To make matters worse, Hagen had slipped on the ice and wrenched his back. Pain and muscle spasm plagued his body. Still, he had to keep going and quickly get himself dry and warm or he’d have frost bite.
With his machine on a secure surface, he painfully limped to the clump of trees where he had anchored the winch rope, collected a few dead branches, shook off the hoar frost, and set a fire.
“To hell with safety.” He said. He dribbled some gasoline on it, stood back and threw a match. Woomph, a one match fire, as good as any boy scout could have made.
From his kit on the sled, he unpacked a spare set of clothes and boots, and went to change from his wet things. For a couple of minutes he stood almost naked in the freezing air. As fast as the stabbing pain in his back allowed, he shivered, shook, and cursed his way into dry thermal underwear and trousers and finally zipped up his one piece snowmobile suit. By this time his fire was established and he was able to set about preparing hot chocolate.
“Give me warmth,” he pleaded. He rigged up the winch line and hung his wet clothes in the radiating warmth of the fire.
Hagen’s will dwindled and he was brought, almost, to tears by his situation and his pain. He wrapped a tarp behind himself as an additional wind break and hugged the warmth of the fire.
“Wish I knew whether to go on,” he said through chattering teeth. Getting bogged down so frequently was frustrating but not very dangerous. The incident with the ice dome, was scary, but fascinating. This water hazard, however, downright dangerous, was a killer. He would have to stay away from the river and stream as much as possible. He may not be so lucky next time.
He had been lucky the trees had been close enough to use as an anchor for the winch rope. The machines were clear of the water. He was lucky the water was not deeper, and that the second layer of ice held. He was lucky the materials were on hand for a fire. Now he was in dry clothes and beginning to warm, things looked a little brighter. The only damage was his wrenched back, a shattered ego, and a few more dings on the snow machine.
He stood and rotated experimentally. The pain made him cry out. His breath came in short gasps. His back injury was not going to make things easier.
It was after one o’clock already. With all the excitement, Hagen almost forgot the rendezvous with me, in the air. “Doug should be here any time soon.” He said hopefully. He delved into his kit and fished out the radio, checked it, then stuffed it inside his snow machine suit. A warm radio phone worked better. “Lunch. I’ve got to have some food.” And he dug food from his sled.
Forty-five minutes later he was savoring a second cup of hot chocolate when he heard the distant aircraft engine. My timing was right as I flew east in the winter-cold. “Sure enough,” Hagen told me later. “There was a small speck cruising at low altitude along the course of the Ladue. I wondered if his snow machine trail was visible from the air. Maybe, I thought, it had already been obscured by blowing snow.”
I followed the Ladue until Hagen could see my red and white Cessna 150. “A little late, but such a welcome sight.” He said. “I was so relieved and so caught up with excitement I almost forgot I was supposed to use the radio to report my position.”
I was just south of his location and flying through a sun dog - when he first keyed his radio and sent out, what seemed like a very lonely call.
“Come in, Huh, Come in Doug. Over?” Silence. “Come in Doug. Over?”
Suddenly, the radio squawked to life. A lot of background static, but not too bad. “Hagen. You made it. Where are you? Over.” His voice sounded strange in that vast expanse.
Hagen was elated. “Doug. Doug. Hell, it’s good to hear your voice. I’m on the west side of Trib 1. You’re at Ten o’clock.”
Boy, that sounded professional. I tilted the wings of the Cessna so Hagen knew his message had been received. In took only a few seconds for me to zero in on him and pass noisily just to the east of his position. “Okay I’ve got you. Is everything all right?” I banked the plane into a wide left turn at two hundred feet and circled out over Trib 1 Valley away from Hagen.
“Yeah I’m okay. Well, sort of okay. Got my feet wet here but I’m drying out. Gave myself a crick in the back too, but I think I can work it out. Could you see my trail? Over?”
Screech. Screech. “Damn, getting out of range already. This radio really has a short range. Maybe the battery is cold. Never mind, coming around again. Over?”
I circled his position again hopefully into radio range. Finally. “Guess you didn’t hear me, Hagen. . . . I can see your trail in some places. How did it go? Over.”
“Like I said when I called you from Tok, the first attempt was a disaster. Didn’t think I would make it. Tony was really helpful. Thanks to him the machine handles much better. Still a few problems through the trees. Are you receiving me?” Click, click.
“I hear you.”
“Okay. Really good traveling from the trees till I hit the river water here. Terrible trouble. Oh! There was one strange thing, but I’ll tell you about it later. Good thing the water wasn’t any deeper . . . Machine looks okay but I haven’t tried to start it yet . . . Too busy drying out and warming up. Hang on for a minute.”
Hagen primed the snow machine and pulled the starter cord a few times. The engine puttered and died but the third time, it started and after some hesitation settled down to a smoky, fast idle. Stepping away from the engine noise Hagen keyed the radio again.
“Yeah Doug, it seems okay. Over?”
“Hey, that’s great. I can see the holes you made. That area looks gray compared with the rest of the snow. I can see quite a few similar patches by the Ladue and a couple of a hundred yards north on Trib 1, so stay well to the west. Sorry I was late. Problem getting out of the tie down area. We had about six inches of snow last night and nothing was ploughed. The flight itself was fine though. Great. Stand by, I’ll drop a package. Read me? Hagen.”
“Yeah, I read you. Make the drop west of my camp. I don’t want to go wading again.”
Hagen stood in one spot and turned to keep the plane in sight. I made a wider loop, lined up with his camp and descended to a lower altitude. From Hagen’s perspective it looked as if I was going to touch down right where he was standing. I partly extended flaps and slowed. The sunlight flickered off the propeller.
Hagen recalled later. “I saw the pilot’s side window hinge out and upward. Just before it reached me, the plane banked just a little and passed to my right. The small, light weight package popped from the plane and landed in the snow about fifty yards away. ‘Excellent drop, Doug. Excellent drop.’”
Hagen, painfully, retrieved the package then returned to the fire. I circled, staying within radio range and watched. Quickly Hagen opened the string-wrapped package. Dry thermal socks, thermal underwear, a wool shirt and two big bars of chocolate. He held up the chocolate in a thumbs-up salute.
“Well, I said to myself, “he wasn’t desperate for such items, but one never could tell. It was the thought that counts.”
Keying the radio, Hagen almost shouted. “Good timing Doug. I just used my change of clothes and the wet things are still wet . . . Huh, Damn! Correction, frozen stiff. I’ll manage better once I’ve unloaded the sled, much lighter on the return. I’ll stick to the same trail . . . except the lake here. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem You’d better get out of here or it’ll be dark before you make it back to Anchorage. Over?”
“Right . . . I don’t have too much time. If I have to, I’ll stop at your place tonight. Glad I was able to locate you. Air temp. shows -28° so be careful down there. Don’t take unnecessary risks. Careful with that back, too. Are you sure you’ll be okay? Over?”
“I’ll be okay. It was tough going, but I don’t think there’s anything worse than what I’ve already been through. Thanks for the company. Oh, and the package. Take care going back. Over?”
“See ya back in town Hagen. Be careful. Over and out.”
I passed his camp as noisily as I c
ould as a goodbye signal. I saw his hand waving briefly as I gained altitude. I headed for Tanacross.
Hagen knew I would refuel there and then fly directly to Anchorage and arrive just before it was dark. That was a lot of flying in one day. “If Doug is pushed for time he could drop in at Wasilla.” Hagen said aloud to the lengthening shadows. “Short of Anchorage, but he knows where to find the house key.”
The brief rendezvous was over. Hagen was left with the company of the puttering snow machine. Satisfied it was okay, he hitched up the sled and drove the rig closer to the fire, then switched off the engine. A profound silence descended over the area. “Minus 28°, huh. Thanks Doug, I might just need that underwear and wool shirt.” He said. As an after thought, he pulled a flat Kodak disc camera out of his pack and snapped a couple of photos of the trail, where he had broken through the stream. It was already freezing over.
“There is less than three hours of decent daylight left. Time to break camp and make it up to Trib 1 claim before making camp for the night. There were always many things to do in preparing for a night in such low temperatures and everything took twice as long as normal even without a painful back. Am I talking to myself?” Hagen shook his head in dismay.
In a few minutes Hagen was on the move, gritting his teeth against jarring pain. He was now in familiar territory, having hiked with me through this part of the valley last summer. On his right was the place we made camp the first night. A little further north stood the sheer rocky cliff. With the snow cover disguising many features, he failed to recognize the small escarpment where the stream dropped a few feet and we first panned for gold. The machine was airborne as it mounted the ramp. “Ouch! That hurt.” He gave the stream a very wide berth in case there was another overflow.
Toward the head of the valley there were many tamarack and spruce trees and a tangle of dwarf willows. This made hiking difficult last summer. Now, with snow covering most of the lower growth, traveling was comparatively easy. Hagen kept the speed up and, in spite of deepening snow, kept moving without incident.
The Glory Hole. Hagen recognized it only from the lay of the land, one particularly prominent outcrop of rock and a large tree trunk resting like a bridge over the stream. Everything else was covered with a feature-softening, snowy blanket. Sitka spruce on the east bank stood guard like great white-draped sentinels. There was no sign of the stream which passed by the ledge of rock, and, when Hagen switched off the engine, not even a sound of running water. Playing it safe, he donned his snowshoes and probed the area with a long stick before driving over the stream bed. He knew where he was heading. On the rising tree-clad ground to the southeast of the claim, there was a particular rocky outcrop behind some spruce trees. We stashed tools and left over supplies the summer before. “Like an investment for the future,” he thought. He’d unload the sled into the same cache tomorrow. Right now, he wanted to set up camp and protect the snow machine before darkness fell.
Aware the snowmachine left a defined trail, he didn’t stop by the cache. Instead he went barreling across the slope a short distance and stopped at a little plateau where the snow had been blown away. This spot was also sheltered by a stand of larger conifers. “A good place for a warm camp.” He said.
Unlike summer hikes and camping trips, Hagen had to use a tent for shelter. It was just a four-seasons dome tent, which set up very quickly and needed no stakes but offered protection against cold and wind. Inside was a porous fabric and allowed moist inner air to escape. The outer shell stopped the wind. If any ice formed due to condensation, it did so on the outer shell where it could be easily beaten off.
Hagen busied himself with the camp. First the snow machine, it needed to be protected from the worst of the cold or it might not start the next day. A small oil-fired heater was set alongside the engine, then the engine compartment was completely covered by an insulated blanket. Treatment that was common for planes, and snow machines, in such subzero conditions. The heater would burn gently all night giving enough warmth to keep the worst chill away.
Next came the tent. He shoveled a level patch in the two feet of snow and set up the tent with the edge flaps pinned down by snow. The kit bag, rolled ground pad, and two bulky sleeping bags were placed along the inside edge. The sun set behind the shoulder of the ridge as the campsite was secure. The air was much colder already. If it was -28° in the sun, it could easily get 20° colder during the night.
Next priority was a fire. With the chain-saw he soon reduced a nearby fallen tree to manageable logs. The smaller branches would be used as kindling. Hagen soon had his fire glowing and crackling. Even a small amount of radiated warmth felt marvelous. Every survival book we ever read said the same thing. “Make a fire and set up camp as best you can, even if the stay is short.” He rigged up a rack from which he hung the still frozen clothes. They would freeze-dry if nothing else.
Hagen endured the twinges in his back, but with the work, it began easing a little. He had to be very careful to keep his fingers from freezing. Some things just could not be done while wearing bulky mittens. He removed them for short periods, then quickly replaced them to prevent frostbite. Everything took much longer, and had to be done with care, under these arduous conditions.
Eventually, Hagen cooked his dinner and then huddled close by the fire to eat. There was no thought given to any kind of ablutions. Even a necessary call of nature was an uncomfortable experience. Alaskans often used the expression, “Colder than a well diggers butt,” and Hagen related with the truth of the saying.
It was quite late when he stoked up the fire one last time and struggled into the confines of the tent. It was a work of art to get out of the bulky snowmobile suit and boots and into the tent without dragging a lot of snow inside. He was getting better at it but it was still a relief to snuggle up in the doubled sleeping bags. It would be a long night, but what else could he do but sleep, if he could. “Hope my back feels better in the morning.” He groaned.
It was still dark when Hagen awoke on the morning of the fourth day, a call of nature prevailed. While he was up, he dropped a few small twigs on the embers of last night’s fire and stirred it to life. It was so cold his eyelashes froze together when he blinked. It must have gone down to -40° during the night. An ice fog was settled over the camp and in the firelight the thick coating of frost shimmered and sparkled. Hagen decided it was too early to contemplate staying up and freezing. He placed sizable logs on the fire and retreated again to the warmth of his sleeping bag. Two or three more hours sleep would feel pretty good.
Nine o’clock saw him out and about again. It was getting light now and he could see to move around. The fog still hung over everything but it was thin and would probably clear as the sun came up.
Hunched close by the fire, Hagen had a breakfast of hot oatmeal and raisins, rye bread and cheese, and a pot of hot coffee which, made from melted snow, tasted blah. Today he would stash away the sluice box and other equipment and then head off home. He felt confident that traveling out would be easier than coming in had been. Besides, his back, apart from an occasional twinge, didn’t feel too bad this morning.
“Time to go to work.” He donned his snowshoes and struggled through the deep snow to the rock between the conifers and began to dig with his aluminum shovel. Hidden away in a small cave, like space on the downhill-side, were the tools which he and I had air-dropped last year. After using them for initial prospecting, we stashed them away and covered them with sturdy logs. The whole cache was now under four feet of snow.
It took sometime to dig down and the logs made it difficult to clear a work space but eventually the cache lay exposed. Everything was intact which was a relief. Even in this remote place, trappers, hunters, or gold prospectors, may have seen signs which led them to the cache.
Hagen pulled the logs away and then cleared a space. With difficulty, he carried the items from the sled and stacked them neatly under the rock using the planks of wood to shelter everything. With all the items cached,
he carefully replaced the protective barrier of logs and then shoveled the snow back into the excavation. His activity left a defined trail to the cache, so to help obliterate the evidence, he used a large pine bough like a broom, and smoothed his snowshoe tracks. The next wind or snow fall would blend the snow surface. The cache would not be visible.
Good old standby—beef and vegetable stew sufficed for lunch, especially followed by hot sweet tea. After lunch, Hagen topped up the snowmachines fuel tank from a spare can, broke camp, stowed his belongings securely on the sled, and readied himself for the journey out. Thanks to the heater, the snow machine started straight away and he let it run for a few minutes before moving off.
The sled in tow was now much lighter and Hagen’s spirits lifted. The machine responded quickly and was much less inclined to bog down. Plus, he had a trail to follow. “Now, this is more like recreational snowmachining and less like work.” Hagen grinned. He soon reached the place where I made the air drop, and mindful of his earlier experience, stayed well away from the hazardous spot near the stream. It was time to turn west, so he picked up remnants of his original trail and coaxed the machine up to a comfortable speed of fifteen miles an hour. There was no point in blazing a new trail when he knew this one served the purpose.
This time he was ready for the ice dome, and spotting the thickening patch of fog, he made a slight detour to the south, and then picked up his original trail in a mile or so.
By four o’clock, he reached the Ladue, crossed with care at the same place, and reached the trees at the western head of the valley. It was too late now to think of entering the trail through the trees, so he would have to set up camp for yet another night. It was still bitter cold, but here, among the trees, there was no wind and felt warmer. Once he had his camp set up, and a fire burning brightly, it was quite homey. Before it got dark, Hagen started the chain saw and made short work of a fallen tree. With a good supply of firewood, he prepared his dinner—another can of beef stew. “Much more of this and I will look like a can of beef stew.” He mumbled as he scraped the last of the can into a kettle. He flattened the can and added it to his stash. Most were labeled Beef Stew.
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