping stones past each alder wall; the spaces and passages between the alder would connect the dots. Higher up I could use the broken piles of talus and open areas where the snow had recently melted. After that, the door to the valley would be open. And when one door has been opened, other doors and windows appear.

The Ravine

Coming down the ravine was easy at first; a dry small cut in the hill where small patches of snow still remained. But the deception of a gentle slope can suddenly plunge into waterfalls or flat fast stretches of slides where water gushes below. That is part of any question concerning the way through all the alder and jutting rock face. I felt more at ease since dogs were hot and needed to cool off in the snow. At least we had gravity to draw us down without too much sweat and fatigue. The heat seemed to sink into the depression, around which the alder hung over the naked ground. I found a small area of snow and sat to cool myself on; the dogs plopped themselves down in the cold snow, letting the icy surface cool their bodies. Pink tongues sucked in the air for ventilation while I took off my pack and settled for a spell. The apple I ate was a experience of sweetness that only physical exertion can bring to a level of ambrosial delight. The moment seemed to expand in that narrow little ravine, tucked into a hidden corner where thought ceased, and where an animal part connected with the earth, flowing into one kind of consciousness. The layers of reason and preoccupation melted into directness of sight and sound and smell: the blues and greens and whites of earth and sky; the gushing of water somewhere below; and the mixing of decaying leaves with the perfume of hidden flowers and plants. Discomfort frees the body, conditions the will, and brings into motion clear perception of the survival instinct. Sometimes, in these moments of clarity, the future state seems so remote; and time has no value, except in the light and heat, wind and relief, and hunger or thirst. Time, that human reminder of imagined future states.Reluctantly, I gave myself back to purpose and motion, to continue down and back. The dogs seemed cooled off by now, so I roused them from their rest, and continued down the ravine.

A New View of the Valley and Beyond

The slope up the Avalanche chute is almost three football fields in length. Small plants now open along this open stretch as well as dried white grasses laid flat by the heavy snow pack. Going up in a straight line is tedious and slippery. I zigzag instead, trying to get a bite on the flat surface. Every step reveals how worn my hiking boots are. A few furrows and small rocks offer some security but the steepness is unrelenting to walk on. Where the alder lines end, a open area of outcrops, filled with humps of grasses and rock surface are promising to quickening the pace further up the slope. A few areas in the wall of alders is interrupted by sheep trails. Higher up I find a few that are a welcome addition to my hike. These trails will help me cut through the thick alder patches to a ravine a quarter of a mile away. Here I will descend on the snow that still occupies the avalanche chute. The view of the valley and bay and distant ranges gives me a bird's eye look at what the land is like. Down on the trail, the scenery is too crowded, too trapped in perspective. The dogs now look for a snow patch to cool off on. I wait and rest, feeling the fullness of being alive.

The Road Not Taken

Convention has it's rewards: a well-defined path of formulas and cumulative experience. However, I could never feel comfortable walking another person's pathway, although their knowledge defines what can be done and copied. I explore instead, filled with weaknesses, lacking in conventional thought and technique; but still, the thrill of being alive seems to negate these weaknesses, and I continue on my way. Today I traveled up into Falls Creek Valley, a long narrow valley, sloping steeply upwards where a small valley levels off, dividing into two upper hanging valleys beyond. Several remnants of snow slides fill in the narrow neck where the lower area transitions into the first valley. When I came through here a couple weeks back I saw a possible ascent route up one of the slides. This would take me to the rocky areas and meadows above. Here, a panoramic view of Turnagan Arm below, with the bay and valleys beyond, would be best seen. However, the snow bridge across the cascading waters has vanished. The idea does not die, but a new approach is considered. Further up the trail, a large patch of snow, the remains at the bottom of a long avalanche chute, will be my jumping off point. Now, instead of snow, only a bare slope of old grasses and new plants inhabit the forty-five degree hill above the snow patch. Along both sides of the chute are lines of alder, thick and solid from bottom to top. But higher up, the alder vanishes where talus and outcrops overlook the valley. But first I have to get across the creek. Since the terrain is more level here, I am able to find a fording location across the gushing creek. The two dogs, Sheba and Pancho are my companions. As we get across and to the patch of snow, I look back at the trail, beaten into the earth by countless people, easy to follow, gentle to the feet, but conventional to the mind. I can't wait to plant my feet in untrodden ground.

The Time of the Lupine

Along the open south slopes of the mountain, fields of lupine spread a blue haze of color across a canvas of greens and greys: the June colors introduced also a palette of yellow, whites, reds, and blues, fresh and pure. Flowers of all shapes sprinkled in a mixture of accents to the blazing fields of blue. I wandered through this garden of delights, slowly sipping like water the vast array of details, feeling lost in aimless wonder. How long had I been here? Fifteen minutes or one hour; it didn't matter, because time shaped itself in filling or emptying the experience, not like a clock or linear measure, but a breathing in and out of the moment's flow. This reminded me of a Biblical reference from Revelations 10:6 "that there shall be time no longer." And the urge to rush or be at some destination seemed pointless, when all about me, a grand vision of beauty and harmony opened and sprung into existence, disclosing the mysterious workings of a universal mind in nature. Soon I left the footworn trail, descended down the hill, and followed instead an old animal path. Here the sounds of birds, the cool wind on the skin, and off trail sights gave way to new surprises: large fields of lupine meandered around the cottonwoods and birch, between the alder areas, and clustered in large shapes and lines. But something else drew my eyes to one spot. Among the blues of lupine, a small area of white lupines contrasted as night to day. This rare sight rewarded my wanderings in this place. Sometimes, by not having a goal or direction, but guided by a passion of mind, the treasure finds the seeker. This particular variety of natural selection intrigued me. The colors of the Lupine ranged in two directions from the central blue-white: towards red-white and white-yellow. The potential for adaptation and change were suggestive of these minority variations. For now, I was surrounded by a beauty of expression, of life's unfolding in cyclical sway; but soon I realized, that even this stream would dry up, while another come along and take its place.

The Tree Strikes Back

Along the ends of the limbs, across the leaves,a legion of breeding insects swarmed the branches and leaves of a cottonwood tree. They began to chew their way into the soft tissues, the sweet nectar that fed their unquenchable thirst. Then, with a vegetable vengeance, the tree squirted out a sticky sap, drowning and trapping the crawling multitudes. An army of single-minded insects lay entombed over the woody and leafy ground. But these nymphs would be reborn, growing wings, parting from their old shells, leaving behind their outer skin to fly towards the sun.

The Giant is Thwarted

The miniature world holds many secrets. Only the observant mind is allowed access to this place.The pressures of coming and going, getting and spending, seem to protect the hidden niches along side many a trail. Nothing here is really secret. In fact, if you were a bug or snail or caterpillar, looking skyward, you would see the immensity of a world populated by moving giants blocking out the sun as they pass by. But occasionally, a furry giant might put its nose close to your flowered home. And soon it too would be gone too. However, and rarely does this happen, a large glassy lens, bigger than anything you have ever seen up close, would cover up the sky and disturb your peace. Being too close for comfort, you would spread your claws, hoping to frighten the circular tube and lens. Then it would go away and you would return to your hunt for insect delicacies.

The Trouble With Noise

From Windy Corner to McHugh Creek is 5-6 Miles. From here the trail winds up from the road and along the contours of the mountain, through ravine and rock gardens, climbing and flattening, only to drop again along it's length. The hike is normally around three hours, but I like to go slow; getting down or peeking around the foliage for insects or other small sights. Sometimes it takes me over four hours to go across the length, but Lots of folks are in a rush, running or walking fast, as though their eyes were future bound,the end in sight, and the evening meal already in their mouths. Some whistle and talk with fear;while others just look stiff, with eyes straight ahead; and then,a few are truly in sync and even say hello. The other day, I ran into a woman holding two large bear bells,strapped in the palm of her hands. She told me that it warned the bears that she was coming. She was a nice person, but I couln't imagine holding those bells while trying to take pictures or a swig of water. after her came a the trio of youngsters, making sounds and singing. One of them said it let all the animals know they were coming. Yah...I just told her that the wind, being behind them, would tell the animals without all the noise. Then she asked me if I had seen the black bears. Hmmm...with her and her friends yelling and singing,how could I even get close to a bear or a moose or a bird or anything? So,as they danced down the trail,with the light of innocence in their eyes, I could only wonder how they had got this far. Further on, an older women, along with her younger companion, again asked me about the bears. By this time, the story had grown into a survival epic. No, I told them, I hadn't seen the bears because of all the noise and people that were scaring them. The older woman seemed a little defensive about my remarks, insisting that making noise was justified if dangerous beasts were roaming the forest. Right...no use talking them out of their delusions. Finally, after getting to the cliff area near the other side, I climbed up along the loose rock, when another person came around the bend. She whistled, but then saw that it was me,not some hungry beast ( although I was hungry like a beast by then). She asked if I didn't mind her whistling. My answer was to gave her some of my jaded philosophy, about how noise only drowned out the perceptions, actually blinding the mind's awareness for survival. My words came in a deluge, telling her also that fear, the motivating reason behind making all this noise, actually created a false sense of security. She stopped, thought for a moment, her mind now open and unafraid,thanked me and walked on in a state of grace. Well, someone has to be the reluctant messiah out here on the trail.But I suppose that noise, judiciously used, has its place where people and animals meet. And besides,wild animals don't like noise and do vanish, especially with all these fearful types walking around. However,it's the runners that usually get into trouble in bear country. So by the time I had gotten across the trail,I felt like I needed some time alone.