Straining under the considerable weight of our backpacks and rifles, we climbed steadily upward. The occasional rests were welcome. We’d catch our breath then move on. The surrounding countryside lay before us, as did the bulk of the western ridge. Despite the high cloud layer, we could see a long way even to the clearly defined peaks of the Mentasta.
The hillside turned out to be a series of terraces which at times, gave us a break from hard climbing and enabled us to meander our way with ease. As we gained altitude, the trees thinned and a swath of six feet high willows impeded our travel. It was tough going for a quarter mile. Eventually, with the steadily increasing altitude, the willows ended and we broke out into the lower growth heather and berry bushes of dry arctic tundra.
Here, on the exposed hillside, the valley breeze changed into a minor gale. By the time we reached the main trail on the crest of the ridge, we were straining against the wind. We decided to take shelter on the lea side of the ridge and break for lunch. A hundred yards along the trail, we found a suitable place for a camp in some low growing spruce.
Thirty minutes later with our snack finished, we lay back to rest surrounded by low growing arctic heather and blueberry bushes. We dozed to the soothing sound of wind whistling through bush tops.
An hour later, feeling refreshed, we moved on. First however, we needed to stash the package of food and water for our return trip. These supplies—and the heavy fines— had been split between our two back packs. We placed them into one plastic trash bag, knotted the top securely, and placed the bag out of sight at the base of a gnarled spruce tree near the trail. Now we had two caches on the trail and wouldn’t have to worry about food or water on the hike out. We felt pretty smug.
Setting off with lightened backpacks, we bounded in a northeasterly direction along a nearly level trail. It was like a major highway compared to the terrain we had been on for the last few days.
After a mile or so the trail steepened and brought us to a more sensible pace. We were ascending gradually toward the highest point, where we were a few days earlier. Then, it had been misty and we had only limited views. Today was considerably better and when we reached the summit it seemed as if we were on the top of the world.
For many miles, there was nothing higher than us, though some ridges were almost equal. Our vantage point provided views in all directions, to the Wrangells, Alaska range, and to Mt. Fairplay. There was also an excellent view of the trail continuing to the northeast, the direction we’d head for a couple of miles. We could just about discern the point where we’d leave the main trail and venture down into Trib 3 Valley.
It was disturbing to see thickening clouds scudding overhead. They were still high but it did not look well for the next few days of hiking.
We took another break on the lea side of a rocky outcrop. There we could enjoy a view to the north. We tried to stay out of the chilling wind. Consulting our map, we noted the Trib 1, Trib 2 ridge was due south of our position. Trib 3 ridge was about one mile away to the east.
We realized we were sitting in the middle of a particularly good patch of very juicy blueberries. Only after we had enjoyed dessert and collected a few berries in a Ziplock bag, did we hoist our backpacks and rifles and start our hike downhill.
The strong wind on the exposed ridge unbalanced us at times, but the fresh air was exhilarating and it helped us on our way since it was pushing us. It took us only thirty minutes to reach the point where we would have to forsake the beaten track and take to virgin territory again.
We paused to compare our most detailed map and the lay of the land. It was immediately apparent that it would not be an easy hike down into Trib 3. At first the land fell gradually into a profusion of willows and other shrubs difficult to negotiate. Where the larger trees started, the land fell off steeply. From our vantage point it seemed best to traverse the slope, for a short distance in a southeasterly direction, turn south through what looked like a narrower band of willows, and then cross a steep slope in a southwesterly direction. It was a longer zigzag course but it would be easier.
Strange, but whenever we surveyed such an area, it always gave the impression of being prime bear habitat. I guess we had been extremely lucky so far. Well, we couldn’t stop now so we checked our rifles, cinched up our backpacks, and set off bravely down our planned route.
Five hundred yards downhill, we entered thickets of six foot high willows and had a difficult time negotiating our way. Here and there we picked up a trail, probably made by caribou, and found a little relief, but for the most part, it was a struggle through tangled foliage. Pointing ourselves downhill we blindly fought our way yard-by-yard until we reached the tree line. The willows ended abruptly, walking became easier, and our range of visibility improved.
As we descended, the trees became larger. We were just talking about it when we noticed great gouges in the bark of a tree directly in our path. Our fears were instantly confirmed, this was prime bear country. The bear with that size of claws was a big one. It was a stretch for us to reach up to the deep scars where the bear had manicured its nails by raking the tree trunk. Big shards of bark lay on the ground around the base of the tree. Nervously, no, very nervously, we looked around before picking up bits of bark to examine them. They didn’t look fresh but they weren’t old either. A few days old at most we thought.
A bear could travel a long way in a few days. We had no way of knowing if it had left the area or if it was still nearby. Judging by the span of the claw marks, about eight inches, we decided it must be a grizzly. We didn’t consider ourselves experts. Could’ve been a large black bear. With our senses jolted, and on alert, we continued noisily downhill with rifles at the ready, hoping the bear, if it was still in the area, would decide to relocate.
The slope steepened noticeably and we had to skirt embankments and rocky outcrops. Our backpacks and rifles were cumbersome, and hanging on to branches or tree roots to keep our balance was extremely difficult. Progress was slow. An injury here could be disastrous. We were further from the highway than we had ever hiked before and the logistics of hiking for help and arranging a medivac out would have been a daunting prospect. We were extremely careful.
Soon, through the trees, we saw the outline of another ridge and we realized we were descending into a narrow ravine, an offshoot of the main valley. There was the gentle burbling sound of running water below. Fighting our way through thick under growth we discovered a small stream of clear water tumbling downhill between mossy banks. We followed the stream downward, torturous though the terrain was, until the land leveled-out near the valley floor. We left larger trees behind and were surrounded by smaller aspens, silver birch, and a tangle of tall alders.
The head of Trib 3 Valley was formed by a deep V in the hills. The hillsides were much steeper than those around Trib 1 or Trib 2 and the valley floor was narrow with little room for swampy ground. The little stream we followed eventually joined the larger main stream.
When we reached its junction, we decided to take a rest. It had taken us almost two and a half hours to make our way down from the ridge and most of it had been tough going. Exhausted, we were glad to take off our backpacks, build a small fire, boil water for coffee, and make dehyd stew.
Kicked-back and resting a short while later, letting our lunch settle down, we realized the cloud layer overhead looked more threatening. There was a chill, a feeling in the air, a prelude to rain. It might pass us by but we felt certain we were going to get wet before much longer.
While we rested, about an hour, we decided to explore a little upstream and then go downstream to spend the night. To make it easier we took only the nylon day pack with one gold pan, the aluminum shovel and our Gortex jackets. Of course we were not about to move very far at all without our rifles.
The main stream was about the same size as Trib 1 at the Glory Hole. Right or wrong, the best way to follow the stream was via a defined animal trail. There were no fresh prints but it didn’t guarantee safety, so we m
ade lots of noise and were constantly on the alert.
The clear water stream curved eastward, babbling in a stony bed. After a quarter mile or so, the valley steepened and the stream bed became even more rocky. There were times when we couldn’t see the stream at all because it was coursing under a jumble of fragmented rocks. It didn’t take a geologist to see that most of the rocks were fragmented and unworn, not at all like the rounded boulders and pebbles of Trib 1. Deposition of loose materials here was due to landslides and the freezing and thawing action of the seasons rather than hydraulic action.
We dug a few shovels of sand and gravel at convenient places and panned to see what we could find. We detected no gold particles at all and finally, as the stream shrank in size we gave up and retraced our steps to the backpacks. We delved into our packs for our down vests. It had turned cooler. Though we had not been long on that exploratory hike, we craved a cup of hot tea. So we started another small fire on the ashes of the first and boiled more water. The hot tea and the warmth from the fire was comforting.
Looking around we had to agree the valley was not very inspiring. It was deep, overgrown and dank compared with Trib 1. Maybe downstream where the valley widened it would be a little better.
After a thirty minute break, we moved on. This time we took all of our gear. We’d have to find a place downstream to camp for the night. The animal trail—naturally—followed the stream most of the way and rifles at the ready we rarely left it. The valley widened perceptibly, the trees thinned and became a little more pleasant.
There were clumps of silver birch and aspens and open areas filled with tufted marsh grass. Stands of larger trees, mainly conifers, were separated by sheer rocky cliffs.
Continuing south, the trail became well defined. The trail had been made by some kind of tracked-vehicle. A vehicle very different from those monsters which had cut the main trail on the ridge. It was obviously a small, lighter vehicle, the tracks barely six feet wide, and the type favored by hunters and prospectors. We were at a turnaround point and the vehicle had not traveled any further north. The tracks did not appear to be recent and possibly were even made last summer. Clearly, we were not the first to enter this valley. These tracks must surely be the same ones we had spotted from the air during our reconnoitering.
Though the tracks were old, we went carefully. We didn’t want to go blundering unannounced into someone’s camp. That could be dangerous here in gold country. After about a quarter mile we came upon what had been a well-established camp site. There was a hearth made of large river stones and firewood stacked nearby, as if awaiting someone’s return. There was no sign of any other equipment and the vehicle tracks from the south were eroded and washed out. No one had been to the camp this summer.
About fifty yards downstream of the camp there was sign of placer mining activity. Large excavations in the western bank of the stream hadn’t been cleaned up and two trees had been dropped across the stream as a foot bridge. Strange, there was no settling pond for the tailings. Even in the remote areas, miners sluicing large amounts of material, were expected to comply with basic rules to prevent fouling streams. Also, there was no sign of equipment, though we supposed it could be stashed nearby. What about claim markers? We hadn’t noticed any on our way downstream. Had the miners simply not bothered?
Continuing southward, more watchful now, we eventually found a weathered marker nailed to a tree trunk. It was barely readable but we could see the claim area consisted of six claims covering some distance up and downstream. We had obviously missed seeing some more northerly markers.
We had walked maybe a quarter mile further south when Hagen, in the lead, suddenly froze and let out one of his favorite expletives. About fifty yards downstream was a big black bear. We stood still, surprised and a little scared. All this hiking and now we see our first bear. Well, we had walked on enough of their trails it was probably long overdue.
It seemed we were the only ones excited or scared. The bear seemed to ignore us and even managed to look uninterested. It stood on the opposite bank of the stream and sniffed the air with a nose flecked with ginger colored hair. The rest of its coat was a beautiful shiny black and not a bit bedraggled as one might imagine. I wouldn’t claim to be an expert on bears but this one was a fine specimen.
We stood perfectly still for a couple of minutes until the bear finally moved. To our utter amazement it crossed over to our side of the stream and turned in our direction. I suppose it would have looked funny on film but this was Hagen and I, and we were in the path of the oncoming bear.
In a couple of seconds of blind panic, we almost ran into each other before we realized that, unless we wanted to defend ourselves, there was only one way to go, backward. We retreated slowly, while keeping an eye on the bear, which fortunately was still moving nonchalantly. I would never have believed it. I guess I always thought a bear would either run at us or would run away. This one was out for a stroll in the country and we brave frontiersmen, but with rifles at the ready, were in a none too organized retreat.
Retreat was the sensible thing to do. We didn’t want to antagonize the bear and we didn’t want to shoot it unless we had to. We were, after all, invading his territory and using his highway which unfortunately was only one lane wide, and worse still, didn’t seem to have many safe-passing places.
The bear moved so slowly we were able to gain a little and finally came upon a place where we could leave the trail and splash across the stream. Now, with our backs against the steep hillside, we had to make our stand. We watched with trepidation as the bear came into sight, paused a moment, sniffed our trail in our direction, and then moved out of sight up the trail toward the mining camp. Talk about treating us with utter contempt.
Had there been anyone else within a hundred yards I think they would have heard us both take our first gulp of air. I felt sure my knees had been knocking together for the last few minutes.
Hagen, just as scared as I, commented, “Good thing it was only a black bear.”
“Hagen,” I said, “May I remind you people over the years have had their rear-end anatomy rearranged by ‘just a black.’ It is said they can be more dangerous than grizzlies.” Anyway, it reassured us on one point, Hagen had no problem seeing real bears. This was not just another tree stump or rock looking like a bear.
Well the excitement was over. After waiting a respectable time, we cautiously crossed back over the stream, and with frequent backward glances, continued our exploration of the valley. The valley was obviously spoken for, but we wanted to satisfy our curiosity and find a place to camp for the night. It would be good to be settled early because the weather was still deteriorating.
We stuck to the ATV tracks until we reached a spectacular rock slide which came right to the waters edge. The vehicle tracks forded the stream but we couldn’t do the same without getting wet. We scrambled across the base of the slide to larger rocks forming stepping stones across the stream.
Back on the trail, we continued south for half a mile. There was no further evidence of mining, so we concluded the owners of the claim, like ourselves with Trib 1, had sampled the stream and finally chosen one spot to work. Judging by the amount of material they had moved, they must have been finding gold and would probably return to work it again later.
We had seen the faint trail leading to the valley during our scouting flights. After consulting our maps, we concluded it led from the eastern side of the ridges, either from Sixty Mile on the Taylor Highway to the north or Northway Junction to the south. Both were nearly fifty miles away. It must have been quite a journey, even with a tracked vehicle.
Our map showed the valley widened out soon and became flat land draining down to the Ladue River. There wasn’t much point in continuing further south so we decided to camp right where we were for the night. It seemed as good a place as any. Thanks to the days strenuous activity we were both feeling well ragged out anyway.
Not wanting to leave obvious signs of our visit to the
valley, we selected a level place twenty yards or so from the trail. As usual we set up our two ponchos close together so that we could talk. There was a plentiful supply of firewood and in less than fifteen minutes we were preparing our evening meal. A large kettle of hot tea brewed from well boiled Trib 3 water with its distinctively different flavor.
Dark clouds shortened the evening and an occasional spot of rain carried in on the breeze as we took care of cleaning away our supper. It was cool but we both had a good sponge down by the stream. Fortunately, the coolness of the evening was suppressing the mosquitoes and allowed us to make the most of the campfire. Thinking ahead, we boiled a gallon of Trib 3 water for use during our next day.
Retiring to the poncho, around ten o’clock, it crossed my mind the bear might be watching quietly from nearby trees. I told myself, “This was a friendly bear.” Of course, the rifle lay close beside me and acted as a security blanket. I slept very well.
Chapter 17
One Mean Wet Hike
When we woke at seven o’clock, rain was pattering softly on the ponchos. We debated whether to get up at all. Finally, we struggled getting dressed in the confines of our respective ponchos. We slipped into Gortex raingear and crawled out of the shelter. It was a mighty, soggy world. Vegetation was soaked and dripping. It looked like there was plenty more rain still to come. The clouds were ominously dark and low and shrouded the tops of the surrounding ridges.
Fortunately, we had placed a small store of firewood under the shelter of the ponchos and soon had a fire going for breakfast. It was miserable, there was no sign of any improvement, so there was no point in wasting time. After breakfast, we quickly broke camp and started our return journey.
The night before we had discussed our return and decided to deviate from the original plan. Instead of trying to retrace our steps of the day before, we’d climb to the spine of the ridge separating Trib 3 and Trib 2. As we observed the day before, the hillsides were too steep to consider climbing. However, there was one place, upstream of the rock slide, where the hillside slope was more gradual. We figured we could make it. It was unfortunate that everything was so dripping wet. The slope was the shortest way up to the bald spine of the ridge where we would be clear of wet vegetation. We had to face the fact that every way would be wet.
Gold in Trib 1 Page 11