THE LONGEST YARD
We
were up fairly early the next morning, as we needed to be on the far side of
the Brooks River bridge for the 9am bus to the Valley of 10,000 Smokes
overlook. There is only 1 tour bus per
day, and missing it would ruin our backpacking trip before it began. The last thing we wanted was a 23 mile walk,
uphill, just to get to the trailhead.
The
tour bus is also operated by the park concessionaire, Katmailand. We had made our reservations and prepaid back
when we made our other travel arrangements.
The cost was about $100 per person, but we had cut that in half by using
a buy one get one free coupon from the Great Alaskan Toursaver book.
For
the average tourist, the bus to the overlook provides an opportunity to briefly
experience the Valley of 10,000 Smokes.
The trip is narrated by a Park Service ranger, who provides information
on the flora, fauna, and history of the area.
It takes nearly two hours to cover the 23 miles, as the road is
primitive and there are several stops along the way. At the end of the road is a small National
Park Service Visitors Center, featuring interpretive displays and views of the
valley and the surrounding volcanoes.
Lunch is included in the tour (although we missed out on that), and an
optional short hike down into the valley to Ukak Falls is offered in the
afternoon.
I
got up first that morning. As soon as I
emerged from the tent, I startled a mama grizzly and two cubs that were just on
the other side of the electric fence.
They ran off, but it was quite an exciting way to start the
morning. We broke camp and had a
breakfast of cold granola cereal. After yesterday’s
unusually warm and sunny greeting to Katmai, the weather had returned to
“normal”. The morning was chilly and
overcast, and the dark, heavy clouds hanging over Naknek Lake threatened
rain. We hoisted our packs and walked
back towards the lodge, hoping that the weather would hold off for us. On the way, we had to make a brief detour to
avoid a grizzly bear sleeping on the lakeshore.
It must’ve been quite the party, if he’d passed out there on the beach!
We
were passing the lodge when one of the Katmailand employees hailed us. He had noticed our packs, and inquired about
our plans. We told him that we were
planning on 4 days of backpacking in the valley, and that we hoped to reach the
Baked Mountain huts that night.
The
huts on Baked Mountain were built by the U.S. Geological Survey. Years ago the huts were staffed so that the
volcanoes surrounding the valley could be monitored. These days, most monitoring is performed by
sophisticated equipment. The huts are no
longer staffed, but they are open to the public. After reading about the frequently horrific
weather in the valley, I thought they would be a wise destination. After all, there is no other shelter in the
valley from the frequent downpours and wind storms. Plus, the huts are located near the upper end
of the valley. From there, dayhikes to
some of the more interesting features in the area would be feasible.
The
employee asked if we were familiar with the location of the huts. As it turns out, their location on the Trails
Illustrated Map is way off target. The
map shows the huts near the base of the west side of the mountain, uphill from
the River Lethe. We looked at the map
together, and he showed me the actual location of the huts. They are high up on Baked Mountain’s north
ridge several hundred feet above where they are shown on the map. Our chance meeting with this guy proved to be
exceptionally fortunate. Based on the limited
information I had, we never would’ve found them.
He
offered up some additional useful information as well. The first helpful tidbit was indicating where
the actual trailhead was. I had assumed,
incorrectly, that the best route down into the valley was on the Park Service
Trail to Ukak Falls. This mile-long path
is the only official trail in the valley.
It descends from the overlook to the Three Forks, where Windy Creek,
Knife Creek, and the River Lethe flow together.
It may be possible to hike upstream from there along the river, but I’m
not so sure. All of the streams in the
valley cut deep, narrow gorges that are largely impassable.
It
turns out that the best trailhead is along the road a mile or so before the
Visitors Center. It’s more of a game
path / drainage ditch, but it provides relatively easy access to a safe
crossing of Windy Creek. From there,
it’s fairly easy walking to the edge of the canyon of the River Lethe, which
can be followed upstream. Our new best
friend went over all of this with us in detail, pointing out key features on
the map.
He
also warned us about crossing the River Lethe.
He echoed the park ranger we’d spoken with about its dangers. He mentioned that there were one or two spots
where it’s possible to jump across the river.
These spots are only about a yard across. Jumping 3 feet sounds easy, doesn’t it? I’m sure if I marked off two lines 3’ apart
in my driveway, I could jump across them over and over, without fail. However, it’s a little more difficult with a
50+ pound pack on your back. Also,
having a torrent of glacier melt thundering through a slot canyon 100 feet
below would be a little intimidating. Plus, consider that both banks are
comprised of crumbly volcanic ash.
Despite all of this, I imagine I could make the leap 99% of the time,
without incident. However, the penalty
for failure is extreme. A tumble would
likely be fatal, unless you’re really unlucky.
The fate of the truly cursed would be a thrilling ride down the canyon
through a torrent of ice melt. Down
inside one of those sheer canyons, there would be no hope for escape. And if, by some miracle, you were able to
ride it out, you can bet there would be plenty of hungry grizzly bears waiting
for you downstream.
So,
the question we faced was a simple one. Considering
the chance of success vs. the penalty for failure, was it an acceptable risk? We decided it was not.
There
were two other options. One was to
follow the rim of the canyon all the way to the Mageik Lakes. Below each lake we’d be able to wade the
outlet streams. However, this would take
us far out of the way, and we’d have no chance of reaching the huts in the same
day. The other possibility was a single
place where it might be possible to wade the river. Improbably, there is one spot where the river
briefly emerges from its narrow canyon.
There, the river widens and runs shallow through some minor ripples
before once again disappearing into the depths.
Our new best friend gave us a general idea of where to find the
crossing. We decided to make that ford
Plan A. If we couldn’t find it, or it
appeared too risky, we’d continue on to the Mageik Lakes and camp there.
I
learned more useful information from this guy in a 10 minute conversation than
I had found in all of my pre-trip research.
There simply is no substitute for first-hand knowledge. He wished us well, and we thanked him
repeatedly before he returned to work and we headed for the bus.
We
walked down to the Brooks River bridge.
As usual, it was closed due to bear activity. This was a bit of a concern, as we were to
meet the bus on the other side of the river.
We weren’t too worried though, as we were still 30 minutes early, and
everybody else bound for the bus would have the same problem. The bridge opened a few minutes later, and we
hustled across. We made a quick visit to
the restroom just up the road, and then doubled-back to wait for the bus.
Since
we were still early, we decided on some additional bear-watching from the lower
platform. There, we met the ranger that
would be narrating the tour. Mike was a
young guy from Missoula, Montana. He was
friendly and knowledgeable, and we enjoyed chatting with him about our upcoming
trip. Oddly, Ranger Mike looked just
like Daniel Faraday, the peculiar, time-traveling scientist on “Lost”. He was the first of many people that
resembled characters on “Lost” that we would encounter throughout our trip.
Mike
provided some additional information, although he hadn’t backpacked in the
valley at that point. Mike told us that there
was an emergency shelter inside the Three Forks Overlook Visitors Center. It was stocked with food, water, and
blankets, and would provide protection from the elements. If we had any problems, we should return
there and wait for the next bus (there is only one per day). Also, Mike was planning an overnight trip to
the Mageik Lakes later that week. His
planned trip would overlap ours, so we thought we might actually run into
him. It was somewhat reassuring that
there might actually be another human being out there somewhere.
We
boarded the bus at 9am, along with Ranger Mike and 7 or 8 tourists. As expected, we were the only ones embarking
on a backpacking trip. Many of the other
folks on the tour inquired about our trip.
A few of them didn’t really understand what we were doing, while the
remainder clearly thought we were crazy.
I can’t really blame them.
Our
bus driver, Carter, was cool. If Ranger
Mike looked like Daniel Faraday from “Lost”, the driver reminded me of Spicoli
from “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”.
Like I said, he was cool. We
asked him to drop us off at “the trailhead”, and he knew exactly what we were
talking about.
The
ride was largely uneventful. The biggest
excitement came when we forded a broad river.
When the water is up, the ford is impassable. Fortunately, it was shallow today. Hopefully that wouldn’t change before
Saturday’s return trip! We had no idea
what kind of weather would be in store for us.
We hadn’t seen a forecast in a couple of days, and the last one we had
seen had been for King Salmon.
Unfortunately, the weather there is usually completely different from
the valley, so even that had been pretty worthless. The forecast for Charlotte probably would’ve
been equally relevant.
We
also stopped three times – twice at overlooks and once at a pair of toilets
half way up the road. The first overlook
offered a view of Naknek Lake and the surrounding mountains. Unfortunately, most of the vista was hidden
in the clouds. The second viewpoint was
of a series of small, glacial lakes. It
looked like a great spot for wildlife, but we didn’t see anything except a
hoard of mosquitoes. One thing we were
looking forward to in the valley was an absence of flying blood-suckers. After all, the area is essentially a desert
known for its windy conditions. It
didn’t sound like a place that would be hospitable for bugs.
Carter
dropped us off at 11am at a non-descript wide spot in the road. There is nothing here to really indicate a
trail. If anything, the beginning of the
route is a drainage ditch channeling runoff from the road. We didn’t waste any time, as I was ready to
see the valley. We headed down the
gully, which was thick with shrubs and small trees. It was here that we made our first mistake of
the trip. Our raingear was packed away,
but it should have been on. Apparently
it had rained here the night before, and the vegetation was soaking wet. By the time we realized it, so were we. At that point, it was too late to benefit
from our Gore Tex. We sloshed on, eager
to get through the dripping wet jungle.
We
reached the bottom of the hill quickly, and the vegetation thinned. At this point, I had to pay close attention
to our navigation, even though a primitive footpath continued on. Ahead was the Buttress Range. I knew we needed to follow its east side,
tracing a course between the high, green ridge and the rim of the canyon carved
by the River Lethe. My first priority
was to make sure we didn’t inadvertently wander up the valley of Windy Creek. That might be a nice trip, but it wouldn’t
take us to the Valley of 10,000 Smokes.
I spent a couple of minutes getting orientated before we continued on.
A
few minutes later, we reached an obvious junction marked with a pair of
antlers. In some areas, junctions and
trails are marked with signs or blazes or cairns. In Alaska, antlers from Moose or Caribou are
used as signs. It’s an extremely
effective technique, as it is very difficult to walk past a huge rack without
noticing it (ha!). The bus driver had
told us to turn left at the antlers, which made this part of the navigation
rather easy. The left-hand path led us
down a steep bank to the edge of Windy Creek.
Windy
Creek didn’t look too bad. However, the
water was probably over knee deep, and there was an island immediately in front
of us. Just upstream, the creek flowed
through some small, shallow ripples. We
crossed there, right at the head of the island.
It was the ideal crossing point, except for one thing. The opposite bank was a steep, overgrown tangle
of willows. Bushwhacking through thick
willows makes crawling through Rhododendrons seem like fun. Unfortunately, there was no path, and we had
no other option. We eventually found a
place to climb out of the creek and plunged into the jungle. We crawled and thrashed our way up through
the tangle of willows. This was awful,
but at least we didn’t have to go far.
After a few minutes of misery, we reached the top of the bank, and the
brush thinned. We paused for lunch
there, despite the presence of some pesky mosquitoes.
After
eating, I wandered along the bank and found a marginally better route to the
creek. If we had crossed the creek right
where we’d met the water, we would’ve emerged at the base of a narrow gully. The gully wasn’t pretty, but it would’ve been
a lot more pleasant than the willows. I
made a note of its location, since we’d have to return this way in four days.
WALKING ON THE MOON
After
lunch, we hoisted our packs and headed towards the valley. Initially we followed an obvious beaten path
towards the low hills marking the beginning of the Buttress Range. The path eventually began to curve to the
left though, to swing around the ridge.
We were now on the edge of the Valley of 10,000 Smokes, although we
still couldn’t see much of it. Heavy
dark clouds hung over the valley, only a couple hundred feet above us. Those ominous clouds hid the surrounding
mountains and gave our little expedition an air of apprehension. What were we getting ourselves into?
Soon
we found ourselves walking across a dusty, barren surface of volcanic ash. I’ve heard hiking in the valley described as
being like walking through a giant litter box, or across the world’s biggest
bowl of Rice Crispies. To me, it seemed
a lot like walking on the moon. Except
with gravity. Based on the weight of the
pack on my back, there didn’t seem to be any shortage of gravity there.
The
walking was initially pleasant. The
terrain was flat, and the surface was soft on our feet. Although we weren’t on an official trail, it
was obvious that a lot of people – and bears – had followed this route. There were bear prints everywhere, which
really wasn’t much of a surprise. After
all, the grizzlies use the Valley of 10,000 Smokes as a migratory corridor
between the salmon runs near the coast and the Brooks River. Fortunately, all of the bears were now at
Brooks Falls, so we didn’t have to worry too much about running into one. I imagine hiking through the valley in June
is a different scenario entirely.
In
fact, it’s probably a bit inaccurate to say that there aren’t any trails in the
Valley of 10,000 Smokes. In fact, before
the 1912 eruption, a centuries-old trade route connected Bristol Bay, to the
northwest, with the Pacific Ocean. The
route passed through this same valley, cresting Katmai Pass between Trident
Volcano and Mount Mageik. The route was
used by everyone from natives, to settlers, to gold-rushers. Of course, back then the valley was rather
different. With the eruption of 1912,
everything changed.
In
June of 1912, the largest volcanic eruption of the 20th century
occurred. The eruption was preceded by
violent earthquakes felt at the small Pacific villages of Katmai Bay and Cold
Bay. A tremendous explosion followed,
which was heard in Juneau, 750 miles away.
Most of the inhabitants of the area evacuated before the eruption. However, one group of Russian settlers
survived the eruptions in Kaflia Bay.
This was evidenced by a letter one wrote to his wife:
“My Dear Wife
Tania: First of all I will let you know
of our unlucky voyage. I do not know
whether we shall be either alive or well.
We are awaiting death at any moment.
A mountain has burst near here, so that we are covered with ashes, in
some places 10 feet and 6 feet deep. All
this began on the 6th of June.
Night and day we light lamps. We
cannot see the daylight. In a word, it
is terrible, and we are expecting death at any moment, and we have no
water. All the rivers are covered with
ashes. Just ashes mixed with water. Here are darkness and hell, thunder and
noise. I do not know whether it is day
or night. The Earth is trembling; it
lightens every minute. It is
terrible. We are praying”.
From “The Recent Eruption of Katmai Volcano
in Alaska”, by George C. Martin, published in The National Geographic Magazine,
Feb, 1913, p. 148, 152.
For
more information on the human impact of the eruption, please see:
http://www.nps.gov/katm/historyculture/upload/Witnessweb.pdf
Early
on, our only challenge was the occasional tangle of small trees and brush. We were now hiking along the base of Buttress
Range. Its vibrant green vegetation was
quite a contrast to the barren expanse of the valley below.
As
we hiked, we drew closer to the River Lethe.
Before long, we found ourselves walking along the rim of its narrow,
deep canyon. The river thundered through
the gorge below, its thick brown water roaring between sheer walls of packed
pumice and ash. We stopped for another
break to get a better look. I walked out
near the edge, but I didn’t dare get too close, as the rim of the canyon looked
precarious. Across the gorge from my
perch, I noticed another, narrower canyon joining the main channel. A small stream ran through it, and tumbled
over a delicate waterfall to join the river.
After
a short break, we resumed the hike, heading upstream along the edge of the
canyon. Up ahead, the river ran closer
to the cliffs tumbling down from the Buttress Range. I was concerned that we might have difficulty
getting through, and unfortunately, I was right. Before long, we began to encounter a series
of deep gullies running down from the mountains above. Each time, we were forced to descend a wall
of loose sand, pumice and ash to the base of the gully. Then we had to scramble up the opposite
side. The first gully was bad, and they
successively got worse. Descending into
them was hazardous, and climbing back out was a struggle. After three or four of these, we were
relieved to see the river make a sharp bend to the northeast, away from the
mountains. This gave us more space to
walk, and the gullies were less severe.
Rather than follow the river, we continued ahead, still following a
beaten path along the base of the mountains.
A
bit later, Christy and I thought we spotted some cairns leading towards the
river. We speculated that they might
lead to one of those narrow spots where jumping across was possible. However, after getting a close up view of the
river and its canyon, we had no interest in going that route.
A
bit later, we passed a deep alcove in the Buttress Range. A freshwater stream runs down from the
mountains here, providing one of the few sources of drinking water in the
valley. There was a group of people camped
in the alcove, which is locally known as 6-Mile Camp. It was a little surprising to see other
people, even at a distance. I
immediately recognized them though. In
my pre-trip research, I’d stumbled across an advertisement for a Sierra Club
trip in the valley. It was a long trip –
more than a week – and I knew it would overlap ours. Of course, the valley is a big place, so I
hadn’t really expected to run into them.
They were some distance away though, and we passed them by without
conversing.
The
beaten path faded away here. We decided
to start angling towards the river, as we didn’t want to miss the spot where we
could ford it. A few minutes later, we
ran into 2 other backpackers getting water from the stream. Suddenly, the Valley of 10,000 Smokes seemed
like a busy place! Bob and Woody were
from Cody, Wyoming, and they were here on a 5-day trip. They had started the previous day, and had
camped at 6-Mile the night before.
They’d gotten a late start that morning, but were hoping to make it to
the head of the valley that afternoon.
Of course, with sunset around 11pm, they still had plenty of time!
We
parted ways, and Christy and I headed towards the river. As we walked, we noticed that the clouds were
beginning to break up. The ceiling
lifted, and before long, Mount Griggs began to emerge from the murk. Griggs is tallest peak in Katmai National
Park, and after only a few minutes, it was towering over the valley across from
us. Wispy clouds swirled around the
peak, teasing us with partial views of the majestic mountain. This was certainly an encouraging sign, even
though the other volcanoes at the head of the valley were still lost in the
clouds.
After
30 minutes or so, we reached to the rim of the canyon. The gorge wasn’t as deep here, but it was
still completely impassable. We followed
the river upstream, figuring we’d find the ford eventually. This worked beautifully. After 20 minutes or so, the canyon suddenly
ended. Upstream, the river emerged from
its canyon to run wide and shallow through ripples and small rapids. The reprieve only lasted about 50 yards
though. Beyond that point, it
disappeared into another deep, dark gorge.
I
was extremely hesitant to attempt the crossing.
A few weeks earlier, in a last-minute attempt at pre-trip research, I’d
picked up a book on Katmai National Park.
The book, “Rambles through an Alaskan Wild”, by Dave Bohn, turned out to
be more of a collection of essays, poems, and photographs than a guidebook. Still, it had been a useful source of information. However, the most disturbing story in the
book was about a hiker the author had met at the Baked Mountain huts. This fellow had departed the huts one rainy,
windy morning, determined to return to Brooks Camp in order to catch a flight
back to Anchorage. The author had
attempted to convince him to delay his departure, as heavy rains that day
likely meant high water at the ford. His
warnings went unheeded. Later that
afternoon, the author had arrived at the ford, only to find the river in full
flood. There, he spotted the lone
hiker’s backpacking floating in the river.
Unfortunately, there was no sign of a body, and the hiker was never seen
again.
I
chose not to share this story with Christy.
Our
dog Boone expressed his opinion of the book (or perhaps of our decision to
leave him behind while we went to Alaska) by eating it.
Despite
my fears, we walked down to the riverbank and assessed the crossing. The river is fairly wide here, but it looked
shallow. However, because the water is
so silty, it’s difficult to get a true gauge of its depth. On the near side, there were several
sandbars. Just before the opposite shore
though, it looked deeper. Of course,
there was really only one way to find out.
We decided to cross slowly, knowing that we could always turn back if
the water became too deep or the current too strong.
We
changed into our sandals and river shoes, stashed our boots, and started
across. Christy went first, following a
line connecting sandbars and ripples. I
followed behind, using my trekking pole to help me maintain my balance. Neither of us spoke about it, but we both
realized that a fall here would turn ugly in a hurry. If one of us fell and got caught in the
current, we’d be swept into the canyon downstream in a matter of seconds. If that occurred, there’d be little hope of
escape or rescue.
Christy
reached the far side quickly. It’s hard
to make yourself move slowly when you’re walking through 40-degree water! I watched Christy apprehensively, as the last
few steps took her through knee-deep water.
This wasn’t too bad, but the current was powerful. She made it out without any problem, and I
followed. By the time I scrambled up the
bank, my legs had gone numb from the cold.
Once out, we flopped down on the bank to thaw out. The sun had finally made an appearance, which
helped warm us. Any discomfort we felt
was quickly forgotten though, replaced by relief knowing that the most
dangerous part of the trip was behind us – at least until we returned later in
the week.
HUMAN (THE OTHER PINK MEAT)
We
dried off, warmed up and put our boots back on to resume the hike. It was now late afternoon, and I was looking
forward to getting on to the huts.
Before leaving the river though, I filled up a single water bottle. I knew the glacial silt in the river would
clog my filter, so I treated it with iodine tablets instead. Once that chore was taken care of, we
shouldered our packs and headed for Baked Mountain.
We
had crossed the river almost directly across from the foot of Baked Mountain’s north
ridge.
The huts are on that ridge, and with the help of binoculars, we thought
we could actually see them up there. The
slope of Baked Mountain facing us looked steep.
Rather than tackling a steep hillside composed of loose pumice and ash,
we decided to head for the base of the ridge.
I reasoned that following the ridge would be a lot easier than trying to
scramble right up the side of the mountain.
Oddly,
there was a large, dark object right at the base of the ridge. It was probably a mile away, so it was
impossible to identify, even with binoculars.
Still, Christy hesitated. Out
loud, she wondered what it could be.
After a few minutes of puzzling over this, I began to grow
impatient. I told her that it must be a
rock. There weren’t many rocks around,
but there were a few scattered here and there, mostly at the bottoms of the
mountains. Obviously they had fallen
from the peaks above. Christy wasn’t so
sure, so I pointed out that it was directly in our path. We’d get a much better look at it once we
drew closer.
We
walked towards the big, dark rock at the base of the mountain. By now, the sun was really beating down on
us. It was an amazing change from the
overcast morning. There isn’t any shade
in the valley, and the temperature probably rose 30 degrees. We hunched our shoulders and marched on, the
rock ahead looming larger as we walked.
Every
few minutes, Christy paused to study it with the binoculars. Finally, after hiking 20 minutes or so from
the river, she declared that she didn’t think it was a rock. Through the binoculars, it looked
“fuzzy”. A fuzzy rock? As we closed in on it, I began to wonder
myself. If it wasn’t a rock, what was
it?
It
was still directly in our path, but we began to think that it might be wise to
give it a wide berth. We began angling
to our left, so we could swing wide around it.
By the time we were a couple of hundred yards away, it was clear that it
wasn’t a rock. Christy was right – it
was fuzzy. Still, we had no idea what it
actually was. Before long, we began to
suspect that it was the carcass of a large animal. This was a little alarming. If it was a carcass, a predator might be
nearby. The last thing we wanted was to
get between a predator and its meal.
We
were about 50 yards from the carcass, or fuzzy rock, or whatever, when it
lifted its head and looked at us. I have
to tell you, I had a bit of a moment then.
For just a moment, I felt dizzy.
All of the blood in every vein of my body turned to ice water. Then, this suddenly animated carcass
awkwardly got to its feet. Christy
cursed, and I whimpered. We were staring
across a barren slope of sand, pumice, and ash at one of the largest grizzly
bears I’d ever seen.
There
are two things you never want to do with grizzly bears. First, you don’t want to surprise a
bear. Bear’s are unpredictable,
particularly when they are startled.
Second, you don’t want to piss one off.
I guess that goes without saying.
Somehow though, we had managed to do both. The bear was now more or less fully upright,
and he was staring at us, obviously wondering who we were to have the nerve to
wake him from his nap. I felt a large
lump rising in my throat. Christy seemed
on the verge of panic. Did I mention
that we didn’t have bear spray?
The
bear got to his feet, but then stumbled and nearly collapsed. This was rather alarming, too. He didn’t look healthy at all. I wasn’t so sure that this was a good
thing. If this was a dying bear, he
would probably be desperate. After all,
there isn’t anything to eat in the Valley of 10,000 Smokes. The river has no fish, and there isn’t any
vegetation to speak of. Wild game? Forget about it. This bear’s dining options were limited to…well,
us.
Our
options were pretty limited, too. There
was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide.
We decided, by default, to keep moving.
We headed away from him at angle, so that we could put some additional distance
between us while keeping an eye on him.
He staggered again, before slowly walking towards the spot we had just
passed. This was not the reaction I was
hoping for, but at least he was moving slow.
If he decided to charge us, we’d have no choice but to play dead and
pray.
As
I walked, I wondered what he was doing out here. I certainly hadn’t expected to see a bear out
here, miles from the nearest salmon, under that baking sun.
Fortunately
he ambled right past where we’d been moments earlier. We kept up a brisk pace, intent on getting as
far from the bear as possible without breaking into a run. Fortunately, he kept moving, now heading away
from us. This was a huge relief, but we
knew he could turn and come back at any moment.
Meanwhile, we were now way off course.
Our evasion had led us around the back side of the mountain, and we were
slogging up a steep slope of loose sand.
We didn’t want to double-back to the ridge, since that would take us
back towards the bear. Instead we
continued to climb, struggling uphill towards the relative safety of the huts.
This
approach turned miserable in a hurry.
Going up the slope was like climbing a sand dune. It seemed like every time I gained a step, I
slid right back. Eventually I found the
best technique was to run forward for 5 or 6 steps. Then, when I paused to catch my breath, I
only slid back a couple of feet. I
repeated this over and over, gradually gaining elevation. Meanwhile, Christy was well ahead of me. Her light pack caused her to slide backwards
less. Plus, the scare with the bear had
given her inspiration. She was heading
for the huts like they were the finish line of an Ironman triathlon.
I
finally reached the crest of the ridge.
The huts loomed ahead, in a minor saddle. From my perspective, the huts looked a bit
like a moon base in a science fiction movie.
There were three small, non-descript buildings, surrounded by dozens of
large, rusting barrels. It was an odd
sight, and the huts seemed completely out of place in the middle of this vast
wilderness. Still, they promised a
degree of hospitality. Nearby is an
outhouse. It’s no longer in the best
condition, but it does offer up the best view from any toilet I’ve ever seen.
Christy
beat me there by several minutes. She
had already explored each building, which consisted of two huts with bunks and
a supply shed. There wasn’t anyone
around, so we claimed one of the huts and dropped our packs. We then spent the next few minutes searching
for water. I had heard that there was a
rain barrel here, but one failed to materialize. We found many barrels, but all of them were sealed. After searching all three buildings, I began
to realize that my long day wasn’t quite over.
The
last water source we’d passed was the river.
I wasn’t about to go back down there.
That would be a long walk, and I knew that bear was still down there
somewhere. Instead, I got out the
binoculars and scanned the smaller valley to the northeast. I could see a lot of gullies down there, but
it was impossible to tell if any of them held water. Beyond the valley though, at the base of the
next mountain, was a late lingering snowfield.
I grabbed our camelbacks and the collapsible bucket and headed that
way. I was hoping I’d find water before
reaching the snowfield, but if not, I knew I could get it there.
I
followed a minor gully all the way down the mountain. The gully provided much easier walking than
the slope we had climbed earlier. It
seemed wonderful, until I reached the valley bottom. Here, instead of following a gully, I had to
cross dozens of them. This was less
pleasant, as I had to descend into and climb out of each one in
succession. Each time I approached one,
I was sure that it would be the one with water.
Of course, each one was completely dry.
Eventually
I gave up on finding a stream and headed for the snowfield. I headed that way quickly, but nearly missed
a step when I noticed a large, dark rock on the hillside above it. I paused, and out came the binoculars. I scanned it for a minute, before concluding
that this one really was a rock. I
chuckled as I put away the binoculars.
Was I going to jump every time I saw a rock on this trip?
I
hurried over to the base of the snowfield, where I found a small stream of melt
water. The water was full of sediment,
but we were able to strain it with coffee filters we found in the huts. I filled everything up there without
filtering, and started back. The climb
back up to the huts was a lot more demanding than the descent, and I literally
staggered the last few yards to the door.
Christy met me there, and rescued the bucket before I could drop
it. The round trip to the snowfield had
taken 45 minutes, and I wasn’t looking forward to making that journey again.
We
relaxed around the huts for a bit. The
huts contain an incredible amount of information, including maps, scientific
journals, and books. We spent some time
flipping through the stacks of information there, and completed an entry in the
shelter journal. I read back through
entries made over the last few years.
The huts aren’t a busy place, but they do get some visitors from time to
time.
That
evening, we dined on mac-n-cheese with dehydrated ham and peas. Due to a packing error, we quickly realized
that we’d brought 4 servings rather than two.
Whoops! We were both stuffed
after eating all of it, but it was probably not a bad thing. The hike there had been exhausting, and the
meal was warm and filling.
After
dinner, I went outside to enjoy the scenery.
The view of Mount Griggs from the huts is stunning. Meanwhile, to the southeast, Mount Katmai and
the Trident Volcano towered over Pea Soup Pass.
The last of the clouds had blown off, so I took a short walk to the
crest of the ridge to take in the view to the southwest. There, I was treated to a jaw-dropping view
of Mount Mageik. The other volcanoes
surrounding the valley are dramatic, but Mageik wins the blue ribbon. It’s a massive mountain, with three distinct
summits, and its glaciers run all the way from its crown to its base. It absolutely sparkled in the late evening
light. I knew a lot of visitors to the
valley never see Mageik, and I felt blessed to have had the opportunity.
I
stayed up for sunset, which took forever to arrive. The sun drops slowly in Alaska in the
summer! Around midnight I was treated to
a bit of alpenglow on Katmai, Trident, and Mageik, before a queer fog began to
descend upon the huts. Despite the thin,
wispy fog, I was eventually treated to a colorful sunset over the valley. Afterwards, I retired to the hut, where I
joined Christy, who was wiped out from the day’s hike.
NOVARUPTA
We
slept in the next morning. When we
finally roused ourselves, we found our huts blanketed by a thick fog. The stunning views of Griggs, Mageik,
Trident, and Katmai of the previous evening were but a faint memory. We had a leisurely breakfast of oatmeal and
hot chocolate before contemplating our options.
We
had two full days at our disposal. On Saturday
though, we’d have to reach the Visitor’s Center before 3pm to catch the
bus. Missing it would be traumatic, as
it would require adding an extra night to our trip. It would also mean missing our flight back to
Anchorage, which was scheduled for Sunday morning. I was inclined to get up early (sunrise is at
4:30) on Sunday and hike out. Christy
wasn’t confident that we could make it back in time, even with an early
start. She suggested we head part of the
way back on Friday, so we’d be sure to get back in time on Saturday. As usual, her strategy was the wiser one. With this minor change in plans, we only had
one day to explore from our basecamp. I
was determined to make the most of it, fog or not.
We
gathered lunch, water, and gear for a dayhike and loaded everything in my
pack. We were almost ready to depart
when the fog suddenly began to break up.
The skies cleared almost instantly.
At one moment, we could barely see the huts from 20 yards away. A minute later, we were staring across at
mighty Mount Griggs. Blue sky was all
around us. I got a real rush of
adrenaline as we headed down the gully on the northeast flank of Baked
Mountain. I couldn’t wait to see what
was ahead!
We
dropped down into the spur valley I’d explored the previous evening while
searching for water. Once at the bottom,
we continued up the valley, following a narrow gully. A few minutes later, we passed a small
trickle of water running out of a small snowfield buried under a thin layer of
rocks and sand. This was a pleasant
discovery, as we’d need more water that evening, and this source was a good bit
closer than the snowfield I’d hiked to previously. From there, easy walking led us towards Pea
Soup Pass, which separates Baked Mountain from Broken Mountain. The pass is a fairly easy climb, and as we
ascended, Trident Volcano and Mount Katmai began to reveal themselves. Once we reached the crest, we were treated to
a staggering view. We gazed out at the
aforementioned volcanoes towering over the head of the valley. Each was draped in glaciers, and the jagged
summit of Katmai hinted at the destruction that occurred in the 1912 eruption.
When
the eruption occurred, a large chamber full of lava underneath Mount Katmai
collapsed. The summit imploded, leaving
behind multiple peaks surrounding the caldera, which now holds a lovely
aquamarine crater lake. The eruption
itself occurred several miles away, as the lava flowed out the flank of the
mountain at a new vent. The vent was
later named “Novarupta”, which translates roughly to “New Eruption”. From our perch, we were looking directly down
on Novarupta. The vent is an impressive
tower of black volcanic rocks, looming at the head of the valley, directly
below the massive glaciers of Trident and Katmai.
After
a quick lunch in the sun, it was time to get a closer look. Getting down to Novarupta proved to be a bit
of a challenge. Climbing up to the pass
was easy, but the backside is extremely steep.
There was no other likely route though, so we started down, moving
slowly and carefully. Fortunately, the
pumice and ash was soft, and it was easy to slip and slide down the
hillside. This part of the hike reminded
me of running down a sand dune, and it wasn’t long before our boots were full
of debris.
We
reached the bottom and looked back up.
Neither of us said anything, but I know we were both thinking the same
thing. There’s no way either of us
wanted to climb back up there at the end of the hike.
That
was a problem for later. We headed on
towards the dark, looming mass of Novarupta, traversing dozens of small gullies
at the head of the valley. As we
approached Novarupta, it began to look like a haunted castle, perhaps inhabited
by an evil sorcerer. The stench of
sulphur from some unseen source added to the ambiance. With those mighty volcanoes in the
background, the only thing the scene needed was lightning arcing between heavy,
black clouds. I felt like I was walking
through a dark chapter of a Tolkien novel, or that we had simply hiked back in
time a few thousand years. The Earth is
raw and hostile here – as if this small corner of the planet is still under
construction (which, after all, it is).
Honestly, if a Pterodactyl had swooped down from Falling Mountain and
flown over our heads, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.
We
approached the base of the castle and stared up at a giant pile of black
boulders. Steam was escaping from
several spots around the base of the tower, offering a reminder that all of
these volcanoes are still extremely active.
We took a leisurely tour around the vent, noticing several impressive
fumaroles, as well as some discolored ground that hinted at additional volcanic
activity. Then we began following a
natural rock levee up and around Novarupta.
Eventually we reached the top, and gazed out across the jumble of rocks
that now fill the crater. Beyond the vent,
we had an impressive view of Baked Mountain looming over the desolate valley. Behind us we viewed Falling Mountain, which
is extremely well-named. Even now,
nearly 100 years after the eruption, Falling Mountain is gradually collapsing. The near face is sheer, and every few minutes
a boulder would tumble down the mountain.
Each rock slide created a mighty roar.
After the first, I turned quickly, certain that I’d see an angry dragon
gliding over the peaks towards us.
We
loitered there for quite awhile. The
scenery was incomparable, with my new favorite mountain, Mount Mageik,
dominating the view to the southwest.
Back in the other direction, the Knife Creek Glaciers tumbled down from
the rim of Mount Katmai. I knew Katmai’s
crater lake was hidden beyond that rim, and felt a compulsion to see it. I was pretty sure the lake was beyond our
abilities though.
We
were out of water, but luckily there were plenty of snowfields nearby. I hiked over to one of them, and filled up
our camelbacks. I was nearly finished
when I realized I was standing on a thin snow bridge above a deep gully. I relocated quickly, before it could
collapse, and hurried back to where Christy was waiting.
It
was mid-afternoon, and we needed to plot a route that would take us back to the
huts. Returning the same way was
unappealing. The easiest route would’ve
been to hike down the valley until we found a reasonable route up the flank of
Baked Mountain. Christy came up with a
more intriguing option though. She
suggested that we climb up and over the nameless peak above us. From there, it looked like we’d be able to
work our way back down to Pea Soup Pass.
I thought it was a great idea. It
promised adventure and the opportunity to see new scenery. Plus, if it didn’t work out, Christy wouldn’t
be able to blame me!
IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD (AND I FEEL FINE)
We
resumed our circumnavigation of Novarupta, now climbing the ridge high above
it. This offered a new perspective, as
we were able to gaze down into the crater.
There really wasn’t much to see – just an impressive jumble of black
boulders – but it was really cool regardless.
Meanwhile, the views continued to expand as we climbed. In every direction was yet another gorgeous,
icy volcano. Beyond Mount Mageik, we
could just glimpse Mount Martin. And
beyond that? Presumably the Pacific
Ocean. Either that, or the end of the
world. From my perspective, either
seemed equally plausible.
We
reached the summit of this unnamed peak, where we found a small pond and a
possible campsite. From there, we had to
find a way down to Pea Soup Pass. Initially
we tried the direct route, but were thwarted by a steep snowfield. We backtracked, and worked our way along a
more gradual course. This approach
featured lots of snow and mud, but the route was safe. A bit later we reached a ridge on Broken
Mountain above the pass. Here we were
surprised to find a beaten path coming up from the Knife Creek Valley to the
northeast. I was tempted to explore that
way, to get a closer view of the Knife Creek Glaciers, but I knew it was a long
way down there. Instead, we followed the
ridge southwest and descended gently to the pass. There we took a long break, despite the
howling wind that had suddenly picked up.
It was hard to leave that fantastic scenery behind, but dark, angry
clouds building behind Mount Mageik provided motivation. It looked like there might be storming moving
in from the Pacific. If so, we wanted to
be back at the huts before it arrived.
We
hustled back, but attempted a slightly different route. Instead of hiking down into the valley and then
climbing back up Baked Mountain, we tried to take the high road. This worked initially, but eventually the
slope became too steep to traverse. The
terrain forced us down into the valley after all. This was slightly disappointing, but it did
force us back past the water source we’d found earlier. We filled everything up there, before
beginning the tedious slog back up to the huts.
We
had chili for dinner that night as high clouds continued to roll in. It looked like our perfect weather was about
to disappear, but I was ok with that.
We’d enjoyed a spectacular day.
If the weather in the valley was going to return to normal, I could live
with it. After all, having one really
nice day there was almost more than we could’ve hoped for.
The
clouds looked threatening, but they didn’t detract from the sunset that
night. Instead, as the sun dropped, the
clouds lit up in a startling display of reds and oranges. From our perch high above that desolate
valley, it looked like the beginning of Armageddon. After one of the most amazing days I’d ever
experienced, I think I might’ve actually been ready for it.
MAGEIK
We
slept in again the next morning. Staying
up until midnight for sunset takes a toll, as does hiking all day. We had a breakfast of cold cereal and packed
everything up. The Baked Mountain huts
had been very hospitable, but our time in the valley was running short. In hindsight, I wish I’d planned a longer
trip there.
The
clouds of the previous night were a distant memory, as we were treated to
another day of blue skies. Our goal for
the day was to hike back across the river to Six Mile Camp. We figured the hike out to the Visitors
Center would be an easy 3-4 hours from there.
However, I wasn’t willing to settle for a simple hike half way
back. There was still a lot of the
valley I wanted to see. Rather than
taking the direct route back, I planned out a long loop that would hit some of
the valley’s more interesting features.
From Baked Mountain, we’d drop down into the main valley to the
south. From the valley, we’d hike up
between Falling Mountain and Cerberus to Katmai Pass. Then we’d backtrack a bit before visiting the
Mageik Lakes, which are glacial tarns at the base of Mount Mageik. From there, we’d follow the River Lethe back.
We
hoisted our packs and located an obvious trail angling down the west flank of
Baked Mountain. The trail was sandy and
followed a reasonable grade down into the valley. As I hiked, I alternated between watching my
feet and gawking at the view. We were
hiking towards massive Mount Mageik – my new favorite mountain. Mageik is a beauty, and it absolutely dwarfs
the vast valley below. Beyond Mageik, we
could clearly see another volcano, Mount Martin. A plume of steam was rising from its summit,
which was quite exciting. Exactly what
would we do if one these volcanoes erupted while we were out here?
We
reached the valley bottom and continued south, along the base of Baked
Mountain. We endured lots of small
gullies along here before reaching a USGS monitoring station. The station looked like a robot out there in
the middle of the valley. I’m not sure what
the equipment does, but my guess is that it monitors the seismic activity in
the area.
At
this point, we reached the corner of Baked Mountain. The valley splits here, with one fork
tumbling down from Novarupta and another dropping down from Katmai Pass. From here we had a final, distant view of
Novarupta. Our goal for the day was
ahead though. We headed down towards the
base of the valley, traversing one gully after another. Before long, we reached the biggest, deepest
gully. This one was full of snow and
mud, but we didn’t see any clear water.
We climbed in and out of it, before starting the gradual climb towards
the pass.
A
deep, rugged gully runs down from the pass to eventually join the river. Walking up the gully looked difficult, so we
stayed to the left, below the soaring walls of Falling Mountain. From a distance, this looked easy. Plus, according to the map, we’d only have to
climb a few hundred feet to reach the top of the pass. We were looking forward to bagging an easy
pass before starting the hike out.
Boy,
were we wrong. As we climbed, we began
to encounter gullies more and more frequently.
We’d traversed a lot of gullies earlier in the trip, but these were
deep, rugged, and frequent. Before long,
we were constantly either descending into a gully or climbing out the other
side. Following them wasn’t an option,
as they all led perpendicular to our goal.
By the time we realized just how miserable this was going to be, we were
too far along to give up. Or we thought
we were. The pass is broad and gradual,
and our progress towards the top was incredibly slow. We reached one false summit after another,
only to spy a higher point ahead. The
entire hike was horribly demoralizing.
We
passed a number of snowfields, some small streams, and another USGS monitoring
station. Finally, after an eternity, the
pass loomed ahead. It was well past
lunch time, and we were content to collapse there at the pass for a
well-deserved rest. We were pretty worn
out, as the pass had been the toughest 400’ climb I’d ever endured!
The
view from the pass wasn’t quite what I’d expected. I’d hoped that we might be able to see the
Pacific Ocean and Kodiak Island from there.
Instead, we found ourselves looking out at a wall of fog. The sky above the valley was cloudless, but
the weather was obviously rather different on the ocean side of the pass. Even if the fog had cleared, Observation Mountain
ahead of us may have blocked the view to the south.
Although
the view was slightly disappointing, reaching the pass did have some historical
significance. This was the spot from
which Robert Griggs first spied the Valley of 10,000 Smokes, four years after
the eruption. His perspective was
different though, as they’d approached the pass from the opposite direction.
While
we were eating lunch, I puzzled over the map.
Immediately above us was a minor peak that I didn’t see on the map. From the peak, a long ridge of black,
volcanic rocks descended into the valley below.
Smoke was rising from several places on this mystery peak. I was quite sure we were at Katmai Pass, but
if that was the case, there shouldn’t have been a mountain there.
We
were still eating lunch when two figures emerged from the fog below the
pass. I thought I was hallucinating as I
watched them walk towards us. We hadn’t
seen another soul in two full days. Now
two people were approaching us, coming from a part of the park that hardly
anyone visits.
The
two people turned out to be Park Rangers.
They were near the end of a week-long backcountry “patrol”. They seemed to be as surprised to see us as
we were to see them. They joined us at
the pass, and openly admitted that we were the first backcountry hikers they’d
encountered on their patrol. They’d
spent most of the week on the coastal side of the park climbing mountains. While they were over there, they’d climbed Mount
Katmai to the rim of the crater lake. I
was jealous, and inquired about their route.
They had taken a non-technical route up the back side of the peak. I thought that route looked doable on the
map, but it required a long and demanding approach. It was entirely too far to attempt on a 4 day
trip. They had also been up to the lake
from Knife Creek. Climbing from that
side requires glacier travel. They
suggested that we go in June if we decided to attempt it that way. After June, the glaciers turn rotten, and are
dangerous to traverse.
Before
they left, they pointed out the mountain I’d been puzzling over earlier. It turns out that this mountain isn’t on the
map. This wasn’t an oversight by the
surveyors. Actually, the mountain simply
failed to exist back when the maps were made.
I found this astonishing. It
wasn’t a terribly big mountain, but for it to grow that much in 50 or 60 years
was stunning. Its’ very presence really
belies the extreme level of geological unrest in this area. One Ranger pointed out that this unnamed peak
was the source of the park’s most recent eruptions, back in the 1970’s. The ridge of black volcanic rock descending
from the peak was the most visible sign of those eruptions. Could it blow again? Considering the rate of that mountain’s
growth, I’m sure it could. In fact, as
we were speaking, Mount Mageik behind us had begun to steam.
The
Ranger’s were on the next-to-last day of their trip. They were planning to camp at the Mageik
Lakes that night, before heading out the following day. We were also planning to visit the lakes, and
we warned them of the miserable route we’d taken up to the pass. They were painfully aware of the problems
with that route. Instead, they were
planning to take a more direct approach.
They planned to go over a minor pass between Mount Mageik and
Cerberus. I had looked at that route,
but rejected it because it looked too steep.
They had gone that way once before though, and remembered it being
reasonable. After they left, I began to
contemplate a change in plans. Skipping
all of those gullies would be nice, and their route to the lakes would be much
shorter, too.
I
got water from a nearby snowfield and rejoined Christy. She wanted no part of those dreaded
gullies. She doesn’t do well with steep
descents though, and I warned her that the shortcut might be unpleasant. Going that route would also take us close to
Mageik’s glaciers. If the descent route
was still snow-covered, it would definitely be hazardous. Despite this, Christy was willing to throw
caution to the wind. I agreed, largely
for selfish reasons. I knew if we went
back the same way, we’d never have the time or energy to go out of the way to
see the lakes. I didn’t want to miss
them. The shortcut was just too tempting
to pass up.
CERBERUS
In Greek and Roman
Mythology, Cerberus is a three-headed dog that guards the gates of Hades. Its job is to prevent those that had crossed
the River Styx into the Underworld from ever escaping.
Cerberus
the mountain forms one half of the portal (with Falling Mountain being the other)
leading from Katmai Pass into the Valley of 10,000 Smokes. The mountain was named back in the early 20th
century, not long after the 1912 eruption.
At that time, there’s no doubt that the Valley looked a lot like
Hades. Considering how the mountain
“guards” the valley, it’s hard to think of a more appropriate name for it.
We
followed in the Ranger’s footsteps, enjoying some easy walking around the back
side of Cerberus. We had great views of
Mount Mageik and Trident Volcano along here as well. There was a lot of snow here, which provides
a convenient water source. This area
looked like a reasonable camping area – assuming that the flanks of Mount
Mageik are able to block the wind.
We
climbed briefly to a saddle and started down a narrow gully. After a few minutes, the gully widened, and
we reached the brink of a steep, vast snowfield. Whoops.
As
soon as I saw all of that snow, my heart sank.
Now we were in a bit of a situation.
Far below (almost straight down), we could see one of the Mageik Lakes
twinkling up at us. Unfortunately, I
didn’t see a safe way to get there.
Descending there would be extremely dangerous, and at this point, the
idea of going back was actually nauseating.
Cerberus is a bad dog.
We
continued ahead, above the brink of the snowfield. A minute later, we met the Ranger’s
again. They were contemplating their
options, and we sat down and joined them.
What to do?
They
pulled out crampons and pulled them onto their boots. They didn’t have ice axes, but felt that the
extra traction from the crampons would get them down safely. I could’ve kicked myself for leaving our ice
cleats back at the hotel in Anchorage.
I’d left them behind in an effort to save pack weight, confident that we
wouldn’t need them.
The
Ranger’s started down, but strongly suggested that we not follow. After all, they’d enjoyed a great trip, and
didn’t want it marred now with a backcountry medical emergency (or body
recovery). Instead, they suggested that
we traverse the north side of Cerberus and look for a safer place to climb
down.
We
decided to give that a try. The
snowfield continued, but was less steep around this side of the mountain. We tiptoed along above the snow, moving
across rocks and soft mud. After some
distance, we reached a break in the snowfield.
A narrow spine of rocks descended part of the slope. From where we were, we could see that it
ended in the middle of the snowfield, but following it would get us down a
considerable distance. However, once it
ended, we’d be surrounded by snow.
We
descended slowly, sinking up to our ankles in mud. We used the many rocks to hang onto as we
carefully worked our way down. The rocks
finally ended, and we found ourselves at the edge of the snow, about halfway
down the slope. There was a couple
hundred feet of steep snow below us, but the grade was much more gradual than
what the Ranger’s had descended. At this
point, going back up through the mud would’ve been extremely difficult. I went first, easing out onto the snow and
slowly working my way down.
The
sunny afternoon may have saved us. The
snow was soft, and we were able to get some traction. I proceeded by kicking steps in the snow,
carefully avoiding the occasional hard, icy spot. Christy followed behind me, moving
cautiously. As I worked my way down, I
tried to avoid looking down at the big pile of boulders waiting for us at the
bottom of the mountain. Hitting those at
full throttle would be ugly indeed.
Finally I reached the bottom, and exhaled in relief. At this point, I think we’d both had enough
excitement for one trip!
We
got more water from snowmelt and headed towards the Mageik Lakes. We stopped just above the first one, which is
a gorgeous green tarn situated right at the base of Mount Mageik’s massive
glaciers. We took a break there to enjoy
the view, and spotted the Ranger’s down at the lakeshore. It was good to know they had made it down
safely.
LETHE
In Greek Mythology, the
River Lethe flowed through Hades, and those that drank from it experienced
complete forgetfulness.
At
this point, it was late-afternoon, and we still had a long way to go. We considered taking a tour of the
lakes. The main advantage of this is
that we could’ve waded each outlet stream, rather than fording the full river
downstream. Unfortunately, taking that
route would’ve added several miles to an already lengthy hike. Instead, we decided to take the direct route
back down the valley. Now that we knew
where we could ford the river, we weren’t too concerned about getting across.
We
followed a series of gullies down to the river.
Following the gullies was much easier than crossing them. However, once we neared the river, we were
forced to head downstream, perpendicular to the gullies. A few of them were tedious, but they weren’t
nearly as bad as the gullies we’d crossed climbing to Katmai Pass.
The
hike along the river was exciting. We
passed several old fumaroles, and the views of the surrounding volcanoes
continued to impress. As we hiked, I
noticed that smoke was now escaping from the summit of Mount Griggs. Apparently all of the valley’s volcanoes were
taking turns smoking for us.
At
some point we found ourselves following an impressive array of footprints. Six or seven people had passed this way
recently, along with a bear. I suspected
that the human footprints belonged to the Sierra Club group that we’d seen from
a distance on the first day. My
suspicions were confirmed a little later, when one set of footprints led
directly to a hole in the ground. The
ground was discolored here, and it was apparent that there was an old fumarole
lurking underneath a thin layer of crust.
We had heard that one of the members of the Sierra Club group had fallen
into an old fumarole, and now we were looking at the evidence. The Valley of 10,000 Smokes really is a
dangerous place. If you manage to
survive the river crossings, the snowfields, the bears, the storms, and the
occasional volcanic eruption, you still have to worry about the earth opening up
and swallowing you whole!
We
skirted the hole and continued ahead, warily watching for patches of discolored
ground. We saw many, and gave all of
them a wide berth. This part of the hike
seemed to take forever, but we finally reached the river ford at 7pm. All of the footprints, bear and human, led
directly to it. My relief at finally
getting there disappeared as soon as I saw the river. The ford looked nothing like it had four days
earlier. The sandbars we’d used to help
cross were gone. Was this the same
spot? What had happened?
The
source of the River Lethe is the massive glaciers on Mount Mageik. Glacial rivers are a little different from
most streams, in that the water level rises following warm, sunny weather. We were now looking at a blunt reminder of
this little quirk of nature. Would we be
able to cross safely?
We
considered camping there and waiting until morning to cross. I was leery of this though. If one of the valley’s infamous wind storms
came up, we’d have no shelter along the riverbank. After a bit of hand-wringing, we decided to
give it a shot.
We
switched to our river shoes, and once again Christy beat me to the water. We knew the deepest part of the crossing
would be at the beginning. She eased in,
and the water reached well above her knees.
This looked dicey, but after a few steps, she was past the deepest
water. Most of the way across, the water
was a bit more than knee deep. I
followed her carefully, but nearly had my breath knocked out of me by the
cold. The water was deeper, but the
power of the current was more significant.
Three days earlier it had been strong, but not overwhelming. Now, however, it wouldn’t take much to sweep
either of us off our feet. I
concentrated on my foot placement, and used my trekking pole to help maintain
my balance. After a few steps, the
deepest water was behind me. The current
remained strong though, and I had to maintain my caution until I was most of
the way across. Reaching the far shore
was a tremendous relief. Hopefully that
would be the end of the drama for this trip!
We
had a long break on the far side. I
collected water again, as we were really going through it under that roasting
sun. This time though, I treated it with
chemicals. In an area as pristine as
this, I don’t hesitate to drink snowmelt without treating it. I wasn’t quite as confident in the quality of
the river water though. Thanks to the
iodine, we didn’t have to worry about any intestinal parasites. Whether it would keep us from losing our
memories was another question entirely.
We
followed a gully away from the river, angling towards the Buttress Range ahead. Before long, we found ourselves walking at
the base of the cliffs, in the shadows of the mountains above. We continued down the valley following lots
of footprints (both human and bear), until we reached a small stream. The stream runs down through a pleasant,
green alcove in the mountains before reaching the pumice and ash of the valley
floor. We turned upstream here, and
headed up into the protected cove to camp.
The wind was pretty gentle, but we knew that could change
instantly. By camping in the alcove, we
were sheltered and we had easy access to one of the best water sources in the
valley.
We
were exhausted, and Christy threatened to go straight to bed without
dinner. I didn’t let her though, and we
had a nice, warm, filling meal of pasta, chicken, and vegetables. As we ate, we relaxed and watched the late
evening light play on Mount Griggs. After
dinner we went straight to bed, but despite our exhaustion, neither of us slept
well. It was hard to avoid thinking
about grizzly bears after our earlier encounter. Plus, we knew we were camped right along a
major bear migratory corridor. For some
reason, knowing that all of the bears “should” be at Brooks Falls didn’t do much
for our peace of mind. Despite this, we
made it through the night without any drama.
DA BEARS
We
managed to get up at 7am the next morning.
Despite a leisurely morning, we broke camp by 9. I was certain we could make it to the
Visitors Center in a few hours, but we didn’t want to take any chances with
missing the bus.
The
hike out was largely uneventful. We did
see some Ptarmigans and a handful of squirrels, which constituted the only
wildlife sightings of the trip (except for that one bear). Of course, we were constantly reminded of the
bear, thanks to all of the bear tracks we were following. The “trail” we were on isn’t an official
trail because it wasn’t made by people – it was created by the bears. We were literally hiking the grizzly bear
super highway.
We
reached Windy Creek at the edge of the valley at 11:30. We descended a gully to the stream, and
crossed it without any difficulty. We
climbed out the other side, found the trail at the Caribou antlers, and then
started up one final gully towards the road.
The climb out was more difficult than the descent had been 4 days
earlier, but at least the vegetation was dry.
We actually reached the road faster than expected. We probably could’ve waited for the bus here,
but it would’ve been a long wait.
Instead we hiked down the road a mile or so to the Visitors Center.
We
found Woody and Bob, who we’d met on the first day, waiting there. They’d had a nice trip, camping the first
night at 6 mile, the next two nights below Novarupta, and the final night at
Windy Creek. The bus driver was also
there, along with a couple of German tourists who had skipped the guided hike
down to Ukak Falls. I briefly considered
hiking down there, but I came to my senses.
I was tired after a demanding trip, and it was really hot out in the
sun. Instead, we enjoyed broad but hazy
views of the valley and the surrounding volcanoes. The perspective of the valley from above was
completely different from being in it.
The canyons of the River Lethe, Knife Creek, and various tributaries
looked like deep gashes in a broad expanse of flesh.
We
spent the next couple of hours looking at the exhibits in the Visitors Center
and watching the bus driver swat flies. We
also got to chat with Bob and Woody for a bit.
They were geology buffs from Cody, Wyoming, which is just east of
Yellowstone. They’d come to Katmai to
check out the volcanoes and the unique geology of the valley.
Eventually
the Park Ranger and dayhikers returned from their trip to Ukak Falls. I was pleased to see that they were nearly as
sweaty and grimy as we were. In the
Valley of 10,000 Smokes, it just doesn’t take long to get filthy.
The
bus departed at 3pm, and we enjoyed an uneventful ride. Back at Brooks Camp we indulged in $7 showers
at the “lodge” and treated ourselves to sodas and candy bars from the camp
store. We then checked into the
campground and headed back over there to set up camp. This time there were no empty sites to be
found. Either the campground was
overbooked, or we somehow missed an empty spot.
We ended up pitching the tent at a wide spot in one of the campground
trails. The only thing worse than not
getting a legitimate tent site was all of the cotton blowing out of the
Cottonwood Trees. The stuff was
literally everywhere, to the point that it was hard to see or breathe. The next morning, we spent quite a bit of
time brushing the cotton off of the tent and our gear so we could break camp.
After
setting up camp, we returned to the lodge for dinner. The dinner buffet was $35 each, and it
featured steak and salmon. The food was
ok, but certainly nothing special. We
did wash the meal down with a couple of beers, which were quite refreshing after
a tough backpacking trip. After dinner,
we met up with Bob and Woody and walked back over to Brooks Falls. We arrived at 8pm, which was nice timing, as
the platform wasn’t very crowded. We
hung out there for 2 hours and enjoyed a great show. There was a lot of activity, and we actually
counted 15 separate bears there at one point.
Once again we really enjoyed watching the families. We spotted a sow with 2 yearlings and another
sow with 3 cubs.
The
platform closed at 10, so we headed back.
We made it back to camp around 11, but I couldn’t fall asleep. It was still unusually warm, and the late
lingering daylight continued to mess with my internal clock. I finally fell asleep, but suffered through
another restless night.
SPLIT OPEN AND MELT
We
were up at 7 the next morning. Christy
had also suffered through a rough night, thanks to some awful bug bites. Mosquitoes hadn’t been much of a problem, but
her neck was covered with bites from flies or no-see-ums. They had gotten to me, also, but my bites
were all on my ankles.
We
broke camp and took our luggage over to the lodge and dropped it off. Then we indulged in the breakfast buffet,
which was better than dinner, and a much better value ($15 per person). After eating, we decided to squeeze in one
more visit to Brooks Falls. We made the
hike over there again, which was kind of funny.
It’s the first time on one of our trips that I’ve actually done the same
round trip hike 3 times! Each time was a
little different though. Our last visit
to Brooks Falls was actually a little disappointing though. There were only a few bears, and there seemed
to be quite a lull in the salmon. It was
quite a contrast to the fiesta of the previous evening.
We
returned to the lower platform and bridge, and encountered more bears there
than we’d seen at Brooks Falls. After a
short delay, we were allowed to cross.
We returned to the lodge, and lounged around until 12:30 waiting for our
flight. At that point, we discovered
that our flight plan had been re-routed.
Originally we were supposed to take a float plane to King Salmon, and PenAir
back to Anchorage. Instead, we’d be
taking a float plane to Kulik Lodge, deep in the heart of Katmai National
Park. From there, we’d take another
small plane all the way back to Anchorage.
This sounded great to us – we’d get back at about the same time, and see
a lot of new scenery along the way.
We
loaded up a bit later and headed out.
One of the nice things about taking a float plane is that the process is
quick and efficient. There’s no checking
in, no security screening, and no hanging around the gate for an hour before
your flight. Once our baggage was
stored, the pilot assigned us seats (based on weight distribution) and we were
off. Somehow Christy managed to finagle
her way into the co-pilot’s seat, so she had a great view as we took off from
Naknek Lake. The scenery between Brooks
Camp and Kulik Lodge was fantastic. As
we climbed, we soared past volcanoes, glaciers, icefields, and alpine lakes. We never got very high, and at times we
seemed to be soaring just above the alpine tundra. Seeing such a remote part of Katmai National
Park ended up being one of the highlights of the trip for me. It was almost disappointing when we came in
for our landing on Nonvianuk Lake.
Our
visit to Kulik Lodge was very brief.
There we departed the float plane and took a van a short distance to a
dirt runway, where we boarded a small plane.
On the ride we spotted another grizzly bear, which was the last one we’d
see until we got to Denali National Park, at the end of our trip. Along the way we picked up some additional
passengers, who had been fishing in the Kulik Lodge area. Before long we were airborne again, this time
bound for Anchorage. Once again we were
treated to some lovely scenery. The
highlight of this flight was passing right in front of Mount Redoubt. This time the volcano wasn’t smoking, and the
pilot took advantage of the opportunity to fly us right past the yawning crater
at the summit. Redoubt is a fascinating
mountain. The top of the volcano looks
like it split in half once upon a time.
As we passed by, its glaciers shimmering in the sun, I imagined what it
would look like with lava flowing out of the vent and down its broad
flank.
We
made it back to Anchorage before 3pm. There we landed and taxied all the way to a
hangar owned by Katmailand. Then we were
shuttled by van over to the terminal, where we picked up our second rental car
of the trip. This one turned out to be a
Toyota Corolla, which was a nice upgrade from the usual Ford or Chevy P.O.S. While in line at the Avis counter, I was
amused by a sign that stated that “it is a violation of the terms of the rental
contract to take an Avis car off of paved roads”. I took exception to this, as the contract I’d
signed said nothing of the sort. I found
it amusing that they thought they could changes the terms of a contract by
putting up a sign after the fact. I’m no
lawyer, but I don’t think it works that way.
Ultimately, I decided to go with the “don’t ask, don’t tell”
policy. Namely, they didn’t ask if I was
planning on driving on dirt roads, and I didn’t tell them that we were, in
fact, planning to drive a couple hundred miles of them.
From the airport, we headed back to the
Holiday Inn Express, where we checked in and collected our additional luggage
from storage. Then Christy iced her knee
(which was a bit swollen after our backpacking trip) and took a nap while I
reorganized our gear. Afterwards, we had
dinner at a nice Mexican restaurant (yes, they even have them in Alaska). The restaurant was downtown on Cordova Street,
which seemed appropriate since we’d be heading to Cordova in a couple of
days. Afterwards, we dropped a couple of
hundred dollars at Safeway and picked up another growler from the Glacier
Brewing Company.
That
night we did some additional re-packing before spending some quality time in
the hotel hot tub. We used the hot tub
jets to massage our feet, which were aching from days of walking around in the
Valley of 10,000 Smokes. Later we put an
impressive dent in our supply of Benadryl cream. If anything, our bug bites had actually
gotten worse! By the time we went to bed
that night, we had everything ready for the next segment of our trip. We had a free day coming up, followed by a
ferry ride to Cordova. I was really looking
forward to visiting Cordova, as it promised a completely different experience
from our trip thus far.
And
now a few observations, and some advice from Christy:
1)
Salmon-scented
perfume is probably a bad idea in Alaska.
2)
It’s
better to follow a gully, even if means changing your destination, rather than
crossing hundreds of them.
3)
Never
hike towards large, fuzzy rocks.
4)
I’m
glad grizzlies like salmon rather than the other pink meat.
5)
Always
carry crampons in Alaska – even in a desert.
6)
Gullies
suck.
Back to Alaska
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Please remember to Leave No Trace!