Saturday, August 30th, 1997

Day 10: Denali to Tok, Alaska

A heavy rain beats down on the fiberglass cap as I drift in and out of sleep.  It is after 10:00 when we finally get moving.  The rain and fog prevent us from catching even a glimpse of Mt McKinley, and with some regret we turn onto the Denali Highway, headed east towards Paxson.  The Denali is a 134 mile dirt road that cuts across the center of inhabited Alaska.  There is only one town along the route, and no phone service except at either end- Cantwell in the west, Paxson in the east.  We fill up with gas and I begin the bone-rattling drive through the central valley east towards the Alaska pipeline.

The scenery is beautiful but slow to change, and my eyes stay glued to the narrow, potholed gravel road most of the time.  I experience what we later term "Riding Lawnmower Syndrom," a phenomenon caused by staring intently at oncoming terrain for extended periods.  The result is that when looking at anything but the approaching scenery, that object or landscape appears to be moving away, or to be collapsing in upon itself.

After a while I begin to recognize a new sound coming from under the truck.  I decelerate, and drive for a moment hanging out of the door with my head a foot from the ground.  I hear a metalic slapping sound each time the left front wheel hits a bump.  I drive on slowly for a few miles until we come to the only real pull-off on the entire highway.  It begins to rain very lightly as I lay down the tarp and spread out my tools.  Sean discovers that the huge front bumper is coming loose from its mounts and begins to tighten them up as I survey the situation.  It seems that the lower shock mount on the lower left A-arm has been hammered a little too hard.  Two through-bolts fix the mount to the arm, but they have come loose and there is at least 1/4" of play in the mount.  I bear down with the ratchet driver in an attempt to tighten one of the bolts, but with a sickening smear the old bolt shears into two pieces.

Auto maintenance along the Denali Highway

I roll onto my back and look up past the mammoth tube bumper at the solemn grey sky.  I reflect on our situation for a while.

Auto maintanence in the bush is always a bit risky.  As any mechanic will admit, the likelihood of breaking something while effecting a repair is always substantial.  In the case of this particular component, I have now rendered it unfit for driving on even the most well-maintained roads.  On the gravel nightmare over which we are currently passing, it would be only minutes before the remaining bolt, now bearing the full brunt of the pounding front suspension, snapped off and released the shock to smash into the lower A-arm or rip out the break line.

For the first time ever, and with much apprehension, I dig my lovingly-compiled collection of random-sized nuts and bolts out of the spare parts box.  I pour the contents out onto the tarp and begin to sift through the dissapointingly small pile.  But the Gods of auto repair are smiling on us today, because I find two identical grade 3 quarter-inch hex bolts of just the right length, and a brief search turns up two matching hex nuts.  I am absolutely thrilled with myself, and happily shear the head off of the remaining shock-mount bolt.  Both are battered beyond use from the constant pounding this trip has delivered.  It takes no time to tighten down the shock mount with the new hardware, and after a satisfying lunch of hot ravioli, we are back on the road.

Soon hunters on 4-wheelers are buzzing around everywhere.  The most common vehicle we pass is an RV towing a flatbed trailor carrying a couple of ATV's, many of which feature large plastic gun cases mounted to their sides.  We don't see any wildlife larger than a ground squirrel all the way to Paxson, and we wonder if there isn't a connection.

We finally reach the end of the highway, and turn north on Hwy 4 headed towards Delta Junction, the northern end of the Alcan Highway.  This road is narrow two-lane that approximately follows the course of the Alaska pipeline along this leg of its route from Valdez north to Prudhoe Bay.  The road begins to weave in and out of some beautiful rocky peaks in the Alaska range, and suddenly up ahead lies the perfect climbing mountain.

I have been itching to get away from the road and back into the woods for days now, and while the light rain could make this a wet event, Sean and I agree that this is the one.  Dense pine forest crowds the edge of the highway, and higher up it turns to bright-red bushes that appear to be about knee-high.  From there two wide swathes of gravelly rock fill valleys dropping down from the jagged peaks above.  We can't see the top, as wispy white clouds obscure our vision.  It's quite a mountain.

I pull over and park the truck in a gravel pull-out.  We begin outfitting ourselves for the hike; the 35mm SLR camera is coming along in its Samsonite case, and the cold rain demands waterproof rain gear.  We toss the canteen and some Fig Newtons into my backpack, cross the quiet road and duck into the woods.  I consider leaving a note on the front seat of the truck to be found in case we don't come back.  It would be a general outline of our whereabouts and purpose.  I have an almost overwhelming sense that something profound is about to happen, that maybe I am hiking off to my death by bear claw, or fatal fall.

As soon as we enter the woods, Sean and I are both siezed by the realization that we are trailblazing through bear-infested Alaskan pine forest.  Since we don't have any bear-bells, or even some pots and pans to bang together, we keep up a continouos dialogue while in the thick underbrush.  When the conversation lags due to fatigue or route-choosing distraction, one or both of use hollers "Bear!" or something equally relevant.  It doesn't take long for my hiking boots and jeans to become soaked by brushing against the dripping-wet plants.  The rain comes and goes, but we are warm from the sudden exertion and excited to be in the wild.

Shortly after leaving the road, we break into a wide area of thick, hardy bushes.  What appeared from the road to be knee-height is actually over our heads, and we slowly pick our way through the course growth.  The ground on the lower part of the slope is spongy and irregular- as if over the years the thick carpet of moss has grown over itself again and again.  We see moose droppings (or maybe sheep droppings) frequently, and at one point even see a different type of scat that could have been left by a bear.  We are particularly loud in this area.

We tire of fighting with the thick bushes and cut across the hill and drop into a gully running up the slope.  A thick canopy is created by the low green trees growing in this moist area, and I comment to Sean that if I were a bear, I'd hang out here all the time.  It does seem like perfect den-making material, and every dark crevice is scrutinized carefully as we crawl through the thick web of stiff black branches.  I am relieved when we break out of the gully and into another stretch of bushes- they are wonderfully transparent after the darkness we are leaving.

We are still fairly low in the valley when we break out of the vegetation altogether and onto the exposed face of the mountain.  Neither of us are very surprised when the gravelly rock turns out to be basketball-sized stones.  We pick our way over the moss-covered bowling balls, making much better time but burning a lot of energy.  The rocks are a very dark green and must have a high jade content (?).  I am tempted to pick up many of them, but the prospect of hauling them up the mountain appeals to me not at all.  My winter gloves are soaked from pulling away branches and bracing against rocks as I climb on all fours.  My trusty ear-warmer headband is wet from rain and sweat, but I am comfortable under my layers.

We stop to rest and drink about half-way up the rocky section.  We are already well above the top of the small mountain on the other side of the road. From down there the two hills appeared to be roughly the same size.  We can't believe how much larger this mountain is than it appeared to us from the road.  I know from experience and stories that one's perception of scale becomes skewed when surrounded by geography of this scale, but it is still hard to believe the features are five times what they appear.  Our enthusiasm is undaunted, however, as we continue up the rocks.  We notice that as the moss thins out and eventually dissapears the rocks become not quite so stable under our clomping feet.  The possibility of a rock slide enters my mind for the first time.  My mother's voice rings in my head as I pick my way with hands and feet over the little boulders.  She warned me to be careful before I left home, telling me of a group of hikers buried alive in a slide out in Colorado a few weeks past.

Eventually we make it to the top of the rocks, where the terrain tilts up to at least 45 degrees and the surface changes to a loose red rock shale.  It is no longer possible to make any progress without using our hands.  As the rocks slide and roll down beneath us, I comment to Sean: "This has got to be way up there in terms of stupidity."  But neither of us consider turning back, and we find that we disturb the excitable surface less if we favor the increasingly sporadic areas with some vegetation- mostly moss and a few wiry bushes that make great hand-holds.  The slope continues to pitch upward, and soon we are climbing as much with our hands as with our feet.  Every movement sends a cascade of rocks and gravel down the slope.  We approach the lowest rock outcroppings.  This has been my destination all along, although it is a bit shy of Sean's goal of climbing into the clouds.  As we draw near, I realize that this isn't solid rock after all, but a clump of smallish boulders on top of some rocks all glued together with gravel.  This is not the solid rock from which the mountain has eroded, as I imagined.  It is instead the same consistency as the rock and gravel fields below us, but this part has a bit more potential energy and a little less stability.

Sean and I are climbing too close to one another, myself just below him.  I am holding on to a small bush when Sean reaches up for a handhold on an overhang above me.  As he pulls himself up and to the left, the boulder begins to shift slightly, raining pebbles down around my arms.  He freezes, and takes his weight off of the rock before it is dislodged completely.  My mind races- producing a vivid image of what could come next.  Sean finds an alternate source of support and continues on his way.  Shaken, I decide to move to the right, following the clear voice in my head that inexplicably tells me that going right is the only thing that will save me.  This advice proves to be questionable, though, when I soon find myself clinging to a featureless section of steep, loose rock.  It feels incredibly precarious beneath me, and I suddenly can't believe I have gotten myself into this position.

Sean has had better luck to the left, and is climbing on above me.  It is too late for me to follow that route, and I remain motionless for a minute, pondering a quick lunge across and up to the seemingly more solid rocks above.  If I grab them and they move, it is painfully clear that the entire overhang will let go, and I will be at best bashed and bleeding when I come to rest 100 yards below.  I finally force myself to move, and thank God when the handhold I have committed to turns out to be solid.  I lay flat against the mountain, and slowly roll over onto my back.  The slope here is such that I am almost standing up straight.  I look out at the valley below me.  The mountain across the highway from this one looks like an insignificant hill, and the tiny Alaska pipeline threads its way across the high hills beyond.  The cold wind is very strong and the rain drops are heavy- the term 'exposed mountain face' means something to me for the first time.  I feel incredibly exposed- almost like I am being held out towards the sky, suspended away from the slope by an unseen hand.  I close my eyes.

I can almost feel the priority shift as a physical sensation.  In a rush of clarity, I see where I am, who I am, and what is important.  It is an elating feeling to suddenly let go of superfluous concerns and see with absolute certainty what it is that is truly important in one's life.

When I open my eyes the scene is unchanged, but it couldn't appear more diferently to me.  I take a few pictures, and after announcing to Sean that I am done climbing, I strike out across the face of the mountain for a safer descending path.  I ask God to watch over me and deliver me to the bottom safely, and with renewed confidence and energy I progress down the steep slope.

Sean has stopped 30 feet up the mountain, and continues a bit further up after I turn back.  He tells me later that he quickly came to fear for his life when he reached the larger outcroppings above, as each foothold sent heavy rocks rolling away below him, and the howling wind made standing upright impossible.  I had maneuvered out from under him at this point, and was making fine progress towards the bottom.  As we descend towards the boulder-filled valleys, it becomes clear that this entire mountain is just a slowly flowing glacier of rock.  I am glad we aren't around when it shifts.  Further down the slope, the angle of the hill flattens out a bit, and Sean discovers that we can make exceptional time by surfing down the loose gravel.  We slide 5 feet for every step we take, and in no time we have reached the stone valley again.

It is slow going now- steering our tired feet around the slick, wet rocks.  Sean ends up with an armful of green rocks, and I pick up a few more specimens myself.  Back in the underbrush, we are unable to follow our previous path since we barely disturbed the robust shrubs, hence we strike off on a more direct route to the road.  We again behave in a loud and obnoxious manner to warn any prowling grizzlies of our approach.  But this time our chatter is primarily in the form of boasting- regarding either our recent ascent or our imagined bear-hunting prowess.  We do stumble across a bear-sized hole that we feel could make a nice den, but besides that we are sucessful at keeping the wildlife encounters to a bear minimum.  Sorry.

Almost four hours after setting out, we emerge from the misty forest drenched and exhausted.  15 uncomfortable minutes of struggling with wet, sticky clothes and we are back on the road with myself behind the wheel.  On the way north towards Delta junction we stop at an information sign alongside the Alaska pipeline.  Fascinating piece of work, this pipe.  Takes the oil 8 days to travel its length from Prudhoe Bay in the north down to Prince William Sound.  This section is made to be particularly earth-quake tolerant since it crosses tha Denali fault here.  The steel beams supporting the 5-foot diameter insulated pipe are mounted on teflon feet that allow it to slide smoothly in the case of a major ground shift.

A few miles further we stop to get some pictures of an amazing glacier behind a flower-filled valley (photo at top of page).  A memorial has been created nearby in honor of the engineers who built the roads through Alaska.

I run the tank out near Delta Junction.  We consider getting some "Alaskan Style" pizza at the cafe across from the gas pumps.  "So what makes it 'Alaskan Style'?" I ask the plump girl behind the counter.  She shrugs her shoulders.  "Do you make it here?" asks Sean.

"Well...the crust is frozen...but we do heat it up here," she offers.

We decide to skip it.

While I'm in the restroom, Sean learns from the cafe radio that Princess Diana of Wales has died in an automobile accident with the sheik of something-or-other.  We marvel at what little impact this has on our lives.

Moose near Tok, Alaska

It is getting dark as Sean pulls out of the station and steers east for Tok.  Shortly after, he is slamming on the brakes and yelling for me to get the camera.  I get one good shot of the huge moose before a big RV comes up behind us and scares it into the woods.  We see two other moose before gassing up near Tetlin junction a few hours later.  We pull over for the night just a few miles up the Taylor highway.  After exploring the navigable limits of a sand road into the woods, we make our way back out to a large gravel clearing beside the highway.  There is no traffic for the rest of the evening.

We are amazed at the light on the horizon to the west even at 11:00 at night.  The cool dark is very quiet as we discuss our plans.  We decide to skip the trip up the Dempster highway to Inuvik in favor of taking it easy on the return trip through Canada- maybe enjoy a spot of fishing on the way.  After a quick meal of beef stew and bread, we retreat from the advancing mosquitos into the warmth of our sleeping bags.

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