North to Alaska

I’m flying north.  Out the right side of the plane the East Coast of Vancouver Island stretches before and behind.  Port Alberni is dead below and the Straights of Georgia and the vast mountains behind the City of Vancouver, British Columbia, spread out into the distance.  Clouds fill in as we shoot further north.  Our destination is Alaska, where we’ll be RV’ing and exploring with my wife Katie and friends Dwynne and Roman for the next few weeks.  The column's hikes will be far afield but we’ll be walking in rainforest and tundra, paddling and hiking to glaciers and doing everything we can to leave the current California heat wave behind.

The last of this year’s Tahoe skiing came and went over the 4th of July, but the Friday line of cars from the Bay Area to our closest mountain playground will not diminish.  It’s time for hiking and biking, backpacking, waterskiing and rock climbing to begin.  However, considering the recent river deaths in Yosemite and close calls elsewhere in the very snowy Pacific Mountains, a few thoughts on stream crossing.  

The snow is still deep in the high country, and what are usually small creeks in July, are swollen torrents this year.  They can be deadly.  If you’re hiking or backpacking and feel that a water crossing might be dangerous, it probably is.  Hike upstream or down -- keep in mind that streams usually get smaller the higher upstream you go -- looking for a safe place to cross.  Hike miles if necessary, and if you have to, wait and attempt the stream again in the early morning.  The difference in water level from morning to night can be huge if the nights are cold enough to slow down the melt. 

While backpacking down Lyle Canyon last year during a high runoff we found the Tuolumne River swollen right up into the surrounding meadows when we pitched camp in the late afternoon.   By the following morning it had fallen by two to three feet.  At a ford that would make a big difference, maybe the difference between life and death.

Good places to cross may consist of a fallen log, or an area where the water spreads out and slows down across a swamp or flooded meadow, or a series of boulders or islands that can be safely hopped across. 

One technique for crossing is to turn sideways to the flow, presenting less surface area to the force of the water, carefully anchoring each foot as you work your way across.  Hiking poles are terrific in helping you steady yourself.  I lean upstream onto them but some people even lean back on them, using them for support downstream.  If you can, remove the snow bails which tend to act as small fins under water, making it more difficult to place them just where you want them to be, as they tend to skitter about in the current. 

If you’re with a group of people, try to help each other across.  Keep in mind that the lighter folks, children especially, can be swept away more easily than the heavier adults.  We made human chains, one person holding onto a branch or rock to anchor the chain, and then we grabbed the lighter folk to assist them to shore.

Don’t worry about wet shoes.  Wear the shoes or boots with the best traction you have.  Don’t attempt swollen streams barefooted or in flip flops as the rocks are slippery and really hurt as you wade and possibly stumble across.  Wet shoes are a small price to pay for the added safety.

If you’re wearing a backpack, unhook the belly band and chest strap before beginning to wade a stream or cross a log, so you can get out of it quickly if you are knocked down.  Chances are you won’t be able to unhook the belt in the chaos of being swept away.  Consider that a boat’s life vest works by providing buoyancy to the front of your body, keeping you face up in the water.  Backpacks also float for a time before filling with water and do the same thing, but in reverse.  They tend to float you face down and have been the cause of many drownings over the years.  If you don’t drown right away and the backpack fills, you are now hundreds of water pounds heavier than you would be on your own, and both you and any potential rescuer will have an even harder time pulling you from the current.    

Finally, unless you really know what you’re doing, don’t tie anyone to a rope.  If you think you need to use ropes, the water is too dangerous.  Find a better spot.  A person tied to a rope who is knocked over in a rushing stream can be held underwater by the sheer force of the water against the pull of the rope.  This force can be so great that you may not be able to untie the rope to release the person.  If one can get across and tie a strong line from tree to tree, others can hang onto it while crossing, but don’t hook yourself to anything that you will not be able to unhook or untie in a knockdown. 

Be careful out there people!  There’s lots of fun to be had hiking in the Sierra this year, but even far below the snow line the streams are swollen from the huge snowpack.

Alaska trail stories: I remember flying into Anchorage nearly 40 years ago when I was a serviceman on my way to a duty station in South Korea.  Forests and mountains seemed to stretch out forever, but given the vagaries of the cloud patterns, I have no memories of glaciers.  When we flew in last Tuesday, the mountains and forests were socked in, and we flew for several hours over billowing fleece in all directions. 

The pilot began his descent for the approach, and suddenly the clouds parted and the world opened up.  Directly below and stretching out to the east were the Harding and Sargent Ice Fields of the Kenai Mountains, plateaus and rivers of ice, ribboned like great salt water taffy strings and in the far distance just over the wing, Denali, Mount McKinley, the highest mountain in North America.  

We spent the night in an Anchorage City campground and the next day finished provisioning the RV, then headed off for our first Alaska hike up Flattop Mountain.  One guide book said that when in Los Angeles you have to walk Sunset Strip, in Paris, stroll down the Champs-Élysées, and when in Anchorage, hike up Flattop.  Well, we had to give it a shot.  It’s a three mile round trip within 30 minutes of downtown Anchorage, and nearly two thousand feet in elevation gain from the parking lot in Chugach State Park to the top at 3,500 feet.   That sounded better than Paris or LA to me, more like the Burma Road up Mt. Diablo, surrounded by the Chugach Mountains.

If you’re in Anchorage and need a burn, this is it.  The beginning of the trail is at timberline, less than a thousand feet above sea level, and the first mile is up hill.  It’s do able by anybody in reasonable shape, traversing tundra slopes blooming with spring wildflowers.  The last half mile is almost straight up a rocky incline however, and is better suited to billy goats and the Dall sheep who live in the area.  Gorgeous!  Wow, the views of Anchorage and the snow clad Alaska Range across Cook Inlet on one side, and the nearby peaks of the Chugach on the other, are simply spectacular.  Turnagain Arm and the mountains of the Kenai Peninsula sweep away to the south. 

And it’s a fun trail.  We happened to get into town in really good weather.  It was a sunny afternoon when we climbed it, and a lot of other folks had the same idea.  Most were tourists like ourselves interspersed with a few local families and teenagers out of school, and several serious runners, training in toe shoes.  

By late afternoon, we were back down to our RV and decided to make dinner right there in the parking lot as we had beautiful views, and a level spot.  When five o'clock rolled around, I started to see the draw this place has for the locals.  If you’re living in the dark for months at a time, a sunny day, a workout and a great view is just too much to pass up after work.  People started arriving in droves.  The parking lot became a line of slowly moving cars all vying for a spot, and we later saw cars parked for a half mile or more, on both sides of the access road in spite of official signs every twenty feet loudly proclaiming in red, “No Parking, Fire Lane.”  

Seems to be different rules up here.  Maybe it’s a fire lane in winter only?  I don’t know, but people were still just starting up the trail when we drove out after 9pm as it was still broad daylight.  The sun was still up at 11 P.M. when we drove back to our camp site past little leaguers and lines of barbecues and moms turning out midnight snacks for the ball teams still playing hard.  We had to close all the curtains at 12 A.M. to shut out the twilight sky, when we finally hit the sack.

I’m typing from a little cliff side pullout on the Kenai Peninsula not far from Hope, a little log cabin village on the south side of Turnagain Arm.  We’ve just lit the coals of our own little hibachi and I’m swatting at a few mosquitoes trying to find a way through my coat.  There are not many of them here, but they are big.  I see where the jokes about mosquitoes being the State Bird originated.  Water is rushing out of the Arm as the tide ebbs, leaving miles of mudflats, à la the Bay of Fundy, and the snow capped peaks of the Chugach Range lie at the far end of picture.  The landscape is spectacular, and I’ll be reporting our adventure as it unfolds.

If you’ve got any great hiking ideas for the Kenai Peninsula, or the area around Denali National Park, shoot me an email, I’d love to hear them as we’re new to this giant state, but want to see as much of it as we can over the next several weeks. 

“To the lover of wilderness, Alaska is one of the most wonderful countries in the world.”  John Muir