The end of July is not typically when my friend Laurie and I have our first summer adventure together, but this is how it worked out this year. We wanted to go camping, or hiking, or something! We decided on canoeing since we had not done that in years.
Looking through a frame of leaves onto Harding Lake, Alaska. Photo by Laurie L., 28 July 2022.
“I saw a bald eagle in that tree there once, to the right.” I pointed left.
Laurie, wisely following my finger point instead of my words, turned to look left.
This was why we decided to use nautical terms when we got out onto the lake the next day. Sitting in front, I could not tell which side Laurie was looking, pointing, or paddling, so “starboard, please” and “paddle on the port side” made our communication more clear. We therefore did not confuse our directions at all out on the lake.
Dramatic sky above Harding Lake, Alaska. Note the red canoe partially hidden by foilage on the left. Photo by Laurie L., 29 July 2022.
Taking in Harding Lake from the deck later in the day. Photo by Laurie L., 29 July 2022.
It was a beautiful relaxing day. We stuck close to shore for most of the trip, and I would have been happy to glide leisurely near the reeds around the long curve of the shallow side of the lake, but Laurie was the coxswain, the person in charge of the navigation and steering of our little craft. So, we headed straight across one of the deepest parts of the lake to check out the buoys — red, hard plastic balloons, in two straight lines, perfect for a water-skier and/or motor boat to move through. Laurie steered us back and forth from one side of the aligned course to the other, around buoy after buoy.
I would have enjoyed this paddling challenge except for one thing: the dark water that quickly turned black beneath our boat. Who could tell what was down there?! Lurking…in a bottomless lake…reaching upwards towards us…to snatch us down and hold us captive there forever…!
Of course there is nothing in the lake but plants and fish. And while a swimmer might get slowed up for a bit in a thick clump of reeds, the plants will not reach out to trap them, nor me. Fish also are not a credible threat. They have no hands with which to grab, and even the toothy-mouthed pike are neither big enough, nor view humans as yummy, so they will not be dragging anyone under the water’s surface.
I stare down at the blackness, swaying silently back and forth, my breath getting tighter and faster. I can feel my fear drawing me into it. Laurie says something and I make myself force the panic downwards and focus on what she has said, and which direction I am supposed to be helping her direct the bow of the canoe.
We paddled through the obstacle course of our making, and floated around almost every buoyed we aimed for.
Getting the canoe back to the car was the next challenge. Carrying it up the long incline to the vehicle was not appealing at all.
The solution was that Laurie would drive drove her car to the boat ramp several cabins down, while I paddled the canoe all by myself. I took a deep breath and snugged my life vest. The plan was my idea too. Besides, how else am I going to get rid of the fear of the deep, opaque water if I don’t try to paddle atop blue, see-through water?
I paddled off.
It was fun guiding the canoe near the shore past the docks belonging to neighboring cabin owners. I glanced downwards at the soft, silty-looking lake bed merely a foot or so below the canoe. Even that view mesmerized me a bit, and the natural movement of the water’s flow pushed me closer to a metal dock jutting out into the lake.
“No, no, no! Argh!” I lifted up my paddle, trying to think, what can I do now?
The current continued to spin me around — and the starboard aft of the canoe bumped into the end of the metal dock. I eventually managed to direct the bow where I wanted and paddle away, looking towards the small cabin on the beach. Besides no owner rushing out toward the water, dark windows, absent deck furniture, and no vehicles of any kind clearly signaled that no one was home. I would have paddled ashore to apologize if there had been someone there.
Neighbors two houses away sat on their porch and watched me.
Sigh….
The brilliant sun looks over the blues of the water, sky, and opposite shore, 29 July 2022.
I kept paddling and made it to the boat ramp, where my friend was waiting for me. We hauled it up the deeply notched concrete ramp and saw a woman and her tall son pulling kayaks out of their vehicle. Yay! Laurie asked for their help and up the canoe popped! Easily and quickly upside down on the top of her car. I wish I had more upper body strength…
We thanked the kind neighbors, securely tied down the canoe and headed back home to Fairbanks.
With a walk, a canoe trip, and time to sit on the deck and stare at the light blue sky and the deeper hue of the water as it gently lapped the sandy shore: It was a wonderful day.
The colors of the view and the clouds reflecting in the open water of Little Harding Lake take my breath away. This lake would be its own obstacle course to canoe in! Photo by Laurie L., 28 July 2022.
The day started with a rapid metallic rat-a-tat-tat. I froze and listened. Rat-a-tat-tat, like miniature gunfire. Or something much more impressive.
Hairy woodpecker on roof, 9:09 a.m., 25 July 2022. Sadly, the photograph does not capture through the window’s screen the bird’s coloration, including the red mark at the back of its head, showing that the bird is male.
I tiptoed to the window and peered through the tulle curtain. There it was. Long toes, red cap, narrow sharp beak. A woodpecker. I was surprised to see it sitting on the metal porch roof, not a common place for a male hairy woodpecker to pause. I drew my head back because I did not want to scare it off. Could I get a video of it?
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Drat. I missed seeing him drum on the metal. I hope his wrap-around tongue provides a good enough cushion for pounding on the hard substance.
I leaned forward once more, setting the curtain to swaying, and he flew off, dipping slightly and two other winged shapes darted away from below the porch roof. I was not sure if the three were all woodpeckers, but it made sense. They were all headed in the same direction, and the flash of tail color was similar.
Was the metallic drumming a way to signal to the other two?
How strange to see three woodpeckers not in the trees when I so rarely hear much less see one when I’m out walking trails.
Chirping brought me to another window. Birds were darting in and out of the ground vegetation, pecking on the chopped wood, swirling through the air. A couple (at different times) hit the windows. Ouch. I peeked downwards, hoping I would see them fly away or at the very least first stumble then fly. I felt blessed that so many birds had chosen my yard to stop on their way to their next destination. The family of grey jays that occasionally visit whirled around near a spruce tree. I noticed but did not wonder too much about the birds each flying relatively close to the ground. None winged halfway up a tree much less touched the treetops. Gliding and soaring were also seemingly not in their repertoire this morning.
Five hours later I started to understand why: The winds started trying to push the trees onto their sides.
There was not a bird in sight or within hearing. They had all wisely found other places to be. The winds swirled in the treetops, sending broken branches aloft and littering the air and ground with twigs, needles, cones, and leaves. Dust devils churned and gusts of winds caused dry soil to move along the ground like mist across low waves. My wind chimes played musically and at times manically. The clouds swelled and undulated, slowly rolling out curved, stretched, and bulging shapes in every grey shade. The wind rattled the treetops and snapped the weak.
A fat trunk crashed on to a main road, and vehicles stopped so their people could chunk the shattered pieces to the other side of the sidewalk. A couple people in jeans, a woman in a spaghetti string tank top and shorts, and a woman in a flowing garment and a head scarf all worked in busy coordination to clear the street. By the time I drove down the other side of the road from the three vehicles, the road was littered only with some remaining chunks of bark and broken off twigs in a brown chalk-line shadow reaching over nearly three lanes. The drivers and riders climbed back into their vehicles.
Earlier in the day, I headed to a cafe for breakfast later than I had planned. I wished I had arrived early so I could have been ahead of the wildfire hotshot crew and had asked the cashier to put their coffees on my credit card. Working 21 days on/three days off all summer long, they had flown up to Alaska to help out the local crew. As it was, the last man was collecting his coffee as I walked up to order.
Now, here too, I had arrived too late to help.
Due to the winds, my house had lost power by 5 pm., when I returned from the day’s errands. By seven o’clock, a dead, needle-less spruce had taken out three lines, which draped across the dirt road, the only vehicle exit my house has. I was grateful that someone had placed a road emergency triangle as a warning, yet was displeased that the property owner had not cleared away the trees as is their responsibility. I checked the service drop leading to my house in case I was being hypocritical.
Zoom in to see the shattered fallen tree on the left and the still-attached-to-the-pole lines draping across vegetation on the right. Note the thick storm clouds swirling above, 25 July 2022.
Yep, all clear since my last tidy-up. There is one alder that has sprouted up surprisingly fast and so sometime this week or next I need to chop it down. It is directly under the power line and in a year or two will be able to touch it. So, technically, I admit: I haven’t maintained the 4-foot-wide path (ground-to-sky clearance) after all. Better to take care of it (safely) this summer.
The camera lens captured the sunset more brightly than the naked eye, giving a heartening light to the heavy, swirling storm clouds, 20:43, 25 July 2022.
All of my friends told me via texts that they had to eat their ice cream to keep it from melting…
A loud honking from my phone startled me. I flipped it over and read:
This was when I started to feel a little scared. Not because of the unreachable 911 system (because now I know to call the department I might need directly — I still have phone books in my house! Yay, old school!), but because the 911 dispatch system was not getting electricity. If it wasn’t, then what other important facilities could go down?
If there was a time for a criminal to commit crime, now would be the time.
At 22:38 I received another honk-alarm notification saying the 911 system was back online and people were NOT to call 911 to test the system. Really? People would do that? Yes, of course they would. And some probably still would even after receiving the alert. Sigh…
I heard a bird chirp, although it could have been a squirrel squeak. The first wildlife sound since the birds dropped to safer ground.
22:58 The house clicks and whirrs. I forget how loud electricity is until it comes back on after a power outage. No wonder people are hesitant about being out in the world without the familiar electric sounds. Wind continues to stir the air. The sounds turn off, then pop back on. So far, they seem to be on for good. A good end to the day for me.
Hopefully the others will soon have a good night, too.
Here is a screen shot of Golden Valley Electric Association’s outage page at 23:25, 25 July 2022. 26,127 customers still affected by outages. The crews have their work cut out for them!
Sun, clouds, rain, snow, wind, and a combination of all but the first struck against my windshield on the drive home. The sunlight (had I really seen it?) was a glimmer of memory from the school parking lot only ten minutes ago. I kept expecting hail or even graupel to fall (just to round out the list of precipitation types). Slush was forming on the side of the front window where the wipers raced to push the falling aqua, both liquid and fluffily crystalline.
I had chuckled last night when I saw snow falling at midnight, and now I had to laugh out loud. Mother Nature still rules supreme. Us humans have no might in the greater scheme of it all. I push back the irritation of the needy parent, the one who is not letting his daughter grow up taller than the wall of his nest. I let the frustrating indolence and inefficiency of certain of my students evaporate. I forget about the vying workplace personalities and my enervating list of things to do. Instead I listen to the susurration of the snow on my sleeves, breathe deeply, and enjoy the unanticipated beauty of the large, fluffy white flakes falling unruffledly from the gentle gainsboro grey May sky.
Watching the snow fall and listening to its serene, halcyon susurration on this lovely May evening, at 17:52, 9 May 2022. Note the blister of snowplowed snowpack still unmelted in my yard.
I was going to call to order a water delivery this morning, but then after receiving a call about a family member’s medically needed trip to Portland, I decided I would contact the company tomorrow morning. That way I would be able to put the order in before the weekend and the company could deliver on Friday or on Saturday with no stress from me about running out of water over the weekend.
Why is it that I knew it was Friday when I woke up this morning, but then at 8:30 a.m. I thought that tomorrow was Friday?
Result: I did not call for a water delivery.
Well, now to use the Adam’s ale sparingly over the next few days…
The days blend together and I feel like I am a step away from stepping off of the cliff of stress, or at the very least in danger of dropping one of the many spinning plates I am attempting to keep in the air while walking along the cliff edge.
I have three more weekend days to get necessary things done, including detailed substitute plans for the days I’ll be out (and in Portland).
This weekend I will have to make a point of putting those spinning plates down and looking out over the landscape. The view from a cliff is always breathtaking.
Not off the edge of a cliff, but the view is still quite nice, and the expansive sky makes me want to float free, and float away above Murphy Dome, near Fairbanks, Alaska, 26 July 2021.
An early afternoon view over Fairbanks, Alaska from a snowy deck, at 12:15 on 30 December 2016.
A benefit of waking early so that I can attend a virtual conference is that I have the chance to look outside and notice visiting moose. (Due to the Fairbanks/New Orleans time difference, the conference starts at 5 a.m. here! My eyes blink slowly before the first session starts…)
During a break between sessions, I watch a sturdy moose slowly chew through the willow in my yard and I feel my shoulder blades loosen and my breathing slow. I carry that calm back to the computer screen, prepared for another 300 minutes of today’s professional development.
There are then three more full days of screen time to go….
Moose browsing on willow, Fairbanks, Alaska, 0843 a.m., 16 February 2022.
It’s 07:46 on a sunless morning, but it’s a relatively warm one (35ºF/1.6ºC) — it has just snowed AGAIN after all — and I take this photo while taking a break from dragging the white blanket off of my truck with the snow brush, 29 December 2021.
I think it’s time to shovel, scoop, excavate(!) out my truck’s bed of the snow that has accumulated so far during this winter season. My plow guy has been and will be busy! There are still three more snowfall months yet to come because it’s only 29 December 2021. The whiteness you can see in the background are not covered structures, but snow piles pushed there by the plow as he builds the mounds higher and wider with each snow event, hoping that he will not run out of space to put the snow — or turn his truck around.
The path of a tire showing the depth of the most recent snowfall of the season. The driveway had been completely cleared before these white flakes began to fall. (January and February are historically heavier snowfall months, yikes…) 11:17 a.m., 29 December 2021.
This year’s snowfall has nearly obscured the external water tank which the water company fills in a timely manner whenever I call for a delivery. Naturally, I shovel out a path and brush off the hidden ladder and dig out the fill hole for the delivery person before the truck backs in. Only three weeks ago I had prepped for a delivery, but I can’t tell that now… In late May there will still be a chunks of thick ice floating on top of the water. (Photo taken at 11:17 a.m., 29 December 2021.)
Trail into the trees, beneath birch and black spruce, 29 July 2021.
Ever since a friend of mine showed me the Bee Field in the Koponen Homestead trail system, I’ve put it on my summer to-do list. Sometimes I walk down the trails to and from, at other times I bike up to it on the Pasture Path, a gentle enough slope for my fitness level, yet bumpy enough with exposed roots to be interesting. While overcast and cool, today was the first non-rainy day in a succession of downpours.
My friend, her granddaughter, and I were going on a picnic!
I packed up my bike and pulled on a neon-yellow vest for the intersections and the stretch of road where there was no bike path. It was on this road that a car slowed, and the driver and small passenger waved and called my name. I grinned and waved back cheerfully.
“See you there!”
Would I beat them to the Bee Field?
As my distance was the shorter one, I did, which gave me time to tug off my outer layers and walk about to cool off from the ride and stare about in astonishment. What had happened to the Bee Field? Alder saplings from as tall as my knee to my waist poked up intermittently through the ground cover of dogwood.
Alder saplings draw the eye up away from the carnelian-colored berries of the dwarf dogwood (Cornus canadensis).
It appears no one has mown the field this year, sadly. I hope there is someone in charge of doing so because it would be a shame to have the forest reclaim the area. The joy of this open space is the bees. When the dogwood blooms white, the air is full of humming, a delicious sound of focused productivity. The Bee Field was named for a reason. I wonder whose hives benefit from the nectar gathered here.
I really hope no one complained out of fear of a bee sting, prompting the neglect of the field’s care. The human does not have to encroach on the bees’ space and sustenance. Staying on the trail is enough to stay out of their way: even the curious bumblebee prefers blooms to skin. Or, the nervous human can stay off of this trail entirely. There are others just as beautiful.
Because of the obstructing slender trunks, we walked through the trees to the lower grassy field further down the hill. The ground rolled gently, the manicured grass verdant around the handful of solitary trees which would have thrown wonderfully cool shade on a hot sunny day.
The end of the smaller spruce’s branches bend upwards, marking it as a rare white spruce in Fairbanks, 29 July 2021.
Atop the adjacent gentle rise was the perfect backdrop to our picnic: a patch of tall fireweed all in the pink. We sunk onto the blankets we spread upon the grass and shared and nibbled our noonday meal. The little girl complained of crawling nature. We chatted and laughed. In moments of silent, we could hear the breeze in the treetops and the hum of the nearby bees. Eager for the blossoms’ ambrosial awards, the apian insects did not visit us, and we respected the margin of their angustifolium in turn.
Magenta fireweed, enticement for bees, 29 July 2021.
Rested and well fed, we gathered up our items, checked that nothing had been left behind, and headed back up the gentle slope. The dirt path curved between the tall stately trunks. In the midst of the trees appeared a wooden bench, and, delightfully, an old-fashioned lamppost.
Today I found peaceful balance from picnicking with friends in a beautiful purlieu.
I was curious about the Bee Field’s care, so I contacted the Friends of the Koponen Homestead and received a very nice reply to my email. I learned how I can volunteer to help keep the space beautiful. I would like to share my enjoyment of the green space with you, while respecting that the area remains privately owned. I am a guest in their neighborhood each time I walk the trails and breath in the space.
A young bull with velvet on his growing antlers visits my yard for the tasty fireweed, 19 July 2021, Fairbanks, Alaska.
Mother Nature surprised me today while I was cleaning the kitchen. I glanced out the window and saw movement. I gasped when I saw the velvet-covered buds on the young moose’s head. Never before have I seen a bull in the process of growing antlers. The ungulate’s size and his smooth hide, free of nicks and discolorations, made me guess the moose was a youthful one. I stayed by the window to watch and awe while he munched on fireweed. He noticed me watching and after a while the attention was too much and he moved on into the stand of willow behind my house. The lucky wonder left me feeling serene and blessed, as Nature’s charm always does.
A young bull moose with velvety new antlers enjoys the fireweed growing in my yard, 19 July 2021, Fairbanks, Alaska.
This season I’ve packed my pickup with as many maybe-needs as possible and headed over to my friend’s place to collect her and all of her multiple items before driving to our chosen campsite. There, we’d set up our tents and head off on the hike of the day or week. Everything we could possibly need would be safely stored in the truck.
Car camping is enjoyable and convenient, but we do tend to bring everything except the kitchen sink (unless you count my fabric and wire washing tub that holds nearly as much water as an actual sink).
Our next challenge was to pack as lightly as possible for a one-day backpacking trip. We have never been on a one-dayer before. After all, if we’re going to go backpacking, let’s go! The novelty of this trip prompted us to choose Granite Tors, despite having hiked the 15-mile (24.1-km) trail in a single day many-a-time before. The destination is close to Fairbanks, not a far drive for only one night. It would be perfect for a test backpacking hike.
Smoke on Chena Hot Springs Road during the Munson Creek forest fire, 5 July 2021.
Our only concern as the day of the trip approached was the Munson Creek forest fire, which was still at 0% containment. Started naturally by lightning, the flames were spreading in the hot, dry weather. Black spruce is wonderfully flammable and prevalent — not making for an easily contained fire (unless you start it purposefully in a campsite fire ring). Many forest fires in Alaska are allowed to burn because fire is a natural part of the forest’s lifecycle and they are usually also so far away from human habitation.
The older sections of forest are filled with standing dead and fallen trees, and the duff has built up several layers. Not only is this age of forest great for finding campfire kindling but also great fuel for the igniting heat of a lightning strike. The fire clears out the debris, prompting different plants to grow in the now freed space, plus some seeds need the burst of heat to germinate in the first place.
I wonder if the legend of the phoenix came from a forest that was once burned and charred reclaiming the ground with fresh, bright green new growth. Maybe with red and orange flowers dancing in the breeze…
When a natural fire (or one regretfully begun by a foolish human being) nears manmade structures, however, firefighters step, drive, fly, and jump in to protect life and property.
Even if I had not listened to the news, or pulled up info online, I still would have known that a fire burned nearby. For days, smoke has hung over Fairbanks and the surrounding area, carried here by air currents and kept here by thermal inversion. A goodly wind would have blown it away, but fanned the flames as well: A double-edged sword.
The morning of our scheduled trip, a posted air-quality alert firmly suggested that residents stay indoors to protect their lungs. The sky looked like it was heavily overcast and smelled like a campfire.
Might the air be clearer as we drove out of town?
We doubted it.
But our curiosity wanted to find out anyway, so off we drove, down the road towards the end where a fire crackled and snapped.
On July 1, Alaska State Parks had closed the Angel Rocks Trail (the next trail over from the one we chose), and now the Department of Forestry had issued an evacuation advisory for all residents beyond the 48-mile marker of Chena Hot Springs Road. The Granite Tors trailhead is at mile 39.5.
We did not truly believe we’d be able to hike there — and at about mile 18 on Chena Hot Springs Road, we pulled off onto a side street. Being outside was like standing in a column of smoke from a campfire, but without the stinging of ash in the eyes. Neither of us wanted to walk in this atmosphere, much less exert ourselves.
The smoke from the Munson Creek forest fire gets thicker the closer to the end of Chena Hot Springs Road we get, 5 July 2021.
Laurie pulled up a list of trails on her cell phone and we tossed out the ones we had already hiked, and the ones with creek crossings or a ‘difficult’ rating. Not that we couldn’t do these, or hadn’t, but the purpose of this trip was to test our packing skills, not our trail-navigating prowess.
At milepost 42.5 on the Steese Highway, McKay Creek Trail looked promising. A long parking area and a dogsled-unloading sign were visible from the highway. Around the curve of the drive an ATV trail led into the trees, which I noted were predominantly deciduous, not the typical spruce or boreal forest we hike in.
Smoke followed us for several miles then sunlight burst through the windshield and the sky became blue once more. I smiled.
We walked up to the trail info signs, but there was no map, just the general warning signs and a couple about there being dog teams on the trails (the first 1.5 mile was private property). Yes, the trail looked acceptable to our purpose. Back at the car, we hitched our packs to our backs and headed uphill.
If I’d been thinking actively, I would have lightened my pack right there at Laurie’s car. Her pack weighed twenty pounds, mine forty. What?! Already I’d failed our goal to keep the packs as light as possible. The majority of the weight was in water, and I’d packed with Granite Tors in mind. A lot of that 15-mile trail loop was exposed, significant parts of it demanded exertion, and it was supposed to be a hot day. Each time I had been on that trail, I had consumed a couple of liters, and that was without cooking meals or boiling water for morning tea. It had also scared me that we had run out of packed water during a previous summer when our three-day trek turned into five days. There had been water sources along the trail which we had planned on using, and which we did, treating it with filters and chlorine dioxide tablets, and we still had water at the end of the trip, just not what we had brought with us. Still, the experience unnerved me. The sources on Granite Tors were either close to the trailhead or dried up by this time of the summer. These details combined to have me over-pack on water, especially considering the current plan was now quite different:
We would walk in 5.5 miles, find a camping spot for the night, and walk back.
I should have left a 3-liter bladder in the vehicle — or even on the side of the trail as we walked up since we would be returning the same way. I did not think of either of these ideas until I was already at the top of the hill. [Note to self: reasonable amount of water = a light pack] On the plus side, I was developing muscle tone and stamina….
The McKay Creek Trail was a wide four-wheeler trail the entire way. It was not the prettiest we’d ever been on, but not because it was designed for ATVs. After only a mile or so we realized that we are used to hiking at higher elevations: the trails are generally above the tree line and lend us wide vistas as we walk.
This trail cut a line through aspen and alder. The cooler space under the trees and our warm presence enlivened winged arthropods. I sprayed my bare arms and legs with insect repellent and tugged my mosquito net over my fisherman’s hat. I like the wide circular brim. It keeps the net and perching bloodsuckers away from my skin.
Laurie retold the plot of a book she had recently read, I think to distract us both from the fact that we were in an uphill walk with nothing grand to look at. It was an interesting story, but we were still heading uphill among the trees when she had shared the book’s conclusion and we had dissected the characters a bit.
Within the first couple of miles four hikers approached from the opposite direction. Laurie always knows what questions to ask. If it were just me, I’d wish them happy hiking and plod on by. Laurie found out there were some good camping spots ahead — not just closely growing trees as here — and the man said the trees would open up in “just a bit”. Be warned that ‘just a bit’ means something different to people walking uphill from those walking downhill. It was several hours before the tall trees changed to scrub and more open space.
We chatted for a while.
I occasionally sipped from the tube of water attached to one of the bladders, absently thinking that my pack would get that much lighter each time.
We were silent for a while, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
I could feel the skin at the back of my heels begin to burn. I wanted to stop to put on moleskin, but I did not want to stop and dig anything out of my pack until it was time to pitch camp. The blisters steadily developed.
Were we ever going to get there? It was only 5 and a half miles…
Mosquitos buzzed about, not liking the ‘perfume’ on my skin, or landed on the net, only to still be thwarted from a meal.
The trees were beautiful, healthy and green.
I hoped we would see a team of dogs pulling a four-wheeler set in neutral as part of their summer training, but we never did. Perhaps it was too warm a day?
I had not seen or heard any birds. Why not?
Why had I packed so much water?
My mind shut off a little as my body focused on the uphill, so I can’t remember when or how the trees gave way to more open space. The trail split a couple of ways around a meadow-like area by a lone spruce, although there was only one clear main trail. We opted to leave our packs in the bushes at the base of the stout spruce and scout for a campsite. A few steps and I had the sense that my body would rise off of the ground I felt so light and free without the pack! What an odd, uplifting sensation.
The first lightly traveled trail we explored had a box on a tree near it. We had seen a similar one on the side of the main (uphill) trail — or, rather, we’d seen half of the box on an angled tree at the side of the trail, and another part, gnawed, in the middle of the trail. Near this intact box on the side trail, a cluster of signs drew my eye. Strangely, someone had suspended a silver bear bottle from a nearby branch. Two signs were weather-worn, but the third’s laminate kept it legible: a couple of ecology-minded families had trapped the area for the last several decades and no trap had been set in the main trail, only off to the sides of it, and only occasionally in the side trails. The notice listed the names of the trappers’ and pled that hikers respect these established traplines.
I would have loved to explore more, to see how the men had set their traps, and what kinds, but I’d respect their sustainable legacy. I also respect the image of metal teeth snapping shut on my booted ankle — and was careful to watch my step back to the main trail, even though I remained firmly on the dirt of this side trail.
…What is the significance of the wooden box fastened to the 45º-angled pole? Is it a special trappers’ signal?….
The two of us headed down the main trail once more, still pack-less. Clumps of thick brush alternated with sparser, shorter vegetation. Nothing called us to camp.
A slightly muddy section of trail had captured a paw print as big as my open hand. Oh, great.
A thrill of excitement and a shiver of fear made me glance about warily, and I was glad Laurie and I had made our presence known by talking. Bears tend not to want to sully their reputations with human fraternization. It’s the element of surprise that concerns me. I don’t want any of us to be surprised by the other. The bear might strike out with its mighty paw, and I might scream and pee my pants. I don’t like either of these scenarios.
A wooden ‘H’ on a small rise drew our eyes, then our feet. A trail led to a ring of stone encircling ash and char near the man-made framework of spruce trunks.
I ducked into the bushes with bear spray while Laurie perused ahead for a suitable campsite. The relatively level ground was dotted with ground cover and the occasional spindly alder. After hefting on our packs, we returned here to pitch camp, each of us on a patch of berry plants and semi-crunchy leafy lichen — a softer pad than the hard dirt and the partially-embedded lichen-spotted rocks.
Tents pitched in an open space off of the McKay Creek Trail, 5 July 2021. Photo by Laurie L.
Wisdom and the bear track prompted us to cook and eat our dinner away from our tents. We scanned the vista as we ate. The rolling hills extended into the bands of greens, blues, and grey that indicated distant mountains. Off to our left we could see sections of the pale brown ribbon that was the trail winding up and onto the next tree-covered hill. Always in the trees. So, there would be no wide landscapes to see from the trail. It did not entice us. We really were used to the panoramas of higher elevations.
I would have to look at the closer beauty of the trees on our return tomorrow. It should also be appreciated. The wide expanses with their ever-changing shades of color hold awe-inspiring beauty, but so too do the fine veins in a tiny leaf on the smallest bush.
We might not have hiked as much as we had on past trips, but this was our first backpacking trip of the season — if only for one night — and the trail had been consistently uphill. We had hiked from 1:30-5:30 p.m., and it was only 8 o’clock in the evening, but we were both ready for bed.
After evening ablutions and hanging our food and toothpaste in bags from the support by the stone fire pit, we bid each other good night and I spent the next several minutes arranging things inside my tent. A light rain fell on the tent as I closed my eyes.
I woke at half-past midnight. Now awake, or perhaps awake because of it, I unzipped my tent to find a private set of bushes. I sucked in my breath sharply as I pulled on my boots. The blisters on my heels burned, and I walked stiffly to avoid banging the boot leather against them as I walked. I knew I should have prepared my heels before going hiking. I normally do. I’ve yet to find boots that don’t give me blisters. I wish I could purchase a bespoke pair from a cordwainer.
I strolled about for a while, gazing at the landscape. Above my head the beautiful night blue sky was clear, but still too bright for stars. In the distant the darker slate grey clouds were edged golden pink by the sunset. It’ll rain tomorrow, I thought. But not now. I breathed in the moisture-hinting air and felt the calm of Nature’s grace.
A glimmer of reflected light caught my eyes. Surely that could not be the flash from someone’s binoculars. Why would anyone be out in the middle of the woods away from a visible trail? I was drawn to investigate, but logic and memory stayed my feet. The silver seemed to be hanging from a tree — not unlike the beer bottle. Perhaps that was another one, or some other reflective visual marking a trap line. I was satisfied with just looking at the view.
I wondered if our food bags were still suspended, so walked in that direction. Something brown moved close to ground level by the fire pit. I stopped.
A porcupine!
It nosed in the ground by a stone, and did not see me. I wanted to approach, but wisdom stopped me. Bears aren’t the only danger in the wild.
Hmmm… How does one remove a barbed quill from a body part?
I did not want to find out.
Back at my tent I read the section in my small first-aid book on dressing wounds and drifted back to sleep, confident with knowledge.
After 3 o’clock: Zzzip…! Zzzip…! I heard Laurie open tent and rainfly; then, what might have been a few minutes later… Zzzip…! Zzzip…!
I moved around in my tent looking for my watch to check the time.
“Are you awake?” Her voice travelled to my ears and inwardly I groaned.
“Yes…”
“I checked the weather. It’s supposed to rain in a couple of hours.”
“Do you want to get up?”
“I think we should.”
After a pause, while I grumbled silently to myself (I really did want to try for another couple hours of sleep), I said, “Okay.”
The logical course of action was to pack up.
Getting up was the right decision. The problem with wanting to try to sleep right now was that I did not feel sleepy, or tired, at all, so it would have been me just laying on the air mattress looking up at the inside of my tent. Plus, I did not want to hike in the rain. One of the items I’d opted not to pack was the rain cover for my backpack.
First, I spent several minutes layering on moleskin around my blisters. Laurie and I said “Good morning” when we both had emerged from our tents, and we decided to nibble on nuts and granola rather than make a hot breakfast. Last night’s pasta primavera had been filling.
Looking out over the landscape, McKay Creek Trail, 5 July 2021. Photo by Laurie L.
At 5 a.m. we were walking down the path towards the vehicle. The cool morning temperature was pleasant. We were both glad that we had chosen to head down the trial so early in the morning. We had gotten a full night’s sleep after all, and there really was a lovely morning of fresh air and beauty to enjoy.
Some of the trail angled upwards. (Yesterday, on the way out, I had not noticed going down for even a little bit. It had all seemed up.)
We knew now, when we came to the wooden chewed-on box in the middle of the trail what had caused the toothmarks: porcupine.
I liked going down. Today my knees did not hurt like they normally did on inclines. Perhaps it was due to the regular biking I have done this summer.
Among the trees the mosquitos awoke, but there were not as many, at first, when compared to yesterday. Suddenly we were at the bottom of the hill.
Rain did not fall, not a single sprinkle until we got to the car and had loaded our gear and gratefully changed out of our hiking boots.
We each texted our in-town contacts to inform them we had safely finished our trip and were heading back into town. Laurie was driving back by 8 a.m.
“Well, now what?”
“How about breakfast?”
Yum! What a great idea!
Who knew so many restaurants were closed on Tuesdays…?
Down the Elliot Highway, the Hilltop Restaurant was only doing take-away: the large seating area blocked off, with chairs flipped over atop the tables. A sign said Management was not responsible for the decision to block off the seating area. Confusing: because if Management was not in charge, then who…? With it being such a high-traffic truck stop, I would have preferred they had written they were looking out for the health and safety of patrons and employees. (It is a time of COVID-19 after all.)
Wanting to sit and enjoy a meal after our trip, we hit the road again. Our next stop, Little Richard’s Family Diner in North Pole: closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.
We drove into North Pole seeking a cafe we both knew was there — except not any longer.
Fifth time’s the charm! We drove back into Fairbanks, navigated construction, and found a seat at the Wolf Run restaurant.
If I had checked my cell phone each time after we had pulled up to the door of a restaurant, it might instead have been only three because my in-town friend had texted, “Try Wolf Run.”
Of course, if we also had had the modern-times idea of calling first, before driving to each place…sigh…
Thank you, Laurie, for all of your driving — on both days!
What a fabulous, relaxing breakfast, with friendly service, and portions large enough for the rest of my day’s meals. A yummy relaxing finale to an overall lovely, successful trip.
Yikes, what a lot of driving to find breakfast! (Mapquest.com map of our Tuesday food-search trip [retrieved 2021.07.30].)
