One pass, one peak and the return of night...

Hello,


Apologies for the long absence, but this summer's blistering pace didn't allow for much time in front of the monitor. After finally completing Crow Pass, Chris and I set our sights on Johnson Pass and on Wolverine Peak. Suffice it to say, my quad muscles are keeping the memory of these two excursions in fine detail.

Chris had the fortune of riding Johnson Pass last summer, but at that time, I was much too chicken to even attempt it. Not for the difficulty, but for the grizzly story behind the name of the pass. Johnson Pass was named for a man who was mauled by a very unhappy brown bear and was forced to drag himself out of the pass dozens of mile to the nearest populated area. I'm a little sketchy on the details, but he was not alone in his near fatal journey. He survived, but there were others that for whatever reason, met their demise at the jaws of an angry grizz. Last year, I was just plain spooked. After the mauling at Chris' Hill Side Mangler bike race, the brown bear that charged a woman a few blocks from our house, the black bear that held me up on Crow Pass last year for more than an hour while I picked my way around the tundra scrub, singing shooing it away, and a number of other sightings of hungry and somewhat aggressive bears, I was just not up for another test. Last year, I just didn't want to temp fate one more time and so I opted to pass on Johnson Pass until this year. Mother nature had been plenty kind to us in keeping us safe, and with all things Alaska, it's best not to overstep your welcome in the woods unless you're willing to pay a very heavy price.

This year was a different story. I've seen more bears this year than last, including one on our street that rifled through the garbage cans a few houses down, but for some reason, things just seemed a little more at peace. So, after the success of Crow Pass (with no bear encounters) and a successful first bike race during the Fireweed, I decided I would give Johnson Pass a try and keep my fingers crossed that the bears would allow us to tread through their home. That weekend was a spectacularly sunny weekend- a rarity in Southcentral, Alaska. We got an early start on Saturday morning, drove the 100 miles south to the trail head, packed up the dogs, bear spray and gear, and set off on foot to traverse the 24 or so miles. Johnson Pass is not a technical hiking trail. It is much, MUCH easier than Crow Pass and there are no deep glacial rivers to ford, but it is also more remote than Crow Pass, less traveled by humans and far more traveled by other 4-footed creatures that may mistake a human for an annoying foe or a tasty snack. Our planning for this year's hike was timed carefully with the late salmon runs in hopes that the fish would draw the attention of the bears to the rivers and down out of the pass. It was a nice thought at least. We set off with a good stride and were well prepared for the trail. Good times, for sure!

Along about mile three, we entered a rather spooky stretch of trail where the trees blocked the light and the shadows morphed into eerie organic shapes. Chris noticed an old bear bait 'set up' that appeared to no longer be in use. Not 20 feet from the bait was a tree that had very recently (perhaps within the hour) been used as a scratching post and "dumping" ground for a very large brown bear. The fur still hung in the remaining bark, the trunk clawed to the point of being polished, then shredded. A fresh, still steaming pile of berry laden scat was near by and our dogs were on full alert at the scents and sounds of the area. Admittedly, we were both a little edgy seeing the height that the scratch marks reached on the tree.

Fortunately, this was the only sign we saw of recent bear activity, and since we still had nine miles of trail in front of us, we weren't too concerned, though we did pick up the pace a bit until we were back out on open trail. The views along the trail leading up to the pass were nothing short of stunning. Summer was in full swing, raspberries the size of ping pong balls were dangling on the trail like hitch-hikers begging to be picked up. High mountain valleys on both sides of the trail were bursting with water falls, clear streams and melt water ponds buzzing with life - all in a frantic state of growth before the fall and winter. The foliage along the trail was dense and thick, over grown and at times making it impossible to see where the trail actually was.

At only five feet tall, the cow parsnips and devil's club towered over my head, blocking my view of the trail completely. Occasionally, I would yell out to Chris, not far ahead of me, but still well out of sight due to the brush. I felt rather hobbit-like, picking my way through, trying to keep the parsnips and devil's club off of my legs (an impossible task). At times, I found myself talking to the brush, asking if it would "please get the F*%k out of the way for the little people"... but of course, it just laughed back, whipping my legs and daring me to turn back. By mile 9, the pass came into view and there was no turning back. We were both committed.

When we reached the first of two lakes, we were surprised to see people. Aside from a lone cyclist we ran into very early in the day and a trio of men within the first mile, we hadn't seen any signs of people. The lower lake had the company of a graceful Piper Cub on floats- a chocolate lab, a child and two men. They fished the far side of the lake for a while, caught a few Dolly Varden, then climbed back into the plane and departed the pass to the east. We ditched our packs, soaked up the warm afternoon sun and pondered where we would set up camp for the night. We hiked further up the pass to see if the upper lake offered any better camp spots. One looked perfect, but upon closer inspection of the bear box, and a note from a few hikers with a detailed account of all the bear activity, we decided that location didn't offer enough natural protection and so we opted for the location where we dropped our bags a half mile back at the lower lake.

In the 15 minutes it took to hike from the lower lake to the upper lake and back, a bear had passed by and left his/her mark in the middle of the trail. A large set of prints along with a pile of scat was all we needed to see to decide that we would sleep in shifts in order to keep watch. A tent doesn't really offer much protection from a roving bear of any kind. Lax and Zev would be our most valuable alarm system should any creatures come within a hundred yards of the tent. And so that was how our night evolved. We lit a small fire, watched an angry family of beavers stalk our beach, slapping their tails on the water and settled in for the night taking pictures of the changing sky and evening light. It was a very peaceful night. At around 1 am, Chris took the first shift and I crawled in the tent to sleep a little. We traded at about 4 am and I welcomed the sunrise curled up next to the campfire with my feet perched on one dog, and my head perched on the other.

Sunrise came with bands of beautiful dense fog that lifted just above the lake in thin bands that seems to dance in the morning breeze. The sun that hadn't really ever set began to rise reflecting a beautiful golden light on the highest peaks. It was quiet, so quiet and the only sound I could hear was the faint snoring coming from the inside of the tent. I could have stayed frozen in that moment for a very long time. But, with all good things, they do come to and end, and eventually it was time to wake up and start the day. 12 miles of trail had to be hiked back out.

What I failed to mention earlier was that we had consumed two rather large bottles of wine with our dinner, and that when day time officially rolled in, neither of us was particularly excited about hiking 12 miles back out with modest hangovers. The hike in only took us 3.5 hours with fully loaded packs, but the hike out seemed endless and punishing. Plenty of water, Motrin and jokes were just not enough to make it pleasant. Chris and I put about a half mile of distance between us to minimize any audible bitching and marched along with the dogs for over 4 hours. It didn't seem to matter that our packs were much lighter, that we knew the trail didn't get any more difficult, but we were just spent. Johnson Pass kicked our proverbial and collective Ass. Next time, we announced, we'd just ride our bikes in and do it as a day trip.

Not one week after I swore I was done hiking for the season, I remembered that I still had not succeeded in climbing Wolverine Peak, one of the more prominent peaks in the Chugach mountains, visible from Anchorage. Since I am apparently a glutton for punishment, I talked Chris into going with me. We left the dogs at home due to the steepness and poor quality of the terrain. In case you weren't aware, our dogs are spoiled and kinda wimpy when it comes to strenuous activity. Anyhow, Chris had the great idea of biking from the parking lot and lower trail to the upper trail head and then hiking. In my 3 previous attempts at this peak, time and dwindling daylight had sent us scrambling back down the trail to beat the sunset. Biking in would save close to two hours. And so we began.

The weather wasn't the greatest for hiking, but in my true-to-self, stubborn fashion, I didn't care. It was misting rain, the trail was essentially a mudslide and the clouds had completely shrouded the peak making for an interesting if not marginally hair raising ascent. We met the cloud bases about half way up the mountain and visibility was easily less than a quarter mile. Chris laughed and reminded me that we could actually turn back. Of course, I said no. We had already climbed up through the worst and slipperiest part of the trail and I didn't really care that there would be NO view from the top. I wasn't going to make a 5th attempt later. I wanted to get there on THIS attempt. Chris patiently obliged. When I slipped and fell once or twice I jokingly asked him whose great idea it was to do the climb. He again, reminded me that I was the not-so-brilliant brain behind the climb and that he was just keeping me company for no good reason. Apparently, he too was a glutton for punishment.

Eventually, we made it past the infamous wrecked plane (an indication that the peak was near by) and after a few more painful steps, the peak came into view, sort of. I could make out the craggy cliffs that dropped off into oblivion on the north side of the peak. Chris pointed out through the dense cloud cover, the top of the peak itself, but we both agreed that it was just not safe to attempt the last cork-screw climb to the very top of the peak. The last 150 feet or so goes straight up a rock face that on a dry, clear day would be pretty easy and not very technical, but on a misty, foggy day, the rocks slick, coated with a thin skin of moistened volcanic ash that had the consistency of snot, it was just not a good idea. Even with good gear, I saluted the peak, considered it close enough, and opted to turn back.

My quads had forgotten what the 3 miles of near vertical ascent felt like while going up. Yeah, like a stair stepper, effectively a climb of about 200 flights of stairs. And yes, with all things that go up, they must come down. Gravity assists nicely, but sometimes a little too efficiently and the way down was quite simply an exercise in frustrating falls, slips, ankle twist and mud. Mud, mud, mud... and it was getting dark. With summer heading back to the south, the return of night was not really welcome when trying to get down a slippery slope. Sunset beckoned us to go faster, step quicker and get down. When we made it back down into the trees, the mud got thicker and deeper. Rather than get upset with it, we both opted to behave like little kids and just embrace the mud. We whooped and hollered when we encountered chutes of mud that were easier to slide down than walk down and just submitted to the fact that we would have to strip naked before setting foot in the house. A garden hose was in order. It took over three hours to climb and less than 2 to descend.

Though, muddy, hungry, exhausted and chilled to the bone, I was pleased that I could cross it off my "to-do" list. Chris was patient and good humored throughout the hike. He had hiked it solo last summer and I was very thankful he opted to join me for yet another go at the peak. I have many more stories to catch up on from the summer, but I feel the need to bring this update to a close.

I hope you are all well and happy! Until next time...

Take care,

Vered
(...and Zev too)