Gold in Trib 1

by Douglas Anderson

  The slopes leading up the ridge, supported a growth of trees. At two thousand foot elevations, the larger growth gave way to dwarf willows. Fingers of trees occasionally made it to higher levels where there was a saddle in the long ridge.

  With Hagen’s pocket camera, we took a photo of each other posing as mountain-men against the wilderness. We hoisted our backpacks and rifles and set off again along the steepening trail.

  Our leg muscles tightened up during the half hour rest, and it took a while to loosen up again. With tenacious Hagen for company, I was the only one to verbalize on this fact. Hagen only grimaced, set his already angular jaw more firmly and lengthened his stride. I satisfied my own ego by telling myself this was just a front. In truth, his legs were killing him, and on top of that, he was probably ravenously hungry.

  The trail steepened sharply and we found ourselves la-boring up the flank of an intermediate peak, unnamed on our map. Several difficult, steep, but short, stretches of shale left us gasping for breath. We took a rest after each. We noted the deep scars on the slopes, and in particular, at the upper lip of each slope where the sleds had been winched with brute force. No small wonder the trail was clearly defined after so many years.

  Slowly, we made our way upward and finally reached a bald plateau a couple of hundred yards square. By a quirk of nature, there was a small stand of stunted northern larch trees at the eastern edge. It was a good place to stop for lunch and a real rest. There was a pretty little spot in some large rocks and shrubs. It would have made a beautiful campsite but it was too early for that. Perhaps it would be convenient on the way out.

  It was one PM and we had put six miles of trail behind us since our overnight camp. We were satisfied with our progress and agreed we deserved a rest.

  Thanks to the nearby spruce trees, there was no shortage of fire wood. Ten minutes later, we had a kettle of water on the boil for hot tea, dehyd beef and vegie stew. I had a couple of crushed, but palatable, French bread rolls, to compliment the stew. Hagen had a couple of apples for dessert. These were luxuries available only because it was our first day on the trail. From now on we would not be able to enjoy fresh food.

  After our meal, we removed our hiking boots and stretched out on the ground to rest. There is nothing that beats a patch of soft spongy, dry, tundra for comfort; forget the berry stains on our clothes. Despite his aggressive hiking fashion, Hagen relished a siesta after lunch. For myself, I took every chance I could get, thus it wasn’t long before we were both sawing wood.

  We dozed for an hour before rousing and even then we continued to lounge. Finally, we spurred ourselves into action, rounded up our gear, made sure the fire was out and moved—stiffly—from the plateau.

  After a moderately steep downgrade, the trail leveled and continued along the spine of the ridge, thus providing excellent views to the north and south. The view prevailed for a couple of miles until we reached the lowest part of the saddle where the dwarf willows, were more prolific and—so much for dwarf—about eight feet high, crowded the trail.

  Refreshed from our rest we held a very good pace along this easy section. Soon, we climbed the western flank of Mt. Son and found it increasingly difficult. These steep sections, it seemed, were always much steeper with greater changes of elevation than we estimated from our flyover.

  The slope up the west side of Mt. Son was something else. The average slope was perhaps one foot up in three feet forward, but there were steeper slopes with shale and rock slides to be negotiated. Here was a prime example of what happened once the surface was broken by vehicles and the thin veneer of protective vegetation destroyed. It’s obvious there was little or no natural erosion until the surface was scarred by the cat train. The finer materials simply crumbled and washed downhill exposing larger rocks and boulders.

  We slaved doggedly up these rock and shale slides with frequent stops to get our breath. I had to think how we flew over the trail these same miles in only a few minutes. Whichever way one looked at it, this was the hard way.

  I was struggling upward, commiserating with myself, my head down, when I almost bumped into Hagen. He was frozen in mid-stride. He grabbed my arm to prevent me from falling back down the slope and pointed uphill with his rifle.

  At first he made no sound but just worked his jaws. He squeezed my arm tighter and finally gasped, “Is that a bear?”

  I looked in the same direction but at first couldn’t see anything. My eyes, pretty good at a distance, while Hagen’s were myopic, finally made out the object. It was only a dark patch of rock vaguely bear-shaped, framed by lighter shrubs. At a hundred yards, with a bit of imagination, it did look like a bear. Hagen was not fully convinced until we climbed closer and the bear turned into just a harmless rock.

  One thing became patently clear because of this incident. We realized we were spending far too much time watching where we placed our feet and not enough time looking where we were going. Thinking about it, I couldn’t remember looking behind often either. We heard stories about unseen, curious bears following hikers. A bear could have been behind us most of the way and we wouldn’t have noticed, maybe until it was too late.

  We vowed to be more watchful lest we stumble upon a real bear and not just a bear shaped rock. Knock on wood, we hadn’t seen evidence of bears during the hike, but that didn’t mean they weren’t around.

  We briefly rested on the bear, then struggled up the trail and eventually, conquering one last especially mean talus slope, staggered onto the top of Mt. Son. We reached the first really high point on the trail, three thousand eight hundred and twenty two feet above sea level. It didn’t seem like an Alaska mountain, but our hike was influenced more by change in elevation than actual elevation above sea level.

  This one sported a level area the size of a couple of football fields. We were disgusted to find a hundred or so, rusting fifty-gallon fuel drums on the northern side of the plateau’s low shrubs. They could only have been left there by the mining company or possibly by the Bureau of Land Management. We were appalled to think they were allowed to leave their trash behind. Here we were, not even leaving a sardine can behind, while they, with all their mighty money and machines, left this mess. Sadly, over the years, we heard of many similar cases.

  We settled on a spot by the eastern edge of the plateau, away from this mess, for our rest period. Two major summits had been conquered during one day of our hike, and yet it was still too early to consider quitting for the day. We decided to consult our maps and photos to see what lay ahead. To the east of Mt. Son the trail fell gently and then meandered along a high ridge about three miles before rising to a minor peak. Following this, it dropped sharply to what we believed to be a lowest saddle on the trail. We didn’t want to get caught in a low, mosquito-infested place for the night, so we decided to hike to a knoll about three miles away. This would be our camp for our second night on the trail. By the time we reached that point, we would have covered sixteen miles or so. Pretty good for one day and actually much better than we expected.

  Our rest on Mt. Son was short and we were soon making our way down hill and along the ridge. This was a great stretch to hike and we made very good time, almost romping up to the rocky knoll.

  We set our backpacks down and looked for a suitable campsite. Hagen suggested a spot on the south side of the knoll, a level area surrounded by stunted bearberry shrubs. It ended abruptly at a cliff which dropped vertically for about twenty feet. From the ledge, we had a marvelous view over the Ladue Valley and to the east. In places we could see the continuation of the trail.

  Neighbors! Among the jumbled rocks at the foot of the cliff was a family of collared pika squirrels. Other than a few small finches and some spruce hens, the pika were the only other wildlife we’d seen. At least it was wildlife we could enjoy watching and not be afraid of an attack.

  While they entertained us with their antics, we noticed a threatening buildup of clouds to the southwest. “Hagen.” I said. “They weren’t evident earlier
in the day. Maybe we’re in for a change of weather.”

  He headed back to our gear, mumbling. “We’d better get prepared just in case it rains during the night.”

  With a bit of searching we came up with enough firewood for the evening and for the next morning. We also found a couple of longer willows to use as center poles for our ponchos. We got everything set up while a small fire was reduced to cooking embers. Also, we stored some firewood under the shelter of our ponchos so we would have less of a problem the next morning if it rained.

  We cooked up a good mess of beef stew and beans, throwing in some extra dehyd vegetables. With a hard day of hiking behind us, we ate, talked, and dangled our bare feet over the edge of the rock cliff. It was great. Hagen found that the squirrels loved the peas from the stew. We enjoyed watching them dart out and retrieve the ones we pitched. Chattering between themselves and with tails twitching, dash back to the entrance of their burrow. It became a game they seemed to catch on to very quickly. Since there was no name on the map for this knoll, we decided to call it, Squirrel Peak and later marked it so on our map

  We made a kettle of Hagen’s favorite blend of tea and relaxed as early twilight crept across the valley. Clouds slipped across the sky and hid the sunset. A slight breeze chilled the approaching night.

  We took care of our ablutions after dinner and then sat by the stoked fire until we were too tired to talk anymore. There were no mosquitoes to worry about at this elevation. All was well. At ten o’clock, we rolled our tired bodies into our sleeping bags and lapsed into silence. I remember thinking about my throbbing feet when deep sleep overtook me.

  Chapter 12

  Wet Saturday

  In the morning, we were awakened with rain drops spattering on the ponchos. Our foresight, and the ponchos, kept us, our gear, and firewood dry. We looked out on a miserable, dripping wet world.

  We awkwardly pulled on clothes while still under shelter of the ponchos. Our Gortex jackets were essential before venturing out. The sky was grey and there were few signs of clearing. At the moment it wasn’t raining hard, more like a damp mist mixed with rain. Visibility was less than three hundred yards.

  There was no sign of our neighbors, the Pika squirrels, in the lower apartments this morning. Obviously they peeped out earlier, saw the miserable weather, and decided to go back to bed.

  Smarter than us, Hagen mused. “Rain. Harrumph, must be a week end. There’s no reason to hang around here. Let’s get breakfast out of the way and pull up stakes.”

  About eight o’clock, we were on our way for the second full day of hiking. The downgrade gave us an easy start, though it was a bit slick in places and we had to be careful. We made good time and it wasn’t long before we were down on the saddle and walking again in giant trees. The trail began to twist and turn to avoid the larger stands.

  Drizzle turned to downpour just as we reached the lowest part of the saddle. The mushy surface of the trail began to puddle with water. We hurriedly donned our ponchos and huddled by the trail to rest and wait it out. The Gortex jackets were very good but they couldn’t stand heavy, prolonged rain. Eventually water sneaked in around our collars and soaked our clothes. The hooded ponchos, on the other hand, spread out to protect us, our backpacks, and our rifles.

  The rain showed signs of tapering off and the sky became a little lighter after about thirty minutes. While sheltering, we mulled over what to do about drinking water. We knew from our maps and aerial surveys there was a gully close to the south side of this low point, maybe a potential source of water. The foliage was sopping wet. It was the worst time to go plunging off the trail. But we needed to find water. There was no way we could consider tackling the next stretch of high ridges without an adequate supply.

  Shortly after the rain stopped, we removed our ponchos and stashed our backpacks under the trees. Then, taking our rifles, the nylon day pack, and our water containers, we set off downhill.

  We were soon soaked and we were feeling uncomfortable floundering through a tangle of dripping vegetation. A hundred yards further, to our complete surprise, the shrubs and grasses ended abruptly and we found ourselves in a grove of northern poplars. A canopy of spreading branches and very little growth underfoot. It was a bit like walking through a cultivated orchard of giant trees. They had smooth trunks twelve inches in diameter and the limbs started branching out eight feet above us. The orchard was a striking contrast to the rough growth in these parts. We had never seen such a plantation anywhere.

  We walked easily under that great canopy and we soon found a substantial stream cutting across in a southeasterly direction. Our water supply was barely a quarter mile away from the main trail. The stream appeared a little swollen by the rain, but the water still ran clear. Parallel with the stream was a clearly defined bear trail. There were no fresh tracks, but it served to remind us there were animals larger than our neighbors on Squirrel Peak.

  We wasted no time in filling our containers, including a collapsible two-gallon jug. Just to be safe, from now on we would boil any of the water before it was consumed.

  With ten quarts of water, we set off up through the orchard. We felt pretty safe because we could see a hundred yards or so in any direction. However, the safe feeling was shaken. Large bones, obviously caribou bones, were scattered around on the ground. Wolves or a bear, had a feast on the carcass. The meaty bones had not been there very long either. We felt apprehensive about standing in the middle of what was left of a carnivore dinner. If this was a grizzly kill, we were asking for trouble because it would definitely be viewed as a violation of territory. Without wasting time, we got out of there, heavily loaded or not. This time, I might add, we remembered to look behind us.

  We got ourselves a fresh soaking by the time we reached the backpacks. At least now we had a water supply and knew where we could get some on future trips. Later we identified it as Poplar Hollow on our trail map.

  Making special note of a large tree by the trail, we stashed the food and water in reserve for our return trip. We also left a small collection of trail trash to pick up on our return—good planning that kept our load to the minimum for the rest of the trip.

  Well, rain had stopped, but we were feeling wet and miserable. An hour and a half of our morning had been consumed by seeking shelter and water. We decided we should get dry before continuing.

  We soon had a good sized fire going right there in the middle of the trail and some of our wet things strung up to dry. Off to one side we started a smaller cooking fire and boiled enough water for coffee and to make Koolaid for later.

  By the time we hit the trail again, an hour and half later, we felt much more comfortable. We still had spare dry clothes. We couldn’t take the risk of traveling without a spare set of clothes to fall back upon if necessary.

  The rain held off and we walked quickly for a distance. The trail steepened and we slowly started a long climb toward the next high ridge. We had deposited food packs but noticed the additional weight of water we carried. For a couple of miles it wasn’t too bad but then the trail steepened abruptly. This was the kind of slope the cat train winched itself to the top. We found ourselves scrambling, clawing, and cursing the last two hundred feet of boulder strewn slopes. The rifles were a real pain, but we wouldn’t have been caught without them.

  We finally made it gasping for breath to the top. This was the steepest slope we had yet encountered. It would pose a definite challenge to any kind of vehicle we might decide to use in the future. In spite of our condition, we chuckled when Hagen pointed out we were both “steaming” in the moist air.

  The sky threatened, so we opted for another break. It was, we figured, past our lunch time, so we broke out iron rations of crackers, sardines, granola bars, and trail mix. It went down well with freshly mixed Koolaid. We rinsed the sardine cans with water before flattening them and sealing them in a Ziplock bag. We didn’t want the bears smelling sardines and following us along the trail.

  The weather seemed to i
mprove even in the short time we rested, but it was still pretty damp as we hit the trail again. The trail followed the high seesaw ridge for ten miles. It was refreshing to hike faster, without stopping for the view. We needed to catch up on time and couldn’t afford the luxury of stopping anyway. This part of the trail was without landmarks. It was difficult to tell where we were and the lack of scenery encouraged us to just keep plodding along. We forced the march and managed long periods without a break.

  By late afternoon we approached the north western end of the Trib 1 Valley. We confirmed that fact when the trail passed over a little rocky knoll and we got a better view of our surroundings. About four miles away, to the southeast, we could see the rocky cliff which stood prominently about half way down the eastern side of the Trib 1 Valley. The high point of the trail, cut in a wide loop, was about five miles away. We had to get there before descending into the valley.

  It was a steady uphill climb, but we reached the highest point on the entire trail in two hours. The map gave this smoothly rounded dome an altitude of three thousand nine hundred fifty feet. Even on this cloudy, misty day, the high point afforded a panoramic view and we could identify all three valleys; Trib 1, Trib 2, and Trib 3, and the ridges separating them.

  Evening—we were damp clear through. We had done enough for one day. There was no firewood on this high tundra peak. We decided to hike a little way along the ridge which separated Trib 1 from Trib 2 to find a suitable camp site for the night. We could see heavier growth not too far away.

  This was now our first hike off the main trail. The crest of the ridge was high dry tundra with a thin veneer of low growth clutching tenaciously to the firm shale surface. It was easy underfoot so we made good time to a place where a few stunted and winter blasted spruce would be fuel for our campfire.

  It’s called dry tundra, but it wasn’t too dry at the present. For our campsite, we picked a shale-covered, drained area with minimum vegetation. It might not be quite so comfortable, but it would be drier to move around on. As usual, we made starting a fire the number one priority, and then set up our ponchos for shelter and placed our ground sheets and sleeping bags inside. Only then did we set about preparing an evening meal and a large pot of coffee.