Mystery in Trib 2

by Douglas Anderson

  Ahead the valley diverged, each branch bounded by lofty mountains. To the right was a wonderful view of the glacier flowing down from the gleaming 9,000 feet high ice fields near Finland Peak. Like many glaciers in Alaska, the Matanuska was in retreat and was leaving a vast area of lumpy gravel moraine at its terminus. The river, spawned almost entirely by the glacier, was heavily laden with silt.

  With a slight turn northward the Glenn Highway followed the valley to the left and that was our route. Gun Sight Mountain was now on our immediate left. We began to pick up some moderate turbulence, obviously the anticipated headwind funneling down through the valley. Not unusual and nothing the 150 couldn’t handle. It would slow us down but, in all probability, would smooth out in a few minutes after we crossed the summit.

  Now Sheep Mountain hove into view on the left. It lived up to its name as I was able to spot numerous sheep on the craggy mountainside. This area was really popular with the hunters. A substantial lodge with individual cabins had developed by the side of the highway. Neat little cabins with bright green roofs. Set back a little from our route was Syncline Mountain, notable for its unusual rusty red and brilliant orange rock strata.

  We crested Tahneta Pass and ahead the valley broadened into a vast plain dotted with hundreds of ponds and lakes. To the right lay the Nelchina Glacier with a myriad of braided streams flowing from its terminus. Coming into sight was 20 mile long Tazlina Lake at the foot of spectacular Tazlina Glacier.

  It was now a straight shot to Gulkana over fairly level terrain. I tuned in to the frequency of Gulkana VOR 115.6 and rotated the bezel of the instrument to center the needle. Now Hagen could practice keeping the needle centered and we would fly straight TO the beacon. Looking ahead we could not only see where Gulkana lay but we could already see our further objective: the notch in the Mentasta Mountain range. It was still 150 miles away.

  From our lofty perch we were encircled by mountain ranges, albeit some were more distant than others. Slipping behind us the Talkeetna Mountains, to the north the Amphitheater Mountains backed by the awesome peaks of the Alaska Range. Straight ahead the Mentasta Range. On our right quarter the Wrangell-St. Elias wilderness area with Mt. Sanford, Mt. Drum, Mt. Wrangell, St. Elias and Mt. Blackburn forming a spectacular chain to the southeast. To the south lay the eastern part of the Chugach Mountain Range. It was a staggering, panoramic view. Almost too much to absorb and certainly a photograph could never do it justice.

  We were maintaining a straight course so the Glenn Highway was on our left but we were gradually converging with it and would cross over near Tolsona Lake. It would be cross-country for the next 30 miles to Gulkana; then we would pick up Highway #1 again, the Tok Cut-off, as it was known.

  Visible on the left was Lake Louise. A large, irregularly shaped lake, it offered excellent fishing and was popular with visiting anglers. Situated to the north of the highway it was accessible via a gravel road running along the eastern shoreline. With the binoculars I could see a collection of buildings. A number of small craft were speeding across the surface of the lake. Heading for the prime fishing areas, I surmised.

  We were closing with Gulkana VOR and Hagen was having increasing difficulty keeping the needle centered. “Don’t try too hard, Hagen,” I advised. “Look, you can see the beacon.” The white cone-shaped enclosure was clearly visible. “Just maintain the same heading now.”

  He did, and had the satisfaction of seeing the VOR instrument flip its little flag to read FROM as we passed directly over the facility.

  Nine thirty-eight. Yes. That headwind had slowed us a little. I raised the Flight Service Station and advised them who we were, where we were and where we were going. All part of professionally observing our flight plan. “Have a nice day.”

  Just after the highway junction we crossed over the junction of the Copper River and Gulkana River. The mighty Copper River coursed miles southward between eroded embankments toward Chitina. Minor streams seemed to converge from all directions to add to the tremendous volume of this powerful river.

  I wondered aloud about its name. “Is it called Copper River Valley because of the color of the fall foliage or because of the copper mine at McCarthy?”

  For once Hagen was stumped. He didn’t know either. Except: “It’s been called that since the turn of the century. Copper Valley and Copper Center the town are mentioned in a lot of the early books.”

  Sixty miles ahead lay the notch in the Mentasta Mountains. Hagen pointed the nose toward it. Enough of that wearying practice with the VOR. Below, the highway was flat, almost arrow-straight for many miles. We knew from experience that it was boring, the only excitement provided by severe frost heaves. It was a different story at our altitude. Smooth going.

  Close to our right, Mount Sanford loomed impressively. The upper half of its 16,237 feet was covered with gleaming snow. Evidence of strong winds at high altitude, a cloud of wind-whipped snow curled from the peak.

  Over the next thirty minutes Christochina, Slana, and Duffy’s Tavern slipped by below. We started through Mentasta Pass. In actuality we maintained a straight and level flight path which took us over the shoulders of the mountains. The highway snaked between high cliffs and passed by the southern end of pretty Mentasta Lake. A small community lay around the eastern side of the lake. Hemmed in by the mountains, it was a scenic place but we had often commented that it must be a mean place to live during the winter months.

  Hagen said, “I read somewhere that they are planning a new section of highway to bypass Mentasta. It’ll probably go round the south side of the mountains. It’ll make the drive to Tok even more boring than it is already.”

  On the eastern side of the range, the land turned into a wide level plain dotted with ponds. At our two o’clock, way in the distance, we could see the low ridges forming the Ladue Range, our final destination. First we had to make our pit stop at Tanacross. A short break, a snack and we would be set to overfly the claim area. The small community of Tok Junction was ten miles away to the southeast of our position. Tanacross was straight ahead.

  “Shall I start down now?” asked Hagen.

  Seizing my chance to make him sweat a little I replied: “Well you’re flying the plane. If we stay at this speed and altitude we’ll probably end up in Yukon Territory.”

  “Okay. Okay. It’s nice to know who your friends are.”

  I could tell he was perplexed for a moment. Then he began to think it through. He waited for about five minutes more and then selected carburetor heat, cut back on the power and trimmed for a steady descent toward the large clearing where the Tanacross runway lay. A loop of the Tanana River passed close by the airport boundary.

  He planned it quite well, crossing over the center of the runway at about 1,500 feet from the surface. It gave us a chance to look around for any traffic. None was in sight. Wind was from almost due east. Hagen brought the plane around in a wide right 270 degree turn and fell nicely into downwind for left traffic.

  Tanacross is an uncontrolled airport and there is no flight service station. However, it is overseen by Northway FSS some miles to the south. I got on the radio, introduced ourselves and let them know we were entering down-wind at Tanacross for a landing to the southeast. I also closed out our flight plan since it looked as if we would make it all in one piece. It had taken us twenty-five minutes longer than I had predicted. That headwind was significant.

  We were both looking around and could see no traffic so Hagen proceeded to make a standard approach. He was doing fine until he turned onto final and realized there was a quartering crosswind to contend with. It took a few seconds for him to gauge its effect and make up his mind whether to fly crabwise or to keep the left wing low. I pretended not to be present and let him sort it out.

  He decided to fly crabwise and then square up and lower the left wing just before touch down. Tricky. He actually managed it very well but his speed was a little too high and it resulted in one approach and two landings. “Oh, shoot, “ I heard
him mutter as the plane floated some 50 yards toward its second touch down.

  When we were firmly down I spoke for the first time. “Not bad under the conditions Hagen.” I complimented. “The wind is pretty stiff and at about 45 degrees off the nose. Look at the wind-sock.” It was standing straight out from its pole. “That would have been quite challenging for anyone.”

  “Yeah. But I should have done better. I think I had it just a little too fast.”

  “Might’ve have been better to use less flap and then your speed would have been about right. Don’t forget. This plane has pretty large flaps.” I laughed. “Anyway you know the old saying. Any landing you can walk away from must have been a good one.”

  Hagen didn’t see the humor in it and looked grim.

  We rolled down the runway centerline to the taxi-way leading toward the single hangar. A couple of acres of small planes were tied down in neat rows to the right of the ramp. We pulled to the same side of the ramp but didn’t bother finding a tie-down. We wouldn’t be staying very long.

  I let Hagen work through the shut-down procedure and then I set the parking brake, since it was on my side. A hush fell over the aircraft as the propeller stopped. Not quite perfect silence because the gyro was moaning down.

  “Hey, that was a great flight. Now I’ll race you to the little boys’ room.” We both climbed down stiffly. Cessna 150’s didn’t leave too much room for its occupants to move around.

  “Ha, ha. That was the problem. Your brain was flooded,” I said.

  Hagen, already moving ahead of me toward the hangar, snorted. “Uh. I can get my own back, you know. There’s only one hole and I could be in there a long time. A really long time. How do you like that?”

  “Who said you’re getting in first?” I pretended to speed up, so he almost ran into the building and to the right side where the offices and toilets were located. In truth I wasn’t really desperate, but I would certainly visit sometime before we departed.

  I walked into the hangar and said “good morning” to the two guys working on the business end of a Piper Super Cub. Well equipped, Alaska style with huge, low pressure “tundra tires.” Both guys answered cheerily.

  Recognizing the larger fellow from our previous trips, I asked “Hope you don’t mind us using the facilities. We’ll be stopping by a little later to tank up.”

  “That’s all right.” said the larger of the two. “That’s what they’re here for. There’s some reasonably fresh coffee over there. Help yourselves. Just drop a quarter in the tin can.” He smiled and patted his ample belly with an oily hand. “Sorry. We already finished the donuts.”

  “Hot coffee will be just fine. We have some snacks with us. Thanks very much.”

  Hagen reappeared in only a couple of minutes and I had the coffee poured and ready. “Shall we walk out and have a snack by the plane?”

  “It’s a bit cool in this wind,” Hagen observed. We zippered our jackets and went out nevertheless.

  “Almost parka weather already.”

  “Yeah. The sun’s nice, though. And there aren’t any mosquitoes around like that time we slept under the plane. Remember how they damn near carried us away?”

  “It’s funny how they seem to like it here. Maybe it’s the smell of aviation fuel that appeals to them. We never saw so many mosquitoes anywhere else. Even out on the claim they were never that bad.”

  We set our coffee cups on the elevator and retrieved some snacks from the daypacks. Couple of bananas and some trail mix would satisfy us for now. We would stop on the way back to have something more substantial.

  We munched and strolled around to stretch our legs and then, snack finished, I made my trip to the little room. Suitably refreshed, we checked around the plane, and boarded for the flight over the Trib valleys.

  “You or me?” I asked of Hagen.

  “You,” he replied. “Maybe I’ll do a spell on the way back.” Hagen knew we would be doing some daringly low flying and wasn’t too comfortable with it.

  I asked, “Why don’t you get us out of here and then I’ll take over. It’ll be good practice for you.” I released the parking brake.

  “Okay. I’ll go along with that.” He opened the side window, hollered “Clear” and cranked the starter. The engine fired and settled at idle. He scanned the instruments carefully. All was well.

  Soon we were rolling down the long runway in preparation for takeoff to the southeast. Hagen taxied to the turnaround and conducted run-up checks. Left mag, right mag, carb heat on, carb heat off, controls full travel. We were ready.

  “Whoa,” I said. “Hold it. There’s a plane turning onto final.”

  We held our position while a Super Cub approached, passed at an unbelievably low speed in front of us, and landed. The pilot acknowledged our courtesy with a cheery wave of the hand.

  As the Cub cleared the runway Hagen taxied into position on the centerline and, without hesitating, gunned the engine. Climbing out and turning into the wind we soon gained a thousand feet of altitude and then leveled off.

  The Al-Can Highway went arrow-straight through Tok Junction and for 25 miles beyond. Hagen set a course that kept the highway in sight to his right.

  “There’s Tonys’ place.” He indicated a substantial log home with a garage and workshop alongside. “Don’t see any vehicles around. Maybe he and Carl are out on the claim. It would be neat if we could fly over and waggle the wings at them?”

  “Talking of waggling the wings,” I said, “I’d better let Northway know where we are going. It’s only good sense. You never know what can happen.”

  I dialed in Northway and made the usual introductions. “Scenic flight from Tanacross direct east to the Ladue River valley. Follow the river to within ten miles of the border and then return along the northern ridge. Return VFR the Taylor and Al-Can to Tanacross. Two souls on board, three hours of fuel. ETA Tanacross” I glanced at my watch and did a quick calculation, “Two o’clock.”

  Tanacross acknowledged and said “Have a nice day.” It had become in vogue recently. You could be reporting your engine had quit and I’m quite sure they would sign off by automatically saying: “Have a nice day.” We were flying. Surely it would be better to say: “Have a safe flight,” or perhaps “Happy landings.”

  We followed the highway to where the bridge crossed over the Tanana River. Just beyond, the highway took a turn southward. We, however, made a slight left turn, skimming over the low Tetlin Ridges, and approached the western end of the Ladue valley.

  We were flying over the route taken by Hagen during his solo snow machine trip four years earlier.

  I now took over the controls and Hagen ran his seat back a notch, then he hinged up the side window and peered downward. I knew he was trying to identify signs of Tony’s trapline trail that he had followed with his snow machine. Familiar landmarks were difficult to recognize because everything looked different dressed in fall colors.

  I had memories of his winter trip too. Not only had we flown this route several times together but, I had flown it alone in the winter to check on Hagen. Then the landscape was forbidding. The ground blanketed by snow and the spruce trees rounded white mounds. The air temperature was minus twenty-eight or so and a ground-hugging ice fog made the wide valleys of the area seem so much larger, so much more hostile,. It had been a long challenging flight for me. I had been terribly apprehensive about flying out there in winter but I had more difficulty believing that Hagen had been so daring as to venture into that area alone by snow machine.

  Sometime while I was en route from Anchorage, about mid morning, his machines crashed through the ice of an overflow near the confluence of Trib 1 and the Ladue. People died in such conditions but Hagen came through okay. Despite his predicament he kept his wits about him, salvaged his machines and soon had a fire going. He was just about dried out and warmed up when I came on the scene. His hastily assembled camp appeared as a lonely, dark speck in a white wilderness. I could clearly see the series of holes made
by his machines in the ice. As I circled his location for fifteen minutes we communicated by means of walkie-talkies. I even dropped him a small care package of chocolate, socks and thermal underwear.

  I scouted up the Trib 1 Valley a little way and cautioned him to stay well to the west away from some other overflows. Eventually however I had to fly away and leave him to his trials and tribulations. Insignificant assistance, but some small comfort and much appreciated companionship as he steeled himself for the rest of the journey. Actually from that point onward his trip hadn’t gone too badly and he had successfully delivered our equipment to the claim.

  He later related this experience in great detail and I had to admire his tenacity under such adversity (Gold in Trib 1, chapter 19). As I have said many times, Hagen seemed to have been born almost a hundred years too late. He really should have been a pioneer.

  Our trip today was tame by comparison. Ahead lay the broad expanse of the Ladue Valley. The marsh grass, so emerald green in summer, was mostly brown and straw-colored. Small ponds reflected the blue sky. The serpentine Ladue was clearly defined by the fringe of dark, almost black, trees along its banks. It snaked for miles into the distance, toward the Canadian border.

  On our left, a few miles distant, was the Ladue ridge. It didn’t look overly impressive from this perspective. However, we knew better. It was one mean, 40 mile hike, along the spine of the ridge and up and over those high peaks to reach the claim.

  Familiar with the lay of the land I headed directly to the confluence of Trib 1 and the Ladue. The loops and swirls of the Ladue and its many isolated sloughs slipped by below. Twenty minutes was all the time it took to reach the spot where Hagen had his problems with the ice. There, too, was our favorite fishing hole. Ahead to the left was the southern tip of the Trib 1, Trib 2 ridge. I hitched forward in my seat. Things were about to get interesting.