“None of this “me first” stuff, Doug.” Hagen shoved me aside when I spoke to shower first.
I shoved back, Oh, so it’s you first? I don’t think so.”
“Then let’s flip for first in the shower.” The silver dime went high into the air. “There.” Hagen said smugly, “I win. Where’s the bathroom?”
I thought he was going to spend all night in there. When it was my turn, I understood why. The hot water felt so good I didn’t want to leave either.
Feeling much refreshed and certainly looking and smelling much cleaner, we strolled along to the hotel restaurant. During dinner we were surrounded by out of state visitors. It was the tourist season and Tok was on the major migration route. The Al-Can was gradually being improved and more people were making the trip. It was said there would be a hundred thousand tourists crossing into Alaska at Beaver Creek. Never mind the inflated prices; we had T-bone steak and baked potato followed by apple pie and ice-cream. Then we relaxed over an after dinner drink and soaked up touristy conversation around us.
Strangely, neither of us slept soundly that night. We ate too much at too late an hour. And, the beds felt strange after sleeping on the ground for so long. We did however grab a couple of extra hours in the morning and consequently didn’t make it for breakfast until nine thirty.
At the gas station along the road, we topped off the Chevy tanks with enough gas to get us through to Gulkana where the price was a bit lower. Then, we went to the State Troopers office to let them know we were back safely.
By chance it was the same sergeant on duty and he laughingly said, “You guys are crazy to stay out in the wilds in such foul weather.”
“Well,” said Hagen, We’ll take you the next time and see if you can keep up with us, foul weather or not.”
“Get lost.” He said grinning. “Thanks for checking in. Saved me a big search party.” Little did he know just how much we had been through.
The drive to Wasilla was uneventful, but the view of the mountain scenery was marvelous. We made only two stops; the first for gas in Gulkana and the second for coffee and a snack at Eureka Lodge. It was after seven in the evening when the V8 sounded its usual klink, klink, klink as I switched off the ignition inthe driveway at Hagen’s house.
Our prospecting trip had been a test of endurance. It had been a resounding success. It was only a prelude however. We could work and plan during winter months to make future trips more successful, and hopefully, more profitable as well. We had something tangible to show for our trip too, a couple of Ziplock bags of heavy sand laced with genuine Trib 1 gold.
Chapter 19
Hagen’s Winter Trip
It was cold. Terribly cold. Every tree limb, every branch, twig, spruce needle, and shrub, sported a thick coating of hoar frost. The land glittered in the thin midday sunlight. Temperatures hovered at -25°. The ground was covered with a blanket of pristine snow, drifted high in sheltered places.
Hagen should have thought about the beauty around him but he was in a terrible predicament. He, his snowmachine, and sled, were tangled in a dangerous situation. It was too cold for any delay.
So far, it had been a lousy trip. Hagen’s feet were wet, and cold. His back was wrenched with painful spasms. “Maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.” He debated. His planning, preparations, and practice for this winter trip, didn’t prepare him for such a series of problems. Now this. Who would have thought that where everything seemed to be so solidly frozen, water would be a problem.
“Hagen, I said, “It is impractical to buy two snowmachines right now. Besides, I can’t get off work for more than a day now and then until next summer.” We were drinking coffee in my living room trying to think through a winter trip to Ladue Valley.
“I’ve already told you I will fly over your route to see if you’re okay. We’ll have radio phones too. I just can’t be gone for six or seven days.”
Silence filled the room and I went to the window and watched the falling snow. “OK, Doug, let’s do it that way. I’ll go alone with you checking on me.”
“Okay. I’ll help you gear up. I really wish I was going with you.”
Hagen had never traveled during winter to the Ladue Valley and Trib 1. But, under right conditions, he figured it was possible to make a quick trip across forty miles of frozen, and snow covered terrain by snow machine.
His sled carried camping gear and immediate supplies. He carried basic gold mining equipment too. There was an aluminum sluice box, some precut, and drilled framing lumber, planks of wood, a big crowbar, and a long handled shovel. Galvanized buckets, a large galvanized tub, two large tarps and a miscellany of ropes, rounded out the list. Serious placer mining the next summer was his goal.
Being alone in the wilderness didn’t bother Hagen in the least. He preferred to be alone most of the time. He had a tough, pioneering spirit and often said he was born a couple hundred years too late. Well, never mind. If it had been done before in the Ladue area, it was a challenge for him and in his own mind, he was pioneering and pushing his personal limits.
His big mistake, he admitted later, was to go alone. Two machines, and a partner would have made all the difference.
It appealed to his enormous sense of adventure to be alone in the wilds of Alaska and the dead of winter and dangerously cold, only added spice to the adventure. He told me later, “I was very lucky.” Winter temperatures could get down to -60° in the Ladue Valley.
Hagen drove his jeep with trailer from Wasilla. He camped for one night near the Taylor Highway. There he readied himself and his machine. “That was the easy part.” He said. “I slept comfortably in my dome tent and I used the Jeep to warm up during the day. Once I set out on the snow machine, those luxuries were gone. Then my troubles came with a vengeance.”
To make his way into the Ladue Valley, he had to pass through four miles of forested land. It was wilderness with no trail to follow. The forest turned out to be a veritable tangle of trees, and between the trees the snow was soft and much deeper than he had anticipated. “I hadn’t traveled two hundred yards until my machine bogged down in the deep snow. Hagen said. “I shoveled and packed a trail to get going.”
Every hundred yards, or so, he ran into trouble. Sometimes it was because the snow was too soft and deep and sometimes he simply found his route blocked by trees bowed down by the weight of snow.
Each time the rig bogged down he had to unhitch the sled, dig everything out, and then break-trail with just the snow machine. Then he’d hitch up the sled and drag it along the prepared trail. He had snow shoes which had to be strapped on every time he walked any distance over the snow. They were cumbersome and he couldn’t wear them while working around the machine. Consequently, he spent a good part of his time floundering up to his thighs or worse in the snow. Each time he even nudged a tree, it brought an avalanche of snow from its upper branches.
“It was damned hard work, time consuming, and extremely frustrating.” Hagen said. “There were times when the machine almost buried itself, and me. Once the front of the machine thrust under a snow-hidden tree trunk and became firmly wedged. It took nearly an hour to get that straightened out. The machine never steered the same afterward.”
One disaster after another for two days and finally, totally burned out physically, and with his machine bent and scarred, Hagen admitted defeat. Not something that came easily. He returned with considerable difficulty along his trail to the Jeep, loaded everything and drove to Tok thirty-five miles away. He planned to rest in the Motel for the night and beat a despondent retreat back to Anchorage. It was after a comfortable night’s sleep, as he was devouring a huge breakfast in the Motel restaurant, his fortune changed for the better.
He struck up a conversation with a grizzled old-timer named Tony Dale. Hagen was not one to start conversations readily, but Tony’s appearance attracted his attention. He looked just like an Alaska frontiersman. At age sixty-five he was big like a bear and sported a bulky, neatly trimmed,
beard. “He wore a great wolf fur coat and a fur hat.” Hagen said. “Both looked as if they had enough life left in them to give me a hell-of-a-bite if I got too close.” Tony turned out to be about as kind and gentle a person as one could find anywhere.
Within minutes, Tony had beguiled Hagen into unloading his tale of woe. Tony relaxed and listened patiently with an occasional grunt. Hagen didn’t realize it at first but he could not have met a better person right then. Tony Dale, was a long time resident of Tok. Contrary to his appearance, he was a surprising combination of retired high school teacher, lay preacher, and trapper. He was also something of a local legend. Hagen discovered later Tony had a reputation for helping people who were genuinely in trouble. He obviously recognized Hagen was a true case in need, and without hesitation volunteered to help. It wasn’t long before they migrated from the restaurant to Tony’s rustic cabin a few miles away.
In his well-equipped workshop, Tony looked over Hagen’s battle-scarred snow machine and sled. He immediately pointed out some things they he could easily do to make the machine more capable of negotiating deeper snow. His own machine, standing nearby, was an example and it didn’t take an engineer to see where simple modifications had been made. Within a very short time he and Hagen were cutting and trimming strips of metal, welding them securely onto the edges of the snow machine’s front skis, and to the outer edges of the sled runners. Tony explained, and even roughly calculated in pounds per square inch of surface, that the existing runners were too narrow to bear the front end weight and ride over soft, dry snow typical of this area. There were other modifications, tungsten carbide-coated metal studs on the snow machine track belt. Those required parts and had to be specially purchased and could not be installed now. They also spent time straightening out and beefing up other parts damaged during Hagen’s ordeal.
With the minor changes, Hagen, during a short test run, could tell there was a tremendous difference in his machine performance in soft snow. “This is great. I gotta call Doug.” Hagen told Tony.
Hagen and Tony got along so well, Hagen was invited to spend the night at Tony’s house and they sat by the log fireplace and chatted long into the evening—kindred spirits despite the difference in age. It was during this evening that Tony divulged his most valuable information to Hagen. Swearing Hagen to secrecy—on a stack of Bibles—he revealed the location of the entrance to his trapline trail which led to the western end of Ladue Valley. It was south of where Hagen had just had so much trouble. Tony explained the snow would still be deep but there would be his own trapline trail, well used, to follow. It added about twenty miles to the round trip, and it entailed crossing the Ladue. Hagen was assured this was no obstacle this time of year. The easier traveling would be well worth the extra mileage.
Tony’s help and hospitality gave Hagen his confidence back. He said goodbye to his new friend and set out once again.
Tony’s trapline trail head wasn’t easy to find. But with a little effort Hagen found it and unloaded his machine. He was soon heading into the woods via the secret entrance. Secret, except that his machine left a pretty clear trail. Tony had been right. Once past the entrance, the trapline trail was fairly defined, easy to follow. Fallen trees had been cut and cleared away where necessary. The modified runners helped enormously in keeping his machine from bogging down. Occasionally he got stuck and it was back to shoving, heaving, and winching. On the whole, however, it was much better and Hagen made good progress toward the Ladue Valley.
Hagen had learned a hard lesson. “Quit,” Tony told him. “While you are still feeling good,” and, mindful of Tony’s advice, quit while he was still feeling good. “Quit while there is still daylight to build a comfortable camp.” He now resorted to contemporary measures by unloading a small chain-saw and noisily attacking a fallen tree for a cheery fire. He spent a comfortable night tented by his camp fire. When light allowed, he was up and going again.
It was about ten AM when he finally made it out onto the open, wind swept, Ladue Valley. Here the snow was not deep and the surface was much firmer. There were few trees except near the course of the river. Almost immediately he found himself confronted by the surprisingly high banks of the Ladue River. The river appeared to be completely frozen and then covered by drifted snow. He carefully crossed where the ice was windswept and visible. “You can gauge the depth and safety of river ice, if you can see it.” Tony tipped.
Making a mental note of the landscape and features, so he could find the trapline trail again on his return journey, he struck off east along the wide Ladue Valley. What a relief it was to cover several miles at a reasonable speed without getting stuck.
He learned to appreciate depth and distance of winter travel. At low temperatures, nothing was really clear at ground level. The light breeze picked up fine ice crystals which whirled around in the air and created a thin, glittering ice fog. The sun shone through the fog from a low angle and sometimes looked surrounded by a beautiful halo. The outer extremities of the halo, now to the southeast and southwest, created vertical shards of light, some with color. Alaskans called them Sun Dogs.
Thus, Hagen traveled through a surreal landscape with limited views, at least at ground level. With the sun filtering colorfully through the patchy fog, it was beautiful, if little disorienting.
Hagen knew roughly where he was. The tops of the high ridges were visible to his left above the layer of ice fog and trees bordering the Ladue were usually to his right. The position of the sun for the time of day served as a further reference which he used almost instinctively.
He was making good time. Maybe fifteen miles into the valley. Without being aware of it, he drove into a patch of dense swirling fog. Suddenly his snow machine reared violently, skidded sideways, and jackknifed with the heavily loaded sled. For a moment Hagen was hanging on for dear life. The rig came to a slithering standstill.
“What the hell?” He killed the engine, and dismounted. His booted feet went out from under him and he fell flat on his face. He was sliding, sliding, sliding.
“What the—? Damn, Whoa!” Just for a moment he panicked, wondered when his slide would stop and what terrible end was waiting for him. His sliding stopped, and after a few seconds he cautiously, and with some difficulty, got to his feet. Surrounded by swirling vapors and ice fog, the only tangible object he could see was his tangled rig twenty feet away. It was resting on level ground but he found he couldn’t walk to it.
Everything looked level in this white out. It was an icy slope with steaming water running down it in little rivulets. Then he noticed the smell. It was rotten, like rotten eggs. Sulfur. Yes, that was it. Sulfur.
What was this Hades kind of place in the middle of what he’d sworn was a flat valley? He stood still for a moment in the cold, swirling fog to collect his wits.
Hagen had been stopped by a warm spring where water rose to the surface, spread out, and eventually froze. That was it. As the water froze, it built up an ice dome which would eventually reach fair proportions toward the end of winter. Five months of freezing temperatures would see to that. Of course, the warm and obviously sulfurous water, clashing with the frigid air, also caused the heavy vapors. He had run his machine into the fog bank and straight up the sloping side of the ice dome.
Now that he had it figured out, Hagen set to work recovering his machine. His snowmachine boots did not grip on the wet, glassy, ice and after a fall or two, he crawled the twenty feet up the slope to check the machine. It didn’t seem to be seriously damaged. Just a few more dents and dings.
“Just how big is this ice dome anyway?” He asked himself.
He crawled up a bit further and reached the top. Water, terrible, fizzy, smelly, water, bubbled to the surface and trickled down the slopes. Yuck!
“This was not a good source of drinking water.” He whispered jokingly. The ice dome was close to ten feet high, above the surrounding flat terrain.
The mystery solved, Hagen inched his way back down to the machine, mounted i
t, started the engine, and, with some slipping and sliding, eased the rig down the icy slope to level ground. Orienting himself, by the sunlight streaking through the mist from the south, he drove carefully away from the mound and soon found himself back out where there was some visibility. He again identified his surroundings. He coaxed the snow machine to cruising speed again and headed east.
A trouble free two hours put Hagen at the southern end of the Trib 1 Valley at the confluence of the stream and the Ladue River. The valley from which the stream drained, extended northward about three miles from the Ladue River. Hagen’s goal was the head of the valley and The Glory Hole.
The driving force behind Hagen’s trip was, of course, gold. Hagen and I had hiked into Ladue the previous summer to prospect. We found color in the stream now named Trib 1. It was now a registered claim. Hagen’s idea was to ferry in additional tools and equipment with which to work the claim next summer. I used my Cessna 150 to drop supplies into the valley in preparation for a big hike. The Cessna’s capacity was limited and some things, like sluice-box and planks, simply would not fit. Hagen thought a trip by snow machine, with freight-sled, was the answer. Here he was, forty miles in from the nearest highway, wet up to the knees, and with racking back pain.
It was at the confluence of Trib 1 and Ladue where Hagen hit big trouble. He didn’t realize the danger until it was too late. Under a thin cover of snow, water from the Ladue overflowed the surface, in a sizable area, then froze. The machine crashed through the weak upper surface and came to a steaming halt on the original layer of ice a foot under slush and water.
A hell of a way to learn about mother nature. It took him an hour and a half to hook up a long winch rope and drag the machine, then the sled onto a firm surface.
A trail of jagged holes bubbled, where the machine and sled dropped through the first thin layer of forming ice. An hour of floundering around to recover the equipment, left his feet and lower legs wet and ice-caked. At first the insulated snow machine boots acted like a divers wet suit and Hagen’s circulation helped to maintain a safe warmth. Now he was out of the water and the bitter arctic cold began to penetrate.
Gold in Trib 1 Page 13