Gold in Trib 1

by Douglas Anderson

  Hagen was quite ecstatic about the air drop. We quickly piled into the Jeep and took off. We zigzagged through the back roads, took the shortest route, and made it in about fifteen minutes. Parking in the same spot as the day before, we headed toward the clump of trees.

  “I have a good idea where the bundle landed.” Hagen said. “It is to the north side of that patch of open ground.”

  Sure enough the bundle, still in one piece, was up against a clump of willows. We pulled it into the open to examine it. It survived the impact. The only damage was a large hole cut in the burlap by the corner of the shovel. Tracking back, we found the point of impact, a mini crater in the soft ground. There was a second one five yards closer to the bushes. It looked as if the bundle traveled horizontally as it hit the ground.

  Hagen brushing dirt and grass from his pants said, “It would be better to make the drop from a higher altitude. Safer for us too.” We’d do that in the real air drop.

  I hefted the bundle onto my shoulder, carried it to the Jeep and plunked it into the cargo space. Hagen had the space boxed with tri-wall cardboard to protect the body panels from just such freight. We decided to inspect the tools closely at the house.

  In the garage, we unwrapped the tools and examined them carefully. The only damage we could find was that the tube of the bow-saw was bowed more than originally intended and the blade was no longer under tension. This would be easy to fix, even if it happened on the next drop. Our practice air drop had been a success.

  Hagen suggested, “We could tie some long streamers of surveyors fluorescent colored tape to the top of the bundle so that we could find it easily.”

  “Good idea,” I agreed. It is surprising how different everything looks at ground level compared with flying. Later, we’d fly to the Ladue Valley and drop the tool bundle and some packages of canned goods. We’d select a place where they could easily be recovered. The site would probably be along our hiking route.

  It was one o’clock already so we headed for the Country Kitchen Restaurant where there was always a very good Sunday brunch. Word had spread about the good food and the parking lot was full. We waited only a few minutes for the crowd to thin and got a table by the window with an enjoyable view of the snow capped Chugach Mountains.

  It was a buffet brunch and we made several trips to load up our plates. Hunger wouldn’t attack us again for a long time. We relaxed, took our time. The restaurant became quieter as we dawdled. Only a few diners remained.

  Our talk, although it drifted occasionally to other topics, centered on plans of hiking into our gold prospecting site. We rarely tired of the subject. I suppose, in the back of our minds, there was always a vision of gold nuggets, big as a fist, gleaming in the bottom of our pans.

  Second weekend in July was decided for our air drop and to scout the trail. Of course, as far as flying was concerned, we considered the weather and were prepared to change our plans accordingly. We also decided to take a ‘shape up’ hike the very next weekend. We’d do this no matter what the weather.

  Hagen said, “The chance of fine weather during the entire hike is too much to hope for. We’ve got to manage whatever is handed out once we’re on the way.” He was right.

  After our long brunch, we lounged around the house. At five thirty I said goodbye and taxied the 150 to the service station to top up the fuel tanks. There was no traffic in sight and Palmer wasn’t reporting any so I was able to take off without any delay. There was no wind so I took off to the east. Just as I lifted off, I glanced left to see Hagen on the front deck with one hand raised in a goodbye salute just as he had done each time I left his house.

  Twenty-five minutes later the 150 squeaked down on the black tire rubber marks at the end of runway 14 of Anchorage International. It took five minutes to taxi to my rented tiedown spot, close by the control tower. In a few more minutes I had the plane tied down and the flight recorded in my log. My Chevy Blazer was parked nearby and I was soon on the road home.

  Home was fifteen minutes away. As I drove to lower hillside area, southeast of town, I mulled over the weekend—all part and parcel of the preparations leading to our big hiking and prospecting adventure.

  Chapter 4

  Powerline Trail

  The City of Anchorage, Alaska’s largest population center with about two hundred thirty thousand people, is in a valley of ancient glacial moraine. The city, constrained in a roughly triangular area, is bounded by the waters of Knik Arm to the northwest, Turnagain Arm to the south and the Chugach Mountains to the east.

  As cities go, Anchorage is compact so one can live in a suburb and yet be down town in just a few minutes. Such was my own house. I lived in Lower Hillside on the lower slope of the Chugach Mountains.

  Three miles up the hill from my house was Chugach State Park, encompassing seven hundred eighty eight square miles of spectacular wilderness. The Park Service long ago mapped out a series of trails in the closer regions of the park. Locals and visitors walked many of these trails. In winter the same trails were used for cross country skiing. Only authorized motorized vehicles were allowed within the park boundary.

  Hagen and I planned a practice hike to limber up for the challenges of our big hike. Years ago, the local electric company strung power lines southeast between Anchorage and Girdwood. The trail, through Chugach Park and over the saddle of the mountain, to Indian Creek was called The Powerline Trail. About fifteen miles, it made a good hike with tough stretches up and over the saddle. From my house it would be a total of eighteen miles and we planned to spend one night camping on the trail.

  We discussed our training hike during the week and packed our gear in preparation. It wasn’t difficult. With only one night on the trail, we didn’t need much food. We’d carry perishable items, like rolls and fresh fruit, which was impossible on a longer hike. Hagen insisted we pad our backpacks to the weight we would carry on the big hike. “Otherwise,” he said, “it won’t be realistic training.”

  I weighted my own pack with spare boots, heavy gauge plastic tarps, a couple of five pound bags of rice and four cans of beef stew. I finished with fifty-eight pounds, including my 30-06 rifle. I figured it would satisfy Hagen.

  On Saturday morning, Hagen drove from Wasilla to my place. We drove to the southeastern end of the trail, Indian Creek. I parked my vehicle at a friend’s house, then drove home in Hagen’s Jeep and he parked it in the garage. We were all set.

  Securing the house, we hefted our backpacks and rifles and set off toward the park entrance. We were hiking uphill and began breathing heavily and perspiring freely. As usual, I reached a point where my legs felt they couldn’t take another step. I couldn’t believe my load was only fifty-eight pounds. I reminded myself to throw away my obviously defective bathroom scale when Hagen called the first halt. Typically Hagen set the pace and was the one to decide when to start or stop. In some ways hiking with Hagen was akin to having a military drill instructor.

  The first few miles were paved and I had to comment how quickly we could have covered the distance if we had driven. Of course that would not have served the purpose of toning our muscles for the big hike. To my utter relief we took a couple more breathers on the way to the park entrance.

  Once we entered the park, there seemed much more logic to walking. There were no more vehicles zipping by us. The trail was narrow and quite steep in places so that only an all-terrain vehicle could have negotiated. Further into the trail, where it crossed the ridge, only very specialized vehicles, such as those used by the utility company, could handle the steep grade.

  It was eleven thirty, so we walked half a mile into the park, set down our packs in a sunny patch and prepared a lunch snack accompanied by a can of soda. While we picnicked, a few casual walkers passed by, but we were the only ones out for a serious hike. We were not yet on the Powerline Trail. We were on a well used trail which cut across the lower slope of Flat Top Mountain to join with the main trail two miles into the park.

  We were still
below tree line and surrounded by spruce trees and northern hemlock with occasional clumps of silver birch. In many places lower growth dwarf willows and alders crowded the trail. The hillside, with a western exposure, received a lot of sunshine and the trees grew large. Many were grotesquely twisted and stunted due to the weight of ice and snow in the winter time.

  To the south, we could see the Kenai Peninsula, and, because we were familiar with the territory, could pinpoint Kenai fifty-five miles away. To the west, one hundred miles away, stood the Alaska Range—massive and gleaming with its year round snow cover. We had a clear view of Mt. Susitna, rising out of the vast Susitna plain forty four hundred feet. Anchorage was still out of sight behind the shoulder of the low ridge. We’d soon cross the ridge to join the main trail.

  After our snack we crushed our soft drink cans, stuffed them in our backpack side pockets and set off again. Fifteen minutes later we crested the ridge and obtained a panoramic view of the city and Anchorage bowl. It was hazy, possibly a combination of traffic exhaust and airborne dust. Some days the city air quality was bad, especially on days when there was no wind. On the hillside, there was a hint of a breeze, the air was fresh and clean and we could smell the nearby vegetation.

  Ten minutes more hiking brought us to the main trail and we had a view of it snaking up into the mountain pass. From here we could see and hear the waters of the south fork of Campbell Creek charging down its narrow rocky channel. On the other side of the creek were the power lines, strung on twin, wooden poles, following a line which converged with our trail two miles ahead.

  Hiking up the gently rising trail took us above the tree line. The terrain around us was open except for occasional patches of dwarf willows and low growing alders. The trail underfoot was now rocky and more difficult to walk on. We were gaining altitude with every stride. As we did, the ground-cover changed to arctic-like tundra with only low growing plants, coarse grasses, caribou moss, and white lichens.

  Soon we passed a stake, placed by the Park Service, which read “twenty six hundred feet elevation.” The north face of Flat Top Mountain, to our right, was still partly covered with rotting avalanche snow where the sun had not reached. We felt the air getting noticeably cooler as we climbed higher.

  This was the third time we had hiked the Powerline Trail, so we were familiar with the area. We hoped to be over the ridge and to level ground before camping for the night.

  The trail was nearly level as it made its way east into the valley across the lower slope of Suicide Peak and we made good headway. Our pace slowed however as we tackled the steeper trail leading up toward the ridge. The surface underfoot was rocky and we had to be careful where we placed our feet. The power lines, which had been getting closer, were overhead. Now we really were on The Powerline Trail.

  We had taken short breathers but tenacious Hagen was in the lead. He had the bit between his teeth and wasn’t about to stop yet. His stamina was at work. My thigh muscles were screaming with agony. He eventually stopped at a rocky outcrop half way up the steepest section. He must have been feeling the strain too, but typically, wouldn’t have admitted it. This was not the last rest we took but eventually we hauled our aching and perspiring bodies onto the saddle of the ridge.

  One minute we were scrambling upward almost on our hands and knees and the next minute we were on level ground. It was just as sudden as that.

  Barely fifty yards ahead, the ground fell off steeply toward Indian Valley. We were on a very narrow crest of the saddle.

  Thankfully, we put down our rifles and dropped our backpacks in a sunny spot. It was cool on the high ridge and a light wind made it feel much colder so we slipped into our jackets to avoid a chill. Hagen brought a small propane stove—as part of his ballast—so we decided to boil water for coffee. I had a couple of bananas and some granola bars which went nicely with the coffee.

  Our view to the west from this high vantage point was unrestricted, framed by the bulk of Flat Top Mountain on the left and Wolverine Peak on the right. Spread out below was the City, and although we were too far away to make out detail, we could see the high-rise buildings of downtown silhouetted against the gleaming surface of Knik Arm. Forty miles away was Mt. Susitna, nicknamed Sleeping Lady, because of its distinctive profile. In the vast space between the Knik Arm and Sleeping Lady was the glistening, awesome, Big Susitna River pouring its glacial silt-laden water into Cook Inlet. The western view ended one hundred miles or so distant in the foothills of Tordrillo Mountains, parts of the Alaska Range. The mighty range marched southwest, eventually to form the islands of the Aleutian Chain. The view was captivating, yet made us feel diminutive and humble.

  We soon felt the chill of the saddle, in spite of the bright sunshine. We didn’t dally too long. Our snack finished, we packed away our things and moved on. Our muscles had tightened up a bit and it took a while to get moving. It was downhill all the way to our planned campsite, but walking downhill taxed different muscles and we knew it wouldn’t be easy. It wasn’t. The steep slopes were mostly loose shale. We both slipped and fell several times as our feet skidded out from under us. The rifles proved to be most cumbersome.

  Anyway, we walked, slipped, and skidded our way a thousand feet down the steep zigzagging trail to the tree line where the footing was better. The trail leveled and began to traverse the north eastern slope of Suicide Peak, converging again with the power lines which plunged straight down the mountain side. The little used trail now became overgrown with grasses and low shrubs but the walking was much easier.

  In the shadow of the mountain, the light faded. On the other side of the valley, the sun was still catching the mountain tops and the fields of snow were taking on rosy glows. It wouldn’t be completely dark for a while, but we didn’t want to wait too late before making camp. Walking for ten more minutes brought us to an open space which would serve our purpose well. We were always nervous about bears and preferred to have a reasonable field of view rather than be closed in by trees.

  Our chosen site had a soft covering of moss and lichens which would help make our night more comfortable. We never carried a tent when we hiked. Instead, we had large ex-military ponchos which could be set up if necessary against the weather. They were really only nine feet square of waterproof material with a hood sewn in the middle and eyelets all around the outer edges. We needed a four and a half foot-long willow, or spruce bough, for a center pole, then the outer edges could be secured with cords and lightweight stakes. The ponchos proved to be effective as temporary shelters. We could see out under the edges to make sure there were no big hairy feet approaching. We liked that. I personally could think of nothing worse than being zipped up inside a tent unable to see what might be making a noise outside.

  We set our ponchos close together, so we could easily talk to each other, and placed our ground sheets and sleeping bags underneath. Next, we collected fire wood, though we had a propane stove to do our cooking. What was camping without a camp fire? We soon had a cheerful fire burning within a small circle of stones. Using the stove, we heated a good sized pot of stew with chunks of Spam added for extra body. We settled back and ate this along with some crusty rolls. A kettle of water came to the boil for tea.

  We enjoyed our evenings, depending on weather, by a campfire whenever we were hiking. It was great to relax after a strenuous day and feel aching muscles unwind. We felt comfortable in the wilderness aside from a little apprehension about bears. Frequently we had commented about feeling much safer in a remote place than in a city. It could be unsettling if, on darker nights, wondering what was just outside the circle of firelight. Occasionally, in the past, we had seen pairs of gleaming eyes, but it was just a curious fox or smaller animal.

  As we sat and talked in the glow of the fire under a night sky, the conversation turned to the subject of our big hike. We had already decided to drop the tools on to the prospect area and discussed dropping smaller packages of supplies. The aircraft must not be overloaded. Items would have to be cho
sen carefully. We discussed the various options and decided we’d limit supplies to ten cans plus a sealed one gallon paint can containing a miscellany of snack items. For ease of handling, they’d be divided into three packages, sealed in plastic trash bags and then wrapped in tarpaulins. It would make them less attractive to bears or wolverines. We were sure the contents of the packages would survive the drop, especially landing on soft ground. Hagen suggested we tie surveyors tape to each package making them easier to locate on the ground. Good idea.

  Hagen said it would be good to have an all terrain vehicle for easier traveling. We discussed this often and had already considered two second hand vehicles. In the end, we decided to reserve judgment until we hiked the trail at least once, then we’d have a better idea of vehicle requirements.

  The proposed trail, scouted twice from the air, led forty miles along mountain ridges to a point north of our prospect area. Several low saddles along the trail, which from the air, looked wet and slippery. There were also some very steep slopes which might be beyond the capabilities of a certain type of vehicle. We wouldn’t really know for sure until we had covered the ground on foot.

  Occasionally we lapsed into silent reverie while gazing into the flames. I knew Hagen’s thoughts at times like these because he would suddenly start telling me of some daring wilderness exploit he had read about. He read many books and had a fascination for the tales of the early explorers, trappers, prospectors, and mountain men. He envied them for the time in which they had lived, pitting themselves, with meager supplies, against the wild frontier. Their greatest weapons, their wits and the will to survive.

  It was getting late and mosquitoes were trying to make a meal of us. We forgot our repellent. A quick trip to the bushes, brushing our teeth, cleaning our faces and hands, and we were ready to hit the sack.

  Inside our poncho-tents, we suspended a piece of mosquito netting, carefully draped, to keep out all but the most tenacious insect. We kept our rifles by our sides in case anything larger than a mosquito came to bother us.