Gold in Trib 1

by Douglas Anderson

  Our sleeping bags were good quality, double quilted with a filling of down and Holofill fiber rated to 20 degrees. They would roll into a compact bundle, yet had a high loft when fluffed up. After seeing the idea in an outdoor magazine, I purchased some soft flannel material and commissioned a friend to make liners for both sleeping bags. It was a touch of extra comfort and we adopted the habit of sleeping almost naked. We placed our clothes in a plastic trash bag to protect them from the dampness of the night.

  With more than a few muttered curses we struggled out of our clothes, got into our sleeping bags, and arranged our mosquito netting. It wasn’t the easiest of tasks under the confines of the poncho, but we were settled in a few minutes.

  As usual, Hagen found something more to talk about. Though we were tired, this night was no exception. We talked about Hagen’s plans. He worked for the Alyeska Pipeline Service Company. It was his ambition to own a machine shop, with metal machining, welding, and fabrication capabilities. We often discussed getting it started. What kind of work was available? It was no good hoping for an occasional odd job. There had to be some specialty or service no one else was providing. Also, it was important to have some core work to provide a steady income. Really we were brain storming and every time we did, we discovered something new to add to a list of possibilities. Hagen could get excited about this long-term planning for his future. Finally, during a lull, I drifted off to sleep. I left Hagen with his dreams.

  In the bottom of the valley, Indian Creek, gorged by snow melt, rushed and tumbled its way to Turnagain Arm. Its soothing sound was all that penetrated the night.

  I woke from a deep sleep and opened my eyes to green. It took a moment or two for me to realize where I was and that the sun was shining through the green material of the poncho. I had slept soundly, oblivious to lumpy ground under my sleeping bag.

  There was a rattling of cookware and I realized Hagen was already up and about. Already? When I looked at my wrist watch, I was amazed to see it was eight-thirty. I had slept soundly for nine and a half hours.

  I struggled out of the sleeping bag and into a tee shirt. Hagen had a cup of steaming coffee ready. He had been up just long enough to get a fire started and water boiling. He said, “A cow moose was browsing on the shrubs over there when I crawled out of my poncho. They aren’t timid this close to civilization.”

  It was a lovely, cloudless morning. Warmth from the sunshine was already easing our muscles. The end of the trail was close, only about two and a half miles of easy going. We wanted to go to The Pines polka dancing that evening so we had no real reason to hurry. We lounged around, enjoyed the sunshine and had a good breakfast with more coffee. Slowly, we packed our things and broke camp.

  We literally romped to the end of the trail. My Chevy was where we left it. There was no sign of my friends, so I scribbled a quick note and left it in a conspicuous place to let them know we arrived safely and had picked up the vehicle. Later we were back at my house. We got ready for dinner and an evening of polka dancing—like we needed the exercise!

  Chapter 5

  Polka Night

  The Pines polka group started playing at around five PM Sunday evenings and continued with only short breaks until nine-thirty. Then a Country Western group took over and played until one-thirty AM.

  Open every day except Monday, The Pines was a popular place in Anchorage. It was particularly well patronized Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evenings when the music was pure Country. Sunday nights were polka nights and a different clientele, family mostly, were attracted. Parents brought their children for the early part of the evening. The dance floor was about thirty-five by sixty feet, with a raised platform at one end for the musicians. The areas on each side were carpeted and there were tables and booths for four-hundred people. Through a side door was The Yellow Rose Restaurant where excellent priced meals, as prices in Alaska go, were served.

  Hagen and I showered, dressed and set off, with both vehicles, at four-thirty. We went straight into the restaurant and ordered our meal and coffee. While we were awaiting our order some of our regular dance partners came in. Soon there was a crowd. We related our recent hiking experience and took a bit of a ribbing for not inviting some guests along. We razzed them. “Shucks, we challenged, “You’re mere females and couldn’t have kept up with us super fit guys.” Of course the challenge could not be taken lightly and we were promised company on some later hike. We were despicable. We never mentioned we were in training for an extensive hike. Still our secret.

  Hagen and I routinely went to The Pines not only on Sundays, but on other nights of the week. Thanks to a lady who gave dancing lessons around town who finally, after much nagging, persuaded us to join. One thing led to another and we were drawn into aerobic classes too. In a short time we were involved, especially during winter months, and wondered how we ever managed without it. We became acquainted with many new friends. Our new friends introduced us to dancing at The Pines and other places around town. With lessons and practice, we were proficient dancers, and as a bonus, it helped us to keep fit.

  Of course it was not lost that we were both eligible, single, and of considerable worth. Some opposite gender set their sights on us. We had used some of our new found fancy footwork to dodge when necessary but enjoyed close encounters.

  On occasion, a relationship had been traumatic for one reason or another. We were not totally insensitive, and we had relied on each other for morale support and counseling through difficult times. What made Hagen and me such good friends was the fact we held no secrets from each other, yet we accepted each other with all our foibles.

  Among our friends were, hikers, skiers, boaters, hunters, and fishermen. On weekends, eight or ten of us got together and enjoyed recreation such as cross country skiing with bonfire and picnic. We had a good time. We were introvert, in former times, but we were now borderline extrovert.

  Everyone finished dinner and we went to the dance hall. Hagen and I selected our usual table in prime stalking territory. From our vantage point, we faced the music, watched the dance floor, and scouted the area for potential dance partners. We didn’t have to hunt much. We’d often be approached to “do this one with me.” There were evenings when we hardly missed a dance. We had our favorite music and favorite partners, for certain dances, so it worked out well.

  Neither Hagen nor I were big drinkers, but there was no cover charge at The Pines. They had to make enough to pay the band so we usually made our contribution by ordering a couple of beers. Besides, a drink on the table top staked your claim. On polka night the hall was not too crowded and most people had an established place to sit. The unwritten rule was to leave another person’s regular place alone. Newcomers were usually invited to join one table or another until they settled in a group where they felt most comfortable.

  The leader of the polka group called The Polka Dots, was piloting the band through a rousing number. We hardly had a chance to sit before we were yanked to our feet and onto the floor. I thought my feet and legs would not take any more punishment after this weekend. Of course they did. I was here for exercise. It didn’t take long to loosen up and soon I was jinxing around in time to the music like everyone else.

  The Polka Dots had a knack of throwing in a waltz now and then. To change the tempo, they played rousing numbers such as The Chicken which required some pretty ridiculous moves and gyrations. Then they required everyone to exchange partners for the next waltz or whatever. The kids enjoyed it and it was a good ice breaker for adults too, once one learned not to be self-conscious.

  As I said, we had favorite tunes and favorite partners. We also had not-so-favorite partners no matter the tune. Hagen, who was particularly adept at categorizing people, had partners all sorted out. There were those who were a pleasure to dance with anytime. There were some to be avoided at all cost. There were good lookers, worth the sacrifice, even if they couldn’t dance, and there were, unfortunately, some falling into the category of dogs. All this catego
rization, had it been revealed, would for sure, put Hagen and me into the much despised category of male chauvinist pigs. To a certain extent, it was a classic situation, eligible male hunting eligible female, eligible female hunting eligible male. Both determined to move so fast they were never caught.

  We had developed a private rapport regarding the opposite sex, so if I spotted what I thought was a likely partner, I drew Hagen’s attention to her. Hagen looked, and after some deliberation, made the terse assessment, “Worth a try” or “Forget it,” or even “trollop, guttersnipe, stable-wench, hussy.” Other times it was he who started it going and I who shattered his illusions with similar disparaging comments. Sometimes, there would happen by someone truly “awesome” which left us both speechless. Later, we maneuvered to be the first to ask her to dance. As we found out more about her, she ended categorized along with the others. We always kept these comments between ourselves, of course, lest we fall from that coveted title of eligible. The ladies, I’m sure, had their own categories for guys but we were never sure where we fit.

  We gradually earned respect as good dancers and took credit for coaching many of the ladies in the room. We were still occasionally bombarded with requests to, “lead me through this one one more time.” Sometimes it worked in our favor and sometimes it was just one of those dogs with a gleam in her eye. Above all, we tried to be chivalrous and sometimes suffered because of our largess. We had, on the other hand, developed friendships with many in the group.

  Sunday night at The Pines was usually quite satisfying and tonight was no exception. The large room didn’t get smoky on polka nights, like it did on the wilder Country Western evenings. That suited our desire for a healthy lifestyle.

  On this evening, in spite of some protests from my legs, I hardly sat out a dance. Hagen and I both said our good night at ten o’clock and headed off to our respective homes and mundane stuff like working for a living.

  Chapter 6

  Flight to Gulkana

  Living so far north, our days in the summer were long. A private pilot, without night certification, could fly almost around the clock. The FAA ruled daylight as, one hour before sunrise until one hour after sunset. It was now the last weekend in July and the days were long.

  After an unavoidable two-week postponement, due to my business travel, we were at last making our flight to the prospect area to drop our supplies. It was a pleasant Friday evening without a cloud in sight as we set off. Our long flight took us through several mountain passes so I spent thirty minutes carefully preparing a flight plan. I phoned my flight plan in to the Flight Service Station and now activated it as we departed from Anchorage.

  The baggage compartment behind the seats of the Cessna was full. There were three neatly wrapped packages of canned food, a bundle of tools, two sleeping bags, and ground sheets, and a little nylon bag of miscellaneous items. I was worried about the weight. But with enough fuel, plus reserve, it checked out marginally okay. One good thing, we had thousands and thousands of feet of runway for take off at Anchorage.

  It was seven PM when I fired up the engine and obtained clearance to taxi to runway 32. As we taxied, I called the FSS and opened my flight plan. Then, using as much runway it seemed as a Boeing 747, we took off and climbed steadily over Knik Arm to Point MacKenzie.

  Our route would take us from Anchorage, north to Palmer and then northeast through Chickaloon Pass, Tahneta Pass, and across the flats to Gulkana. Throughout most of the journey we would keep Highway One, the Glenn Highway, in sight. The last few miles we cut across country before descending to the Gulkana airport.

  It truly was a beautiful evening. All around us was a clear view of mountains and valleys. A hundred and fifty miles away Mt. McKinley and Mt. Foraker stood big, bold, and gleaming with snow. There really was no need for navigation as such because we were familiar with the terrain and we could see where we were and where we wanted to go.

  First we headed north to Palmer at twenty five hundred feet. At Palmer, we turned northeast and climbed to our cruise altitude of ninety-five hundred feet. We were well below the flight path of larger aircraft which might approach Anchorage, but we kept a keen eye for small craft. The Cessna purred at twenty one hundred rpm and one hundred and four miles per hour. At this speed and altitude, the land below slipped by. Later, when we reached altitude, our progress, relative to the ground, would be less apparent.

  This air corridor from Point MacKenzie to Palmer was busy, so we both kept a sharp look out for other aircraft and I made small course corrections as necessary. One speck in the sky turned out to be a large Bald Eagle. It zipped closely by at one hundred and four miles per hour.

  Twenty minutes after takeoff, we had Wasilla in sight to the west and Palmer only minutes ahead. I touched base with the FSS to let the attendant know who we were and where we were going. I started a full power climb to our planned ninety-five hundred-foot altitude. Now this was the kind of flying I enjoyed immensely. It was wonderful to watch the view expand as altitude increased. We reached a point where we seemed to just hang there, up in the bright sunlight, with an awesome vista of mountains. The sun was behind us. At an angle, it left the deeper valleys etched in shadow.

  Hagen was doing a bit of map-work as we flew along, not for navigation, but to identify visible roads, trails, streams, and lakes. It was useful to be familiar with the territory.

  “Later,” he mumbled, “we may find our way in for fishing at a remote lake. Maybe near the Glenn Highway.”

  Soon we were flying with the Matanuska River directly below and the well-traveled Glenn Highway to the left. To the right, however, was Chugach Mountain wilderness with no access roads whatsoever. From our lofty perch we could see valleys rarely, if ever, visited by anyone. We had often wished we could get in there to prospect, but short of hiring someone to take us by helicopter, there seemed no easy way.

  It was wonderful. Exciting and spectacular country made our minds run wild. We could almost visualize gold nuggets mixed with gravel of the eroded river valleys. Hagen pointed to places we could hike, at some later date, and do a little prospecting, near the Glenn Highway.

  We were making good progress. There wasn’t even a ripple in the air as we flew over Chickaloon Pass. On our left was a six thousand foot peak and on the right an eight to ten-thousand-foot mass of mountains. Ahead, to the right, we could see the gleaming blue/white ice of the Matanuska Glacier rippling under peaks nine thousand feet high.

  Below us, Matanuska River, spawned by the glacier, made its way down the valley. From our height, it looked quite tame. However, we knew it was a raging, silt-laden torrent making a very exciting raft trip for brave-hearted tourists visiting the State.

  Ten minutes later we had a better view of the Matanuska Glacier as it stretched fifteen miles into the valley to its source near Finland Peak. During the summer, guided tours were taken over the lower reaches of the glacier. We had never done it ourselves, but it was popular with the summer visitors.

  As we passed the glacier, our route took a slight turn to the left. We kept the Glenn Highway in sight. Gun-sight Mountain, so named because of the notch in its peak, rose massively to the left. Ahead we could see the deep cleft of Tahneta Pass.

  Tahneta Pass is thirty nine hundred sixty-feet elevation. Flying fifty five hundred feet or so above the terrain, we could see considerably more detail. We passed Sheep Mountain and we could see white Dall sheep in the green upper meadows and on barren rocky slopes. To the north of the mountain, hidden from our view, was a valley with several feeder creeks which were actively mined for gold. On our return we intended to fly over the area and have a look. It was a shorter route but did not afford a view of the highway.

  Soon we were over Eureka Summit and the Eureka Lodge at three thousand two hundred eighty nine feet elevation, according to the sectional chart. Over to our right was the gleaming expanse of Nelchina Glacier and, the northern tip of Tazlina Lake which is fed by Tazlina Glacier, itself still hidden by the shoulder of
the mountains.

  Around these two massive glaciers, the mountains, still snow covered in many places, rose to a height of eight thousand feet. The huge ice fields of Valhalla Mountain formed a wonderful gleaming backdrop. It was a spectacular panorama from Eureka Lodge but even more so from our high vantage point.

  We had a magnificent view. In all directions, we saw mountains, each with its own shape and personality. The Amphitheater Mountains were to the north, the Wrangells to the east, the Chugach to the south, and the Talkeetna Range behind us. In this clear evening, even from this altitude, we were surveyors of an incredible wilderness area covering thousands of square miles.

  The Wrangells, ahead, captivated us. They were a chain of spectacular mountains. Mt. Sanford, the most northerly, and with a classic pyramid shape, dominated at sixteen thousand two hundred thirty seven foot, snow-covered feet. Mt. Drum, Mt. Wrangell, a sleeping volcano, and Mt. Blackburn, lay off to the southeast. Finally the highest southerly peak was Mt. St. Elias. All stood dramatically on the eastern edge of the huge Copper River Valley.

  I piloted our aircraft toward Gulkana. The Glenn Highway diverged to the right toward the wide spread community of Glennallen. Straight head, at a distance of twenty-five miles, was Gulkana Airport. Five minutes later I reduced the engine rpm, careful not to cold-shock the engine, and trimmed for a gradual descent toward the airport. We were on schedule, if not a little ahead of time, and would easily arrive before the FSS closed at nine thirty.

  About two miles out, I contacted the FSS and informed the attendant of our intention to land. There was no reported traffic, but I switched on the landing lights—to make us more visible—and we checked to make sure all was secure for landing.

  We passed over the Alaska oil pipeline, the Richardson Highway, and then turned onto final in line with the runway. The Cessna’s tires squeaked on the Gulkana runway’s asphalt, elevation fifteen hundred and seventy eight feet above sea level. We were just a few minutes earlier than estimated. As we taxied, I radioed the FSS to close out the flight plan and thanked the attendant. We would probably be his last customer for the night.