SUCKER HOLES UNITE!
I
woke the next morning hoping for clear skies.
Hey, it could happen! A reprise
of the weather we’d enjoyed on day 2 would’ve been great. We had no such luck. The conditions were exactly the same as
they’d been the previous day. We had
fine views of the fjord, the glaciers, and the closest peaks, but the higher
mountains beyond were lost in in the clouds.
This
had been one of the most spectacular campsites we’d experienced, and it was
hard to leave. It wasn’t just hard
emotionally, either. Overnight the
icebergs in the fjord had drifted up the inlet.
From our vantage point, it looked like we the passage was completely
choked with ice. Were we trapped? That could be a major problem. We would need 2 full days to return to Blue
Mouse Cove for our pick up. We had to be
there by noon on day 6, so taking a layover day wasn’t an option. If we missed our pick up, we would miss our
ferry back to Juneau. They only run
twice per week, so that would screw up the rest of our trip.
We
took our time packing up. I got water
from the stream below Thunder Falls, but it was glacial and I didn’t want to
filter it. Glacier water is silty and
can easily clog a filter. I filled up a
bag with 2 quarts of emergency water, but it was not appetizing. The water was gray from all of the silt. Luckily we found a better water source later,
and we didn’t need to use the glacial water.
We
stalled around for a little while, hoping that the sky would clear. It didn’t look promising though, and we needed
an earlier start to catch the outgoing tide. We decided to try to find our way through the
icy channel that had closed us off from the rest of the world. Fortunately most of the ice was small pieces,
and we were able to pick our way slowly through. It was a lot like bushwhacking – we would
fight our way through obstructions into open pockets of water that would
provide a brief respite. Then we’d
resume pushing our way through the ice, using our paddles to fend off the
surrounding bergs.
Most
of the seven miles out to the mouth of the John Hopkins Inlet was like
this. We zig-zagged all over the place
in search of open water, but each time another blockage loomed ahead. Although this was slow and a little scary, it
was also exhilarating. The scenery
remained stellar, too, despite the marginal conditions. We passed numerous waterfalls cascading down
the cliffs above us, including the informally named “Chocolate Falls”. It got its name because the stream is brown
from glacial silt. Nearby was another
waterfall with water that was white. We
dubbed it “Vanilla Falls”, for obvious reasons.
We
finally left most of the ice behind after passing Jaw Point. Still we passed stray icebergs for the rest
of the day. We stopped at a small cove
for lunch. It featured a rocky beach and
a clear stream with a small waterfall framed by blooming fireweed. The stream provided fresh water, so I was
able to dump out the emergency sludge water I’d gotten from Thunder Falls.
After
lunch we continued down bay. Before long
a small patch of blue sky appeared overhead.
A sucker hole! We thought it was
cute. Then, another appeared, followed
by a third. Moments later they merged
into a sizable chunk of blue sky. More
pockets of blue began to appear.
Suddenly, the day had gone from overcast to partly cloudy. The glaciers and higher peaks began to emerge
from the murk! We even debated
backtracking to the mouth of the John Hopkins Inlet, just to get a view up the
fjord with some blue sky overhead.
However, it was a fair distance back, and the clouds seemed to holding
on stubbornly in that direction.
A
bit later we had one of the most thrilling wildlife encounters of the whole
trip. We were hugging the cliffs when
Christy spotted a pair of bald eagles perched on a rock. We stopped to observe and photograph
them. Before I could switch to my zoom
lens, one of the eagles launched itself from the rock, swopped low, and
snatched a fish out of the water!
Originally
I planned to camp at either the Lamplaugh Glacier or
return to the Reid Glacier. Either of
those spots would offer possible afternoon hikes along the ridges above the
glaciers. When we reached the Lamplaugh Glacier, the only plausible camping area was
already adorned with tents. We didn’t
see any people or kayaks, so I’m guessing that it was a group of climbers that
had been dropped off by a boat. The
ridge above their campsite rises above the glacier, and it looks like a
promising place to hike.
We
continued down bay, bound for the Reid Inlet.
However, when we reached Ptarmigan Creek we were compelled to stop. It was now completely sunny, with blue skies
in every direction. The view from here
was a true jaw-dropper. All of the
mountains were out, including the rarely seen Mount Fairweather
(15,325’), the highest peak in the park.
The expansive sandy beach even had a few stray icebergs. We stopped for our afternoon break, but the
spot was so compelling that we couldn’t leave. It was only 3pm, and when I suggested camping
there Christy was both delighted and bewildered. Stopping there meant a longer day 5, but this
spot was far superior to the campsites near the Reid Glacier.
GLORY
We
unpacked the boat, set up camp, and relaxed on the beach. Christy waded out to an intriguing iceberg
that was just offshore. The iceberg was
shaped in an arch, and she climbed right up into the opening, sprawling across
it. It was one hell of a photo opp – Christy riding an iceberg in Glacier Bay.
We
had sunshine, warm sand, sparkling ice, a stunning view, and half a jug of
whiskey. What more could we possibly
want?
I
turned my gaze away from the sprawling mass of peaks, cliffs, and glaciers
across the water. Directly above us was
a rocky ridgeline separating Ptarmigan Creek from the Reid Inlet. The ridge featured a series of open outcrops,
each one higher than the previous one.
Even the lowest of them promised a stunning view of a large chunk of
Glacier Bay. The higher points would
likely provide views of the Reid Glacier, the Lamplaugh
Glacier, and the massive icefield above.
I
consulted my guidebook, which was written in the 90’s. The ecology of Glacier Bay is changing so
fast that our book was largely useless.
Areas that used to be open are now choked with dense tangles of
alder. Still, our book described an old
mining road that connects Ptarmigan Creek and the Reid Inlet. It crosses the ridge that we were looking at. If it still existed, it would provide easy access
to those viewpoints. If
it still existed.
What
to do? Should we give up our sunny
afternoon on one of the world’s most spectacular beaches to go for glory? No normal, sane person would even consider
it. But nobody has ever called us normal
or sane.
It
is times like these when I often ask myself what my friend Spencer would do. In this case, I knew exactly what he would
do. He would climb that mountain.
I
suggested this to Christy. She consulted
the guidebook, and agreed that it looked reasonable, if the road still
existed. If not, we would be embarking
on the bushwhack to hell and back. The steep slopes of the ridge were covered in
an impenetrable blanket of green.
We
secured camp, loaded a daypack, and headed for Ptarmigan Creek. The book showed the old road on the far side
of it. Ptarmigan Creek is a huge stream,
but I somehow managed to rock hop it without dunking a boot. Christy forded the creek since she was
wearing sandals. Her choice of footwear
proved to be better than mine.
We
hiked alongside the raging torrent of whitewater for a time. This was tedious, as the bank of the stream
was steep and composed of sand and loose rocks.
Mostly we rock hopped along the edge of the creek. The water was so loud that our ears were
ringing. Conversation was
impossible. There was no sign of the
road, but I suspected that it was on the hillside a short distance above
us. We scrambled up, and actually found
a trace of it. We followed it briefly, before
it disappeared in an alder thicket. We
tried to stay on it, but the alders were miserable. The branches are too strong to force your way
through, and too numerous to climb over or crawl under. Our pace slowed to a crawl, so we dropped
back down to the creek.
We
resumed rock hopping. After a short ways
I went back up onto the ridge to scout for the road. I had no luck this time. I couldn’t see anything except jungle.
Any
sort of reasonable person would’ve given up, but again, we aren’t
reasonable. If anything, we’re stubborn. We would not be so easily defeated.
We
reached a confluence with a tributary stream.
I checked the map, and noted that it was coming down from the ridge in
the exact place we wanted to reach. We
decided to follow it. This creek was
much smaller, but it was actually more challenging to hike. The channel was narrow and frequently choked
by fallen trees. Although it was a small
stream, it was knee deep and ice cold. I
gave up on trying to keep my boots dry. We climbed over and crawled under the trees,
occasionally crawling right up the streambed.
At one point we climbed back up onto the ridge to see if it was any
better. It wasn’t. It was drier, but the vegetation was even
thicker. The only reward for that
diversion was finding abundant blueberries scattered among the alders. Yes, we were in prime grizzly bear
habitat. We had one can of bear spray,
but no other way to defend ourselves.
We
returned to the creek and continued slogging upstream. We reached another fork, and took the
tributary coming in from the left. This
stream was considerably smaller, so at least there was less water to deal
with. The vegetation finally began to
open up, but the streambed became steeper.
Soon we were scrambling up the rocks, sure that we would reach a gap on
the ridge at any moment. The climb took
much longer than expected, mostly because we hadn’t really gained all that much
elevation during the worst of the bushwhacking.
Finally the grade eased and the pass loomed ahead. Comically, remnants of the old road appeared,
and we even saw a few old mining relics.
We
found a swampy area of small ponds in the gap on the ridge. The view from here was disappointing. It was getting late, but there was no way we
were turning back without being rewarded with a decent view. I led the way up the ridge, aiming for a
rocky knoll overlooking the pass. A few
minutes later we reached a perch that left us speechless. We gazed out over Glacier Bay, across miles
and miles of mountains, glaciers, and fjords.
The landscape was vast, but that didn’t stop us from noticing tiny
details. We spotted little white specks
in the water far below. They were
icebergs escaping from the John Hopkins Inlet just as we had earlier that day.
I
was mildly amused when Christy pointed out that the old road was clearly
visible heading down towards the Reid Inlet.
It looks like it may be easier to reach this spot from the other side.
This
would’ve been a spectacular spot to watch the sunset, but hiking down in the
dark would’ve been even more dangerous. As it was, we were going to have a tough time
returning before dark. That’s impressive
considering that dark happens after 10pm in this part of Alaska in July. It had taken us four hours to make the climb,
and we only had a little more than 2 hours before sunset. Still, we lingered for a while. The view was too spectacular to abandon so
quickly, and we were still recovering from our ascent.
We
eventually headed back down. We followed
the same basic route, though we stuck to the streambeds the entire way, having
learned our lesson about the ridges earlier.
That final stretch of bushwhacking was brutal, thanks to dead legs,
waterlogged boots, and dwindling daylight.
We reached the main channel of Ptarmigan Creek just in time for a
colorful sunset. This was a relief, as
the worst of the bushwhacking was behind us.
We staggered into camp at 11pm and I started working on dinner. And the whiskey.
We
went to bed late, but I hadn’t been sleeping well anyway. Shortly after arriving in Glacier Bay my Thermarest pad had developed an air bubble that made
sleeping on it awkward. As the trip went
on, the air bubble grew. The bubble was
at the upper left end, while the bottom end of the pad wasn’t inflating at all. By the fifth night, it was more comfortable
sleeping on the bare ground. Luckily we
camped on sandy beaches the last two nights.
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