The Upper Dewey Crew, 2011

Alaska

April 19^{th -} 20th

The night before, John had informed Sam and I that some of his friends were going to be camping at Upper Dewey Lake between the twin Dewey peaks. Apparently someone had gained access to a cabin on the edge of the iced over lake sitting in the basin created by the two 4,800 foot peaks. That was good enough for Sam and I, but John added icing to that cake. “Yeah, it’s going to be beautiful this time of year because it’s still solid ice, but the best part of it is we can throw all our heavy shit in my river bag and send it up with the helicopter.” At this point I was dumbstruck. “Helicopter?” I asked, astonished. “Yeah, the girls talked to the pilot last night and he said he’ll fly them and the gear up because he needs to do a first run up there anyway.” This was too much for me, I have been obsessing over helicopters since parking cars this winter for people doing the heli-skiing trips at our resort and meeting the pilot and his co-workers.

We got up and packed our bags, including the rubber river bag for the helicopter, and walked down to The Mountain Store to rent snow shoes for five bucks a piece. We dropped off John’s bag at the Brewery, where the girls were to meet up at three to pack the helicopter, and then hit the trail, ready for another steep ascent.

The trail winds its way through the reservoir and Lower Dewey lake section before beginning a grueling set of switch backs which were covered in clear ice. We did our best to grapple with the rocks and nearby trees to make our way without “kissing the ice” as John put it.

The view was more grandiose with every few hundred feet of elevation and we couldn’t get enough of the fact that the peaks which seemed so distant yesterday were slowing coming within our grasp. The last stretch was covered in thick, crunchy snow which didn’t yet require snow shoes but occasionally found you punching through to your upper thigh.

Near the end, I found myself well ahead of John and Sam who had been slowed by cigarettes and an inactive winter. I came to a large clearing at the base of the Dewey peaks and finally gave in to the call of the snow shoes, realizing by the time that I came to the opposite edge of the open field that I was at the cabin.

Walking up from the rear, I could hear laughter, shouting and the snap of cold beers being opened and knew instantly that I’d found our group. I walked onto the back porch, untangling myself from my pack and snow shoes as two girls sitting on the banister turned around. “Hey,” they called out, “welcome to the cabin.” They didn’t know me and I didn’t know them, but they were already inviting me to spend time with them. I shook hands and walked around the corner of the porch to the front of the cabin to find many more men and women standing around with matching white corona beach shirts and two inflatable tubes aimed at a makeshift ramp which grew with every shovel full from the guys tending it below. I walked up to the top of the runway, a smile on my face, speechless. “Hey man, welcome, you’re up!” They tossed me the intertube and I figured I couldn’t refuse the fine hospitality, so I hopped on face first towards the ramp where Rosco stood armed with his camera. “Holy shit! You just set the distance record!” He laughed as he shook my hand and introduced himself. I shook hands with Andy and Nate as well, finding nothing but smiles and friendship at every turn.

I walked back up to the porch and gave the tube to the next in line and sat on the banister next to Magala and Kristin. I was offered a beer almost immediately, which I declined as I was more interested in draining my water bottle first and took a moment to appreciate my surroundings.

The lake is shaped like a lima bean with the downturned points facing south, the cabin being on the northern curve. From the flat of the lake rises a half circle of ridge which peaks on the north and south to become The Dewey peaks. Within this bowl is a small inner ridge rising three hundred feet from the basin. Steep chutes of exposed rock and dense snow fill the walls of the bowl and reach down to the scattered evergreens which populate the lower basin.

Sam and John brought up the rear about twenty minutes after me to a great many hugs and shouts from everyone present. This was the first “Upper Dewey” trip for the year and the atmosphere was electric. There were bottles and handles of whiskey on every level surface and four thirty racks of Pabst Blue Ribbon lined the porch rail. Inside the cabin was enough food and snacks to feed an army and four zealous pups ran about the surroundings with visible delight.

After hitting the ramp a few times and getting to know everyone, I had an itch to get out on the inner ridge of the basin to do some exploring and take some photographs. I strapped on my snow shoes and reveled in my freedom of being without a pack. I walked around the eastern edge of the lake heading south to a large knob of snow and trees which gave a great scene of the cabin with the far mountains behind. Along the way I noticed some fresh bear tracks, no more than a few days old I was later told as it had snowed three days before.

From the knob, I traced along the top of the ridge to a height which gave me a bird’s eye view of the lake. The snow here became quite steep, beyond forty degrees in many places and I began to feel a little uncomfortable being by myself without an ice axe. I began a horizontal path across the highest point of my climb and found a cluster of rocks which gave me a chance to rest and take in the surroundings. Below could be seen the sliver of Pacific which reaches all the way in to our harbor, flanked on its western edge by Mount Harding and Face Mountain, now nearly level with my position at 3,600 feet.

Not wanting to climb all the way back down now that I’d climbed it up, I decided to glissade down on my butt, using the tips of my snow shoes to keep my balance as I slid down on my ass. This was met with loud cheers from my friends down at the cabin.

When I got down to the edge of the lake a few pioneering souls were climbing up a massive curtain reaching down from the northern Dewey peak to begin the greatest tubing adventure ever undertaken by modern man.

It began with Andy, Rosco, Hubby, Missy, and Claire getting it in their head to go as high up the mountain as they could with the tubes for some fun and ended with a competition to see who could make it out across the lake the furthest and, with help from my GPS, setting speed records.

When I reached the base of the run, they were at the top with Hubby at the bottom with camera in hand, ready to capture the first wipe out, which we were sure was imminent. I was pretty worn out from my solo adventure, so I wished them good luck and told them I’d be back, wanting to down a bottle of water and maybe have a snack at the cabin before beginning any more hiking.

“Next time you feel like hiking that ridge, let me know,” said Nate when I got back. I smiled and told him I would and then asked if anyone would like to join me for a shotgun of Pabst. A few minutes later there we were: John, Sam, Dylan and me poised and ready for the countdown, 3…2…1! After the beer I had a few Ritz crackers and felt completely rejuvenated, so I began the walk back over to the new sledding hill and made my way to the starting gate at the top.

I brought my GPS along to measure our speed, which everyone agreed would only make things more amazing. The first go came back with Claire yelling from the lake below us, “48.6!” We whooped and cheered, laughing with full lungs of fresh mountain air at the fact that we were hitting highway speeds going face first down a mountain on an inflated piece of plastic.

I went next, as soon as Smokey, Andy’s dog, brought up our tubes which were tethered to her harness. I climbed a little higher up the mountain with Nate ahead of me, so that we could push the boundaries a little further. I put the GPS in my pocket and took a deep breath, staring down to five hundred feet of slope which flattened out on the ice covered lake. I steadied my nerves and leapt forward onto my chest, the rush of the wind buzzing my ears the moment the tube hit the snow.

The ride itself, the first time anyway, is a complete blur by the time you get to the bottom. Your mind is singularly focused on exactly what is happening at that one hundredth of a second, dip the right toe to spin left, aim the front of the tube between the shrubs at the bottom, dip the left toe, feel the rush.

I set the speed record on my first run, though Nate’s run right after mine put him further out in the lake and was most likely faster than mine, but he didn’t have the GPS with him. My official speed was 58.9 miles per hour. I yelled this back at the guys on the top and could hear them cheering from five hundred feet away.

As evening set on we began to conglomerate around the cabin, poking in and out as we heated up and cooled off respectively, everyone buzzing from the ride. Toasts were made, snacks were demolished and the dogs were kept happy with the rare scrap of food that hit the floor. Some of the guys went out to gather fire wood for a bonfire and came back with no wood. Instead they had a plan: hike to The Devil’s Punchbowl for the sunset. It was only a third of a mile but it was a steep climb. They rallied the troops back at the cabin, which wasn’t easy now that everyone had changed into dry socks and slippers.

The sunset was gorgeous. It melted down behind Mount Harding at half past seven, lighting up the sky with deep reds, faint yellows and subtle pink wisps fading into the black of the night sky above.

We took a group photo at the top, silhouetted by the setting sun behind us. On the way down I came with Sam and Missy, enjoying the company and the conversation, learning more about these people that I met only in the past two days and who already felt like lifelong friends.

In the morning, we had tea and cider to celebrate and began to pack up for the helicopter’s arrival. It was sad to gather our gear and say our goodbyes; the quick bonds made were strengthened with hugs and handshakes.

The sound of the chopper coming up the mountain side sent shivers through my bones, for once, that noise was directed to me. I ran outside with my camera only to be blasted by flying snow until the blades came to a reasonable speed and stopped altogether. I went over to the pilot as he was stepping out and shook his hand, “Best job ever.” I said to him, he laughed and said “Yeah… it’s not bad.”

After sweeping out the cabin and ensuring that we’d picked up all the trash in the area we strapped on our snow shoes and began the long walk down.

By the time we reached town, we were discussing where we were going to meet that night. The brew house became our destination of choice and we agreed to meet up at eight.

It’s now seven o’clock, I can’t wait to see them again.

The First Day

Alaska

April 18^th

I arrived on the dock in Skagway around noon, packing up my things and hitching them to my bike as best I could. I must have looked a sight as I pedaled down the main drag, for the first time, drinking in the trees, the mountains, the old fashioned buildings designed to look like the 1800’s mountain town that it once was while balancing a sixty liter pack, a twenty-five liter pack, a rubber river bag and a small duffel.

On the ferry from Juneau I met a nice girl who is a Haines local. She gave me the rundown on Skagway and its vibe, saying that you can spot the guides from a mile away after asking me if I was going to be guiding. She was back home for the first time in months to see her family and to look for work. Her description of the lifestyle in Skagway sounded surprisingly similar to a college town with a serious outdoor recreation habit. She mentioned raucous bonfires, house parties, camping trips every weekend and above all the relaxed and friendly nature of the residents. She drove the notion home, “Do you have a lock on your bike? People in Skagway don’t really lock anything, their homes, their cars, their bikes, but if you do leave your bike out it will probably be borrowed. Then you won’t be able to find it for a week and all of a sudden you’ll run across it at a bar that you’ve never been in.” I liked it already.

I pedaled down State Street. My only information for my address to this point was an email where my boss wrote “Oh, and if no one told you, your house is on 15^th and State. It’s The Green Haus.” So that’s what I was looking for, a green house.

When I pulled up to the corner and saw a dilapidated rambler with rusted metal scraps in the front, dead grass and a fire pit in the back I figured I was home. Characteristically, the back door was open and I stepped inside, not sure what I would find.

I was greeted by one of the returning guides as he was in the middle of working with the water supply people to get the water turned on for the house, for which he was unsuccessful. After they left, he informed me that there was also no electricity yet. No bother I told him, I’d lived through a winter in Utah without heat, I could go a few days without water and electricity.

The house on the inside reminded me of the house on Paper Street in Fight Club, after the club has been formed and there’s people packed to the rafters and various experiments in communal living being tested. There are seven bedrooms and three bathrooms with a layout that contains no more than a thousand square feet. One very large room has two beds and one small room has two beds as well, the only shared rooms in the house. The room nearest the backdoor already had gear and clothing strewn about and was being claimed by John, who I had not met yet. One small room in the back had also been claimed by Sam, who was hiking with john at the time, which left me to choose a room that I thought wouldn’t be snatched up by the returning guides who get first pick no matter if you’ve setup or not.

The view from the living room looks down a bare street which leads down to the dock, in the distance a monstrous white peak named Mount Harding which climbs 5,249 feet out of the water in a vicious ascent. It’s neighbor to the right is face mountain, called so because it looks like a man’s face staring straight at the sky with a visible chin, nose and eye declivity, standing 5,194 feet. In every direction one is struck by the massive uprising of landscape created by massive upheaval, tectonic plates crushing each other and buckling between the forces.

After throwing my junk in my room, I rode my bike a few blocks down the street to the library to use the internet for a moment, as well as the bathroom which was not an option yet in my home. After the library came the market where I purchased a small jar of peanut butter and strawberry preserves, a loaf of bread, a block of cheddar, a round of ham and some mustard for $27.45. I should lose weight with these prices.

Once I’d revived myself with a thick ham and cheese sandwich and a pb&j, it was time for my first hike. I hopped on my bike and rode to the end of 15^th avenue towards the train tracks and followed those down to a trailhead, not knowing where I was going or what I would find. The trail led to a few spectacular views of the bay and parts of the town, along with the surrounding peaks. After five hundred feet of elevation gain one comes across a man made reservoir. The hydraulic power created by this reservoir was once a major draw for miners in the early years of Skagway, being a remote homestead that had the option of electricity had its draw, even then. On this day the reservoir was just coming out of its icy grip, large blue cracks could be seen along the edge of the shore and the snow in the middle looked tired.

Another few hundred yards and Lower Dewey lake comes into view, stretching south west in a long but narrow expanse between the dense trees.

On my way up the trail I met a few other hikers who were on their way down. Little did I know, a pair of young men who were near my age were actually the two roommates that I hadn’t yet met. We would later discover this coincidence when I rode back to the house on my bicycle and discovered them crowded around the newly working heater in the living room.

That night we bought a twelve pack of beer and walked out to the river bordering the northwestern edge of town to gaze at the stars and listen to the stream’s gurgling song.

The Ferry Days

Alaska

April 15^th.

The other men camping on the Solarium deck are either concerned with finding work or are on their way to new jobs. The logger cannot say more than two words without peppering in the f-word in amazingly diverse ways, “Motherfuckin’” being the obvious favorite. An Old man with a long beard courteously helped me with my tent. He spoke of a simple cabin in the wild where he lives alone. “This fella’ comes to my door one day and I says to him ‘Didn’t you read the goddamn sign? No Trespassin’. He just stares at me sayin’ ‘I gotta fill out this form…’ and I says ‘You know my name, dontchya? He says ‘yes.’ And I says ‘you know I live here, dontchya?’ and he says ‘Yes.’ ‘So why don’t you get the hell off my porch. And take your shit somewhere else.’ and I slammed the door on ‘im. Dumb bastard just sat down in the chair by the door. So I go back out, ‘Go fill out your fuckin’ census somewhere else!’ God Almighty! I hate authority.”

He swears more around the loggers but is a very docile man otherwise--full of stories.

A family from South Dakota sequestered a fleet of lounge chairs, the children eyeing me silently as I fussed over my tent. The pairs of unblinking eyes reminded me of dogs at the pound, waiting to be taken by someone to a new home.

I should have put more thought into packing. My ground pad is checked in, as well as my glasses. If it weren’t for Jeff’s last minute suggestion of bringing my tent, I’d be sleeping on a lawn chair with the mongrel children of South Dakota.

The boat rides gently in the ocean, spreading an even swath of blue green swirling water in a wide wake which trails us into the unseen horizon. It rocks very little, felt most keenly while lying prone in my sleeping bag. I’ve not yet been able to glimpse the beauty that surely surrounds us, the mist being thick as we coast further out to sea.

According to the GPS, we’ve only begun our journey, passing now along the south eastern third of Vancouver Island.

In the footsteps of adventure, to one of the world’s last great wildernesses yet I have no nerves, butterflies or fears. Strange calm now, as usual during times of major transition – the same that I felt before boarding the plane to Taiwan lasting far into the first stage of my trip there. What would John Muir feel at a time like this?

Alaska

April 16^th.

Woke up many times in the night and rethought my sleeping arrangements. If it’s possible, I’ll be grabbing my sleeping pad as soon as we make our first landing in Ketchikan.

I awoke to fat snowflakes and sunshine, remarking to my neighbor on the deck that “I thought I left the snow behind in Utah.” Winter knows no bounds for me this year.

I decided I needed a practice at my new study of Yoga this morning, to the embarrassment of a few passengers who had the misfortune of catching me in my long johns on the aft viewing deck. The stretching exercise was just what I needed after a long night sleeping on unpadded cold steel.

The weather shaped up nicely in the afternoon with great gaps of sunshine between the clouds, revealing the wild dense timber of the landscape on either side of our channel. The snow line is clearly visible and not at all as high as it could be.

A few whales were spotted on the starboard side around 1pm, heading south at a whale’s pace.

The scenery glides by but changes little. Mile after mile of untouched forests of young, old, broken and sentry evergreens carpet the rocks which climb out of the water with a mind to make it to the clouds without delay. All across the shore are studded inlets and coves and bays. Sometimes a narrow channel would betray a large hidden body of water just beyond the eye’s reach, visible for only a moment as we cruise by.

Standing on the bow, the stars all but hidden by low clouds, the chill wind tells of a great cold land up north. You can feel the ice, the dark ocean and the ancient trees lying hundreds of miles ahead. The boat moves with such humming ease it feels as though the North Pole is winching us in herself, pulling us into her bosom. Cordially she invites us, whether we are prepared or not, to share in her vast landscape.

The early explorers and native inhabitants of this land were made of a material that our flesh and bone can only shadow today. Theirs was a true adventure, a true test of skill and bravery for we are now so laden with creature comforts that it is regarded commonplace to enjoy “Eat. Pray. Love.” while travelling one of nature’s greatest cathedrals.

Hot showers, warm soup, central heating and satellite navigation. They would gasp at our reality.

Alaska

April 17^th.

The boat has been overrun by high school bands. We picked up the load at Ketchikan at seven in the morning and they infiltrated every nook and cranny with sleeping bags, squealing, and the odd burst of song. The latter being the most welcome portion of their infestation.

The most notably portion of this day of the trip was the sunset. The sun tucked itself behind a high ridge of snow capped peaks on the left side of the ferry, darkening as it dropped to burn the sky orange and red which painted a flush on the glittering snow. At the same time that the sky was putting on its show, a couple girls were sitting on the bow harmonizing a sweet song that I didn’t recognize but welcomed readily.

I ended the night at the port of Juneau, sleeping on the floor of the ferry terminal between midnight and six in the morning when my next ferry would arrive to bring me the rest of the way to Haines and eventually Skagway—my new home.