When we reached Duffy’s Tavern I dialed in 115.6 for the Gulkana VOR and let Hagen practice flying TO the beacon which radiated radio beams at five degree increments. Again on our left, loomed Mt. Sanford and Mt. Drum, snow-covered and glinting in the bright sunshine. It reminded me of a story I had read about the mountain. Apparently a plane, ferrying a load of gold for the World War II effort, disappeared and crashed into one of those mountains. It was never located. The plane, crew, and load of gold, was still on Mt. Sanford or Mt. Drum.
Strange too, we had never heard of anyone attempting to climb sixteen thousand two hundred thirty seven feet Mt. Sanford. I supposed someone did at some time or other.
Ripples on a glassy surface of a lake below and to the left of our course, caught my eye. With the aid of the binoculars I saw a moose wading in the water. It was probably up to its belly and was grazing on the underwater plants. The ripples on the surface of the water gave it away. Of course it helped to have clear air, free from pollution.
Gulkana Airport was in sight and I radioed the FSS to let them know we were passing directly overhead to Wasilla according to our flight plan. A couple of minutes later the little flag built into the VOR instrument tripped over and displayed FROM, showing that we were now flying away from the beacon. I rotated the bezel to 229 degrees and Hagen made a slight turn to the right. He just had to keep the needle centered and it would lead us to Gunsight Mountain, which we could see over the nose of the plane. It was just instrument flying practice for Hagen.
The sun, almost straight ahead, was blazing in through the plexiglas windshield. We lowered the visors and wedged a map across to block out the sun so we wouldn’t get sunburned. The map was positioned so our view was unrestricted. When we made this flight the previous year, we got sunburned and ended up terribly red faced in Wasilla.
Hagen maintained a straight course all the way to Eureka Summit and then scooted to the right of our VOR radial, and flew us over the placer mining area on the north side of Sheep Mountain. Many minor streams converged in the valley to become Sheep Creek which then ran southwest into the Matanuska River.
We were amazed to see the activity on the streams and the main creek. “It looks like there is a mining operation every few hundred yards.” I told Hagen. “I can see the creeks flowing muddy brown from each mining site.”
“Settling ponds are not required at most placer mines.” Hagen commented. “I suppose the Matanuska is so heavily silt-laden, the state had to make exceptions.”
We left the western end of the valley and saw the Glenn Highway snaking its way alongside the river. On our left, was the great expanse of the Matanuska Glacier with its clearly visible streaks of silt and rocks being carried along by the ice flow. The end of the glacier looked more like massive gravel-works from this height but we knew there was still ice under much of the gravel.
Now we flew westward with the mountain range rearing up close on our right. We were at only eight and a half thousand feet, and those mountains looked massive. Hagen drew my attention to several flocks of mountain sheep, white, against the high green alpine meadows. Ahead we saw the wide green expanse of the Matanuska Valley farming belt.
Wasilla lay to the west. Hagen piloted the plane to the right and we slipped over the last few ridges by Jonesville Mine, and still fifteen miles out, throttled back a little and initiated our descent. Hagen stayed in control while I contacted Palmer to tell them of our arrival and close out our flight plan. Hagen turned onto the down wind leg for our landing at Wasilla.
There was no traffic in sight so Hagen stayed in control, went through the landing checks and set up our approach from the southwest. He plunked the 150 down solidly, rather than gracefully, onto the gravel runway, bounced, and had the chance to land a second time. Our flight had lasted three hours and thirty-eight minutes. About fifteen minutes more than initially planned.
I was satisfied with our trip. As we taxied toward the house, I glanced at Hagen and gave him a thumbs up. He was not smiling, probably because he was still wondering about his one approach and two landings. I could tell he enjoyed the experience of being pilot in command for the flight home.
Thirty minutes later we were relaxing with a light snack and a cup of tea. We accomplished our objective to place supplies and tools on the prospect area and we knew more about our next long hike.
At six o’clock, we gassed up, then flew to Anchorage. Hagen’s vehicle was at my house so he’d stay the night and go straight to work in town in the morning. Today was Sunday and Polka night at The Pines. We had time to get ready, hit the restaurant for a well-deserved meal, and get a little exercise on the dance floor.
Chapter 9
The Drive
With the heavy supplies out at Trib 1 there was less to carry on our backs. It still required some careful planning to make sure we carried enough to sustain us on the long trail, supplies to give our diet a bit of variety, and enough for the trip out.
It was our plan to hike part way in, and, at an appropriate place, stash makings of a few good meals. This would make our packs lighter for the remainder of the trip in and ensure we had sustenance on our return.
We had nearly two weeks to round up goods for our backpacks. I had my own list prepared during the first week and compared it with Hagen’s list to check for duplications. We remained self sufficient as far as breakfast and snacks were concerned but pooled our canned food, dehydrated meals and cookware.
In the remaining days I assembled items on my list and laid them out on the floor of my spare room. Looking at the list had been bad enough, but as the pile grew, it seemed like an awful lot to squeeze into one backpack.
My backpack had upper and lower main compartments, two large pockets on the back, and two pockets on each side. Arranging everything for the long hike was a challenge. The art was to try to arrange things in the order they would be needed. The side pockets were the most accessible and held water bottles and a miscellany of smaller objects which might be required any time.
The large lower compartment held my spare clothes well wrapped in a plastic trash bag. The upper compartment held my food and cooking utensils. Ground sheet and sleeping bag, tightly rolled and in their own waterproof bags, were attached with bungee cords to the bottom of the pack. A small, long handled, axe, aluminum shovel, and gold pan were strapped on the outside by more bungee cords.
A strong leather belt carried a ten round 30-06 ammo pouch, a folding buck knife, and a small soft pack for miscellaneous items. The 30-06 rifle had to be carried by hand since there was no way to satisfactorily sling it on a shoulder or strap it to the pack.
With everything packed, the load weighed sixty seven pounds. Not too bad and it would be lighter when I cached my share of the meals on the trail. I wondered what we would have done if we had not dropped the supplies in advance. I suppose we would have managed somehow but it would have been a mundane diet of dehyd and more dehyd.
We’d leave Thursday. I had my pack ready by Tuesday evening. I did think of a couple of extras but they fitted into the side pockets and it was ready. No! The sun can burn down something awful at the higher altitudes and I had forgotten the sun block number fifteen lotion. A quick trip to the store. I was ready.
Well! The big day at last. I walked a few miles for exercise and retired early. I slept well and the alarm woke me at six. Quickly I piled out of bed, showered, and was dressed.
The Chevy Blazer was ready and my hiking gear was in the back. I secured the house and set off toward Wasilla, fifty-five miles away. There was heavy business traffic on Lake Otis, Tudor Road, and Muldoon and I was delayed a few times. Once I reached the Glenn Highway, it was better. I was a few minutes late at The Pantry restaurant. Hagen was seated in a booth and already into the morning newspaper.
We were eager to get going so we wasted little time ordering breakfast and eating. “No time for fooling around with politics today, Hagen,” I said wiping my chin. At eight thirty we left the restaurant and drove our vehi
cles to his house.
Earlier we had agreed to take my Chevy Blazer on this trip. Hagen was a bit nervous about leaving his nearly-new Jeep unguarded in some remote place. My older vehicle would be of lesser concern, though I didn’t want anything to happen to it either. We took protective measures of course and loaded some dirty old tarps and a camouflage net into the back of the vehicle. We had purchased them at a surplus sale in Anchorage and they would serve to cover and disguise the Blazer when we stashed it near the trail entrance.
Hagen’s pack seemed very heavy as I helped load it in the back of the Blazer and I suspected he had not been careful measuring quantity of the contents. He was always apt to “throw in a couple of these just in case” which, of course, added to the weight. I knew however, Hagen would not be hungry on the trail even if it meant carrying extra weight. Hagen’s Weatherby 30-06 rifle was the last item to be tucked in the back before closing the tailgate and cranking up the window.
The day brightened considerably and looked like a pleasant one for our journey. We locked the garage and set off. Just to the east of Wasilla, a newly paved road cut through to the Glenn Highway near Palmer, the initial part of our route. At the Palmer crossroads, we turned left. It was the Glenn Highway all the way to Tok Junction on the Al-Can Highway, three hundred and sixty miles away.
We knew the Glenn Highway closely and with dry roads would be able to make good time. A main problem was getting past slower moving vehicles but our knowledge of the road and its twists and turns helped.
We made good headway. When we reached the lookout point for the Matanuska Glacier, I pulled off the highway to stretch our legs and enjoy the view. The glacier, lay gleaming blue in the sunlight. In the glacial area were mounds of glacial moraine which, as we had observed from the air, resembled a huge gravel works.
We were just about to leave when an Alaska Tours bus loaded with Japanese tourists arrived. It was amusing to see one older lady snapping photos even as she descended the steps of the bus. She ran off about six frames before she even reached the guard rail. I guess she thought the glacier might melt before she had a chance to capture it on film. They smiled and bowed politely to us as we retreated to our vehicle in the face of their excited chatter.
The terrain in the Matanuska region is rugged and the road twists and turns through unique scenic beauty. Shades of green foliage, devil’s club, tall grasses and berry-laden bushes converged in harmony. The hillside areas and roadside embankments were covered with large patches of red fireweed, blue lupines, wild roses, and a variety of smaller flowers. For the few summer months, Alaska was a garden spot, beautiful and rich, not as supposed a land of ice and snow.
An hour later we topped the rise at Eureka Lodge where we stopped for a cup of coffee. Good coffee too. Eureka Lodge is three thousand feet above sea level. Across the road was a gravel runway, and beyond, miles of open country and patches of skinny black spruce trees. In the distance, to the south, glaciers, ice fields, and massive snow covered peaks mirrored the sun and formed a spectacular backdrop.
Keeping our stop brief, we paid the tab—unbelievably only fifty cents a cup—visited the men’s room and were soon on our way.
The sixty-mile stretch of highway from Eureka to Glennallen had few points of interest, unless one cared to count the frost heaves, but we made good time. Ahead of us was the snow covered, sparkling bulk of Mt. Drum with Mt. Sanford a little further away. It looked like clear weather ahead. As we closed in on Glennallen, I drove closer to the fifty-five mph speed limit because I knew this stretch of road was patrolled by State Troopers. We had no problems. By one o’clock we reached outskirts of the town and pulled into the gas station.
We topped off both gas tanks. From this point we had one hundred and seventy miles to travel to the entrance of the trail. We planned to have a good dinner at the Tok Motel restaurant and decided a light snack now would not be unreasonable.
The little restaurant next to the gas station was bustling with tourists. We ordered cheeseburgers and fries and then waited. They were delicious. “I doubt we’ll need a big meal at Tok.”
Hagen retorted, “Wanna bet?”
He was probably right. If we hiked to the crest of the ridge, once we reached the trail, we wouldn’t want to prepare a meal at such a late hour.
Only two miles further the Glenn intersected with the Richardson highway and we turned north. Twelve miles north we turned east again at the Tok cutoff. The sign by the junction read, “Highway 1, Tok and Canada.” It was just an extension of the Glenn Highway.
As we turned east, the road took a mile long down grade and, in very spectacular fashion, crossed the wide gravel bar expanse of the Gulkana River. A short sharp climb and the road hugged the northern embankment of the Copper River. We had occasional spectacular glimpses of the Copper, but for most of the time, the river was obscured by trees.
We made good time despite more frost heaves. There was little traffic in either direction to give any problems. Many vehicles were motor homes and most carried license plates from the Canadian provinces or the Lower 48. This was the main artery from Anchorage to the Al-Can and toward the Canadian border and Whitehorse in the Yukon.
One hour after lunch break saw us passing the Nabesna junction at Slana. Just as we had seen from the air, Slana was only a few cabins strung out along a short stretch of highway. Another hour placed us almost at the entrance to Mentasta Pass. Streams and tributaries seemed to come from all directions and for a few miles we drove over a wide river bed. Alaska might run out of oil one day, but it would never run out of gravel.
Soon the scenery changed from spectacular to very spectacular. Great cliffs of rock pressed close to the road, mountains literally hung threateningly over us. The road, through the pass, swooped and zoomed dramatically, lending to some exhilarating travel. Ten miles into the mountain pass, the valley widened out and Mentasta Lake, with a few cabins along her edge, slowed us down. Though pretty, we concluded it must be one mean place to live the winter. A road side sign stated: Elevation 2,300 feet. I was surprised it wasn’t higher but supposed that was why the surrounding mountains seemed so large. They rose to seven thousand feet.
Twenty miles further, we left the pass in a northerly direction. As we came down the final grade, we could see the flat lands of the Tok and Tetlin area spread out ahead of us. The Tok River was off to the right side, and though we couldn’t see it, the Tanana River cut its way in a northwesterly direction across the flats. In the distance, maybe fifty miles away, we could already see the low line of ridges which was our destination.
We passed through the western-most reaches of the Alaska range and Tok lay twenty-five miles ahead. The road bed was so full of frost heaves we slowed to save our livers. There were delays due to road work and we had to wait at one place for a pilot vehicle. We passed a large motor home suffering a broken rear spring. He was limping along at ten miles an hour and would eventually make it to Tok.
At Tok we made the State Troopers office our first stop. It was just good sense to let someone know where we would be for the next ten days. As Hagen said, “So that someone could bury our bones one day.” The Sergeant on duty however, took it quite seriously and said he wished more people would do the same. He also, quite seriously, asked if we were packing guns to protect ourselves and we confirmed we had 30-06s. We promised faithfully to check in upon our return.
He said, “We’ll set the dogs loose, just to locate your bones, if you’re not back in twelve days.”
This essential business completed, we drove half a mile to the Tok Motel and restaurant. It was too early to eat dinner but nevertheless, we ordered a fair plate with Chicken Fried steak, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, a side salad and coffee. It cost a lot—Anchorage times two—but, as Hagen pointed out, it would be our last civilized meal for ten days.
Finished with our meal, we eagerly headed east along what could now truly be called, The Al-Can Highway. The huge bridge over the Tanana River teased us. One more m
ile brought us to Tetlin Junction where the Taylor Highway struck north. The Junction was poorly marked and could be missed easily. The only indication was a small sign reading Chicken and Dawson. Also, if you knew about it, there was an old cabin adorned with dozens of Moose and Caribou antlers occupying the corner lot.
We knew the Taylor Highway consisted of one hundred and eighty miles of gravel leading past Mt. Fairplay, Chicken, and Jack Wade to a border crossing called Boundary. Heading east into Canada the road arrived at the Yukon River where there was a ferry to Dawson City, site of the legendary Bonanza Creek gold strike.
I drove the Taylor Highway years earlier and remembered it as awesome. For many miles the road ran along a high ridge. It seemed like driving on top of the world. The highest point was four thousand five hundred feet and kind of lonely. It was definitely not a place for a breakdown. It could take a day or two to get a tow truck and it would cost a bundle.
Our trail began only twelve miles up the gravel highway. From aerial observation, we knew there was a large gravel pit almost opposite the end of the trail. Easy to locate, it took only fifteen minutes to reach the place. Road crews had obviously used this gravel pit as a source of material for the road bed. Now the large level area carved out of the bluff, yet partly overgrown, more than anything else was used as overnight layover for motorhomes and the like. There were no vehicles parked now, which was good, because we would prefer not to be observed entering the trail.
I drove the Chevy just a little way in from the road bed and switched off the engine. We climbed out and were instantly aware of the silence, a silence broken only by the pinging of the Chevys’ hot exhaust system as it cooled.
A bit stiff, we walked down the road fifty yards and searched for the entrance to the trail. It was overgrown and difficult to locate, yet right where we expected. The road had been graded recently and there was a fresh berm of gravel across the entrance as well as a heavy growth of alders. We were pleased to see there was no evidence of any kind of vehicle entering the trail recently.
Gold in Trib 1 Page 6