Alaska
April 19th - 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.
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